there once was a globe called the earth'
twas shiny green & totes blue from its birth
then along came the peoples
built highrises and steeples
and now everything's going all blergh
By Mark Hamilton
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Something Else
I like...
multi functional,
multi purpose pieces.
I am... inspired by aprons, granola style, plaid and prints.
I want... something that will enhance my basic wardrobe.
I need... something that will fit me whether I'm a size 0 or a size 10.
I use... my creativity, my sewing machine, pretty remnants, old clothes, new threads
and I make... Something Else.
By Lan. T
multi functional,
multi purpose pieces.
I am... inspired by aprons, granola style, plaid and prints.
I want... something that will enhance my basic wardrobe.
I need... something that will fit me whether I'm a size 0 or a size 10.
I use... my creativity, my sewing machine, pretty remnants, old clothes, new threads
and I make... Something Else.
By Lan. T
Breathing and Moving Plants
gently, with the Cant of Kyrie
a sonance between plants and people
a soft syntax of scent
and the greenspeak pitch
the hum of crimson skin off ripe tomatoes
unplucked, giving red in my hands
I hope the sign of this scent
is not the pain of my pluck
but an answering sensuality
a movement of round ness in my palms.
like the lemon tree I stuff in the truck
the one that never grew yellow, pocked, lemons
but cast a lemon scent like a screaming child
grasping for its mother
the terror
of lemon, of being re moved.
like the Basil when I weeded around it;
the herb warned me not to.
casting whiff like a hard baseball
insisting that I catch
its thought.
like the carrot tops warning me off
their emerald copulation.
now I talk to my plants in lush tones
in the moments after
I inhale their verdance.
By Vivian Hansen
a sonance between plants and people
a soft syntax of scent
and the greenspeak pitch
the hum of crimson skin off ripe tomatoes
unplucked, giving red in my hands
I hope the sign of this scent
is not the pain of my pluck
but an answering sensuality
a movement of round ness in my palms.
like the lemon tree I stuff in the truck
the one that never grew yellow, pocked, lemons
but cast a lemon scent like a screaming child
grasping for its mother
the terror
of lemon, of being re moved.
like the Basil when I weeded around it;
the herb warned me not to.
casting whiff like a hard baseball
insisting that I catch
its thought.
like the carrot tops warning me off
their emerald copulation.
now I talk to my plants in lush tones
in the moments after
I inhale their verdance.
By Vivian Hansen
Friday, April 9, 2010
Don’t Happen No More – A Bit of Earth History
Well, there used to be a time when the sky was blue
When laying watching clouds was the thing to do.
That was the time when a cow only mooed
And you didn’t need to wear sun block 42.
Well, there used to be a time when the world was green
With forests and grass not money machines.
Used to be a time when the rivers flowed clean,
Now you have to know what parts-per-million means.
Don’t happen no more
Was a long time ago
What a pitiful shame
How the world has changed
There used to be a time when the land was your home
Some time back when the buffalo roamed
Used to walk for miles, the earth and you alone
Spending time where the wild things grow.
Don’t happen no more
Was a long time ago
What a pitiful shame
How the world has changed
W. Martin
[partially inspired by B. B. King’s Don’t Happen No More]
When laying watching clouds was the thing to do.
That was the time when a cow only mooed
And you didn’t need to wear sun block 42.
Well, there used to be a time when the world was green
With forests and grass not money machines.
Used to be a time when the rivers flowed clean,
Now you have to know what parts-per-million means.
Don’t happen no more
Was a long time ago
What a pitiful shame
How the world has changed
There used to be a time when the land was your home
Some time back when the buffalo roamed
Used to walk for miles, the earth and you alone
Spending time where the wild things grow.
Don’t happen no more
Was a long time ago
What a pitiful shame
How the world has changed
W. Martin
[partially inspired by B. B. King’s Don’t Happen No More]
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Preserve These Words
These words,
Combined
Reformed
Found forgotten
Rewarmed
Stagnant sentences
Dormant stanzas
Various torn discourses
Draining downwards
Like forlorn sediment
Left to rest
Rolling under the river bed
The raging representative
of forward pressing
time and culture
And surely You,
Oh Holy Breath
have preserved
these words
Roaring water
coursing vehement chariot
Churning over unobserved
Soft nuances
and charming inflections
Oh yes,
fast paced
centuries of progress
And yet,
the echo
the refrain
Tapping steady
Under a small stream’s babbling
Heard in the lapping of an eddy
A fallen leaf slaps me
And Wind runs laughing
And surely You,
Oh Holy Breath
have preserved
these words
This deep covered
This dirt smothered
This earth churned under
This learning to quiet my soul
So my spirit may perceive
May receive
This long unspoken
Sweet speech
that the world
Forcefully Forgot
And surely You,
Oh Holy Breath
have preserved
these words
A soft
unbreakable grip
Sheltering cleft
Constant current
Preserving & Refining
Drawing out the dross
Reworking
Breaking Elements
Pressing & Polishing
Shaping the Discard
Buffing that Shine
Held Waiting
(Breath In…Breath Out)
By Joel Pleasant
Our green, green world
on the streets of our souls there's only one house
that is left standing and quietly so, no one fears it's happening
for this house of so many is as fragile as it seems
the last alarms are echoed through all of the streets for
our green, green world, if we could turn ourselves around
take some solar power alternative from the creeping death of
underground.
come to the chasm that's opened at our feet
toss all our wishes to the bottom of the sea
on about sunset we will draw up from the well
drink to our fortunes plead ignorance from our hell
tar paper shacks and shanty towns, not forgotten
company stores.
give our heads a shake before it’s to late
now, where do we go to if our house is torn down
what is there to build with after we've burned it all down
oh this house of so many and none to see it cleaned
the last alarm is echoed through all of the street
a green, green world could be ours if we turn ourselves around
both poor and rich face the chore, our riches ain’t worth nothing
if there is no breathin, drinkin or thinkin, green
see it is falling from all that we've not done
our beds we're made to lie in, pull the covers over our heads
and come the sunset we will all hide away there toasting our
monsters pleading ignorance from our ways
quiet still brown skies, souls sold off for no paradise
and dreamers tossed to the sea this green, green world turning
seething, freezing for want of the little bits that we could fix by
seeing, what can be seen
come to the chasm that's open at our feet
toss all our wishes to the bottom of the sea
now where will we go to as the house is torn down
what have we to build with after it's all been burned downfor this house of so many is as fragile as it seems
the last alarm is sounding through all of the streets
our green, green world if we turn our sights around
By Dale A Herrington
Dale is a local poet & activist who can be seen recording
at almost every poetry reading around the city.
Also known as "Hippy Dale", he drives a multi colored Hippy
Bus and also works at the Drop In Center when he is not
writing poems, publishing books and Cd recordings from his
spoken word Podbeam.
that is left standing and quietly so, no one fears it's happening
for this house of so many is as fragile as it seems
the last alarms are echoed through all of the streets for
our green, green world, if we could turn ourselves around
take some solar power alternative from the creeping death of
underground.
come to the chasm that's opened at our feet
toss all our wishes to the bottom of the sea
on about sunset we will draw up from the well
drink to our fortunes plead ignorance from our hell
tar paper shacks and shanty towns, not forgotten
company stores.
give our heads a shake before it’s to late
now, where do we go to if our house is torn down
what is there to build with after we've burned it all down
oh this house of so many and none to see it cleaned
the last alarm is echoed through all of the street
a green, green world could be ours if we turn ourselves around
both poor and rich face the chore, our riches ain’t worth nothing
if there is no breathin, drinkin or thinkin, green
see it is falling from all that we've not done
our beds we're made to lie in, pull the covers over our heads
and come the sunset we will all hide away there toasting our
monsters pleading ignorance from our ways
quiet still brown skies, souls sold off for no paradise
and dreamers tossed to the sea this green, green world turning
seething, freezing for want of the little bits that we could fix by
seeing, what can be seen
come to the chasm that's open at our feet
toss all our wishes to the bottom of the sea
now where will we go to as the house is torn down
what have we to build with after it's all been burned downfor this house of so many is as fragile as it seems
the last alarm is sounding through all of the streets
our green, green world if we turn our sights around
By Dale A Herrington
Dale is a local poet & activist who can be seen recording
at almost every poetry reading around the city.
Also known as "Hippy Dale", he drives a multi colored Hippy
Bus and also works at the Drop In Center when he is not
writing poems, publishing books and Cd recordings from his
spoken word Podbeam.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Each Of Us Needs a Green Footprint
Our footprint we live in is brown, far larger than what we really need, and it smells bad, partly due to the non-renewable resources we use, and the hard-to-recycle residues we create.
Our footprint should be green, either a mixture of clear-sky blue and clean pure water blue mixed with sunshine yellow, or green plants for the healthy requirements of our bodies instead of "nutritional".
Our brown footprints have changed the intensity of the wildness of nature of the planet we live on.
Tornadoes and hurricanes strip away our buildings and leave destruction in their wake. Tsunamis, floods, volcanoes, earthquakes, landslides, avalanches, droughts --- our footprints are making these weather and environment extremes worse.
Most of the "green" solutions proposed are suboptimizing --- designed mainly to obtain green money from us. Many solve tiny parts of problems, but leave the major footprint issues unsolved.
A major change in lifestyle is necessary. Stop denying that we are part of the problem. Make choices that encourage positive changes, and oppose pressures from lobby groups to stick to the damaging negative status quo. Make bamends by contributing to efforts to reverse the damage that has already been done.
Sure, nature can correct the damage done to the planet, but that will take millions of years and our absence. Accept that there is no planet or moon nearby that we can economically escape to after we totally damage Earth.
And it would take us several generations to travel to another habitable planet after we manage to find one, as well as considerable expensive resources to make the trip. And if we managed to relocate to another inhabitable planet, would we just proceed to destroy it in the same way that we are doing to this one?
The green footprint that we should be living within can still be achieved. We just have to learn what wise choices to decide on to help make it happen. And we have to help educate others about those choices, so that they can make the same decisions.
If you see an iceberg floating in the ocean, you only see 1/10th of it above water, with the rest invisible underwater. If you drag the iceberg on to land, you will see a huge mountain. Since it is mostly ice, the ice melts into water, it drains away, and the mountain disappears.
The waste created as a result of what you use or consume is also a huge mountain. Because of our efficient garbage pickup and disposal systems, what you see is much smaller than 1/10th of it, unless there is a garbage collection strike as in Toronto or Vancouver, or you see the barges filled with garbage that New York City ships away.
Unlike the ice in the iceberg, plastics and aluminum take thousands of years for Nature to recycle, yet we produce and discard these materials faster than that.
You do your part in recycling to reduce that visible part, but post-consumer recycling takes energy and resources, so that is still part of your mountain. If you look at your footprint, it is slightly smaller, but it is still brown, with a green border around it.
Why don't we see the rest of that mountain? Raw materials and energy are used by manufacturers and they create waste in addition to products. Packaging is added to protect the goods during shipment to stores. Advertising is added, which is thrown away. When you buy a product, the waste that corresponds to that product is added to your mountain.
Since we obtain much of our products from third world countries, part of our invisible mountain that is created there is visible to them and they must live and cope with it. We do not pay them enough for the products to pay for processing of that waste.
We must learn more about our footprint, and find ways to reduce it's size and turn it from brown to green.
During World War II, when goods were scarce and rationed, people were told to:
"Use it up, Wear it out, Make it Do, or Do Without."
If you remember this while you shop, it can be a good start in changing your footprint.
By Len.B
Kananaskis Valley – That's the Life for Me
This
is the smell of wild grown grass in mountain sunlight
This
is the smell of cold water splashing onto dark rocks
This
is the smell of a million pine trees, a sea of green, land locked by mountains.
This
is the sound of raindrops hitting pine needles in such great amounts
that it is no sound at all.
This
is the tinkling of wind through tiny, quivering leaves,
the hollow roar of wind pressed between rock
This
is the singing of birds, living and flying deep in the trees. Singing their praises.
This
is the sound of nothing at all.
This
is where I lay my head to rest, a tiny room shared with an Australian named Suzanna
Which may be upgraded to a log cabin, if Parks gives me a job as an Interpreter
This
is Mount Kidd saying good morning, and good night, and good afternoon.
These
are the hidden valleys accessed only by climbs straight up, overflowing with flowers and streams clear as air.
This
is the paradise of endless mountain trails
where we are nothing more than creatures
and nothing less than the beauty around us, the beauty of this wild land
This
is the peace of deep conversation with shallow rivers.
The whisper and rustle as trees join in.
This
is the walkie-talkie party line shared by firefighters, loggers and park rangers alike
Because here, it's hard to forget that we're all in it together.
This
is an endless supply of Sunday nights in the village and Monday mornings in the trees
The knowledge that Hollywood's got glitter, but the discovery
is that these details make life better than whatever's on TV
This is Kananaskis Valley,
And it's the life for me!
By Kathryn Hogan
is the smell of wild grown grass in mountain sunlight
This
is the smell of cold water splashing onto dark rocks
This
is the smell of a million pine trees, a sea of green, land locked by mountains.
This
is the sound of raindrops hitting pine needles in such great amounts
that it is no sound at all.
This
is the tinkling of wind through tiny, quivering leaves,
the hollow roar of wind pressed between rock
This
is the singing of birds, living and flying deep in the trees. Singing their praises.
This
is the sound of nothing at all.
This
is where I lay my head to rest, a tiny room shared with an Australian named Suzanna
Which may be upgraded to a log cabin, if Parks gives me a job as an Interpreter
This
is Mount Kidd saying good morning, and good night, and good afternoon.
These
are the hidden valleys accessed only by climbs straight up, overflowing with flowers and streams clear as air.
This
is the paradise of endless mountain trails
where we are nothing more than creatures
and nothing less than the beauty around us, the beauty of this wild land
This
is the peace of deep conversation with shallow rivers.
The whisper and rustle as trees join in.
This
is the walkie-talkie party line shared by firefighters, loggers and park rangers alike
Because here, it's hard to forget that we're all in it together.
This
is an endless supply of Sunday nights in the village and Monday mornings in the trees
The knowledge that Hollywood's got glitter, but the discovery
is that these details make life better than whatever's on TV
This is Kananaskis Valley,
And it's the life for me!
By Kathryn Hogan
EARTH DAY, 1990
Earth Day
Sounds like a birthday
Hey! The planet’s lived another year!
I’m feelin’ kinda guilty tho--
I burned sunflower stalks and raspberry canes
In a pit outside last week
I didn’t put any paper
In the recycling box today
I throw away plastic milk jugs
And glass juice bottles
Once a week I haul
2 black bags down to the road
Take that! You 4.7 billion-year-old coot
So yer havin’ a birthday
And want me to come
Even though I’m delinquent?
Yeah, I threw a banana peel
And watermelon rinds on the garden
Instead of in the wastebasket
I’m writing on paper with type on the
Other side
I don’t use aerosols much
I don’t drive a car
I wanna start another lilac bush
Well, Eartha, old girl,
Let’s hope ya have many more Earth Days
Despite yer trashy parasites
By Kathy M. Austin
"I strive to commune with nature in downtown Calgary by scooping up pigeon feathers to make a wreath, harvesting dandelion flowers for delicious cookies, and insisting on growing a garden two hundred feet in the air at the northwest corner of the building! "
Kathy also facilitates the Creative Writing Club downtown Central Library, where she provides interactive and creatively musing exercises for all to enjoy.
Untitled
Green frogs catching flies out of the air
Green scum on the frog pond
Green leaves furled on the branches
Green onions don’t make you cry
Green walls subdue the wild child
Green grass traps us into caring for it
Green tea inspires us to health
Green lights prevent us from stopping and smelling the roses
Green spinach stuck between your front teeth
Green alligators lying in wait for unsuspecting prey
Green algae keeping the lakes alive
Green moss selects only one side of the tree
Green mould creates miracle drugs
Green slime oozes along the path
Green crayons used up first
Green jello tastes best
But not green jelly beans
Or green eggs and ham
By Jane MacKinnon
Jane MacKinnon loves the colour green, but not all shades of green – you can tell by the clothes she wears. Walks on water but had no one to tell until now.
Green scum on the frog pond
Green leaves furled on the branches
Green onions don’t make you cry
Green walls subdue the wild child
Green grass traps us into caring for it
Green tea inspires us to health
Green lights prevent us from stopping and smelling the roses
Green spinach stuck between your front teeth
Green alligators lying in wait for unsuspecting prey
Green algae keeping the lakes alive
Green moss selects only one side of the tree
Green mould creates miracle drugs
Green slime oozes along the path
Green crayons used up first
Green jello tastes best
But not green jelly beans
Or green eggs and ham
By Jane MacKinnon
Jane MacKinnon loves the colour green, but not all shades of green – you can tell by the clothes she wears. Walks on water but had no one to tell until now.
OH TO BE GREEN
green is great
green is good
green is what I wanted to be
But I met this woman
Well green went the way of was
Her light blinded me
Or I would have been on
The green road headed out of here
But that damn smile
Lassoed me in
I couldn’t wriggle free
I didn’t want to
Oh afterward
Slumped over the table
From the shear weight of not being green
Even though the sun’s shining
I couldn’t see green through all the tears
Wasted on the wooden floor
Plus getting tangled in the
Wrapping paper marriage
Was so damn messy
Which I tried to recycle so many times
Those half-filled green bottles
I’ve been trying to not drink
But the dashed hopes of being green
I suck the rest down
never thought I wouldn’t be green
never imagined anything being any other color
The ungreen imaginings crafting crazy
sucking me dry
Once used to my last drop
I was thrown
Thrown devoid of care in a rubbish heap
By Del Anderson
Del Anderson is in and out of trouble making his way through life, observing people and how they act in everyday situations. He has a useful appreciation of the unsophisticated workings of persons, and their actions as they adapt to their world from their own life experiences. In his poetic practice he recognizes the value of surreal and absurd styles for their straight- forward, simplistic and humorous content- like life itself.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Green Is .........
my heart center on fire
burns the leaves green
roots
grass this is the complexion of my will
stances me still
Green is the flavor of my verbal weaponry
range on point
Justice is the Green eyes of Truth
blinking me
past
Green lights flash me go
when I heed Stop
is the Green mutating arrangements
melody
cadence
is
Green, life support
fluid runs through red veins
came from Green Earth
is the past I invoke
I came from present
toils
boils over
Green is the crime never testified
church choir repents in courtroom
battle
Green is the death sentence I
commit
petty
Green crimes, inhale greenery; exhale Green phloem
sneeze me back to Green Grass
grows
me Green,
complexion underneath
Reptilian R-Complex
are the shades of Green we don't see
Green is my heart center burns
Green creates hues
illuminates my dreams to sleep
Underworld, Magician or Musician
creates livid Green Precision
is the craft I hone
Green is the spot
I know
Home
Green is the center of my Heart Pulsates
Green spectrum
is the weapon
I Instill
you Green
is the eye
I see
Green is the Pyramidal Structure Beneath
shades of grass
Green gravitational pulls
me Greener
or lime complexion
yet to meet my completion
is Green
blazes me underneath the leaves
burns their skin
just the right shade of Green
By Jen Kunlire
Jen Kunlire is an avid supporter of community, voice and strength in numbers.
She sits on both Board of Directors for Spoken Word Canada (SPOCAN) and the Writers Guild of Alberta (WGA).
Her extensive performances in the past 3 years include: 2009 CBC Poetry Face Off winner for Calgary, 2009&2010 Calgary International Spoken Word Festival, Feature for the Vancouver Poetry Slam during the 2010 Winter Games and competed Nationally with the Calgary Slam team in 08' &09'.
She's been working on her Epic piece, " New World Orderly Guidance", where she filmed the Video Poem in Vancouver and will be launching it sometime in April 2010.
She is in the planning phases of a 7 City Canadian Tour, and likes long walks in the park.
burns the leaves green
roots
grass this is the complexion of my will
stances me still
Green is the flavor of my verbal weaponry
range on point
Justice is the Green eyes of Truth
blinking me
past
Green lights flash me go
when I heed Stop
is the Green mutating arrangements
melody
cadence
is
Green, life support
fluid runs through red veins
came from Green Earth
is the past I invoke
I came from present
toils
boils over
Green is the crime never testified
church choir repents in courtroom
battle
Green is the death sentence I
commit
petty
Green crimes, inhale greenery; exhale Green phloem
sneeze me back to Green Grass
grows
me Green,
complexion underneath
Reptilian R-Complex
are the shades of Green we don't see
Green is my heart center burns
Green creates hues
illuminates my dreams to sleep
Underworld, Magician or Musician
creates livid Green Precision
is the craft I hone
Green is the spot
I know
Home
Green is the center of my Heart Pulsates
Green spectrum
is the weapon
I Instill
you Green
is the eye
I see
Green is the Pyramidal Structure Beneath
shades of grass
Green gravitational pulls
me Greener
or lime complexion
yet to meet my completion
is Green
blazes me underneath the leaves
burns their skin
just the right shade of Green
By Jen Kunlire
Jen Kunlire is an avid supporter of community, voice and strength in numbers.
She sits on both Board of Directors for Spoken Word Canada (SPOCAN) and the Writers Guild of Alberta (WGA).
Her extensive performances in the past 3 years include: 2009 CBC Poetry Face Off winner for Calgary, 2009&2010 Calgary International Spoken Word Festival, Feature for the Vancouver Poetry Slam during the 2010 Winter Games and competed Nationally with the Calgary Slam team in 08' &09'.
She's been working on her Epic piece, " New World Orderly Guidance", where she filmed the Video Poem in Vancouver and will be launching it sometime in April 2010.
She is in the planning phases of a 7 City Canadian Tour, and likes long walks in the park.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Play it again
sam that=s what tim said that man=s name was the one who delivered the liquor for mickey after mark=s death
///sam it was sam he was sure it was sam so even if i was convinced the name was two syllables still tim was older by two years and besides the guy was a model maker let tim help with his models down in the shop so tim=d know reason enough to make it sam in the next book i=m writing sam tim=s father figure sam for that time between fathers
///sam play it again sam i=m thinking because i like that play it again play it again because after all mickey played sam again and again bouncing checks and shorting him on the bottles i remember the gleam in her eyes when she took them out of their brown paper bags the whole process over and over just the way she dialed the number or had us do it played us again and again too for that matter telling us each time this was the last she would never do it again then chasing us down yelling little shits little shits when we poured the second bottle of scotch down the drain so yes sam i=ll call him sam
for sure sam i=m thinking when tim calls back he=s gone downstairs to have a smoke charlie he says charlie he=s just remembered the guy=s name=s charlie not sam charlie he repeats as i imagine him standing on the chipped actually brown brownstone stoop sheltering his cigarette between his fingers to warm his hands as he looks out into the night to twinkling christmas tree lights in windows illuminated plastic santas on facades electric menorah candles in storefronts musical red rudolph reindeer sleighs in front yards and suddenly i wonder if two syllables aside tim=s changed his mind only because it=s the holidays and we both remember that pogo cartoon drunk=s favourite deck the halls with boston charlie sang it every year it was our anthem walla walla walla in kalamazoo so maybe that=s all it is deck the halls with boston even if its brooklyn charlie atlantic avenue charlie so i find myself thinking why not say fuck it and forget
///this trying for his real name altogether and just call him cutty for cutty sark mickey=s favourite cheap blend while what i favoured was the little white ship you could imagine carrying you its sails full of wind across the gold label the green bottle out to the open sea the way you could dream about the gold scotch spiraling down the green copper drain in the pantry so i almost say it why not cutty for cutty sark or for that matter make it johnny that=s two syllables too johnny for johnny walker because after he delivered the liquor at least that johnny could walk away
///while all those dark winters playing again in my mind reduce me once more to one syllable words piss on it i say i=ll just call him green forget the cutty sark for sailing the johnny walker for walking remember how tim said later sam must have popped into mind for that wide bright smile as big as gentle as sam=s in casa blanca and how green he must have been to never use it to play mickey back no irony or trickery there so let=s stick with green and move the year along a bit to yet another binge saint patrick=s day and the long drunk afternoon of the manhattan parade when it wasn=t just the painted stripe down fifth avenue the shamrocks pinned to lapels the leprechauns in bar windows that were green but the trees that grew in brooklyn
///spring and a green as generous as that sam=s that charlie=s that cutty=s that johnny=s that green=s enduring smile our invitation every year to walk to run to climb to skate to swim to bike our feet our hands our legs our arms our minds outside.
By Sarah Murphy
Sarah Murphy is a Calgary based
performer, author, intermedia and visual
artist who has contributed to the Canadian
arts scene and to her wider community
for over twenty years. Best known for her
award-winning performance monologues
and innovative novels and short stories,
Murphy has also produced installations that
coordinate with intermedia performances.
Her spoken word work is especially
groundbreaking, and richly deserves
recognition for bringing to spoken word
prose the resonance of poetry.
///sam it was sam he was sure it was sam so even if i was convinced the name was two syllables still tim was older by two years and besides the guy was a model maker let tim help with his models down in the shop so tim=d know reason enough to make it sam in the next book i=m writing sam tim=s father figure sam for that time between fathers
///sam play it again sam i=m thinking because i like that play it again play it again because after all mickey played sam again and again bouncing checks and shorting him on the bottles i remember the gleam in her eyes when she took them out of their brown paper bags the whole process over and over just the way she dialed the number or had us do it played us again and again too for that matter telling us each time this was the last she would never do it again then chasing us down yelling little shits little shits when we poured the second bottle of scotch down the drain so yes sam i=ll call him sam
for sure sam i=m thinking when tim calls back he=s gone downstairs to have a smoke charlie he says charlie he=s just remembered the guy=s name=s charlie not sam charlie he repeats as i imagine him standing on the chipped actually brown brownstone stoop sheltering his cigarette between his fingers to warm his hands as he looks out into the night to twinkling christmas tree lights in windows illuminated plastic santas on facades electric menorah candles in storefronts musical red rudolph reindeer sleighs in front yards and suddenly i wonder if two syllables aside tim=s changed his mind only because it=s the holidays and we both remember that pogo cartoon drunk=s favourite deck the halls with boston charlie sang it every year it was our anthem walla walla walla in kalamazoo so maybe that=s all it is deck the halls with boston even if its brooklyn charlie atlantic avenue charlie so i find myself thinking why not say fuck it and forget
///this trying for his real name altogether and just call him cutty for cutty sark mickey=s favourite cheap blend while what i favoured was the little white ship you could imagine carrying you its sails full of wind across the gold label the green bottle out to the open sea the way you could dream about the gold scotch spiraling down the green copper drain in the pantry so i almost say it why not cutty for cutty sark or for that matter make it johnny that=s two syllables too johnny for johnny walker because after he delivered the liquor at least that johnny could walk away
///while all those dark winters playing again in my mind reduce me once more to one syllable words piss on it i say i=ll just call him green forget the cutty sark for sailing the johnny walker for walking remember how tim said later sam must have popped into mind for that wide bright smile as big as gentle as sam=s in casa blanca and how green he must have been to never use it to play mickey back no irony or trickery there so let=s stick with green and move the year along a bit to yet another binge saint patrick=s day and the long drunk afternoon of the manhattan parade when it wasn=t just the painted stripe down fifth avenue the shamrocks pinned to lapels the leprechauns in bar windows that were green but the trees that grew in brooklyn
///spring and a green as generous as that sam=s that charlie=s that cutty=s that johnny=s that green=s enduring smile our invitation every year to walk to run to climb to skate to swim to bike our feet our hands our legs our arms our minds outside.
By Sarah Murphy
Sarah Murphy is a Calgary based
performer, author, intermedia and visual
artist who has contributed to the Canadian
arts scene and to her wider community
for over twenty years. Best known for her
award-winning performance monologues
and innovative novels and short stories,
Murphy has also produced installations that
coordinate with intermedia performances.
Her spoken word work is especially
groundbreaking, and richly deserves
recognition for bringing to spoken word
prose the resonance of poetry.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Being Green
Solar car
reuse, recycle
organic food
use your bicycle
Tesla roadster
Hydrogen cell
Solar power
compost, enjoy the smell
Franken food
plant some flowers
Harness the sun
use it's powers
Geothermal heat
grow meat in space
no animals were harmed
feeding the Human Race
Being green can be full of strife
Being green, for a continuation of life
By Tall Bill
Bill is a regular patron of the Calgary Public Library.
He seems to know everyone at the Central Branch and is often
seen around the new and notable section and the entire building in
general.
His passion for reading draws him closer to all kinds of dust filled shelves,
and at one point was the "bookie", at Grounds For Reading Coffee and Books.
When he is not reading or writing, you can find Bill randomly on T.V !
reuse, recycle
organic food
use your bicycle
Tesla roadster
Hydrogen cell
Solar power
compost, enjoy the smell
Franken food
plant some flowers
Harness the sun
use it's powers
Geothermal heat
grow meat in space
no animals were harmed
feeding the Human Race
Being green can be full of strife
Being green, for a continuation of life
By Tall Bill
Bill is a regular patron of the Calgary Public Library.
He seems to know everyone at the Central Branch and is often
seen around the new and notable section and the entire building in
general.
His passion for reading draws him closer to all kinds of dust filled shelves,
and at one point was the "bookie", at Grounds For Reading Coffee and Books.
When he is not reading or writing, you can find Bill randomly on T.V !
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Green Bug
It's crawling up his head so slowly
I'm sure the man feels nothing.
It looks like an aphid on steroids, long and sturdily built.
Judging by the back of his head, the man is aging elegantly,
his hair short and silver.
The bug is fluorescent green -- psychedelic,
in the language of my youth, and probably the man's.
The green bug sets off the silver nicely,
like a carefully chosen hairpin.
The bug has been moving straight up.
Now it veers right. Maybe a particular shaft
has caught its attention.
What will it do when it gets to the man's crown?
Will it bite?
Do I owe it to the man to help him shed the bug?
Should I at least alert him to its presence?
Why do I have this sense of duty?
Because I am walking behind them?
The man is dressed business. Means business.
He walks briskly. I keep pace. He is not the only one over forty in decent shape.
Red light.
I'm right behind them now.
The bug has stopped to rest halfway up the man's head.
Maybe I could tap the man on the shoulder, offer
to help.
Excuse me. There's a green bug in your hair.
Would you like me to flick it off?
I've got experience.
You'll both be fine.
Green light.
The man walks. I walk.
The bug continues its pokey journey up the man's head.
After we cross the street, the man continues straight ahead.
Before turning left, I take a last glance.
The bug has almost reached the man's crown.
By Rona Altrows
Rona Altrows greenifies her world by walking everywhere and by engaging in the act of writing, a form of production that creates few toxic by-products, except on a bad day. Altrows, winner of the 2006 City of Calgary W.O. Mitchell Book Prize for her short story collection A Run On Hose, writes fiction, plays and essays as well as the occasional green poem.
I'm sure the man feels nothing.
It looks like an aphid on steroids, long and sturdily built.
Judging by the back of his head, the man is aging elegantly,
his hair short and silver.
The bug is fluorescent green -- psychedelic,
in the language of my youth, and probably the man's.
The green bug sets off the silver nicely,
like a carefully chosen hairpin.
The bug has been moving straight up.
Now it veers right. Maybe a particular shaft
has caught its attention.
What will it do when it gets to the man's crown?
Will it bite?
Do I owe it to the man to help him shed the bug?
Should I at least alert him to its presence?
Why do I have this sense of duty?
Because I am walking behind them?
The man is dressed business. Means business.
He walks briskly. I keep pace. He is not the only one over forty in decent shape.
Red light.
I'm right behind them now.
The bug has stopped to rest halfway up the man's head.
Maybe I could tap the man on the shoulder, offer
to help.
Excuse me. There's a green bug in your hair.
Would you like me to flick it off?
I've got experience.
You'll both be fine.
Green light.
The man walks. I walk.
The bug continues its pokey journey up the man's head.
After we cross the street, the man continues straight ahead.
Before turning left, I take a last glance.
The bug has almost reached the man's crown.
By Rona Altrows
Rona Altrows greenifies her world by walking everywhere and by engaging in the act of writing, a form of production that creates few toxic by-products, except on a bad day. Altrows, winner of the 2006 City of Calgary W.O. Mitchell Book Prize for her short story collection A Run On Hose, writes fiction, plays and essays as well as the occasional green poem.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
VICTORIA SPRING HAIKU
Elemental rain
Silver and titanium
wet liquid metal
Chlorophyll landscape
Terraces of verdant green
Lush jungle picnic
Yellow crocuses
Peeking up through wet green grass
Rising into spring
Happy rebirth-day!
Vernal candles peek through earth
Nature’s birthday cake
Manicured fir tree
Perfect cone-shaped silhouette
Gigantic bonsai
Diaphanous boughs
Festooned with cherry blossoms
In new light - shimmer
Butterfly lighting
Rainbow-coloured landing strip
Flower petal perch
Rosebud tightly closed
Unfurling in spring sun
Fresh pre-bouquet
Victoria spring
Grey rain gives way to sunshine
I’m still going home
GREEN APPLE HAIKU
Luscious green apple
It’s no wonder Eve succumbed
Temptress, Granny Smith!
By Lori D. Roadhouse
Lori is a Calgary poet as well as a specialist in family literacy and parenting support.
She loves heading to the mountains for fresh air and solace, and also loves living near Nose Hill in Calgary, so she can feel its powerful presence and proximity.
Lori feels somewhat smug to be the driver of a Prius hybrid, now that her minivan days are over!
Silver and titanium
wet liquid metal
Chlorophyll landscape
Terraces of verdant green
Lush jungle picnic
Yellow crocuses
Peeking up through wet green grass
Rising into spring
Happy rebirth-day!
Vernal candles peek through earth
Nature’s birthday cake
Manicured fir tree
Perfect cone-shaped silhouette
Gigantic bonsai
Diaphanous boughs
Festooned with cherry blossoms
In new light - shimmer
Butterfly lighting
Rainbow-coloured landing strip
Flower petal perch
Rosebud tightly closed
Unfurling in spring sun
Fresh pre-bouquet
Victoria spring
Grey rain gives way to sunshine
I’m still going home
GREEN APPLE HAIKU
Luscious green apple
It’s no wonder Eve succumbed
Temptress, Granny Smith!
By Lori D. Roadhouse
Lori is a Calgary poet as well as a specialist in family literacy and parenting support.
She loves heading to the mountains for fresh air and solace, and also loves living near Nose Hill in Calgary, so she can feel its powerful presence and proximity.
Lori feels somewhat smug to be the driver of a Prius hybrid, now that her minivan days are over!
Monday, March 15, 2010
an excerpt from The Mother of Your Kind
Like hairs on a flytrap, the first tufts of green you walk on
spring everything closer to touch,
as dying fletchings of hoar frost on twigs
ring the future’s obiter dictum.
Words mortalize our valedictory toil,
and fill our ideas like p, with diminishing
pelvic solitude. Meanwhile, green exactitude
broadens its call. So the hand is at odds with its reach.
Warmth is an absurd irrational that easily evaporates.
You and I came here for the green thaw. The green Xbox
glow, slashed open like a spacetime prolapse,
from where Kryptonite avatars rise.
The green road sign that intimates some fifth dimension
prison break—numbness worth speeding through!
A green future that talks about green grip on green self.
It might sound in today’s talk willfully absurd.
Take a green sip of absinthe and feel the vertigo
start to unwind. Compost grass clippings to brood
another with Shiva armswings that parasol
the beat of your skittish jelly ska.
But green manure is the new feelgood.
A viable leptogene that’ll keep you thin, it
revolves and tools around this light….
Syncytializer of electrons, engine
to chloroplasts, as mitochondria are to endflakes,
row on row. Everything puddles to a whimper.
Ephemera, foolish angst, play with airs and aspects of the mind.
Picasso on a bull was no fascist.
The war waged by Cubism and Dada was a war on the apostles
of utilitarianism and fortified orthodoxy.
Across the land, away from
the thrown leprechauns at Murphy’s Pub,
beneath the stirrings of nucleated hyphae
in dirt, where owl’s clover’s comforts
keep the aspidistra waving, threads of
life spread their toes. Myceliated twitter.
Cree answers in beadwork. Blackfoot robes.
Centipedes and weevils, aphids and slugs, are
sacred pipes at the bellybutton of earth.
This grass at my feet knows the mother of your kind.
By Weyman Chan
weyman chan is a local writer about calgary, with a third book of poetry, entitled Hypoderm, to be released in spring, 2010.
he enjoys long walks in the sunshine and stops under trees to listen to what they have to say about us.
Also,his second book, Noise From the Laundry (Talonbooks), was nominated for the 2008 Governor General’s Award for Poetry.
spring everything closer to touch,
as dying fletchings of hoar frost on twigs
ring the future’s obiter dictum.
Words mortalize our valedictory toil,
and fill our ideas like p, with diminishing
pelvic solitude. Meanwhile, green exactitude
broadens its call. So the hand is at odds with its reach.
Warmth is an absurd irrational that easily evaporates.
You and I came here for the green thaw. The green Xbox
glow, slashed open like a spacetime prolapse,
from where Kryptonite avatars rise.
The green road sign that intimates some fifth dimension
prison break—numbness worth speeding through!
A green future that talks about green grip on green self.
It might sound in today’s talk willfully absurd.
Take a green sip of absinthe and feel the vertigo
start to unwind. Compost grass clippings to brood
another with Shiva armswings that parasol
the beat of your skittish jelly ska.
But green manure is the new feelgood.
A viable leptogene that’ll keep you thin, it
revolves and tools around this light….
Syncytializer of electrons, engine
to chloroplasts, as mitochondria are to endflakes,
row on row. Everything puddles to a whimper.
Ephemera, foolish angst, play with airs and aspects of the mind.
Picasso on a bull was no fascist.
The war waged by Cubism and Dada was a war on the apostles
of utilitarianism and fortified orthodoxy.
Across the land, away from
the thrown leprechauns at Murphy’s Pub,
beneath the stirrings of nucleated hyphae
in dirt, where owl’s clover’s comforts
keep the aspidistra waving, threads of
life spread their toes. Myceliated twitter.
Cree answers in beadwork. Blackfoot robes.
Centipedes and weevils, aphids and slugs, are
sacred pipes at the bellybutton of earth.
This grass at my feet knows the mother of your kind.
By Weyman Chan
weyman chan is a local writer about calgary, with a third book of poetry, entitled Hypoderm, to be released in spring, 2010.
he enjoys long walks in the sunshine and stops under trees to listen to what they have to say about us.
Also,his second book, Noise From the Laundry (Talonbooks), was nominated for the 2008 Governor General’s Award for Poetry.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
This is how
purple and black speckled beans
lying near a dull brown leathery pod
tell us only a little
about this man, this woman, who planted
the garden in april, and who today
only sit across from each other
in the silence of this room
now that it is october, and
why the dirt under their fingernails
is stuck there after all this time.
By Stuart Ian McKay
Stuart Ian McKay is a member of the Writers Guild of Alberta and the League of Canadian Poets. Stele of Several ladies- a long poem, his first book, was published in 2005. He is a two time winner of CBC's Alberta Anthology. McKay lives in Calgary where he is working on his second book, a cognate of prayer, a series of long poems about people living with disabilities. "This is how" was published in issue Number 40 of The Prairie Journal of Canadian Literature.
He wonders when it will warm up so he can garden again.
lying near a dull brown leathery pod
tell us only a little
about this man, this woman, who planted
the garden in april, and who today
only sit across from each other
in the silence of this room
now that it is october, and
why the dirt under their fingernails
is stuck there after all this time.
By Stuart Ian McKay
Stuart Ian McKay is a member of the Writers Guild of Alberta and the League of Canadian Poets. Stele of Several ladies- a long poem, his first book, was published in 2005. He is a two time winner of CBC's Alberta Anthology. McKay lives in Calgary where he is working on his second book, a cognate of prayer, a series of long poems about people living with disabilities. "This is how" was published in issue Number 40 of The Prairie Journal of Canadian Literature.
He wonders when it will warm up so he can garden again.
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