November 1

A scrub bush bursts from a manhole cover

the lid lies slacken against the careless tangles
Some pylons are erected to divert the drivers
a student takes a photo of the assault
neighbours wonder why the city doesn’t cut it out
like a pimple, burst the thing from our streets

This is the in-between month,
I tell myself on the commute,
trees are bare and cracked like Winter
leaves collecting in a rainbow of Autumn underfoot
slate pavement blends into the grey horizon
I’m projected into a smoke/fog that forms a
non-line between terror and calm
between invasion and emergence

November 3

Homeland for my Birthday
a resounding anchor that pulls us northward
The stretching highway pierces the land
dividing equally the bachelor apartments
and condemned used car lots
flea markets and
discarded coffee cups along the center divider

The weeds and leaves push up against the road
blur the edge
framing a disintegrating cracked tarscape

In the passenger seat I lace my fingers
and futilely revel in the weighty place
that draws us forward
as if we are on a line or rope
with an idea of home cranking the pulley
Without realizing that the fog is pasted to our car
that I carry the smoke in my mind

November 8

A dream scene
I walk in to find you in a forest
with tin foil leaves
laughing, you ask me to hop on the back of the ATV
I am surprised at my indifference
We fly along the brookside
the water is carbonated
burning through the soil
I regret this invasion for the sizzling
but am drawn to the collapse
A spindling copper weed rises up and says
“Why don’t we just thrust you out
like quicksand, just swallow you?”
The slate sky starts crumbling
a corrupted purification

November 15

Dreaming of Homeland on the Birthday of my Mother
a tightening of laces
pulling together my shoes
that call me to continue
A faraway foundation of poured concrete
reached through the underground
cables and heartbeat
a radiation
I pray for you on this day
I send my pulse through eight floors
and call you on the phone

At times like these
I cannot condemn the numbers that reach your voice
but I cannot keep my blood from the garden soil

A Scorpio dreams in extremes
but your protest calls for balance

November 23

I drink you in like liquid lead
you secure me to this space
as though you’re carefully sewing me to 
the bricks of our apartment building
murmuring softly
“this is your place, your place is me
and I move away from and with you all the time”

In this dead city
of retired memories
the basis of the commute
forms only as a basis of emptiness and longing
you carefully sew me into some place
as if it could be any place
as if any space could build its home around me

The building rocks on the waves of the street
on the currents of wind
you drop your words out of the window
and anchor us

November 30

What I’ve come to realize
here with you
is to celebrate

to condemn the opposition
and see myself like 
the facets of a rope
intertwined with you
stretched across our highways
across our scrubland
I rub up against you and this place
I feel your edges

feel the edges begin to converge 



Exclamation Point

Fig. 1 I take so many pictures of things that are beautiful
to try and prove myself wrong 


thoughts on depression

a cold so complete it starts to seem necessary
a grip so tight it remolds your skin
leaving sunken imprints
until your bones crackle into
disfigured glaciers 
until you start to apologize for your offensive form
hunched into crescent moon
and with each assurance that 
you're a selfish inward tilted bitch
a vertebrae disassembles 
an electric stream intertwines your ears
and you mantra on your way:
I'm just getting buried closer to you
a tepid fingernail floats to the floor




Scrambled into a downtown bus 
reminded of the discreet charm of the 
sweating college students
Looking for relief in the terror of 
crystals that coat
Southern Ontario, clean
That mummify discarded coffee cups and
cigarette butts
to be reincarnated next spring
An escalator swallowing and spewing the 
tokens of our numbers
of our innumerability 
and our lovely, sweet desperation to be meaningful
as we hoist bubbling garbage bags and crumbling
recycling bins onto the front, wet bank for collection



The Lonesome Dalek

That sense of pushing hard to make it fit
to make the words appear
Waiting for the gate between awake and sleep
that will finally open
where dream and thought meld into slender shape

The desperate choice between depression and contentment
inspiration and nothing
Let’s try to make this work
to pull together creation and joy
like a zipper torn off its track 

To realize that I now feel in black and white
where I once was
re(a)d all over
Forced into boxes labelled 
survival and passion
Up your dose or let it loose

These antennae are starting to chafe 


A whirling spinning grasp

I wish I wrote that poem down
I can remember the rhythm 
and there was that unsure half rhyme 
Between the space of sleep and awake 
the words appeared like nothing
but I let them go and

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