Force the Strain (In Lieu of End-Of-Term Essays)

Pumping out words until they have no meaning
This stupid metaphor
the feelings of a non-existent presupposed reader.
It is apparent that
Through the use of
In sum
In conclusion
The art has become a machine; The writer, a robot. 


My Father, the Painter; My Mother, the Potter

Distilled into a renaissance of apathy
Pg. 41-61 Pg. 141-161 Pg. 231-238 Pg. 302-304
Exercise your word legs
‘Why is this significant?’
Framing of a representation
Binary opposition
This is just my interpretation
The ambiguity says it all

How you never understood that you had
a sense of an autobiography
while sitting in a community center youth self-portrait art class
Or an ability to process imagination
on stage, on paper, in form
by applying complimentary colours and the various levels of tableau
honing your craft

You scan the scene for meaning.


Technology Stagnation

Sitting in a southern Ontario university lecture hall or yet another representation of the same essential Starbucks
And wondering if it’s better to live closer to the land or
to enjoy the multiplying conveniences of technology stagnation
Dreaming of sleeping through exams and labyrinthine passagescan’tfindmyclass
when the dreams used to be running through sacred dark forests where the animals help you on your journey
The streetlight floating orbs speckle our journey along the 401
suspended through the caked salt stains
We drift on wheels catatonic numb and moving at our inhuman speeds
while the fields of smokestacks dilute into the cabs of transport trucks
The oncoming headlights ebb and flow in their repetitive nauseating train
Fresh slews of creams and powders and v-necks stitched in
an anonymous mechanical daydream
when beach burned and dirt smudged used to be your ubiquitous garb and no one seemed to mind
but now you are clean and reliable and reachable through as many means of
buttons and screens
the pounding and the pixels replace the song of your voice
the breath of the soil
the root of your roots


Wednesday morning
the guts of a university
Waste management workers bring coffee to each other shining
spring light
Library assistants shelve books only named by number sullen
grey clouds
Students of various hue and disposition trudge and stretch the campus
still in darkness
looking for daylight or sunset or raincloud or hurricane
balancing along the ridgepole of the farmhouse
attempting to reach the weathervane


We are the river flowr’s, gliding next’ the river rowers
And on the banks that lower,
We mark the sand-trod roamers
We are the trees who vow, ‘mong the climbers aim our prow
That with each the setting bough,
To unearth our dreams, somehow
We are the fields of grain and grass, that raise from dew our guiding mast
To travel ‘mong the shadows passed,
We are the forms from which they cast
We are the blues and greens that fade, past horizon on horizon lain
That brew the colours never made,
We are the shimmering shades, sustained.


The smell of coffee and hardwood
When all the curves in the road look the same
and moving forward,
you never find yourself in any palpable place
So used to the beauty
in your grown-up eyes

And the lakes are black
which cast iron-orange shadows on our bodies as we
The white water then carries us downstream
the force pushing us past the blackflies
and the feelings of non-identity
As we enter our coffeehardwood surreality

Copyright © a contemplation (Emily Jones) 2013. All rights reserved.