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K E Cummins Apr 16
Another day ended
with mountain dust and ice melt in my boots,
dirt on my hands, blood on my knuckles,
fresh air and sage smoke in my lungs.  

Sage smoked and threw tobacco on
the sacred fire today.
I miss you guys -
sending good thoughts your way.
Life's great up north,
growing stronger every day,
wishing you all the strength you need.
TRUE NORTH STRONG AND FREE, ****** EH!
Davinalion Apr 8
"Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate"
The Vision of Judgment,
Lord Byron

1

Hail, sixty-four squared altar of my doom!
Where I, a washed-up husband, pale and stressed,  -
While dishes stack like skyscrapers in gloom,
and kids belt out some earworm they’ve obsessed, -
I click my bishop forth with trembling hand,
A modern Nero in a mouse command.

Oh, Chess! Brain-teasing, sweet time-******* game,
Where men of leisure waste their waking hours,
While wives, in wrath, but whisper not our name,
Lest we should mock wife's frail domestic powers.
For what’s a husband’s duty? Mop the floors?
Or chase the black and white to victory’s shore?
It does not matter — wives shall weep the more,
And call you childish — nah - yet play we must,
Till death or stalemate stills our foolish lust.

Oh, Chess! Thou thief of kisses, sly and cold,
Who steals the fire that else might warm the bed —
What hands, which once did roam in passion bold,
Now idly push a pawn or knight instead?
What midnight sighs are lost to checkmate’s art,
When lips might meet, and trembling fingers twine?
Yet kings and queens command the foolish heart,
And love’s sweet gambit fades with each passed line.
So wives lie cold, betrayed by chess’s scheme,
While men kneel — not to love, but to a Queen.

2

“But chess is noble!” I shout to the void,
“Not like those sweaty Call of Duty crews!”
Wife doesn’t care—her wifely rage deployed,
My pawn’s sweet moves won’t calm her dishpan blues.
Same crime, same mess: the floor’s a wreck, the bed
Unmade — while pawns dance in my empty head.

So here I sit, a forty-something champ,
My mouse - my sword, the screen - my epic quest.
Pawns drop like flies before the coffee’s amped,
Bishops get smoked by tricks I’ve long professed.
“Brain rules!” I yell—but when the chores pile high,
My queen bolts fast, and I just wave bye-bye.

3

Check out the fate of dudes past forty years:
All fun shrinks down to kid-stuff we adore.
The couch-bound football fan drowns in his beers,
The LARPers clank around and ask for more.
But snowboard bros, once shredding peaks with flair,
Now flop like dads on hills of pure despair.

But wait! One trick can dodge the spousal shade:
Slap “job” on hobbies, watch the scorn retreat.
Bloggers spew hot takes, call it “getting paid,”
Priests dodge the grind with sermons oh-so-sweet.
You start a cult — and housework’s off your plate,
A pro-level flex to sidestep boring fate.

4

But me? I’m chess or bust—need no grandmaster fame,
Nor stuffy clubs with suits and fake applause.
Let “Go” nerds stew in never ending game -
I’ve got three kids – three terrors with no laws.
A quick blitz match, my caffeine-fueled retreat,
“Brain food!” I mutter, dodging chore defeat.

Yet sometimes, through the crumbs and coffee rings,
I glimpse the pros — chess gods who rake in cash.
They shrug off wife aggro with prize bling-bling,
Legends who play while dodging household trash.
But wait — what’s that? A glow through window cracks?
Not dawn — it’s Kovalyov’s canadian pantsless flack!

5

So, came this day—nay, mark the very hour!—
Chess world flipped out with fashion-fueled delight.
Young Kovalyov, Canada’s proud brain-power,
Stormed on Tbilisi, eager for a fight.
Not stalemate’s dread nor rival’s sneaky art—
His knee-length shorts - that was the thing that tore his game apart.

“GM” before his name — a shiny tag,
Which fools read Grandmaster (and so do I).
But real ones know it’s just a humble brag:
“Mom, I’m not a loser!” comes his cry.
And moms, since time began, just nod and say,
“Sure, kid, it’s fine — now go and win the day!”

6

What wrecked his vibe? No chess trap, no cruel twist—
Just Thomas Delega, say Polish-born.
He clocked those knees and threw a judgy hiss:
“Pants, man! The Code’s a rule you can’t unlearn!”
Kovalyov, half-dressed usual - but a mess,
Bare legs sparked scandal — chess’s wildest stress.

“Grzegorz! Three days have passed that I’ve rocked this fit!
Since when do knights need slacks to slay a king?
Did Morphy’s tie get checked? Did Lasker bring
A label saying ‘Dry Clean’? What a thing!
You’d think it’s Wimbledon, not boardgame lore—
Next, rooks in bowties? I’m out the door!”

7

And here - from Georgia’s hills, a titan strode,
Zurab Azmaiparashvili — GM triple-stack!
(At his age, it’s less skill, more “I’ve got the code—
Beat your granddad with dice, and that’s a fact!”)
His growl shook the hall like a thunderclap:
“Defy tradition? Kid, you’re in my trap!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I, who played Fischer 'neath the Iron Curtain,
Who saw Kasparov's cardigans for certain—
I say: No bare legs below the belt, you hear?
Chess ain’t a beach bash for a TikTok’s cheer!
Suit up, you punk, or taste eternal doom—
The board’s no catwalk for your Hollister gloom!
Shorts-wearing brat, You think rules don’t apply?
I’ve crushed kings since your mom was all knee-high!
Again - I've battled kings ere you were born,
I say: No shorts upon the sacred board!

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“Three days I’ve rocked this fit—so why flip now?
What’s with the sudden pants-policing vow?”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

“What’s wrong with you, boy, flashing knees like that?
This ain’t some surf shack—you’re on my mat!
Think you’re a rebel, some board-riding ape?
We guard the game’s soul, not your summer escape!
Get lost, you rogue—you Gypsy trash, I said—
No shorts-clad clown’s wrecking my chess spread!”

(Ah, mark the statesman's art! When tempers rise,
The wise man picks his slurs with enterprise:
Jews own the banks, and Russians stir the ***—
But Gypsies? Perfect scapegoats! They'll... er... not
Sue. Though Kovalyov—that "pantsless *****"—
took deep offense with sudden gypsy stitch.)

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“What crusty, old-man venom’s stuff is this?
I’m out—but hear me, your insults won’t stick,
You fossilized relic, stuck in your strange bliss!
Your reign’s on fumes, you are Jurassic *****.
Enjoy your throne, you wrinkled crazy czar—
My loyal lawyers are drafting while you spar!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I built this game empire on checkered gold,
I funneled millions through my Georgian hold!
This runt dares mock the sacred code I wrote?
I’ll make him kneel — or slit his ******* throat."

8

Then Capablanca’s ghost slid in, all chill,
“Zurab, you’d whine if God moved pawns downhill!”
Last Fischer came from nowhere, problematic,
"I told you - all those Russians love to cheat!
Now add some 'clotheshorse' to crooked shemes Asiatic—
Next they'll demand we kiss our king's corrupted feet!
Hey Boy! Your shorts are battle dress - me being enigmatic—
I have no clue what I am saying, ****,
Let’s burn this ******* circus down, GM!"

9

But then — from frozen lands, a clapback bold!
The Maple Leaf Federation cleared its throat.
(A shock! Since sports bureaucrats, truth be told,
move slower than a dial-up modem’s note.)
"If 'gypsy' be thy slur of choice, Grandmaster,
Know this: Our knight may lack pants, but he's
No target for thy Cold War-era disaster
Of rhetoric. We stand — perplexed — by these
Exposed but principled Canadian knees!"

10

You think that Canada is just some hockey's hype?
They're blasting dingers and lacrosse a lot.
But chess up north's an unexpected type:
Each pawn with stick and ****** while smoking ***.
The bishops blaze in a THC storm.
How was this Federation even born?

Two Jews from Odessa (then-Soviet) took their shot -
Two masters from Soborka chessboard's fray -
"In Canada, we'll score a noble lot:
Let's form a Federation - clean and grey!
Report the cash as gifts from gays and queer,
Then skim our three percent - and disappear."

Their paperwork was filed with lawyer's grace -
with a nonprofit shield and lots of honors.
Each tournament did fill their pockets' space,
While CRA got ******* by happy donors.
Oh Canada! Your tolerance is grand:
With logo shaped like puck - you are in demand.

11

FIDE flared up, its temper old and gray,
With twenty million stacked in vaults below,
Its voice  — a boom that made the chessboard sway —
Roared loud, a mix of rage and twisted glow:
"**** Canada — get out, hey - you're dreaming!
Zurab’s cash will not move t'your ******* den!
“Gens una Sumus” says our motto - meaning -
your're stuck with three percent - while we have TEN!"

But soon that curse was drowned in wilder sound,
As chess broke free, like stars through Hubble’s lens,
New worlds on worlds flashed out, unbound, profound,
A sprawl of moves no rulebook comprehends —
Like rabbits ******* under cosmic trends.

12

Then came a mob — no one could pin their source,
Some black-hole crack where asteroids vanish -  
The Chess Pros Fed, spitting a lot of words
In Russian, English, German, French and Spanish:
"Zurab, you Georgian mutt, your end’s a bet!
No FIDE ghost will shield you from our grip—
Tbilisi, two weeks — time to place your debt —
Bow now, or we will DOGE your sinking ship!"

Then head of Canada's Chess Federation shrieked,
A suit named Vlad Drukletch, some nervous ****.
(Croat or not, his roots were hard to leek).
He stepped up too, all pale, his words a perk.
And puzzle cleared itself like long awaited ace,
Unveiling why this war began in the first place.

13

Few years ago the wheel of power ****** —
Steve Harper crashed, that right-wing king of gloom,
Trudeau soared up, all snowboards, rights, and work
For climate, ****, and every woke-*** bloom.
The Right hoards cash till people’s patience frays,
Then Lefties swoop, with rights and *** to spare,
The finance system dies in liberal haze,
Plus NDP just doubles down on flair —
and splits the wreck, with ruins everywhere.

When funds dry up, the Right locks down the vault,
But when they bulge, the Left burns through the stack —
It's not just Russia stumbles in this fault,
The world’s a drunk who’s lost the sober track —
It's reeling blind from dawn down to pitch-black.
Still, here’s the catch: the whip lands when it’s due,
Each decade, business kneels to take its hit.
A messed-up game, sure, but it’s got a clue —
More fair than screws that tighten bit by bit,
A grind where no one ever calls for quit.

14

The leftward tide now sweeps both East and West,
While right-wing fools still cling to what they know.
"Let's work!" they cry. "No whining! Earn your bread!"
The left just wails "Oppression!" loud and low.
When pipelines thicken, Leftists ask their share,
Yet Rightists clutch the spigot, firm and cold —
Not just in dunes where camels tread with care,
But boardrooms where the new crusades are sold.
The maps they draw in ink of liquid gold
Still bleed like wounds that never learned to knit.
Each barrel priced, each treaty bought and signed,
Yet ancient grudges fester, unconfined.

The West once carved the feast with steady knives,
But now the plates are cracked, the guests revolt —
Some scream for walls, some beg for homeless hives,
While deep beneath, the drills still twist and bolt.
Here comes the Holy Land - a bleakest jot,
Where prophets weep at profits dearly bought.
And Christ is preaching not on love or grace,
But quotas, pipelines, and who gets what place.
But Son of God himself by strange decree
Stands homeless where he preached “Come unto Me.”

15

UNESCO, with its crooked left 'politess',
Declared the Temple Mount not Israel's right.
And Canada with Russia voted "Yes!"
While Europe coughed and shrank out of the sight.
It's strange when Russia's stance align with that
of maple-leaf moralists so pure and trite.
Perhaps they played some deeper game instead -
Fed fools the rope to hang themselves with pride.
Lavrov might smirk, "Who cares what's wrong or right?
Let's vote for chaos - watch the ******* slide!"

Now Trudeau won't set foot on Jewish land,
While Hamas's praised, the IDF's condemned.
But what's this got to do with chess, you ask?
The threads connect - just trace them to the task!

16

So, Drukletch stormed in, fury in his eyes,
Two damning charges, sharp as battle cries:

"Zurab himself defiled our sacred rule!
Last time he flaunted shorts himself — so cruel!
Here is that photo - if you trust your eyes -
Those shameless knees expose their master's lies!"
The tournament hall, once prim, now gaped in shock,  
As chess tradition crumbled 'neath this frock.

"And second — mark this plot, so sly and dire —
He schemed with Max Rodshtein, that Israeli liar!
When Kovalyov received this reprimand,
Rodshtein did claim his win by Zurab's hand!"

17

The camera's lenze caught that very scene
Where Zurab clashed with Kovalyev Anton —
Behind his back, so real and serene,
The Jewish flag unfurled it's hexagon.
Was it pure chance or some malicious craft?
We may dispute for ages as we see
That irony is flawless in its art —
To stir the doubt, yet hide the guilty part.

And Maxim Rodshtein — what’s his voice to this?
Zip. Nada. None, or so the silence tells.
He’s mute as stone, no stance to curse nor hiss,
His thoughts lie hushed in deep, uncharted wells.
His statement might have cleared the foggy mess —
Perhaps a quip where wry amusement dwells:
“I, Maxim, swear, on all that’s been debated,
I’ve naught to say - and thus stay unberated.”

18

When Drukletch dropped his ****, unhinged and loud,
Maxim, perchance, just smirked beneath his breath —
And thought: “These crazy fools have lost their ground",
And mused, while dodging scandal’s creeping mess.
Was he, too, in shorts, blending with the crowd?
He slipped in early, missing Gzhegosh’s eye,
And whispered humbly to Zurab about
His sin and swore to make amends or die.
Or not. Perchance instead he bided time,
Till eyes turned blind, and then he fixed his crime.

Imagine this: when not observed by jury
He popped his belt, let shorts sag low and free—
Dashed to his quarters, swift as fleeting fury,
And slid into fresh pants for all to see.
Then sauntered back as if returned from jerry,
And calmly waited how the pantsless mess
Unfolds - True **** of sneaky moves and shady chess.

19

Of course, he blew it — mute, he stands accused,
A silence thick with fault, a rookie’s sin —
No star up high turns random, unexcused,
When chess and junk from youtube fill their din.
We - slaves of FIDE, time’s obsessive kin, -
Find solace in the board’s eternal grind,
Yet heavens spill a truth no app can bind.

From stellar drift, our souls snag cosmic crumbs,
A science feast where fans like us abide —
Each orbit track unveils existence’s sums,
A rock from space could crush a species wide,
Or bare the Chess Union’s throne, once ruled
By old-school titan, grizzled, grand, and sly,
Since days when knights and kings refused to die.

The plot twists hard, two tangled farces join!
Two Europes clash — one freaks at Israel’s claims,
The next, per Zurab's hand, awards it points,
GM-OLD-TITAN gambits double game!
And that's a place where I have to proclaim -
(I hope, my friend, you safely sit on cushions) -
That Kovalyev and Rodshtain - both are Russians,
Like Zurab, Gzrghegozsh, Drukletch, you and me,
Whichever rugs you hoist on guilty knee.
But even if this chess is a complex game,
There is no cause to quit the hunt for who’s to blame.

20

I lift my eyes — cheap telescope in hand —
(Black Friday deal, now half in coffee rust ) -
To scan the heavens where the gods once lived
A clockwork sphere, both elegant and just.
But no! The sky’s a glitching simulation,
A cosmic joke beyond verification.

The 3-b problem laughs — its dance malign
Mocks supercomps and makes them crash outright.
While black holes, like some crypto-scheme divine,
**** matter in and vanish out of sight.
And every week, some space-tool’s revelation
Just adds more trash to scientists' frustration.

The theorists weep (their models are so neat),
Now watch dark energy their work erase.
The universe cares not for their conceit —
It shrinks, expands, and memes right in our face.
The flat-Earthers beliefs are nice to keep!
At least they never lose a wink of sleep.

I hope they don't. And so do I. Indeed,
The Brownian churn of facts will lead
to nowhere. For mind's sake I need some order,
I need to find myself on someone’s border
To get involved in real life's galore
Where shorts defend their truth, and trousers soar.

21

Look at the great and blind machine of life,
That's called 'the evolution'. With no plan,
No grand design, no meaning in the strife,
it's creatures fight. For what? - Because they can.
Yet from this carnage we, like plants, emerged —
through wars, and plagues, and famine neatly purged.

Life’s blind fists scrabble through time’s ******* mire,
With no grand scheme or plan to light its way.
No goal, no guide — just chance’s old desire,  
Where cells just splice and rot in Darwin’s gear.
They split, they clash, they fight in endless roll,
And do not know why do they live at all.
  
Life’s vivid pulse is carved from pain’s harsh sting,  
Survival forged in shadows of despair.  
Each wound, each war, each plague’s unyielding spring  
Sharpens the blade of life’s relentless lair.  
Dare to erase the rot, the fang, the claw?
In vain. The fangs just sharpen, craving more.

We boast we’re not like beasts, blind to the fray,  
Our minds, we claim, can carve a flawless state.  
With logic’s torch, we’ll chase all vice away,  
And moral codes will banish every hate.  
Yet smug, we scorn the sludge where life’s begun,  
Convinced we’re gods, not fools who chase the sun.

We say - let the economists hold sway,  
While math **** minds make finances align.  
Philosophers, who swear they’ve found the way,  
Will purge all wrong with Marxist truth divine.  
But pride infects their hearts, a fatal flaw —  
Their zeal breeds ruin, shattering the law.

When brainiacs seize the power, chains arise,  
The world morphs fast into a prison’s gloom.  
Wars rage so fierce, the death toll blinds the skies,  
While taxes crush and cleave the social room.  
The more they plan, the more the world rebels,
And feeds the very hells they sought to quell.

Watching this circus of brain-power frays,
Where ivy-league bacilli **** their pants,
I won’t pose as some sage or **** who stays
Above the brawl. No coward’s ****, my friends.
Feeling myself a part of nature's law,
I always pick a side in every war.

22

I stand with Israel, Trump, Fide and Jesus -
that one of eastern Orthodox edition.
The void of saints and sinners sits between us,  
or "readers" - I should say - and this petition -
like modern Moses' tablets' audition -
is craving for your sacred recognition:

Go **** yourself with any crap you own!
I do not care… or do I? Hard to tell.
My veins are Red Bull buzz, emotions blown,
A clown in life’s circus, yelling 'hell'!  
Like I’ve pants down and stand right here, felled,
Waiting for love — or Zurab's leather belt.

And so I wish you too, dear wasted reader,
(Gorged on the trash the internet excretes),
May life be tournament — be it FIDE or tweeter—
And bruise you hard, yet leave you weirdly freed.
A twisted prize from this digital bleeder,  
Served hot, with middle fingers as your leader.  

I'll go get scammed by crypto’s latest fad,
Or doomscroll news that fry my last brain cell.
Cry on no hill — all hills are good and bad.
But if you’re yelling at the void - yell well:
Let hope ignite where broken life still glows
And screams for love that vanished.

Smooches, bros!
Em MacKenzie Apr 8
The devil is sitting at a table
make sure to provide top service,
and if you are somehow able,
hide that his aggression makes you nervous.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
it might be time for us Canucks to pull a 1814.
How can someone do absolutely nothing right?
and think what will be a nightmare will help revive an American dream?

The devil is sitting at the desk,
and he’s got yes men to shine and kiss his shoes.
It was finally time for him to fail a test
but his misguided cultists refused to let him lose.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
even if the occupant is known to be orange.
He’s shutting the gates just too tight,
rushing Capitol instead of tearing his door hinge.

The devil is sitting at a table
he’s got the finest cutlery set,
and the legs of it aren’t stable
with each wobble he places his next bet.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
I think it needs to be stripped and gain a new coat.
Why is a symbol of oppression dressed up so bright,
when it’s walls protect one and strangle every other throat?

He “did everything right” and they indicted him;
and now we fight eachother when we should be fighting him.
These people have forgot how the world turns,
infact they believe it’s stationery and around them.
So they anticipate heat when they make the world burn,
and await a rose after they rooted and snapped each stem.

Isn’t it absolutely insane
how the free can unknowingly live in a prison?
Didn’t anyone tell you even a Hurricane
can’t cleanse American Capitalism?
Wake up, the alarm went off hours ago.
romgur73 Mar 26
You like Vancouver and rock music
You hate Miami and abusers
I brought you flowers and some wine
I want cowgirl and *******
MetaVerse Mar 20
There once was a gal from Quebec
Whose boss was a pain in the neck:
     She told him, "I quit
     Cuz I'm sicka yer ****!"
And her boss, he "misplaced" her last check.
Dog Paulson Mar 15
I remember
Sitting in your yard
Thinking that was all there ever was
You were sixty-four then
I was 8 or so,
You started balding. I didn't know why
You joked about your wig,
That you got the wrong color.
Your mother, she left just before you did
I didn't know you died.

I found out two years later,
Your son was cruel, I don't know how you raised him
You weren't family by blood.
but you're still the closest thing
That I ever had.
To Wendy, and her love of gnomes.
P.S. *******, Matt.
Dog Paulson Mar 15
Two cars, separate, the people inside would never meet outside of this,
A young woman, her name will not be spoken here.
She was reckless, but she didn’t intend cruelty.
She was trying to get home
Now in the second car, the girl and her mother were headed to a funeral, out of province
They never made it, and their family are now planning another.
You will not know the two who fell, but
An entire little town in Canada will remember where they once walked.
A sister, a daughter, at 21, now an orphan.
She will not recover.
The uninjured woman, her kids will not soon forget
What she was willing to do.
I am not saying to lock the woman away forever,
Maybe she wasn’t capable of ******,
Maybe she’d never hurt a fly,
Maybe she loves her kids, but today, she did not.
Do we forgive, and forget something like this?
I know her name,
And the orphan will forever know her name
But I will swear, to whatever god, to whatever I can find,
She may be forgiven, she may run
But this is more than her.
With any say,
I will never be stained,
With another human’s life.
The title "Manslaughter in The Highest of Degrees" is from Bob Dylan's song "Percy's Song"
This poem is about two people who I knew of in my small town who ended up dying to a drunk driver. I don't know how to feel about it.
Em MacKenzie Mar 13
You’ve got 99 problems but your loyalty is one,
you’ll never solve them now the World Cup is done.
Achieved by your colours that aren’t so true,
by a Nation that once treasured you.
Gretzky I believe your reign is through.

You used to shoot and inevitably you’d score,
imagine the disappointment of each Gord.
Keep the red and white but add the blue,
betray a Nation that once treasured you.
Gretzky; no longer number one not even two.

Keep your guns and keep your hate,
Canada’s not your fifty-first state.
We’ve always been a Country, one that’s great.

Went to a room and ignored the sign,
now we’ve changed the labels and removed your wine.
Disappointed in what you would do,
to a National that once treasured you.
The sadness and anger only grew.

An apology that will come too late,
Canada will never be your fifty-first state.
Not up for discussion or debate.

A concept you should understand,
you can’t put a “for sale” sign on our land.
The death of a legend came from the hands
of a bad man and a bad plan.
No longer the greatest of all time
after you’ve committed the greatest of crimes.

We won’t take the tariffs or the bait,
Canada will never be your fifty first state.
We’ll cement the actions and the date.

So stay in exile as is it your fate,
Canada won’t be your fifty first state,
cause it’s the one, the one that’s great.
💯 > 99
K E Cummins Mar 6
Less than thirty years ago,
The last residential school closed.
I sit in the shelter cafeteria
And snack on a gift of bannock bread
While studying malnutrition, sutures, and
Average healing time for wounds.
This poem is both a snapshot/slice of life and a question.
Francie Lynch Jan 29
Canada is renaming the Great Lakes.

Lake Superior..........Lake Canada

Lake Ontario............Lake Ontario (stays)

Lake Erie...................Lake John A. Macdonald

Lake Huron..............Lake Jacques Cartier

Lake Michigan........Lake Trudeau (that should **** him off... but we
                                   know we mean Pierre, not his bonehead son)

Lake Champlain....Lake Quebec (although not a Great Lake, the
                                 orange guy wanted to make it a Great Lake back
                                 in 2018).

We have our own cartographers.
Gimme the Sharpie.
All we need is a Sharpie
Are most of the members here American?
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