Living in Vancouver, BC, Canada, Jody Talibart has been writing professionally for over 20 years. A published BC poet and journalist, Jody worked for many years as a magazine Editor and has many feature story articles to her credit in widely-read publications. She was nominated for a national award of excellence in Journalism and has been interviewed on several Vancouver radio stations for her ... more »
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Jody Talibart Poems
Quiet as the stars submerged in the human ocean, undetected until blood washed up and revealed malicious, scheming, multiplying destruction,
A sunset of a different kind
There are times in one's life, sometimes fleeting, where it seems as though a camera shutter snaps and they are locked forever in memory.
Over the chimneys
I woke early with a head cold and no milk for tea so I bundled up to walk to the 24-hour drugstore. Coming home, I caught the sunrise in my one empty hand standing still as cement in the icy morning,
One Final Prayer
I have suffered too long in this body, although I am still capable of hope and laughter. But if I have one prayer, it is not simply to ask God to be merciful and end soon my life, instead, I would give it freely and offer my life's joy to those who desperately need it:
The Withering Tree
Hidden in a sugarwood in the garden of my soul I have come upon one withering tree, sown from seeds of long past sorrows amid the maples of my youth, made of naïve hopes that
I said good-bye to a friend yesterday and I didn't cry, no I didn't descend into my catacomb of life's losses or uncork the bottle of tears I've been saving
The bluebells now have finally gone back to the earth that bore them, all my life I’ll dread their bloom for they mark a time of mourning.
Two Hundred Hellos
What will my feet do without your countless cheek rubs, a dozen strokes per toe, when I come through the door? Where will my smile go without a tiny triangle nose loftily presented for kissing, a gentle paw on my knee, always asking lady-like before descending in concentric circles upon my lap?
Myself I Face
With sadness, I believe life must be small and empty for you to have no better way to spend your time than sitting there, night after angry night,
I alone, remain
When the snow flies, and the frozen land is silent as the birds have ceased their cries, I await the return of the nestling geese, as I remain
How is it that letting go, and hanging on, can be so different and yet painful in equal measure. Why is hello as gut-wrenching to me as good-bye. Can each feeling be as difficult as the next
Hours of listening to the crickets and their revelations, with heads bent over pots of tea, and innumerable tempests in the china cups we dropped in the grass, were not enough to embitter you from cutting the crusts off my bread, nor the countless little idiosyncrasies which you so tenderly indulged, with the grace of Saint Peregrine, under the shade of the weeping willow tree of my childhood.
I’d guess she was about ten or eleven years old, skipping along to her dad’s long stride, holding his hand and oblivious for a sweet while to the taunting, whispers and giggles she must get from her classmates.
I don’t want to wash my bedding. It has your scent in it, your memory on it, my sweat and saliva mixed with it
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Quiet as the stars
submerged in the human ocean, undetected
until blood washed up and revealed
malicious, scheming, multiplying destruction,
mutating hopes to ashes
and tomorrows to dust.
Joy is stripped from days like corn from a cob,
discarded, obliterating the sun,
prying fingers from a frail grasp.
Time and the dog cringe forebodingly in the corner,
crooning in long tocks and whimpers
because they recognize a life torn to pieces.
One has begun to mourn, the other cares not.
I cannot carry the dark burden of the words
but refused to ...