A woman imbibes the last hours of sun,

a gull dives for mussels,

a few ships fade on the smoky horizon,

I smell the coming fall in the dry grass parched from summer

I feel the crisp in the breeze that has replaced balmy evenings

— there is always an ache when things end,

a bittersweet last page of a book you got lost in, the last notes of a favorite song.

Always, farewells are never easy for me because change never is,

but I also know myself enough to know that I will love many parts of the coming days,

a squirrel, a soft sunset, a sleet covered leaf and when the first snow comes,

I will be the one ecstatic.



I could whisper a spell
from my lips that are blue,
blue is my tongue,
(here I’ll show them to you)
my mouth it is blue
so cold and icy,
my spell sweet and spicy,
never dark and dicey,
my fingers are blue
talons of Belasko,
my tongue coated blue,
blue kisses for you,
all that remains
are blueberry stains…

Just me eating some frozen blueberries, plus some drama.



David Clode

I ate a water melon slice,

sank right into my teeth and scented my mouth summer,

down dripped the sweetness of a lazy afternoon under bougainvillea boughs watching ants marching to and fro

and cicada nights lit with kerosene lamps where somewhere plays a radio.



Credit-Luc Tribolet on Unsplash

Above Burrard bridge,
a land of puffy clouds emerge as the rain stops and
crows drop mussels from the skies
on the concrete,

under it,
the Granville island barnacles sing in icy waters snugly holding
the bottoms of boats
— I stand at sunset beach and watch,

a crow on a winter tree,
a white dog waiting for me and
a moment quickly passing.

© Priscilla Prerna Rai 2022. All Rights Reserved.

This poem is about a mindful moment I stood with my dog watching the Burrard bridge and the little boats near Granville island across from the English Bay. It had stopped raining, the world was quiet except for the crows and I stood there alone but not lonely — at peace.



Photo by Une fille en vadrouille on Unsplash

In my soft dreams of you,
I reach out to touch your almost forgotten fragrance.
Elusive and hanging by a starlight thread
beautiful and out of reach.

If I grasp you,
I know you will take me down old hazy roads
where passion fruits wildly spilt open,
bursting sweet,yellow,juicy in the sun,
the beloved scent blending with
quiet peach roses that grow peacefully
behind the whitewashed wooden backdoor,
of many a childhood escapade.

When I was a child,
I thought your sepals were real velvet,
here, I see you blooming
but you don’t smell quite the same,
maybe you are from another time,
another place.