October 2010

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Vol. 1, No. 7


Erica Allanach – sms (telophase)

Tim Barker – Cancer Can Be Cool

Janet Brush – Rain in the City

Kirstie Burns – The Spectacle

Harry Garrison – Intersection Of Me & Them

Judy Ann Howe – Poetry

David B. Huebert – He’s an elusive fish that one

John A. James – Again

Heddy Johannesen – Under a Blood Moon

Robert Lee – Words of faith…

John MacPherson – Society Today

Linda Nesbitt – Chickadee

Megan Power – Things You Were Right About

Talib – Capitalism

Sara Saddington – The cafe

Mary Ellen Sullivan – Giving

Christen Thomas – Steal me the sea

John Wamboldt – Mary’s Hair

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sms (telophase)
Poem by Erica Allanach

i wonder what it is passing between us now —
cell to cell, i know, but we are nowhere near
each other

a sound. yes,
look down.
show off to everyone around that you are not,
in fact,

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Cancer Can be Cool
Poem by Tim Barker

Listen to my words
Pass them off as yours
I control your mind
Give me your mind
You are all puppets
Slaves to the pen
You must get tired of pretending
and of all the bad actors
Square dancing fools
Aligned to the left
And blind to the rest
Spiked belt tourniquets
You’re hemorrhaging personality

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Rain in the City
Poem by Janet Brush

Sheets of water
………………….down my window.

Blankets of water
………………….the city below.

Streets slick and shiny,
Buildings grey and dingy,
Water dripping from roofs and windows
………..like leaky faucets.

Far below
……….Umbrellas held close to heads
……….like many-coloured mushrooms
…………………scurrying for cover.

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The Spectacle
Poem by Kirstie Burns

Drunk, stumble, sing, fun
You entertain,
They love you!
Bury troubles
Oh you are so sad
Fun, sing, stumble,

You forget who loves you.
It’s lonely when the haze clears

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The Intersection Of Me And Them
Poem by Harry Garrison

I see someone on the street.
At first I think it’s someone I know.
Then I realize it’s just someone
who looks something like someone I know.

They’re almost the person I know.
No, they’re not! Looking like the person
I know doesn’t make them anything to do
with the person I know!

I’ve never seen them before.
Okay, maybe I’ve seen them a dozen
times before, but never noticed them
before, or noticed and forgot.

I only see them for a moment.
They play a very small role in the movie
of my life. I know nothing of them,
but they know all about themselves.

After all, they’ve been them for all
their lives, just as I have been me for all
my life. I saw them for only a moment.
They may not have seen me at all.

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Poem by Judy Ann Howe

Poetry is a way
To have your say
There is no right or wrong way

It is fun and sometimes sad
Feelings of even being glad
Think about how it makes you feel
Cause it is real

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He’s an elusive fish that one
Poem by David B. Huebert

This fish has no gender
How dare you ascribe him one?

He has no genitals
He has no voice
He has no sex
He doesn’t have sex

He swims through an ocean
Polluted by contraception
And drowns

His odds weren’t very good anyway

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Poem by John. A James

Another transitory existence;
Merciless and unwavering reality.
I cling to the edge,
Convinced this time,
I won’t fall-
Too far.

The plot unfolds, inevitable;
Woven into each new mantle,
A single thread of candor,
Be content with forever-
For now.

Destined to relive,
Another ageless tragedy.
One that transcends time eternal;
Having found,
What was lost,
Only to forfeit once more.

What may have been,
Has been-
Throw a kiss and say adieu,
Another time…
Another place…

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Under a Blood Moon
Poem by Heddy Johannesen

In the cool splendor of fall,
wind blown ochre leaves
scatter in the yard.

A northern wind blows hard
on this Mabon morning,
signal of change to come.

The crow sounds a rousing cry,
its’ black form hunched
on a thin branch.

A kettle sputters, she
sips her tea slowly,
burning her throat.

She gathers herbs
to store in
earthen bowls.

Her heart beats shrewdly from
earned wisdom,
she scorns the cold.

Wind whispers of spirits near,
the crow takes flight,
boughs quiver.

Under the Blood moon of October,
she casts her spell,
beholds the crow on her oak tree.

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Words of faith…
Poem by Robert Lee

I am using words
to speak of words.
Its not unlike using words
to speak of snow
to a man who has not seen snow.
At the end of the day
he still has not seen snow,
but he can tell you words about it.
Its wet, cold and white.
If he repeats these words,
he will come to believe
that he has seen snow.
I have seen snow
that is dry like the sand
driven by the wind.
It grinds away at every surface.
Language is like dry snow
driven by the wind.
Grinding away at our ability
to recognize what is present.
Language is a tool
used to create the illusion
of division where none exists.
You may imagine mind as a vast canvas
with words providing all the color
one can imagine.

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Society Today
Poem by John MacPherson

Thoughts wander without a light
Sickness grows against a fight
Busted, bruised and been accused
A nothing man in ragged shoes

Detoxed mental realities
Cancerous caused fatalities
Broken, flawed and feeling pain
Flowing through a blackened vein

Feared pain in poverty
Viral filled society
Hatred, rage and killing fields
Zero done or put to yield

Finding pain in happiness
Raised a Bush to make a mess Anger, hate and wasted youth
Life was killed to tell the truth

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Poem by Linda Nesbitt

Who would think the little chickadee
is as promiscuous as she can be.
That tiny chick, she has no shame,
they’re all alike, they’re all the same.
Tut, tut, tut… need I say more,
that charming chickadee’s a whore.

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Things You Were Right About (Memo to an Ex)
Poem by Megan Power

1. Gmail
2. Capitalized Interest
3. Boards of Canada, Air, RjD2, Cold War Kids,
……Postal Service, Broken Social Scene
4. this city
5. me

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Poem by Talib

The Invisible Hand is trying to kill me!
It has already wreaked havoc on Wall Street
like anarchists in 1919
It ravages the ‘free world’ like Godzilla in Japan

Now I fear it will come knocking at my door
strangle me and take the money out of my wallet
But the joke will be on it because I have no money
in my wallet
or my bank account
or even under my bed
Still, in this case the invisible hand
will probably take the food out of my cupboards
and give me the finger on the way out

Does anyone have a silver bullet
to stop this beast that devours its own children?
This is not the first time the Free Market
has regulated itself into recession
And it won’t be the last
I just hope we wake up before it regulates us all…
into oblivion

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The café
Poem by Sara Saddington

The solace of my fingers.
This sharp and cracked distraction.
A full-lipped poet six tables away.

Come to me.
I want to speak haikus.

I’ve been impoverished of words
and I’m ready to speak.

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Poem by Mary Ellen Sullivan

I’m idling at Robie and Bell,
damn long light.
My foot twitching on the brake as I’m
making up my grocery list in my stomach.
God, that man is walking towards me
with his no name cup
and clenching a cardboard billboard:
Need money for food and meds
and trip to Timbuktu.

I’m watching the light, checking my make-up,
slipping a look.
Hair slicked down oily
Body caved in and that sickly color of skin.
I bet he can smell selfishness. Used to it.

It’s hard to know what these guys want.
People say drugs or cheap booze.
Don’t encourage them.

I’m full of nettles, my clamped steering wheel
begging the light to change this situation.
Ok, ok, my window slides down and I grab
a toonie that was destined to buy me a coffee.
God bless you, ma’am.
That always gets me.
He would have blessed me if I did nothing.

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Steal me the sea
Poem by Christen Thomas

You steal me the sea when I sleep,
nude in the neoprene night.

You creep to the beach in the duotone dark,
barefoot, sandals lost in an unlit room.

You take an insomniac swim to
the suicide songs of a beached sperm whale,

scamper back briny and subdued,
press a miniature sea urchin to my lips.

(Perhaps only your stubbled
chin, your salted kiss.)

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Mary’s Hair
Poem by John Wamboldt

That April night I trudged in from the street
black with dirt, my heart all weak and worn,
my feet world-weary and afraid, and torn
between two paths.

Even then I knew what end
my way would lead. I’m sure you knew it too,
yet ministered with no thought of yourself.

Your heart was opened, knowing as you did
what vulgar death was yammering at my heels.

There at my feet you knelt, your hair all down,
and opened up your hoard of bottled tears.
Weeping (as I once wept), you added more,
and held at bay the jailers at my door.

Then with your radiant hair you wiped them dry,
(my poor and dirty feet!) my haggard mind.
And later, when I hung between two thieves,
I thought of you, and your sweet act of love.

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