Hello Beautiful

He told me he would visit after yesterday
What an obnoxious thing to say
Every sentence spoken was like water
leaking into the crevices of my rusty brain
yet he never meant to cause me pain.

I look at him and see a landscape
one which I cannot escape
For he is my sky, my ocean, my stars
but all he ever gave me was a scar
And I cried red tears.

I try to navigate the tangled branches in my head
For that was not the wicked life he led
Somehow he found me in the depths of my own mind
The path to calmer seas is impossible to find
Or improbable.

The sky is shattered by broken limbs
and squinting in the murky pool I see him
his breath fogging up the glass
he writes me a backwards letter
and although I can hardly read the title
I know the story
for he tells it every night at bedtime
"This one is your last"

I wake to see a world stunted by a blank, white canvas
waiting to be filled with swallows in the summer air
there is nothing there
No stone left to make a grave
so today is the day
I will behave

Dead End

Lamps flicker on in sequence,

nudged awake by the dusk that 

settles on a low ceiling of clouds. 

The final whisper of daylight retreats

to the horizon, where it peers

beneath a heavy blanket of grey.

The smell of damp pavement and magnolias

lingers in the air.

Pristine automobiles sigh on the edges 

of a winding road. An iron gate

severs the silence with a rusty yawn. 

There is almost a growing weight

descending on the rooves 

of the two-tiered towers. 

A dull electrical hum floats on the gentle breeze.

A cluster of gnats hovers in the glow

of the streetlights. The crumbling sidewalks are

empty save for the persistent weeds

sprouting up through the cracks. 

There is a sign of movement

as a silhouette passes by a window,

bathed in amber light.

All else is still.

No one could ever find their way through

that maze of cul-de-sacs.

The silence was lonely,

as though the world was muffled by broad oak branches,

their leaves telling hushed secrets on the wind.

Yet getting lost among row on row of empty mansions

felt safe, knowing that dawn

would come again. 

Translucent

Time begins to sleep
cherry petals falling like
petals from a tree 

If Only

The lake
It was frozen
"The ice is strong. It can hold me."
I walked confidently
never expecting the crack
or the plunge
into the frigid realm below
but it was too late
I should have known

New Shoots Submission - Nostalgia

Nostalgia


Her story begins at 8 years old 
when the sun and the moon
of her intangible world
drift apart
Constellations become only stars
and supernovas are veiled
by sepia skies


10 years old and she can hear the stars whisper
They say the sun is a tumor
that it will grow-
it will die-
leaving nothing but desolate orbs
suspended in a cloudless expanse of night


At 13 she is hunted by demons 
Gossip, lies, backstabbing
pretty blonde girls with poison perfume
An aura of gravity eating away at her skin
she is too young to be strong
and she is kidnapped by the entity in the mirror


14 years of age
Her wrists are ruled 
like the essays and citations 
to which she sells her days
Leaning towers loom on the outskirts of her bedroom
daring her to toss aside just one more Shakespeare analysis
threatening to topple 
and make her disappear

She is perched on the corpse of the chesterfield
up to her ankles in cotton entrails
They say she's dug her own grave


15 and high on adrenaline
Ethereal fingers and chain-link spine
she spends her nights
bowed at the foot of a porcelain throne
Ghosts aren't invited to house parties
and no one wants to dance with the skeleton girl

Turning pages of her fleeting memories
she watches herself fasten the noose
that now lingers 
in the back of her closet
hanging among forgotten clothes

Her screams are sirens
drowned by the din of aluminum steeds 
on asphalt plains
"I'm fine" is no longer an arrangement of words
but the mark of a liar
they will never know that she is hiding
behind the whites of her eyes

Her life is a Venn diagram of friends and enemies
Lullabies echo off the cavern walls
falling into the sliver where the circles meet
she trusts them
like the adamant shapes in her reflection 
acid on enamel
the salt stains on her pillow 
every stitch she sews into the holes of fabrication
means
            it's 
                 falling 
                             apart 

So many reasons she was not "a happy child"
yet you ask her why
she doesn't have

nostalgia

Sailor

Sailor

"Come in, Officer. Do you copy?"
"Roger that, Captain. Loud and clear. Any updates?"
"There's a storm brewing. The flag's thrashing like a fish on the deck." 
"And the water?"
"About as calm as a roller coaster ride; waves as tall as mountains and troughs as deep as valleys."
"Captain, do you read me? There's a rough weather system on the way. Let out the sails and watch the navigation lights. Over."
"Sure thing, Officer. It's going to be a bumpy ride."
"How are the sails holding up? Over."
"Bloody hell! The wind's picked up and torn straight through them!"
"Captain! The only way you'll make it through the night is if you slow down! Get the crew to release the anchor! Over."
"Roger. Lowering the anchor."
"Captain, bring the crew inside. Do you copy?"
"Copy. Bringing the crew...Officer! The waves have taken them overboard!"
"Quick! Prepare the lifeboats! Throw down a lifebuoy! Do you read me?!"
"Loud and clear!"
"Captain?!"
"They're gone. I went out on the deck but the rain was too strong. I couldn't see a thing, let alone keep my balance." 
"Steer to calmer seas! Sail towards clear skies!"
"Roger... What was that?!"
"What was what?!"
"There was a crash at the stern, and I'm heading straight for the rocks!"
"Steer clear! Make haste!"
"I can't! I've lost my rudder to a collision with one of the smaller rocks! Now I'm heading right toward a boulder!"
"Brace yourself! Do you copy?!"
"Aye aye, Officer. Loud and clear. I'm hanging on!"
KHHHHHHHH!!!
"Captain?! Do you read me?! Captain?!"
*static*...

Point of View

Point of View

CRIMINAL

I turn the iridescent stone between my fingertips. Once, twice, three times, it catches the light. I smother it in my pocket for fear of drawing attention to myself. "Diamond." The word itself sounds expensive. Funny how a diamond is the hardest substance on Earth, yet it is kept behind something as fragile as glass. I remove the balaclava from my head and gawk at my reflection in a puddle, illuminated against a background of the night sky. My eyes are sunken and my face is hollow, masked by an untidy beard. Despite my solitude in the abandoned alley, guilt and fear brew in my chest, tearing at my rib cage. I am a thief, but what is better? To die a good man or to survive  as a criminal? I stole because I have not seen a sink in weeks. I broke the window because I have not tasted food in days. My dry, parched tongue justifies the priceless stone in my back pocket. I am a criminal, but I am alive. I have chosen terror and shame, but I have not chosen death.

WITNESS

Somehow I can barely hear the shrill sound of the alarm. My heart pounds in my ears and adrenaline swims through my veins. The sound of breaking glass resonates in the back of my mind. As I come to my senses, a dark figure snatches the diamond from the window display of the jewelry store. Judging by its silhouette, the figure is a man. "Hey!" I try to shout, but my voice is frail and weak. As I dial

9-1-1 and inform the police of the robbery, anger sparks in my chest and a small flame comes to life. Who does that man think he is? He is a selfish thief with no respect for the law. I shudder. How has the world come to have such disgusting people? These people are fueled by greed, living among us in a nation of abundance and wealth. The United States is not a third world country. I am sure of this as I fidget with my manicure, easing the tension building in my throat. That man, clad in black, is in New York. If he has money for clothes, he has money to eat. He stole that diamond; he is dangerous, maybe even mentally ill, for he broke that window so confidently. He didn't even hesitate as he threw that brick at the glass, but I paused before calling the police. I am human. I feel empathy, but I also know karma. As I hear sirens approaching, I clench my fists. Feeling the smooth surface of my own diamond, set into a silver band around my finger, I hope they catch him. I payed for my luxury; why shouldn't he? I hope the police do him justice. 

R

R

My grandfather grunts as I step over the threshold. I think of this threshold as two things - the one in the doorway, and the one between my role as "Amy: quiet and obedient daughter" and somebody else altogether. Somehow, my grandfather helps me forget; maybe because he has forgotten, too. He is senile and doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect me to play violin or get straight A's or get married. When I am with him, I find myself sharing memories I have never shared, even making jokes. I forget that I am supposed to be shy. I guess it's easier to talk to someone who only listens, although I can't always tell if Grandpa hears me.

Grandpa has quirks; he sleeps with his shoes on and wears red wool mittens no matter the weather. His most curious quality, however, is that he will only eat food that begins with the letter "R". I remember I used to visit Grandpa at the seniors' home with my mother, but that was before he became distant and confused. My mother doesn't visit him anymore, and she doesn't like it when I do. She acts as though he's contagious.

One day during visiting hours, a nurse told me that Grandpa had eaten nothing all day except for a few rich tea cookies at breakfast. She wondered if he was ill, but the next day at dinner he ate only the roast beef and left the potatoes untouched. I began to notice a pattern, and explained to the nurse that Grandpa had gone "R-tarian" (a term I made up).

I reach forward and take Grandpa's mitten in my hand. He doesn't remember my name, but he smiles when he sees me. "Ready to shop?" I ask him. He nods. Every Sunday I take Grandpa to the market down the street and we buy ingredients for an R-themed dinner. Before I put items in the basket, Grandpa gives them a nod of approval. A while back, I tried drawing R's on all his food items, letting him watch as I cooked a package of "roatmeal" with "rmilk" for his breakfast. He didn't fall for it. "Will these do?" I ask, showing him the russet potatoes in the basket. "Yes," he grunts. We head to the deli and I hold up a chicken. Grandpa scowls. "I'm making roast chicken," I explain, emphasizing the R. He smiles. After adding romaine lettuce, red peppers, and raspberries to the basket, I pay for the groceries and take Grandpa home. As I help him into his armchair for a nap, I notice the nurse in the doorway.

"You're unusual," she says. I try not to look taken aback. "You understand him?" She raises an eyebrow. I can't tell whether or not it's a question. "In some ways," I reply. "I just wanted to let you know," the nurse continues, "He talks about you." I pause and look up at her. She nods, her auburn curls bouncing up and down. "Your name's Amy, isn't it?" She smirks. I had never introduced myself. I feel a small smile spreading across my face as I adjust Grandpa's blanket; he is already fast asleep. I turn to thank the nurse, but then I hear the squeak of her sneakers, already halfway down the hall.

As I walk home, I think of words that begin with the letter R.

Hero

Hero

The soft white sand passes through his fingers
A beach nestled upon a crystal blue sea
The tropical breeze tosses his fair hair
and the sun embraces his golden skin
Everything is perfect
and for a moment you think
you are reading a travel magazine

Until he moves
turning his chiseled body
toward the scar
There
sinking into the sea-soaked sand
lies a fallen vessel consumed by flames
and you realize
their paradise is his nightmare

They are the children
thoughtless and naive
Laughing
they deposit their woes and fears
onto this fair, golden boy
Ralph

While they are full of fruit
he is full of turmoil
While they are full of meat
he is full of anger

Slowly
the children shift their gaze
from their flawless leader to a ferocious rebel
From golden Ralph to crimson Jack
the conch fades from view
as the pig killer takes the throne

Ralph is a lone wolf
They chose him as the alpha
He leads the pack because they wanted him

Why him?
Piggy is the smart one
but Ralph dares not admit it
for this bumbling, blind, breathless boy
cannot compare to him
Can he?

Even with his doubts
his rages 
his knotted hair 
and sandpaper clothes
Ralph is their hero
They think nothing of the distant ship
but the fire remains fierce 
and the smoke will be their savior

Ralph will always be their hero
the conch bearer
To Ralph
all that glitters is not gold
Yet 
to the littluns
all that's gold is Ralph

Fire and Bone

Fire and Bone

The pale boy hides himself

beneath a cloak of night

With lifeless skin and shallow eyes 

where he goes

death will follow

The littluns gather with ferocious energy

at the sound of his name

Jack

The one who walks on air

The silent seeker of flesh

Blade clasped in his gaunt fingers

he comes to life

A predator surfaces from deep within its frail cage

In a tangle of coarse green he stalks the soft pink pig

He can almost taste it

Something has taken control of Jack

An undying, carnivorous greed

The fire and Ralph and the conch 

they do not matter

Jack stains his ghostly face with black and red 

His gaze hardens

"I am the hunter

I am the master of blade and blood

I will claim meat and flesh

I will hunt

I will kill

We will devour"

Ralph wields the conch

but Jack is fierce

Ralph may be golden

But Jack is

fire and bone

Beautiful Death

Beautiful Death

Silent weight will wander

in suspended animation

her eyes are emerald torches

her robe soot soaked

shrouded by skeletal limbs of trees

that bow in her presence

The lamp in the sky

casts shadows through the silver fog

yet she eludes its watch

save for her whiskers

glinting in the darkness

like shards of glass

The blanket of silence is lifted

by an invisible thread

the spool lies with a child

whose desperation slices through the fog

She lifts her streamlined skull

the invisible thread drawing her nearer

like a kitten with a ball of yarn

playful killer

She dances on her haunches 

as a leaning cabin looks upon her

with empty eyes

sighing under the ivy rampant on the roof

Unseen, she advances 

her sleek silhouette defined for a heartbeat

metallic in the moonlight

she vanishes in the blink of an eye

She senses a figure nearby

tall and chiseled 

tracing another thread

to the spool that lies with the weeping child

Livid, she ascends through the mouth of the cabin

smoke collides with crimson blood

and crystal tears

the fallen queen flirts with fire 

and kisses with knives

The stars are her subjects

and the night is her domain

where she will become

beautiful death

From Loose Leaf to Paperback

Vancouver Writer's Fest at Granville Island

On  Sunday, October 23rd, I attended the Vancouver Writer's fest at Granville Island. During
this event several writers read their work and shared the story behind it. This reminded me of how it felt to work tirelessly on a flimsy piece of paper with my least favourite pencil yet produce something so profound. It's funny to think that this is how most writers get their big break. Seeing the writers read their work for an audience inspired me to share a poem of my own. This one was published in the New Shoots 2014/15 edition.


The Sailboats

I used to travel down to the bay

and watch the pearl white 

sailboats

drifting far away

I marvelled at their brilliance

bright with spirits high

with graceful turns 

they caught the wind

beneath an open sky

I clamoured over

sand and rocks

down to the water's edge

and longed to ride those 

sailboats

too far away to catch

Always a mystery they were 

who let their sails fly?

who'd venture out 

to open sea

and steer the sailboats by?

Long since have I left the bay

and journeyed 'cross the land

the world goes on

for miles and miles

untouched

by tides or sand

I don't remember the cries 

of the gulls

nor the winds that tossed my hair

I can't recall 

the mist on my face

but I'll never forget

the sailboats

Peanutty Soba Noodles with Kale

Photo by Leslie Robinson

This is one of my favourite vegan recipes from Well Fed, Flat Broke: Recipes for Modest Budgets and Messy Kitchens by Emily Wight.

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients:

• 2 tbsp canola oil
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 4 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 tbsp minced fresh ginger
• 1 block medium-firm tofu
• 1/2 lb (250 g) dried soba noodles
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) peanut butter (natural peanut butter is best because it's runnier)
• 1/4 cup (60 mL) soy sauce
• 1/4 cup (60 mL) Sriracha sauce
• 2 tbsp rice vinegar
• 1 tbsp sesame oil
• 2 tsp honey (omit or reduce to taste if using peanut butter that contains sugar)
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• 1/2 lb (250 g) chopped fresh kale*
• 1 cup (250 mL) chopped fresh cilantro
• 1/2 cup (125 mL) chopped roasted peanuts

1. In a large pan on medium-high, heat oil and add onions, garlic, and ginger. Sauté until fragrant, about 2 minutes.

2. Pat tofu dry with kitchen towel and chop into cubes. Add to pan, tossing occasionally.

3. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to a boil on high heat. Add soba noodles, and cook for 3 minutes.

4. In a small bowl, combine peanut butter, soy sauce, Sriracha, rice vinegar, sesame oil, and honey. Mix well, taste, and adjust seasonings as needed.

5. After 3 minutes, add kale to pot of boiling noodles. Cook for an additional 3 minutes, then drain. Rinse with cold water and drain again.

6. Add noodles and kale to onion mixture, and pour peanut sauce over it. Toss with 1/2 cup (125 mL) fresh cilantro. Divide between 4 plates, and garnish with another splurch of Sriracha, remaining cilantro, and chopped peanuts.

*I like to substitute spinach for kale because I prefer its texture over kale's. If using spinach instead, do not add it to pot of boiling noodles as it cooks very quickly. Simply add it in with the peanut sauce and stir until wilted.