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    Royal City Poets 4- 2014
    Royal City Poets 4- 2014
    Royal City Poets 4- 2014
    Ebook149 pages1 hour

    Royal City Poets 4- 2014

    By Silver Bow Publishing

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This is the 4th Royal City Poets Anthology published in 2014

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSilver Bow Publishing
    Release dateJun 11, 2018
    ISBN9781927616383
    Royal City Poets 4- 2014
    Author

    Silver Bow Publishing

    Silver Bow is a Canadian Publishing Company established in 1987. We strive to publish the best of both new and established writers in both print and ebook format. Company Overview Canadian Publishing Company (poetry, non fiction; fiction; novels,anthologies, short stories) We accept manuscripts from the international community. Query first before submitting Contact Info info@silverbowpublishing.com silverbowpublishing@gmail.com

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      Book preview

      Royal City Poets 4- 2014 - Silver Bow Publishing

      ROYAL CITY POETS 4 2014

      by

      Silver Bow Publishing,

      Published by Silver Bow Publishing at Smashwords

      Copyright 2015 Silver Bow Publishing

      ISBN 978-1-927616-38-3 (e-book)

      License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given

      away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase

      an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it

      was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your

      own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

      ROYAL CITY POETS 4

      Silver Bow Publishing

      Box 5 - 720 Sixth St.,

      New Westminster, BC

      V3L 3C5 CANADA

      Email: silverbowpublishing@gmail.com

      Black Onyx Lake ~ Candice James

      (Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)

      Above the lip of a black onyx lake,

      I walked as a ghost in a foreign land,

      All around me in a state of flux:

      Mountains dissolving;

      Sand dunes shifting;

      Sky cracking open;

      Stars in free-fall

      Above the lip of a black onyx lake.

      I saw stars being born,

      Burning out, disappearing;

      Angels in flight touching down on the lake.

      I saw high-wires, guidelines and cities

      Constructed with neon and gauze;

      Rainbows shedding their colours at will.

      In a moment of madness

      The sun kissed the moon;

      And imagination’s children were born,

      Spilling from a crack in the sky

      Onto poets, musicians and artists

      In reverent and sacred free-fall.

      I stood as a ghost

      Turned inside out,

      Eyes filled with stars,

      Moon, sun and sky

      Bearing witness to

      Both sides of the dark

      Above the lip of a black onyx lake

      Ghosts Of Summer ~ Candice James

      (Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)

      I found you breaking holes in the ice

      Searching for a perfect snowflake

      In a prison of shattered tears.

      I slid down the winter slope of your smile

      Hypnotized by the frost in your eyes;

      Warmed by the heat of your body.

      We huddled together

      Safe in the depth of our breath.

      In the catch of our desire:

      A fire running wild in the blood

      Stained with the amber residue

      Of Nirvana spinning blue.

      Hands clasped tightly

      And skin pressed together

      On a cold dark night we crept away,

      Sliding down the curve of winter’s back

      While she lay sleeping.

      We travelled light

      With the ghosts of summer

      Into a surreal season

      Of broken rainbows and fading sunsets.

      We slid down the whisper of Spring

      Chasing the shadows of summer

      Before the sun burnt out

      In the freeze of winter’s breath.

      I left you breaking holes in the ice

      Searching for the lost ghosts of summer

      Inside an endless winter.

      I had to leave…

      I’d stopped believing in ghosts.

      The Thick ~ Candice James

      (Poet Laureate, City of New Westminster, BC)

      Night drips from the sky;

      Ink from an ebony casket

      Onto the pages of day,

      Closing the book of light,

      Opening the story of night.

      The thick of its touch

      Clings like cashmere,

      Brushing the breast of this moment

      With star-shadow and moon-dust;

      Falling in mirrored songs

      Onto a satin dance floor;

      Whispers to voices

      To whispers again

      Inside the blue of a fading song

      As the awakening begins

      In the thick.

      The universe stretches and yawns,

      Exhales a stiletto sharp breath:

      Cracking the black open;

      Skinning the bear of night;

      Wrenching the dark to a standstill.

      The keeper of light emerges,

      Bright yellow disc in hand,

      Hangs it high in the sky;

      Thinning the thick to the quick;

      Closing the book of night.

      New Westminster ~ Trevor Carolan

      Night sounds drift up from the river:

      exquisite screech of train rails, grinding steel

      on cold, raw steel

      slowly

      up the line to Port Moody.

      Tug whistles bawl counterpoint off Brownsville

      beneath Patullo Bridge,

      chugging and chugging

      burglar alarms ring and ring back of warehouse row,

      gulls scream mad all night in feeding orgies—

      oolichans arc-lit by mill-yard sodium lamps,

      white ghosts hovering, and veer in the false light

      iridescent

      swoop the spawn run, cry on starts of wind blown up

      from the delta;

      muscle cars rev cobbled, hilly streets;

      swarthy, glistening sea-lions bark and bark

      for love

      in moonlight.

      Hometown boy…

      Staying Put, Koan ~ Trevor Carolan

      Land really is the best art

      Andy Warhol said,

      and that’s true.

      Take a rock in the rain

      now there’s a picture,

      a real story –

      a thousand, million years of consciousness

      maybe.

      What does the raindrop remember when it’s

      in the sea?

      Tangkas In The Pawnshop ~ Trevor Carolan

      for Ed and Ulu Hill, Richard Pua,

      Richard & Angela Tavares

      Cloudy Saturday

      Io Valley, Maui peaks mist-swallowed, but no sign rain.

      After swimming in salty bay here, no sign sharks today:

      twenty lengths, shore to dock, then quiet reading in the shade,

      meditating on the holy Tao,

      on Our Lady blossoming in plumeria,

      in orange ohia flower.

      Complete enlightenment at Wailuku Plate Lunch Shack:

      chicken & shredded pork long noodle, mint, bean sprouts,

      shredded cabbage;

      combination head cheese, pork pâte sub and

      tapioca coconut milk, or

      from the glory of Spain, flan custard.

      Today, maybe even both.

      Or choice of opakapaka garlic fish, grill on rice;

      enjoying cold tap water outdoors

      beneath umbrellas.

      Ah, the beauty of getting old together,

      like reading in the paper - a precious collection of holy tangkas

      unredeemed in the pawnshop, now on offer,

      bargain cheap across island in busy town.

      We look at each other and shrug, wistful dharma bums

      not quite caring enough to drop it all, to go running after

      any more–

      Happy here, with just enough.

      Meadowlark ~ Calvin Wharton

      Whenever I mention Saskatchewan,

      meadowlark interrupts

      with a song so magnificent

      it can only be sung where geography relaxes

      into grasslands and table-top horizon,

      while luminous sky sweeps away

      the pitiful small concerns we humans

      carry around with us.

      When meadowlark mentions Saskatchewan,

      the rest of us stop and pay attention,

      feel the muscles in our shoulders

      loosen and our mouths open slightly

      as if we were about to share the song, ourselves.

      And while Saskatchewan mentions meadowlark,

      the breeze falters and daylight

      becomes a verb, conjuring

      time stopped, with only music

      alive and moving through this world.

      Suitcase Full of Birds - Calvin Wharton

      A Vancouver resident has been fined for trying to smuggle a suitcase full of songbirds into the city

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