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You are the power –Vancouver

Tout est possible --Toronto

Rondeau Roundup

By Vincent Mitra

The bells ring high noon. Two guns shine In a dust road in Clementine. One with a star and one without. Come sundown no one has a doubt That one awaits a box of pine.

The outlaw wished that he could dine On thick steaks, so he robbed a mine of gold. And now while he stands stout, The bells ring high noon.

The Tin Star stood there on the line as fear shot through his jellied spine down to his hands. There was a shout, that neither heard. Two shots rang out that echoed once after that time The bells rang high noon.

Vincent Mitra is a writer and student at Simon Fraser University.

#Vincent Justin Mitra #Vancouver #Vancouver writing #poetry #my poem #spilled ink #creative writing #rondeau #bells

Curtain Call

By Vincent Justin Mitra

The reels are burnt and all the screens are blank. Stale popcorn rots as champagne stains the floor and curtains rest with none to turn the crank. Soon shadows move towards the theatre doors. They enter as they did before and sit in cold scorched seats with fresh pressed suits and spats or golden rings to watch the latest hit; A final feature that would tip their hats. They cried and cheered as they lit their cigars And, at the end, applauding on their feet. They all file out, this cavalcade of stars, Then say goodbye until they all next meet. Stars do not die, at least that's what they say. No, never die, just slowly fade away.

Vincent is an SFU student and poetry and fiction writer hailing from Vancouver, B.C.

#Vincent Justin Mitra #poetry #my poem #spilled ink #vancouver #vancouver writing #vancouver fiction #vancouver poetry #hashtags

Artist unknown.

#Vancouver #graffiti #words #poem #my poem #spilled chalk

Of as

By Joel Mackenzie

Of as Sept 29th, 2015 at 1:00 pm Eastern standard time, I not do give FaceBook or sentries any with associated Facebook permission to use pictures, information, posts, information, information, pictures, posts, information, pictures, posts. By stating, I notice that I give notice to Faebook is stickily forbidden to purpose, enclose, disclose, suppose, oppose, or transpose me based on profiling and/or contents. The content of this content is content and confidential. Privacy Violating be punished can by law (UCC 123-101- 0 1 333-123 and Roman statues). NOTE: FB is public. Members all must note like this. You can past and copy this version DO NOT SHARE. MUST copy and past.

Joel Mackenzie is a writer from the lower mainland, BC, who thinks he’s funny sometimes.

#poetry #my poem #spilled ink #vancouver #fiction

my night was churning smoke

By Joel MacKenzie

Drop that. Allow a slow, delicious breath the chestnut air some people live to beat against others’ ears. The snowflakes are golden Words can echo out of your mouth. Brush up against the last time you floated without naming it. The sky is a sleeping puppy. The ground can shake you.

my night was churning smoke I trapped with whole hands.

There are still slow, delicious breaths. this is the ticket to the sense I can’t imagine

Joel MacKenzie is a writer and student at Simon Fraser University.

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #my poem #vancouver

Stranger

By Marianne Robson

I cannot resist the impulse to shave my legs There is nothing more ransacking than a good shave - There is nothing left in the cupboards String and glue Scissors Treated like a melancholy Topped up Bottomed out alone unforeseeable - Don’t brood, its unbecoming There are forces stronger than ear wax and Catacombs of his body ill never know

Marianne Robson is a writer and recent graduate of Simon Fraser University.

#Marianne Robson #writing #poetry #my poem #spilled ink #vancouver

Promises

By Marianne Robson

Thick commas, midnight blue Frisbee, love and taunting mystic, destroyer, teeth ache, scratch into forest floors There is a monster Was it - Can glass the doors be closed and how tight did you clench your teeth? Bleeding cheeks on rusted canker sores reminds you of the bite and what caused it There’s mystery left in the street of lips on majesty on legs on trees on what was planted always grows Window sills fed time capsules of minds and antidotes that weren’t drawn up fast enough, There’s time to make more

Marianne Robson is a writer and recent graduate of Simon Fraser University.

#Marianne Robson #spilled ink #poetry #my poem

Wading on the Ledge

By Marianne Robson

There is a façade with a name on it in grandiose painted fervent flowers that spell the name of the gods. Trumpets on towers and lakes on toes that march listlessly on to the train that has docked at the station. The miners in their jeans approach the bench to kneel for lunch splattered epiphanies. They then decided that they did not want any drink and to lay on the beach instead to bask in the fume. The fume brought with it a lightness that infiltrated in their lungs that was unforgettable. The concepts of the make-believe tractor man were unmistakable with the dog set foot prints in leather moulds that were kept in front of the door. On rainy days we would use them to trudge the moat around the house when we wanted to go outside for a cigarette.

Marianne Robinson is a writer and recent graduate of Simon Fraser University.

to make love

By David Ly

Leave it to a wonder to make you cry.

Leave it to a question to make you angry.

Leave it to a talk to make you walk away.

Leave it to regret to make you come back.

Leave it to an apology to make you realize.

Leave it to nothing to make you love.

David Ly is a poet and graduate of SFU residing in the lower mainland.

#david ly #vancouver writing #spilled ink #poetry #my poem

Unfortunate circumstances

By Brenna Turvey

The murderer moves like a Daddy Long Legs leaving poetry in the house but no fingerprints He tiptoes, his inception in the mind is like a collage of spiders

The woman who lives in this house is robbed of language Her empty womb is a fissure with no heartbeat in it, no cave-dwelling animal, she wishes she had not used spermicide

She contemplates: Grandfather used to lie stretched out on his bed The morphine shroud hid the piles of shoes, hid Flanders Fields, hid November eleventh this aged mute black and white film plays on

She thinks of things seen and unseen, Mountains in Sasquatch Park, The prairie through the bus window She remembers Stonehenge in the morning She thinks of the grave of Charlotte Bronte

Water striders skit lightly across the lake that waits for her but she will never return. The woman in the fire tower on the mountain watches through her telescope for the girl to return but she doesn’t.

She has had a short life, unfortunate circumstances She closes her eyes and imagines her spirit visiting her friend on the back of a pickup truck in Croatia, imagines how she would appear to her friend, how she would surprise her.

If only she could wake up with a piece of barbed wire from that country underneath her in the bed to prove she had been there.

Brenna Turvey is writer and student of Simon Fraser University. She currently resides in the lower mainland.

#Brenna Turvey #poetry #spilled ink #vancouver #vancouver writing

Your Selenophobia

By David Ly

I’ll find you In a field of cattails Unpin a moth From your eyelid The moon will wax To that sparkle In your iris Force myself to hold you Your heavy wings They’ll beat to the pulse In a dream telling me It’s in the black When you’re dramatically you When you admit To your selenophobia

You’ll be fine Just remember a moment When you were in pale light When a kiss scared you And your heart throbbed Wrapped in small veins Pumping liquid silver Enough to make An expensive barrette To hold your mind together Let me hold on To that moment While you collect yourself

I’ll see you Soon with a crown Of blooming lilies You’re a sparkle In a long night Not shined upon When you remember admitting When you feel me let go Touch your flower crown Growing white lilies Around your mind Reflect a brightness inside you

-- David Ly is a writer and recent graduate of Simon Fraser University.

#David Ly #creative writing #poetry #my poem #spilled ink

Cherry skin

By joel mackenzie

My rules. Why can’t I view the day long, like I used to, watch the sun stretch, forgive me. Think about your breathing, and look at the lines creased around my mouth, hold me like a thin wool scarf, like this is our first year, like we’ve never missed a Saturday morning or a cigarette.

This is our first year, and your soft gazing eyes, like you’re a wave, and I’m a barnacle, and you’re a spinning leaf, and I’m a deep voice beating in a foreign language, and I’m a bubble, and you’re an open palm, shaking. I matter a little less, my cherry skin, my day, my rules.

– joel mackenzie is a writer and student at Simon Fraser University. He currently resides in Burnaby, BC.

#joel mackenzie #poetry #spilled ink #my poem

Rose + Devon

2 poems by Marianne Robson

ROSE

On a window sill lay the note like a stained crumpled tissue.

DEVON Sun fades woodchips splintered, firewood that spews reflections in flames while I cook the can of soup that has outlived you.

Marianne Robinson is a writer and recent graduate of Simon Fraser University.

#marianne robinson #vancouver #vancouver fiction #creative writing #poetry #poem #spilled ink

white rabbit

By joel mackenzie

She said, You haven’t told me in weeks that you love me. Because she didn’t want their talks to blister and drop again. He said, Your opinion matters to me. Like he could poke a hole in the balloon where she balanced and pushed words out through her chest and shoulders. She tattooed a white rabbit near the bottom of her foot so everyone at the beach or in yoga, or anyone she would let join in the shower would know that her times were changing: she was now a stack on top of what she was. She was a deciduous that had survived every winter. She said, I had to go.

– joel mackenzie is a writer and student at Simon Fraser University. He currently resides in Burnaby, BC. He often takes himself too seriously.

#vancouver fiction #poetry #poem #fiction #spilled ink #joel mackenzie

there is a dirt road and a glacial lake

By Brenna Turvey

ginger ale At the other side of the street, people dance behind the windows the kids wander alleys in hooded sweatshirts with their pieces of blown glass there is the mad rattle of their old skateboards

Behind the windows on this side of the street, Frida Kahlo’s face is printed on to matchboxes, gift cards have rude messages, foremost, a collection of psychedelic skeletons, some of them are having sex

the prefrontal cortex is cut at night

I didn’t really forget anything you told me, only I was distracted by morphine legs and the distribution of zooplankton

I had the urge to say something, when we were lying down, in the place where you play your video games, about my grandmother’s bangle, about her absent patent leather shoes, the sugar cane farm, the girl with amnesia, who said, "I don’t remember anything from before I was fifteen",

I’d say what might be sexy, it might be anomalous, how can I interpret or explain what is sexy then, if it isn’t sexy yet, because I don’t want it to be, but you, in this moment, will never be sexy, how can I explain this, if I tried, you’d think, "what the fuck", and in my mind you’d say, "Shut the fuck up", and wrestle me to the ground, lock me in a room with no tampons, and salt ginger ale And then you would remind me, "all you have is a spoon, you came here with nothing but a spoon" And would this matter, and would it matter that it wouldn’t matter anymore at all, and I would taste the salt drink and pass out

I once had a gift of the graphite blood of a cut flower drawn on foolscap I looked at Frida Kahlo and Emily Carr

what if there were tiny droplets of blood on ferns, for real, not only in the shop window

the street gestures to me

In the desert at the other end of the gap, I want to dance, but not with you, with silk scarves, purple ones, I will wear a pioneer dress

-- Brenna Turvey is writer and student of Simon Fraser University. She currently resides in the lower mainland.

#Brenna Turvey #spilled ink #poetry #poem #vancouverfiction

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