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.

Hero

A scene of old develops and sharpens.
It’s the start of some chapter
in a boy’s learning.

This memory is of being ten.
It has cold misty rains at a train station.
The buying of a ticket
with nickels and quarters and wide eyes.

He is going to see El Cid in Montreal
by himself, with given permission,
maybe implied good riddance,
and certainly a flight to something
contrived, but noble.

It’s a way to forestall fear for the future.
To puzzle out why close people fight
and bury the fallout;
to feel the budding of self-assurance
and, finally, to admire a hero
whom all would love and despair.

Yes, he wanted to be
someone’s hero.

Cubbyhole

There’s a place of peace and rest, I think.
In daydreams there are hints.
But lost they are in just a wink,
and leave no fingerprints.

My valley is of rolling green,
with castles in the mist,
and starry glitter nightly seen
as by the heavens kissed.

At torment’s end, forgiveness.
Release from worldly cares.
A pardon’s leave to live in this-
a rarity of airs.

Though just a dream, I hold it fast,
abandoning it never.
In days of present, future, past,
it holds me close, forever.

.. folding ..

Sonja Benskin Mesher's avatarsonja benskin mesher

Hello,

I thought I had no nice paper, and then remember this.

It, it made a satisfying noise on folding. One imagines that it will be used on radio plays.

I am older than you, born on the south coast of England, then relocated to Wales  some years ago.

A small family who now lives nearby, to include my  grandson.. I do, indeed, live in a cottage, they do say over 500 years old. Can you imagine the history?

It is cold today; some villages have snow, so we are tucked in by the fire, dog in her basket, all big eyes.

The cat has moved down from where she sleeps on tissue paper, has her back to the fire.

Mine is a longer story, some of it unfolding here. I spends days working, playing, some days teaching, and some in other paid dutiful employment. I enjoy what I do.

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My Man

hunch up those shoulders
carry that hollow barrel chest
on spindly trembling legs
practice your ghostly motions
stare obscenely out of eyes like yellowed olives
your gates are closed for good
and i stand
holding you up
listening to disconnected mutter
while you piss black tar
dribbling onto the floor
and you say “I’m sorry”
my man
oh my man
there’s a hole in my heart.