Category Archives: Poems

Cottage Country

Cottage Country

Photo: Sandy Morrison | Post-processing: Greg Glazebrook

Dulled by the trolley’s rhythm,
I drift through fragmented memories
of past summers in Canada.

Lazy days spent at the lake.
Endless trees, evergreen garlands,
strung between water and blue clear skies.

Sunday snoozing in the back pew.
Choir hymns rippling through
waves of vanilla scented candles.

Those who have flocked here,
Explorers, seeking truths
for which there are no answers.

If ever there was a place to believe!
Even for the briefest of moments
before the colours turn.

Fading through the back window…
Leaving only our ghosts to greet
the chalk white snows of winter.

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The Coming Storm

The Coming Storm

A weathered and worn windsock,
taut on the peak above.
An unheeded warning
to the hazy milieu below.


Conflated is the vapour
that escapes your cruel grasp,
devoid of oxygen we once shared.

Sharp wit and candor weigh ––
heavy like the suffocating
crush induced by the snake’s coil.


Panic bells chime within,
beckoning my getaway
before the coming storm, but
I cannot leave her behind.

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There is no harmony
for us on the outside.
Only brief glimpses of that
which lies behind the wall.

It is us on the outside
who are in prison.
The soles of our feet
worn raw from toil.

We are the hungry,
The sick and the dying.
The ones kept in darkness.
behind this skyward barrier

Where endless excess
is left to rot away,
before a single grain
ever slip beyond.

Those who attempt escape
share the same fate.
It may seem merciful,
but they never return.

beyond the evergreen door,
is in the fleeting moments
before the bitter taste of
gunpowder fills the acrid air.

Credits and Additional Information

How to Date Successfully Online

How to Date Successfully Online

Me tooth is all crooked,
As is m’eh blasted hook nose,
The bloody thing whistles,
Everytimes that I’se blows.

Gravity’s a beeotch,
Pullin’ down on m’eh rolls,
An’ when I’se wearin’ shorts ,
Me nuts hangs to me toes.

Girls swipe left at m’eh pix,
That’s howse it goes,
On me next dating profile,
I’ll superimpose.

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I was once wild…

I was once wild…

I was once wild…

Roaming across
vast open plains.
At times hungry, waiting
for my harem’s return.

Sunbaked beneath
Endless captive skies,
I ruled my domain
with absolute authority.

My young apprentice
watching me through light,
distorted in the heat
rising from her scorched skin.

Motionless amongst
the tall grasses
bend to her will in the
slight Saharan breeze.

Not hidden…
For I am aware
of his full intention,
transfer through succession

The next generation,
patient, in youthful impatience,
waiting for the sun to
rise on a new King.

To you, that cages my freedom,
we are not different!
Protecting one’s pride to
precariously hold onto power.

Our moment is fleeting,
the sun rising and setting
on a conclusion as inevitable
as the rhythms of home.

Kingdoms rise and fall, but
Mother’s hands remain steady,
continually reshaping, and
redefining balance.

It is a fool’s errand
to push against her nature,
for her ever-shifting moods
recognize it’s part of nature too.

Once, we were all wild…

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What Is Soup?

The following is written in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The challenge asks that we channel our inner Shakespeare and write a terrible sonnet about everybody’s favourite one-pot food, soup.

What Is Soup?

The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.

Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.

Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.

What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.1

Citation: Definition of soup taken from the Terrible Poetry Contest blog post for this contest at Chel Owen’s blog, A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing.

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