Chris Vaillancourt


The flash of urban
machine demonstrates
Rubber slithering
on absorbing iron.
Interlocking harmonized echoes
scan in electromagnetic
Tracks dispersed across
the spectrum

of nothing.


That is this country.

We who've been in residence here
know the
detachment of our flag.

Walking shoes
walking men.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sonar devices clamped like cancer
to their ears.
Listening to private noises
in the middle of a cluster.
We were thinking alike.
Hide in trains and
the vacuum

Chris Vaillancourt © 2014

Changing of the Guard

A playing of hope begins within.
it strives with ears attentive to
change the atmosphere around me.
Drowsy mind must seek in wonder
to understand the changing
of the guard.
I touch the magic of renewal
as it possesses my frame of mind.

A trembling of breeze, so interesting,
plays across the landscape
of my out-stretched hands.
If I spend my time turned inwards,
I shall miss the anticipation of
the fluttering wind.
With child's mind I question
not one adventure.
Instead, I accept the freckled nature
of the grieving
I have refused to do.

I used to pretend I could escape
the cluttered hallways of the mind.
I would formulate impossible
kingdoms where I would rule
from a throne of smoked glass.
And now, as I grow older, I
can see the futility of illusion
if in that illusion I ignore
a reality that is mine.

Though I question the darkness
that once rode through me
with such compelling force,
still I must identify
with the stirring of light that
seems to have clicked on
in my stained sense
of self. A flickering of hope begins
within. I must grasp it and let it
become my mantra as I
walk towards the future.

Chris Vaillancourt © 2014