Author Archives: Lee Dunn

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

The bones

Write when you have the bones.

Right when you have the bones.

If I had the wings of an Angel

The curve and camber

of lofted windowlight.

An epithet for the sun.

Shady doings…

Embowered in dappledark

the mushroom kin

shake out their seasonings

in a randy rain of spores

A fallen pollen

for the dusky earth

Shaded with umbrellas of gills

Lament

Sweet Memory

then and now

As venous as a leaf

As cavernous as a lonely heart

Odds are

Copters of the dandelion-Maple

hover and spin

hover and spin!

Miss the mower

Allowed to flower

Allowed to root

Bumbles and squirrels to boot!

Who wears short shorts?

The wan sun on Athabasca.
Her dress of snapdragon lace.

A dwindling down to frost, this night.
An unexpected need for gloves.

Keep moving,
I must.

Hot gossip

I told you,

from a distance,

that I loved you,

and was blackened

with the earned shame

of the illicit.

Noses sniffed.

Fingers pointed.

Hands covered whispering lips.

But you?

You had a look of surprised wonder,

and blushed redly,

uncaring of the devil’s radio.

Erotique

I carry scissors

just for this,

you know.

Straddle the lacyness.

Snip snip

(at the seams, mind you).

What’s that,

a bit of talc?

Ah, but you feed me

with dream.

I lay in quandary,

ear to the cotton.

My dirty laundry

is long forgotten.

martians

It’s a strange thing-

I know Phobos and Deimos,

those named moons of Mars.

Road closed

In churlish dream,

ragged clouds of storm,

bruised and tumorous.

Have I lived enough,

done enough,

loved enough?

Must I take the knife?