Tag: A Gift of Island Poetry

A gift of Island poetry

Jack's Trail | Bren Simmers

Let’s call this paint chip 4 p.m. green. Lichen, liverwort. Moss burgeoning into topo folds enters ankles, backs of knees, hip creaks. Call this...

A gift of Island poetry

EVERYTHING RETURNS, EVENTUALLY… | Laurie Brinklow

for Frank Ledwell Frank Ledwell (1930–2010) was a writer and poet who mentored thousands of Prince Edward Islanders—including me—in his role as...

A gift of Island poetry

DAYS, WEEKS, MONTHS, YEAR | Deirdre Kessler

DAYS, WEEKS, MONTHS, YEAR Individual days, weeks, months: unbound! Flung up into the air, released from meaning. Who cares for you? Alice says to t...

A gift of Island poetry

Blueberry Jam | Roderick MacDonald

BLUEBERRY JAM On a hidden shelf In a jar of heavy glass Deep, dark, and thick Preserved while time has passed In the dusty basement With heirloo...

A gift of Island poetry

If I Could Say | Leon Berrouard

IF I COULD SAY That I love you From the bottom of my heart But that would be a cliché So, instead, I love you from The bottom of my brain And a...

A gift of Island poetry

Judy Gaudet | Making the Sky

MAKING THE SKY Wet the sky thoroughly right down to the treeline. Wrap it round the strait. First add the brightness, leaving either nothing or ...

A gift of Island poetry

Bren Simmers | Off Season

OFF SEASON Tonight, I don’t have to play the crowd, tell the story of the Christmas owl who hitched a ride home on a fir trunk. Walk the trail ...

A gift of Island poetry

Brent MacLaine

EARLY MORNING MIST A soft breath has come to earth. It must have paused a moment before lowering its gentle weight upon the autumn fields, before ...

A gift of Island poetry

Steve McOrmond

WE: AN APOLOGIA We loved the idea of trees and occasionally to stroll among them. We loved how quiet the city when it snowed and the view from the...

A gift of Island poetry

Yvette Doucette

Grandmothers they come from the other places the Jewish one, the Jamaican one her ancestor shipped from Africa to work cane they find her, their k...

A gift of Island poetry

Charlie Greg Sark

SEE-E-OOH that poem written twenty— … no, it was eighteen years ago. That poem, I wrote it for harper and I called it enemy tongues. Her...

A gift of Island poetry

Richard Lemm

WHAT I WANTED TO BE A dandelion and buttercup bouquet on grandmother’s vanity, the wasps in the pears, the long white jet plane’s tail in the ...

IN OUR LIFETIME

Bren Simmers

Tomatoes too thirsty, priced out of reach along with almonds, peaches. We’re running out of cheap oil—like the ivory-billed woodpecker last sp...

Bee Funeral

Sandy McCarney

In fifth grade Crybaby and Almost- Boobs hoarded curios in a Kleenex box: hunks of rock shaped like pizza slices, gel pens’ worn-out tips. Crud....

my mother

Judy Gaudet

she survives and smiles no the hail has not struck there that danced and crashed our party and the sun has reappeared chased cumulus to blue sky ...

A Gift of Blueberries

Lobie Daughton

This secret place. This juice that blooms upon my lips, that coats my fingertips. This purple harvest that I search for on the briny bank beneat...

A gift of Island poetry

Bren Simmers

Strollers stake out shady maples    while kids ride noodles       in the wading pool, bob in water wings. Moms up to their    knees cool o...

Pond Lullaby

Jane Ledwell

Sleep, my damselfly, wings pressed in mute prayer. Cease, my whirligig, spinning pond-skin to air. Let all water striders take rest from their strid...

How Could You Forget This?

Chris Bailey

Don’t forget where you came from. Simple. Easy like dropping a slut rock tied to a herring net off the boat’s stern, sidestepping rusted chains...

Seeing Red

Thomas O'Grady

Blizzard-bound, snowed under, walled-in … swallowed by a whirling world of white, a mapless maze of shifting waist-deep drifts, he wades and wa...

professor schwarz

(eminent judge of poetry contests)

imagine a poem in which there is no funny or sad this is not that poem imagine a poem in which bear goes over the river to see what he can see ...

Storm Day

Hugh MacDonald

Our wooden house squats south face to the river. Pine and spruce fir and poplar maple and oak at our sides and backs. Somewhere over Labrador w...

The Photographer of Snowflakes

Steve McOrmond

As a boy, he tried to sketch them, but his pencil couldn’t scurry fast enough before the designs melted or sublimed in air. He wanted to hold the...

The Feet of Blue Herons

John MacKenzie

If you happen to live in another town, Or country, or even galaxy As dim and distant in time as in space From these words, this language, the narro...

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