Posts Tagged ‘poetry’


A pantoum on the subject of living in Ymir

September 6, 2018

On the subject of a Pantoum

Sleepy quiet mountain town
Oh how you rage from time to time
Blowing off (it’s not just) steam
There are no trains here anymore

Oh how you rage from time to time
The winters long, there’s so much snow
There are no trains here anymore
We’re left to our own devices

The winters long, there’s so much snow
We pray for spring, in January
We’re left to our own devices
This is a top of the world tradeoff

We pray for spring, in January
It’s the same in other places
This is a top of the world tradeoff
It’s not better there, just different

It’s the same in other places
Still I sometimes miss the sea
It’s not better there, just different
Give it a year, I’ll be back

Still I sometimes miss the sea
Blowing off (it’s not just) steam
Give it a year, I’ll be back
Sleepy quiet mountain town


Demon eyes, rabbits and whiskey – 150 words in the style of Poe.

August 30, 2018

As I ponder where I should begin
Propped up by whiskey, or is it gin
I considered all the words that came before.

Inspired by darkness, dreaded, foul
Stories that called forth a howl,
A scream for mercy I would oft ignore.

I delighted in the midnight things,
Of demon eyes, the sound of wings,
Of monsters that would chill you to the core.

I brazenly fulfilled the need,
Nefarious thoughts that seemed to breed
Like rabbits, seemingly with no end in store.

Celebrated, I became
The whole world knew my lauded name
No equal could be found to match my lore.

And then one night the words weren’t there
My muse had gone, I know not where
I was cast adrift, upon a barren shore.

So when the devil came a-calling
You might think my choice appalling
That I should sell my soul, become a whore.

Quoth the raven….


A bright light while traversing the long dark

November 12, 2015

I’ve been lazy,
I’ve been slipping deep
into hibernation mode
Regardless of the fact that my place of sanity is one of fire.
Let it drift, has been a mantra
Apathy disguised
As an attitude of laissez-faire
As if saying it in French makes a lack of motivation seem continental.
While rolling toward the long dark,
I settled for the long con
The notion that everything will work out,
Whether I work at it or not.
I cried meh
and let slip the dogs of whatever.
My long habitual disdain
Of anything resembling focus or endgame
The perfect stumbling block to trip me on my way forward.
Stay here, where it’s quiet
I don’t mind if you smoke,
I’ll turn my head, pretend not to see when you choke
On the dreams you’ll let go of in time.
Exercise every day? That seems crazy
A rest is what’s needed now and then
And then the rest days aren’t for recover but lazy.
And the habits ingrained
Are the ones that cause pain
And definitely not in the good way.

Wake up!
And don’t you dare go back to sleep.
There’s far too much fun to be had.


Those who amaze. Those who amuse.

February 27, 2009

Every so often we are lucky enough to come across those people who inspire us to dream a little bigger, dance a little more freely, move with ease within the subjective perspective called reality. And they change us forever, preferrably for the better, but always inexorably. A lot of the time it happens from a distance. We read about someone, maybe they publish a book that has an impact on us, writes a piece of music heard that speaks to the heart. We see them out in the world doing things that impress upon us the sanity of humanity. A balance to the sadness, the anger and fear. And sometimes they are just down the street.

I was lucky enough to encounter an entire group of people like this who have fortunately, not only found each other, but realized that great things can happen when resources are pooled.  They are the Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret and can be found here. They can also be found in Vancouver this weekend at the Russian Hall – 600 Campbell Avenue in Strathcona. They are staging a performance called the Listening Jar. I can’t imagine it will be anything less than spectacular and wouldn’t miss it, except that I am here. The view

It’s a beautiful place to recuperate from tearing one’s thumb asunder, but sorely lacking in culturally creative moments of bliss. So I am forced to create my own.  Such as this

Ode to the Dusty Flowerpot Cabaret

I think of flowers and the sounds they make when growing,
the roots that murmur pleasantly and push on
because there is work to be done
the vines and leaves that sing and stretch for sunlight
the buds that titter at the thought of exposing themselves and
soon, darlings, very soon
you will bloom
and your beauty will astonish even the most closed of hearts.

I think of summer days that hum
excited yet lazy and full
with expectation and desire,
a balance of fire
and skin
burnished and aglow.

I think of snow
that falls so softly it can even sneak up on itself
And delight in the surprise
of doors flung wide
To find a wonderland of sorts
Where happy revellers may cavort
And enjoy those fruits of their labors
So long worked for, ever savored.

I think of music that moves through a soul
Leaving it forever changed,
forever touched by a bliss
It never knew could exist
beyond the very sweetest kiss.

I think of beauty unbound
creativity cherished
balance revealed
chaos encouraged
and joy abundant.

I think of laughter,
lyrical laughter.

I think of dreams that can’t help
but manifest in reality
for fear they’ll miss out
on what this crew can do.
And shadows that slip away
when one isn’t watching so closely
to have a whirl on the dancefloor.



February 21, 2009

A place in the verse to express myself for all to see.

A verse in the place where one might glimpse it easily.

A space beyond terse to allow my thoughts to ramble free.

Averse to a place I am limited to anything less than me.


%d bloggers like this: