June 2013

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Vol. 4, No. 4


Georgia AtkinLetter of Eviction

Nola BishopYour heart, dear heart

Kathryn Bjornsoneach gasp looser

Janet BrushThe Hat

Jonathan BurchillDreams

Patti C.Teenage Emotions

Richard CollinsAlone in Antigonish

Tim CovellSpring Garden Road Walks

Bill Hanrahan Haiku Foo

Cathy HanrahanSpring Wind

Judy Ann HoweShe’s Gone

Scot JamiesonExplore

Breanna KeelerRepetition

Emily KraussForest Reflection

Erica LewisSteadfast Is Hope

David R. MacLeanvoting Canadian style

Alicia MartinLiquid of Life

Nicole D. MyersRock Ranger

Elzy TaramangalamKotodama

Wendy WatkinsonV

James WhiteheadPleasant Coyote

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Elzy Taramangalam

Sometimes a poem
Is the breeze on the tree top
Other times it is
The bee on a petal
Or a deer licking lichen
More often the lines
Come in waves
Caressing the body
Waking the being
Taking the soul
To Everest heights
On an endless spin
Out of time
On to conscient light.

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Pleasant Coyote
James Whitehead

In Point Pleasant Park
I saw you in your jogging pants
With Carlton, your golden Labrador
He was waddling, grinning
I asked Carlton
And he said if I liked you
I should tell you
I’m the Coyote who stares from the hill
I like running around, chasing rabbits
And Al Pacino in Serpico
I know it’s a long shot
But I want you to know
Carlton watches you in the shower by the way

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Wendy Watkinson

Eyes like a hawk
The tension taut
Piercing me
The energy
So raw
Clench and release
Nothing will ease
Don’t want to withdraw
Smooth and rough
Never enough
Soaring pulsing tasting
The heights never stop
Nor do the thoughts
Left in ruins and awe

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Teenage Emotions
Patti C.

Life is filled with emptiness
everywhere I go
people seem to stare at me
as if I were some show

Others point and laugh at me
and do their best
to put me down
to make me feel as though
I don’t count
and treat me like a clown.

Why must people be so
How can they be so cruel?
Do they think I haven’t
any feelings?
Were they not taught the
Golden Rule?

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She’s Gone
Judy Ann Howe

There is nothing wrong
She’s gone
Last year God her home
To let our hearts roam
As I sit here remembering her
My life at times seems blurred
Though I know for sure it was best
The sadness will not rest
God speaks to me
Telling me she is now free
And I have to go on with life
Being a parent and wife
Everyday I wonder how you are
Knowing that it is hard
Not seeing you all the time like before
When your lungs became sore
It was near the end
Everything sunk in
I knew for sure it was good-bye
Someday we meet again the sky

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Rock Ranger (for Jay Smith)
Nicole D. Myers

equal parts peace and promise
animate talent louder than bombs
& a pure hurricane-chasing heart

full throttle classic rock ranger
you were an exhilarating surprise
& fused unbridled passion in your stride

this extant twinkling passes by slowly
without your patient dreams dancing
& joyous flashes of musical quick fingers

on the back of a postcard from the road
it simply reads JS, we wish you were here

come back home Jay
…..into the light

for you the pursuit of rainbows
on the other side of midnight

…..will never expire

absence will not quell your golden voice
it is absolute truth you will never be gone

…..in our bones your music remains

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each gasp looser
Kathryn Bjornson

her breast a reedy vessel full
of breath and beating, the rattle
of fight and holding

each gasp looser, a thin
filament. the wrench and buckle
of dying.

the moment is not solid. it fades
between the waiting
and the knowing,
has no hard surfaces
that can be held.

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The Hat
Janet Brush

An ordinary salt-and-pepper cap
but it was his
…..his sweat
…..his maleness
…..his smell
never wash it.

Bury my nose in the lining
inhale deeply
transported back
…..into his arms.

How long will it last?
As long as love
as long as memory.

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Steadfast is Hope
Erica Lewis

Cold winds embrace eternal song;
up high atop the mountain’s peak,
your heart is tethered there and weak,
as stars give birth, our newest dawn.

A language both will comprehend,
shall pass between us, left unsaid,
while moons above gleam crimson red;
our withered spirits to ascend.

Beginning now, our lives will merge;
the dome of night, it will protect
till morning light, its glows project
the former pain of past we purge.

Steadfast is hope in sunlight bright
as sure as Earth below rotates;
your heart now free, it elevates
as skies above return to night.

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Liquid of Life
Alicia Martin

Every two weeks, for just one hour,
I feel like I belong in the world.

It’s ok that the remaining 335 hours,
within the two week span,
consistently challenge my sense of direction,
through the uncharted waters of life.

But it’s those changing tides,
With unsurfable swells,
in between placid surfaces,
and intimidating undertows,
that mould me into who I am.

My feelings, goals and purpose in life
Change just as frequent as this
Natural element does.

And that’s just fine with me.

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Letter of Eviction
Georgia Atkin

Okay, listen up.

We’ve had enough of your frosty winds.
No more snow,
no more white stuff, you hear me?
So many months
of freezing temperatures,
and I know you think you’re just so cool
but haven’t you noticed
the cold reception
you’re beginning to receive?
Frigid stares and glares directed at you
from those people bundled up in
layers of sweaters, coats, hats, mittens,
shivering with runny noses
and frozen facesand
nobody thinks that snow in April
is clever, okay?

We want to remember
the sunlight,
and the scent of green things growing
and what it feels like
not to have cold hands.

Hear that chilly silence, Winter?
I think it’s time
to leave.

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voting Canadian style
David R. MacLean

we vote in line with coffee preferences,
we vote with muttered nihilistic references,
we vote with our feet,
we vote with our bums in the seat.

we vote repeatedly on idol nights,
we vote to retain hockey fights,
we vote, more and more, in polls advanced,
we vote, more or less, by the seat of our pants.

we vote with our darts,
we vote with our hearts,
we vote with a gift of free booze,
we vote without rousing our passive IQ’s.

we waste our vote, but we insist on our say,
we want a vote on the big questions of the day:
should we call for takeout, or learn to cook?
should bieber be allowed to change his look?

we vote to keep our share of the pile.
we vote heuristically, Canadian style.

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Your heart, dear heart
Nola Bishop

This is what I love about your heart,
dear heart, its anatomically correct shape
that you are unabashed to wear proudly
on your sleeve bruised and like a medal
won on a battlefield and you are not
afraid to cry or say I love you

But more than that, what I love is
that it is yours and nobody else’s
and that it is strong and nothing
or no-one can steal it away.

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Spring Wind
Cathy Hanrahan

The winters are long here on the lands of Evangeline
They’re a map of endurance with a predominant theme
Of bitter winds that blow fiercely through the firmest of heart
Leaving love in the dust and no will left to start
But then round the corner comes that whiff of warm air
and we joyously surrender without thought or care
Thrown out the window is the knowledge we’ve learned
Heaped in a pile are life’s books to be burned
However fleeting these emotions of love and desire
No matter the consequence, we don’t seem to tire
Willing to acquiesce given time and a chance
Yearning to explore the smallest of circumstance
Yes, spring can envelope the most hardened of kind
And give hope that true love will be different this time

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Scot Jamieson

The holy mountains rise,
blue and vast, out of
the misty inner light.

A song is sighing in the
hush of the leaves of
the sentient forest.

Another sun pours out
the heat of the heart of
all belonging.

Sweet and saffron is
the intoxicant-kiss
of the immortal child.

Science is
exploring the limits

but it takes
(and it makes you)
a whole human soul

to explore

the no-limits.

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Jonathan Burchill

Hollow dreams high hopes
To drift into love or war
Plain life sweetly sour

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Forest Reflection
Poem by Emily Krauss

Deep in the forest,
Full of evergreen, birch and oak trees
Is where, you can find me
Sitting by the warm clear water
Dipping my feet
And feeling the wetness
Surround my toes

I’m all alone
Not a soul nearby
Not a creak
Nor a rustle in the bushes
No footsteps can be heard
Just me, my breathing and my thoughts

It’s what I relish once in awhile
As I just let myself, reflect and meditate
About life in general and the world

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Haiku Foo
Bill Hanrahan

Music can be a four letter word
Duke and Monk and Bach and Bird,
If you need there to be five
Louis, Basie
and Dizzy would jive
If instead you would have six
add Billie and Lester to the mix.

Please excuse me I have to
Who was that
that said:
“Bless you?”


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Alone in Antigonish
Richard Collins

Walking past a rustic gate post, my thoughts
engrossed by greens and cobalt colored streams
incandescent lemon freckled sights
with ivory petals speckled lightly. White

and blue-green shapes that shook and undulated
under ornate eyes and common traits. There
a gravel path led me away, and there
a farm, now dilapidated stood and quaked

Nine children to a bedroom, dirt under nails
Grandmother would pail the eggs to market
every sunday the wind was cold against
the undetermined verdant forest

Too unforgiving for the refuge of the barn
I had to feed the livestock, I had a favorite baby chick
at night Dad would lock himself away
burgandy dripped his soul chest and weather worn neck

Sipping urgently I hauled what wood I could collect
In the summer I would run the fields
flecked in flakes of gilded wheat
sweeping footfalls briskly back to brother’s working

One by one they all would leave me
as the leaves of autumn yore
leaving me and chickadee
to what dad could tend no more.

and through a gray decaying doorway hole
magenta dripped his core

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Breanna Keeler

Say it.
Say it over and over and over again.
Say it like a mantra.
Say it like a magic spell.
Say it until you believe it.
Say it until it sounds wrong.
Say it until the words twist in on themselves.
Say it until it makes sense.
Say it until your voice runs out.
Say it until your throat is raw.
Say it until you’re swallowing blood.
Say it until you can’t breathe.
Say it until it’s true.
Say it.
Say it.
Say it.
Say it until it stops being true.
Say it.
Say it.
Say it over and over and over again.

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Spring Garden Road Walks
Tim Covell

A mix of casual
Diners start the street
Then quiet blocks
To stroll in peace and ease
The Public Gardens
Offer daytime feet
A path among the trees
And greens to please
Next lights and sidewalks packed
The beggars call
All day, from dawn and
Service trucks that bring
The food and drink, ’till night
Cabs wait, and all
Is dark and slow
As late night lovers cling
Boutiques and bars absorb
The movie throngs
Downhill the vendors’ vans
Have fresh hot fries
‘Tween library and the court
For judging wrongs
There are the churches
Where tall commerce lies
The old graves ground
The one of three that show
The others gone from sight
Where we all go.

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