The air is unfair
The carbon is thick
Government health says
Shut your mouth. You won’t get sick,
As my lungs get coated
Old lungs tell the story
Each cough gets noted
As I continue to worry.
Air once was oxygen
But now is soup
Breathing capital C Carcinogen
Is worse than poop.
In the bus garage
I knew something was off
With diesel fume barrage
All I could do—cough.
But it is the brain
That needs fresh air
Yet the more I complain
It seems more become unaware.
by J.J. Lokshtanov
Aquarium, aquarium
That was the place
Where I am.
But now
In backward somersault
I swear I am.
Inspired by Governor-General’s award winning poet Cecily Nicholson’s spasmodic book, Wayside Sang, I present my Sunday poem, Sung Wayside:
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Never won a Governor-General’s award for poetry.
I rest my case.
The inspiration for this villanelle came from a recent Supreme Court of Canada decision, and from the Westmount Poetry Group.
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law? /
Particularly when eyes suffer a shortage of time /
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw. /
In most cases judges flip a coin, ya
I would do the same if I had a dime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Life’s lessons do not help preclude making flaw
I’ve discovered this often in my prime
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.
When holy court slams Vice they rub me raw
Flexing one’s freedom should not be a crime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Most decisions are filled with fluff and guffaw
The worst part is: The fuckers don’t rhyme
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.
Sitting in chambers supports the final straw
Talk, Talk, Talk. Dysfunction rules sublime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.
Good morning to you my jelly friend
Upon your deliciousness I depend
Annual joy I yearly defend
On lips upon chin
You’ve begat fairest social trend
Where no belly goes thin.
Your birth unknown from a baker wise
Your filling fills up a child’s eyes
Your taste no honest man can despise
If racks run bare
Another batch of yeast will rise
To fight despair.
Upon your lifting out from oil
The aroma divine, texture royal
There’s never been a one to spoil
As all get et
No bag is needed just sheet of foil
For none’s grown old yet.
In the palm of my hungry hand
You leave a mark a fatty band
There is no worry small or grand
You disappear
Upon my gut’s command
O save me dear.
As stickiness descends on my bite
I catch a mouthful of sugar white
As my exploding buds ignite
As I devour
The sweetest gluten in my sight
I thank farmers for flour.
Surrounding jelly, soft dough sings
The combination in winter brings
The pleasurablest things
I need another
And though the dough has greasèd wings
No pastry I’d druther.
After six I fear I might puke
My partner offers stern rebuke
I smile, I burp like richest duke
As acids blow
And swirl, I catch long fretful look
Suffer no woe.
Pączki, sufganiyot, berliner
So good out but better when inner
For none can I wait to get in ‘er,
I know for fact
Who eats them’s a winner
Red fruit jam-packed.
In this world there can be only peace
If donut availability doth increase
For every tongue needs a little grease;
War will abate somewhat
When all human beings get their piece
Of blessèd jelly donut.
Lokshtanov 