View Issue vol. 8, no. 8
ISSN 2369-6516 (Print)
ISSN 2369-6524 (Online)
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Summer storms are fleeting
and children are retreating,
from stowed wood
to honoured hearth
all the while weeping.
Autumn leaves are falling
and winter winds are calling,
for briefer days
and endless nights
show stoic stars are sprawling.
Dawn bells are ringing
and solemn birds are singing
a dulcet song
to passing people
with the burdens they are clinging.
The leaves crunch under my feet,
and I try to imagine myself
next to a fire (I have no fireplace);
and not focus on the way
the cold is causing my leg hairs to stand.
I stopped shaving again;
that’s something in a way to rejoice.
Small joys to combat the pains in each season.
One hungry afternoon
I ate an entire orange peel,
told my sister it tasted like the sun.
The neighbour gave birth to twins
and my mother returned
with blood under her nails. As crass
as a teenager, my grandmother
moved in. Her moonlit flower-picking
became an escape attempt
that failed. We made six apple pies
one weekend. No one
could say no. I implored the skies,
tied my hair in twists
every night so it would curl.
Every morning the curls fell limp,
an argument I couldn’t win.
Poem by Hannah van den Bosch
the people look at the moon sometimes.
there is a reason people are crazy too
it happens slowly but suddenly
one day they realize they’ve gone bonkers!
and only the cave people are sane because
they never see the moon
just past Theophany
a Red-Tailed Hawk
in a naked tree in the Cobequid Pass
on a rusted and derelict car, roadside
in the ditch near Amherst
on a telephone line in the Tantramar Marsh
obvious ominous omnipresent
still as Buddha watching listening
symbolic marker of the Shinto Imperial Regalia
valor, wisdom & benevolence expressed
in the number of truth
the Talmudic Chazakah
buteo master of place
A stormy night
Leaves in sight,
Wave after wave
A heart, concave.
The rocking motion
Of a troubled ocean,
To go and sea.
A stormy day
The wanderers heart
A search for art.
The swaying branches
Of trees and avalanches,
Threatens mine eye;
It’s all a lie.
Patterns of slow grey flow
coddling, gaping with measures of teal
inhaling yellow heat
from beyond the umbrella
of nourished rain.
I keep waiting
for myself to change
as though willing myself along
is as good as doing something about it.
Some days I think all I do
about what I could do
and apologize to myself.
Our hearts shall open for a time.
The baser instincts we combat
with acceptance we politicize
of sufferers of conflict – crime –
from war’s perpetual habitat.
Adversity is sure to rise
when life afresh is harshly cut
by diminished opportunities.
(Question: is the welcome wise?)
Compassion has its limits, but
our hearts should open for a time.
Newcomers no longer please
when prices rise and doors are shut.
Passions rage and stigmatize –
bloviation – masses find sublime.
Where mouths once smiled, they later spat –
and acts descend to pantomime
(best intentions falling flat).
Reality will soon begrime
the thoughts of every diplomat;
but where’s the harm believing that
our hearts might open for a time?
They Gather on the Ice.
Driven by Honor.
Motivated by Redemption.
Each Year they Gather
Never losing sight
Single Quest Unites them
In Land of Orange.
Revival will be their Goals.
Ducks Will Reign.
Glory will be restored to all.
Sitting on a bench in
Did you ever hear
In the German camp where you
Hoped for those supplies
Aboard the Norwegian ship
Did you ever hear
Grandmother – but you
Were dragged to slave work
From day to day
I was not in your thoughts
You may not have known Halifax
However much it meant life then
In Belgium or in Lorraine
They heard it as far as Truro as far as
Windsor they quickly heard
In Boston in Québec in Toronto
On the other shore maybe
The Mont-Blanc was just another
Load of explosives for
Women workers and men like
Your brother in the trench
Where shrapnel buried him
All heard here the sudden boom children’s ears
Bled fire torched the whole North end
They tried to take shards of glass
And slivers of wood
Out of survivors’ heads
Was it as cold in the camp
Sitting on a bench in
It wouldn’t be here
I wouldn’t be here
For all that pain
For all those deaths
For all our will to endure
I watch east
thirteen moons rise
across darkened skies
tear asunder twilight
traffic noise ceases
ocean breeze brush
sapphire salt air
Across faded ink of old money,
And storied hands and faces of elder
Having both served and lived each well.
Among the folds
Of forgotten bills
Having lost their way
Like children, sparks and fireflies.
At the edge of lips
Both I and chocolate have tasted,
So often, but not enough,
Are among the lines
My tongue loves to trace.
Among the confetti
Of autumn leaves and ashes
Scattered as we are
With the winds of passage.
Make the horizons
We pretend to call time
So we know who we are
And where we have been.
Are the origami of fragile certainty,
A pause, a path, a probability,
A hope, a memory held,
Along our journey infinite.
Like sky aglow with what future holds
a story roaming the land to grow
Hearts entwined yet no conclusion be met
new chapters begin when lives are reset
As a garden sown full of seed
coming alive deep roots as family tree
Years elapsed since generations came and left
so the theme remains build a nest
Fly reliving the flight of the dove
never you lose when gain is love
I am a writer.
It comes to me.
Words that rhyme,
Wherever I may
Be at the time.
I write a word
And make it rhyme.
A tree is free.
You can pet a cat.
One rhyme at a time,
You can bet on that.
A special gift
Has come to me.
The words they come
Small boy, two and a bit, plays near the stove,
Watches his mother nursing baby brother,
Longs for her attention.
A bright December morning,
Sun sparkles on snow, air crackles with cold.
Suddenly, silence is broken – a crash –
Ripping metal as two ships grind apart.
Twenty long minutes pass – his world explodes!
Walls collapse, debris rains down on him,
He can’t hear, he can’t move.
“Mama! Mama!” – no one answers.
He drags his bleeding twisted leg
Towards the heat, finds Mama – but
She doesn’t move, she can’t answer.
He clings to her lifeless body, overwhelmed
By terror, helplessness, pain.
He is rescued, taken to make-shift hospital
Surrounded by dozens of other kids bawling in fear.
Finally a face he knows: “Daddy! Daddy!”
In his new home, his leg heals – mostly –
But he will always walk with a limp – and he will always
Wake from his nightmare calling “Mama! Mama!
** orbit wobbling:: _ _ – – _ _ – – _ _
[warning]! – human overload.
==> jettison cargo:: _ _ – – _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _