Jack in the Box
(A poetic response to "Sweet Like a Crow" by Michael Ondaatje)

Your voice is like a hidden predator, lurking in the tall grass,

waiting patiently to strike.

Like a teacher counting backwards in the last seconds of a test.

Like the muffled sound of the audience as you wait to mount the stage.

Like a character in a horror movie about to enter the basement,

unaware of the murderer concealed

in the shadows of the staircase.

Like an ascending minor scale.

Staring intently at a jack in the box and listening to the

falsely sweet tune as you wait for the jack to be freed of its prison.

Like waking up on a Saturday morning to finally discover

what will happen to your favourite character,

only to be met by a string of commercials.

Like watching someone blow a balloon and knowing

that no matter how many times they deny it,

the balloon has reached its maximum capacity.

Like a single key on a broken piano being pressed repeatedly.

The monotonous voice of the lonely robot,

trapped in the confines of an iphone and

freed only by the accidental press of the home button.

Playing a game of tag on the playground at lunch

and being interrupted by the school bell, calling you inside.

Like walking down a deserted street at midnight,

like a football being thrown at your stomach.

Like when I was standing on a bright white line amidst a sea of blue, 

listening for the telltale click of a music player, and the grim voice of a man,

reminding us that our test begins in thirty seconds.

A Summer Storm
(A poetic response to William Carlos Williams' poem "The Red Wheelbarrow"

so much depends

upon

a crippled Aspen

tree

broken down and

conquered

by the merciless

wind

A Diamond in the Dust

(Poetic response to "The Metaphor") 

Through the swaying bulrushes,

a flock of grey fowl swim. 

Their ruffled feathers and dull coats

seem to merge into a single cloud of grey.

But in the center of the cloud

lies a large, gaping hole,

Through which the sun shines bright,

like a daisy among the weeds. 

With its regale head poised 

and white feathers gleaming, 

the swan glides with ease through the current, 

graceful and elegant amongst the dull fowl. 

Raising my rifle, I gaze at the swan 

as it gives a final stretch of its wings, 

and marvel at its beauty. 

Like a diamond in the dust, 

It's the perfect target. 

Amongst the Shadows

(Poetic response to “The Sound of Hollyhocks”)

The dark is a curious thing.

The way the countless shades of night interweave,

The colors and shapes distort themselves,

Into an endless and unbreakable expanse of black.

The shadows that slip and slide against one another

Dancing with the musty, cold air.

The feeling of being secluded in your own world

While constantly being observed.  

My doctor said I could leave the dark if I wanted.

That if I tried hard enough, I would see daylight once again.

But I know a lie when I hear one.

I chose to live amongst the shadows.

To fully immerse myself in this eternal night.

To be engulfed by this black tide of darkness.

Why?

Because, despite what everyone says,

 There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Blood Red Wine

Such a beautiful thing it is, the wine.

As I place the second glass on the tray,

My eye catches on my graceful, slender fingers.

So out of place, performing such a cold-blooded task.

Back and forth, back and forth.

The smooth, red liquid caresses the sides of the glass,

Sloshing gently from side to side,

As I draw nearer to my victim.

Such a beautiful thing it is, the wine.

Two deep, crimson wells of perfection.

Both so shallow, yet so deep.

Both seemingly identical, yet vitally different.

I take a glass, she takes the other

We raise the cups to our lips.

She smiles at me, as my knees buckle.

I chose the wrong glass.

The light is already fading,

My eyes beginning to close.

But I watch as the red trickles between the broken glass.

Such a beautiful thing it is, the wine.