Tag: A Gift of Island Poetry

Cnoc on Chairs Famine Graveyard

Bríd Ni Mhóráin

(May all who sleep here have sight of the Trinity 21 November 1990) Cnoc an Chairn sheds its deep peace Under the encircling hills and heavens O...

Something About Snow

Brent MacLaine

SOMETHING ABOUT SNOW Something about snow today—its flatness in the cold, windless field. The pale sun tries but fails to warm it, even though it ...

Pillars of Creation

Judy Gaudet

PILLARS OF CREATION Solar winds are blowing up the pillars of the Eagle Nebula 7000 light years away from Eldon, where terrestrial winds are shapi...

Great-Grandmother’s Garden

Richard Lemm

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN Pansies have the faces of lost children. Iris unfurls its violet flag for my son churned into the mud of France. Foxg...

Crow Piss: A Pantoum

Chris Bailey

CROW PISS: A PANTOUM Sit and listen, and your father will tell you how it is. Up before crow piss. Before daylight breaks between the branches. Ge...

This is How I Connect with You

Yvette Doucette

THIS IS HOW I CONNECT WITH YOU all lissom-like the elm trees bend seawind lifts and scents my hair my tongue flattens, no a, e, i, or u to round t...

Picnic Rock

Thomas O'Grady

An old album, a thumb-scuffed photograph, black and white, circa 1964: centred, hair tied back by a windblown scarf, my mother in slacks and blouse...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

Making the Sky

Judy Gaudet

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 ...

Off Season

Bren Simmers

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 ...

Early Morning Mist

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 ...

We: An Apologia

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...

Grandmothers

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...

See-e-ooh

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...

What I Wanted to Be

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

IN OUR LIFETIME Tomatoes too thirsty, priced out of reach along with almonds, peaches. We’re running out of cheap oil—like the ivory-billed wo...

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

MY MOTHER 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...

A Gift of Blueberries

Lobie Daughton

A GIFT OF BLUEBERRIES This secret place. This juice that blooms upon my lips, that coats my fingertips. This purple harvest that I search for on...

untitled

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 off, while tweens s...

Pond Lullaby

Jane Ledwell

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

How Could You Forget This?

Chris Bailey

HOW COULD YOU FORGET THIS? Don’t forget where you came from. Simple. Easy like dropping a slut rock tied to a herring net off the boat’s stern,...

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

John Flood

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 w...

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

THE PHOTOGRAPHER OF SNOWFLAKES As a boy, he tried to sketch them, but his pencil couldn’t scurry fast enough before the designs melted or sublime...

The Feet of Blue Herons

John MacKenzie

A FLEET OF BLUE HERONS 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, ...

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