Small, yet strangely satisfying,
this thumb and index finger pinching
the vulnerable necks of flowers gone to seed.
Colour blanched or toasted brown
miniature flowerheads give up so easily.
Not so the roses or hydrangeas,
that all summer have thrust their shameless blooms,
flick of satin and lace, like a can-can chorus line
above the restrained and muted lawn.
In death, they cling on, […]
they smile used smiles
like moose meat stuck in your molars
loud snow falls in the street light
outside the window
water fell from the fishermen’s line
with promises of the alphabet
October is slipping away
like lukewarm faith
like a dog chases its tail
the past bit me in the ass today
snow falls, seagulls hang suspended,
enthralled with distant planets
he stood alone
with a pelican’s […]
In May in Whitehorse
I sat in Mac’s Bookstore,
huddled behind a little table and
a stack of books, ready for signing,
filled with just one aching question,
Who is going to walk into Mac’s
on a warm Wednesday afternoon
seeking Come-By-Chance
about growing old in stories caught
between Atlantic and Pacific coasts?
And because I don’t know what
I’m doing in Mac’s Bookstore
I write in […]
As a boy, he’d crouch like an Olympian
in the tenebrous belly of the garbage pit,
shielding the lantern’s nub of flame,
and stroking intermittently the hockey stick
he couldn’t see for darkness by his boot.
And when the denizens, bald-tailed,
all crept foolishly afoot,
he willed the lantern’s mantle fulgent,
closed his fist about the shaft,
and rising judged the sulphurous junkscape:
Hades descended […]
Clay wings draped
in gentle demeanor
over cherub form
a glazed angel
holding a cluster
of ripe grapes
stands serenely
in store window
symbol of times past
when the century was young
and innocence and charm
knew their rightful places.
~ Margaret Fletcher
Margaret Fletcher was born in St. Johns, Newfoundland but has lived in Sarnia, Ontario for many years. She is author of six poetry collections, […]
