"quebecois" poems
Elizabeth, the ****** Queen, left vacant the English throne.
Her Scottish Stuart cousin came and claimed it for his own.
Two nations with one monarchy joined in the Union Jack.
The Scottish lost their nationhood and now they want it back.
Saint Andrews’ Flag of Bonnie Blue will have to be unfurled
if Scotland votes to take its place among nations in the world.
Quebecois and Basques today are eagerly looking on
to see if Scots will vote to tell the English to be gone.
Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where their dominion ends.
Remove your subs from Scapa Flow; your lease is at an end.
There still remains a problem which, just now, occurs to me.
If the English take their Pound with them, what is our currency?
It’s true we’re rich with North Sea oil and better off than Spain.
Yet how do we do business if the Sterling won’t remain.
We need a new “Gold” standard based upon the single malt!
Who needs pounds when we have ounces stored in barrels and in vaults?
So pour me a “MacCallan” on the day the rent comes due.
Hand me a glenfiddich and I’ll purvey food to you..
Our creditors will be well pleased with hints of bog and peat.
We won’t dilute our currency as Scots men drink it neat.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
Lie to me
tell me I'm always on your mind
It's fine by me
Manufactured bliss at hand
Cause I'm somewhere else
That place is not here
And it's not near to you
Although I thought for a long time
that I was dear to you
I've got blood on my hands
Cause I'm the one who killed this
I just knew it had to end
Maybe I'm in Montreal
Maybe these flowers are Quebecois
I wish you'd understand
That these places are feelings
and my feelings weren't placed with you
Maybe this house wasn't hell
And these walls weren't my jail cell
I wish he'd understand
And no he wasn't selfless
He was just selfish and mean
So demeaning-
Understand
I don't need you anymore
Maybe
You were just a bore
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
The French language to you, was little more than an inheritance
It was the promise between mother and daughter that a grandchild ought to know the language they used
In Bonnyville, they occupy the church, the Sobeys, the liquor store with that butchered accent
The hybrid between Quebecois French and rural Albertan English - ugly, and indecisive
You don’t live in Bonnyville, where the French roam free
The French in Edmonton feels lost, almost unknown
Poorly funded buildings house these Franco-albertans - children with the same inheritance as you
Immersion becomes a ***** word,
worthy of contempt and disgust
All the French kids know each other,
forced to grow up together while being deprived of options
They all go to the same university - the small francophone campus which stands unimpressive in the only neighbourhood in Edmonton where stop signs say ‘arrêt’
Oil Country, home for the right and prosperous, they don’t like you
You, you’re Francophone -
Stuck up, snobby, pretentious...
Besides, there are no such things as Franco-albertans.
What could you be other than an invented term by some lost souls?
You aren’t French enough -
Alberta is an English speaking province.
The time you went to France,
someone asked if you were French-Canadian
Before you could reply, your friends spun your story - something believable, commendable...
your parents, lived in Montreal, and moved to Alberta with their wholly French children
Your father grew up in Edmonton,
memorizing the parks and malls by name
while your mother lived on a dairy farm, living in french - the ugly acadienesque french.
But, to everyone around you, it’s much more believable that you are a stranger to this province.
Maybe you are.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
*an old-fashioned couple sat next to each other
she had a head on his right shoulder*
- I can already feel the warm sand under my palms getting colder
(warm wind nudges their faces as the sun mildly touches the desert)
...and what about you?
- me? I kind a fell in love with this moment...
cause'....
he stops talking for a second
Because I know tomorrow will be the death of me, the death of smiles and cries. the death of all the imperfect symphonies I scratched in a hurry.
Although this time I am not letting myself **** everything around when it happens .
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC