Home » Poems » Best » Chris G. Vaillancourt » Best Chris G. Vaillancourt Poems

Best Poems Written by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Below are the all-time best Chris G. Vaillancourt poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Fondling the Secret Parts of Your Body

I can't stop believing in the flip-flop
digressions of your lies. They wrap me
in hot and cold emotions. I like the
distance I feel from you. It caresses me
like a warm blanket used to cover
the cold of winter snows.

"You disgust me" you moan as I
fondle the secret parts of your body.
"Not as much as I disgust myself" I reply
as I push my assertiveness into
your waiting crevice of  delight.

We seem to enjoy the gripping nature
of our hallucinations. Pretending we
are this or that makes us strong. I
like to toss your clothes into the
dryer and pretend I have smashed in
your brain.

Still, I handle your lying with pleasure.
Your words a never-ending cycle
of different points of view. Most people
prefer not to hear the truth and I am no
different. Your spectrum of lies promises
me a pot of deceit at the end of the rainbow.

"You don't excite me" you proclaim. Your
face an interesting mask of resentment.
"Ah, but I don't excite myself anymore"
I answer, with the proper level of
disdain peppering my vocalization.

I leave you to go to the store.
In my mind I go to purchase some
sort of toxic liquid to pour into
your coffee. I think I would find
it in myself to laugh if your
face bloated as you gasped for air.

We are the death. We are the beginning
and the end of one another.

Why can't I just stop reading your book?
Why can't I just walk back to the hole
I emerged from?

It must be the need, the longing.
We scream to everyone that we
are independent, solitary beings.
Yet, we are all afraid of
of being alone.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Brown Paper Bag

Filtering out images of homeless minds
drinking soda pop
in brown paper bags.
Dreaming of flying to
neon lights
plastered like
mirrors
on the wall.
We talk allot about tomorrow.
Future plans.
Illusions we pretend
are as real
as the knives
we have created.
Throwing balls against the dirt.
Tossing words like
jangled wounds
into the
fires of remorse.
Hide and seek, that is
the game
we like to
perform.
And being reborn in
new shadows of cigarette ashes
gathering like sand-castles
on the beach.
I reach my point of no return.
Finding electrical wires
scattered
across my newly cut mind.
We talk allot about tomorrow.
Future plans.
Illusions we pretend
are as real
as the knives
we have created.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

After Dinner We Remembered

We ate the dinner I prepared.
Strong coffee followed.
Relaxing in the living room.
Talking about this and that and other things.
We had a memory or two that sustained us
in our conversations.
Our talking covered a variety of topics
and we
rambled on happily in our remembering.
Was it really over twenty years ago
that we were high school students?
This was our link, our bond, our
sense of who we were and who we are.
What I remembered you remembered.
What I believed, so did you.
We shared our views on history
as if our words were golden idols
which we could worship at our pleasure.
The only topics we skirted were those
that dealt with who we are now.
Avoiding comparisons with our ambitions,
we compared only those events that
had happened a long time ago.
Abstract meanderings on people we knew
and places we had wandered to.
We followed our coffee with dessert.
A pleasant tasting cake which
you had baked and brought to our reunion.
I wonder what flavour of ice cream
would be most appropriate
with a cake that was filled
with yesterday?

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

We Dangle Sentences

Whispers struggled out by the lisping of
                                          the hands are
not promises that shall be kept.

No breath exists upon your soul,
               it is vacant of emotion
                             and absent of passion.

In truth, you do not manifest salvation,
nor are
                      you the living Body of Christ.

The taste of your communion is foul.
                 It darkens the universe and
                             is anathema to living.

Words spoken in bed are not contracts.
            The lie is easier to create than
                           to live in truth.

We dangle sentences across the room
                           at one another.
            They are empty sounds of defeat.

The past is some sort of mangled memory
                    that confuses the present
                                      state of being.

I am not the channel of aggression.
        You are not permitted to define
                  me as the source of all wrong.

Flavoured cough drop melts on tongue.
        Books un-opened lie like accusations
                upon the floor of the heart.

Touching is just an excuse for not sharing.
              Skinless hands reminding me of
                           delights now shadowed.

Someday the sun will shine in brillance
                      over a summer's day of adventure.
I want to be alive on that day.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Unknown

Unknown, I moved amidst life,
In streams of fabric unravelled.
Desiring to soar into the sky,
To touch the happiness travelled.

It's gone past, this fleeting feeling,
Of depth gone sour inside the mind.
There are still visions to view
Of what is still left to find.

I must embrace what is unknown.
I must face the illusion dropped.
For inside the turmoil is false,
The legs buckle, the lie stopped.

Wayward thoughts to be controlled;
False starts to be rectified.
Nothing must stop the seeking heart,
Which seeks with lengthy sigh.

The path must be followed, walked.
The dream of life must be connived.
I am slave to no one, and yet,
I am concubine to what is contrived.

Don't force me to be a drone.
Let me not fall to self pity.
I am facing the rest of time,
Which I find is dark and gritty.

Unknown happiness must be mine,
For it is the road I travel.
The anticipation of joyful bliss
When the tension has been unravelled.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Freedom

Freedom. Freedom.
Oh dear Lord what
is happening to the
true north strong and free?

Police lined up with anger,
defending the fascist state.
Politicians
hiding behind vast
walls of glass and concrete.

Voices of opposition silenced
by the thugs of hate.

Lines of mounted terrorists
enforcing military rule.
Signs of desperate smoke-screens
that the liars have blown.

You have the right to speak up,
but only if you agree.

With sticks and stones in hand
the government speaks its mind. 

Freedom. Freedom.
Oh dear Lord what
is happening to the
true north strong and free?

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Tomorrow's Eyes

Everything is magic in disguise, and so I
am careful to mask the innocence.
Smiles of branded plastic
that
is painted on with paper needles.
To begin, one must slither on
the ground of deception.
Isolate the tunnels of arrival
even before the truth
survives.
And so I
am cautious about opening
my thoughts
to any careless stranger floating by.
Instead I hinder perception
with convoluted words.
Vines of strangling force corrupt,
and so I
debate with myself the wisdom
of letting the roots of my life
be open for business.
Better to wrap myself in leaves of lies
that will
hide away the
wounded feathers
of tomorrow's eyes.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

What Sign of Absence?

What sign
of absence
does a normal man
have to enforce to
suggest
alone?

Sun burned snow?

Pockets of lint forever
needing to
be emptied.

A glance back
at a stream
of consciousness
that
used to
drip like water
into a
bell.

The sign
of leaving
is flashing.
It beckons
in
amber yellow.

You don't have to
whisper
secrets anymore.

I'm not listening.