SurVision Magazine / J.S. MacLean

Memory

The colours bled as Dali
slow-wound the season.
Sun is recalled ever shining
except on hallowed eves.

You held dear those trees
that were easy to climb
and evenings that lingered
to whisper in leaves.

Only hints of edge sliced the air
when futures were near
and the ground abounded
under a moon, burst with fruit.

Flop Till You Fly

A wooder floater dot or ozone ladybug
flying on a cold thin line
leaves no trail
on my noon blue.
I have a digital dog; his nose and loyalty are zenithal.
He has four ears and floppy paws. His tale is short,
best traced in one dimension in ungrounded sky.
Beauties are in the brains of the beholders.

Isabel's Lions

Guadalajara cooked at 44 degrees C,
hottest day on record the day after
we drank rum while ancient 4 inch
cucarachas arrayed window screens.

What ever happened to three pink lions
that never would arrive in Manzanillo,
or were never even born in Tlaquepaque,
or perished in the typhoon that tossed

a grand yacht upon Las Hadas beach?
We fished next day and a storm strayed
marlin escaped. Years later Casa Isabel
was mauled in a mud slide. All gone now

as is my friend; a man of manners, humor,
wisdom, hospitality, and missed things...
like lost lions

J.S. MacLean hails from Nova Scotia, Canada, and presently lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He has been writing poetry since the early 70s, and has published two e-books of his poetry, Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices and Infinite Oarsmen for One. Around 150 poems of his are published in journals and magazines in Canada and abroad. In 2007 he won THIS Magazine's Great Canadian Literary Hunt in Poetry.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Three J.S. MacLEAN Memory The colours bled as Dali slow-wound the season. Sun is recalled ever shining except on hallowed eves. You held dear those trees that were easy to climb and evenings that lingered to whisper in leaves. Only hints of edge sliced the air when futures were near and the ground abounded under a moon, burst with fruit. Flop Till You Fly A wooder floater dot or ozone ladybug flying on a cold thin line leaves no trail on my noon blue. I have a digital dog; his nose and loyalty are zenithal. He has four ears and floppy paws. His tale is short, best traced in one dimension in ungrounded sky. Beauties are in the brains of the beholders. Isabel's Lions Guadalajara cooked at 44 degrees C, hottest day on record the day after we drank rum while ancient 4 inch cucarachas arrayed window screens. What ever happened to three pink lions that never would arrive in Manzanillo, or were never even born in Tlaquepaque, or perished in the typhoon that tossed a grand yacht upon Las Hadas beach? We fished next day and a storm strayed marlin escaped. Years later Casa Isabel was mauled in a mud slide. All gone now as is my friend; a man of manners, humor, wisdom, hospitality, and missed things... like lost lions J.S. MacLean hails from Nova Scotia, Canada, and presently lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He has been writing poetry since the early 70s, and has published two e-books of his poetry, Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices and Infinite Oarsmen for One. Around 150 poems of his are published in journals and magazines in Canada and abroad. In 2007 he won THIS Magazine's Great Canadian Literary Hunt in Poetry.
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