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.

It’s a Game (Written September 20, 2013)

It’s a Game


Thick, gray clouds all day,

But no rain. The young couple

Next door in a heated exchange.


Then they are gone, and the street

Is quiet again, though still within range

Of the usual disturbances: cars and trucks


On the road above, the heat pump

At number eighty, the way the wind sucks

At the chimes on the back porch,


The lonely cedar waxwing that wails

The live-long day, the scorched

Pot that sets off the smoke alarm,


The plane to Montreal, high overhead,

That drowns out, with no harm

Done, the sound of my own breathing,


The clock that ticks ticks ticks

And keeps me on edge, because

Both hands are the same


And I can’t tell if it’s ten past twelve

Or two o’clock on the dot. It’s a game

That only those can play who are supple.

Little Bird (Written September 19, 2013)

Little Bird


Why do you go on crying,

Little green-bellied bird?

Are you calling for your mate,


Or are you one of the newly

Hatched, unsure of your fate,

Feeling lost and alone,


Wondering where everyone has gone,

While you cling to the only home

You’ve ever known? Tiny head,


So full of purpose, with never

A second thought, instead

Of such fidelity, why not, I suggest,


Take flight, venture forth,

Go as far as you can, digest

The new reality, and have no fear.