Saturday, November 15, 2014

Voiced // SHORT: Call for Attention by Thomas Rivet

Call for Attention
In a world filled with beauty, I wonder why we shut ourselves indoors, badgering numbers to make more precise predictions, yet we dismiss the Earth's directive, and then we shrug and wonder why-oh-why she erupts and shakes. How else would -or should- she capture our attention, our attention beyond the lifeless machines we share our lives with?

And this will cause guilt and criticism, for the author types this call for action behind a bright and shiny screen, O the hypocrisy of it all! Scrutinize if you may, but it won't do us any good.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Voiced // SHORT: Lost by Thomas Rivet

"...because even if I were lost in the darkened woods, far removed from town or city, 
with frosty fingertips and purple ears ... I would latch onto my soul, 
hold to my every breath, and, only then, in moments of fragile existence,
would I find myself instantly."


Sunday, October 26, 2014

Voiced // SHORT: Lucio Maxima by Thomas Rivet

Lucio Maxima
And so, then, without a dearest cause,
a yonder spotlight from the above angelic haven
came to me nearest, in such synchronicity, or so it seemed,
as I stretched my forearms to the edge of thy blistered park bench.
A whispering wind tickled my senses, nudging me towards the speckled light,
only to lift me higher, and higher; so high, so high, so close, so close,
to what one might be gentle to call a spiritual awakening. I was there,
and now I am here.


Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Voiced // SHORT SERIES: O Quentin!: Part I by Thomas Rivet

O Quentin!

Quentin examined the faucet,
four drops would hit the sink every minute;
Quentin counts. A tall, skinny boy
with pupils so deep, one could sail a boat in them.
His long brown streaks would hang like curtains across his face,
like bamboo, or seaweed dangling in the ocean currents.
Quentin sweat, but would swipe his forehead with a dish towel
before the drops could mix with the faucet’s drool.
He was an odd fella, Quentin was.
I would leave the house for hours, and days, sometimes,
and Quentin would always be counting drops.
I had to get the faucet fixed, why hadn’t I earlier.
Friday morning, briefly after lunch, the plumber came with his wrench,
I left him to quibble the rusty tubes.
Upon my return, broken glass and porcelain everywhere,
I didn’t order a painter, nor did I order a tint of red;
the plumber wasn’t a plumber,
his wrench wasn’t a tool,
but a weapon,
to kill my
odd friend


Thursday, July 24, 2014

Voiced // HAIKU: Raindrops and Hail Rocks by Thomas Rivet

Raindrops and Hail Rocks

Pale long grass tickled
by the raindrops and hail rocks,
flooding and laughter.


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Voiced // SHORT: Anger & Soul by Thomas Rivet

In episodes of anger
and weakness, we roar
to slice the silence,
to cleanse our core.


Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Voiced // POEM: Eat the Goddamn Cake by Thomas Rivet

Eat the Goddamn Cake
Be the water that you are,
pure and light, like a star.
Judgement is a cloud, full
and grey, if you let it be.
Reign over any ignorant scrutiny,
whether cold or sly,
give it up,
give it up,
it isn't worth your time and effort,
no word of a lie.
Hail your uniqueness,
be strong, be courageous,
take no orders; eat the cake ...
you're a goddamn snowflake!


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Voiced // POEM: Renewed Generosity by Thomas Rivet

Renewed Generosity
When she's having a bad day, she doesn't cry.
She may shed tears every once in a while,
but they aren't shed in the name of misery, no, 
rather over an accumulation of joy.
Tomorrow, or later,
she will smile, or shine,
when she will have
turned grass greener,
given trees and bushes a chance at life,
and we may curse at her while she weeps,
with a fork, or a knife,
and for what ...
Sure she makes us wet,
but she isn't in debt
to us, the fools
who fail to see
her decency,
her renewable generosity.



Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Voiced // POEM: Zero by Thomas Rivet

In the dust
I see lust -
there is a gale
however frail or pale,
the wind blows below me.
With a whoosh
and a whistle
my oily tears drizzle
to our crust;
our moss
and dismissed and missed,
loved-one loss.

In a world unjust,
there is none to dust
nor shivers in the air.
O few know,
but in our world unjust,
zero declare.


Monday, March 17, 2014

Voiced // CONTEST SUBMISSION: SWEET (Student Writing Weekend in the Eastern Townships, Bishop's University)

Today I submitted a 140-character story for a contest.  Contestants are students of the Eastern Townships, and more specifically at Bishop's University.

It's a difficult guideline ... 140 characters for a story is restrictive and challenging.

At the bottom of the page --

We sit and see helplessly, unheard and silenced; actors impress. A twist in a suit, a dress, the viewers’ faces insist for more, for less.

Sound familiar? That's because it has remnants of one of my previously published poems.
Find "Red Curtains Close" here.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Voiced // An Alternative: A Sip of Wine by Thomas Rivet

Instead of consistently checking one's own phone, following its call for attention (that of a brief vibration and a reminding ring), let us replace the gesture with - and bare with with me when I say this - a sip of wine: red, white or rosé. Thus propelling fruity sophistication into our world. Needless to forget its proper enchanting qualities.

Seeing as the gesture is frequent in nature, I propose you withhold your temptation by pinky-promising yourself to abide by Law of Moderation. Or by-pass it and let the grapes tempt your fates. 


Yours faithfully,

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Voiced // POEM: Formidable by Thomas Rivet

I am

to a

     and able.

I am

to a

                     be a hero,
be an ape
(with a cape).

I am

I have

to say.



Much influenced by 
"Formidable" by Stromae :

Monday, January 27, 2014

Voiced // SHORT SERIES: Isabella V by Thomas Rivet [END OF SERIES]

I was slain.  It's simple, see -
the pain was very real, 
though the slayer mustn't have been, probably.
As I dragged my elbows across the castle yard, 
towards that who pierced me,
I discerned a silhouette,
it couldn't be my lady of the sunshine, could it?
Her stiff lips told more than it should.

She had debt, and then none,
as I was that which was to be let.
I and she had made few mistakes
in the last ten, maybe twenty years.
They were typically 'taken care' by me.
Then I weaved out of being wanted and unwanted;
by her, and our fortressed city.
Months and a dull decade until I was once more seen as city hero,
or even sober man. I wanted to leave it all behind, and start anew.
Isabella wanted to remain close to her Kingdom ... so do so, we did.

I owned a castle in the hills.  These hills were northerly, and 
farther than four by fourteen horizons, approximatively. 
It is 'yonder abode', see.

Regretfully, Isabella couldn't live with such an
unflattering man.
The sky was cloudy,
only the most determined beams of sunlight
made it through the wooden stables.
I tended to my steed, 
at which point, 
she must have seized my royal blade
in the armoury,
wandering and searching
for my head or knee, with killer prospects, 
she saw me, swung it self-indulgently
before my half-expecting eyes,
into my unprotected chest, 
inflicting a stream of red splatter
on the yellow hay bales nearest.

Isabella then traversed the varying landscapes
to mine fort; repressing her anger and anguish to detrimental extents,
provoking psychotic behaviour and a spiral of grief and denial. She regretted
doing the dirty deed. I nonchalantly noticed her transformation, 
typically twisting my see-through spirited self 
by path of gusts and gales
through the walls of 
my marvellous château.

An assassin
she has unintentionally become
and long denied to be ...
now I take fancy
in irregularly reminding her
what she did to me.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Voiced // SHORT SERIES: Isabella IV by Thomas Rivet

One evening, under a crimson skyline, Isabella ceased
her usual stroll from the muddy marshes.  Her movement
paused as she gawked at the two fungi-ridden towers
that stood at the entrance of our medieval-esque dwelling.
Isabella suddenly
felt disorientated - letting out a scream of agony,
as she pressed her fingertips
on her temples to alleviate the overwhelming pain.
She took the matter in her own hands; 
hurrying to our kitchenette -
stumbling and knocking herself against
the matured wooden stools and tables
that stood in her way.  Isabella fearfully
searched for any item or ingredient to
provide healing.
Isabella thought a ground-vegetable broth would resolve
the excruciating aching.  Despite her effort, it was of no avail.
She was overcome by her weakness ... and fell unconscious.

Days, weeks passed ...

Isabella rested - soon recovering from her
macabre fall, she then crawled to our bedroom after awakening, 
spending many fortnights under the bed sheets ...
thankfully, that is all it took to have her emerge, 
almost transcendently.

Particular events preceding our way to our yonder abode
were now carefully being pieced together, and
there were some discrepancies.