YEARS Ice, wine, Valentine, Murmur me your dreams of sleep. Restfulness, I know I felt long ago, between stairways and stained knees. I could hear my father's voice, or is it another, younger still? I cannot catch your warm embrace, though I have yet tried to, stilt your will And your advances. I want to feel you but resist I rowed away, and will again, my hand aching in your fist. I can hear my heartbeat undertow - like shattered glass, like air. What lies within - I row awa

LOW TIDE THE TIDE GOES OUT LEAVING TINY BOXES OF COPPER WIRE EACH READS A STORY FROM YOU TO ME, IN A POEM BETWEEN TWO DOORS WHEN OPENED, THEY UNRAVEL, FILLING THE BREATHLESS SPACE BETWEEN US UNCOILING METAL RINGS, I ATTACH ONE TO YOU, TO ME THROUGH WORDS AND WIRE WE SPAN THE DISTANCE ACROSS WAVES AND ROCKS, THE GLISTENING SUN STRIKES LIGHT AND SQUINTING, FROM AFAR, I SEE YOUR EMPTY LINES LIT, SPARKS OF WIRE, COPPER LINES RADIATE VIBRATIONS OF YOU, BURNT UP, IN ME I WATCH AND

V WE TAKE SOLACE IN THINGS OF THIS EARTH LEFT TO REMEMBER: OLD CLOTHES IN PLASTIC BAGS, A LOCK OF HAIR YOUR NAME, SCRATCHED IN THE PALM OF MY HAND. #sundaypoetry #loss #memory #january #jarvis #poetry #text #inspiration #process #writing

IV AND IN THE DISTANCE, TWO PERSPECTIVE LINES SWEETENED BY THE TIME YOU SAT IN THAT VERY SPOT FOR A PHOTOGRAPH AS WE WALK THE RED DOOR SWINGS OPEN IN A VISION I HEAR THE GARDEN GATE, A SQUEAKY LATCH. A DOG BARKED LONG AGO THEN A CAT, GRAY AND ORNERY LIKE AN OLD WOMAN BEYOND HER YEARS. WE WERE STILL YOUNGER. I SAT AT THE COUNTER WEEKS LATER AND THOUGHT I HEARD A VOICE THE LAMINATE PEELING AWAY WITH OUR FINGERS OVER THE YEARS THE BURN FROM THE CANDLES LIT. ONCE WE STARTED THE C

II BLACK ICE BLACK ICE TRANSPARENT THROUGH THE TREES LINE THE PATHWAY; THE ROAD TO THE LEFT IS LIT IN AMBER GLOW, IN ROWS OF FLOWERS. A SHRINE FORMS SOON TO FOLLOW: EACH PHOTOGRAPH IS OVERLAPPED AS IF THE LAST IS ALWAYS PRESENT. AS IF SIGHT IS WHAT IT MEANS TO SEE, TO REMEMBER. WHEN ALL OF HIM ARE ALWAYS PAST: THE DIRT ROAD, THE OLD COAT, THE SUNNY DAY A YOUNG BOY, STREAKED WITH MUD, LAUGHTER THROUGH THE TREES A YOUNG MAN WITH A CIGARETTE, ARM AROUND A YOUNGER BLACK-HAIRED BE

I IN HEAVEN’S CRADLE THERE IS A PHOTOGRAPH OF FOUR OF US SURROUNDING A TREE IN A PARK IN THE ALBERTA WINTER, FLAT LANDS, A PARK EMPTY OF PLAY WHITE AND WHITE AND GRAY, SEPARATED BY A ROW OF TREES, OF EARTH. WHEN BODIES CANNOT FAKE THE MOTIONS SEPARATED WHEN FACES CANNOT FACE ANOTHER WHEN WE ARE STRIPPED OF OURSELVES, LATER TO BECOME OURSELVES THE ENDING IS ONE WE CAN ALL LOOK UPON THE WAY BACK IS A PLACE WE DON’T REMEMBER. #text #inspiration #sundaypoetry #memory #writing #pr

DEPARTURE DESPONDENT, BY THE WAYSIDE I FEEL YOU BESIDE ME. APART FROM ME, YOU ARE A PART OF ME I CAN FEEL YOU ARE GONE, I CAN TELL YOU TIDES SHIFT, BOULDERS STRAY. I CAN TELL YOU WHERE WE WERE THAT NIGHT, I CAN TELL YOU WHEN IT TURNED TO DAY. WE RAN PAST TIME - YOU AND ME. THROUGH DOORS AND HALLWAYS, PAINTED GREEN. I CAN TELL YOU THAT THE SUN SET, AND ROSE, I THINK IT TURNED TO DAY, SUDDENLY BLACK PINE BURNT (IN THAT SMALL BOX) I KNOW YOU SMELT IT THEN. FINE DUST CHOKED AND S

I KIND OF THOUGHT EASTER MONDAY TOOK THE PLACE OF SUNDAY THIS WEEK, BUT I NOW DISAGREE WITH MY FORMER SELF. MY FUTURE SELF WILL STICK TO SUNDAY POETRY BEING ON ACTUAL SUNDAYS RATHER THAN MONDAYS THAT MAY ACT LIKE SUNDAYS. TODAY'S POEM WAS WRITTEN SOME TIME AGO, BUT WAS AWKWARD AND UNFINISHED UNTIL NOW. IT IS A LITTLE HAUNTING AND MELANCHOLY, BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF EASTER, IT DOES DEAL WITH DEATH AND FAMILY. IT DOESN'T POINT TO A REBIRTH, BUT KNOW FOR YOURSELF THAT REBIRTH DOES

MY WORK HAS ALWAYS BEEN INFLUENCED BY POETRY. IT MAY IN FACT BE ABOUT POETRY. WRITING AND READING POETRY IS KEY TO MY PRACTICE, AS WELL AS MY PERSONAL COPING MECHANISMS, AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN. THE POETIC IMAGE, TIED TO THE SUBCONSCIOUS AND ALSO THE UNIVERSAL, IS SOMETHING I TRY TO COMMUNICATE THROUGH MY ARTWORK - THAT SOMETHING THAT TIES TOGETHER ALL OUR EXPERIENCES INTO ONE UNIFIED FELT EXPERIENCE OF LIFE. THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE WORLD I LIVE IN, AND THE ONE I UNDERSTAND. I'