GRANT GUY - POEMS

Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has five  books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of WAC's Making A Difference Award.

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​She Screamed Into the Cold Night

​She screamed into the cold night
There were no voices to answer her
In fear of herself naked to the bones of dread
She ran away from herself but the night pulled her in
 
Help me she shouted
 
Why is no one answering her scream
Why is no one rescuing her
 
Help me she shouted 


She cannot rescue herself
She looked into the mirror


She was a monster to her face in the mirror
 
And
In the mirror of no longings
No voices reached out to her
Scream
 
Help me she shouted
 
She wondered how long she could hang on
She falls into the abyss with no recourse or approval
 
Where are the voices that promised they were there for her
Where
 
Help me she shouted
 
Voiceless words are brave for the deaf 
 
Quiet quiet
 
There are no more voices
There are no more rescues
 
She screamed into the cold night
She ran out into the cold night
 
Now it did not matter there were no more voices
Now it did not matter there were no more rescues
What good are voices and rescues to the aligned dead
 
 
 

​The Caves of Detritus

​The producers looked down
upon their creations,
believing they were the masters of slaves.
But this too, like shadows dancing
on a wall before the producers,
was a false projection of their mastery.
 
Confronted with the future outcome
of their creations,
and the unpredicted consequences,
the producers retreated
into the cave of their minds
and the embrace of their illusionistic shadows.
 
But shadows can only do what shadows do.
They leave at the noon hour of our existence,
leaving us unprotected –
or loom over us, erasing all light and glimpses of a future,
replacing the sliver of light with unending dread.
 
And in time, the producers, too
fade away like noon hour’s shadows
leaving only rubble, the unwanted,
the neglected of their debris
now erased of our original purposes.
 
We have voice.
We have testament of our mastery over our producers.
We, the unwanted, have dominion.
 
 
​

​I Was Greener Than Tall Prairie Grass

​I was greener than tall prairie grass in July
She was bluer than a porn movie
 
At the age of 12 after her daddy kicked her in the belly
The doctor told her she would never have children
She hated her daddy Wanted to kill the bastard
But after a while after she thought about it
Children did and did not make the woman 
Who she was was making the woman 
 
She liked boys the way her momma liked men
 
Her momma stopped loving her husband after the first beating
And started to take up with men and cared not what her husband thought
 
When she was 9 her momma told her Momma's leaving your daddy
Momma kissed her on her cheek picked up her suitcase and was gone out the door
 
Since daddy had no one else to beat up and his daughter was there Well . . .
 
When she was 13 she had 50 boys to her name
She was 14 when she met me
She had patience Took her time to teach me the ways of a woman
Took her time to teach me the ways of a man
 
Took her time to teach me the ways of love and tomorrow
 
When she was 15 she was dead
Her daddy wanted her the way she gave herself without condition to the boys
Her daddy was not going to get anything and hit back for the first time
It felt good although it would be the last time
 
When you live on the other side of the tracks it is easy to avenge
When I was 16 I found the road of leveling making things equal
Vengeance is mine said the 16 year old