Dave was a man on a poetic mission. He had the soul of a shaman. Wanted to heal the world with poetry. Dave traveled down dirt roads, across noisy rails and over bumpy clouds to spread the spoken word of peace. With grace and grit, he scrawled intimate heartbeats in a journal, counted and re-counted tender breezes, courageous crossroads, sudden callings and limbless ghosts on uprooted landscapes. His eyes over-flowered in suspense. He cruised homeless streets with no expectations. A wandering poet, little happiness was glimpsed on park benches, littered sidewalks and in dark alleyways. Dave did not have enough poems to read aloud. With an extravagance of simplicity, he wrote what he saw. Dave has given us a large legacy of profound contributions to be remembered and appreciated. The most important gift he gave us all, was the gift of himself. This is the gift I will treasure the most.

Let's sing a song for David— builder of bridges, linker of communities, our roaming rambler, our taker of risks— One of a kind, poet, train-man, you are a planner of poetry park, a typer on trains, returner of the griffin golden Fork— Bringer of poets to northern school places, and memorable music to many spaces, David, you dare to dream big— dreams as deep and dedicated as Drummond's own ghost. The silenced silver school bell rings for you— Resounding that you are Mr. Poet for every occasion— purveyor of Cobalt's first Poet Laureate, you wise miner of all things shining mining the mind with imagination to find shining silver—in poems, places and people. Wordsmith and world traveler, you are Pied Piper of poetry— from Jarvis to Jasper, from Edmonton to Athabasca, Mother Parker's tea train to the sunset stroll of poets, your name says it all—bridges: creative and crucial, spanning and supporting Cobalt and us all.

". . . come into this world to do this . . . to be filled with light . . . to shine." — Mary Oliver ADHD? Bucket list? Just a rolling stone? Everyone's got a story. But boy, oh, boy, not usually as exuberant as this. Dave Brydges was approachable; that person who, though you've only met in pixilated Zoom head shot, engulfs you in a full-on, wrap-around, Cobalt Ontario, Spring Pulse Poetry Festival, Dr. William Henry Drummond Memorial Park and nation-wide poetry contest big bear hug when you first meet in person. It takes you pleasantly by surprise, though you guess, you expected nothing less after what might have been, in other hands, a three to five-minute congratulatory call and follow-up email to say 'you won!' and your certificate and chapbook are in the mail. Not Dave. True to form, we spoke three hours. Even through phone lines, 3 thousand KM and 31 hours driving time away, Dave exuded 'come talk to me' about, of course, the healing power of rhyme and verse, but just as probably poetry's defining role in the existential meaning of the universe, this planet's sorry state, man's inhumanity to man, or, as easily, his current historical research into little known local poets or his own family roots. Somehow, the fast-paced convoy came around to his plans for another memorial garden, and a poets' support trip to Ukraine and without warning you find yourself enthusing about signing up for the 2026 revival of Dave's cross-country Poet-Train! I longed to bottle that barely contained kinetic energy; like an ever- percolating molten magma bed; beneath that smoulder- charged electro-static hair and brilliant, restless brain. No peace, they say, no rest . . . for the . . . prolifically poetic? Just do it! Might have been Dave's motto! Publish a chapbook? There's a way. Celebrate poetry, sea to sea, from Fort MacMurray oil fields to the Canadian shield. Just go! Never say no! Did he know? Was he under the gun, aware that his earthly time was of the essence? Dave was a quoter, an admirer, promoter of the work of others, sung or unsung. I imagine his life lived in real-time reply to Mary Oliver's poetic question: but with, "Tell me" replaced with, 'Show me'. . . "what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Show us, show us, he did!

Rider of trains— locomotive plowing through tunnels of a too prosaic world— driving hope-ward towards compassion and peace, towards poetry— always poetry a cascade spilling from your pen, your tongue. Dave, instigator of adventures, rapid orations: a torrent of possibility, creator of bridges, recorder of visions, I see you now arriving at the final station to a poet's welcome, ecstatic, thick-sheathed notebook in hand.

A poet's poet words of wisdom for all David set the bar high his memory inspires us to carry the torch pen that touches paper will echo with our thoughts and prayers for you, David until we meet again.

A friend died today we never met in person only on Zoom poetry readings over past five years we were kindred spirits both tackling issues drawing attention to the heavy my life has been enriched having known him moisture hits the keyboard as I type this because it is real way I feel that even if I never met him in person he made an impact on my existence and I thank him I appreciate him I will miss my friend, when I pray tonight I will ask why Why him? with so many bad ones why take a brilliant shining man there will be no answer divine will defies explanation who am I to demand reason a friend died today and a part of me followed. Rest in peace, David

He knew the elixir of words inspiring hope and expressing beauty. He was a poet. Knowing, life recreates itself in poetry, like rain, ceaselessly, in which a new manifestation of life emerges each time it's read. He knew understanding others is the ultimate purpose of life. And creating beauty is the beginning of being human.

met a man who made the world smile... met a man made me smile always walked that extra mile reached out to others didn't scream or shout his presence was felt those blessed to be close respectfully listened to all his poetry was heartfelt by those with a soul lessons learned shared experiences David will be greatly missed across our country his poetry will be forever shared as his words are timeless like the man himself forever remembered his incredible poetry and haiku in the hearts of poets met a man who made the world smile...

but he emailed with a gentlemanly familiarity, as if we were fast friends. Such comfort to have these messages land in my in-box. I never met the man but I knew I could trust him with my words, with my thoughts. A man of letters, a man of calm, a genial man of generosity beyond measure. I never met the man but I saw what he did for others, I saw what he did for poetry, for the literary community, what he did for his town. I never met the man I wish I had but I'll see him in my mind's eye, always in blue, cobalt blue.

The wind is hushed and the stars blink out one by one The moon hides its face behind a shroud of cloud And even the loon loses song When a poet dies the ink in pen dries and pages of parchment flutter into dark skies The snowy owl, the turtledove, the thrush wait voiceless on bare branch limbs for the new sun to rise

A companion in the trades and union movement, a comrade in justice and socialistic improvement, a proponent of peace, truth, and equality, an advocate for freedom, principle, and democracy, always he was there to contribute to individual or community always he lent an attending attribute seeking a solution in tones of unity. Always there was a vision of hope in his words, Always there were images of love in his ideology, always there was a vision within his wisdom, always I envisioned the scope of his poetry when his voice rejoiced in the power of love and possibilities of bonds and goodness thereof. Where now is the wordsmith who wrote with compassion for egalitarianism and the soul of humanity, who wrote with discernment and passion for the cessation of irrationality, for the goodwill of intentions and the orderly preventions of evils, where now but present in the minds and pens of those of us he influenced. The loss of my dear friend I truly lament, the loss of his voice leads to my descent into a stifling sphere of grief and mourning a crushing, sultry mood of despair and scorning I can only hope will inspire me to emulate the conceptual perception he could illustrate when his words portrayed the emotions of his views, his values, and his devotions.