Monthly Archives: April 2011

Incompetent Angel Entering the daycare at naptime, lights turned low, soft music, my breath catches, every time: two dozen little futon beds, on each, a child, some sleep while others play shadow games or, eyes wide, indulge in private reveries. … Continue reading →

*** Marilyn Boyle, member of LCP for two years, lives in the Caledon Hills.  Her work appeared in Celebrating Canadian Women (Fitzhenry and Whiteside), Poet’s Market, and in a  chapbook, lyingstill. Also a member of SOCAN, she has performed readings and … Continue reading →

Sandwiched i) Tick tock is small. Swing load, sweet bladderette; bus is comin’ for to carry us home. Words from his prime are prime numbers dividing me against myself decades later. I love you— (emphasis on the unspoken “anyway”). A heated … Continue reading →

I dream I’m in an airplane about to take off.  The airplane becomes a large room and I sit on the floor, take hold of straps to prepare myself for the vertical take-off. In this room dining table chairs crowd … Continue reading →

Blood The native spirits tread softly, bear sweet grass in medicine hide pouch. They have flown to me over the River Grand for I, too, was once an Indian: tall and lean, my face a shade of sun. My hair … Continue reading →

*** Kate Marshall Flaherty has been a member of the LCP for about 6 years now, and I live and work in Scarborough, Ontario. She gives teen leadership retreats, and offers workshops in Meditation and Writing as a Spiritual Practice. … Continue reading →

Failure to Thrive If only there were but one way to fail, a hapless baby or two lacking the know-how to suck, breathe and swallow at the same time. Instead, is this progeny of souls who received no love, so … Continue reading →

The Poet at His Meal Among Students for Allen Ginsberg He eats cold curried chicken, salad, whole wheat bread, after a concert, hungry, eats it all, and asks for seconds, his audience imbibing beers around him, two talking to him … Continue reading →

Wonder My feet are wings, eyes luminous pearls strung on the bare-armed maple, ears the owl’s lament in the forest where I’ll walk this morning dark loam cushioning my steps the green bowing down the big cedar inviting me to … Continue reading →

Bette Dancing Bette had a way of dancing when she got into rye. She’d start up in the middle of the cabin all by herself. She’d feel the beat move to Lenny Welch the spinning of the forty-five, Since I … Continue reading →