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Vol. 6, No. 2
In this Issue:
Bethany Rose Artin My Regency Lovers
Sheila Burke The Herons of Kingsport
C. A. Lamond Winter, To a Middle Aged Man
Scott Lynch for the Irish in me
Jordan MacDonald The Grandeur of Solitude
Mary Ellen Sullivan 14 Things that Nourish Nova Scotia
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The Herons of Kingsport
Sheila Burke
Four herons stood on spindly legs
tilting wet wings at the wind.
Strange, misshapen, giant clothes pegs
They pinned
the swaying grasses
in a line along
the dunes of summer’s dawn.
Four herons rooted to the rise
looking down on the water-lapped shore.
Tousled sentinels of the sea’s tides
they wore
their cloak of wizardry
and amazing grey
on the dunes that radiant day.
Four herons crooked and craned their necks,
sensing the presence draw near.
The intruder’s shape in their mind’s eye
etched,
their fear took flight
and beat an unhurried path
across the dunes into August twilight.
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mufflers waving,
coat-tails flapping,
Easterly whistling through my jeans,
‘tis the wind…forever March wind.
clothes-lines swaying,
fence gates clanging,
Norther nudging all aside,
‘tis the wind…annoying March wind.
flags aflutter,
kites aloft,
Westerly whiffets stealing bonnets,
‘tis the wind…playful March wind.
breakers beaching,
sail boats tacking,
Souther steering fore-and-aft,
‘tis the wind…fearful March wind.
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I don’t know why
I still cry
When the sun refuses to shine
Through these gray clouds
The black sun will never rise
While these gray clouds still persist
But one day these clouds will go
And I will finally grow
In the warm, radiant glow
Of a sun I almost forgot existed
And on that day, I will persist
And these gray clouds will just be
Half-remembered dreams
That swim in the seas of my subconscious
And eventually,
They will be the wind on my back
Propelling me up to be one
With the golden sun
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Spring
(with apologies to Will)
Bill Hanrahan
When daffodils dance on the lawn,
And rhododendron blossoms burst,
Then so the riders get it on,
Ah…golden days past May the first.
Along the highway then’s begun
The song of Harley Davison:
Va-room, va-room
A merry note
While at secluded stopping spot,
“Greaser John” doth deal the pot.
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no one knows,
these weren’t my own words
least I wasn’t the first
to have said or
accused a thing
no one knows
most of what is
distant sound
of rail trains
passing sitting places
in bliss and blanket frost
when the bits of time
and sands run dry
I truly hate
to even whisper
or worry on travel day
giving seconds ponder,
wondering
the places gone
the time
they used to call me
crying ryan
but no tears
soured this life
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Winter, To a Middle Aged Man
(apology to G. M. Hopkins)
C. A. Lamond
Marty, are you aching
Over ice you have been breaking?
Ice, when it’s in your drink, you
With your rare malts care for. Shall we?
Ah! As the days grow colder
Your back will feel much older.
Why, oh why, you often sigh
Through shops where huge snow blowers lie
And yet, you will delve and know why.
No matter, Sir, the name
Winter’s droppings are the same.
Nor back had, no nor arms exhaust
For every shovel full you’ve tossed.
It is the blight husbands were hitched for.
It is the Spring melt you itch for.
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The Grandeur of Solitude
Jordan MacDonald
The grandeur of solitude,
magnified by the night’s embrace.
sublime, private joys and
quiet, sacred pains;
bohemian endeavours ensue,
concealed from the plebeian
denizens of this seamy
apartment complex.
the floors and walls,
as thin as the paper I
scratch my script upon
o how I dread the blank page —
more than a barren refrigerator,
an empty bottle,
an empty promise,
a vacant bed.
poverty stricken, dwelling
in a loveless abyss with the
vestiges of boyhood screaming
into the boundless dark;
ecstasy, euphoria permeates,
as I bloody my hands with ink.
I willingly allow the omnipotent
force of words to dominate me;
I plead to feel their wrath
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By way of smoke and screens
we deny that which faces us.
We think small, and, by doing so are small.
We look out foggy windows
only to see misty vistas.
We think in tiny spots
that serve nought but blinks.
Our words and wants wean the selfish.
A means to an end
that result in narrow passages,
intended as intellect,
while walking down constricted roads
and tight spaces.
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in concert?
air raid alert?
it’s hard to discern
her intention, her muse,
she loves to perform, amuse,
with her songs at dawn’s turn.
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for the Irish in me
Scott Lynch
reverential to the wind
nearby pines
as I try to shrug off
the slap and sting of a winter
only days from gone
watching the puzzled movement of river ice
trying to picture spring
as hoods and scarves are drawn tightly
everywhere near
steady flurries whipped by a cold taskmaster
few birds braving the squall
slush puddles saying nothing warm
hope as elusive as Leprechauns
and the colour green
on this inimical snowy
seventeenth of March
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birds are soaring
as true as the morning sun
through a window
upon a wall
past a curtain
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I am tired of being tossed around
like a cork in the sea
like an animal in a pit
that can’t be seen
but prowls and moans in agony
for something that lies outside
I must fight, I must struggle,
I must, I must, I simply must.
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you
are gone
and I am left now
with so many
histories to unlearn;
the colours fade in sunlight
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You can’t see me –
My head, one tenth of me,
is under the bed.
You can’t see me –
I’m on the shelf
under the bbq.
You can’t see me –
I’m behind this post
which is three inches wide.
You can’t see me –
What! You CAN see me?
Drat!
(By Any cat in the world)
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Verses you wrote, words never spoken,
doomed to the Atlantic Ocean’s floor;
veiled messages in bottles, broken,
never meant to reach my shore.
Years have passed, a youth held ransom,
assuring that we shall never meet;
captured by a warrior, handsome,
your prize of solitude, my defeat.
Love is the word you would write
upon the paper lining of your soul;
that you would offer me in spite,
access, under inviolable control.
Quietly crumbling when touched by hand,
rhythms contained within their beating;
endlessly shifting, words are the sand,
through fingers, slipping, lost, the meaning.
I deny my sun to greet your moon;
add hours of six for my teary vision
that sets upon your nights of gloom,
contemplating of me, your derision.
Each word is a note, each line a song,
I send, though my heart tells me better;
on the ocean’s mist, now carried along,
sealed not with cork, but love, this letter.
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We two, like this turbulent marriage of wind and rain
Behaving as though
Love will last forever.
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was it really so surprising to see
the lack of a ghost in your machine?
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14 Things that Nourish Nova Scotia
Mary Ellen Sullivan
View of valley fields, Blomidon look off
Frosted grape vines
Oxen pull
Acres and Acres of music
Rural Delivery pot luck
Early Moonbeam Watermelon,
Annapolis Seeds
Northumberland lambs
Farm Works
Nibble plots, Common Roots Urban Farm
Heritage pig breeds
Agriculture Literacy Week
Blueberry rakes
Nyanza hops
Sunset behind North Mountain
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My Regency Lovers
Bethany Rose Artin
He’s thousands per year
Plays and carriage rides and balls
For me and my name
The nameless baker
Comes before dawn at the house
For me and my joy
Is this improper?
Perhaps I do neglect form
In pursuit of fun.
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Follow the line.
Follow him anywhere.
Follow him to the end.
Follow you to the end of time.
Open Heart Forgery 