Big Canoe Writers Words and Wit for the Ages
Browsing all posts in: Poetry


February 25
by Vivian Sheperis

Jude shivered through narrow midnight streets.
Black pants creased in the right places
Butt tight,
On the prowl.
Slave to grinding pressure gnawing the back of his skull.
A freaking whistle blast hurtled him through moldering barrooms
With secret corners to touch, briefly, others in this clutching frenzy. Read the rest of this entry »

Nature, the Racketeer, and His Players

June 29
by Vivian Sheperis


Red Eyes in a head of scales leads its tail and forks its tongue, thirsting for sun and chicks.

Hermaphrodite, without vision, corkscrews into the dark but knows to stop before it hits China.

Fiddleheads turn to the left, turn to the right, searching for their bows.

Rat-a-Tat plucks the Beetle from brown bark. Beetle doesn’t know. Read the rest of this entry »

North Georgia Foothills

January 31
by Jayne Beske

Within the rolling countryside of northern Georgia land,

Interwoven among farms, tall southern pine groves stand.
The mountains rise majestically, create a distant view
In misty shades of purple, gray and greens of every hue.

Hazy peaks form waves as far as the eye can see.
Eagles soaring overhead convey tranquility.
They are a mere reminder, if we pause for just a minute,
Of the magnitude of God’s great world and everything that’s in it.

Deep within the forest, soft, green fern protect the ground
And twisting roots of trees and laurel keep it firmly bound.
High ridges and crevasses transverse the rough terrain.
Waterfalls and rippling creeks move swiftly, swollen with fresh rain.

Indians lived in these hills before the white man came.
Then settlers moved throughout the land to occupy their claim.
Rich history embraced these hills, and remnants linger still,
Of homesteads, and tales of a people with a strong zeal.

Gold mining was alluring and settlers left behind
Log cabins, mills, moonshine stills, and quarries not yet mined.
As you walk along the trails, remembering how life grew,
Gather up the richness that these foothills bring to you.

Jayne Beske
June 2002

Read about Jayne Beske on the Writer’s Bio page


May 3
by Vivian Sheperis

Aries, as you know, was born of fire
A mighty ram
Pawing the cliff with knuckled hoof
Peering red eyes sheltered under bony brows
Heated up to ride on Cardinal waves
Across the Milky Way

In Search of a Hemingway Life

February 19
by Maria Boling

I belong to a village where dogs sleep in the street.
Stage hard times parties and haunt bars that never close,
Snooze in a hammock; discuss passion with pale tourists,
Dream in color and count unseen railroad cars that clickety clack in the night.

I have fun, romance, adventure—in any order I please.
After sunset, I lift a goblet of amber liquid and toast a tropical moon.
I ride a bicycle down a ribbon-skinny road and wear tacky tee shirts,
Exhale in crimson and orange and fashion my skill in a blue-painted cottage.

I buy pencils by the gross and yellow pads by the dozen,
List my profession as writer and my diversion as barfly.
I guard cats that nap in the sun while I take catnaps in the shade.
I hunt for sea riches in potholed reefs and search the horizon for Moby Dick.

I live a Mardi Gras life far from the cold night air.
I shield this mellow life by hiding out on a dusty island.
Pass as a beach bum and drink warmed over coffee from second hand cups.
With earnest words, I lead story lovers into my forever-holiday, Hemingway life.