Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Chris G. Vaillancourt: poems

I Ought To Have Gone

Sometimes there are moments
that flash before us like the narrow
opening of one of those worm-holes
into another universe and you have no time
to calculate: Should I leave
mother, father, history, ecology,
job, ambition, home
to follow her? Too late.
Too late. You ought to have gone.
For the rest of your life
you’ll be telling yourself,
“I ought to have gone.
I ought to have gone.”

Sometimes there are words
that jump around us like the thin
verbs used at various attractions,
where the sound of them gesture like
wounded thoughts: Should I have
begged her to stay with me forever?
Should I have promised any and every
promise she might have let me make?
Ask every ear, face, or television set
that bothers to pay attention. Solicit
every opinion that is freely being offered.
Too late. She has already gone.
For the rest of your life
you’ll be telling yourself,
“I ought to have gone.
I ought to have gone.”

O Sweet Forgetting

Take me away, sweet forgetting.
Carry my thoughts upon the whisper

Of changing winds... or sing to me,
Your dulcet chords of acceptance

Fading into melodies of time's passage.
Weep with me if you must.. happier memories

Cascading down cheeks of tomorrow
Where forgotten springs will dry our tears.

Or simply sit in companionship... ah yes...
Come share with me your poetry!

Scatter rhyme upon the grounds of summer,
Lay a vibrant blanket of crumpled moments

Before winter's calling... let us sip 
Of contentment's wine and pass time together...

O sweet forgetting, take me away!

Autumn's Artist

I am autumn's artist. On multi-coloured wings I sweep
across the brilliant blue of late September skies,

touching the tops of tallest trees with glorious tinges 
of varied vivid hues. I chase the humid heat and curdled clouds

of summer and bring the brisk and bracing breeze,
as welcome as the early warmth of April afternoons.

I let my palette drip its crimson drops on mighty maples
and splash the sycamore with scarlet, even while

I sprinkle verdant poplars with a sunny golden spray.
I turn the birches bronze and tint the towering tamaracks

with gleaming copper. And then I cause that foliage fair to fall
and cloak the earth with showy vibrant shades.

And as I bring the freezing frosts I take my leave,
departing for another year, the branches barren now.


in the garden of my night,
a breathless decay, a form of bones
and soil -
Shall I press
the fruit of my days?
My driven root
of stars and sun
swell skinless through the learning
of granite and marble eyes.
It swallows
my thoughts in the tune of living
still turning
in the key of echo and still.

Who shall murder the spring?
Letting the summer arrive.
Head coils in a fruitless winter that blunts
the clock to a stilling of flower, wing
and stone.

I shall shake the land of a thirsty eye
when God churns asunder.

Who would strike the moon?
Its gift of a silver
season washed away.
Walk not in the circle of waking hours
when the gears are oiled in man's
minerals and cast through
a sunken shadow of the cliff's edge.
Hate still grows in the creature
of my planet, grins
to the tumbling seasons of rage.

I will not bend to the teeth
of gathering storms,
nor build a sullen ark for being,
as I
a harnessed coiling cloud,
would dare
the scythe to beckon, to break, to bend -

to shatter.


Who is this Chris G. Vaillancourt? Well, he is, of course, a man, and a man who writes poetry. Poetry that is, apparently, well received and appreciated..He has been published extensively in a wide variety of anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online magazines. He is an author of many fine books of his impressive poetry. He looks forward to carrying on with a life in the poetic arts.

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