Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Here in Vancouver
Where the crows perch on streetlights
Nature meets city

In a ravine park
I find a silent corner
To jot down haiku

The traffic drones on
Birds chirp as the sun beats down
Leaves sway in the wind

Gently flowing stream
Into a tunnel you flow
From sun to darkness

Sometimes to go low
As water filling a creek
Is the modest way

Treeroots, sticks and mud
A path leads to the old stump
At the ravine`s heart

In the shaded creek
A duck is still and napping
The water flows by


On the Coast

Posted: June 22, 2017 in ants, nature, peace, strangers
Tags: ,

talk about buying boots
and then end up
hiking barefoot

Wake up
to the ocean
and sun
on the Sunshine Coast

Big black ants
crawl over
dead wood logs

A local girl
is here
with a small dog
for some reason
we don`t talk
an understanding of peace

A heron calls

A wasp
hovers over
the ashes
of last night`s fire
I never noticed
how much
their wings displace

The girl
and her dog
silently leave

I watch ants
crawl over

Just because we doing shit on different coasts
Like living ghosts of the supposed I know
There’s a closeness that seven leagues and twelves months
Will fly like moths and time lost will just be a cost
Culture shocks and torture can be therapy
Whats scaring me is that I gave up on a dream
To chase the seams of the unreal city
That teams up on me when I’m missing having a baby
Driving me crazy, swatting at mosquitoes
Can you believe those demons bite through my sleeve holes
I need release though before I go lethal
Rolling dice for miracles and twice fold lyrical spirits go
Over an ocean, in another timezone
thirteen hours into a future world low on crime so
I’m having a time finding my lines, old
monkeys banging on my back with a cereal spoon
dragging me mad through a million dooms
see the last bag of cash flash past on youtube
wondering how they gonna catch the bad rap
when the rap has sapped your attitude flat
drugged and down on the sour patch
come round when they least expect that I’m like that
But I might have designed this whole experience
Accomplice in the ephemeral delirious
Tears sheared off the sheep I count sleeping
Dreaming about ant queen metamorphosis
Cortex locked on the hoard that I forfeited
Am I’m not sure of this dedication
this deranged break from medication
my patience is wearing thinner than my relations
I often stop and think “what the fuck am I doing in Asia?”
what am I crazy, spaced out and expatriated
one bank transfer away from absconding on payments
cause I’ve created a maze it may take the rest of my days left
to navigate, so can’t I just stay in one place
like the statue that she pointed me to
that my mother thought I was due
that I drew in grade two when they asked me what I wanted to do
but all I really wanted to do was be someone who drew
on the mystery, the ten-fold trip
that edge of the scenery when it’s ripped
and you see the oblivion puppet mentalist
and he’s got your fate in an ice cold grip

and you just need some warmth to sail to you on a wooden ship
so you write down every pirate tape you watched as a kid
just to relate to the ancient thing that evolved into what you is
but the list gets mixed up with every whispered birthday wish
until you don’t regret the reality of your unwritten masterpiece
rather you unwittingly slave to a little kids fantasy
hands manipulating skeletons on a canvas, see
just cause your displaced this doesn’t erase the past happening
over and over in your brain while you strain for a string
to weave a map of what the next six months will bring
in common with what you hope can be a common thing
I need to stop using the you and I need the spring…



A clear memory I have
I’m in a bathroom
As a child
I think, when I am an adult
I will buy all the toys I want

Now I feel
That because I thought this
It can never happen
Yet I don’t forgive
The wishes I made as a child

Never forgive children
They truly are monstrous
They don’t know any better
Is an excuse people like to use
So they can claim that they do

I know more now
But not better
I know the path from pain to bitterness
Where the petulant child
Kicks at the gravel

I dreamed I was in a play
I was Princess Leia
But the rebellion never happened
And I cried as I watched
My children grow up on Alderaan
To become soldiers for a repressive Empire

I think about the landscapes
In the original trilogy
How the Rebellion and the Empire
Battle on a desert planet or
A planet completely covered in snow

How a giant machine
Destroys Alderaan
And almost destroys Yavin 4
And then uses the forest moon of Endor
To house it’s shield generator
Would they have blown up Endor?

Is Earth Alderaan?
To be destroyed as a show of force
By a relentless Empire?
Or will we be Ewoks
Dancing in the forest
And playing drums on the helmets
Of stormtroopers…

Poetry, is a window into a world without reason.
the days grease the cogs of production,
reminds you that this machine is a facade built
over the headquarters of madness.

Pauper Poet

Posted: May 13, 2013 in muse, poetry, poverty
Tags: , ,

Who needs money?

As long as I have two dollars to buy a dollar store notebook and some pens,

I’m happy.

Having a computer, a place to sleep every night,

A shelf full of boardgames, and HBO is just icing on the cake.

Being able to write poetry on the bus- priceless.

Being able to write in an empty classroom while the kids are in gym- priceless.

Being able to write poetry from the roof of a 32 story building- priceless.

Being able to write poetry when I can’t sleep at night- priceless.

I’ve been writing since I learned how.

I’ll never run out of things to write about.

How could I not be happy?

Even when I’m depressed I know its just inspiration.

Even when my heart is broken,

And I have to give up something I love,

I know its just inspiration.

If my life becomes less comfortable,

I’ll be more inspired.

I’ll burn through three lives worth of inspiration,

And still be writing.

Maybe it’s the ink in my blood.

The world looks like a blank spiral bound notebook,

When I wake up,

And I write myself into every situation,

I think might turn my muse on.

Because when she is naked,

Silken white lines of beauty,

Flow from her like laughter from a tab of acid.

That ant whisper sound of the pen sprawling across the page,

Is the music for the microcosm.

The universe in my head lays draped over this world,

And its excess hangs off the planet,

Like an astral tablecloth.

Nothing can stop a passion to create,

Not lack of money, or skill, or even time.

Passion takes a man to the edge of reason,

And he jumps,

Knowing the waves below offer the warm sustenance of life,

Art, and everything worth falling for…