Thursday, January 7, 2010

Whole Week Begins & more from Chris G. Vaillancourt

Chris G. Vaillancourt

Falling Rain

The last wind of winter has ceased its power.
It is memory now, and has no message to give.

The rains of spring have replaced the snow
And spatter insistent tunes upon the roof.

From the ground, the plants have burst out,
Reminders of the cycle of life and renewal,

Early flowers busy in their own serenity,
Splashes of colour that arrive in splendour.

Oh falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

I find myself sitting on my back porch,
Surrounded by the discrimination of life.

Sighing gently to the pattern of the rain,
singing softly the songs of emerging spring.

Patterns of raindrops that hit the mind in
mud puddles of dank self-imposed denial.

They are a growing source of cleansing
which shall shatter, for now, the winter grey.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

Standing up, I become once again myself.
Moaning in unison with the rain, captivated

by the thoughts of what the waters bring,
I am entirely open to fountains of rebirth.

Vindictive tugging of thought interferes
with the cherished sunshine of awareness.

Rushing from my porch into the rain,
I pull each flower from the ground.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

Listen to this poem:

Wait for the Whole Week to Begin Again

Please don't wake me up when I'm sleeping,
it's easier to get by when not awake.
Leave all problems till Monday
let the weekend be what it is.

It's a morning and a night,
when the skin cream
is applied with
gentle touch.
I make the batteries last
till Sunday, and then I
wait for the whole week to begin again.

A silent bird without a song
waits on the balcony
with glazing thoughts.
Pretending that it is a cat
it prowls
the streets at

Open another bottle of sherry.
Mix it with a bit of water.
Dilute the forgetting it brings.
And wait for the
whole week to begin again.

Let the fingers ignore
the scars from last
weeks' battles.
Just enjoy the two days away,
let the feathers
grow another time.

When the heat wave strikes
our eyes, and the boiling
water spills over, that is when
the light won't shine; and the
ringing phone will not stop.
Another week begins on Monday.
I'd just as soon pretend it never came.
Losing perspective in weekend daze,
let's just wait for the
whole week to begin again.

An ice cream sandwich melts
on the sidewalk. I step over it as
I wander around, my dog running at
my side, and the dark glasses on
for surrender.

Another living day in life. Living
like a hermit inside. Don't open
the door or answer the phone.
We'll just wait for the whole
week to begin again.

Listen to this poem:

Summer Night

Lit a bonfire in the backyard on
this mid-August night. I am

flattered that the flames consume
the soul of the wood. Like fire,

with stringent force, the rampage
of angry words burns the soul

of the marriage. I am watching
the flames reach their peak as

I toss in my wedding band. We
are like flowers that were planted

in the spring. We grew, blossomed,
escaped into unbelievable beauty.

Pleased the eye before we died;
Our colours fading as the cold

winds of fall began to blow. Leaves
falling from the trees which were

being prepared for winter hibernation.
Bare branches lonely once again.

I will chop them down, these trees.
Add them to my woodpile for other

bonfires lit in the cold emptiness of
a blazing mid-August summer night.

Listen to this poem:

Yelling At The Wind

What shall I cry?
The faded emblems of empire lie
like tattered flags around me.
I pick them up and try to remember
the glories they represented.
They do not bring anything to me.
Empty colours of material that
once belonged to names long
ignored. Soldiers and sailors
prancing like stallions in their
uniforms. Is this how reality
stinks when it dies? Who can
even name the pieces of dirt they
shed blood for? Who still honours
the Kings and Prime Ministers
who spoke so highly of sacrifice?
Why is the sacrifice always in blood?
What shall I see?
My eyes are clouded with the illusions
they've been supplied. Visions of
titles and positions that are only
real in the minds of the deceived.

Don't we dance so well together?
Don't we disagree in such high estate?

What is the point of yelling at the wind
when it blows no matter what I say?

Listen to this poem:

All poems © 2010 Chris G. Vaillancourt

Over 200 of Chris G. Vaillancourt's poems have appeared in more than 100 journals in the U.S. and Canada, Japan, Australia and the U.K, including, Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul,
South Jersey Underground Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others.
He has had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, with such titles as "Doors and Windows", "Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn". He has two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and his latest, to be released in January of 2010, entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud".

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