Let wind music carry you in what direction it chooses,
whispering its howl against stung ears.
From behind, white streaks by at peripherals
as though you’re travelling backward through a starfield.
Feel your hair glossed by highlights, damp, &
fresh melt grooving your cheeks where tears might rest.
Take this tranquil journey in a.m. dark,
if only a few feet to fetch the paper.
Pause. Now, look up at the arc lamp
where you’ll see it best: tickertape for your brief parade,
loose confetti, a dazzling haze of glitter.
You can take both calm & chaos with you
indoors to observe through a window
as the verdant flaming undergrowth disappears.
– Ace Boggess…
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undercover like
the backs of my legs in stockings
black soft in memory
weren’t you just saying
you were afraid?
I should have kept the transcript
I did keep the transcript
but I’m too embarrassed
to tell you
it isn’t normal
to save such little moments
make of chair…
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Some days belong to me more than others.
When I lie spread out across your lap,
the sun sends out sprigs of flowering bliss,
your steady breath ripples notes warm as
deer eyes over my hungry hair.
Slowly, I turn over late thoughts in my hands,
nibble the more sensible choices and wrap
the leftovers in scarves of thyme. (Its green suits
me best).
The sun is standing tall.
Your feet tap yesterday’s warmth.
We will pool all statues and lend them our sounds,
our footprints, even, should they agree
to never tell apart our million needs
and some minor niggling prophecies
in what seems to be our bowl of luck
between the kitchen and the laundry room,
the children, the fickle cars and the ill-fated cats.…
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We thought she was half-baked
from the medication
self-control had become overrun with
madness, forgetfulness
all those little pills to kill
the overbearing cancer
little objects found in odd places
left us wondering
‘Why would she do that?’
a ring hidden on a shelf
no one would ever find
unless they got an itch
to dust a shelf no one ever paid
attention to
an old bus pass underneath a basket
on top of the piano
we have since come to believe
to understand, rather
it was all done with purpose, not madness
as little reminders of her because
she was so afraid we might forget
– Ken Tomaro
Author’s Note: Much of my poetry is grounded in real life. This particular poem is the result of the death of a friend and a small glimpse of what happened afterward…
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The bunny’s on a coffee break
or late lunch, but
otherwise absent for
unlucky us, who
have walked here
from Vancouver’s storied West End
in hopes of an audience and
a ride through the temperate
rainforest of Stanley Park,
our daughter’s suggestion
to distract this four-year-old boy
briefly in our care
while she and his father
try to recreate
one of those afternoons
and evenings
they used to take for granted
in the good old days.…
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Nietzsche killed god a long time ago
And now I have no one to talk to.
IS ANYONE THERE?
I AM HERE….
ALONE
……………………………….WAITING.
……………………………….……………………………….……… See. I told you there was no god…
Ignore that, that’s just me talking to myself
You know, god being dead and all… I have to stay entertained somehow.
But I hear it’s okay to talk to yourself
As long as you don’t answer back…
……………………………….……………………………….……… You know, that reminds me of the time I shared with god…
You don’t say?…
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