Notes from the coast

Slick kelp swells along with black tide, and waves crash foaming white noise day and night.

I drive too slow.
he drives too fast.

Electricity seethes; a glowering showdown proceeds and evergreen giants loom in trepidation above our heads.

The evening cools and cruise ships, giant glittering jewels, glide across the strait offering explosions of magic, excessive romance.

We call them floating shopping malls and laugh, make up themed galas, mock the fireworks in the distance as their brochure cover. We admire their sheer existence and tedious builds, their elaborate accents of swimming pools and tennis courts.

We take the bait before growling in discomfort in fear of change. Synastry gone awry if only for a few brief transits; like stormy seas during a long wet winter, ultimately creating lush carpets of ferns and waxy hard-knox salal.

Was it worth it?
Would you do it again?

In a heartbeat, that’s why I’m here.

The towering Hemlocks have thick roots, fat thighs suction like octopuses to old growth stumps. We may have been trees once, maybe we still are, forever twisted, feeding, helping, and leaning on each other.

Black tide reflects grey sky; it opens and contracts, diminishes and expands with bursting sea life, brackish salt. Quick-finned feeding frenzies basting in

ooohs & aaahhs

Thundering waves plow the body, ice cold coarse shins; I want to float, I want to flow, into the waves, I go, I go.

Yearning to bob to another shore, to explore unseen depths—take me everywhere likes its nowhere, tell me everything like it’s nothing.

Oh Neptune! God of the Sea

I dreamt of your tangled curls, your hungry ribs and sea-fizzled eyes.

I dream of your patience as you uncover treasures from the sand and think of all the shipwrecks along this coast, deteriorating, leaving specks of gold.

Black tide, linger a little longer, like thick oil upon water;

the silver will shine beneath your slime, the gold will shimmer behind your shadows.

“Reflections” Southwest Coast, Vancouver Island, Canada, 2026

Top of the World

The truth of our existence looms in every corner and crevice of the land.

“Along the Dempster” between Yukon and Northwest Territories, Canada, August 2016

Crushing glacier water in the Rockies, weeks prior, in a lake with the same name as my sister geology lured us further and further north until we finally reached it’s origin. We didn’t know that then, but we sure as hell know it now.

The rivers surrounding the delta host several different species of fish, be darned if I ever caught one. The road north is full of bizarre suck-holes and enormous horizon; puzzle pieces of no-man’s land vibrating organisms of varying selection.

We found ourselves scattered between pallets of earth tones, blood reds and three flat tires. Eagles soar. Not far now, alas, the famous Arctic Circle; a celebrity in the middle of nowhere. Clouds spread across the sky, like a slow-mo time lapse grasping reality, and eventually the vortex scoops us up and spits us out into the alleyways of Dawson City where the novelty eventually wears off.

But first let me tell you when twenty pairs of eyes bore into our chests, as ours darted from side to side; hastily we sipped our pints and chalked our cues. Never been this far north before. And just as we leaned in to take a shot, the angel of Inuvik glowing in golden light appeared, her eyes a soft muddy brown; her smile as wide as pure chance, like an old friend that has been waiting for you after months of being lost at sea. She even managed to bid us goodbye—serendipitous— in the crispy late summer morning of our departure I might have stayed otherwise if it wasn’t for the echo of Alaska that tapped me on my left shoulder.

We’ve witnessed the setting of the midnight sun several times now, from the flat infinity plains, behind silhouettes of black spruce and zig-zagging watersheds. The further you go the more tender the meat; slow-cooked community with an old soul as a guide.

On the dirt road we succumbed, the call of the wild, camping out at the tormented gas station parking lot just south of the sixty-sixth parallel with a spectacular view of Earth’s geographical curvature. Poor judgement and a lack of social connection consisted of too much beer beneath a galactic show of aurora borealis, the goddess herself. Unforgettable swooshes of cherry and lime flashed spiritually, transcending the sky.

Back in Dawson, Jack London crept behind the preserved mortuary; a faint howl of a memory. It’s true that you can catch the gold rush extravaganza at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s if you dare do a toe shot as a token or totem, up to you. The great river threatens potential in the background and we cross it to and fro.

Stretching roads twist between lumpy barren chocolate mountains dominating honey antique meadows. We descend into a strange icon of committed consumerism; chicken everything. Northern-most crossings likely share a particular absurdity.

Backwards driving after blue dreams tickle our lungs we are deep within the continent. Red haired and Alaskan bred. No going back now.

The truth of our existence looms in every corner and crevice of the land. The mountains are other-worldly their fascinating girth triumphant over the horizon. Hot springs bubble strawberry sunsets and indigo dusk lingers until the sky erupts yet again, shimmering flashes of emerald and ruby, smeared jewels between stars; mystically entranced we swayed with the erotic dance of night.

It turns out we gave the sky and land our hearts and lives right there and then because the following morning the Jimmy wouldn’t start. It coughed and sputtered and heaved and sighed. We were stranded, hitchhiking on the highway looking for a pay phone. Darn right we got picked up and made our call, only to find ourselves under a wing of a hawk, desperately seeking fucked tourists, willing to share misery.

We shed lightly, and soon dispersed spending weeks riding our bicycles and taking showers at the university campus. Sometimes we played chess outside, freshly showered and I’d let my hair dry in the warmth of the afternoon sun, while we concentrated on our rooks and pawns, furrowed brows and spouts of genuine affection.

It wasn’t ‘til late September that we finally left town, over shared letters and too many Kraft dinners. Every lake we passed was a perfect mirror, chiseled autumn and dwindling light. The Jimmy was back with a soft whine now, while goin` about sixty, but she started every time.

Between us we had three hundred dollars and a bag of hope as we crossed the border bleeding into grotesque technicolour mountains like water-colour blots. A fox crossed the highway just before our turn, its pumpkin-rouge fur and pure white chest luxurious against the glow of sunset. The ground was cool, the air was filled with rotting forests and frosty dawns. We slept. Oh, how we slept.

Is a sanctuary sacred if you show the world?

this is where I think,
this is where I find peace.

wisdom and knowledge
a nod to the pedestal?
praise me,
guru stricken
desire to share
I have searched,
and I have found.

beneath bright, shining lights
self-worth becomes
a bunch of heart-shaped likes
a robust bouquet
with silver lilies and dimes

curves of sun between shadows of leaves
the forest rustles in its wake.
this is where I think.
this is where I find peace.

rivers murmur
rippling, gurgling currents
un-yielding.
this is where I think.
this is where I find peace.

tidal licks along the shore
salty breezes and peppery air
lapping rhythm rumbles
deep in the belly.

this is where I think
this is where I find peace

could you keep
something for you?
a drop of rain,
a leaf crunching
beneath your foot.
the smell of lemons on your fingers.
a haunted dream
a breath between thoughts.

would that serve gracefully,
expand anyway?

towards the grand scheme
a piece of love
not locked away
but in motion

in the way you
squint your eyes
when you laugh

or
hold a door
for a stranger

in the way you
cradle a seedling
above the hole you dug,
gently letting go,
mounting dirt
then pressing firmly
around its base.

in the way you
watch a spider
weave its web,
while you smoke a cigarette
and the sky changes
from peach to raspberry
from meridian to inky black

does the photo of the empty room
make you less alone
and your whispered secrets to the wind
less heard

do empty chairs echo loneliness
or give solace for rest

a dining room covered in dust
an armoire filled with broken china
abandoned or forgotten?
alone or with God?

in space there is
ample amounts
of room.

this is where i know thoughts.
this is where i know peace.

keys shift the lock
a soft knuckled click;

nobody’s home and the hourglass
is upside down.

“Alaskan Mud” somewhere in Alaska, August 2016

Salt rich & industrious

Sadness clings like crusted barnacles along a smooth sandstone shore. The contrast scrapes light to hardship and ease to flow. I study the mark of wet to see whether the ocean creeps in or out, its low tide remnants a flat piece of petrified wood and two strips of lettuce green seaweed scattered in a basin of rock. I guess its retreat but as the waves lap and lick the shore I realize the opposite.

Scurrying along washed up logs, sprinkles of sand that lay sporadically on their surfaces are rough against my bare feet. We’ve raced along them often, hungry and cold after our evening swims.

I open my book to read, yearning for its refuge and occasionally lookup to see sailboats without their sails, motoring past the closest island of rock. I shiver despite summer, as the coolness of the ocean blends with the wind.

I came to swim; I always come to swim.

I float with my feet facing the islands wondering how come, imagining parallel universes singing themes of love. The water is surprisingly warm and salt brushes my lips as I stretch forward, floating toward small bobbing waves, I am but a speck, like the plankton, in the sea of the universe.

I think about the time I almost drowned, years ago, in the same ocean thousands of miles away and the shame I felt afterwards. I remember catching a breath before an enormous wave crashed down on me, plunging me into the depths with such impressive force I thought in fear how I may never resurface again. My surfboard miraculously whipping around with me, somehow still attached to my ankle. After being pummeled back to air I picture the blast of my friend’s euphoric smile whizzing past me, oblivious, before being punched back underwater, over and over again, helpless.

Drifting back to present I observe mega industrial ships, rectangular wisps nestled between distant islands and the urge to swim far, far, away grasps me like a flash of inspiration. I feel like I could swim, using the breast-stroke at a reasonable pace, forever. The surge of energy keeps me in longer, I float, I linger. I consider the audacity of my attempt.

In the shallows I notice a crab, Cancer the crab with its soft meaty core and rough red exterior, we both side-step in opposite directions avoiding each other. With a coating of salt on my skin I wade to shore like Darwin’s drawings of evolution from ape to human, a cell from sea to land.

Jump in and live! For fear is constricting and my heart aches for progress as I watch you torture yourself into exile, stubborn pride boring through your pores as you close your heart from mine if only while you carry your things out the door. I can only anticipate its expansion after separation bigger and brighter like the shattered rays reflecting off the sea, a disco ball of dancing light.

A Fable of Archetypal Exploration

Persephone reached lazily for a strawberry from her basket and took a bite, the flesh sweet and firm. She crossed her ankles and leaned back on her right elbow, watching the meadow sway with the warm, mid- summer breeze, her long blond hair hanging loose behind her back.

Hades peered from the forest edge, longing for Persephone. He agonized as he watched her pop strawberries one by one into her mouth, and yearned for winter, when she was his. He leaned on the Oak tree and lit a smoke, she’d been gone hardly a few weeks and he knew he shouldn’t have come up to see her, but, just a wee glimpse, he justified.

Having eaten the last of the strawberries Persephone lay her head on her blanket and closed her eyes. Just a quick nap, she reckoned, knowing her mother, Demeter, would be expecting her for dinner. The sun warmed her body and with the soft ground beneath her, she sighed, spiraling into a deep sleep.

Hades stubbed his cigarette, respectfully, having watched her drift off. He waited until he was sure she was asleep before coming closer, watching her chest rise and fall, a steady rhythm. This is where they first met, and it wasn’t so much a kidnapping as it was love at first sight. He stood near her for an unknown amount of time, mesmerized.

Long, thick clouds carried by the wind encompassed the sky and Persephone woke with a shiver. The sun was nearing the horizon and she realized she had overslept, for the light lingered long after dinner this time of year. Hurrying, she gathered her blanket and stuffed it into her basket before running to the forest edge. Her bare feet padded along the worn path, familiar, but dark crept in, and soon she was feeling her way in pitch black.

“Seph…” Hades stepped forward and Persephone bumped into him, shrieking.

“Hey…hey, have you not grown brave from the underworld yet?” he coaxed, raising his arms in the air.

“Hades!”

“I’ve missed you, darling.”

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, they were near her Mother’s summer cabin and she feared Demeter would hear them.

“Please, I missed you. I needed to see you.” He stepped toward her, leaning in for an embrace. Persephone let him hold her, her body relaxed as she breathed in his familiar smell of worn leather and icy smoke. When she met his gaze he tilted her chin and kissed her.

“We mustn’t,” she murmured after their lips parted.

Behind him she saw the low glow of a lantern being lit inside the cabin. “Come, Mother is waiting.”

The rustling of the wind picked up as they approached the solid wood dwelling. Demeter swung open the door, holding the lantern above her head.

“Hades. I should have known.”

“Mother, I—“ Persephone began but Demeter shooed her from saying any more and ushered them inside.

The three of them crowded around the kitchen table, Demeter having served a chilled pea and mint soup. Sitting in silence, she watched them eat. When they finished, she poured them each a mug of tea.

“Thank you Demeter,” Hades managed a weak smile. She narrowed her eyes and sat across from him as Persephone rose to clear the dishes.

“You bring the cold with you,” Demeter said curtly.

Hades glanced at the mug he cupped and watched the steam vanish abruptly.

“We had a deal, Hades.”

Persephone strained her ears, washing and racking the dishes as if they would shatter at the slightest clink. It was pointless as only silence prevailed, and eventually she heard her mother rise and walk up the stairs to bed. Persephone led Hades to the porch where they slept in the cool of the summer night.

Hades dreamt of blistering heat and forest fires, burning flesh and clogged, stifling cityscapes. When he woke before dawn, he smelled roasted chicory, heavy in the thought that he must return to The Underworld. He slipped out from underneath the covers and retreated to the forest surrounding the cabin.

That morning a fresh dusting of snow gleamed on the distant mountains. Demeter smirked as she squinted at them in the early morning light, crouching; she collected the last of the strawberries.

Hades lurked in the woods, examining Demeter pluck the ripe fruits. He felt guilty and knew she would feel his presence. He emerged with purpose, subtly puffing his chest into her line of sight, and her gaze flickered from the mountains to him, and back to the mountains. She rose, lifting her long skirt and made her way back to the cabin.

It was there where Hades roamed for the next few days, in the forest behind the gardens, sometimes nearing the edge, watching mother and daughter harvest and cook. Persephone would peer at the woods, thinking she saw his shadow, but it would disappear so quickly she couldn’t be sure. They worked mostly in silence, Demeter’s expression grave, Persephone’s weary.

Every day the snow on the mountains would creep lower and warm summer breezes turned cooler. After a week, Demeter sensed the frost at the base of the mountains. Her heart felt damp against her chest, and that afternoon a hailstorm blew through.

Persephone lit the woodstove, meticulous in her approach of adding small pieces of kindling, anticipating the doom the storm impeded.

“We must travel to the coast, by foot, collect Erika to break the spell.” Demeter announced, entering the room. She wore a long dark green rain cloak smeared with mink oil, and held an unlit lantern.

“If Hades stays any longer we may never see summer again,” she whispered.

Persephone sighed and flames danced in her pupils. Her heart felt like a ball of lead, weighted. “Let me get the logs on before we go.”

Half an hour passed before she gathered her coat and a spare lantern, and met her mother on the front porch. They followed the trail to the ocean, at least ten miles from the cabin. Rain pelted their hoods as they rushed through clearings nearing the coast, eventually ascending a cliff while thunder bore lightning in the distance.

Demeter pointed to a nest of flowering Heather growing on the slope, darkness eloped, harsh grey clouds encumbered the sky. The wind whipped their cloaks, exposed; they were unable to light their lanterns so they scrambled down the slippery cliff in dwindling light. Coming to her knees, Demeter took her garden blade to carefully extract pieces of Heather; the roots were delicate and prone. Persephone huddled next to her, helping place them in burlap pouches filled with damp peat before tucking them into a rucksack.

When they finished it was dark, and they felt their way back up among slick wet rocks when Persephone slipped. She screamed into the foaming sea, but caught a lone spruce branch embedded into the cliff. Sick with dread, she could make out the engulfing black of the ocean below. Lightning flashed, dancing wickedly over the horizon.

Meanwhile Demeter scurried to the top and tied a thick rope around a boulder as quick as she could. She hurled the rope into the wind and it blew inches from Persephone’s grasp. Persephone let one hand go, and pushed against the rock with her feet to grab the rope. She clung tightly as the weight of her body swayed heavily in the salty wind, eyes stinging, she aligned her feet to the wall and climbed up.

Persephone’s hands were raw and bloody when she reached the top. She sprawled her body on the flat, heaving. The rain ceased to a spraying drizzle while Demeter cradled Persephone to a sitting position and they huddled together sipping hot lemon water from a thermos before making their way back.

They arrived home well before dawn and well after midnight; the fire had gone out and Persephone tended it immediately. They wrapped themselves in blankets curled up by the fire, and fell asleep.

The next morning a light frost had made its way to the cabin gardens, and by early afternoon some plants lay drooping in the sun. Demeter awaited Hades at the forest edge, three Heather segments positioned in front of her ceremoniously. She lit a sage bundle and guided it in a circle before letting it smoulder in a seashell.

At dusk Hades finally appeared, Demeter sat meditating. She opened her eyes. “Ereiken, to break, break the spell.”

“Aye—“Hades bowed his head, lifted the plants, and started walking toward the coast.

He planted them on the opposite slope from where they were picked the night before, kissing their bristly tops before plunging his body into the sea below.

The trees in the forest and the trees on the coast all whispered that summer storms blew through when Persephone missed Hades as much as he missed her. The heather Hades planted blooms only in winter, and Persephone gave birth later that year to a daughter named Erika.

Thank you for reading and I must say this wouldn’t be as smooth without the help of my beloved Editor! Check out her substack below!

Emily S. Hurricane

Tremendous trial leaves hesitation, catastrophic reliance, pause,

Resuscitation.

Subject matter closed, breathing obstructed. Bits and pieces left unattended to be eventually reconstructed. Maybe in the next life, baby

Wax drools, fumbles, licks gravity, eyes flicker like a candle’s flame, hazy shadows taunt, tantalizing conscious sight, magnets oppose beloved friction.

Leftover coffee collects in the fridge waiting to be used as stale cold brew, a reflection of procrastination.

Without hesitation trial leaves tremendous catastrophic reliance, pause

obliteration.

Consult the tarot periodically, methodically, patiently await answers driven by mysteries.

Lessons scream, collapse and rip the matted rug, love leaves footprints in the walls

Whispering regrets.

Wax drools, fumbles, licks gravity, eyes flicker like a candle’s flame, hazy shadows taunt, tantalizing conscious sight, magnets oppose beloved friction. This is the next life, baby.

Resolve, resolve, but first we must dissolve like alcohol in the foaming heat, dryer than our bones that clung to each other a thousand years prior.

Us, you, me, them, don’t you see? You’ve already watched me burn.

Eyeballs rolled to the top of my skull, I knew, you knew, she knew, fire gorged, feasted, leaving us to ash and you stared, mesmerized, hearts melting.

Wax drools, fumbles, licks gravity, eyes flicker like a candle’s flame, hazy shadows taunt, tantalizing conscious sight, magnets oppose beloved friction. I’ve missed you, darling.

I watched a star explode and move opposite directions. It was then I knew fate took the long way around, obliging the laws of the universe, expansive, expensive routes rich with silk and saffron.

How modern could you get? Lost in traveller’s smoke still tending the horse just about to invent the horseshoe. Blacksmiths had hot, clinking lives.

We smoke too much, in every life. Light me up, without matches or a lighter watch me deep dive the toaster, stove top.

Electric gasoline coming your way, new make and model. Explosive at its best, when can we rest? Only after the test, yes, yes, it’s a proper mess. I want to collapse to my knees and beg. Let me resist.

Wax drools, fumbles, licks gravity, eyes flicker like a candle’s flame, hazy shadows taunt, tantalizing conscious sight, magnets oppose beloved friction.

Don’t you remember?

April, 2020

Radical Fluid

Zapped,
conversation tapped,
zinnias sting
and dahlias flap
wind blows
a frozen stance

Quick glance,
flicker of the gaze
lost in thought
caught in a maze
words getting heavy,
like thick honey glaze

Chaotic sprinkle
bring it on,
a proper twinkle
when stars align
more than once.

Brutal, rugged, far too raw
bruised apple, minor flaw

Pick apart the salad,
spinach on the side
let the insults slide
bitter lemon, avec truth confide

Distaste
react with haste
put the stock,
excess baste
caked over, a rude waste
poison words and the soup’s laced

Main course,
of rolled tabacco
puff, puff, pass
abrupt staccato.

Egos flare like a lions mane
boundaries crossed,
wrong lane;
guilt whispers
scales tip to the core
heart reaches out
but felines roar.

Acatenango, Guatemala, March 2018

Zip down Zero

flicker, flicker, beckon bicker
hold your breath, the air gets thicker
eyes roll, savouring the bitter
now scurry forth, scavenging critter.

morsels all around,
scarcity bound,
without sound,
loops circle 'round
find what’s lost, see what’s found 

let go the rope which keeps you bound

recoil, come forth
sidestep the course
understand the force
vanish remorse
discover the source

root outcome, concealed
blaring suddenly, open field
skin torn, flesh peeled
soon to be revealed.

‘surf ' West Coast Vancouver Island, BC

Papaver

Paeoniflorum

Pom-pom poppies sprawl
ruffled forms, plumes of function
where sea meets land and land meets sea
white crests puff, carried by petals.

Storybook longings and endless sky
swaying pink, steady
glowing at sunrise, feverish at dusk
layers of cream coloured blush.

Plump satisfaction, against regret
time opens, splits, tears loose;
countless cycles remain, 
wind breaths movement.

 A soft farewell of wavering descent
long dry, weaving vermouth.
Vigorous, smooth green becoming
a crusted nutty beige.

Between thumb and forefinger
it sits lovingly, happy to snap,
flakes crinkle, delicate dots
spill between dancing mosquitos in evening rays

“Chance Encounter”, Watercolour pencils on watercolour paper, 24” x 18” 2025

“Malleable” Watercolour pencils on watercolour paper 18” x 24”, June 2026

“Maiden”, Watercolour pencils on watercolour paper, 24” x 18”, June 2026

Potted Dreams

Water blots petunia petals, soggy colours mirrored in puddles. Formal ricochets of watermelon pinks, blurs of pale tangerine. Summer contains its beginning.

Later, its heat blares insisting on being cooled off by mid-summer thunderstorms and we would rush, scurrying into our swimsuits before running down the asphalt in order to catch the storm on our skin. Goosebumps evaporate after shrieks of joy, the smell of wet pavement filling our lungs. Shivering again, on the covered porch, towels and the sweet cold plastic of blue freezies graze our tongues.

The drops of rain startle a spider’s web, disarming the fibers from what they meticulously cling to. She dreams of empty fuel tanks and gas stations, specific numbers. Flamingos make an appearance one foot at a time in three separate circumstances. Mysteries fill the tank as she checks the faces on the map with sagging jowls, melting eyes and hollow nostrils. All that remains is the smell of wet pavement reminding her of childhood.

Street Act

Vancity Tribute

It’s my first time and we arrive without warning. One too many all-nighters along the road, but, heck, we made it.

Proper naïve wasting bear bangers in Banff, we drove and drove our last day on the road, and there we were, parked up a side street in front of a classy condo at a 10pm dusk in the middle of the city – oh summer nights how long you are, you smell different tonight, of salt and sea of shells and fish.

We had a cousin with a couch who worked at the local furniture shop, the poor bastard agreed to house us for a period of time.

The novelty of options in a west coast city never quite wears off when coming from land lock. I couldn’t think of anything worse than opting for high end shopping and feeling weird about it before meeting up with our brother who housed psychedelic drinks his fridge.

It was the mushrooms we were after and before long my puke changed colour and became the neon Mona Lisa. Let’s be fair it was a big day as I never imagined walking through pretentious stores after accidentally making eye contact with two hunched men shooting up in the boxwoods of what seemed like an otherwise respectable park.

Besides, my friend was the shopper; I needed weed and somewhere to smoke it. Nevertheless we found our rhythm, and ended up setting up shop in the dance club bathroom one night smoking menthols one deep chat at a time high on eckies. Tool was in town and I was scouting for a chance encounter.

Time only seems wasted when hungover in a hot, chic apartment and breakfast becomes a whole day affair. Regardless we had to make the most of it and rented bikes to go pedal around Stanley Park. Afterward we found ourselves at Rec Beach playing topless football. Before dusk we bought takeout sushi and sat at the shipyards with her bro and smoked cigarettes while watching the sunset against the enormity of an industrious skyline.

In the end we had burnt tits and a pile of unknown speeding tickets.

Years prior, I stood at the edge of the sky train facing the windowed doors that would open at different stops, we were crossing the bridge across the Fraser River and I dared look a hundred feet below me through the now seemingly flimsy glass wondering what could happen if they burst open. When I picked up my paycheque they gave me a can of beer. I cracked it on the curb, not even of legal age yet and smoked three cigarettes with it before catching the sky train back. From suburb to downtown to suburb; it was a long ride home.

At one point I lived in a hostel for two weeks. It had a shared kitchen and I was all rearranged from arriving back after two years abroad. The way I spoke English was a mix of kiwi slang with a bogan British accent, if that’s even a possibility.

More recently I ate sliced pizza on the back stairs of the Art Gallery overlooking the Japanese gardens. The rats scurried from shrub to shrub, up and down the far edge of the steps; opportunists at work gorging on overflowing trash cans. I could of sworn I heard the protesters chant “we are sheep, will repeat!” It was autumn and we rented electric scooters for the first time launching ourselves up and down square blocks gently navigating traffic. I felt the wind in my hair and tasted the crisp red leaves; at its ripest the earth filled my lungs amongst the concrete, steel and grime.

Vancouver Art Gallery, Vancouver Canada, October 2025

Intro

Sticks, stones and bones. The finest of lightweight bones, so delicate, like a single iridescent hair; stones like boulders and sticks appear as fallen logs. Every crevice and crack a potential nook, for the tiniest of the tiniest, smaller than ants, the tiny people roam.

Between the patio cracks the edges create walls for protection. They live where they cannot be squished, to them depth is everywhere and they nestle. Blades of grass are like fields of tall bamboo, forests become Amazon jungles, one bamboo leaf can support a group of tiny people and one raindrop quenches ten of their thirsts.

The incredible feat of an old growth forest almost incomprehensible, millions have settled behind flaps of bark and grooves of wood. Puddles become ponds, ponds become lakes, lakes become oceans, and the ocean is strictly avoided for its unimaginable force, one minuscule particle of salt can pummel them into oblivion, a tiny ripple a tidal wave. A life of grandiose scale.

One meter becomes a kilometer; a kilometer becomes a hundred miles. Most never walk an acre their entire lives. Flies resemble ravens and ravens resemble pterodactyls. Bumblebees being the most friendly of the insects offer the service of transport often only bringing them a mere ten meters yet beckoning those who dare to fly into whole new worlds and looming dangers.

From generation to generation the perceived weakness of tininess becomes taught as their biggest strength, for they are hardly visible to the naked eye. Rarely mistaken for food, they are brushed over as dirt or sand particles moving in unison, unnoticed as a mere flick in the corner of the eye.

A small seedling sufficient as shade for two, they have created microscopic communities all over the world, in every park, city, backyard, orchard, the entire surface of the earth there is a hum of tiny people who have learned how not to get underfoot.

It is rare to find them inside any buildings; they are weary without fresh air yet hunker strategically to avoid gentle breezes that threaten their existence. Their world is gigantically little. They feast on crumbs, minerals, particles, raindrops and dew.

Few humans know of their presence, select insects are aware of them, the bears in winter feel them pluck their hairs to use as blankets, and occasionally the wolves pick up their scent. The ants are their main crumb source, they scavenge what they leave behind, pieces too microscopic for even the tiniest of ants to consider consumable. Their enemies lie in size, not as predator but as force, along with their allies.

They trace back to cosmic ricochet. Particles morphed into humans smaller than cells, for millions of years they have adapted and evolved and for a billion more they shall stay. Intricate designs of collected rain water between splinters of wood on trees, crumb collection facilities along concrete cracks in the city, curbs as cliffs and cliffs rich with pockets to house them. They are everywhere.

Welcome, to the world within the world, of tiny people.

It’s not about the butterflies,

But the larvae.

The simplicity of what one has to be

in order to become,

the caterpillar

nose.

wings

ears.

Swinging, grinning from

both sides.

shadows mock and mimic

portrayal of a portrait.

What I see (fish).

chalice.

two, please.

to go?

to stay.

but what if it’s too much?

no butterfly, no flight,

nothing.

I said.

but could no-thing, be everything?

thanks so much

if there is no touch, can we feel?

illumination is select, watch your step.

Mixed Media (collage), 2007

“Scattered touch-ups”, Mixed Media (collage), May 2009

“Post-its”, Mixed Media (collage), 2021 poem: 2006 (?)

Post-its

The inventor of—

the fact is written

Laws, forgiven

And time passes,

In its orderly fashion,

with infinite amounts of movements,

soldiers calling for reinforcements

A plastic face, several attachments

of reality and faith,

The world keeps turning

and establishes no race—

Technicolour to black and white

shadows, a single northern light,

waiting for destruction,

                                                             to take flight.


Thank you for viewing,

Magazines and foreign cards, ceramic wine jugs as old relics. Candles flicker, casting shadows of potpourri against the wall, tall, over-reaching; time is caught. Embedded behind the scent lays memory and feeling. Progression becomes obsession until it releases before nestling back home, getting comfortable.

Afterwards, the wax licks the edges of the bottles, thrift store stubs at their wicks end, ready to pop! Whispering this time, through the hole, a silent ‘o’ as if it’s the tree in the forest and everybody’s curious whether it exists or not after it topples.

Listening though, we catch the shift. Two owls hoo! Back and forth they discuss the night. Wind rustles tiny new leaves atop the alders and long willows bristle— synchronized. They grow without complaint in the creek.

Before long, the cycle remains, consistently persistent. It bellows at dusk and toots at dawn, by mid-day it manages a sleepy yawn, acknowledging the soul and without delay late afternoon drifts in, eventually recreating the sky in a cool, longing way.

The stars dance, appearing sporadically, each twinkling a tiny wink creating the rhythm of xylophones in the sky. There is a hum to the navy shadows, a buzz to the air noir. A tango of sorts, without discipline. Loose yet precise. Unyielding, terror-less. Aux naturale.

To mock it could be laughable, to master it, a gift.

In the sky a feather lazily floats through dusty alleyways, reaching the outskirts of a city and gusting across farmland; if gravity ceases it, the wind arrives either as zephyr or an abrupt blast, or the spectrum in between. Whether caught in a shrub or seized by a child, flat and wet, plastered to a sidewalk in the rain, its nimble weight still slips through fingers, or dries into a wispy crunch— weaving lightly through the air.

Day of Ray

Gear up, gear down.

The world goes ‘round,
turning, not swerving
spinning and maneuvering.

Daylight comes, daylight leaves,
sun behind the mountains,
and darkness weaves.

A continuous cycle,
each day passes,
sun feeds the masses,
yearning freedom

and for some reason,
the light brings hope,
the action of cope –
our sorrows drowned in rays,
to come again in darker days.

New tradgedies, new losses,
new trauma and causes.

But not to linger too long,
for the sun will shine its song,
allow wounds to dry and heal,
not let us be guilty,
for how we feel.

“Devil’s Club” Squamish, British Columbia

Recognize



In darkness, the head lamp

illuminates their words,

in the presence of the world

being black ink—


Also, so I think

And with that,

I blink

a moment, in time,

every single one,

it exists—in many forms.



Regardless of indulgences,

life itself, makes its appearances,

and so be it, if you maybe one—

play the role of you,

and what can be true, be true



No hiding,

misguiding,

eye contact chase,

simply show your face—

mysteries are born with curiosity,

essentially?



CRICKETS,

creak—

moths that reek,

thank God for 4am,

I just hit my peak,

goin’ to bed,

headed to work.

keep that poem straight,

fuck, I’m already late,

leave us in the next house,

continue to the next shift,

into the earth’s core we go,

do not let us falter,

for we are here to measure,

all that moves,

in constant motion,

with hardly a NOTION—



Create what you will

I stand exposed,

to your sight,

without your expectancy,

nor prediction.



And one just appears,

Out of nothing, out of nowhere—



Like a Shakespeare play,

A Midsummer Night’s

eye contact chase,

brought to you by,

the leaders in—

bloody drillin’
your’s truly,

‘setting of the midnight sun’ Inuvik, NWT

Dandelion

Dan winces as he watches his fellow pod of dandelions disintegrate into thin air from the weed whacker. There little heads go flying almost to the neighbours. Jesus Christ! These motherfuckers are on a rampage today! Sun’s out guns out? Fuck this, he turns away and squeezes himself, trying to look smaller. The motor roars past him- is it getting farther? It starts to fade…

He gasps as he opens up again.

“I’m alive! Thank fuck!” He checks to make sure all his pedals and stem are there.

“Well…la-dee-da!” A voice drawls behind him.

Whipping himself around he sees a pretty little dandelion emerge from the wood beneath the deck. She yawns and flutters at him.

“Bout time you get up! You’ve missed half the morning sun!” He barks, turning away, Danielle, she always thinks she’s one up on everyone.

“Don’t be jealous…I always sleep in when the landscapers come” she purrs.

“Well we’re pretty much the only ones left.” he sighs, lightening up; at least he’s got some company.

“Poor bastards.” Danielle looks sadly at the empty field full of neatly trimmed grass. Not a flower in sight, not even a plant, just perfect grass. What is with society these days? Obsessed with destroying useful plants for what? Perfect green grass? How does that help people survive?

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Dan perks up, his leaves curved resting on his stem-hips as he nuzzles the sky, but Mr. Bee goes to Danielle first.

“Ohhhh ahhh, thank you Mr. Bee hehehe! Ohhh! That tickles, why, why, yes, yes!”

Dan frowns, jealous, he turns away, hunched. He watches the busy street, cars swooshing past, feet pacing back and forth, wearing different types of shoes, some smaller than others.

“Mmm thank you, yes see you at dinner then, oh! Oh hehe! You shouldn’t have!”

Dan glowers before abruptly popping back up desperate for a visit from Mr. Bee, but alas, Mr. Bee whizzes right past him, as if repelled by Dan’s reeking desperado energy.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, as always” Danielle calls, “I’m ducking back under before they get the blower out.” She tucks back underneath the deck leaving Dan fuming.

He has so much smoky anger in his ears he doesn’t hear the blower start up and before he can reconsider his position there is a blast of wind that dares to rip his roots out from underneath him.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

“Heeeeellllpppp!”

Bugs and spiders fly past his yellow face as he tries to duck but can’t really move from the pressure of the wind coming directly from the blower in front of him, tiny twigs and small pebbles nip at his stem. He tries to scream but no sound comes out. He lives the nightmare for several seconds before passing out, withered.

When he comes to, Danielle is gaping at him, poking him with her leaves. He groans,

“You’re alive!” she exclaims, leaves elevating to the sky. Quickly, she nips over to a stash of morning dew in the shade and offers Dan the droplet carefully curling her leaf to his lips.

He shakes his head, coughing, “give it to my roots,” he croaks. She doesn’t hesitate and goes to collect more.

Danielle stays with Dan the whole night; she holds his head in her leaves, caressing him to close his blooms as the light fades into dusk, into dark indigo, into static black. They curl together, the last two left on the Parkenson’s front lawn.