"bloor" poems
you are post-apocalyptic
cluttered with debris
ruins
under siege,
destructive.
you are filled with nothing but smoke,
I fight for you,
search for one flash of light,
for one hidden memory of brightness within you:
the lights are gone at Yonge & Bloor
the 501 to Roncesvalles has disappeared
the condo showroom at King and Blue Jays Way
is no longer filled with your hands on my hips.
you are empty,
vacant,
save for the souls of those who choose to remind me
of days long forgotten:
a hand grasped at Harbourfront,
tears littering the patchy expanse of Bellwoods,
your laugh at Queen and Dufferin.
you are a nightmare;
a poltergeist,
you are breathless
and soulless
and hopeless:
nothing
you are cavernous
Toronto –
so encompassing,
you will cut me in half
before I heal
and gain
the desire
to fight
to stay.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I never thought I’d be one of those people
the ones who sit in coffee shop's on Bay
readied note pads in hand, sitting with engraved pens
bought by mothers with high expectations
of their child drawing out the new future
But here we sit, a collective sum
drawing out pathetic fallacy’s
peoples right arms
someone else's future in poetic prose
finding details in the blur
of business men rushing past
so green is a theme in these woods
Grande Decaf 2 Sugars 2 Milk
and a shot of espresso
I stayed up late finishing a politics paper
What’s keeping you up “Todd of TD Bank”
Your extravagant 2 bdrm 2.5 bth on Bloor?
Or the realization your wife cheated on you
with a younger college drop out
i don't actually care Todd
i just want to write a new **** poem
Satchels hang from wooden chairs made by moroccans who get paid bottom dollar
I sit drinking over the sweat of latin americans picking coffee beans in a summer heatwave
the music plays to mask the confusion i feel here
displaced
my sperrys muddy and unkept
i am a large flaw in this small system
i'll keep my pen gliding
finding the answers to my questions
hoping when my words meet they shake hands in agreement
they are thoughts but not entirely
thoughts are questions short lived
and often unanswered
it turns out theres no answers in my silver pen either
engraved with an edgar allen poe quote
to a poem my mom never bothered to read
she wants me to draw a future
yet doubts me in every step to achieving one
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
A cherished friend once told me:
You are who you love.
I am much of her. And I am much of my other cherished friends.
A lost love lives on in this way
I am so much of him - I practically am him. I've loved so much I've left myself behind.
In the streets of Manhattan, my soul left me. Maybe it stayed there, awaiting my return
With some new fling on my arm
To take me to the opera.
I gave away my lightness and naivity to a dark, cold man who I know is more than that [there has to be more than that].
I left my pride in Toronto on Bloor street
Where I flirted with 3 [three] men. I wanted them all. I still want them all.
But I took only one. Except he took me. In moments he loves me so much he turns into me. But it is fleeting. And it has gone.
So as we let go we regain ourselves. I will take back my optimism, thank you.
And I will remain as myself until we meet again. Maybe then we won't be so selfish and take so much,
Only to give so little.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
amidst the loud noise
& the sweat that drips from heated foreheads
your hands slip from a new friend to a red cup
& for the rest of the night you’ll idly stand
maybe concerned with tomorrows homework
trying to catch a feeling
of the way peoples arms look without weight
you weren’t going to even go out tonight
but your friends said you’d regret it
even though you knew you wouldn’t if you did go
you went anyways, worried this time was different
but now that your here
and they’re playing fetty wap for the second time
this time isn’t different
what is different is the artwork
someones failed attempt at collaging girls *****
tasteful side **** to full exposed kardashian
the only thing unexposed is the exposed brick they covered
ironically and sadistically
you remember frat boys don’t do metaphores
you manage to get your hands on some chips
as your eyes meet some guys across the room
awkwardly and unobviously locking in place
you step away from his line of vision
moving backwards towards kate
who can’t remember your name from film class
so you have to hint at chanelle for input
stumbling to call your name through liquored breathe
lost in thought, but somehow forming sentences to kate
someone nudges your side
Alex
He was the guy across the room
the lighting must have been weird or something
you talk for a bit about middle school
he hugs you uncomfortably
wondering if there was some broken rule
about accepting hugs from people that aren’t your boyfriend
He tells you about his skate board
attempting sarcasm at every turn
his voice burning into the air
soon the conversation swoops to music
he asks about your taste
you say you don’t have any
and you’re arms start to feel weightless too
You say bye to Alex (and to Kate)
Chanelle mouths “where the hell are you going”
before you know it your on line 2
drifting to bloor and younge
writing about a party
that you weren’t even suppose to be at
you're writing about a party that never really happened
but somehow that night still really ****** you off
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
A poem about poetry seems obscure
But there are worse things you could endure.
Like having a disease you cannot cure,
Or water that isn’t pure.
Or traffic at Bay and Bloor.
I just want to reassure,
That there is worse you could endure.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Up at quarter after seven
out by hopefully eight
take the 36 or the 199 rocket
eastbound to Finch
about nine minutes
give or take, seven stops
then southbound thirty minutes
to Bloor, cut to St. George
down to St. Patrick
they're not really saints
I have my own key
even though I shouldn't
so I let myself in
and tiptoe to you
you know I'm here
because it's Friday
and you smile while
I slip into bed with you
and hold you
until we wake up.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
are you listening to the way the cars outside are speeding down the highway?
can you hear the rushed conversation of the young couple outside of your window?
darling, i'm sure you can hear the panic of the man next door, slamming on his alarm clock as he sleepily cursed his way out the door.
they say if you stand at the corner of yonge and bloor at 12:25pm,
you should take note of how quickly strangers will bustle right past
you without realizing that they were ever a thought in your mind,
observe how they rush, remember their thinking faces, see how
focused they are on what's next.
i hate the familiar awareness of the leaves changing for autumn,
and how people get so utterly sick when the weather decides to flip.
i can't stand how okay i am with cutting people out, although
the world tells me it's fine, that's good, you need to move on eventually,
anyways.
it feels like i leave parts of myself with people and i forget where
these pieces have gone -
it feels like i should be okay with losing parts and creating new ones,
but it feels, god, it feels
it feels
so
sickening.
i dont know why it is all i am aware of;
the way we tell stories in one, single breath,
the way we ask, "what's next?" in a moment of heat,
and the way i feel so miserable about your heart changing tomorrow,
i like the feeling of resting on your chest
and being allowed to rest my entirety on your body -
i like the slow movement of your chest rising and falling -
and the way your breathing refuses to rush.
i can't pull myself away from the sound of your heart pumping in your chest.
did you ever think that by the time your heart has pumped its 896,738,112th pump, i was already waiting millions of pumps ago
for you to make it this far?
i wish you were here
to hear these things i can't ignore.
the screeching of tires and the messy, rushed mutters of a young girl behind.
i hope you don't hear them as that, just as
the way a car is ready to adventure
and the way a girl is so eager to live.
it's just that i get so lost in the chaos and i wish
you were here
to hear these things
i can't ignore.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
memories unfold and roll around on the
corner of Parliament and Bloor
people walk by the tall windows
at Timothy’s World Café, reminding
me of others from past
memories, long-forgotten, spring to life
experiences, half-hidden, step out
from behind trees covering the ravine
leading down to Rosedale Valley Road
far below
it is late morning in early April
at Parliament and Bloor, and the day is
moving faster than Sunday mornings
are supposed to
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC