Members Poetry
April is National Poetry Month—a time to honour poetry and its vital role in our culture. Each year, OIW curates the best poetry from our members for your pure reading enjoyment.
All poems are published with the author's permission. The author retains sole copyrights of the work.
POETRY FROM APRIL 2025
The theme for 2025 is "Family"
Sunday Afternoons
by Alison Whiddon
Grandma’s lace tablecloth, ironed this morning, hides imperfections on the everyday cloth underneath. A diamond snowflake, background to old rose patterned cups with saucers nestling silver teaspoons. Plump shiny teapot steeps black leaves, English, Irish or Chinese. Didn’t matter to us, we were half milk ’til old enough to tell them apart. Cream jug with its wobbly leg, ‘cause I dropped it, sat just so. Matching sugar bowl held cubes not granular, meaning there were guests. Not yet summoned, we sat on the stairs and waited. Sniffed the sweet air and debated. Shortbread or scones? Had to be both. First cream then jam or jam then cream? Older cousin won out, “Everyone knows, jam first allows double dollops of cream!” Invited we squeezed together on the only chair left. Balancing a lap full of napkin and empty tea plate, watching the mouths chatting, the cups lifting, the lips sipping, the pinkies crooking and wondered; When will the eating begin?
Previously published in "Byword.ca" 2020
My Little Angel
by Angelo Fulco
“Daddy, Daddy" I hear her cries As I jump out of bed Barely opening my eyes “Daddy, Daddy Come help me please Gremlins are here Tugging at my knees.” I rush to her room And turn on the light My little girl’s body Shaking with such fright. “It’s alright sweetie Daddy is here Just a bad dream No Gremlins to fear. Let’s have a look though And see what we find.” As she jumps into my arms Her trembling subsides “Let’s look in the closet Do you see any there?” “No Daddy none here, They must be elsewhere.” And so we continue In the middle of the night From room to room With no Gremlins in sight “Daddy, Daddy,” she says to me Maybe they’re in the basement.” “Well my little angel Let’s go see.” As we get to the stairs Her arms around me Ever so tight I reach for the switch And turn on the light. “Daddy, Daddy I’m so afraid!” “Don’t be afraid my little angel No need to worry If Gremlins are near They’ll be mighty sorry.” We walk through the basement With lights all aglow “You see my little angel There is nothing to show.” “Please put me down Daddy I want to go see If they’re hiding behind those boxes By the Christmas tree.” With her tiny hand in mine She bravely walks past the tree Kicks the boxes aside And the next thing I hear Is her loud scream. “Oh Daddy that mouse It scared me so! Don’t see any little Gremlins though. I want to go to bed now Will you tuck me in? Nothing here to seek Except a mouse We woke up from its sleep.” I tuck her in and kiss her goodnight Wait for her to fall asleep Then turn off the light.
Previously published in "Byword.ca" 2020
Granny & Me
by Elise Weagant
A picture - Granny lovingly looking down At swaddled me in her arms. So many memories: Granny kneeling bedside, holding my wee hand In bony fingers, pushing back the dark. Rocking heel-to-toe, sharing a raging storm Thunder and lightening, no longer scary, a marvel. Limited sight, asking what each playing card is, And winning the game anyway. Delighted laughter at my childish antics to entertain, Showcasing my artistry in goofiness. Fingers sliding over the small, raised bumps Of an over-large braille book, lips moving. Rooting for beloved Montreal Canadiens Too excited to watch, calling for bedroom updates. Snuggling me into caring arms to savour a long Memory of family-rich stories, Her soft, wispy white hair rolled tight and pinned, A halo around her dear head.
Previously published in "Byword.ca" 2020
The poem is a conversation over time between a parent and a child.
Hugs and Kisses
by George Thwaites
I am but a small child in this big and changing world. I like to sing and dance, and play funny games in the park I like to draw and read, and be with my stuffed bears in the dark I need you to feed and bathe me; and tuck me in at night I need your hugs and kisses; and for you to love and hold me tight. My child, you are very special and will always be loved by me. I like to watch you dancing and playing in the park I like to hear your voice and see your creative spark I love our time together as you grow up every day I need your hugs and kisses for they nourish me night and day. I am but a growing child in this world too complex for me. I like to play computer games and play all kinds of sports I like to read and write at school, and getting good reports I don’t need you to bathe me but to give me food and light I need your hugs and kisses; and for you to love and hold me tight My child, you are very special and getting bigger each and every day. I like to be there watching as you grow and play your games I like to hear your voice as you share your thoughts and dreams I miss our time together splashing in the tub but will always be there for you I need your hugs and kisses for they warm me through and through. I am still your child but wanting to be much more. I like to make my choices, and to make a difference in what I do I like to be by myself and with my friends, not necessarily with you I don’t need you all around me putting fences in my way I need you but to love me, giving hugs and kisses every day. My child you have grown; amazing in every way. I like our conversations as your passions know no bounds I like our times together as you drive me about the town I ask that with the fences down, you but show some respect and know that I still need your hugs and kisses to make each day perfect. I am still your child but with others walking by my side. I like the times we have together even if fewer than before I like how you watch and care as I attempt to soar I need you to know that I am grateful and love you in every way You give me hugs and kisses, and love me every day. My child you are still my baby, the one making their own way. I like our times sharing; be it on the phone or face-to-face I like the person you’ve become, making the world a better place I need you to know that I am grateful, and love you in every way You give me hugs and kisses, and love me every day.
You won't be here
by Joanne Kloeble
This year, my dear You won’t be here Again. Things will be a little bit quieter This year You won’t be here Again. I’m lucky, I guess This is quite a good place To live But sometimes, I get lonely Without you. I visit your ashes Dust to dust, they say I pray Black rosary beads Old and worn Like me Now Do not worry I tell The Kids I will get there I just need to Go slowly I’m okay except for This gimpy knee And sometimes my Failing breath And sometimes, my dear I still call Your name To tell you Something And then I remember I won’t hear your answer Because this year, my dear You won’t be here Again.
The poem is told in the voice of my father. My mother passed away at the age of 90, after they had been together for 68 years of marriage.
Stiff
by Kimberley Peterson
During his one-hour lunch break, Dad took a nap. Twenty minutes. Exactly. No alarm required. Motionless. At attention, horizontal on the sofa. His pressed shirt didn’t wrinkle. Trousers retained their sharp creases. Army training, he claimed. During one troop inspection, he fainted, stiff as a plank, into a puddle. Snorted bubbles. Never forgave himself for his public display of weakness. Though his back remained poker-straight, when Mom called he’d march back and bend for a good-bye kiss. Creases in his upturned lips, sunrise wrinkles radiating from his eyes.
Pieces of Heaven
by Lena Samson
Little asteroids smash into my life Unexpected, but oh so welcome Stardust and moon twinkles Tiny pieces of heaven These grandchildren arrive Igniting life with astonishing joy Soft and warm, loving and innocent Precious smiles dazzling my world Grandparents, unknown to me and my friends, children of immigrants With family left behind, untouchable overseas Grandparents a foreign, unimaginable concept So I bestow on these little beings All the love I never knew existed Adoring these ever-blossoming delights Remnants of me, our parents, and those who lived before Humanity thrives through their dear little souls Their hugs, their tears, their dances Nothing better in this world Than pieces of heaven, wrapped tightly in my arms.
Stranger
by Liz Kelly
I'm a stranger seeking out where I belong in this world. No matter what I asked or did, there were several nonsensical activities in the eyes of the keepers. This magical journey becomes quizzical by the year. Who am I? What am I doing here? Should someone come to pick me up like the other kids, or am I unlovable? Weeks have gone by like pages in a book to an absent reader. The year begins with a new hope, but nothing. Birthdays and Christmases go by, do you ever wonder what happened to me? Throughout my adolescent years, I rebelled to regain myself, but it hurt the people who stepped up to and loved me. Where were you? Was I that evil? As a woman who sits across the table from you, the beauty of my imagination, our reunion with a child and mother turned into a hissing match on your side. The words hurt as if she nails my hands on the cross of her sins. No woman should utter 'abortion'; and use religion as an excuse for creating a life. You had a choice, but you slept with another man, not your husband. We are related through blood, but you don't like the image that you made. Now, I know who my real family is. I grew up with the faith of honour and love for the country that my family fought for. Not a buffet to pick and choose from. This is what a family stands for. They chose me as a daughter. You are a stranger.
Previously published in "Byword.ca" 2020
Afternoon Tea
by Lori Gandy
Ritual gives tea its warmth, she thinks it never changes everything else can change will change is changing. But not her cup of tea her pause in the day the comfort of her day. The world stopped at one time for tea. And time surely passes more slowly with a teacup in your hand. And the teacup always fine bone china You must always drink tea from a fine bone china cup with a saucer said her mother to her and she to her daughter. The taste is not the same in any other cup. And – she remembers thinking as a girl: It’s difficult not to look sophisticated while holding a fine bone china teacup. But the nurse says they only serve tea in mugs here. She stares down at her hands fine bone china holding chipped ceramic. She lets out a slow breath looks towards the door sees her daughter slip away.
I Just Washed a Plastic Bag
by Maria Ford
I just washed a plastic bag hung it on a handle in the knife block to dry. They hung, too in my grandmother’s house each one a rainy window in her miraculous factory palacsinta csipetke paprikás csirke or flags in my mother’s kitchen corners pinched between cupboard doors I look into the mirror of this inheritance— stretching the use of mutable things— watch the water drop tick, tock small, clear pools of remembering.
Who Am I, Really?
by Martin Bueno
We are all children of the inherited Universe. I am just a moment in Time. We are infused at birth with streams of Love pouring out from our Mother Earth. I am just the Lake into which it flows. We sing harmony praises of our Creation up to the Sky. I am just a songbird. We all want our voices to be heard. I am just a thinker in a cosmic silence. We all dream of an Eternity. I am just here to experience each day as it comes. That's all!
Mother
by Pearl Williams
M O T H E R O T H E R courageous optimistic warm thoughtful disciplined loving.
In The End
by Silvia Fiorita Smith
In the end the craziness didn't matter, It was a beautiful family, A bloodline of strength and fortitude Blended together by sheer fate, Chosen by destiny to go through this life Together, To live up to a reputation Of pride and stubbornness That never wore thin, A fierce loyalty no matter what befell us, A little madness tried our mettle, But dignity prevailed, And as you lay dying You needed us, We held your heart While you forgave our weaknesses, We dared not speak of love, In the time you had left It was too maudlin, so unlike us To be anything but stoic, A laugh was more welcome than a tear, Raw emotion just under the surface But never bursting out, In the end nothing mattered more Than us, being together, Being beautiful.
Bubbly
by Su Mardelli
Champagne bubbles— my children's laughter. Shepherd’s pie folded like my husband and I, after. Mashed egg salad, spicy, no less. Strawberries and cream paint our Eton’s Mess. Pink poached trout, with walnuts and tahini, Grandma’s pride: stuffed eggplant and zucchini. A confetti of vegetables brightens the stew. Saffron rice crisped, pine nuts strewn through. I am a feast laid bare, nourishing and delicious. I am the laughter between spoons, memories stirred in every dish— hands passing plates, stories rising with the steam— and when you gather at the table, you gather all and every part of me.
At OIW’s April 27, 2025 poetry workshop, facilitator Sylvia Fiorita-Smith gave each participant a paint chip with a colour name to act as a prompt. This poem resulted from a paint colour named “wild thing”.
Wild Thing
by Susanne Fletcher
My wild thing is as romantic as toenail clippings on the bathroom floor, sharp under my bare foot’s arch, naked as his arched eyebrow. After forty-six years I know exactly what that upthrust brow means and, oh yes, darling, I’ll jump into our creaky wedding bed with you, slither between mauve sheets, reveal nothing you haven’t seen before, though a touch threadbare from years of rumpus. Back in year one, the bed was quiet – not like us – given to purple expressions of love. We haven’t changed, much. Your eyebrow and my cocked head the only wild things we’ve ever wanted. Seriously, love, I’ll be there in a jiff but first I must press a band-aid to the hole your toenail made. It's okay, sweetheart, no bad blood here, my old beloved wild thing.
POETRY FROM APRIL 2024
Whispers
by Alison Whiddon
There’s a brothel in my garden. Penthouse to basement root to crown each bloom reveals its tenants. Under the voyeurs eye the metallic oily backs shimmer. Crawling and copulating in all the petal pink corners. Chewing lace patterns through every green sheet. Piles of caviar sludge remain as rental deposits. A futile raid with the mist of doom brings only whispers in the evening air. ‘We’ll be back’. But whose voice is it? The rose or the plague.
Previously published in "Byword.ca" 2020
In memory of my loving mother, Giuseppina Lofaro Fulco This poem is about my sweet departed mother a strong Italian woman who loved her family dearly. In her early forties she was diagnosed with breast cancer which resulted in one of her breasts being removed. About five years later the cancer returned and she had to have the other breast removed. She continued with her battle by taking anti-cancer meds, which were hard on her body but her love of family was stronger than the cancer she was battling every day. She fought this battle with cancer for over forty years until the age of 84, at which point she succumbed to it.
My Mother's Hands
by Angelo Fulco
My mother’s hands. Warm, soft, loving hands From my birth, those hands That cradled me, Bathed me when I could not Lifting me, tickling me to make me laugh. My mother’s hands The kindness and warmth she did impart Reflecting the love she held in her heart. As the years went by my mother’s hands began to age. Yet those hands that I so loved, still looked as beautiful to me As when I was young. All the while I did not know, her silent pain that continued to grow The beast within would not depart But was no match for my mother’s courage, grit and heart. For many years she won that war Until she chose to battle no more And when it was time for her to go She sat down with me to let me know. With tears cascading down my face She dries them ever so gently with such grace. A full life lived, her time is near As she waits to be with her Creator, she shows no fear. By her bedside I now sit, As I cradle my mother’s hands in my own To give her comfort to let her know. And now as my mother’s hands are getting colder I kiss them and hold them and forever remember The times she held mine.
what time is it
by Anna Romano Milne
morning, afternoon, night spring, summer, fall, winter death scans the possibilities always at the ready Today is not the day laughter, compassion, forgiveness humility, kindness, gratitude, love it’s your time
Haiku
by Barbara Florio Graham
Who stripped skeletons? Further on, they disappear, Turned into fence posts. We keep the door closed. Each small detail still intact, Except for the rope. A voice like chocolate: Rich, smooth, tasting of promise, A laugh like champagne. Watercolor sky Aqua streaked with salmon hues Ocean on my mind. When at last he leaves, The door makes no promises, Opens just one way. I caught the yarn as Garment unraveled, leaving Shredded memories.
The Nadir of the Night
by Bob Barclay
Catch the moment Turn and freeze-frame Hold the thinking on a point Change the angle of perception Peering slantwise Off the axis Around a corner in the mind Don’t look straight on Failing focus A corner of the mental eye Shadow sliding Eluding capture In the inch high, mile wide vacuum Twixt the sleeping and the world It’s there, but sliding Out of compass Where mental phantoms go to hide Dim, elusive psychic fingers Slipping sideways Lost in dream-break At the nadir of the night
Fragment After a Battle
by Elizabeth Zimmer
we are driven to words
by what we love, to rage
when love and words
have failed us, to love
when the arrow
splits the apple,
quivers in the tree—
we sit beneath it,
eating the pieces
and blessing each other
for our accurate aim.
the poisoned soul
by Guddi Sharma
The gods are unhappy infused my body with anger poisoned my soul I can feel the rain they are crying cleansing my poisoned soul
a glimmer of hope
by Kelley Raab
I’ve been so sad for so long I don’t know what joy feels like plodding through each day missing her wishing she were here spring, summer, fall, winter they’re all shades of gray to me viewed through grieving eyes of necessity I turn inward I cannot make sense of her death of her no longer being in my world yet I realize I am not alone death happens all around me how do others cope? I have no particular moment of illumination but rather a growing sense that somehow she is still with me this hope enables me to bear my suffering without being overwhelmed a glimmer is enough
Tree Canopy Calypso
By Kimberly Peterson
Downy woodpecker displays a jaunty red tam as it chips out a nest in the dead limb of our backyard maple. It accepts our meagre suet and sunflower seed offering without ceding territory. Perched on our downspout, it drums out a metallic warning that echoes over cornfields and dairy farms. But not into a deciduous canopy. Mere kilometers away, hundreds of trees are felled. Acres deforested to feed our land avarice. Still, we’re shocked when rivers weep floods and the sky curses in forest fires.
In Memoriam: The Victims of the Barrhaven Massacre
Shards of Compassion
By Kumudini Nicholas
a.k.a R.E. Siliente
The blood smeared doorsteps manifested images of five angels, They astounded him, and Reminded him of the love he once shared. They waved their wands to soothe his grief-stricken mind, And whispered in his ear: follow your dreams; those may remind you of us. He collapsed. His dashed hopes solidified on hapless bodies jarred his mind. Visions, once glistening with flare, now appeared dull, dire, and doomy. Flames of anger percolated in a convoluted heart engulfed him, and Burned his spirit, weakened his knees, and killed his soul. He mourned. Yet, he aimed to crush the unruly flames with compassion. Would that do any justice? Or would it be like pouring a thimble of water on a wayward Bonfire? He labored!
Springtime Pleasures
by Pearl Williams
What is more satisfying In the early days of spring than feeling the sun on closed eyelids as you sit in a garden chair or on a park bench absorbing it all … You smile as the soft heat warms your face and ultimately your heart.
Joy
by Peter King
We, for our joy, do daily strive On lasting happiness to thrive. And hear the laughs of children playing But not of pundits daily braying. To hear the sounds of harmony But not those of cacophony. To see on baby’s lips a smile As kisses on it we do pile. To watch as couples closely hold Each other to in love enfold. To hear the sounds of wind and rain That soothingly reduces pain. Help animals to come in trust From outstretched hands to get a crust. To sit upon a shore and gaze On nature’s beauty and so praise The bounteous world in which we live And which to us much joy can give.
Previously published in "Life's But a Poem", by Peter King
Valentine to Earth
by Ruth Latta
“It is I, Chaika, Seagull. Everything is fine. I see the horizon, sky blue with a dark strip. How beautiful the Earth is... Everything is going well.” In 1963, after three days in space she ejected from her capsule four miles above terra firma and parachuted in strong winds down to Kazakhstan. This Russian cosmonaut with a shy smile and curly hair, had worked in a factory, put herself through tech school, and learned skydiving in her free time. Her name was a whisper: Valentina Tereshkova. Struggling under snowdrifts of homework in a cold climate, I dreamed of ascending great heights, and hoped the future would be brighter for women - and all humanity. Perhaps the earth would be beautiful and everything would go well. In the recent past, when Russia invaded Ukraine, the West placed sanctions on Russian public figures, and froze Valentina’s assets.
You Are My Ocean
by Scott Bury
Once there was a sailor Who fell in love with the sea With cool green depths and shining sky And gentle living breeze. He lifted sail and chose a course No knowing the way to any shore Just to feel the swells and kiss the dancing waves. I can’t wait to sail away. I want to gently kiss your face. I want to taste the salty spray, No matter how hard the wind may blow Or if I ever reach another shore. Once there was an ocean Who loved a sailing man. She drowned him in gently stirring seas. She teased him with foaming spray Silent currents and sudden waves And winds that stung sudden and hard. I’m in love with storm and surge No matter how much you rage I will never wait to cast off my line. Every wave and every gale All the damage to my sails Reveal the love and passion in your soul. I don’t know how to find my way From shore to shore on gentle waves And though my searching only angers the sea I will never stop searching for the way. You are danger with every breeze, You are life and love and breath Wind and sun, never twice the same. Let me drown in your green eyes. A softness deep beneath them lies Intoxicating power that drowns, brings life, delights. You are a gentle loving shore A clear blue sky, you love me more Than such a poor sailor could deserve. Let me drink down your green pools Let me taste the light that shines From deep within your darkest, hottest core. The ocean is a patient love Endless is its gentle touch And deep is its generosity. But it will swamp and drown the sailor Foolish enough to try to tame her Rash enough to set his anger free. For calm green waves and gentle wind Hide the power and majesty within. The fury unleashed cannot be matched By any man with any ship Or strength of arm and leg and back. I am deep in love with you With every storm and wave. Don’t leave me dry or far from shore, For I would rather drown at sea Adrift on the ocean that is you.
Literary Lament
by Susanne Fletcher
I regret my lack of True Grit, that I was not, nor ever will be one of All The Pretty Horses, that in Surfacing I am drowning in ignorance, that to make this writing life work I should have read at least one book by Jane Austen but Persuasion was lost on me. I considered retiring To The Lighthouse to self-administer a course of study, improve odds of learning Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, undertake a crash course in Jane Eyre perseverance but I have little will to move beyond my gated garden’s rocking chair, tilting idly in nasturtium perfumed air or to read Ulysses or Lincoln in the Bardo. I remain despairingly devoted to Best of anthologies, delight in dangling my toes in the bone broth of selected relevance far, far away from The Wasteland, in a place I fly with Wild Geese into an infant sunrise filled with “You don’t have to walk on your knees” on a gravel path of literature to venerate black ink on cream paper, the inventive chemical smell of processed pulp, and the scratch of cursive scrawled from head to page to worship roots of story.
Blankie
by Sylvia Ralphs-Thibodeau
I am amethyst. I am the colour of February when you will come into this world. I will wrap my amethyst arms around you with love and bring you comfort. I was made with a hundred thousand tiny loops; Each loop made with love and anticipation. Your tiny hands will decipher the braille of my design. Perhaps you will suckle on a corner of me. I will be carried with you everywhere when life seems to have betrayed you. Others may frown at your bond to me but I will always comfort you in a way they may not understand. One day you will not need me. I will be tucked into a bottom drawer for a few years and finally lost somewhere forever. But part of you will always remember your amethyst friend. Together we created a story of life’s beginnings and endings.
