The Pop-Culture Poem

This is a censored version of one of my spoken word poems, intended for entertainment value only. (Also, completed with stage directions, which are italicized). Lines that are interchangeable are denoted with a *.

See how many references you can pick up.


Over 9000 words fight to the surface,
One does not simply stew about their nonsensical order,
I don’t always have writer’s block, but when I do, it’s a rather large pain in the posterior.
For some reason, I can’t let it go, no matter how hard I try.
This is very frustrating, and one of two things shall happen,

My annoyance will build until it explodes like Heisenberg’s false methamphetamine on Breaking Bad,
Or it will rain down adorable kittens from the sky in a wondrous burst of inspiration. (It’s raining cats and dogs quite literally).

Likely the former scenario, (because I’m not that lucky)
this dialogue will be exchanged with my friends,

Step to one side of stage with concerned facial expression and reassuring hand gesture.
“Dude eat a snickers.” Continue reading

Winter Is Here

The cold bites,
my fingers hide curled inside my jacket pockets,
my face buried beneath my scarf,
wrapped to shield my visage.

Jacket donned, I walk,
snow silencing my every step,
periodically slipping on the ice.

Between near-face-plants,
and near misses by snowball ambushes,
I am relaxed.

There is nothing quite like the winter,
before it is set upon by,
the return of urbanization.

The heavenly time,
when the snow first falls,
blanketing us all beneath it,
and the world stops for just a little while,
to sink into its ambivalence.

Either basking in its beauty,
or gawking open-mouthed,
attempting to search for,
the snowy pit of despair,
their heart had fallen into,
by the snow shovel.

I am the former group however,
and there is no moment more magical,
than the silence brought upon,
by the first blanket of snow.

Untouched by any hands,
unscathed by dirt and car tires,
un-scorched by the tired curses of angry car owners,
un-extorted by the snowplow industry.

I know eventually, that it will be freezing rain and blizzards,
but I’m shoving it into the back of my mind, because I am going to make this a happy occasion, damn it!
Humming a happy tune, as I walk through the winter wonderland,
children making snow-forts, laughter filling the streets,
empty of cars, because they’re all stuck.

Icicles hang, refracting the light from all around.

Happy songs carry through the streets,
pleasant smiles and reddened cheeks,
greet you with a “good-day!”

I walk past houses,
catching faint glimmers of
the soft light from within.

I walk past canals,
where the ice has been carved
by the skates of carefree people,
gliding, almost flying through on the
December breeze.

All the while, a short ways away,
passionate hockey players smash heads,
but play on, kept warm by the fire in their veins.

Obligatory happy couples eat ice cream on a bench,
yes, ice cream, I live in Canada.

I go home for a quiet night in,
and a nice hot chocolate,
simmering to perfection,
its sweet smell wafting through the air.

A yuletide movie plays in the background,
lovely music unpolluted by anything from Disney.

Let it snow, let it snow,

Yeah, that’s not what you thought I was going to say, was it?

All of this, plus Eddard Stark, serves as a wonderful reminder,
that winter, is here.

Now, time to do that damned driveway….

The Unspoken Addiction

For those of you who don’t know, there is a style of poetry I do, called anti-love poetry. Essentially, it exists because I suck at writing love poems. They are usually told from the perspective of the bitter, or full of sarcasm. Generally.

So, interesting story…. I realised the other day, that I have never written a decent love poem. I was challenged to attempt one by many of my friends. I caved, so behold the result of peer pressure.


The Unspoken Addiction

Often when you hear the word addiction, Continue reading

Closer to the Heart

Daily Post asked:

-“You’re asked to recite a poem (or song lyrics) from memory — what’s the first one that comes to mind? Does it have a special meaning, or is there another reason it has stayed, intact, in your mind?”-


This is a story, of my first poetry reading:

-“I once sat going out of my mind,
my interesting fantasy worlds I’d find,
but it sucked I was broke,
I could hire no bloke,
so I could find no actors to sign.”-

These are the words to an older poem I wrote, The Reasons Why I Write (With Creative Answers).  It is posted here, if interested,

This poem, has always been of value to me; for it was the first spoken word poem I ever performed.

I had always held interest in written poetry, but it wasn’t until about a year or so ago, that I had taken an interest in spoken word.

I had watched countless poets on the internet, and had been to a  few poetry slams, just to simply observe. The talent was phenomenal, I assure you!

One night a few months back, I heard over social media, of an open mic poetry night at a local downtown café.

I had attended the event with one of my friends, whom, about an hour into the event, had talked me into finally, “getting my arse up on the stage” instead of merely observing from my chair

I hurriedly scribbled down in my notebook, one of the few poems of mine I had committed to memory.

I raised my hand during the last call rather enthusiastically, and strolled my way up to the stage.

I took hold of the microphone, or attempted to….. as unfortunately, the last poet had been very, very tall.

I called off to the side of the stage, “excuse me, could you please tell me how to adjust this thing? I am rather short.”

Continuing on, I knew that my stage ability likely lagged behind the ability of the previous poets. Did I feel compelled to hide that fact? I did not. In fact, I decided to let everyone know, exactly what catastrophic, walking tornado of words they were in for.

“Let the record show,” I began Continue reading

White Void of Nothing

the crystal glass

The most fragile things.

Hanging in the balance against,

a stark white background.

Forever suspended,

in the white void of nothing.

Handle them with care,

for the truth of the colour world,

is a bit shocking to some.

Glass it just breaks,

a rose doesn’t wilt, it stabs.

And so goes the minds,

of far too many in this world.

the crystal glass 2

The Streets of Nightfall

street 3

The downtown streets of my city, enveloped by the soft cloak of darkness that lies overhead, but illuminated by the lights below.

The lights below, which cut through a heavy rainfall and biting air.

Cars whip by, and the passerby shouts, but to me, all of this is silence.

The white noise, of a city growing more nocturnal each night the sun sets, and gives way to the stars.

Maybe I think down here, we are trying to mimic the lights of the beauty we will never be able to reach.

And every night when the bell tolls, it marks one more failed attempt to grasp the unobtainable.

The Frost Lies on the Ground

The frost lies on the ground,
he brings with him the chilling air,
crisp to the touch, stinging the throat.

He is the coffin in which the autumn’s leaves lie,
crunching underfoot, floating in the dying breeze.
He is the bitter edge on the wind, the one which reddens faces.
He is the floral death sentence, the gardener’s foe.
The weatherman’s quarrel, the Canadian curse.

He drives off geese, exiles squirrels,
banishes rabbits, and makes bears dreary.

He is the bringer of mittens, hats and scarves,
he is the bringer of hot drinks, and crackling fires.
Bringer of blankets, warm and deep,
and giver of car starting headaches.

He is the herald of the winter,
the messenger of snow.

He is the frost which the ground bears today.