Up in the mountains a man wrote a novel. It was set by the sea, about a woman who wrote plays, mostly about poets. The novel focused on one play in particular, about a fine young poet who, as a side-gig of sorts, cooked dreams down by the harbor and sold them for two bits, or a smile, whichever came first.
It was a catastrophe!! The novel, the play, the dream cooking, the works!!
It was as if the whole sleepy harbor town had conspired against the dream chef. Rather than the usual sunshine and sweet nights indicated by his time-tested recipes, there was rain and rain and more rain. Instead of peaceful vistas and blue skies, there were dark, eerie corners, Gothic creaks and groans, spiral staircases and shadows for the shadows. In short, the sleepy harbor town became the stuff of Victorian Penny Dreadfuls, and locals were gathering their pitch forks.
Volcanoes are ancient teachers
Rising up from the magma
Core of planet earth
The effluent bringing forth
All the swirling elements of life
Choking out gaseous
Fiery energy and chaos
Creating oceans and rivulets
Mountains and savannas
Landscapes for the tiger
Spewing lava and ash
For the delicate lotus
To break through
Reaching to heaven
Painters and poets
Are modern interpreters
Of universal truths
Written in calligraphy
Hidden deep within the
Caves of The Thousand Buddhas
All of humanity
Reaching toward the sky
With brush in hand
Creating their own reality
On blank silk canvas
Doreen LeBlanc lives in Massachusetts and spends time in summer and fall at her cabin in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where she was born. Inspiration bubbles up out of the river and sea, streams down the mountain, and comes through family
A ghost cannot gather itself
inside a tree, or a peregrine,
or a creek, or heaven. It cannot
draw stars through the window
of a building in Beijing, or
on a cabin near Woolwine with
spring peepers chorusing music
to fit the sky. It cannot revive
its mind in a trout lily, as much
as I wish. I can’t tell it my name.
I can’t share one flapjack, smoke,
or a sip of bootleg. I rummage
in a poke of cornmeal, and ask
hungry? The campfire won’t say.
TELLING LIES ALONG THE MONKEY RIVER
Clouds tease my boat down the Monkey River.
The sun slips past me with a jabiru on a mudflat.
I enjoy every lie I tell. One of them is a boat,
and another is Monkey River, and one more
is this jabiru staring at me, owning the river,
placing the sun in its wings, because my … Click to continue . . .