All posts by edlemond

Poet and novelist, living and writing in Dieppe, New Brunswick, Canada. Owned and operated a Book Store for 21 years. One of the founders of the Northrop Frye Literary Festival.

The Wizard of Pain (Written October 24)

The Wizard of Pain


She should have talked to him,

She should have made him explain.

Wobbly, dirty, all he wanted, he said,


Was to sleep. The police, when they came,

Didn’t seem to care. Reluctantly, she led

Him down the stairs to the basement.


He kicked off his shoes and flopped on the bed,

Where he promptly passed out. The casement

Was partially open and the warm summer breeze


Smelled of lily-of-the-valley. She sat a moment

By his side. A car turned into the driveway. Please

Don’t let him lose his temper, she prayed,


As her husband came down the stairs.  She

Tried to explain, to no avail. He should have stayed

Where he was, not here. Let him sleep,


She said, and we’ll sort it out in the morning.

But he slipped out before dawn, to keep

His appointment with the wizard of pain.

Lucky the Woman (Written October 23)

Lucky the Woman


Now I come to think of it, most of my life

Has been like that. Waiting for the other shoe

To drop. The casual (or not so casual) word


Aimed (consciously or not) at re-opening wounds

That have never completely healed. Loser, nerd,

Fat ass, beanpole, dwarf, horse face, buck teeth,


Blind, deaf, dumb, queer, and all the racial

Slurs, such a storehouse of enmity just beneath

The surface, to be showered upon the weak.


Lucky the man and lucky the woman

Who does not hate the way she speaks

Or the way she looks. No matter how beautiful


She is, it is her weak spot, where she feels

Most vulnerable, that she scrutinizes

With the laser beam of her self-doubt.

Lost Love (Written October 22)

Lost Love


There was still light filtering through the trees

And I thought if I could just keep heading

In that direction, I’d come to a road,


Or a train track, or some sign

Of human habitation. It was getting cold.

The crows were making a racket in the trees


As they settled in for the night. But where

Would I find shelter if I didn’t want to freeze?

In the gloom I had to admit


I was lost. The first rule of this new place

Where I’m staying is, it’s not permitted

To wander off on your own. But it’s been


A year since my wife died, I forget

Her name, and I wanted to find the inn

Where we first met and made love.


It was somewhere in these woods,

Down by the river, where the dove

Cooed, and we played havoc with the bedding.

The Dwarf (Written October 21)

The Dwarf


He saw that people could take advantage of her

In a lot of ways. She was very sensitive

To the kind of language people used,


As those in a minority tend to be. Words

Were loaded guns, and she too readily confused

An empty click with a lethal blast. She suspected


A hidden meaning, a subtle dig. She knew

How people talked in private, that they respected

Very little, even the best of them, in unguarded


Moments. Because she was short, people assumed

She would do the dirty work, and so they lorded

It over her. She played along because she wanted


Everyone to think she was just like them,

But she wasn’t. He saw how stunted

She was, and how she put on the mask


Of indifference. He hated it when she betrayed

Herself like this, taking herself to task,

Becoming more and more withdrawn.

Tsunami (Written October 20)



The first white waves come nuzzling

At his feet. Children, playing in the sand,

Watch as the water line is sucked


Farther and farther out. The mothers

And the fathers, with blankets tucked

Under them, and legs stretched out,


Sleep. When he opens his mouth,

To call a warning, nothing comes out.

The sky has taken on that intense blue


Such as only happens when the earth

Stops turning and the one true

Thing that can be said is, “Time


Has stood still.” In that moment

Every sound ceases except the chime

From the boat that’s been drifting


Off shore, with no captain and no crew.

The wave is larger than he’s ever seen.

He runs faster than he thought possible.

We Had Little Choice (Written October 19)

We Had Little Choice


That horizon seemed to ascend just a bit higher

Thanks to the smoke. A gray, imperfect twilight

Seemed to blanket the town, but the faint blue


Color and the smell of burning pine and spruce

Told a different story. We’d heard the news

About the threat of fighting in the north


Spilling over, inevitably, into the more

Populated towns to the south. The sun sent forth

Its golden rays, then vanished in the blue haze.


With our meager resources what resistance

Could we possibly have raised?

What could we have done


That we didn’t do? When the rebels entered

Our town we had little choice but to run

And save what we could of our lives.

Leaving the Island (Written October 18)

Leaving the Island


I can just make out what was left behind,

The lighthouse at the tip of the island,

The trailers on the beach, the people


Fishing from the rocks, the entrance

To the marina, the church steeple

In the little village, the inn


Where we stayed, the woods

Where we went walking, the lupins

By the side of the road, the distant


Rumble of thunder, the storm

That engulfed us, the flashes

Of lightning, the feeling


That we might not make it out

Alive, as we were sent reeling

Like outcasts of a ruined band.

A Stacked Deck (Written October 17)

A Stacked Deck


Don’t just walk away from me like that,

Stay a moment, say something, tell me

You still love me, tell me the only reason


You’ve lost your appetite for life,

Your joie de vivre, is the season,

With its diminishing light, or the storm


That’s approaching, with its sudden

Drop in air pressure, or the worm

In the apple that you happily ate


Half of, before throwing it down

In disgust. Tell me you have no hate

In your heart, only a feeling


Of being cheated, a sense that

Whoever or whatever is dealing

These cards has taken you for a ride.

It’s Very Delicate (Written October 16, 2013)

It’s Very Delicate


What harm is it doing to you?

Let him learn from his mistakes.

He’s the one who has to pick up


The pieces, not you. Your job,

For the time being, is to stick up

For him when he stumbles.


He’s at an age when he might

Turn and run away if he feels

He’s under too much pressure.


It’s very delicate. You can’t live

His life for him. He has to decide

What he wants, a life of constant


Brushes with the law, or something

Better than that. It’s up to him.

He knows what’s at stake.

Running, Running (Written October 15, 2013)

Running, Running


But still he is running, running

Against the icy wind. He runs

From the house into the starry night.


He runs from the voices raised

In anger. He runs from the fight

That never seems to end. He runs


Through the woods that he knows

Like the palm of his hand, as sons

Know the hearts of their fathers.


He runs through the fields and meadows,

He runs to the dark and dreary waters,

He runs from those he must leave behind.


He runs and runs until he can run

No further, like a whirlwind

When its time has come.