Category: Poetry

On your way to be stuck in traffic No escape by the Riverside Headed home just drove past it Chasing dolls on White Rock tides Drop your dream in the mail then hurry Richmond Post for your Russian bride Mayor’s rant of a Fleetwood foot rub Over the protests where he presides Point Grey down

What peaches and penumbras, Allan!Arrayed so gallantly against the meekTowing tonkas en train de bruit, perforce toAlert the sheep to the falling of the sky.What courage and costume, man!Perching primly, tweeting in treacherous shriek.Yet transparent in their hoarse bleating, by the by.

Defiantly, there grew a lily  surrounded by a sea   of morning glory  it sprouted from soils  fertilized with a falsity  of promises wept  Their violent waves   splash at   its stalk  their twisting vines   strangle up  its stem.  There no longer grew a lily,  instead replaced  by homogenized glory. 

The red half-moon falls in my bath water  like dry peony petals from late June.  A gold crescent appears for the daughter.  I stir my tea, thrice, with a silver spoon.  Warm droplets coat my tongue like the sun’s embrace Chamomile, lavender, creamed honey.  Shadows swallow a choking maiden’s grace.  Cyclical patterns flow in harmony. 

A pulse suspended in inka silence that tastes like the edge of timecurling around broken hoursand slipping beneath its skin. I rise from the horizonbut do not break it.A pale fracture in the quietfelt only in the tremorof the earth’s quiet exhale. I unravel the nightwoven from threads too fine to holdhumming through the silencewhere

I’m reading Elle by Donald Glover, and I’m struck by Elle’s predicament. What do you do with a headstrong girl? Fling her over the starboard deck and sail away, mate.  Drop her on an impoverished beach with a dying lover and a useless nursemaid.  Throw her a bone; a trunk full of posh dresses next to a

Susan Musgrave writes violets into my dreams that leave me flush alone in a field with rows of chiseled stone  and flowers, strewn by the wind  mauve, magenta, yellow, fuchsia, and persimmon orange i long to lie in a room near the click of her typewriter keys, keys that transform  into a gentle metronome that lull

It’s getting hard,  For real now.  You know that- What? Right?   She wants to paint you,  Her decalcomania,  Colors bleeding like tears.  You know that- Why? Right?  A flood’s coming soon,  Dark water rising,   Choking her whispered fears.  You know that- Where? Right?  Save her, please,  Before she sinks,   Drowning in dreams left unspoken  You

On the edge of a fading shore where the words were heard no more  they searched for it, and there it lay trapped in ink, that vanishing rhyme.  Their tongue still stirred to speak familiar, they tried just lasting two seconds they said the elders knew it well  so far and wide, they cast their

I am a Ghost Whose tribe has been Slaughtered Our language and way deemed savage. Hatred and anger From a society built on Bloodied lands Stolen from brown Native hands Painful past His-story and her-story Taints future Generations.

My story is breadcrumbs Sprinkled about a rocky trail  Down cliffs Over rivers That rushed, and washed away the bank Born to a mother whose grip was forced  Loose by powder  The same powder that lingers in my veins Laces my bones in a bow Forever tight This small child  Passed from mother to  mother 

I don’t want to be a clean environment I want to be poisoned  I want to rot For holes tear through my atmosphere  For my woodlands to burn  For my rivers to turn sludge For my creatures to beg a god for the Reason of this ill  My ill is deep  Bandaged with science and