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Red Wine Arts 

Red Wine

“Pick your poison” You said as you poured the crimson liquor. Warm breeze, Grassy knees, The sun was out that day. The grass grew long, untamed, Behind our picture-perfect house. Our white picket fence, Was meant to keep the monsters out. “That lawn needs a good mowing” You said as your belly swelled with juice. And I? Well, I complied. I comply with all your words, Yet you still rid my body of its crimson liquor. The sun broke through the clouds, Overhead our jungled yard. It reminded me of…

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Amours Printanières Arts 

Amours Printanières

Il me semble que parfois le temps s’arrête, que rien n’importe Que la pollution, les guerres, les humains, l’histoire, les humains, la galaxie, la nature On s’en fout Rien n’importe On pourrait en finir maintenant et ça ne changerait rien de rien Nous ne regretterions rien après tout Mort et vie seraient synonymes Mais après, il y a toi Les soleils de ma tête s’éteignent, Seulement une étoile, primitive, honteuse, heureuse Reste là, à brûler seule dans l’obscurité Et tandis qu’elle brûle, je me fiche de sortir de l’épave qui…

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Not Your Typical Love Poem Arts 

Not Your Typical Love Poem

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

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Who I Am Arts 

Who I Am

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

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Normalizing War Arts 

Normalizing War

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

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Marino Vanier Alumni 


Dear fish, You don’t bark, you don’t talk you have no voice you cannot hurt you swim and eat and that’s all you do.   But guess what humans do, hurt and cheat judge and lie stab you in the back and run   Fishes follow your finger they do not bite they will never make your heart bleed they do nothing nothing, nothing, nothing   They’re colorful fun to look at relaxing   How different are they from humans, huh?   Poem by: Lara Kaafarani

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Nostalgia Arts 


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…

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Naturally Driven Arts 

Naturally Driven

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…

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The love behind all of my poetry Arts 

The love behind all of my poetry

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…

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