Found Poems

I always find that writing found poetry stirs up my creative side. Try collecting all the newspapers in the house, old love letters, recipes, grocery lists, old science textbooks and cut out the interesting words and sentences . . .

Love, a Recipe


You will need: 1 large onion 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into one-inch chunks (about 3 cups) ½ teaspoon turmeric and arsenic 1 can (14 ounce) coconut milk, sweetened 1 unfertilized human heart (if not in season, they are available by the dozen in your grocer’s freezer) Coarse sea salt to taste Gingered lime (for garnish) Directions: Slice onions . . .



In the summer, to escape the thick, muted heat of the evening, Sagey cycles around his neighbourhood on a broken bicycle, the front brake unattached like an umbilical cord snapped in two. He has no money to fix it, so he takes it slower around curves, or downhill from Laurier Park . . .

Two Are Better than One

She jerked up with a sharp pain in her neck, light hair matted to her sweat soaked face. Flashes of crunching metal and air bags popping to life haunt her even after she’s awoken. She touched the rear of her scalp, feeling the soft tuft of hair growing over her long white scar before calling out to Annie . . .


I used to think that a glassy, effervescent stone, dug up from the dirt and spit-shined for song, could message the moon and undress its powers to control the sea from my pockets; that a long, cylindrical whistle, carved from soft wood and painted in earth tones, could call the birds from the south and conduct their music; that a broken watch left behind by my grandfather, could turn the tides of fortune into my waiting palms . . .

Blind Man View


What is it that a blind man sees? Without his sight, does it make him free? After all how can he get hurt if he can’t witness pain, How can he love if he can’t see what love contains? Fingers upon curvatures, a choice to see what’s bad Not knowing the difference between what he has and what he had Because if he can’t see what’s come and what’s left him behind Then he doesn’t know a piece is missing, not wishing to rewind But if he can’t see the bad, how will he be secure? Read a face with fingertips but someone’s heart he can’t be sure? So what exactly does a blind man see? Blots of colour, or a smudge spree? Does he see any outlines, or nothing at all? Discoloured pupils, running into walls . . .


Trees hunch over sky; skin and hard-bone cliffs. Come winter: beards of ice, grunting stone. That day I walked into surf, wore a shawl of sea spray. Still in her armchair, my grandmother wades past headlands to open ocean where waves wrestle and refract . . .

Trading Countries

It began with fog and headless homes. We lose sight of star-markers; streetlights burn out. This is a world of crawlspaces, children digging through mulch or gravel. The steppe-streaming sun uncoils, scalelight rasping stone. We root into baked sand for bones, pitch the worst of ourselves into river . . .


This bar grew from stone and wood, russet and cream. Trees lean on the porch, nonchalant. I’ll take what he’s having. Hear: phrases sung from in-between. Strange babies, microphones desirous of lips. Buddy’s car was having trouble, brakes like grinding teeth . . .

Heartbreaks, Earthquakes


I have left my heart in so many places, and now I set it free to be cascaded through the violent waves, and utter bleakness of a barren sea it will float and wander to a far-away place where it may live or die it could be broken and shattered or perchance kept safe it will nestle comfortably in the great heaves of a sigh somewhere in a crowded city my heart will wander back fully restored and void of all pity making up for all the enchantment I’ve lacked until then, I shall let my heart grow spread its branches to places unknown bleed its colours and resonate an everlasting stain where it remains will prove to be home its infinite hue will stain sidewalks and sunsets promising an eternal shine the deep blues and greens, the fiery reds perhaps destined to be a failure by design  . . .