Author Archives: Suzanne

Scaramucci found poem

Prentalcackler

Hoho the “boinnnng” of my mornin’ screen
My lifetop opens with a benevolent “ping”
Whilst cradling my first cup a joe with steam
What hast before me but 17 new eblings

One of which is all in cappsbacklers
I ponder for a momentarilous
Should I open something so nepharilous?
And dare the wrath of prentalcacklers

In my inbox stares this ebling glarin’
An innocent query for the teacher of grade 7
Full of boorishness, mosk and flemb
From someone lying on the DSM

Jonny sought solace, cried, and lamented
My teacher, she was so unfairish
She awarded me a not yet meeting
She’s so harsh I beseech you, give her a total mental beating

The prentlecacklers with tongue and widgets
Found the rubric crumpled in the backle-packet
And gasped oh no my little darlin’ midget
She’ll rue the day she dared fail someone from our tax bracket

I can’t speak French but his work it sounds so whimsy, so lyrical
Why Jonny is my baby, my darling, my miniature me
Why did you not give an A to my eccentric prodigy
I want your reasons, all empirical, why he did not meet your criterical

Look here Madame this work contrived from our genetic mutation
Is smart and creamy, it answered all the questions
My reply my dearest sir has not been hasted
You see his work was copy pasted

Foreman Assignment 2

Under the hugest mountain of bills, lay the bank statement blaring a negative balance with lots of zeros.

Within those zeros there was little hope, only dispair.

She only longed to feel  excited , enthusiastic, and elated.

Like a puppy when their owner comes home.

So fickle she was! Like women are always due to menopause.

Delicious Lindt chocolates are an excellent remedy.

If you eat them upside down by a pine tree, the pine tree where sense….

“What the hell is going on?  How did I get to this tree?”

“You are dreaming, wake up”,  shouted the fairy.

She was the tiniest fairy of them all.

I am the Lindt chocolate fairy.  I visit menopausal women and bring them joy all over the world.

The William’s House

Built April 27^th, 1911
Lot A, Block 17
Corner of 7^{th and} Stephens

Old house smells diluted by fresh latex paint…
We paint the ominous dark brown wood a cheerful white
Ms. Williams promptly turns over in her grave

My family encroaches the space and the years unravel
Two children
Elementary and high school angst
Guitar lessons, rock bands, soccer, field hockey, beach volleyball and yoga

Sleep-overs with tween girls hiding balloons under their nighties, pretending to be “teen moms”
15-year-old boys vomiting in every crevice after emptying our liquor cabinet
Embarrassing midnight calls to parents
Mopping up projectile vomit

Endless renovations
Good-bye disco floor, welcome guitar hero
Epic!
Gardening, weeding, cleaning, painting
One day, a ragdoll kitten appears on the front stoop
Around her neck is a tiny heart shaped collar with the inscription “Will you marry me?”
Wedding preparations ensue with a dress that no longer fits
Running, running, running along the seawall, in the rain and heat until “I do”

A last appeal, “Is a dog is a divorceable offense?”
Ummm, “no”.
A baby briard, moves in and turns my life right-side-up
Interminable potty training, gallons of “Nature’s Miracle”
A heart of gold

Life in progress,
Beloved students infuse daily laughter, mountains of prep, marking, and concern
Calling 911, there happen to be 4 teenage girls smoking drugs in the lane…
Oh hey, two of them I know by name
Dial their VP while the cop chases them around the block
Teaching, sleepless nights, germ pools, report cards, conferences and burn-out

Summers off,
Africa, France, Scotland, Mount Baker, the Okanagan,
Daily beach strolls, UBC, Big Brother, and Netflix binges

More, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, milestones, graduations
A Maine Coon or 2 or 3 move in over the years…
Empty nest syndrome as children leave for university
Tragedies, existential crisis, grieving for family
Writing, healing,
Renewed hope and vigour,
Community, university,
Poetry

2722
The ebb and flow of personal folklore

Listen to the diagnosis but do not lose your shit in front of him, stay strong

Hope he can meditate those white cells into compliance

Feed him organic, why not?

Nuke him, chemo him, radiate the shit out of him but don’t forget to stay positive

Don’t upset people with your doom and gloom and surtout, do not mention death, it makes everyone soooooo uncomfortable

Ok docs, even though he’s terminal, aspirate that fucking blood clot out of his artery; please he has two little girls

Hold his wife up, wipe her snot, grief is so messy; better to be hit by a truck?

Do not worry about getting him to walk again for the rest of his life, it is not going to happen

Dope him up, make him comfortable so he can get his affairs in order, help him write farewell letters to his girls

Take his pulse and remove the tubes, close his eyes, call everyone, it is time to gather and bid a life farewell

You are a poem

The part I skip over in my novel

A mysterious blob of words

Why can’t you clearly state what you are trying to portray?

Instead you force me to guess your meaning

Yours is plight that unravels without shame

Or simple gobbled gook

What is your charm?

Where is your depth?

You make me feel vulnerable

How to respond without cliché?

You foster the capacious soul

and dismantle the world

It is much safer to hide behind my book and think inside my box