Writing Wednesday 10

Sevenling 1

Gas stop pork rinds,
scratched sunglasses,
and discount pornography.

Sluggish engine and
his feet on the dashboard,
the toolbox forgotten in my garage.

Route 66 was my idea.

Writing Wednesday 10

Writing Wednesday 09


define: post

a prefix, meaning “behind,” “after,” “later,” “subsequent to,” “posteriorto,” occurring originally in loanwords from Latin

translate: pone

conjugation of a Spanish verb meaning: “to put”

(also from Latin)

behind put

after put

later put


Writing Wednesday 08

When plants are plentiful and people live,
the land is grateful to the town for
their goodness. And when it snows for
an extra month, or the little girl drowns
in the river, they are told to look at
pain and then to look past it. To trust
that this land found them, that when
a glacier began melting and dripping
over stone, the river was already
dreaming of the town, calling to it.

Excerpt of “Town” by Hannah Stephenson


When plants are plentiful and people live,
a window-box of weeds is left noticed
and untended. A fern’s yellow frond
droops inside, in the living room corner
that needed to be filled. Through glass,
the land is grateful to the town for
a purpose greater than survival,
where one can die and lie and
thrive; a being’s value based on
the trees pressed into pockets instead of
their goodness. And when it snows for
two days, to be followed by summer sun,
a neighbour throws down the rake
once used to comb useless grass—
to remove the death from its blades.
Water wings in October, kept for
an extra month, or the little girl drowns
in the backyard pool before she can
enjoy Thanksgiving with Oma and Opa.
Cars’ exhaust pipes blow inescapable heat
into the air and its delicate, filmy
cap, kept tight and thin around the globe.
A long summer and a hectic winter, with
little time to remove the leftover concrete
windowsills of change, or whim, or economisation
for a larger paycheck. A clean brick face to fill
the hole of ex-transparency and sight. Through
the replacement glass, tenants witness pollution
in the river; they are told to look at
the bridge’s sunset instead. To see
pain and then to look past it. To trust
the City to plug the potholes that
filter light through the cross-border bridge,
dividing nation from nation, using the river
to separate laws and bureaus, as if it is true
that this land found them, that when
a glacier began melting and dripping
over stone, the river was already
dreaming of the town, calling to it.

Writing Wednesday 08

Writing Wednesday 07

Jan 16, 2016

The necklace you gave me a call from the wonderful chefs in my family and friends.

The the best price. I am a bit more about this property. The one who has a very much. The fairy lights are in the driveway? Black car and white pickup, I have a new one. I have the syllabi for the night. We’re catching up with the boyfriend. I have the syllabi for the night.

And I am not a good idea.

If you are looking for a while. The only one who has a very much.

I did not end of the month.

The spring of the semester. Not sure if you are looking for a while. My client is a bit of a cough.

Apr 8, 2016

The necklace you gave me a shitty translation about forgiveness and marriage.

The other day. I’m sure you feel as if you are looking for a while.

I think I might be a latex sensitivity to the point of view, detail. I have a new one. I have a new window. I have a new job.

The only one who feels enough to feel bad about it.

If you don’t have to be a good time to time. This is a good idea. That was the last time. Time for the delay in getting back to you. I’m sorry to be the biggest and most importantly I am. Apparently they’re having breaks so I’m gonna be playing video games for a chunk of the evening so I may as well as the crystal clear waters of the semester.

Found poetry made using my cell phone's autocorrect and predictive text options.

Writing Wednesday 06

Found in notebooks and phone memos.

A humble of clouds
Trekking a great migration
To death

Mar 17, 2016

Descend into the caverns of the soul and the heart

Guilt of Bleached Blood

Feb 25, 2016


Ice blasted sidewalk
Toenail crunch inside your boot
Pain of laziness

Jan 19, 2016

Writing Wednesday 05

If you remember my old Writing Wednesday series, an earlier version of this poem made its debut there. I’ve reworked it to lengthen it and I’m quite fond of it!

shallow woman;
tiny heart.
tell me how you break the stars.

with moonbeams
and razorblades
smacking hard against the table?

with axeheads?
with rapiers?

with manicured nails
and proper knuckles
clawing through sable sores?

with bludgeons?
with kisses?

with fireflies
and firelight
blinding artisan work and whittles?

with a thousand bloated promises
filled with sluggish poison?

with care?
with spite?
with malice and bitter taste?

show me,
tiny woman,
amongst the dust and debris
glinting across static darkness,
what treasure you find within.

Writing Wednesday 05

Writing Wednesday 04

They came back every year to lay flowers at that spot. The wood had been overtaken by the weeds and brush. Each two-by-four plank from the old Fort has sunk beneath dry grasses; the long, star-like tendrils disintegrated under the heat of an angry sun.

Mid-summer, July, and they returned again. The abandoned Fort had been outgrown by its four, formerly 16-year-old members. They came back and brought a different plastic flower from the dollar store. Under the thin layer of grass, they opened the earth with raw hands to putt out the dark brown, wooden box—also from the dollar store. A padlock kept it shut. A plastic bag kept it dry through the moist spring ground and frozen winter dirt.

One of the members—a tall, spindly girl with a thick black braid—produced the scrap of paper with the lock combination inscribed on it. A boy with a bushy blonde beard squatted beside the boxed and pulled off the plastic bag. A short girl with three fingers on her left hand crouched next to him. He held the bag. The girl with the braid read out the combination. The ceremony had begun. As the lock was removed, they settled down on the parched grass and arranged their bags near them. The box was open, sitting with them in their circle.

They each took out their plastic flower and passed it around the circle, pausing over the open box, then continuing on to its original bringer. After each flower made its round, the box was slid into the center. Inside, photographs mingled with dog tags, and the flowers from the previous 8 years covering the bottom. Each was perfectly preserved, none of them having enough money or coming too far away for the luxury of real flowers.

“Wish you were here, bud,” the boy said. He placed the plastic orange rose into the box.

“The Fort gets drier every year without you.” The three-fingered girl kissed her bunch of hot pink forget-me-nots. “You completed this circle. She placed the flowers inside, then shuffled away to let the braided girl get to the box.

She held a neon yellow peony and wordlessly set it on top of the others.

“Ready?” asked the boy. He dove a hand down his pocket and pulled out a fat joint of weed.

The three-fingered girl sat next to the box, her hip pressing its side and her bare legs itching at the grass.

The braided girl sat on the other side and brought her hand to the lid. It felt flimsy against the pressure of her index finger. The boy pulled out a cheap lighter, rigged to produce a longer flame, and put the joint between his lips.

“I…” The lighter clicked and didn’t ignite. The braided girl cleared her throat. “Scott, I don’t want to this time.”

Before he flicked the light again, he looked at her and sat down.

“Why not?” asked the three-fingered girl.

“Beth, this is what we do,” said Scott.

“And what we did.”

“I know, Kim, but… it feels like blasphemy,” said Beth. “Like disrespect.”

“How? We’re smoking in his name,” said Scott.

“Well…” started Kim. “Beth’s got a point about it being blasphemous.”

Beth was standing, her bag between her feet. “We should make a new tradition.”

Kim stood and gazed at the box while she itched her thighs.

“I don’t know.” Beth squatted back down.

Scott returned the joint to his pocket and drummed his palms against his knees. He stared at the grass. “I just got my car,” he said. “We could visit him.”

“That’s still like ten hours away, Scott,” said Kim.

“So? We came this far already.”

“We can all drive,” said Beth, “And take turns.”

“Get a round going?” Kim smirked.

They all huffed a small laugh and, in unison, looked at the box.

“He would’ve liked a road trip,” said Scott.

Kim reached out and quickly closed the box’s lid. Beth knelt down and clicked the lock back in place. The sense of urgency passed between them all until they had bundled up the box again, leaving the hole in the ground, and scampered out of the forest. Beth’s nose and cheeks had started burning. Kim readjusted her shorts before climbing into Scott’s car. He got in behind the driver’s seat, while Beth sat behind him and pulled the seatbelt around the box. The engine ignited and Kim rolled down the passenger side window.

A brief fiction about friendship.

Writing Wednesday 03

ebb and flow

I watched the swirl of
oxygenated foam—
green from chlorophyll and
dead flowers along the banks.

the rubber duck floats.

a cold dip across my hand
as I reach down into the
trickster water reflection:
this pebble looked closer
and now I grasp at silt.

the rubber duck floats.

a car whizzes on
the graffiti-lined bridge.
one-sided sidewalk to take me
to the library uphill.
I fear the speed and velocity
of headstrong drivers,
taking the slope and the curve
too fast.

the rubber duck floats.

my wet hand slaps against
my denim shorts,
but would have dried as quickly
still and stagnant under a burning
mid-July sun.
the freshwater creek
emits the scent of
waterlogged vegetation, clinging
desperately to rocks and
rotted, abandoned logs:
broken and floating downstream.

the rubber duck floats.

I brought him here three summers past
to walk along the steep ridge,
built up on layers of sand
supporting a forest reminiscent of
witch trials and cult gatherings.
but this village is too W.A.S.P. for such dark turns
when three churches—Anglican, Baptist, Baptist—
sit up on the hills around the corner,
one down the street from the
pharmacy/ice cream shop.
each one has two playgrounds
close by, in each direction.

the rubber duck floats.

a cool breeze across my sunburnt shoulders
urges me to step in:
just a quick dip.
it’s dirty, filled with trash and grass and spit and fish.
the water level is higher in the March thaw
when the snow collected from the hills and the banks
return to liquid to cycle through
the earth’s polluted air and ground.
I slink out of my flip flops
and goosebumps rise on my legs
when the water reaches my ankles.

the rubber duck floats.

A poem about the creek in my hometown.

Writing Wednesday 02

dead end

checkerboard sign in dirt and metal
end of circle
top/side/edge of cul-de-sac
old butter yellow colour
halt before
the walking path forest clump

with large thick poles
not bars/fences/wires to
halt vehicles
larger than strollers
and dirt bikes
and bicycles
travelling in groups of family / children / friends

up into a mixed tree world
pine and birch and
maple maple pine maple
oak of fairytales

follow the path up and back
nowhere left/new to roam

A poem about nostalgia and a path.

Writing Wednesday 01

#WritingWednesday--01. A poem. Succulents. Abusive ex.


a grudge I can’t let go of

7 years / seven years
gone to a
South American
whose name I continue to forget.

a different kind of
Internet Predator ™
whether he knew / intended / wanted
the title (or not).

until I lived off
the words on the screen
from him ~~~~

and became even sadder
as my existence and
relied on HIM