Jane Olivier

Oblivious


I splinter through the door, mind shards
still scattered between qwerty, screen and space.
Time hangs suspended in the hourglass
unsure of which direction to flow.
Puddles avoid careless feet, birds pause flight,
stones roll down edges, leaves and flowers retract,
trees suck in waists, river reverses,
all roads hastily straighten curving spines.
Words oppress my body-detached head and
there are days the world needs to deflect me.




We are careless


Too many things are broken
pictures, notes, people.
We break our word - rarely
hyphenating an excuse
irrationally separating
pieces of the truth.

Dreams lie scattered in dirt
sharded by ‘I don’t think’
a voice out of harmony
discordant arpeggio
cubes in a landscape.
We are careless and things break.




Useless things

We carry things with us like an empty
violin case – useless to anything except
the violin. Grandmother’s bequeathed
jewelry which will never be worn, but it
might be worth something to someone
some day. Old faded, crack-folded too
often reread love letters to remember
and constantly hold out false hope.
We straddle longing’s stringless cello that
resonates only with a knock on wood,
and beat the heart’s broken-skinned drum
sending unwanted messages nowhere.




Jane Olivier, born in Canada, traversed Africa on business, as a journalist, and writer. For the lasts seven years has been travelling the world - 52 countries to date – trying to make sense of it, and still hasn’t managed; at least the words don’t fail. Currently resides Quebec .. or in a suitcase.

Current Issue:
December 2011

Russ Brickey
Jackson Burgess
Robert Demaree
James H. Duncan
Carol Lynn Grellas
Paul Hostovsky
Seif-Eldeine Och
Jane Olivier
Timothy Pilgrim
Russell Rowland
M. Travis Walsh

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