Sunday, May 24, 2009

A January Afternoon With -- George

His body has failed him.
Shut down
around a mind that is still
yearning to express,
to experience –
His body has -- failed
And I stand here
trying to find words to
rattle off about my day
so that I can fill the -- stilted
while he is trying
to -- communicate --
through the tangle of failed nerve synapses
or whatever it is
that has -- so cruelly --
imprisoned him –
He is trying to speak to me
and I know the words he is trying to speak
are words
of interest, words of
love --
and I cannot,
I can not
handle it.
But I cannot
not handle
it -
so I stay awhile
wanting to
but -- unable
to cry.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Makes You Feel Right At Home

Part 1
I sit on
moss covered rocks
as the water
flows by
dead trees
laying perfectly still
on the shore
on the rocks
the sun setting
over the water
I wait
for the next day

Part 2
I stand
at the helm
of a sail boat
sailing along the coast
of Vancouver Island, Canada
the water
being so great
I am one
with the boat and the water
gliding through it
powered by the wind
in the deep blue sea
going towards
our next destination
at the end
of the day
we go into port
and I say
I miss you open sea
I miss you all powerful wind
but all I can do is
wait for the next day

Part 3
In the morning
the inside of
the boat
makes you feel right at home,
get out of bed
move to the tiny kitchen
and cook
eggs and bacon
for the family
and then
head out
to the deep blue sea
going to San Juan Island
to take a plane ride
to Seattle

Part 4
In Seattle
I sit back down
on a moss covered rock
watching the water
just waiting
for the next time
I can go back
out to the deep blue sea

-Burns Duncan

Friday, April 24, 2009

The Mottled Brown Vase

The mottled brown vase
lies in shattered

while the grey concrete bleeds
its distaste.

It turns up its nose
with a sniff
at the audicity
of it all -

“I told you so.”

For that mottled brown vase
had decided
it must experience

-Siri Hammond

(I dropped one of my parents' wedding presents on the ground at Beasley Coliseum last fall. Whoops.)

The Mirror's martyr.

she spends roughly twelve-and-a-half minutes in front of the Mirror,
a typical morning.

She tries on three or four outfits,
each discarded in turn,
having failed
to land in a pile in the bathtub,
a pile from which one sorry winner
is eventually retrieved,
accompanied by a sigh of concession.

She has admitted defeat.
Today, her clothes will not be perfect.

Another five or so minutes she spends
veiling her skin
with paints and pigments,
hiding each tiny flaw,
in hopeless concentration
to emphasize those features she wishes
were larger,
more seductive,
more intriguing –

But long curling lashes, it seems, are in nature reserved for boys.
It isn’t fair.

Still, with reddened cheeks and heavy eyes,
having wielded a pair
of potentially lethal curling tongs
in a hurried attempt
to exercise some fleeting control over her hair –
she rushes out the door.

She is late to choir again –

She is late.

What else in life has she arrived late for,
misssed out on,
all because of these
moments spent in pas de deux
with the Mirror,
split-second glances that turn into minutes,
becoming hours –

glances that sacrifice time
that sacrifice love,
even, in this martyrdom
for Beauty?

And to what avail is it,
when at the end of the day,
her careful mask has faded,
smudged -
and she looks tired,
not immaculate, composed
not glowing –
to what avail can it be?

All this she wonders,
but cannot answer,


So more precious hours she will
in contemplation
towards thinner waist
and brighter smile
and sweeter expression,
all this to mask
the pain

that she is neither pure

-Siri Hammond

Thursday, April 16, 2009


The men line up
In rows for battle
Staring across
At the opposition
The next move
Taken aback
Strategy takes a role
Within the
Mastermind's scheme
Recruits fall dead
While royalty
Still stands
One move
Decides fate
Of the war
It is over
A race is
While another
A king
Stands tall
With his
Remaining people
While a king
Meets his end

-Jeff Harris

Tuesday, April 14, 2009


From the pipe flows
Mostly clean now
Making bubbles
Washing away the old bridge
The old growth
The old pains.
It calms
As the bubbling subsides to the serene pools
a Styrofoam peanut escapes
New growth is peeping through
Dead reeds
Moving on
Leaving way
For new life

Monday, February 23, 2009

A New World

A small page rests on the still table
Crinkled and slightly worn.
Aging with a yellow tint, becoming feeble
Concealing its original content, which from the author, was born
I read the flowing words with interest

A picture is vividly formed and shaped in my mind
I feel as if I can see everything described within the page
My old memories and the story together they bind
At the puns and happiness I grin
Feeling myself becoming so engaged
Experiencing animosity for the character, which is a pest.

As I finish reading, I slowly return to my life
Trying to store the experience away in my brain
Attempting to remember smaller experiences I strife
As graphic elements touch me, and with the outcome I strain
And I ponder the story at random moments

I recall the story years later and I struggle to retell the experience
Remembering the unimportant details
Filling in the gaps with other memories, which make sense
And at some instances my memory flails
But, I'm glad I read it and my wasted time I do not lament.

-Jeff Harris