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  Aug 2019 wren
winter
the air is cooler
and the taste is bitter
these last moments of comfort
are my only solace
for what's to come
wren Aug 2019
Look down.
There’s a whole world below,
dug out and timber-framed,
mapped and named.
Its tunnels stretch for miles
under the mountain.

Once it shook with blasting,
screech of train, and whistles.
The coal was iridescent blue.
Headlights on a curved track
burst like shooting stars
out of the deep.

That mirror world is dark now.
The men laid down their tools,
and took the mantrip
to the surface, home.
In the quiet,
hear the mountain sigh.
was in canmore, canada for vacation. saw these words engraved into the sidewalk... thought it was really poetic!

/taken from the canmore city website/
Canmore was named in 1884 by Donald A. Smith, an employee of the Canadian Pacific Railway. The name originates from a town on the northwest shores of Scotland named in honor of King Malcolm III of Canmore. The anglicized version of the Gaelic Ceann Mór , Canmore has been variously translated as "big head" or, more likely, "great head" or "chief".

In 1886 Queen Victoria granted a coal mining charter to the town and in 1887 the first mine was opened.

The North West Mounted Police built their first barracks in Canmore in 1890. It was vacated in 1929 and turned into a private residence. Later, in 1989 the barracks was purchased back by the town and restored.

Through the early 20th century many of the coal mines in the Bow Valley began to shut down. The nearby towns of Anthracite, Georgetown and Bankhead closed down and many of the buildings and residents were relocated to Banff and Canmore. In 1965, Canmore was incorporated as a town with 2,000 residents. I
wren Jul 2019
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold

blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn

a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles.  sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.

fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder

new-age americana at its finest—

we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to now. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
never done one of these before! apologies, ik i didn't adhere to form...a creative liberty if you will. ty for stopping by. haibun: haiku poetry and prose.
  May 2019 wren
TerryD'ArcyRyan
a man of means and meager will
perched upon his window sill  
playing vague for the promise of power
sings a song of a beg for the borrow
last chance, take the lead or follow
deny the headline buried shallow
a wink for here today gone tomorrow

patronize our cornerstone
lie to cover a backbone
stand upon the working hands
a great pretender in command
the artistic gesture moves the band
a flaunt for the sake of humanity
jaded swings on a strand

depravity seeks a bended knee
prosperity stands with hypocrisy
all to shake down a charity
inspires food for the Frey
feed the mighty, deny the small
the future strums for us all
as the fool dances, a fool circle

a lust to hunt is the pounce of greed
posed the tiger crouching mean
we see a coward dwelling in debris
fallen deep beside the seeds for spring
every bloom fighting for the surface
eager to bend, flourish, live to die savage
the grasp to breathe, a place to seethe



Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
  Apr 2019 wren
blackbiird
one more pill.
one more jump and you’ll be living
in a permanent state of comfortable silence.
will you save me?
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