roger-turner
Canadian
Writer in residence...lol. Actually, just someone who started writing for fun and enjoyment. I now have one book in three languages, and colouring book form. I also have two other books available and a new colouring book in process. / / Happily married to the love of my life. I have been on here almost 5 years now, and although the counter is no longer working....I have well over a million reads on this site. / / I treasure the friendships I have made on here and look forward to more comments from old and new friends alike.
Your breath beclouded the windowpanes
and your eyes looked a thousand miles away
My mouth was full of unanswered questions
Sometimes all I see is a dream I once knew
so close — yet so far beyond
Reaching out from the inside, as far as I can touch
Feeling your skin whisper from where you’ve been
I close my eyes and let the memories in
But no matter how hard I squint —
I can’t see why you’re gone
Your heartbeat fills the hovering silence,
but I struggle to make out the unspoken words
An audible sigh fills the silence between heartbeats ;
the memory of your hot breath on the windowpanes
has turned to tears
The sheets are cold as winter, where you once glowed
the pull of the full moon leaves my eyes wide open
Dappled moonbeams shimmer on the windowsill
I hear the waking silence between my heartbeats —
… but you’re no longer here
7h ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 3:42 PM UTC
We walked along the rivers margin
alone together fettered by a musical hope
The weight life’s’ unburned ashes glowing,
hearts so full of unanswered questions and,
still there was a darkness flooding the light
Hold forth the journeys twisted line
circling back to a recent moment gone past
If its meant to be written , if it be thy will
we strolled heart on sleeve ; empathy bespoken
unconnected joined distant horizons
bridged, touching souls frayed and unraveled
Demurely searching ; reservedly construing
unspoken without intention
A lost bird with wing broken ;
a student learning about love unbroken
An unrequited teacher of unknown learners devotion
A wounded healer singing through catastrophic woundings ;
yet “it’s the singer not the song“ all along
I've walked this same old fomenting river’s margin
a motherless child on the run learning on healing
Singing alone, the unaccompanied songs once strummed
Remembering to remember a rock skips across still waters ;
the ripples of its passing go on and on
― an unbroken circle ―
The eternal continuum, only a mother’s love
© harlon rivers ... December 16. 2016 all rights reserved
7h ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC
More of this and more of that,
more of everything,
but those promises mean nothing,
and that's what we'll get.
Kemi and Keir could be
sitting over a beer
fixing the economy,
while he sits in the rain
dreaming of financial stability.
they're all at it,
we get it
the cookie jar on the gravy train is
being raided again.
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 6:27 AM UTC
To set a goal and be "class clown"
Is not something good, I'm stating
I was the one who wrote his words
I was the "class clown in waiting"
A yard stick and a winter toque
A voyaguer I now was
To inherit a new character
As I aged, became a loss
Was bullying the reason for
Hiding behind a mask
Or was it something deeper
That made me take this task
A true class clown has no regrets
Of what they say or do
Their only goal is laughter
And that they'll get from you
Attention seeking misfits
Not in my book, there was no way
You couldn't be a misfit
And say what they would say
A true "class clown"'s an artist
Knowing when to make a scene
Knowing when a situation
Needs a lift, or at least a lean
Voices with strange accents
Silly faces set the stage
You get the class all laughing
While the teacher fumes with rage
Move on from the "class clown" name
And pursue it with a crowd
Do you really crave attention?
Do you want the laughter loud?
Or were you starved for some attention
Something you never got at home
Were you troubled as a child
Did it cause your mind to roam?
Were you deficient in your memory?
Couldn't handle work at school?
Or did you really crave the laughter?
Because on stage you could be cool
I envy people who were clowns
There were many in my life
To just be free with who they were
To dance upon the knife
I never was the top banana
I was always second, on the side
I always worked well as the set-up
But I came along and rode the ride
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 3:35 PM UTC
Another day, another beating
Into himself, he was retreating
His parents did not call a meeting
It couldn't happen to our son
Every day he came home bloodied
His clothes all torn his face all muddied
The family name was being sullied
It couldn't happen to our son
Remember Chicken Little
The Sky is Falling Down
This surely couldn't happen
Not here in our small town
Chicken Little told a tale
But, they only saw the sun
Chicken Little told his story
Now, Chicken Little's got a gun
Every afternoon they'd wait
Four of them out by the gate
They left early, best not be late
It couldn't happen to our son
Our son would not ever fight
To say he does, would not be right
But, sometimes he comes home a sight
It can't be what you're thinking
Remember Chicken Little
The Sky is Falling Down
This surely couldn't happen
Not here in our small town
Chicken Little told a tale
But, they only saw the sun
Chicken Little told his story
Now, Chicken Little's got a gun
Finally he'd had enough
Even though he was not tough
He was made of sterner stuff
And he showed it on the news
Chicken Little took a gun
He was showing everyone
Now, was time to have some fun
He took out twenty two
Remember Chicken Little
The Sky is Falling Down
This surely couldn't happen
Not here in our small town
Chicken Little told a tale
But, they only saw the sun
Chicken Little told his story
Now, Chicken Little's got a gun
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
Stopped into a back roads diner
Somewhere just off Carolina
Highway thirty three
Sign said "open", I went in
Pushed the RC handle made of tin
Not a soul around that I could see
Waitress came out from the back
Name plate said her name was "Jack"
I'm glad I came in
Ordered up some milk and pie
This waitress sure did catch my eye
Pushing that RC ad made of tin
Told her that I was passing through
Not staying long, had things to do
Smiling, she said "You'll stay"
I said I'' need a place to rest
She named one place...the best
Out by the bay
There's not much to do round here
We only serve three kinds of beer
and the Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
It goes down as smooth as ever
Turn your insides straight to leather
That Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
"Jack" sat down and asked my story
told her, "lots of pressure, lots of worry"
Don't worry *** it'll go
I asked her how she could just say that
Took off my coat and then my ball hat
Just how was she to know
She said "I read people when they're here"
Some folks stay, some disappear
You'll be here a while
She said "you're driving time is over"
"I think you'll end up, as the new owner"
"Of this place"...with a smile
I said "there's no people here to sell to"
"What the heck would I do"
owning this with no one here at all
She laughed and said "I am agreeing"
But you are looking but not seeing
Money's made behind the yonder wall
There's not much to do round here
We only serve three kinds of beer
and the Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
It goes down as smooth as ever
Turn your insides straight to leather
That Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
She said it was a truck stop diner
That sold the best ***** in all Carolina
Carolina zoom zoom in the back
Recipe's been here for ages
Brewed real slow, distilled in stages
Always forty jugs out on the rack
We've sold to Robert Johnson and Bocephus
You may choose to not believe this
I wouldn't lie about that fact
The diner never makes much money
But, the back room, there's the honey
sure as i know I'm called Jack
She said she lived in an old trailer
That she traded with a sailor
For a case five years ago
Moved it back on up the hill
There she could watch on the still
If I bought, she'd have to go
I thought a while, made two offers
Money to fill up her coffers
And she had to stay
She smiled, asked me if I'm certain
Did I mean it, or was I just flirtin'
I told her I was set to pay
There's not much to do round here
We only serve three kinds of beer
and the Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
It goes down as smooth as ever
Turn your insides straight to leather
That Carolina Zoom Zoom
we make in the back room
I've been the owner fifteen years
I changed my life, by changing gears
Jack is still with me
Thank god I stopped in to this diner
Back in the back roads off Carolina
Highway thiry three
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
BRB, LOL
*** what the hell?
Can't today's kids learn to spell?
The things they write
I cannot tell
Has education
Gone to hell?
Can someone out there help me?
I can't read what they've written down
They're writing's really rotten
Penmanship's a basic skill
That most kids have forgotten
**** BRB
404 AND BBC
These don't mean a thing to me
Can someone out there help me?
Spellcheck is their holy grail
Without this app, most kids would fail
There'd be no words in tales they tell
Can someone out there help them?
I read a letter I received
The writing I could not believe
I've seen better on my sleeve
Can someone out there read this?
GFN, GFAP
FAQ, ASAP
Explain what I just wrote to me
Can someone out there help....please?
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
Dave was cleaning out a shelf behind the counter at the Vinyl Café when Kenny Wong arrived carrying a battered notebook held together with some hockey tape, and brown packing tape, some loose staples and a prayer or two.
"Look what I found," said Kenny.
Dave looked up. "If that's evidence, burn it."
"It's our list."
Dave's face went pale.
Every boy has a list. Not a written list. A mental list. A record of all the things that seemed like excellent ideas right up until the moment they weren't.
Kenny, unfortunately, had written theirs down.
On the front cover, in crooked pencil, were the words: "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men."
Dave groaned.
"We spelled 'becoming' wrong," said Kenny.
"That is not the problem."
They sat at the counter flipping pages.
There were checkmarks beside things like building ramps for bicycles, riding shopping carts downhill, testing whether frozen puddles could support a person, and seeing who could hold their breath the longest.
Every page contained proof that boys possess confidence far in excess of useful knowledge.
Kenny laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool.
"Remember the cardboard sleds?"
Dave nodded. "I still have a scar shaped like Saskatchewan."
"And the bicycle jump?"
"Which bicycle jump?"
Kenny thought for a moment.
"Good point."
About then Max wandered into the Café looking for a cookie and some advice.
He found neither.
Instead he found Kenny and Dave staring at the notebook.
"What's that?" asked Max.
Dave and Kenny exchanged a glance.
It was the sort of glance that has launched countless regrettable adventures.
"History," said Kenny.
"Very important history," said Dave.
Twenty minutes later they were seated around a table while Kenny explained that before the internet, boys entertained themselves by making mistakes in person, without the aid of tik tok, or any of the other platforms that now put stupid ideas in young boys heads.
Max was fascinated.
Dave kept adding disclaimers.
"Most of these were terrible ideas."
"Very terrible," agreed Kenny.
Then he smiled. "But memorable, man were they memorable. Not just by us either. The police, the neighbors, teachers and your Grandma. She never forgot."
Max spent the afternoon listening to stories about cardboard toboggans, homemade forts, bicycle crashes, and experiments that ended with somebody's mother yelling from a porch, or police cars driving past slowly if they happened to see Dave or Kenny walking together.
The stories grew larger with every telling.
By the time Kenny finished, Dave and Kenny sounded less like children and more like poorly supervised stuntmen.
Max listened with wide eyes.
The next morning, Dave found Max in the kitchen holding a nine-volt battery.
"What are you doing?" asked Dave.
"Science."
Dave should have recognized the danger immediately.
Unfortunately, "science" was exactly what he and Kenny had called most of their mistakes.
A short time later Max appeared at the Café looking puzzled.
"I think my retainer is acting funny," he said.
"Funny how?" asked Kenny.
Max tilted his head.
Somewhere, faintly, through the metal in the retainer came the crackling sound of a distant radio station.
Kenny nearly inhaled his coffee.
Dave stared.
A voice emerged from Max's mouth.
"...and now today's weather..."
Max looked alarmed.
Kenny looked delighted.
"He's picking up AM radio!"
"He's not a radio," said Dave.
The weather report continued.
Max opened and closed his mouth.
The signal got louder.
Kenny was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.
"This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."
"No," said Dave. "The greatest thing you've ever seen was when Jimmy Peters launched himself into Mrs. Callahan's rhubarb patch."
"Second greatest."
Max stood perfectly still.
"Can you make it stop?"
Before Dave could answer, the front door opened.
Morley walked in carrying groceries.
She stopped.
Max was standing rigidly.
Kenny was laughing.
Dave looked guilty.
The radio forecast was coming from somewhere in the room.
Morley immediately understood more than she wanted to.
"What happened?"
Nobody spoke.
"Dave."
"It's not exactly what it looks like."
"What does it look like?"
"Two middle-aged men accidentally created a human transistor radio."
Morley put down the groceries.
"Why?"
Dave pointed at Kenny.
Kenny pointed at Dave.
Max pointed at the notebook.
Morley picked it up.
She read the title.
She closed her eyes.
"Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men."
The silence that followed was profound.
"You showed him this?"
"For historical, educational purposes," said Kenny.
"Educational and historical ," said Dave.
"Educational?" said Morley.
"Mostly."
Morley flipped through the pages.
Each page made her expression worse.
"You two survived this?"
"Barely," said Dave.
"This explains a lot," said Morley.
She handed the notebook back.
"New rule."
Dave didn't like the sound of that.
Kenny liked it even less.
"From now on," said Morley, "if either of you wants to teach Max life lessons, I approve them first."
"That seems extreme," said Kenny.
"You turned my son into an AM radio station. Nobody listens to AM anymore, so....I don't what I should be madder about."
"Fair point."
Max suddenly perked up.
"Traffic report coming."
Everyone listened.
Sure enough, a traffic report emerged from his retainer.
Morley sat down.
Even she had to laugh.
Not much.
But enough.
Dave looked relieved.
Kenny looked proud.
Max looked famous.
And somewhere in a drawer at the Vinyl Café sat an old notebook containing all the reasons boys should never be left unsupervised—and all the reasons they usually are.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 7:37 PM UTC
Dave was cleaning out a shelf behind the counter at the Vinyl Café when Kenny Wong arrived carrying a battered notebook held together with some hockey tape, and brown packing tape, some loose staples and a prayer or two.
"Look what I found," said Kenny.
Dave looked up. "If that's evidence, burn it."
"It's our list."
Dave's face went pale.
Every boy has a list. Not a written list. A mental list. A record of all the things that seemed like excellent ideas right up until the moment they weren't.
Kenny, unfortunately, had written theirs down.
On the front cover, in crooked pencil, were the words: "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men."
Dave groaned.
"We spelled 'becoming' wrong," said Kenny.
"That is not the problem."
They sat at the counter flipping pages.
There were checkmarks beside things like building ramps for bicycles, riding shopping carts downhill, testing whether frozen puddles could support a person, and seeing who could hold their breath the longest.
Every page contained proof that boys possess confidence far in excess of useful knowledge.
Kenny laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool.
"Remember the cardboard sleds?"
Dave nodded. "I still have a scar shaped like Saskatchewan."
"And the bicycle jump?"
"Which bicycle jump?"
Kenny thought for a moment.
"Good point."
About then Max wandered into the Café looking for a cookie and some advice.
He found neither.
Instead he found Kenny and Dave staring at the notebook.
"What's that?" asked Max.
Dave and Kenny exchanged a glance.
It was the sort of glance that has launched countless regrettable adventures.
"History," said Kenny.
"Very important history," said Dave.
Twenty minutes later they were seated around a table while Kenny explained that before the internet, boys entertained themselves by making mistakes in person, without the aid of tik tok, or any of the other platforms that now put stupid ideas in young boys heads.
Max was fascinated.
Dave kept adding disclaimers.
"Most of these were terrible ideas."
"Very terrible," agreed Kenny.
Then he smiled. "But memorable, man were they memorable. Not just by us either. The police, the neighbors, teachers and your Grandma. She never forgot."
Max spent the afternoon listening to stories about cardboard toboggans, homemade forts, bicycle crashes, and experiments that ended with somebody's mother yelling from a porch, or police cars driving past slowly if they happened to see Dave or Kenny walking together.
The stories grew larger with every telling.
By the time Kenny finished, Dave and Kenny sounded less like children and more like poorly supervised stuntmen.
Max listened with wide eyes.
The next morning, Dave found Max in the kitchen holding a nine-volt battery.
"What are you doing?" asked Dave.
"Science."
Dave should have recognized the danger immediately.
Unfortunately, "science" was exactly what he and Kenny had called most of their mistakes.
A short time later Max appeared at the Café looking puzzled.
"I think my retainer is acting funny," he said.
"Funny how?" asked Kenny.
Max tilted his head.
Somewhere, faintly, through the metal in the retainer came the crackling sound of a distant radio station.
Kenny nearly inhaled his coffee.
Dave stared.
A voice emerged from Max's mouth.
"...and now today's weather..."
Max looked alarmed.
Kenny looked delighted.
"He's picking up AM radio!"
"He's not a radio," said Dave.
The weather report continued.
Max opened and closed his mouth.
The signal got louder.
Kenny was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.
"This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."
"No," said Dave. "The greatest thing you've ever seen was when Jimmy Peters launched himself into Mrs. Callahan's rhubarb patch."
"Second greatest."
Max stood perfectly still.
"Can you make it stop?"
Before Dave could answer, the front door opened.
Morley walked in carrying groceries.
She stopped.
Max was standing rigidly.
Kenny was laughing.
Dave looked guilty.
The radio forecast was coming from somewhere in the room.
Morley immediately understood more than she wanted to.
"What happened?"
Nobody spoke.
"Dave."
"It's not exactly what it looks like."
"What does it look like?"
"Two middle-aged men accidentally created a human transistor radio."
Morley put down the groceries.
"Why?"
Dave pointed at Kenny.
Kenny pointed at Dave.
Max pointed at the notebook.
Morley picked it up.
She read the title.
She closed her eyes.
"Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men."
The silence that followed was profound.
"You showed him this?"
"For historical, educational purposes," said Kenny.
"Educational and historical ," said Dave.
"Educational?" said Morley.
"Mostly."
Morley flipped through the pages.
Each page made her expression worse.
"You two survived this?"
"Barely," said Dave.
"This explains a lot," said Morley.
She handed the notebook back.
"New rule."
Dave didn't like the sound of that.
Kenny liked it even less.
"From now on," said Morley, "if either of you wants to teach Max life lessons, I approve them first."
"That seems extreme," said Kenny.
"You turned my son into an AM radio station. Nobody listens to AM anymore, so....I don't what I should be madder about."
"Fair point."
Max suddenly perked up.
"Traffic report coming."
Everyone listened.
Sure enough, a traffic report emerged from his retainer.
Morley sat down.
Even she had to laugh.
Not much.
But enough.
Dave looked relieved.
Kenny looked proud.
Max looked famous.
And somewhere in a drawer at the Vinyl Café sat an old notebook containing all the reasons boys should never be left unsupervised—and all the reasons they usually are.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 7:32 PM UTC
⭐THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem X (final poem)
I woke up this morning
without the version of myself
that usually arrives first,
the one that straightens the spine,
clears the throat,
and rehearses the day
before the feet have even touched the floor.
Instead,
a quieter me showed up.
The one who doesn’t rush
to fill the room with meaning,
or adjust the mouth
to look like someone
worth quoting.
I drank the lukewarm coffee
without pretending it was a ritual.
I didn’t consult the mirror
to see if my face
was cooperating.
I didn’t arrange myself
into a person
who looks intentional.
The room didn’t object.
The dust stayed where it had clocked out.
The kettle sat cold on the counter,
unbothered.
Nothing in the house
asked for credentials.
Nothing required the shine.
The weight sat
in my shoulders,
my voice,
my breathing,
without needing to be translated
into a victory.
So I sat down
exactly as I was,
the posture uncorrected,
the mood unedited,
the story left blank.
And nothing collapsed.
The walls didn’t demand a better version.
The day moved forward
without an audience,
without applause.
I breathed in.
I breathed out.
It was entirely enough.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 9:02 AM UTC