Some of the first serious writing I ever did was poetry. I was 15. I started writing poetry because who fucking cares.
Poetry continued into my adulthood. Mostly when I was guiding and a bit when I was living in British Columbia. It was a quick and easy therapy that made me feel like I was using my brain for something other than just functional existence.
Short story long, I entered the CBC Poetry contest last May. They released their long list today and I wasn’t on it. I love the CBC writing contests. They get you writing. They make you a better writer. Even if you don’t win or get listed. Because, as we all know, to be a better writer, you need to write. All the time. A lot.
Here is what I submitted. It was titled ‘I Want to be a Horse’:
It takes an Advillage.
He wasn’t invisible
He wasn’t invisible.
But he thought he was.
He sat still.
He didn’t get involved.
He wore unassuming clothing.
He didn’t have any strong political views.
He was structured.
Though his skin was translucent.
Only mildly see-through.
His veins and organs were visible.
As was his skeleton.
So he was a little bit invisible.
But not completely.
I want to be a horse
The pasture lies before me.
Wind in my mane.
Shoot me if I’m useless.
As I positioned my head
I noticed the handle was maple
Dyed a thick red.
The striations on the hilt
almost spelled out a prayer
that I knew was not for me
so, I was resolved to watch.
As the axe fell
I spied a boy in the crowd.
And as my head rolled to his feet
he stuck his tongue out at me.
I can’t help it.
Man stands weeping in the centre of a dark stage.
Spotlight hits him. He is shocked.
The man then notices his hands. He looks at them, astonished at first.
He then smells them, slowly. Then he can’t stop, his sniffing is cathartic.
Oh, oh my, oh my oh.
After one last very large sniff, he stops and looks directly at the audience.
My heart is a noose.
Then with one large punch, he knocks himself unconscious. He crumbles to the stage.
Enter man two, stage right. To audience:
There are no refunds.
As his hands slowly raise to his nose the lights go down.
Our father was abused.
Parenting was something he never wanted to do.
So, when handed the torch, he did so with trepidation.
All things said, he is doing his best.
Hell dealt our mother’s hand.
Long bouts of fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue.
Gregarious names for ‘constant pain’ and ‘sleeping due to need’.
Rendered inoperable for most of her teens, she persevered.
Everything she is now she gives to us.
Not to forget our father, he is a bastion of love.
Love that he rarely saves for himself.
Eclectic as they were they always met in the middle.
Yielding us, embracing their faults and strengths, we are better for it.
Internet Spam As Muse
I use this opportunity
To thank great priest Jayema
I wanted her to bring my husband back to me
I have been in great pains since he left
He went for lentils
And persimmon root
but did not return
My soup spoiled
Then that day
I contacted Priest Jayema
She cast a love spell for me
She told me to wait for just 24 hours
He never came back
48, still no
That was best 300 euros I’ve ever spent
My husband carries many STI’s
And his love is like a child’s sock
Full of curdled goat’s milk
It’s YOUR spleen
“It’s a spleen,” the doctor said hesitantly.
“Can I keep it?” I asked.
27 minutes of life that I’ll never get back before I’m rushed to the emergency room
I find something that resembles a gummie bear in a coat I haven’t worn since New Years three years ago.
I sit pondering its consumption.
My wife is addicted to videos of wild animals fighting and it worries me
I get bored at Christmas parties.