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Vol. 5, No. 7
In this Issue:
Victoria Desjardins – Natural Warfare
David Robert Fulcher – No Pockets in Heaven
Cathy Hanrahan – Diamond Tooth Trouble
Jari-Matti Helppi – To The Ones
Randy Henderson – A painting in watercolours
Jim Hoyle – ( I )’m not there yet
Scot Jamieson – later, when we first met
Jordan MacDonald – Abstract Angel
David R. MacLean – cuddy in the storm
Yoon Park – The War Cry of My Philanthropic Soul
Gillian Webster – On The Sea Floor
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On The Sea Floor
by Gillian Webster
Ten winding lobsters in a silent conga line,
claws clutching the tail in front.
Heads determined,
All dancing boldly in the rippling,
sea floor waves.
Antennae front and forward,
bodies swaying silently in the cold.
Motionless, and yet moving.
Now off they go, swimming stilly,
in friendship.
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Kids on The Oval and skateboard dudes
cavort where settlers’ cattle grazed.
The ghosts of 10 thousand batters
clock phantom baseballs over the grass.
Beneath the ground, lemon extract bottles,
drained by homesick sailors
when booze was rationed in World War Two.
My Grandma’s house was
on Cunard Street.
In 1914 her sons played on The Commons,
then on the bloody fields of France.
Their sister Kate, my mother,
heard the Explosion ,
looked out the splintering window
and lost her eye.
Head wrapped in a bloody towel
stumbling cross the snowy Commons
to Camp Hill,
a bucket of eyeballs at the clinic door..
A crowded stage, such pageantry:
Mi’kmaq, soldiers, cows,
the Trollope Street ladies,
cricket, baseball,
brass bands and rock bands,
lovers and muggers
So many souls, so many lives,
Played out on that shrinking field of sod.
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The girl sitting beside me has
beautiful, amazing handwriting.
It is slim and swirls like Arabic script,
and I can’t make out a word of it.
I spot a ‘t’.
Her vowels are horizontal.
The margins are just suggestions.
A loop dips below the line,
maybe a ‘g’, or a ‘q’,
I am not certain.
I look over each word of every line,
not to find meaning,
but just for their beauty.
She pulls her pen off of
another finished thought;
is that a ‘u’ I see, or an incomplete ‘a’?
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Here I sit upon this table
A lonely magnet on oak, maybe maple
I stick to things
Wood’s not one of them
Some bonds are stronger than others
When I think about it, the wood holds me up
I’m still not stuck to something
I could stick to the fridge
That’s metal
The connection gives me hope
Yet, something is missing
That spark
Suddenly, I see another Magnet
I’m instantly drawn
My master turns me away, and I repel it
By the time I turn back
The other magnet shows it’s polar opposite
I’m repelled
Finally, those sides of the same meet
Two halves of a charge become whole
An embodiment of energy
I will always hold onto
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I am tired
of being the object of a sentence –
tired of being
rejected, dejected, ignored and passed by –
“Sorry! Maybe next time.”
Next time?
Maybe
I won’t be here next time,
maybe
I’ll be traveling the world,
hitching a ride on shooting stars,
charting my own destiny,
and maybe
you’ll come looking for me
and find the note on my door:
Sorry! Maybe next time…
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cuddy in the storm
by David R. MacLean
mid september gale
harassing the copse on the hillside,
uplifting leaves on the hardwoods,
exciting the conifers to agitation,
causing the whole grove
to groove
in rhumba time.
deflected salvos
are flaring the fire;
the pergola is a cuddy
on a small vessel in a sea of wind.
cap’t would have enjoyed this
although he would have talked much
of the absence of motion
of the mighty empire
beneath the bows
but I am good with the steady deck,
the wind high overhead
where it belongs,
and the madding crowd far away.
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later, when we first met
by Scot Jamieson
later, when we first met and
our hands circled the
touching prerogatives and
your white knees by the
rainy flower beds had appeared
and had glistened
in the memory banks
of my river and when
overall we underwent
the circumstances’
lengthened sentence of respect,
a moment’s longing
would shine out – come through us –
like diamonds from the lost garden
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To be in love is
exquisite torture
Even a photograph engenders
– a jolt to the heart
– a roiling in the gut
– a tightening of the throat
Seeing him pass in the street
sends you into joyful delirium
Face to face
you can barely speak
You long to touch him
but that can never be
He is unattainable
Your love wasted
Still, you dream of him…..
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No Pockets in Heaven
by David Robert Fulcher
There’s no pockets in Heaven
No lock-box in Hell
Hoarders find Limbo
It’s time to expel
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Natural Warfare
by Victoria Desjardins
The trees, they look like soldiers;
The water looks like blood.
We treat them like they’re worthless,
And drag them through the mud.
We work so hard, day in day out,
For a profit we can boast.
We ignore the damage being done,
To the parasite and the host.
The trees will die from apathy,
The water will dry from doubt.
By the Earth we’re being warned,
But not many hear it shout.
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Abstract Angel
by Jordan MacDonald
Strange, abstract angel, how you plague me
With your wings that eclipse all,
That lift, propel, elevate you to
Such immeasurable altitudes;
I enjoy the view from below.
Why I am your vice is challenging
For me to comprehend, but for
Me to squander this blessed truth
Would be profoundly foolish —
An irredeemable oversight.
I will only disillusion you,
Mar your exquisite existence,
Be the accumulative dust that
Idles your domain, your spirit.
You proudly soar amid everlasting
stratosphere, bound to me,
Your weighty burden,
A strain, a hindrance, an encumbrance
You have been seduced by.
A paralytic love, and you
Refuse to clean your hands.
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The War Cry of My Philanthropic Soul
by Yoon Park
World is small,
Be kind to as many people as possible.
Life is short,
Learn to love and accept yourself.
The day is bright,
Be happy and know the night will come.
The night is dark,
But when you let it go the day will come.
World is round,
March on and we’ll all meet together.
Life is full,
Embrace whom are hurt, and think it isn’t.
The day is for you,
Seize it and shine in your best suit.
The night is for all…
including your loved ones,
Share your lights with them.
Let them in your world of true words.
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Winter Magic
by Giavonna Rossi
The silence of winter is a golden moment
where we remember
how beautiful snow really is.
As I stared out my window
that snowy winter night, trees swayed
under the weight of the fresh blowing snow.
Then a single candle grew closer
that flew through the sky
lighting up the darkness
like a bolt of lightning in slow motion.
For a second the outdoors looked
like a new beginning
like I could do anything, then
just as quickly as the candle came,
it got swallowed up
as the outdoors was plunged into darkness
once again.
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( I )’m not there yet (lipogrammatic advice)
by Jim Hoyle
What do you have to do before you go ?
Too much to taste, so how do you know
where to start? The answer’s anywhere.
Walk, compose, see what’s out there.
Look at art, choose what pleases best,
play a tune. But start at once lest
you lose that urge to go to places new.
Make a plan, not too large, so you
can undertake the stages one by one
and see those smallest goals are done.
Haven’t the cash? Can’t manage that ?
There are many ways to flense a cat !
Start out soon. Don’t be checked
as fewer years are left than you expect.
Take a chance lest you forget
those hoped for plans and just regret
the wasted hours and weeks gone by.
Push yourself just once to try.
Be brave, step out, reach at
a dream and say:
………..“Been there, done that.”
Seek a way now and then to let
go …. Even so (I)’m not there yet.
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I want something real.
I want something I can feel.
I want something I can see.
I want something that moves me.
I want something that is real.
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It was 1914, but it could have been today,
War started to rage in countries far away;
Our youth were the ones; to go and to die,
The young pay the price, mothers just cry.
What learned we from this “war to end wars”?
Stay home safe, while tyrannic power soars?
We’re damned if we do; and, too, if we don’t,
For evil left alone will spread if we won’t
Stand up for our freedoms, the freedom to live,
Freedoms we earned, but the wisdom to give.
100 years has passed come December,
‘Tis reason enough for us all to remember
Veterans of this, and subsequent wars,
Who selflessly serve when tyranny roars.
Ask ourselves to bring war to an end;
But the questions are: Just HOW, and WHEN?
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A painting in watercolours
by Randy Henderson
I stood on the sidewalk
letting the rain and wind
lift away my workweek skin
like a translucent mask
that keeps others out
and me from overflowing
And as my ears were freed
the six o’clock bells from the church across the street
reminded me that yesterday and tomorrow
don’t really exist
It was ok that I missed my bus, twice
There was no place I really had to be
Except here
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Diamond Tooth Trouble
by Cathy Hanrahan
She saw him there straddling a Harley
He smiled and the diamond caught her eye
Amused by his toothy demeanour
She told the first little white lie
Said her name was Leslie
When it was really Sarah Jean
Told him she was a college girl
Truth be told she was just seventeen
They rode through the night together
Until the sirens screamed their names
And he sped up and into the shipyard
To hide amongst containers and cranes
Riding into a large concrete tunnel
They slowed and he silently cursed
Because a cruiser was blocking the exit
And the girl was screaming “reverse”
Very patiently he turned and he said
“They only go forward sweetheart”
Astonished she could only reply
“Well that doesn’t seem very smart”
She stuck to her story of Leslie
And he gave out a fake ID
And together they drove out of trouble
Her wiser and him glad to be free
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To The Ones
by Jari-Matti Helppi
Who’s to tell me how to think?
To feel, to love, to sweat, to stink.
Who’s the one that sweet feeds me,
all that and ambiguity.
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Waves pound in my head,
thunder in my chest,
their pulsating surge like
the blood in my veins,
their roar drowning out my no longer
quiet despair,
the ocean’s certainty,
now my only refuge.
Open Heart Forgery 