Tag Archives: poetry

Fools Love: 40 Week Journal off to the Wairoa Maori Film Festival in NZ.


After its premiere screening at the Dawson City International Short Film Festival in March, Fools Love: 40 Week Journal by Kerry Barber (with poetry by me) will feature at the Wairoa Maori Film Festival in New Zealand. Congrats, Kerry! She and her baby girl Daphne and in town today, and catching a plane to Auckland tonight. Never did I imagine when I sat writing that piece in the rainy Comox valley last winter that it might find its way to the Southern hemisphere! Nice work, Barber. Wish I was going with you.

See also: Update on Fools Love: 40 Week Journal at Dawson City International Film Fest and What Collaboration Looks Like

Corner of Davie and Bute.

Is a greasy spoon too familiar? Does romance
still share milkshakes on Arborite counters?
You on a break in your greasy cook’s jacket, blood
on your sleeve. Me with coffee refills, apple pie, heartburn

This is minimum wage date night in the slow hours:
twenty questions, take bets on what people will order
Side of fries. Piece of strawberry pie
Buddy Holly burger. And Sonny and Cher trite
on the jukebox. They say our love won’t pay
the rent, before it’s earned the money’s all been spent
Home when the sun’s up, give your roommate five bucks
to go to the grocery store
to buy us the time. Next Sunday it’s the same,
a table of twelve want omelets at midnight
We thought you’d get out early

I can hear you singing from the kitchen
while you blanch onions and I know
you’re singing to me

High Art Haiku: Zander and Carleigh edition.


We like to write communal Haikus, each participant contributing two letters a a time. Sometimes they make sense, sometimes they’re nonsense, but they’re always awesome. Here’s the latest.

Frank learned bar stool
Vie for collective signs
wind renders ears deaf

Crevices sulk grey
Icicle centipede slides
tarred with hungry hand

O, tinder box blue
To fold mirrored ice, sharp, I
suspend space like flame

Bargaining Phase.

Okay, let’s be honest here, after nine years
of being high, is it any surprise that in your tenth
year, you get clean, look at the person you’ve spent
nine years being high with, and you want nothing
to do with him anymore? Who the hell is that guy?
I’ll tell you. He’s the guy you married on a cold west coast
beach, with bare feet and fog in your hair. You had to have
a morning wedding. Your bridesmaids played singing bowls,
rang a spooky tone across the sand as you and your dad
approached. I was the guy waiting there, in a suit with no tie.
No shoes. I was shivering, do you remember? The archway
we’d spent all night setting up? The enormous mole
on the officiant’s face? We’d been high the day before,
and we’d get high the day after, but that day we were clean.