Jump to content
The Official Site of the Vancouver Canucks
Canucks Community

Poetry & Creative Writing

Recommended Posts


    Often it may feel

(though truth ain't always real)


          & Minds

May collapse, &

                  thus divide




   truth of

what was told

rolling stones

         oft' covered in




   it ever be

ne'er the 

        truth 'twixt

You &




       it's so

   easy, when

 honesty's the

  way to

       deceive me

Edited by falcon45ca
  • Like 1
  • Cheers 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

6 hours ago, Jimmy McGill said:

There once was a man named Sweeney

Who somehow spilled gin on his w**nie

Just to be couth

He added vermouth

And then slipped his date a martini. 

Such dry humour, one's driven to drink

Sly rumour, or bloke's mind on the brink

Lass shaken & stirred

A double's inferred

For last call, she delivered a wink!

  • Like 1
  • Cheers 1
  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

18, 19

       Hooked on Methamphetamine 

Told me 

She went home

      Told me 

To call home

But I know she

        Ain't even got a phone


16, 14

       Miniskirts, I feel obscene 


I should go


It wont show

Steady streams

       Still feel the flow


Welcome to Hell

It feels like Paradise


Some may say it's too hot

Some will say it's real nice


Maybe it's just right

  • Huggy Bear 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Fickle lil' sliver 

   Always fallin' out 

The Quiver 


Say that's it OK,


   We all  know



                      a style 

Just the lie

  That they tell


          All the while


They ask you

   Get on your 






Don't you like it, don't you want it,

Don't you have it? You can run from 




        You owe, & you owe




They tell

Ya so


Even tho it was not!

  Yet you get what you got,

Now it's all on you, the blame,

           This Putrid Vulture

The same



Ain't a thing

  Yet we obey



Break Free, break free, be free





Please be


Edited by falcon45ca
  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

The old man spoke stately with softness, great with power and warm wisdom, which he imparted in his young counterpart and pupil through reciting incantations, not of ancient rite or ritual but of his own tongue, what he uttered and by strength of will turned to mantra, to gospel. He was a prophet detailed like a hippie, wearing a tie dye shirt and scuttering around with a bandana on his head. He and the young man shared likeness.

  • Like 1
  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ever lifting,

      thus a Cloud?





Sweet taste revealing







deceitful evil



Who smiles & winks,

                           (the while devouring)



A new beginning


Yet still flowering 




  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

I punched my hand through frail and fragile window like it was paper. Sure, it was a stupid thing to do, & the sound of blood splattering against the rusted fire escape told me my hand was paper too. But hey, that's my &^@#in' dog, and my eyes are as red as my hand right now.



  • Huggy Bear 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

You're right


9 times out of 7


Is this the cost 

you're payin'


To make a Hell

Out of heaven?


If that's the case,



Please allow me 

To chase


Simple statements 

you say...



Or rather 

to Acquiesce 


& just simply obey?



  • Cheers 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Mine own and my father's worldly insights,

Which we both have but have never been titled for--

As the artist's glasses we have are recognized only in the short recognition of those we meet every-day,

And that is all it needs--

Spur me to continue down two paths:

Those colourless brick-layed ones,

Followed by my forefathers in speaking out against malice

And evils as I come across them,

But also the new one 

Which runs into grounds not even the insects have come into contact with,--

And resembles the impressionism I saw in my dad's paintings,--

And which is why I will brave the winds where the waterfall's power once overwhelmed me

As if I was touched by a god gently guiding me toward myself--

And so I affirm this life as it was granted to me by either the chance of the ineffable or the benevolence of something great.


God bless, everybody, whether he's alive or dead.

Edited by 112
  • Like 1
  • Cheers 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

I've laid atop


A cold mountain, Sun shinning 


So bright

As to pierce the Eyes


Of God


& shatter the face

Of a pure, servile 





Who looks at me,

plainly, yet sweetly...



A pain we both yet

May share


What happened to my neck?

it disappeareth, lost in a


Cackling cacophony

Beguiling hatred, disguising 






I'm on top of the World!






Please don't touch me








Edited by falcon45ca
  • Like 2
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Spill oil atop the Piano, as Christ regales, composed, beneath the baby Grande.


Watch, sticky black, viscous matter, descend upon...


Thee? Me?


Beelzebub betwixt the withering tree

& soil


Manure fed with






  • Like 2
Link to comment
Share on other sites

The mad vex of the sun shining through the canopy of the trees,

Aged variously and of relative mass,

Reminds me of a time from my past

I cannot remember; but the sensations,

The subtle glow on my face of orange then shade,

And everything like is all I love about the present:

It is here forever and spent with those we feel still fondly of,

And it is white and stately and can only flee, a dove.

Edited by 112
  • Like 1
  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Please sign in to comment

You will be able to leave a comment after signing in

Sign In Now
  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
  • Create New...