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Royal City Poets 4- 2014 - Silver Bow Publishing

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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