Tag Archives: Poetry

After the Grinning

by Diane Attwell Palfrey

photo by luigi diamanti | freedigitalphotos.net

photo by luigi diamanti | freedigitalphotos.net

Cheshire Cat dissipates,
stripes drift from wonderland
as though he was never there,
never part of Tulgey Woods
where eyes hang at night
like miniature moon drops.

Providing paw prints
and parentage,
he changes his name
to Boris W. Pinkerton,
the ‘W’ impressive or so he thinks,
a delicious male title after years
of explanation on gender identification
and riddles surrounding
his pink princess palette.

He’s on a health kick, too.
Bounces on a Bosu.
Claims to tail curl 50 pound
weights when Zumba class
seems more credible
since he likes to get jiggy,
even joined a seniors’ dating site
to wink or grin at mollies
regardless of their status.

And travel plans are underway.
Sicily, Tuscany. Vineyards purrrrfect
for golden afternoons where a fat
indulgent tom might listen to Pavarotti
instead of tone deaf roses,
or court Italians with alluring accents,
all bellissimo – retire in a place
where catnip is lower class,
lapping wine shows proper pedigree
and flowers don’t need paint.

Diane Attwell Palfrey is a poet and prose writer and a long-time member of the Cambridge Writers Collective. Her poetry has been published by the Waterloo-Wellington CAA, Serengeti Press, Craigleigh Press, Hammered Out, The Ontario Poetry Society, Cruickston Charitable Research Reserve/RARE, Calvary Assembly, & several editions of Ascent Aspirations Anthologies. Diane was also the 1st place winner in the 2009 and 2010 Cambridge Festival of the Arts – Poetry Contests.


Wax and Wane

by April Bulmer
I fall through the mother space
crawl from her on hands and knees.
I live among the mushrooms now:
their soft, moist pleats.
I take one in my teeth
and my eyes are as big as beetles.
A caterpillar like a drop of rain on a leaf.
A mad man so nervous
his cup of tea trembles.
My heart is a deck of cards.
I play the Queen of Hearts.
Her hair the shade of blood.
At night even the moon dreams
it waxes and wanes.
How it swells and shrinks
on currant cake and drugs.
Queen of Hearts

April Bulmer has published six books of poetry. Her work has appeared in many national and international journals including the Malahat Review, PRISM international, Arc, Harvard University’s Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion and the Globe and Mail. She recently placed second in the Trinity College Alumni Fiction Contest and was a judge for the Hamilton Literary Awards

Congratulations Elizabeth!

20130723-215735.jpgCongratulations to Elizabeth McCallister on the launch of her first poetry collection.

Notes From Suburbia is available from the author, and through the publisher, Craighleigh Press


To Have and To Hold

by Elizabeth McCallister

To Have and To Hold

In the rough and the smooth of it all –

the razor burn on my body itches
from when you haven’t shaved
familiar callous on my hand
when you take hold of it

the smooth of your hair
when I stroke the back of your head
my shoulder when you cup it
in your hand and lead me

photo by photostock | freedigitalphotos.net

photo by photostock | freedigitalphotos.net

Elizabeth McCallister grew up in Scarborough now resides in Brantford. She is currently a member of the Cambridge Writers Collective, enjoys poetry readings and has been a winner in Cambridge Libraries’ Poem A Day contest.


by Becky Alexander
August 29, 2004

photo by Exsodus | freedigitalphotos.net

photo by Exsodus | freedigitalphotos.net


It was one of those nights
when the moon ran the sky
like a fullblown madam.

You were hot with a throb
that set your teeth, singed skin,
opened doors you’d never pushed before.

Black clouds slid over red light and darkness
was deep enough to slice with a blade.
Wind off the harbour scorched ears, reddened eyes.

Laughter rang with unholy glee,
catcalls blended into the unclean heart of night,
and we swayed snakelike, a deep pulsing throng.

One of those nights when the moon bled the sky,
when no friend stood with any other,
and shuffling angels fanned the earth with black wings.

(Previously published in Ascent Aspirations anthology Nanoose B.C., Dec. 2005, in STREET, Hamilton ON, March 22, 2007, and on Hammered Out blog, September 23, 2007.).)

Becky Alexander is a Cambridge writer. Her work has been published in five countries, and has won hundreds of awards. She runs Craigleigh Press with her husband Dave Allen.

Manitoulin Meanders

by Barbara Lefcourt

A significant part of my poetry focuses on the natural world. My sense of wonder is continuous and consuming even as I cringe at how helpless we can be when faced with the disruptions of sporadic storms and upheavals. This group of haiku spring from wonderment.

A haiku sequence


photo by Liz Noffsinger freedigitalphotos.net

by trail at edge of woods
deer stare

at wilderness lake shore
June’s sun enveloping mist
swirls evergreen ghosts

throbbing hummingbird
peers through cottage window
Where’s my feed?

tortoise pulls hard
uphill on three legs
lucky escape

skinny skeleton trees
long fallen, beneath sprawling
fresh greenery

damp limestone meadow
tiny blue blooms mass
soar scent of mint

tickle touch of
questing daddy-long-legs
my fingers kissed

puff-blue sky
the still Great Lake whispers
lost horizon

Barbara Lefcourt was born, raised and educated in New York City and moved to Kitchener-Waterloo with her young family in 1964. She had taught elementary school before staying home to raise three children. She became a member of the CWC in 2003 after starting to write poetry around the time she retired from her mid-life career as teacher of Literacy and Basic Skills for Adults.


by April Bulmer

Are you a poet suffering from writer’s block malaise? Here’s a quick remedy: take five minutes and write down every word that comes to mind. Then link the ideas and images to create meaning. The result can be a quirky and unique piece.

Here’s a poem I wrote using this method:

Eartha: Indian Bands

My spirits come
in good makeup
and little white gloves
for it is the winter
of mine husband.
I wear bust lace,
but outside
the Natives gather
in buck pants.
They have brought
an offering of blood.

It is true I love him
and he has grown
his hair long
through the seasons.
It is the red of autumn
and of snake.

I have smoked
my gown in fire.
My veil I have hung
from a tree.
It bears the breath
of step dance
and Langdon Lake.

I touch his hand
we eat a pretty cake.

All night, the Indians
cry like virgins,
their voices torn like lace.

Previously published in Tower Poetry Winter Edition 2008-2009

April Bulmer has published six books of poetry. The poem above is an excerpt from her new manuscript Women of the Cloth. Her work has appeared in many national and international journals including the Malahat Review, PRISM international, Arc, Harvard University’s Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion and the Globe and Mail. She recently placed second in the Trinity College Alumni Fiction Contest and was a judge for the Hamilton Literary Awards.