When the wind dies down, the world will reflect indifference. Consumed with the growling heart that falls like the panic from the mind.
Front door closed. Locked. Empty rooms. Everyone has left the house now. It is once again an address on a map.
Not a home.
Toppled heat that wanders like a whipped cream desert smashed onto the floor.
Not a feeling.
A sense, a wondering that escapes the grass-stained knees of the man.
Biking the tongue-tied streets where flashes of memories dump themselves like ashes in a fire.
When the wind dies down, and the sound of its insistence is no longer the main event. Then the ending will have begun.
Not a beginning.
A real time ending that features the main characters from the wedding photographs.
Goodbye.
Listen to this poem:
Midnight Train And A Man
Midnight, the shaking of the limbs signifies something. He pretends to ignore the shallowness of the dark.
Focuses his attention on crying like a meadow where the river runs free. He calls attention to the plants
in the ground, growing, changing, becoming the flowers they will be. Dark windowed trains rushing past the clock
as it ticks. Time running on and out. Shapeless figures on the track waiting for the train to smash them into
pieces of dust, dying emotions. Caressing the image of his reflection, he reaches across the patterns of rejection
to touch his soul. It is sleeping. Ignoring the underlying distress that permeates the ground. The clacking of the wheels
motivates his attention to the tobacco laden fingers that hold nothing. Yellow stains of past mistakes hanging onto
the drunken flashes of insight and resentment. He is determined to push ahead ply his words in the darkness of the midnight world.
Impotent sentences dangling from his freeze dried heart. He cringes at the noise of the insects crawling madly in the ground. Distance,
numberless yearning for serenity that insists on its own sympathies. Midnight train rambling across the brain wave of his mind.
It is cold out tonight.
Listen to this poem:
What Do You Do?
What do you do? which translates to; How do you make your money? Money is a drug. We are a drug culture. Why do you? which suggests that you are acting incorrectly if you act to be free. We are conditioned for self-denial. No matter what you do. No matter what you think. Mindless bands of steel will circle your mentality. The only way to act is to learn not to react. We are surrounded by plastic scenes that are as relevant as death. Blamed if we do not blindly love the machine like drone of our lives. We have lost the right to determine our own methods of existing. What do you do? which hints at the premise that your occupation defines all the goodness that is inside of you. We've slipped back into the stone age. Mindlessly hunting wild animals in a pursuit of something we can never define. Reversing the process of independence; replacing freedom of expression with conformity and status quo.
I see a box. This box is for I.D. Place my pieces of paper inside of it. In doing so, I have declared my non-existence.
Chris G. Vaillancourt has been involved in the art of writing as long as he can remember. Chris is a Canadian poet who has enjoyed publication in numerous small poetry magazines and newsletters, such as Pagan Lady Poetry Journal, The Inkling; The Lance; Ydrgasil; Poetry Space; Poesia International; Plum Ruby Review; Protest Poems; Quills, Poetry Sharings, Poesy, Poetry Stop, Detour Memphis,and a host of other print and ezine publications.. He has enjoyed the publication of several chapbooks of his poetry, such titles as "Doors And Windows" (4 Winds Press) and "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" (PublishAmerica) Currently his new book, "I Walk Naked Into A Cloud" is set to be released in January of 2010. He has a BA in Psychology from the University of Windsor and a Diploma in Sacerdotal Ministry from the Saint Andrew Theological Institute.
