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