Justification of a Literary General

Ideas, once brilliant,

etched upon a napkin,

hide behind soldiers in black.

They want you to forget.

The army has no official commander,

and therefore no order;

except to cover their charges,

so they might be lost to the depths of bad poetry.

Mistakes cower behind enemy lines of angry ink,

held back by the great, black riot shields of a notebook’s cover,

pushed back behind teasing prison bars.

The dark soldiers threaten to strike

at any letter who may try to escape;

attempt freedom,

and run to an empty, white space:

a canvas for new works of literary genius.

My ideas, at first glance, are unlucky ones.

The black, ballpoint pen's army

is a juggernaut, unforgiving and unrelenting.

It attacks, angry and random, in thin, piercing scribbles,

leaving only a loop of a g,

a missed comma,

or the faint outline of an adjective.

But, a poet is not a tyrant—

only an unfortunate perfectionist.

The pen's army has a mind of its own,

and scribbles over the rejected ideas

without conscious permission.

She does not intend to cause such chaos

or to be judgmental upon her work.

A poet is an artist,

unwilling to allow such disastrous mistakes

as ineffective irony,

a misspelled metaphor,

or a scandalous simile.

At least the poet allows the rejected lines to exist.

She does not release the kraken:

a white-out bottle.

Nothing could be so cruel as to

eliminate the soft, innocent words

filled with ideas, possibilities and potential bestsellers,

and cast the remains to the floor,

to be swept away and thrown out like the morals of a CEO:

the unscrupulous bastard.

Her ballpoint army is but a means to justify the end.

Not Society

We were dinosaurs:

wearing vibrantly mismatched clothes,

chomping away at Snap, Crackle and Pop,

and trying our hardest to adhere to the rules of “No See/No Hear”.

It was always so difficult to not be seen in such bright colours,

and to not be heard when your Rice Krispies so eagerly gave you away.

Our parents glared at us with warning eyes in front of company,

but still

we were dinosaurs walking tall,

proud—

(and sometimes foolishly).

We were curious dinosaurs.

We were dinosaurs exploring, exploring, exploring,

always playing that we were

in faraway lands,

in long ago times.

We were dinosaurs—

duck-like Anatotitans

swirling our delicious greens around on the plate,

deceptive Apatosauruses

changing our first names as we see fit,

or the aquatic almost-lizard Plesiosaurus,

struggling to be called a “real” dinosaur;

such destructive disoriented dinosaurs.

We were monsters:

forcing a reaction from a grain of nothing,

drinking the forbidden elixir to our desire in parks after hours,

and trying our hardest to stay cool.

We were monsters experimenting,

testing—

(and always stubborn).

We were inventors of the lie.

We were monsters building, building, building,

always working,

in our labs,

in our basements—

diligently constructing the complexities of falsehoods,

and wading through pools of consumed energy drinks.

Baskets of stories weaved in and out of truth

as we pulled all-nighters, still in our jeans.

We were monsters—

gruesome Godzillas stomping on weekly relationships,

slippery Nessies sneaking out of the house at night,

malicious Medusas, our glares turning foolish boys to stone;

such marvelous monstrous monsters.

We were civilized,

and folding our napkins upon our laps.

Bright and starry-eyed youth courted in public,

but ran off in corners to disobey.

We were civilized, but attacking the rules,

bending the truth—

(and trying not to fold under pressure).

We were civilized at first glance.

We were civilized, but acting, acting, acting,

never failing

in front of elders;

the perfect double agent.

We were civilized—

but easily improvising in sticky situations,

memorizing alibis,

and using artistic license on our own characters;

such silly "civilized" civilians.

And then we were on our own—

left helpless and abandoned.

We wish we could understand

why we went wayward

without wondering where we were.

Playing with Syllables

My room is messy, but I like it this way. (11)

A messy room shows a child who is artsy (12)

and that’s the story that I am sticking with. (11)

A tidy room shows a child who is boring (12)

and that is worse than being a math teacher. (11)

It is worse than getting Lego stuck in your nose. (12)

It is worse than being forced to eat brown beans. (11)

It is worse than losing your favourite Barbie. (12)

It is worse than maggots falling from the sky. (11)

So, my room remains messy. (7)

My parents tell me to clean it, (8)

but that will take away my creativity. (12)

Which would strip me of my personality and (12)

so I will tell them that is a fate worse than death to someone like me. (16)

What kind of person would not sympathize with that? (12)

They refuse to feel my pain, unfortunately. (12)

Still, they tell me to tidy up. (8)

When my room is messy, (6)

I can surprisingly find everything. (11)

Today, I found my dinosaur in record time beside my bed. (16)

Tomorrow, I will probably find my doll. (11)

The next day I will surely find my crayons. (11)

Maybe next week I will find my mum’s pretty little diamond ring. (16)

See? It is just better. (6)

It is not my fault that my room is a tripping hazard. (14)

People should really watch where they are going. (11)

Please do not come crying to me when you trip in my room, (14)

or if you stub your toe and break a finger, (11)

or if you jump over the pile of clothes and fall on your face. (16)

I will say you should have looked before you leapt. (11)

Someday, I hope people will learn. (8)

I think I should do laundry today, (9)

because I am running out of clothes. (9)

The Great Wall of China is in my room (10)

and it is made out of clothes. Lucky me. (10)

I do not like to wear old clothes, (8)

because they do not look as nice, (8)

and appearance is obviously everything. (13)

Fortunately, this rule does not apply to my room, (13)

or anything else, for that matter, unless I say so. (19)

My room is not a biohazard because I am not a smelly boy. (17)

If you think my room is messy, you should see my brother’s room. (15)

I promise you, if you do not wear a mask, it could lead to grave illnesses. (17)

I will never have dirty bowls and plates sitting in my room, (15)

because they stink and rot and breed bugs in the nasty mess. Ew, that’s gross. (17)

Therefore my room is much better, so please stop criticizing. (15)

I do not grump about your messy room. (10)

Consider my room a work of art. (9)

I have carefully planned where clothes go, (9)

including those on the floor. (7)

Each paper strewn on my desk also (9)

has a place in the picture. (7)

My old Archie comics add life to my art (11)

as they sit bent and half read everywhere. (11)

My toy-box has exploded, (7)

but consider it splatter art. (8)

I am but a genius. (6)

So here we are and, (5)

I must away, (4)

but do stay to admire my work. (9)

If you feel brave, (4)

I challenge you to help me clean this (9)

wonderful mess. (4)

Seahorse

Cool chlorine blue trickles passed my eyes as I slip underwater,

sunlight from above dances on the sandy floor, splashing like a pixie.

I have this sinking feeling that I’ve forgotten how to swim.

Simple muscle memories do not come flooding back—

dolphins hold the secrets of their kicks,

butterflies do not release the knowledge of their strokes,

and dogs are left to paddle in solitude.

I swallow and find Atlantis at the bottom of my stomach,

sitting there like a bucket of embarrassment—I should know how to swim.

The mermaids are laughing at me with their streamline tails,

but everyone knows that mermaids cheat in the game of swimming.

Fish grab their popcorn and enjoy the show,

even the sharks are in hysterics and cannot find the focus to take a chomp out of me.

I am a one-woman comedy show in the middle of the Caribbean.

Panic has knocked the wind out of me, like the life of a spider I stepped on earlier today.

So this is karma…

Forgetting to swim is like learning to run.

But not just learning to run—on a horse.

Camp counselors think it’s great when they coax the trail horses into a lope,

just to find out that you look like a big dope.

A city girl shouldn’t run on a horse, they should politely trot on by,

but the squirrels love to laugh when such an outsider falls on her butt.

I’m sure the prairie dogs enjoyed a silent chuckle; but they’re really private creatures,

it’s those squirrels that are obnoxious.

I’m a one-woman comedy show in the middle of the Albertan plains.

Now that I’m comparing swimming and running,

I should think of forgetting how to swim as riding on the Loch Ness monster—

only to find out that she’s not real. Poof! Gone.

Perhaps it is like galloping on a seahorse, but realizing that you are

not measured in centimeters.

At least anything is better than hitching a ride in a shark’s mouth.

As I sit beneath the surface contemplating the similarities of swimming and running,

those above must be enjoying their rum cocktails and colourful island treats.

It seems as though I am being tested, a game of memory.

My underwater flailing has inspired the crabs to take up art instead of dance,

and still, the mermaids laugh.