Chris G. Vaillancourt

And So It Goes

We had passed our youth in our
little gang of four, our tribe. But

the daylight of adulthood had come
and we knew that youth would die.

We will surrender in the morning.
So this night is our last of free air.

Drinking our wine, smoking
through the putrid dark air.

Swearing, laughing, sharing
rumours and stories, creating

memories we can take with us
as we approach the light of day.

The doors were shut tight, the
windows covered and we had taken

precaution to unhook the phone.
For this night was all for us, it was

ours to enjoy. Being and seeing
the swishing minds that were our thoughts.

We sat around a table, the four of us,
giggling, loving, having a grand time.

Too late to reconsider the coming day
or the fate that we were compelled

to answer. This night would be our
last a people of freedom, of not

getting along with the crowd of
bleating sheep we had scorned.

In the brilliance of the morning, in
the harsh glare of that sun, we would

cease our indifference to the shaking
laves of the trees. We would no longer

separate ourselves from the fountain
of humanity. For too long we had fancied

ourselves our own special group; our
own little game in a world of games.

In the morning, we would let ourselves
be torn by the conforming winds of

the zoo. Detach ourselves from one
another and pursue the yellowed fingers

of adulthood.It's been a time that it
has, but the clock has stopped.

Taste of Cold

Winter with the taste of cold
In our thoughts
Shadowed our walk
On the city streets
Like schemes of children prancing
Looking over our shoulders
Afraid of the dreams pursuing us.
Trashing slowly towards the centre
Of the core of our beliefs
We carried on, in dense foliage
The bleeding starting as we talked
   From the faces we saw on the road
We gathered a sense of the loneliness
Like circles and places of empty houses
Lights on but no one living in the world
So long ago
We laughed in incredible adventures
That ceased to matter as we aged
Shattered like pain in dropping heat
The fresh happy eyes of other places
I could never be twisted
With just one garden to grow
Maybe even a million
Would not bring the satisfaction
That any sidewalk would know
Cold with a taste of bitter in the air
The casual glances of empty eyes
Gently invited
Our hopes to manifest themselves
The sad laughter of the animals
Lost amidst the paces of life
I cannot remember
The first time I noticed the walls
With a tap on my heart
I flow and words are pondered
But they do not come to conclusion
Endlessly departing from the station
They catch not a drift of the cigarette
That is burning in my fingers
As we walk
City streets inclined to hostility
Match the mood in the mind
Winter with the taste of nothing
I yawn
That is the most expression
I can manage

Yellow Feeling

Yellow is my colour,
or was,
till I met you.
Then I knew
I'd be blue

It's hot in here.
Or could be cold.
Depending on your
           or sense of space.

Whatever your
perspective may be,
you've earned
           my respect,
but not my love.
   yellow is my
           colour again.

Chris Vaillancourt is a Canadian poet who has enjoyed publication in numerous small poetry magazines and newsletters. He is married, and has been for 12 years, with two young children, ages 11 and 8. He has been writing since as long as he can remember. In younger years, he enjoyed publication of a few chapbooks of his work. Vaillancourt is currently working on a new poetry chapbook to be hopefully published sometime in 2004.


Fiction Poetry Art Non-Fiction
Home Contributor Bios

2003-2004 Plum Ruby Review. All rights reserved.