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

I LIVE IN MY CONCRETE HOUSE A CONCRETE HOUSE HAS BUT ALL TO BEAR ELONGATED BY THOSE LINES BUT HEAVY WITH SITTING WEIGHT WE COULD POKE HOLES TO REVEAL STARRY SKIES IN THROUGH AN ATTIC OF NAILS, SHUTTING DOORS TO HEAVEN AS THE LIGHT DIMS AND BENDS PAST, WIRE, BARBED AND SEALED, TWISTED, HANDS CLASPED INTO POETRY IN DOORFRAMES, WINDOW PANES DUSTED WITH STARS A CIRCLE OF HANDS FILLED THE SEAMS WITH WHITE ROCKS AND SOUNDS OF WATER WHILE THE CELLAR BELOW SMELT OF DIRT, OF EARTH AND

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'