View Issue vol. 9, no. 4
ISSN 2369-6516 (Print)
ISSN 2369-6524 (Online)
You can also read the poems by scrolling down or clicking the titles.
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Matthew de Lacey Davidson – Portrait of the Poet as a Young Man
Jari-Matti Helppi – The Collywobbled Coddiwomple
Marjorie Kildare – Halifax Haiku Series #3
Brian Lomax – we the faceless artists
David Mac Eachern – Beauty Blessed
Harry Wayne Mah – why is the sky blue – act II
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Here in May
Poem by Scott Lynch
rain obscuring
or painting perhaps
like a Monet vision
with a little more grey
rhythmic rain slapping
it’s cold wet pleasure
clean green shouting
comically in lemon lime
overflowing but constant
the river is released
quicksilver
its surface in the rain
calming
reassuring too
drop upon drop
splash upon splash
bracing and real
is the welcome
as we are washed
into spring
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In bright daylight or 12 in the night,
With her boyfriend or her brother,
In shorts or in salwar suit,
At her home or in the club,
In the village or in the city,
She is unsafe.
She is molested.
What should she wear?
Where should she go?
Let her know,
She wants to stop living in fear.
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Tomorrow
Poem by Brian Harding
There is no Tomorrow
Only the remnants of what was yesterday
Reflected as one wishes
Into a combination of fact and Fiction
The sun that rises at dawn
Is the same as the Moon
Bedded the night before
The hopes and dreams
You wish upon this lighted moment
You call a new day
Are but an over casted
Never ending eclipse
Of Life.
Enjoy each moment as if like
The repeated action of waves
Sends a joy
That has no measure
But a blindness
To what surrounds you
You want Tomorrow
It is surely Stolen in part, from today.
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The Collywobbled Coddiwomple
Poem by Jari-Matti Helppi
Purpose stained the isolation of the dust
being kicked up like a lazy boy
as shoes on legs made way
to destination’s crypt.
Legs gave way to centered stress
in mid range to heart quest thumps
and collywobbled there upon the nonces
of a coddiwompled trip.
Look upon the cryptic solitude in dust
and the rumbled roary intestining
the Occam’s razor of it all
that rests upon a wandering mind.
Henceforth coddiwomple’s wafty mist
and collywobble’s bowely plunge
can haven to their proper place
as afterthoughts of stage.
In its stead can mortar up a resolute
to cease the grime of tethered doubt
whose anxious anchor hooked on weeds
grips worry from dust stains.
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Portrait of the Poet as a Young Man obsessed with Ein Heldenleben
Poem by Matthew de Lacey Davidson
Though good diction is the Holy Grail,
those succeeding are, indeed, rare birds.
Too many try too hard and fail;
in their wake, a battlefield of fallen words.
Returning home with tar upon their leg
(after fighting with an alliterative powder-keg)
in attempting to avoid derision
nary a thought is given to the vision.
But when, within the mind, we calmly discuss –
eschew that which has come before –
fear not what is behind the door –
metaphors of wars become superfluous.
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I once drank darkness and listened to baritone
anthems of distress. Coffee
in the mornings,
circulating dark blood
through my soul.
That is a liquidated
covenant, implicit
resignation
to the nature of stars;
the whole Night as
one gaping wound
of singular importance
and necessity.
The dream has long since withered in the
corner of the room.
I reek of grievances
like tearful eyes
upon a quiet face.
The whole world is a cliffside
and I know the sky,
I know the sky
best
when I savour the ground.
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Untitled #411
Poem by Julie Smith
this shallow brim
tucked low hiding
these eyes burdened
from sights unseen
this collar turned up
bitter wind licking
my neck a red raw
Winter knows no
end and we speak
quietly a sunset bears
fruit of yellow orange
ripeness surpassing
fragrant spears of sun
lights last flickering
candles lie low near
open doors of draft
sitting close, holding
hands cold grasp
weave fingers straight
tell me we cloaked
we bore steady back
harboring nights
fugitives each steel
strong, then slept
an ending
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Walking on the dock by the sea.
Smiling, because I’m happy.
In the blink of an eye,
I say, “Oh my.”
I realize then that I am free.
Free to fly
High up in the sky
In my imagination.
To soar up above
With wings like a dove
Looking down upon God’s creation.
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tie dye shirts frayed
gritty wooden docks
freckles blooming
under clouding watercolour skies
a jagged stone
fitting unevenly in palm
flung away
rough edges skip across water
in swift flying youth
sinking with bleeding sun
cold air sweeping
ripples surface
moving into darkness
inescapable
clawing for what we already have
lives spin
unstoppered spiral
uncontrolled
tearing along gravel roads
dust billows behind
blurry trees witness
a life gone too fast
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Church Music
Poem by Cathy Hanrahan
The organist stretches out long, nimble fingers
weaving wind through the ribbons of pews
Where many a sullen believer blankly stares
in penance for yesterday’s quaff of a few.
The soloist’s eyes glance over the podium
as she belts out a resounding Ava Marie
She’s in love with her musical accompaniment
exposed for the congregation to see.
A passion contradicted by convention
yet inspired through divine intervention
Creating music both heavenly and blessed
by intentions neither articulated nor confessed
Their hearts burning bright by the fire
blazing briefly as one, with desire
Slowly lingering on the hymn’s finale chord
they part ways at the church’s holy doors
already dreaming of next Sunday’s service
Their solace, redemption and purpose
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Beauty Blessed
Poem by David Mac Eachern
Prime view, valentine statured flower
Sweet budded rose, stately attired
Meticulous face, such blooming power
Instinct rooted pose, deeply admired
Bright smile aglow, enticing gleam
Convincing hint, signalling with grace
Elation filled expression, dynamic scene
Cherished persona, instant heartfelt embrace
An attractive composure, finely portrayed
Eye locking attention, hypnotizing stare
Welcoming by soul, divinely conveyed
Feature of acceptance, passionate flair
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I blinked and turned around
To see that morning’s gone,
Evening’s at the door,
Before my second breath,
To pull a stretch,
Or barely even yawn.
My raincoat’s peeled and hung,
Sorry as the swollen grey,
Whether we’re in or out,
The puddles turn to lakes,
And we’re going to float away.
I’m wishing all this wet
Was better warm instead,
While I draw a kitchen chair,
And cast a weary eye to bed.
A whiff of ham and pea,
And the missus’ rosy wink,
Is all that stirs me now,
From a cozy snore
To sooner dream away,
The day’s chilled and bitter drink
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why is the sky blue – act II
Poem by Harry Wayne Mah
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Halifax Haiku Series #3
by Marjorie Kildare
swing, rumba, cha-cha
summer evening dancers
waltz the boardwalk
Halifax Harbour
evenings ripple silent
your heart sound
seagulls triumphant
trailing Halifax Harbour
herring boats arrive
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Lake is being shy
Though, as sunset kisses it
Its face turns dreamy
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we the faceless artists
Poem by Brian Lomax
on the invisible waters of silence
near a sunset
of a thousand arms
the colour turquoise
is landing
with portrait
of an artist
without face
& like a child
the artist
becomes a mirror
& our eyes grow
& begin to see
reflections
rising & transcending
where freedom is waiting
to give us liberty
for we are no longer
ghosts
for we are speaking
in tongues
over mountains
& over oceans
& becoming visible
to those
who are blind
& to those
who have
just begun too see
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You, make my heart go fast.
You, always know how to do that!
You, always can make me smile.
You, always make my heart go fast
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Dead Head
Poem by Shanay Comeau
Open Heart Forgery 
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