May 2015

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Vol. 6, No. 4
In this Issue:

Erica AllanachVisuals

Meg Bairdmagnolia blossoms

Janet BrushHomecoming

Tim CarterFly

Seth Earle6 a.m. lament

Cathy HanrahanWillow’s Wind

Jari-Matti HelppiTo The Writer

C. A. LamondFlying Fish?

Erica LewisMusic

Michele L’HeureuxSerenade

Scott LynchRed-winged Blackbird

David R. MacLeanClarity

Mike McFetridgeAll May Not Agree

Jillian MoranCrystalline

Lorie Ann MorrisSorry

Dyrell NelliganSail

Naomi SlaterBe Better

Bethana SullivanFaith

Elzy TaramangalamScrabble Song

Ryan TaylorAspirations

Zihan WangAlways There

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Always There
Zihan Wang

The sun shines generously,
let the sunflowers and barleys
have the yellow smile
The clouds pass silently,
leave the sky behind to be blue.
The rainbow makes its symbolic parabola
After the soft rain,
Dyes all the creatures
to be colorful.

Even the sun goes down everyday,
The color yellow will remain and deepen
in those flowers and crops.
Even we cannot see the same clouds
breathing above the land,
The blue sky will always be considered as
their best gift for humans..
The rainbow will hide itself after
its temporary performance,
However, we can find its path
from the natural painting world.

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David R. MacLean

Absurdity explodes inside the pale.
Vagueness defies definition.
Ambiguity leads me down two trails.
Ambivalence creates confusion.

Again, thus far, once more,
certainty smoothly circles the floor.

No compelling plan congealed,
no lucid path revealed.
My logic wavers, hopelessly blurred,
mental dust-bunnies remain unstirred.

If I cannot even find myself,
why is my spotlight on your face?
I don’t understand my place.

Do you understand my plight?
Are you my guiding light?

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Bethana Sullivan

Winter complaints have become tiring
Cold, hard bitter sounds fly off the tongue
Longing lurks in the fissures of my throat
Equinox beckons me out not to shovel snow
to break up ice or to haul wood
Calls me to breathe deep, to feel
beneath my feet the layers of snow
The earth covering of pebbles and grit,
grass and weed
And further still deep into bedrock.
Deep stirrings
who would imagine Rock could feel, is opening
Her pores; tendrils of sweet, gentle rock energy
begin their ascent, warming as they rise
the earth herself
Like the river to the ocean
she comes to meet the sky.

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Janet Brush

Watching the clock, counting down the time
……….until four – when he’ll come home.
What will today bring?
Perhaps he’ll be smiling, happy, give us all a hug,
Play his harmonica while I sing,
Share stories of his work day.

Or perhaps he’ll charge in like a bull
Looking for a fight, ranging the house, searching
For any infringement of the rules,
Any excuse to strike out.

We all do the dance of the matador then,
Fancy footwork to avoid his punishing blows,
……….But no red cape to provoke.
Just quietly dancing around his madness, hoping
To escape connection – this time.

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Willow’s Wind
Cathy Hanrahan

Salty dribbles puddle the pillow
scenting the feathers with an earthy tang.
A gentle weeping akin to the willow
whose branches like my limbs hang
and dangle in the wind
tossed by the breeze of casual discard.
I stand and
surprisingly devoid of malice
I sip from memory’s chalice.
It’s a champion’s drink and,
amused at the audacity
that is my ambivalence
I muster my minions
and carry on.

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by Tim Carter

I once knew a guy
Who thought he was fly
Then tried to
And surely died
People shouldn’t have lied
To a fool with so much pride
He lived how he died…

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Be Better
Naomi Slater

If I Stop Everything
I Barely Started
Then My Mind
And Heart Have
Truly Parted
Who Will Care
But Me
To Throw It All
Into The Sea
I Know Im Going
To Where
There Is No Air
Just As
The Wind Blows
Through The Trees
Could Somewhere
Around The Bend
My Heart Finally Mend
Where Things Can
Never Be Better
Then Walking
In The Spitting Rain
I Wonder If
I Am Insane
If I Stop Everything
I Barely Started
Then My Mind
And Heart Have
Truly Parted

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Scrabble Song
Elzy Taramangalam

Looking at the last snow
I scribble and sing what comes to me
At dawn, noon and night
To relive pleasure, pain
Joy and sorrows of pageant present.

If no one reads
My thoughts and heeds my tweets
It’s all right
‘Cause I am no nightingale-poet

But a goose cap with no insight
Ready to bolt head long
Into the parade murmuring foolish nothings
Drunk on smouldering signs of summer
Under the melting mounts of winter.

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Erica Lewis

Our redeeming creation—
this, the architect of sound.
Chaotic joy perfectly expressed;
an infinite extension
of my outstretched arms.

You torment me with the agony of the
and yet it were as though
my heart would burst, to be filled so.

Had I no limb, no tongue, no eye,
no breath, no body,
this would sustain me.

Through closed eyes,
I see the flutter of wings,
the oceans of distant planets at my feet.
I am bathed in the light
of something sacred.
I am restored again.

The entry to this world is achieved.
This dream is possible.
The dream is real.

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magnolia blossoms
Meg Baird

people are trunks that move
they bend and sigh
glide long tendrils
through their gaping obsessions
always asking, ‘why?’

‘because it gives you pleasure
it’s simple’, she said with a smile

we are flesh toned trees
our nights are magnolia blossoms
delicate petals drop into the void
hover wistfully at our feet

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Jillian Moran

His shoulders,
his wings,
……….brush my fingertips,
………………..divine, his wings,
unseen but for my mine eyes,
……….unfurl tenderly,
above me
a slow love,
so slowly.

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Erica Allanach

For the first time last week
I noticed the stained glass windows
In Saint Mary’s Basilica
In my city of four years

I am ready
For the landscape to reveal itself, unravel
For colours to sprout
From the grey soil

I want you
To tell me your story
I could track and kern your words for hours
But since when did I become the sort of friend
Who doesn’t notice haircuts

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Ryan Taylor

a new idea has grown
and attached,
only to live on
and let die the
last great idea

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Red-winged Blackbird (agelaius phoeniceus)
Scott Lynch

springtime sun and welcome breeze
vivid with your absence
wetlands smudged
with the flotsam of winter’s retreat
like soggy mops
cattails a wet Sahara of wanting colour
too early for the raspy rustle
the wind will make stealing through the marsh
premature my yearning
the fen still lacking your song
your kingdom naked cartography yet
but I’ve only to close my eyes
your painted presence summoned
like a samurai stroke
the precision of geisha in your attire
and you wave as ever
precariously perched in the bulrushes
master of the mire

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Michele L’Heureux

sizing you up
in your cinnamon kiss
like fire so sweet
as to quicken me to you.

the brocade of your hair
is ashen sunrise
filtered through my fingers-

turn into you
find some reprieve
toward your silence
toward your touch
on the back of my neck

slide your light
to my candied eyes
like fire so sweet
as to quicken me to you.

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6 a.m. lament
Seth Earle

Untangling entangled tangible thought
Is tough and taking too much time
My brain backfires bright coloured balls
Of burntout brilliance just before breakfast
I need to sleep

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Dyrell Nelligan

I felt heartache and I’ve experienced deceit.
Still, I know to follow my heart
regardless of what others tell me.
My actions may have me out to look a fool.
But know this,
I shall be happy with any decision I rule.
I am my life’s captain!
And I am willing to go down with my ship.
My destination is set on paradise.
Across any ocean and through any storm,
I shall make it in life.

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All May Not Agree
Mike McFetridge

Some people should never drink,
(Maybe all, as some folks think);
But Devil Alcohol is in my genes,
It floats me through my life, it seems;
And alcohol can be toxic, too,
If over-indulgence describes you.

Beware the evils of alcohol,
But sometimes it’s fun, in spite of it all;
And to sum it up (all may not agree)
I turn to Churchill, whose quotation is free,
“I have taken more out of alcohol”, quoth he,
“Than alcohol has taken out of me”.

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Flying Fish?
C. A. Lamond

Flying fish, swimming birds?
The craziest thing I’ve ever heard.
Look at me daddy square in the eye
And tell me that it’s not a lie.
Yes my dear as sure as I’m seein’
I saw fish fly in the Caribbean.
And if the sailing is fair
And the weather is nice
I will take you past there
To the Antarctic ice.
We will stand together on the glacial rim
And I’ll show you how the penguins swim.

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To The Writer
Jari-Matti Helppi

Blessed be the ink merchant who sells
the teeth of writer’s art
to those that hold the scalpel’s hand
in crimson words and syllables.
And they, the merchants of the quill,
upon the page they place
a forming vision, forming thus
from blank to blanket, the warmth of will,
where all the writer’s spirits
spring and fall and winter in summer’s sun
to put the word, the phrase, the thought,
and season them to dance, to sing.
To those that write and reap and roll
and flow the ink to say as must,
continue on, continue on,
it’s worth the auspices of soul.

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Lorie Ann Morris

Sorry, for all the pain.
Sorry, for all your tears.
Sorry, for saying the wrong things.
Sorry, for not being you.
Sorry, for saying sorry.

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