Treasure Island

Chris G. Vaillancourt

(April 5,1959 / Canada)

Whispers In A Dreary Place


Damp drilling spiders
correcting Grammar
and fulfilling their mission.
We are breeze skinned now
and so we prance
in malignant abandon.
Calling to trees...

fall.
fall.

fall on me and
educate me
on the
stupidity
of
opening windows.

Doors slamming shut and furious skins
are demanding retribution.

Sighing to self
and thinking,

it's all lemonade
gone stale now.


Jesus. Sweet merciful Jesus,
what sharply stoned road
am I walking upon?
There are too many shivers of dread.
Too many falling trees
and skinning of knees.

Answering me.
' Be quiet.
Remember who I am.'

Submitted: Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, August 21, 2013

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  • Pradip Chattopadhyay (8/30/2013 1:34:00 AM)

    Jesus. Sweet merciful Jesus,
    what sharply stoned road
    am I walking upon?

    a truth there, poet, that God knows well! (Report) Reply

  • Tirupathi Chandrupatla (8/29/2013 4:47:00 PM)

    The whispers are dreary indeed. Damp drilling spiders, falling trees, stale lemonade, sharply stoned road all creating the surroundings. Nice poem. (Report) Reply

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