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.… ...continue reading
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… ...continue reading
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.… ...continue reading
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?… ...continue reading
The body’s tense shoulder, its skin in a slip
with its mouth full of ribbons ––
How it sways with rain.
Slow coming on, the low horn –– same, same.
The stammering squeal of rail and wheel rising,
the face framed in reflection ––
The flash in the retina ––
A scattering, clouds, etcetera ––
The exit and smell of wet steel, the perforating flash
of white woods –– the elongated cry of the cat ––
the mind’s relent, gather, slack ––
Its penchant for rain ––
– Bevil Townsend
Author’s Note: This poem, among others, is an elegy for my late father and they come from a longer manuscript, Birdsong and Buckshot: An Elegiac Echo. I worked to construct these mellifluous poems through both traditional and invented forms to echo the bodily constraints the speaker experiences here in the physical world.… ...continue reading
I
Did he not see?
that my stars were piqued by other starry fires
and I was chalking up
tediously
the hands of would-be ghosts,
that I was reaching for
the crags that would harden
my knuckles with shame
for my fear
my inaction out of fear,
my lack of art.
II
Little pine needles
scrape the arches
of my feet
in my inadequate shoes
He told me how to wear shoes properly,
bought me a good pair
and I’m sorry I sold them
I couldn’t I just couldn’t
and I’m sorry, you now, that I couldn’t bring myself
to teach you the same … ...continue reading