Author Archives: wren


the tunnel







take a seat, i’ve got two



couch potato





montreal and listpoem, nyx and wren


hung out to dry

montreal's street team, listpoem is in your backyard.

listpoem knows about your underwear


no faces


bring me the sky




building dreams


The Look


Just Cos’

window sill

sometimes the most interesting things can be found on the inside of the pane.




you, me, effigy

lays: showcase of a collector

with low funds
in a strange city,
best lit among natural collections of the area.

siobhans get-a-way

old fashioned friends

the light lowered
words lessoned
a photo was snapped and then night came.

nyc subway myth is REAL

did you know that alligators live in the nyc subway system?
joyce hackett knew and so did amy vaillancourt.
vaillancourt made her way to new york.
she bought a ticket into the subway.
she began the waiting game.
for what?
new shoes? new pet?
few are ever sure of the intentions of amy until they have already become fruitful realizations.

Scarlett’s Mask

vespa fever

shark baby

fallen camera rises again


arrival of the salted summer month

in this sweet summer

in this wind and wake
on this beaming bow
on this life to take
in the last warm month
you salt excess fish
you’re brown and restless
keen to any wish
it’s the sought out height
oh the hearts thunder
you capture your light
for winter’s plunder

Duo tang

Upon a pivot they turn
Pursuing separate arcs
Definite, but together.

Maria Bulgaria

friend with heart,
happy birthday

in the wind

Faced with Plate


when you are staring yourself down

and it is scarier than you remember


two goons paying respect
as an alligator makes way


ghosts exiting

in quest for adventure
in a pile of sand
on a peninsula

safari suffice

you can place her in the city, but the safari stays.

not half full

all that was in the pool is on her mind

vaillancourt and toes.

if you seek a body a water
to cool your feathers,
you may run into amy
and her pet duck, toes.
they never leave each others side.
often, in pursuit of a sitting pond,
they must resort to hoping fences
and illegally quenching their thirsts.

mr. schuster

when i was young i had a teddy. i named him mr. schuster after the man across the street who had cancer and was going to die soon. I wanted his wife to ‘be okay’ when he died.

every night i slept with mr. schuster between my legs, like a preggers with a body pillow.
when the cancerous mr. schuster died, i didn’t tell his wife about my teddy. mr. schuster and i were too close, i didn’t want to share.

after high school mr. schuster and i parted ways. he wasn’t interested in university and even though i wasn’t either, i decided to go, in montreal.

i went to visit mr. schuster recently and he took me out to meet his friends.
it was a pretty wild night.

dandy lions

if you wake up planning to go to a castle

and find out it has been replaced by a condo
don’t cry in the rain
climb walls that outline a distant castle
a castle so far it is only in your mind
you can hide in the grass
romp in dandelion dander
loiter by highways
and all this will make you feel as grand as any ruined castle ruins

been a long time, your clothes or mine?

mustard and chartreuse
wending your way
burgeoning feathers loose
goodbye, you say


you may have been there before but not anymore


ISLAND a vernissage

Friday May 6


hand crafted cider, photography, vertical gardens, sculptures, paintings

not halloween

elements of fun (this time):

1 broken neck

1 apron
1 rain
1 excellent photographer
1 piece of translucent plastic
1 vanessa visit

crush it

oh, canada

immigration dreams:

i want to live, here.

the last of the newspaper boxes

it remains one of my favorite weekend routines, to fetch the sunday paper and something fresh for breakfast. then i lounge around in the early morning to read and wonder about the world, until people wake up and get excited to do things.


Merrily the feast I’ll make.
Today I’ll brew, tomorrow bake;
Merrily I’ll dance and sing,
For next day will a stranger bring.
Little does my lady dream
Rumpelstiltskin is my name!

les belles

Dear Grace and Adam, Siobhan and Dave, Ross and Tara, Eva and Craig, and Nic,

the ‘coon, the skateboard, the buildings, the photos, the beers, the cheeses, the walks, the dances, the sunshine, the queen of sheba cake, the softly boiled eggs, the brunch, the market, the apple, the ride, the crackers, the pate, the shore side.
much obliged.

stoic cowboy

lost in the 28th dimension

heathcliff’s harem

but the shadows rested longer, and the sunshine was more transient

ballooning with ideas



“No, it’s okay, I got it open myself.”


one shoe, alone in the alley, missing its usual friend.

my heart, your junk

my heart, your junk
and then across the farm point bridge.
Frankie lays watch on an eerie untouched hill
each rusting souvenir, chest forward, head strong,
remains unmovable, proud and lost, in Alcove.

pigeon life

pigeons sit on electrical wires, vests puffed, toes warming.
but, they are anxious there and take flight, only to become cold and lonely again, wanting return to their friendly wire

columba livia; the rock dove; the pigeon.

pigeons came across the atlantic as food, for colonists, starting in the 1600s.
these pretty, feral, winged, city-rats breed four to five times a year. there have been attempts to halt their successful reproduction with serious measures, like electrical fences and food stuffed with contraceptives.