Poetry Remix

THE POET

BY ANNE GERARD MARSHALL

A poem comprised of complete single lines of poetry borrowed from eleven original poems written by eleven different Stroll of Poets members and published in past anthologies. Please see the list at the end of the poem for original poem titles and authors.

The poet steps up to the mike
in a moment of bliss
a little child made out of words
grows where it is and sings
the best shines through the words
holds the two halves of heaven
they weave the sky into music
how inexpressible this expression
pungent honey of bumble bee hum
I hold you as a teacup
I stirred my poem to go…


Original Poets, Poems, and Anthology year of publication:

- Line 1: Mary Campbell; “The Reading”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 2: Nancy MacKenzie; “Sacrament”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 3: Ella Zeltserman: “Creation”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 4: Ruth Anderson Donnovan; “o, the fingering wind”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 5: Gay Garrison; “Off Beat”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 6: Alice Major; “Expanding Space”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 7: Anna Marie Sewell; “First Dance
- Line 8: Douglas Elves; “New Grammar”; 2009 Anthology
- Line 9: Naomi McIlwraith; From her Bio in 2006 Anthology
- Line 10: Julie Robinson; “An Odd Consolation”; 2008 Anthology
- Line 11: Richard Davies; “of lust and latte”; 2001 Anthology

BEAUTIFULLY SENT

BY CANDACE DUIKER

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Falling” (2021 Anthology) BY CANDACE DUIKER

A Greek goddess spilled the moon
across the sky.

In the river of shimmer
your breath was here again.

A Greek goddess spilled the moon
across the sky.

In the river of shimmer
your breath was here again.

My heart took the leap
you stood beautifully unbroken.

Almost angel, and just this side of human.

You were real again.
That's how I saw you under the raspberry colored willows
knee deep in the wheat fields.

My heart took the leap
you stood
unbroken.

That's how you were made
my Dad,
your spirit most beautifully sent.

THE WRITING IMPERATIVE

BY S.E. INGRAHAM

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “How can I keep from writing” (2006 Anthology) BY CONSORCIA LEONARDO MENDOZA

How can I keep from writing?
When there is sublime poetry
I can pluck from the many hemlines of my dreams.
How can I keep from writing?
When there is poetry all around us
And life itself is poetry.

For two years, many excuses kept me from putting
pen to paper: the plague that’s plagued us — literally,
all the craziness that’s danced to the tune of Covid
and her scary accoutrements — you can get sick
enough to die from this virus, but the hospitals are
overflowing, medical staff stretched to breaking
and still maltreated.

How to stay well? Wash your hands often, keep six
feet apart, and wear a mask — simple, yes? If only.
Who knew it would become a political football-
cum-grenade, especially once a vaccine arrived
If you were old or immuno-compromised,
you could get jabbed as soon as the vaccine was ready.
Most old folks lined up post haste and were glad to do it.
But, social media posited — the shots weren’t safe,
so, no need to get the vaccine — even as hundreds,
nay, thousands, were dying still. To write seemed
a frivolous act.

Finally, it seemed we rounded a corner,
got a handle on Covid and her underlings.
Trusting we could get on with our lives,
make plans even, we started...

Before we could draw breath — the Russian President
decided things were too peaceful (it has been surmised)
and time to play rough, he began to invade Ukraine.
Oh, he pretended he was only occupying land and
cleansing that country of Nazis and other
undesirables. No one in the world believed any of
these existed. There was no mistaking his intent —
Putin was out for blood, and the more Ukrainians
he murdered, the happier he seemed to grow.

As if watching an accident unfold, I couldn’t tear
my eyes away from CNN even though watching bombs
drop on civilians — especially children — broke my
heart over and over, so much so, I thought it might
fall from my chest, irreparable at last. But — it was
time to write, I knew. Writing poetry addresses
the beauty in my life and the sadness also.
But I must remember to unpack my anger too
For nothing repairs my heart as much as words
I realized, how can I keep from writing? is
a question I’ve been avoiding for too long,
and the answer? I cannot, nor do I want to.
When there is poetry all around us
And life itself is poetry.

SCHADENFREUDE

BY AUDREY BROOKS

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM FROM “Schadenfreude” (2019 Anthology) BY S.E. INGRAHAM

Seder here, and drear… 
no cedars here, and still we must
pretend to fend

Putin brings terror
no allies come still we must
rise up and defend

Ukraine will endure
though snared like helpless rabbits
the people resist

As night sirens cry
subways fill and bombs destroy
holy innocents

A farce, those war “games”
history’s lessons unlearned
as families die

Schadenfreude friends!
the world plays as Ukraine burns
“not in my backyard”

The seder plate holds
bitter herbs, to hold our tears
as refugees flee

Keep the doors open
in case a messiah comes
we can only hope

In our children’s names
Stop Ukrainian genocide
in our children’s names

PSALM FOR MID-LIFE WOMAN

BY TRUDY GRIENAUER

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “She Lived a Woman” (2015 Anthology) BY RAYANNE HAINES and A 5/7/7 SYLLABLE RHYTHM FROM GARY GARRISON

suck life into your lungs
and exhale wonder

now that you’re this far
gather in the scattered parts
all the broken, holding whole

now that you’re woman
wring your sadness from your braids
claim your place in the blood line

now that you stand tall
sing the song only you hear
rooting into life’s current

now on your own feet
dance all holy with the grass
praise all moving with the wind

now in your power
suck life deep into your lungs
and exhale wonder

IN TRANSIT

BY DOROTHY LOWRIE

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “in transit” (2020 Anthology) BY TREVOR HUGHES

it’s frosty at the stop
wind bites

it’s frosty at the stop
wind bites
only two of us await
a door opens
angry words
she stumbles
down the steps
he leaves the shelter
as she enters
his eyes
judgement and fear
i move
give her space
away from the wind
in hell
the drugs have her
crawling with bugs
watching helplessly
she removes
her jacket, her shoes
too cold i say
you need your jacket
your shoes
eyes look at me
unseeing
she runs her hands
through her hair
i fear not of her but for her
running past me
in sock feet
to the door of the college
still open
push her clothes and shoes
under the seat
a door opens
to take me away
search my phone
find the number
college security
please look for her
please find her things
please, please be kind
help her
i pray over and over
for her lost soul
in transit
to i know not where.

HERE COMES ANOTHER OLD LADY

BY LOIS MARY HAMMOND

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “old ladies” (2019 Anthology) BY ANNE GERARD MARSHALL

there are old ladies & then
there are old ladies

Elise is five. I’m eating lunch and she’s refusing to
as is her fierce and fond habit.
“Grandma, you’re gonna die you know,” she announces,
looking at me as if I’ll be offed tomorrow morning,
“Yes, but not for a long time. I’m really healthy.”

How do I tell her ‑—
there are old ladies & then
there are old ladies

To be honest, I’m both.

One pocket freighted with righteous indignation
because the world is going to hell.
This I know because screens
sized for Papa Bear, Mamma Bear and Baby Bear
tell me so.

My other pocket heaped with kindnesses
given me and gathered year after year
waiting for me to pass them on,
scatter them and watch them bloom
so all shall be well
and all shall be well.

I favour one side over the other.
I ask Elise to dance.

WHERE SUMMER

BY ELLEN KARTZ

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Early Autumn” (2002 Anthology) BY ANDY MICHAELSON

I should go now, to find that place,
Where nothing dies
Where the sad beauty,
Of a dwindling summer is not
Come with me?

There must be places
where nothing ever dies,
where summer stretches long with shadow
until it reaches into our dreams.

Shall we meet there,
at that crossing of silhouettes,
at the bridge where now
becomes forever?

Could we gather like we used to,
like friends, like family?
Could we rest in one another’s silence
in that dwindling summer light?

Might it fill the hollow, friend,
the one that opened when you left?
There must be places, still,
where summer never dies.

SNOW EATER

BY KAYLEIGH CLINE

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Space and Silence” (2016 Anthology) BY NAOMI MCILWRAITH

The silence between warm and green;
The space between heartbeat and whisper. Eyes

open. […]

Chinook: the unwinterly wind, the
telling of transition, the breathy silence
passing through to give voice to the between
(not here, not there). Coast-born and warm
from descent, elsewhere-scented and
diasporic enough to inspire green

to journey up through the snow-crusts, the
mulch-crumbs — eat all that away. Space
sounds like this one wild breath between
calling the possible back to heartbeat,
then calling the hare to moult away white and
gift it as nest-linings, so the wind can whisper
through, a reveille for the eggbound: our eyes

are almost ready to open.

SEARCHING

BY JOAN C. SCHMIDT

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Core” (2018 ANTHOLOGY) BY WENDY JOY

I stripped down my throat
until my voice went to the trees

and there it lingered
in a stand of quaking aspens
teasing the small jumpy leaves
until they began to tremble and cry.
my voice was asked to depart and never return again

it next tried to shelter
among the soft pines on a mountainside
and requested protection from the northerly
winds that blew and the sharp snow that lashed.
the pines refused and shooed my dispirited voice away

my voice was then called
to rest within the rough branches of a tall oak
and asked if it could possibly stay there for as long
as the world continued to spin around on its axis.
but my voice had misheard the call and was ordered to go

a tiny echo then sifted towards my nomadic voice
and repeated for it to return to its home that it had forgotten.
it caused my startled voice to request forgiveness
for its wandering ways and for seeking the unattainable.
my voice then willingly returned from where it had once flown

FENCE

BY GUY CHAMBERS

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Picket” (2019 Anthology) BY KERRY MULHOLLAND

A promise, over time, is a picket fence.
      -- Kerry Mulholland

  a pledge
  in faith

needle in words
silently written
to a worth

railing to a fence
tether to the stake

gibberish staggered
facing outward
in left field

time over and over
blind to the wind

let alone
faded in faith
give to the hedge

just a picket fence
with a pledge

words to the ledge
that’s not to be
that’s not to be foreseen

DESTINY

BY MAX VANDERSTEEN

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “In Response to My Aunt Velma’s Poem: Dreamer” (2011 Anthology) BY SANDRA MOONEY-ELLERBECK

And I followed trails that stopped
before they arrived anywhere –
lost myself in what was expected of me,
but I find myself again and again, within
dream invention and time still a sea to sail.

Through times I really tried for you and you
and for my sons and some times others too
what dubious dreams went undelivered,
were detoured or, alas, unconsidered.
Oft laid aside were things I’d wished to do,
though aims nor motives ever were untrue.
As love both drove and subdued desires,
responsibilities and reactions,
provisions, careers and consequences
impelled the subsequent choice of actions.

During a life’s quest for identity,
not often consumed with defining me,
destinations of which I keenly dreamed
remained more often than not unredeemed,
and ambitions in which I had believed
continued often to be unachieved.
Seemed servile striver was my destiny
yet please don’t let these words be misconstrued,
‘twas my heart that acted as pathfinder,
these roads I’ve chosen and no routes are rued.

Independence gained through now loosened bonds
opens portals and the spirit responds
to diversions at one time not eschewed
which now can be spontaneously pursued.
Blessed with latitude, happiness, good health,
and contempt for inequities of wealth
‘tis time to amend the search for gainful ends,
to write for our rights and equality,
explore the exquisite global wonders,
and tend to needs of our humanity.

HOMAGE

BY LYNN GALE

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM "deer” (2020 Anthology) BY KIM BLAIR

but deer knew he was loved
what nutcracker and the other toys thought of him didn’t matter
he snuggled closer to rabbit as they sat in the moonlight
his single antler pointing to the stars

the child in front of the dryer
watches the blanket (quilty) and stuffed dog (Bob)
tumble as they dry
little boy drool has been washed away
(along with a few stuffed animal fibres)
lumps of batting limply clinging
between shreds of threadbare fabric

the wear shows a shadow of the boy sleeping on his side
Bob under one arm
quilty warming the back of his neck
a bandage on Bob’s arm from the scrape on the gravel
a cast on his legs just like the boy’s
(to stretch his tendons so he doesn’t walk on his toes)
his buddy in life, sharing the effects of everyday living
of growing, of changing

and when the boy grew into a man
Bob and quilty were lovingly tucked
into a warm Rubbermaid bin, with stars and moon painted
under the lid so they wouldn’t be afraid

to rest and to wait

along with deer, rabbit, and a few assorted memories
other toys (not chosen) expressed their displeasure
at what was being saved as special
in great disgust, nutcracker sniffed “highly inferior”

but deer knew he was loved
what nutcracker and the other toys thought of him didn’t matter
he snuggled closer to rabbit as they sat in the moonlight
his single antler pointing to the stars

Bob and quilty knew they were loved too
and awakened with joy
to welcome a new little boy who they knew would love them
as much as his father had

GUILELESS

BY JOSEPHINE LORE

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “The Weight of Your Words” (2021 Anthology) BY LOIS HAMMOND

The weight of your words—
  not the ones you speak,
  the ones swirling round your head
  and falling to your feet—
{…}
The odd weightless one
flutters and lifts
to be read against the blue

autumn cool
a swirl of auburn, ochre
a carillon of thoughts

resound through slate sky

the wind abates
thoughts waver over earth
then settle among pansies
tiger-faced—

  purple for passion
    purple for pain
  smudges of hope, yellow
    smudges


in winter, thoughts re-arrange
in sharp-sided symmetries
lace bare branches

melt colourless
where cold meets flesh

cold flesh

in spring, fresh thoughts fly in
on the wing of nuthatch, of thrush
weave themselves into nests

naked as fledglings they open
black beak to relentless sky
to be read against blue—
wordless cry

wordless cry

summer; time’s hands finally stilled
thoughts sunk in last year’s soil
blossom pink, mauve
their fragrance rises up into the sky

guileless as damselfly

NOSTALGIA

BY VIVIAN ZENARI

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Druthers” (2020 Anthology) BY RICHARD DAVIES

And I remember
running as fast as I could
up the long hill leaving
the others far behind

Accumulation of the dead
below the picture window,
on the dinner plate.
someone said go for a walk
while the sun’s still up.
the hards dismember
the softs rapturously.
time jitters forward and back
fire of earth becomes an ember
And I remember.

Gravel gathers in the gutter
after the sander passes,
layers the concrete in
grandchildren and granduncles,
slice my feet in summertime
as I knew they would.
no genes in pockets to toss,
RNA unravels ghost moss.
no way to flee this neighborhood
running as fast as I could.

The centre buries the edges
drowns the dead
at the foot of the climb.
humps and mumps
from low dogs and sick children
gnawed bones and throats heaving.
Blind numb bland anosmia
cannot hear fore or aft
mortality heralds my deaving
up the long hill leaving.

Censure crowns the folly
of lifting too heavy a weight.
nothing neither negates nor narrows
the scope of the thinkable
as the prophets tell us
outcomes encroach the wīnd
time stands on alien ground.
the bled sun bleaches
what memory has mined
the others far behind.

DROP STITCH *(RE-MIX)

BY BRENDA GUNN

INSPIRED BY VARIOUS POEMS FROM THE STROLL OF POETS ANTHOLOGY 2021

All that I have lost along the way with or without malice aforethought,
purpose, or calculated risk, comprises a rather lengthy list . . .

*“in particular”

cigarette smoke trails
soft-blue
behind closed doors

I venture outside while the house sleeps,
no home
for the weak of heart, handpicked along gravel roads.

An endurance of memory – Old Spice, cigarillo, vodka
the sharpness
of your sweetness behind truck windows, grim lessons

in humanity’s dark side. To other things, forgetting;
a dream,
suspended illusion of time, doubling back, grab hold

of the darker spaces of the sky; mutter uneasy
apologies . . .
Lives changed, I moved on.

With thanks and appreciation to (in order of appearance): *(Anthology pg. 41 – Pat Haiste?), Hank Binnema, Richard Davies, Kim Blair, Laura Dennis, Laurie Anne Fuhr, Ken Brown, Kayleigh Cline, Dolly Dennis, Candace Duiker, David Fraser, Janis Dow, Leslie Dawson, Jo-Ann Godfrey, Alison Akgungor, Corine Demas, and Audrey Brooks.

THE GREATEST POVERTY IS NOT TO LIVE IN A PHYSICAL WORLD

BY DAN KNAUSS

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Sketch” (2020 Anthology) BY KIM MANNIX

So many mornings, ice or midsummer valley light
More than half your life in darkness
This morning, morning’s opposite, ashen.
Every rough draft is a sketch.

Cast a line into the current, midstream sun’s diamonds,
dragonflies and stones skipping under rusting girders,
Kinderhoek creek will run run run to Atlantic —
wriggling toward something, draw a line.

Dead reckoning is peacemaking with the heart’s hope.
We must reckon with the dead to know our place.
No home but movement always, storm or calm, trace
from one star to the next with your finger.

Dust off and dance in your old shoes,
before full moon quickens the frozen sumac and milkweed,
birches attending your heartbreak —
What does it mean and does it mean something?

POEMS THAT I SAVOUR

BY DAVID FRASER

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Poems That I Savour” (2021 Anthology) BY L.A. MCFADDIN

There are poems that I savour.
Reading every line
Over and over. Poetry
Is a balm
For my battered heart
And weary soul.
Finding beauty
In the prose.
For a world
That can be so dark.
I seek solace in the words.
Wrapping me in a Blanket.
Comforting me
In the storm.

-- l.a. mcfaddin

There are poems that I savour
reading every line over and over.

Over and over, lines I read,
I Savour. There are poems.

Poetry is a balm for my battered
heart and weary soul

I seek solace in the words
Solace words I seek.

Finding beauty in the prose
For a world that can be so dark.

Finding this world in darkness
Prose be to beauty.

Wrapped in this blanket

Poems over and over
There I savour reading every line.

CHRISTMAS IS A MOTHER

BY DAVID C. BRYDGES

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Mother Christmas” (2020 Anthology) BY GERALD ST. MAUR

Mother Christmas, early from her bed,
conjures up the feast, and thanks are said.

Two weeks away from Christmas day,
there is a pastry floured ghost whose
devout workday begins in the kitchen.
Where the signs by the sink say it all,
“Grandma’s Kitchen (tasters welcome)”
and another “Kindness Matters.”

She is my mother who tirelessly
shaped and measured so my traditional
tempting tasty treasures.
The Christmas cake with rum basking,
shortbread cookies, and our perennial
favourite those Rice Krispies treats.

Above the stove, I touch the old cookie can
that has no warmth since Mom has gone.
Yet inside my heart, a flame of remembrance
still smolders and smiles at all she gave.

Gratitude and grace embrace the good
Christmas times when family knew
where the hearth heart originated.
For Christmas is a mother whose magic
knew how to bake heaven on earth.

LOST, FOUND, AND NOT FORGOTTEN

BY MYRNA GARANIS (in attendance all those years)

INSPIRED BY Stroll of Poets venues, 1991 to 1996: Whyte Avenue and vicinity


Alhambra Books, Aspen Books, Afterwords, Akashik Books, L'Alliance Francaise

Bjarne's Books, the Bagel Tree, Black Dog Freehouse

Block 1912, Breadstick Cafe, the Blue Nile

Cafe Mosaics, Campa Java, Cafe Vertigo, Continental Treat,

Courtney Blake's, Common Woman Books

Earth's General Store, Edmonton Bookstore

Grabba Java, Greenwoods Bookshoppe, Hanratty's Tea Shop, Hugh McColl's,

Johann Strauss, Latte Cafe, Mama's Bistro, Misty Mountain Gourmet Coffee

Orlando Books, the Princess Theatre

Stanley Carroll Boutique, Strathcona Books, Sunflower Gallery

Le Tastevin, Varscona Books

IF A PLACE TRANQUIL

BY KIM MANNIX

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Upon Reaching the Summit” (2018 Anthology) BY JOSH LUUKKONEN

Everything here is thin:
Breath, light, air.

This morning I want stillness
or something as close to it
as my octopus mind will allow.
More flailing arms grew
while I slept, grasping
for an anchor.

“What grounds the difference
between time and space?” asks
the physicist on the smart radio station,
but I can’t hear the answer
through the whirling.

I should know better than
to put the profound before coffee, but
Everything here is thin:
Breath, light, air.

Here is this kitchen.
Here is this moment
at the intersection of one
slow crisis and the next,
Here is this grind, daily —
dark roast beans and
burrowing worry,

and I am seeking.

Here is a summit,
I hope,
on a mountain we
won’t have to climb again.
The top of a curve,
inhale. Look out, below.
Hold what light exists
at this sunrise and the next.

MORNING AGAIN

BY DON PERKINS

INSPIRED BY LINES FROM “Morning” (2016 Anthology) BY ELLEN KARTZ

line-ups grow in coffee shops
people wait for buses
shaking off sleep with a shiver
turning dreams outward to an eastern sky

And as if the Creator’s eyes
reopen from the brief flick
of another in an infinity of blinks,
the predictable routine resumes:
In a gathering stumble of starts and stops,
line-ups grow in coffee shops

out of mutual singular need or habit,
collective affirmation of membership
in a community of something –
something – some continued beginning. Then
in other companionable crushes,
people wait for buses

or collect in car pools
or together take familiar walks
to regular points of departure
for familiar destinations, their personal somewheres,
once more wading time’s sourceless, endless river,
once more shaking off sleep with a shiver

of expectation that this dawning everyday
will be the one unusual in their experience,
will be the one unlike the others,
the one with that cliché twist of fate --
each sip, each start and stop, each step, its own brave try
turning dreams outward to an eastern sky.