Vol. 2, No. 6
getting out of the city
the stifling air
the heavy smoky city weight
the flash and flurry
the buzz and hum
drum roll of cars and trucks
and scooters and skateboards
roller blades and the quick
the ornamental nature
the unnamed faces
the multitude of strangers
the motion of motion
The wind whistling a secret song.
One people listening can hear it
even the dolls look up and sing along.
The song tells us the secret of really living.
All the buds dance along.
The flowers even swing back and forth.
And of course, none of us can hear it.
In order to venture
to the edge
of the stampede,
of the white dust,
of the ground teeth,
waits, scratches, waits.
The night of eyelids
makes a brick:
sounds, knocks; ticks
but here’s no answer.
Then…sits at the back
and waits for a pop
to bloom and then stop
its receding slow inhale.
Warmth on my back
Soft kisses in my hair,
Orchestra of nature
Dancing through the air.
Fluorescent green fragrance
Lily white perfume,
The summer in full bloom.
Waves break on black rocks.
Liberated, One and One.
Nine months growing time.
Seeded March, harvest December,
just like Brussels sprouts.
……………Footprints in uterus or
Small pin drops to floor,
beyond unyielding belly.
If love is only the deepest dream,
..you dream it awake, like the hypnotist’s spell.
A look, a touch, you start love’s scenes:
..as if reality, they overwhelm;
as if illusion, they draw you in.
They lead you on like a novelist’s scheme.
..They demand, like government djinns.
Like music that moves to touch the heart’s hovel,
..they incline and intend toward the solo soul’s being.
And love betrayed will bring you sorrow –
..love deferred makes hearts to die.
Bypass love’s tent – life will dry,
..a desert long, longer than no tomorrow.
She toils tirelessly daily at the
computer vacuum that sucks her energy in
or on frosty evenings, tossing bread crumbs to
pecking pigeons and robins flitting over
sheer ice melting to reveal a felt green yard,
a recycle bin overflows with crushed eggshells,
clusters of chickpeas soak patiently in steel pots
and golden loaves of dried tomato and paprika bread mysteriously disappear.
Clamors for more food ring
to the high chipped ceiling and
neatly ordered jars of peas, herbs, lentils and chili beans
stand at attention for her command.
Her hands are skilled and nimble
she wipes away a tear or tests a temperature
she kneads dough and child into obedience
and scowls at abandoned cigarette butts.
On the pine table, circles of flour coat her apron as
I observe her transform seeds into
tantalizing hummus or hot muffins,
a grassy field or fertile Eden,
and I wonder… how can I inherit the magic
of her gifts?
The blanket fell from the bed
And you were at my side.
I rested on your chest, my head –
Us and the sun, to the morning were tied.
As flowers outside the window grew,
I poured the coffee and read the news,
Sweet fruit on my finger, I fed to you,
Pink sun onto, the morning grass spews.
Kisses around your mouth as you smile,
Your fingers map my skin.
I cannot help but fill with denial,
Craving your touches, and wanting you within.
I pick up the blankets as you leave,
And wait for your return to me.
I turn on the TV, and sit to grieve,
As I sit and wait till I see.
Travelling from my new home—
to my old on the coast,
the empty island houses are skeletons I gaze upon.
I am free of a fifty year prison.
I am a ghost remembering—
I slide down the bank to the black ocean
to see what the eye saw
out past these bone boards.
My mind drifts in that hopelessness,
but buoyed by before,
of my people
on the barrens following the caribou farther
than the ocean is wide
since time began.
Returning to shore,
I enter my skull
through the window of the eye socket;
roam far within my ribs,
to find my trapped heart
still beating there.
I am the Innu.
Sly thief and sleeky cutthroat!
Let’s have some tea and toast.
For in these recent days
I don’t want to be with any
Hush! Don’t deny me
Come now, rest awhile,
In the aching briar of my heart
Forever stamp yourself here
Be my kings tonight!
I long for nothing now
But your company.
Oh Nostalgia and Memory…
Either stay unchanged by time
Or leave, be gone!
As if I an infant died…
She sits amused in a sky of billowed opaqueness
Neatly folding dreams into true creations of art
The simple pure thoughts of her and her lover
Soon become sentimental treasures “a la carte”
From a whirlwind tsunami of mixed emotions
She neatly pleats to serene end from the start
She’s the creator of the most perfect paper desires
Lovingly molded from the affairs of her heart…
Merciful reprieve from our short summer’s
Frenzied enjoyment, with its
Dizzying festival schedule
Tyrannical warmth and sun
O sweet storms!
Freeing me from all that
Planning and organizing,
driving and spending,
grilling and drinking,
smiling and agreeing
Beautiful black clouds
An automatic excuse from
My twelve dollar Zellers rainboots
Best money ever spent
Girls along Barrington wear trendy Hunters
Their cuteness dampened by a foul-weather scowl
Me, I am singing in the rain:
Blessed, blessed drizzle,
Fog and cloud
Don’t ever leave
Poem by Matt Robinson
Poem by Derek Robinson
human nature. in Saskatchewan
augustness fed consumption; the honesty
of cereal harvest. pre-Green Revolution
in B.C forests speak listlessly
leaving fear astern amongst quality
softwoods and decried marijuana plants
in the bluenose province, however,
long proud to build war, maybe better off
in Alberta. oil washes easier than blood
Old books smell like incense.
This one belonged to Paul Trethewey.
who has handwriting like my Grandma
and sold me a book
that smells like her.
The sun leaps to its death
and the children will mourn
but the ritual sweep of incense
will make the new books taste
like old libraries.
To want more than any kind of life
from the root cellar would require
bringing light within a place
dank as a ditch. But, however,
assuming competence in a luminous
power leaves closed the door that
houses this congress of stinks. For
with the outside closed within, a
stench escapes to nowhere except
the bricks in the wall. And there
some foul smells remain, growing
each day by a fraction of four.
Fraction upon fraction each day
more the scent lays to wait as
worm for bait in sea’s above the
water. With the smell rising higher
and higher lights’ dirt begins to
breathe in this festering palace
of royal odors. Then, while soil
is breathing again roots ripe, the
walls are filled to the brim with
life grown old. So the cellar is
tangled all within leaving no
place for light to shine in.
time to go
silhouettes at my door
walls can wail
absorb the shock
as my heart grows cold
the windows frost
echoes in hollow spaces
lines you miss on lovely faces
near and gone years so long
but I miss you I miss you
and the darkness hides
and the darkness heals
and I try and try
but I can still feel
night falls on and on
and then it breaks
and the only sound
is the one you make
loneliness to others
solitude for me
I wish this was a sacrifice time
a flatten tin cans and bind up paper time
a Cub scout drive time
A Spitfire and Helldiver time
An excess profits tax time
an everybody works time
Cause , like before, the lights are turning out
all over the world
it’s just about as bad
the bodies are turning up
it’s just that professionals are being paid
to do any sacrificing that’s voluntary.
Instead of “we’re sacrificing” it’s
we’re being sacrificed.