Royal City Poets 4- 2014
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About this ebook
This is the 4th Royal City Poets Anthology published in 2014
Silver Bow Publishing
Silver Bow is a Canadian Publishing Company established in 1987. We strive to publish the best of both new and established writers in both print and ebook format. Company Overview Canadian Publishing Company (poetry, non fiction; fiction; novels,anthologies, short stories) We accept manuscripts from the international community. Query first before submitting Contact Info [email protected] [email protected]
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Royal City Poets 4- 2014 - Silver Bow Publishing
ROYAL CITY POETS 4 2014
by
Silver Bow Publishing,
Published by Silver Bow Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2015 Silver Bow Publishing
ISBN 978-1-927616-38-3 (e-book)
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
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ROYAL CITY POETS 4
Silver Bow Publishing
Box 5 - 720 Sixth St.,
New Westminster, BC
V3L 3C5 CANADA
Email: [email protected]
Black Onyx Lake ~ Candice James
(Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)
Above the lip of a black onyx lake,
I walked as a ghost in a foreign land,
All around me in a state of flux:
Mountains dissolving;
Sand dunes shifting;
Sky cracking open;
Stars in free-fall
Above the lip of a black onyx lake.
I saw stars being born,
Burning out, disappearing;
Angels in flight touching down on the lake.
I saw high-wires, guidelines and cities
Constructed with neon and gauze;
Rainbows shedding their colours at will.
In a moment of madness
The sun kissed the moon;
And imagination’s children were born,
Spilling from a crack in the sky
Onto poets, musicians and artists
In reverent and sacred free-fall.
I stood as a ghost
Turned inside out,
Eyes filled with stars,
Moon, sun and sky
Bearing witness to
Both sides of the dark
Above the lip of a black onyx lake
Ghosts Of Summer ~ Candice James
(Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)
I found you breaking holes in the ice
Searching for a perfect snowflake
In a prison of shattered tears.
I slid down the winter slope of your smile
Hypnotized by the frost in your eyes;
Warmed by the heat of your body.
We huddled together
Safe in the depth of our breath.
In the catch of our desire:
A fire running wild in the blood
Stained with the amber residue
Of Nirvana spinning blue.
Hands clasped tightly
And skin pressed together
On a cold dark night we crept away,
Sliding down the curve of winter’s back
While she lay sleeping.
We travelled light
With the ghosts of summer
Into a surreal season
Of broken rainbows and fading sunsets.
We slid down the whisper of Spring
Chasing the shadows of summer
Before the sun burnt out
In the freeze of winter’s breath.
I left you breaking holes in the ice
Searching for the lost ghosts of summer
Inside an endless winter.
I had to leave…
I’d stopped believing in ghosts.
The Thick ~ Candice James
(Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)
Night drips from the sky;
Ink from an ebony casket
Onto the pages of day,
Closing the book of light,
Opening the story of night.
The thick of its touch
Clings like cashmere,
Brushing the breast of this moment
With star-shadow and moon-dust;
Falling in mirrored songs
Onto a satin dance floor;
Whispers to voices
To whispers again
Inside the blue of a fading song
As the awakening begins
In the thick.
The universe stretches and yawns,
Exhales a stiletto sharp breath:
Cracking the black open;
Skinning the bear of night;
Wrenching the dark to a standstill.
The keeper of light emerges,
Bright yellow disc in hand,
Hangs it high in the sky;
Thinning the thick to the quick;
Closing the book of night.
New Westminster ~ Trevor Carolan
Night sounds drift up from the river:
exquisite screech of train rails, grinding steel
on cold, raw steel
slowly
up the line to Port Moody.
Tug whistles bawl counterpoint off Brownsville
beneath Patullo Bridge,
chugging and chugging
burglar alarms ring and ring back of warehouse row,
gulls scream mad all night in feeding orgies—
oolichans arc-lit by mill-yard sodium lamps,
white ghosts hovering, and veer in the false light
iridescent
swoop the spawn run, cry on starts of wind blown up
from the delta;
muscle cars rev cobbled, hilly streets;
swarthy, glistening sea-lions bark and bark
for love
in moonlight.
Hometown boy…
Staying Put, Koan ~ Trevor Carolan
Land really is the best art
Andy Warhol said,
and that’s true.
Take a rock in the rain
now there’s a picture,
a real story –
a thousand, million years of consciousness
maybe.
What does the raindrop remember when it’s
in the sea?
Tangkas In The Pawnshop ~ Trevor Carolan
for Ed and Ulu Hill, Richard Pua,
Richard & Angela Tavares
Cloudy Saturday
Io Valley, Maui peaks mist-swallowed, but no sign rain.
After swimming in salty bay here, no sign sharks today:
twenty lengths, shore to dock, then quiet reading in the shade,
meditating on the holy Tao,
on Our Lady blossoming in plumeria,
in orange ohia flower.
Complete enlightenment at Wailuku Plate Lunch Shack:
chicken & shredded pork long noodle, mint, bean sprouts,
shredded cabbage;
combination head cheese, pork pâte sub and
tapioca coconut milk, or
from the glory of Spain, flan custard.
Today, maybe even both.
Or choice of opakapaka garlic fish, grill on rice;
enjoying cold tap water outdoors
beneath umbrellas.
Ah, the beauty of getting old together,
like reading in the paper - a precious collection of holy tangkas
unredeemed in the pawnshop, now on offer,
bargain cheap across island in busy town.
We look at each other and shrug, wistful dharma bums
not quite caring enough to drop it all, to go running after
any more–
Happy here, with just enough.
Meadowlark ~ Calvin Wharton
Whenever I mention Saskatchewan,
meadowlark interrupts
with a song so magnificent
it can only be sung where geography relaxes
into grasslands and table-top horizon,
while luminous sky sweeps away
the pitiful small concerns we humans
carry around with us.
When meadowlark mentions Saskatchewan,
the rest of us stop and pay attention,
feel the muscles in our shoulders
loosen and our mouths open slightly
as if we were about to share the song, ourselves.
And while Saskatchewan mentions meadowlark,
the breeze falters and daylight
becomes a verb, conjuring
time stopped, with only music
alive and moving through this world.
Suitcase Full of Birds - Calvin Wharton
A Vancouver resident has been fined for trying to smuggle a suitcase full of songbirds into the city