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Ember month

Sundown at Nipissing’s shoreline,
and the big lake begins its freeze.
The soft fire of November’s embers
pleases the eye, but can’t warm us.
I stand in the cold cold sand
that waits for winter’s cover,
and think of unimportant things:
that there will be no more drifting things,
maybe until June.
And, where do all of those greedy gulls go
when the freezing squalls begin?
And, another question, for old Dad:
You sure liked your hot mashed potatoes
with that half stick of butter,
table cream,
salt & pepper.
Why can’t we eat what we like, Dad?
Without dying, I mean.
I just can’t…
no more.

Lee Dunn View All

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.

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