"It’s 6 a.m. when the lights turn on / in a white-washed drugstore, / as if it were a little theatre / shining out onto the sidewalk."

“The pizza man ran over our pizzas!” He screamed, but no one believed him.

Four poems by Vancouver Poet Laureate Evelyn Lau on love, life and death.

Mary Meigs wrote this piece in spring 2001 while she was recovering from a stroke, and which is reproduced here exactly as she typed it,

Listen to C.R. Gilpin read "The Pump Jack," "The Tall Poppy" and "The NFB Documentary."

Honourable mention in the 1st Annual Geist Erasure Poetry Contest.

Grief’s a bastard.

Found poetry from Pillsbury Kitchens' Family Cookbook.

Four poems by Vancouver Poet Laureate Evelyn Lau on aging, aching and orthotics.

"I’ve been wanting to write about the black skirt we’ve been using to cover the lovebird’s cage. The goodnight skirt."

“a switch, a focus, and a temperament / suited to discovery…”

Matt Rader's poem encourages you to "love the word not the weirdo."

The Central American vacation was all-inclusive, but she brought her own guilt, just in case.

"The phrase totally underplays the impact of having your lovely red Alero T-boned by a guy in a white Mazda with incredibly low mileage on his life."

"Rita, we are both members / of the fat neo-Scottish diaspora. / Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist, sweet darlin’"

Existential philosophy, gap year blues, retro-modern décor ennui and other problems faced by the upper class.

"anything you wanted to keep had to be taken off your balcony / then on that day, Balcony Day / whatever items were still left out there disappeared"

“You name each noise: Jackie chopping/ watermelon, Deb slurping from the hose,/ that neighbour’s fat Chihuahua.”

Honourable mention in the 2nd Annual Geist Erasure Poetry Contest.

"...skinny dipping in a sea of potato chips / swaying like kelp past cookies..."

"Now you are looking up from the bottom of the lake. You are walking past the townhouses in April under the budding trees, and drowning."

raspberry afternoons flat as the tides at White Rock, a saltwater bath, a kiss beneath the pylons, the barnacles, the greasy fish and chips

The rhythmic churn of an unbalanced drum

The third poem in a series dedicated to Maria Chekhov, sister of the famed writer and keeper of the archive.