Category: Arts

We shared boxes of bittersweet chocolate And bottled wine, to lift your spirits. Now that you’ve had your fill, Empty bottles rest at our feet, Catching the tears that fall from your cheeks, So as to keep the grass from wilting, And unread love letters Litter the ground like kindling, Forming a hearth that warms us. So, we feed it with roses, To keep the home fires burning.   Poem by: Fin

I’m the psychologist. The random person. The stranger that listens.   I am the whisper in the night, the shadow in the day, and the fear of fright.   I am the haunting dream, the whisper in the ear that says “you can do it, I know you can”.   I am the music box, or not. The clumsy ballerina that tries to spin in a full circle, full stop.   I am earth, wind, fire and sun.     Poem by: Sara Rebeca Palacios

When war has become the norm, And sending soldiers off to protect the vulnerable, Those born among the bombs and bloodshed, Who only know of fear and death, Unaware of the peace existing elsewhere, Has become a habit of the government, An expense, rather than a concern, We must question the future of our planet, And wonder if humanity really has its place Among the innocence of nature.   Poem by: Sophie Dufresne

We sported messy hair and scuffed knees From learning to do cartwheels at recess, Where grubby hands exchanged playing cards And wide eyes squinted When they looked at the sun. Remember how we used to play With those dolls? How we found their pouty red lips, And rosy cheeks so pretty? As I make eye contact with you Through the bathroom mirror, Your lashes are caked with mascara And black kohl liner, I notice a colouring book blankness To your cheeks. So, I lend you my blush in exchange For…

I feel at ease, When I hear you sing, With the refreshing feel that you always bring.   Your seldom cool touch, That I love so much, That brings life to my very skin.   Your petty coat is not of gold But it’s crystal clear, That is better than a drop of tear That we ourselves may over stare.   You shaped our lives There before we arrived, In our midst you always seem to exist.   When you walk, you whisper a lot, for being seen It is…

If I wanted to write something important, I would write about my grandmother, About how she is more mountain than woman, and how the “I love you” that lingers in the back of my throat belongs to her. Her voice is the only melody I will never grow tired of hearing; she sounds like a choir in the heart of a church. I turn her chest into a home, wrap my skin around her bones. I memorize the rhythm of her ribcage constantly collapsing with her lungs like waves crashing…