Search Categories - Any -25 Lines or FewerCanadaPre 21st Century21st Century Grade levels - Any -Grades 7-9 / Sec. 1-3Grades 10-12 / Sec. 4 & 5 / CEGEP 1 Sort by RandomNewestMost popularA -> ZZ -> A Apply Gregory Scofield I’ll Teach You Cree with the tip of my spring tongue, ayîki frog your mouth will be the web catching apihkêsis words, … Louise Bernice Halfe April 30, 2014 Weeds are flattened beneath last year’s tire tracks others lay burden by the winter’s heavy snow. The crocuses labor through this thick blanket. I am sun drained from the bleakness Sadiqa de Meijer Jesse’s Farm We’re driving and the radio says mass marine extinctions within a generation. No silence, no sirens — an unflustered inflection, then stock markets, cryptic as Latin mass. I force myself: the interval Adonis Ali Ahmad Said Esber The Wound I. Leaves, asleep under wind: a ship for the wound. The wound glories in these ruinous times. Trees growing in our own eyelashes a lake for the wound. The wound shows up in bridges Cedar Sigo Poems for Saints (1) Zhang Er from Cross River . Pick Lotus 9 How to describe sea To someone who’s never seen it? He lives to ninety-nine, he wants it, to see it To walk on its glass surface, to blow the seven trumpets. James Millhaven Closure On the night we dug up your father’s body (for reasons I can no longer remember) we took turns with the shovel as we passed a bottle of Whyte & Mackay Lorna Crozier Not the Music Not the music. It is this other thing I keep from all of them that matters, inviolable. I scratch in my journals, a mouse rummaging through cupboards, Bertrand Bickersteth The Bow I only know rivers Waters elongated to the unrumpled recitatif of endless land The Bow knows Has tongued and grooved the firmament, baby, of this Last Best The Bow knows Ada Limón We Are Surprised Now, we take the moon into the middle of our brains so we look like roadside stray cats with bright flashlight-white eyes in our faces, but no real ideas of when or where to run. Rosemary Griebel Walking with Walt Whitman Through Calgary’s Eastside on a Winter Day Blue-white afternoon. The Bow river churns and smokes as the city rumbles, economy chokes and bundled homeless build cardboard homes in the snow. Yes, Walt, this is the new Joshua Jennifer Espinoza Comfort 11 am. Time to wake up. Muscles sore, jaw clenched, warm light scattering dreams of violence across the bedroom. I've chosen a self Abigail Chabitnoy Qawanguq with Fox I was walking up some stairs in a building Inside parts of the building were new but no one lived there anymore I passed a lucky fox head on the stairs— Siku Allooloo Arnauqatikka … Kyla Jamieson In Exile I Draw the Tower Card Spruce, inadequate, and alien I stood at the side of the road Cicely Belle Blain London I some towers are made of cladding some made of ivory some burn in the night some built by slaves wind rushes through coarse hair John Ashbery Interesting People of Newfoundland Newfoundland is, or was, full of interesting people. Like Larry, who would make a fool of himself on street corners for a nickel. There was the Russian who called himself Doyali Islam bhater mondo my mother used to make little rice balls for me. she steamed and clattered about the cramped mustard kitchen, filling a pot with water, swelling and salting and songing Susan Musgrave Question: What do they think about you, the people who pass you on the street? What would you like them to see? They see the druggie, the whore, the junkie. Tara Borin Nuisance Only the thickness of log and triple-paned glass between my children and the open maw of a bear. I slip warm chocolate chip cookies from the pan Adam Sol Opus 75, Sestina in B-flat for the Glockenspiel In the empty classroom, at sunrise, a girl sits on the floor, staring at a glockenspiel. She’s shredding the cuticles on her left hand Joshua Whitehead Full Metal Oji-Cree this is the transsensorium there are indo-robo-women fighting cowboys on the frontier & winning finally the premodern is a foundation for the postmodern wintermute, tessier-ashpool, armitage Geffrey Davis Unfledged Weekends too my father roofed poor neighborhoods, at prices only his back could carry into profit. In the name of labor’s virtue—or was it another bill collector’s callous Afua Cooper At the Centre Today doves flew from my head and my hair grew the longing is gone from my body Madhur Anand You Are Not Going to Come Trillium But I do come to Trillium. To the Cardiac Short Stay Unit where you’ve been sent for the second stent, where free sanitizer prevents the spread of panic. Anna Belle Kaufman Cold Solace When my mother died, one of her honey cakes remained in the freezer. I couldn’t bear to see it vanish, so it waited, pardoned, in its ice cave behind the metal trays for two more years. RC Weslowski Let’s Not Get It Together The world has become corrupted from our hearts to the way our gods love us as if they know they’re already dying and they’re determined to drag us down with them Joseph Dandurand The First Day When I was five I was put on a bus and sent to Catholic school not unlike my mother who was five when she was put on a train and sent to residential school, both feeling that gut feeling Ariana Reines Inner Life Those tweets I sent about Duke Ellington While my mom was being evicted again According to what ethics under the sun Can I possibly have been speaking? A Kind of private feeling I can’t even place here Hana Shafi Bad Brown Girl i can barely speak in my mother tongues stutter my accent is bad i hate jalebi but i like aloo samosa i'm a bad brown girl i didn't join the SAA or the ISA Rita Wong Declaration of Intent let the colonial borders be seen for the pretensions that they are i hereby honour what the flow of water teaches us the beauty of enough, the path of peace to be savoured Kevin Connolly Plenty The sky, lit up like a question or an applause meter, is beautiful like everything else today: the leaves Michael Prior A Hundred and Fifty Pounds In some, the luggage lies open like a mouth mid-sentence. In others, closed zippers grimace: What would you have brought? Slippers, a stuffed platypus, a gold watch Simone White Windrim To Windrim or sycamore rustle cicada or bark and to Wayne Jen Sookfong Lee Community Garden There, the bolting black kale, taller than it has any right to be and not the twitter troll who asked if you were on your period. In the corner, a pile of dead zucchini leaves, spotted with rot Arielle Twist Brother Your wedding day was a hurricane; your bride in red was like a kiss on on the dry prairie dirt. You actually never told me the story of how it went. The wedding, I mean. In fact, you never told me about how you chose Lee Maracle Language Do you speak your language? I stare — I just said: how are you? I thought English was my language apparently it isn’t I thought Halkomelem was gibberish the devil’s language Jane Byers March on Washington, 1993 What struck me first was the sheer numbers, queers everywhere. Battalions of sailors and infantry, proud in their uniforms. Eventually, I made uneasy peace with this equal right. Mercedes Eng Mariah according to my yt mama when I try to talk to my mom about what it was like to grow up surrounded by yt people in the prairies in the 80s though it seemed like the 50s she tells me in a so-there tone Jessie Jones Eclipse In every which way, I am living for potential. I’ve mined cadmium enough to roulette with Death and Mars, bloodshot brute, is swollen in my honour. My function is action — to pummel through concrete Language English