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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

Back When the World Was Psychedelic

My grandmother used to bake pies 
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy. 
She would spend all day mixing 
                                                    and kneading, 
singing her old lady songs to herself. 
I would get to lick the bowl. 
This was my prize. 
Back when the world was psychedelic 
and hippies wandered the streets. 

My sister and I would play outside 
                                      almost every sunny day. 
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks. 
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires. 
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars. 
Bubblegum music from the top forty 
             traced the pattern of our lives. 

Our country had a new flag and boys 
                    in school still had short hair. 
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and 
pony tails were still the normal fashion. 
Black and white television set turned to 
the latest American sitcoms. We would 
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora. 
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage, 
the latest quartet or singer from England. 
Back when the world was psychedelic 
and hippies wandered the streets. 

We wore peace buttons on our coats, 
and drew "smiley's" on our books. 
We talked about what we were going 
to do to make a difference in the world. 
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped 
                  at the altar of glorious possibilities. 
We knew it was going to be beautiful, 
because that is what we were being told. 

Every morning at school we would sing 
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada", 
say The Lord's Prayer and 
                             hear the announcements. 
Teachers talked about the future 
           as if it was a land of possibilities. 
We did not know the black and white visions 
would be transformed into colour horrors. 
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love 
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict 
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have 
                                all the beautiful people gone? 

My grandmother used to bake pies 
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy. 
Back when the world was psychedelic 
and hippies wandered the streets.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

The Tree Bark Shoved Into My Heart

A drop of sunshine broadens the ground and shines
like a coal upon the blazing street. And I am enjoying
the last of the wine which tastes as good as the
tree bark shoved into my heart.

The brown of the tearless eyes corrupt the message
swooshing from the lips. I am the growing river

which slides like a storm into the shore. Some
voices cry against the wind, others shout in
support of it.

I am neither for or against anything.

A crucifix dangles from my neck. It was a
gift from the children. They grow up so quickly.
They grow up like weeds

which have flowered despite the thistles and thorns.

They call them wild-flowers. They call them uncontrolled.
They define them in a multitude of labels so that
confrontation can be erased.

I am as defined as the next man, as shapeless in my
exterior as a dripping candle sloshing wax

into a plate.

A letter waits for me in my former mailbox. I understand
it contains the fabric of my thoughts. I cannot imagine
such a mailing, and one defined for me alone.

Stick a needle in the arm. Drive a wedge between
the heart. Life is a process of adjusting, of

correcting attitudes which do not comply
with the flavoured faces of the
people hiding in the dust.

I am forgiving but not forgiven. I am silent
in my loudness which becomes my armour

against the nestled carpet of denial.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Men, Yes, We Became Men

What have we become?
         We who used to sit in my bedroom
         listening to Beatles records on headphones.
We spoke of the future.
         We planned our advance.
How many cups of coffee have we consumed
         in the over 30 years we've known one another?
A private village buzzing with secret flies.
An isolated two merged in one thought.
Teenage boys. Teenage men.
Men. Yes, we became men.
     Grown up. Living in our own apartment.
Peanut butter and coffee in the cupboard.
Bread and margarine in the fridge.
Macaroni and Cheese for supper.
               Living the good life!
University. Late night studies.
Crammed in between the parties.
        Laundry day. Bags and bags of
                rumpled semen stained clothes,
                dumped like angry *****es
                                into industrial machines.
Video games and cigarettes.
             Philosophy and politics.
We and our gang of other anxious young men
    gathering in groups for comfort.
                     Planning on how we'd get laid.
Mostly going home alone and jacking off.
We grew older. Old.
Yes, I suppose we are now old men.
   Just a wee bit past middle-aged.
Infrequently connecting. Suggesting times
                          we could meet.
Dinner and a Movie perhaps? Have we become that old?
Life goes on and has gone on.
         Marriages begun. Marriages ended.
Husband. Father. Having Kids. Children. Teenagers. Young adults.
                      Grandfather now.
You've lost your hair. I didn't take it, but still it is lost.
           Mine remains, but rude strands of grey pop
                                        up like alabaster whores
                                                       on parade.
Keep it between ourselves, but I colour mine now.
             Oh yes. Like a vain woman rushing to her
                                        makeover session, I plop
                                                 The gunk on my head and
                                                         wait for it to pretend for me.
I'm crabby in the mornings. Irritated in the afternoons. Pissed off
                                           by the coming of the night. Adulthood.
                                                                  Isn't it grand?!
Do you still listen to the same music we used to love?
Pop on a Beatles song and sing along, planning on how
                                                       to change the planet?
Me. I don't give a **** about the planet anymore. Let it rot
                                                    into stinking piles of dung.
I'm involved in my own existing now.
Are you?
We're in the final stages of living. Neither sad nor morbid.
                                                Simply a fact.
Good twenty, thirty years left.
                Let's promise each other to meet again
                       a few more times before our funerals.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

In Windsor, At the Library

Afternoon again in the Rose City. 
  
Ouellette Avenue, the main drag. 
Cars insisting on a regular pattern 
of interruption. 
  
The hum of the library, 
oddly like a burst of energy 
in a catacomb. 
Standing modern and sombre 
in the downtown bustle. 
  
Winter chill seeps 
through the plate glass walls. 
A hint of death for those 
who exist in the alley behind 
the building. 
  
Shelf upon shelf of 
other people's words 
stocked like dusty wood 
in an attic. 
  
Some of these words 
belong to me. 
  
I seek my name 
in the catalogue. 
  
I find I have been 
placed in "Local History". 
  
Not yet 50 years old 
and 
already labelled 
as over and done with. 
  
A mongrel dog 
ventures into the 
colliding traffic. 
Diverts my attention 
from self reflection. 
  
The dog manages to 
safely dash across 
the street through 
the mangle of 
downtown traffic. 
  
Survives to do the same 
another day. 
  
Everything will be alright now.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Praying Mental Rosaries, Intoning Words Familiar

Hail Mary, full of grace,
               the Lord is with you.
The Lord is with me too.
He whispers in loud soothing words
                  that resonate like
                   liquid softly fluent.
His watchfulness always lingering
                   in the pushing of
                      this steel plated city
                         where I am trapped.
Hail Mary, full of grace,
               the Lord is with you.
The Virgin Queen of Heaven
     intercedes for all of us. 
She intercedes for me too.
She prays in splendid atmosphere
               anguishing over every
                      sin I am thinking.
Her once-flesh hands twinned in
                 ever steady prayer.
Shapes populate in my always troubled
                               daily life.
They upset and tangle the soothing
                 urgings I feel God placing
                            in my contemplations.
 Hail Mary, full of grace,
               the Lord is with you.
The pleasing phasing of spiritual halo's
                   surrounds me in constant
                       reassurances.
I'm praying mental rosaries, intoning
            words familiar, yet, so loved.
So firm in comfortable places where
                         I come to God.
This straggling pretence of reality
              that we call human-kind;
is not as clear as the affable prayers
          of Blessed Mary, my holy Mother.
Standing or sitting does not matter.
                                 Nothing of flesh
                                      ever does.
What is critical are the prayers of
                           faithful gathered
in presence in Christ's Sacred Mass.
I shall be there too, joining my voice
                 in time honoured assistance,
"Hail Mary, full of grace,
               the Lord is with you."

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Words Are Sometimes Cumbersome

Let us make promises to one another,
with waiting touch to be made. A man

can never be certain of the silence if the
silence is impossible to touch. Floods may

come and floods may go; either way the
trees will grow much as always. Eyes may

travel from left to right but nothing firm
can be determined until a vision waiting

begins to turn into reality arrived. Nowhere
will you find the minutes of life replayed.

Once it is gone, it is gone and to realize
this is the beginning of wisdom. In the air

stands music, playing some sort of odd
bit of song. A man must sometimes stop

and listen to the melody of his mind. Words
are sometimes cumbersome; and passion

is often something defined but not felt.
All in all, what is to happen will do so

regardless of what you may want.
Stand at attention, the flag is raised.

And in agreement we find ourselves
drinking bottles of sherry in the dark.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

White Feather

Your textile face strong
      as a white feather.
Determination set in
      neatly labelled crayons
      lined up on the table.

We named the colours together,
      with the casual manner
      of having a life of time.

There was harmony once.
Spontaneous laughter that
      filled the cathedrals of
      our happiness.

Drifting off to sleep
       with the sounds of
      our favourite movie
      ringing in my ears.

I remembered
knocking on your door
when I first met you.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Pray For Peace

Rain falls on the ground. Drizzling water.
Television turned on. Angry rhetoric.
New plans proposed. Armies marching.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Skies black with hate. Lazy yelling.
Fish swim back and forth. Danger unaware.
Tribes gather and they scold. Malicious vibes.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Watching children learn. Violence dominates.
Corporations preach and burn. Insipid parasites.
Grass grows in tones of brown. Dying atmosphere.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Water runs fast and slow. Strangers shouting.
Trees shade and have no leaves. Corporate hello.
Moon rises naked in the sky. Sun is empty zero.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Churches empty as stores open. Religious tolerance.
Dinosaurs gone but more to come. Media harmony.
Up is downwards and down is up. Confusing immoralities.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Nothing Lasts Forever, Not Even November Rain

 Nothing lasts forever,
    not even November rain.
Not even the tired old bodies
      we are given to hold.

I remember how we spoke 
        to one another,
way back, a long time ago.
Pontificating like priests
    delivering our sermons.
We were boys, though
      we thought ourselves men.
Ready to challenge and embrace
    everything we had been taught.

How could we ever imagine
that real would be so difficult?
      Aging. Living. Dying.

Sometimes,
when it is very dark outside,
I am with you again.
Innocent in our importance.
Immortal without a thought.

It is different now.
    Understandable.
     We have aged.
      This is as it must be.

You'll be one of my pallbearers.
    Isn't that a boggling thought?

Details | Chris G. Vaillancourt Poem

Winking With Open Eye

Where the road crosses
       and
paths overlap; Where
daggers sharpen and intertwine,
there the standard
                answers will reply,
"I'll be there.
Look for me,
I'll be there."
 
Walking and living, they have
            been done.
   People walk in the door,
         others leave by the window.
Some voices have been heard,
                  others forgotten.
Sunset or sunrise, neither really
                           matters.
Water pours into a tub.
Sins and lies neglected
                    by the washing.
"We really like the same
               sort of ice cream",
I think as thinking becomes
               yet one more surprise.
 
And so we can stop fabricating
          excuses for not being nice
                       to one another.
Instead pick the thread
              that promises
                     compromises.
"Be of good cheer!" the
            mumbling metal monsters
                  mutter as they wink with
          open eye.

 
"I'll be there.
Look for me,
I'll be there."