Category: Vein of Work

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The Cruellest Blade

The Cruellest Blade “might I cling to the blade of the hour as does the stick-brown bone and may I mark the milkweed’s state of mind” – Walking Bethany Hills Approaching Devil’s Elbow by John B. Lee Perhaps I should leave these walls, decorative box wrapped up in brick and window, well-worn faces fogging up

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On Conserving for Future Generations

On conserving for future generations It all begins with a vision A vision of what the future holds Not only for you and me but for all What is the vision? It may look like greed, A picture of a chase for material possessions, A picture of competition to dominate, A picture of me and

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New Giverny

New Giverny slender willow branch strokes clear surface sending tiny ripples across tranquil pond windsor red koi fish glisten in bright sun’s aestival reflection fine cattail reeds guided by gentle breeze brush between light and shadow chartreuse lily pads adrift as day opens like Monet’s nymphaea

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in the measure of spring

in the measure of spring outside the open door half the horizon holds up an illusory sky barren fields melting form their own inviolate border a lone raven lifts its wings a shadow over muddy mirrors stacked summer chairs wait to be used again defrosting in the returned sunshine the air whispers a tentative welcome

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Pandemic Play

Pandemic Play Opening night, the Great Canadian Theatre Audience waits, anticipation The curtain lifts on Stage Two First scene announces arrival Enter villain Second scene heroes bloom on stage Remarkable, the critics say. See the colours? The masks are brilliant, another says, seamless Restricting, carbon monoxide poisoning Complicit nods A hoax? A conspiracy? The peanut

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Mexican Restaurant Patio

Mexican Restaurant Patio greetings to pine picnic tables in reconstructed parking lots to lime margaritas chicken mole enchiladas dare I try spicy chocolate sauce others might resist in favour of safe in favour of normal? Risky tastes delicious. As I expected.

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The Elevator

Eliza Jane pressed the down button for the elevator and waited patiently as the cables began drawing the small cab up the shaft to the second floor of the old house. As the doors opened, she stepped inside and pressed the button marked “B” (she’d always called the underground floor the “cellar,” but no matter).

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The Bird Did Not Return to Me

The Bird Did Not Return to Me In a dream I was a great oak tree. I was by the earth with stemmed roots deep. In isolation, I have let my hair grow. I am among the life-giving in this summer: the wheat and bearded barley also flow in their gold. The scars about me

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