Poetry V – The Recusant

Poetry V

Chris Vaillancourt

This Nonsense I Began

I wonder what pleasure

I can expect from the dawn?

Free to stand and holler

With vengeance at the sun.

Today is a good day, I feel,

In that, the best is yet to come.

I pray I have success

To watch the fate

Of my ambitions come undone.

It is to be expected

That I will always be the same.

I think this is understood

Regardless of the rules

Established to control me.

I would rather stay in the yard

Than face the appointments

I am compelled to create.

Oh dear, it is almost over,

This nonsense I began.

The Woman Ticking Her Own Clock

She struggles with her path,

even though it is one

she has chosen.

There are words flung at her

that she does not

want to hear.

She has declined advice.

Her purpose is to be what

she wants to be.

The problem for her is

finding exactly what this is.

She opens a can of cat food

and feeds it to her dog.

She licks a stamp and

places it on the fridge.

Confused at simple things,

she struggles to defend

complicated matters.

She will not open her

humanity

to any

other

person.

She is afraid.

More of herself

then anyone else.

Dangling

Dangling feet into water..

..searching mind; looking for an answer

to a question I have not asked yet.

Entering space of discontent, rambling

thoughts that do not illustrate peace.

Dangling heart into soul…

..seeking a place to hide where

the clocks are not working.

Where I can reflect nothing and yet

assume everything.

I hear the dipping leaves crashing

like feathers onto the ground.

I see the pebbled danger

that comes from being isolated.

Yet I seek that isolation anyway.

I ask only that I can shut my eyes

and see only what shadows

I want to see.

Dangling love into hot lava…

Watching it burn away; aware

that it will not come back.

Not caring, but daring to

reach out and grab

at it again.

Why?

You demand.

Because I must.

I whisper secrets in the

ears of my lover.

Letting her know

events and opinions

I only share with her.

She smiles at my words.

I know they please her.

As I limply moan

with anticipation

at what is to come.

Why?

You demand.

Well, I’ve answered you.

Trains

The flash of urban

machine demonstrates

persistence.

Rubber slithering

on absorbing iron.

Interlocking harmonized echoes

scan in electromagnetic

trains.

Tracks dispersed across

the spectrum

of nothing.

Spaces.

That is this country.

We who’ve been in residence here

know the

detachment of our flag.

Walking shoes

walking men.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sonar devices clamped like cancer

to their ears.

Listening to private noises

in the middle of a cluster.

We were thinking alike.

Hide in trains and

acclaim

the vacuum

performing.

Changing of the Guard

A playing of hope begins within.

Carefully,

it strives with ears attentive to

change the atmosphere around me.

Drowsy mind must seek in wonder

to understand the changing

of the guard.

I touch the magic of renewal

as it possesses my frame of mind.

A trembling of breeze, so interesting,

plays across the landscape

of my out-stretched hands.

If I spend my time turned inwards,

I shall miss the anticipation of

the fluttering wind.

With child’s mind I question

not one adventure.

Instead, I accept the freckled nature

of the grieving

I have refused to do.

I used to pretend I could escape

the cluttered hallways of the mind.

I would formulate impossible

kingdoms where I would rule

from a throne of smoked glass.

And now, as I grow older, I

can see the futility of illusion

if in that illusion I ignore

a reality that is mine.

Though I question the darkness

that once rode through me

with such compelling force,

still I must identify

with the stirring of light that

seems to have clicked on

in my stained sense

of self. A flickering of hope begins

within. I must grasp it and let it

become my mantra as I

walk towards the future.

Chris Vaillancourt

Trees Swaying and Swishing Like Plastic Glasses

Living tissue undulating like burning flags from a winter sky.

Trees swaying and swishing like plastic glasses melting

in a summer sky.

You and I are drinking lemonade out of chilled glasses;

drops of moisture angling insistently down our arms.

We are as magic as we care to be, as fragile as

the twisting sandstorms that plague

the ever-present desert scene

of the twilight glows of other signs.

I wonder aloud if all our images will fall

away as we grow and confront the

silver rings we have caused to

blend with our filth.

You comment on the typical day,

the never changing atmosphere

from which you feel you need

to dwell.

What is left for us?

We have already begun to feel

with different cell phones

rushed like glue upon our ears.

We know the same stories, so we find

ourselves sharing in the delusions

we once believed.

The flicking of the light switch only

gives us the option of on or off.

So with this awareness we perceive

only the dimness of the hourly world

we have come to accept as important.

Nothing is really important, I realize.

Everything is shambled methods used

to help in my survival.

Have I used you?

Have you used me?

My suspicion would be that all

the one way only signs

are never enough to stop

the dying of our pleasure.

Smog

Scrawling words on paper I feel nothing

can bother me. Winter lingers on and the

frozen streets signify the open bustling

of the city.Acts of charity are words spoken

by people who profess concern. This caring

is best understood in terms of cheques

written. Money replaces the soul. What I

give means what I believe. Money passing

hands is a sign of commitment to the poor

souls wandering our streets. The cars rush

along filled with solitary individuals who cruse

the other solitary individuals in other cars. Horns

beeping, people sleeping in their minds as they

drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes. It

is illegal to smoke in public. We buy them and hide

them pretending we are quitting. Scandals emerge

all around us but we can’t be bother. Very busy

writing cheques to organization whose names

we forget. Petals of leaves that we have gathered

and kept pressed in books. I bought a Bible

and kept it brand new in a closet, proud of its

crisp pages and fine cover. Won’t read it because

it is for show and not belief. Novels have more

impact but not as much as movies. Protest the

violence of Christ but accept the violence of

war. It is wrong to show a penis on television

but not wrong to show a man blown to pieces.

That is art or at least a start to something with

significance. Lying on a couch eating chips and

feeling exposed. Cover my sins with a bottle

of beer. The great myth of security that is

sustained by the greater myth of reality. What

is real is the loneliness of everybody else. This

is the way we have been trained to love. Increase

the rates of passion but decrease the fog of

illusions. I am amazed that we are able to even

talk at all. Friday arrives, the end of the week, and

I am ready for the weekend. Nothing will get

through to me. I have things to do, places to be,

and people to ignore. Happy life in the smog!

Chris Vaillancourt

Reaching

If the mind does not

desire, what can

I create to replace it?

This looking and

seeking.

This pretending

and being.

The path fills

with torn open

paper bags.

Nothing

was found of

any substance

within them.

And so I patched

the snow

with plastic glue.

Repaired the holes

and covered the

skin.

We might

stand

together when we

speak words that

drive

apart.

Crows overhead

and snails below.

What do I reach for

when my hands are tied?

Aries Ram

I’m an Aries ram and Lord I use this

to resist you. Dear Christ I feel so afraid.

I’m scared of opening my heart to you,

for fear that

I’d be giving up myself.

I want to cling to the self-inflicted pain

and let it become my life.

But oh Christ I know this

is wrong of me.

Your touch brushes aside my symbols.

You try to thrust your peace upon me.

But oh Lord, I put up

brick walls to keep you away.

Please Jesus help me break them down.

Let this Aries ram put aside

his horns of doubt.

Let this hurting man

feel the love you promise for me.

I’m a deep dark hole

of unrepentant sin.

Carrying a cross that

does not hold your heart.

Oh sweet Jesus put yourself

into my burdens.

Let me open my eyes

to the glories

of your redemption.

Fresh from sin let me arrive

cleansed and ready to

show Your love.

As an Aries ram I jam

away from your salvation.

Yet I know I need to

submit my will to yours.

Crash away my doubts oh

Holy, blessed Lord.

Comfort me for I feel so alone.

Angry eyes follow me as

I walk though my sinful life.

Inside I feel the dark night

of the soul,

and my touch is

filled with demons not laid to rest.

Lord, stop this Aries ram

from losing his soul.

Boxes

Standing still, flecks of dust

clinging to my hair.

Working silent, images

of opened boxes

flicking through

the crevices.

I wonder how many

shovels of dirt

it will take

to bury

every box I opened?

Each box held

some fantasy or secret

which I held inside

but never

opened before.

Standing awake, knowing

the battle will begin

when the last box

is buried.

I’ll dig the holes myself.

I’ll forget

every image I held

and

pretend that I

am an open book

with empty pages.

That is the facade

I will play.

Like an old song

that is remembered

only by the

ears that happened

to have the radio

on long ago.

I will play the song again.

Hum its melody.

Later I will

put it in a box.

Bury it alongside

the boxes of my dreams.

The storm begins.

I am vulnerable

and

cannot protect myself

against the

clinging of the doubt.

Outside World and Freedom

Wind sighs in the fragile

beginning of day. Children

still asleep in the teddy bear

comfort of their dreams.

Somewhere a dog intones

its morning song. Voice

mournfully howling at

the indignity of its captivity.

Outside world harshly

coming to awareness, cars

rattling on the outside street.

Soon the children will wake.

Demand the business of

their lives as they prepare

to go to school. We’ll do

the routine together and I’ll

wait patiently for them to

flee the nest. When they are

gone I’ll draw the blinds

and lock the doors. Drop

all my clothing as if it were

all the pretenses I owned.

Freedom begins in being able

to attack the world with

my retreat.

Tiny Apple

A tiny apple in the tree.

Our straining eyes could just

about make it out in the branches.

I think we enjoyed the thought that something

was smaller than us. It hung deep red

with a sliver of sun shimmering off its surface.

Each of us felt the apple was ours alone.

Each of us pretended an exclusive affinity

with the tiny apple in the tree.

It was our special secret which we would cherish

as if it was the most significant memory of

our lives.

Our collective breath sighing in fruitful pleasure

at what surely would be a delicious bite.

This was the term that separated us.

Half of us wanted to gaze in admiration at

the apple forever.

The other half was planning on

how to eat it.

A Certain Surrender

In my understanding

of this hemisphere,

I sense a certain

discontentment.

Teardrops wanting

to fall but there is

no truth to them.

Indeed, they will be lies;

a disguise

meant only to deceive.

In this graveyard

it is silent and hollow.

Wounds wanting to heal

but the blood will not stop.

Yes, the innocence of youth

is dripping onto the floor.

The inner slum

of industrial filth

is seeping into my heart.

Trashing it; digesting its

virtue and

leaving a shell behind.

I become a zombie

and feel no

desire

for improvement.

Yes, it is colder now

and I will sleep.

When next I awake.

I’ll be different,

having emptied my

soul of all its charms.

In my acceptance of

myself,

I sense a certain surrender. Carrie Viens

Lost?

Screeching electronic hum; sunflowers tremble but the air is still. Blue skies move like ice flows over the earth. Can anyone hear them move like an old man to his breakfast? Dreamy sunbeams rouse me. I have to go see the trees. They will know where I’ve been and how to find it again. I follow a proud highway to the days end.

I had a child once or maybe just a toy. Can I never really know? Among the fur and larch I ask to be known, but no. Only the willow answers in weepy tones. It had a mother once that I could not be. So the weepy child could not help me. Lost among the trees a cherry blossom found me; and it whispered of the sea. Must I speak to the reeds; can they help find me?

Clanging metal and machinery; the wind blows but the sunflowers remain still. The clouds whip past me in a strange locomotion and the sun disappears. Shall I die? Back to light I can not move when it is night. The beasties of my mind play by night, where evil thieves might find them.

Mr. Aronoffsky standing by the street gave me an apple that made me bleed. He set them up to steal me. I went another direction to the trees and then to the seas. I left behind the peopled streets. Suburban houses all ablaze; so bright and shiny new. Mr. Aronoffsky cries. I loved the bastard and his lies. He could not find the places I’d left behind.

Hissing static and electro-shock; the flowers have all burned to dust. Purple skies of summer time shake the earth. Is this it? Women smiling speeding by; I could have them anytime.

By the sea the reeds sing. I can not hear them; deafened by surging power. I see the drift wood in the sea. It is like me. It will never know where it’s been or what it is to be free. It like me is forever trapped by the sea.

Journeying all alone; I’m a rouge air balloon in the sky. Where did I go? Where have I been? I sit alone by the sea. I can’t find my way or where I have been. My life passes by beneath the wheels of a machine.

Carrie Viens

Urban Scenery

Alleyway side-winding

In a fire escape jungle

The blackened viscera of an urban playground

A histrionic expression of life

This neon electronic center

A primordial start

With belief in machinery

Night clubs

Drug dens

Erotic friends

Nothing’s free

In this ocean of asphalt

A society of random technology

Slithering in and out of sewer system

Deposited here in this city.