E. Nicolson
Halifax Poems
Barrington Paradox
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Barrington north into Barrington south
street marked by paradox, truth twisted straight.
Tall commerce glass judges from heights of stealth,
the corner business conducted by weight.
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The living hurry by the patient dead
long since sunk to Titanic depth and chill.
Two hundred dollar plates arm those well-bread:
street-slumped teen jingles torn cup with lost will.
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Government House sits pleased with old world pomp;
Turning Point assigns it guilt in fresh mint.
St. Paul’s and Neptune vie for soul’s romp
vowing paradise through spirit or print.
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Barrington north to south, paradox place.
Microcosm of humanity’s space.
E. Nicolson
Public Gardens
Dear to the Haligonians you stand
to keep time a flower remaining pure.
An oasis protected by a band
of black iron stretching round to ensure
myths Flora, Ceres, Diana remain.
Egeria and the soldier stand proud
by Griffin’s Pond which reflects on refrain
sounding from Victoria’s stand as loud
as the waterfowl waddling your grounds.
History and trees in your refuge thrive.
Humans delight in escape which is found
in a release from modernity’s hive.
Hurricane Juan tried to tear you apart,
but Halifax reinvested its heart.
E. Nicolson
Sprytown
Sprytown with your miscreants and misfits
sinking into a body of high crime,
but bubbling with a life that marks a hit
of freedom long since damaged over time.
Although labelled loser by the shallow
I witness your verve for laughter and life
through music, skateboards and street side show.
Freedom you give to a soul sucking strife.
Harsh realities rule your asphalt streets,
doorsteps proclaim a brand of pure justice,
yet community bonds and ever meets
together as two lovers in a kiss.
You gave to me a clean new beginning
Where I halted the lies and the sinning.
E. Nicolson
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Street Pearls
A broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel
decorates the pavement with a beauty seldom seen,
ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.
Mother brushes refuse into grates with housewife zeal,
and like her former life the compliments are lean.
A broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel.
Mouse scurries to a doorstep, outstretched hand repealed.
She dodges rebuffs lightly, disconnecting with the mean
ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.
Santa’s beard is yellow, not a Christmas white, he kneels
along the gutters where a butt he spies is deemed
a broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel.
Wolfie stares ahead intently, memory on past deals.
HIV he carries where nightmares follow dreams
ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.
Single pearls cast to corners sparkle and reveal
truths that seem to question who is lost and who has been
a broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel,
ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.
E. Nicolson
Dark Moments
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Night Assailants
They circle
wheeze
cough
sneeze
these dream ghosts.
They cackle
heckle
poke
prod
these mind witches.
They haunt
prey
beset
plague
these spirit goblins.
Why torment the tiny in body and spirit?
She, the unwitting pawn in your perverse
games
woke numbed and haunted
night after night ....
E. Nicolson
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