THE SOUND OF WRITING

The reader is free to define my voice in whatever manner suits.

I'm only beginning to come to terms with the fact I'm really not

a story-teller—at least as pr(e/o)scribed by commercial genres.

I'm grateful for the tides in my life that have pulled me

hither and yon. Passive perhaps—going with the flow—but it's

also about trusting the process. I will admit to occasionally

thrusting out a fin to deviate/detour/double-back.

Whatever dark design lies at the end, I am delighted by

the serendipity, synchronicity, and incongruity along the way.

What I write, in whatever form, is an attempt to interpret those

forces through a lens largely influenced by:

Douglas Adams, Wes Anderson, Atwood, Blue Oyster Cult,

Borges, Bradbury, Calvino, Coen Bros., Dick, Eco, Fezzik,

Findlay, Gibson, Kirk&Picard, Kroetsch, LeGuin, Markotić,

Marquez, Monty Python, Mouré, Ondaatje, Pratchett,

Ridley Scott, Tolkien, Van Herk, Vonnegut...and so it goes.

i don’t think i ever consciously set out to write “feminist” poetry. i see myself more as an observer—watching, gathering, taking mental notes of what unfolds in front of me. but i don’t just witness; i question. i push at what i see and ask the harder questions: where is the justice? who holds agency? where is the space for the voices we don’t generally hear?

i write from a place of conviction—opinionated, yes, and weary of narratives shaped solely by those who came out on top. women’s voices have too often been diminished, softened, or erased altogether. we’ve been labeled witches, whores, subversives, lesbians, anything to undermine and dismiss us. 

i write of my incredible country, my stunning home province. i love the prairie sensibilities, the imagery of wide open spaces, lakes, rivers, and all who inhabit this gigantic and spectacular land.  

i am currently working on an anthology of my work entitled I Wish the World Was Kinder to Women.

 Ice Castellum

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,

Where winter howls, and driving rain;

But, if the dreary tempest chills,

There is a light that warms again.

Emily Bronte

From the towering, jagged spires, Rapunzel plunges

her hair, silver grey against the ontogenesis storm, icy heart

beating, raging against the grimm storyline and the retelling

of a tale she did not write, where love fights for victory against the gods.

The bailey door is open, curtain wall rammed aside by

steel blue crystal, its sharp edges knife a path to the speckled 

great beyond. There is no knight, no prince to hear the singing, 

she howls into the wind, scrambles down the ragged rocks.

To where can she escape, when Valhalla calls your name?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills.

Queen Solstice descends upon the clouds, swirling, spinning, sparkling.

Her snowflake dancers join the celestial chorus, as the late vestige of light disappears. There is a spot ‘mid barren hills so we can repose, elude the frigid gales. The mist hovers and surrounds. There is no heat, no warming rays to

keep us sheltered in this vulnerable tabernacle of stone. 

Those capricious gods in tyranny, enamored with this treacherous world, can find no way to skew the ending of this fable. 

Repeal your mysterious demands. We will make our own amends. 

Atonement begets noble power, Xena. Do not weep.                            Take leave of this place, 

where winter howls and driving rain.

You do not fear the dragon’s head, deftly you steer your herskipalong the rock-strewn shore. There are no stars by which to navigate, they are mirrored in the snow. There are no guides from journeys past. The squall takes breathe away.

The siren’s voice stills, the lighthouse fire flickers, flashes, fades.

Yet, you sail on, a wing and a prayer, buoyed by a spirit which eschews the boundaries of courage. There is no defeat. No place for weary souls to quit.

Discard the male disguise, Elissa. The sea is under your command. You need not

hide behind the veil, legendary heroine. Discover heavenly worlds, beyond 

this frozen wasteland, you will succeed, but if the storm, but if the cold, 

but if the dreary tempest, chills.

Seek shelter now, fox wrapped you in her warmth. Take heed, she knows,

the way to go, resilient survivor of the snow. Swift, she moves. Extinct no more.

She leads you to her winter den, a shield from arctic air. Gather breath, let it fall

shallow. Succumb to sleep, with shadows deep. You are safe within her lair.

The curtains drawn against the sun, soon reveal the calming hinterland.

The shaman ritual weaves a spell, around the portal door, good fortune spreads its tattered robe, the seamstress mends her wares. Soteria climbs the temple stairs, salvation and victory crowned in laurel wreath; your legend was foretold. 

When breaks the dawn, rejoice for vernal equinox, Naw Ruz in celebration,

there is a light that warms again.

Patricia M Wourms © 2026  Poetry Form | Glosa

Photo Credit | PNG Tree

Augmented Ninth

I                looked up from the page of cabalistic knowledge &

                  stared at the catnip wilting on the sill.

Sometime in the last few moments, my interest in

                   ancient Felignosis evaporated.

Questions flooded my thoughts.

                   How did I come to this,

                              idling in warmth &

                              cozy in doll-clothes &

                              almost too fat to purr?

& paramount:

               What's become of Terrible Thomas

               Fellest Catastrophe of the Briar Hill Alleyways?

Mice shivered out of their skins when cornered

Slathering dogs chased me as I wound them,

          tightening the circle until they snapped at their tails in frustration.

My lightning paws would snatch at a swarm of flies &

           skewer double hors d'oeuvres on every claw

No tree too high to climb

No rooftop unreachable.

I              reimagined the late evenings when

I               sprawled on the warm tiles & purred as the moon arced over my realm.

I               followed the trails of satellites, meteors &

                                ufos as they knit trails of energy in the ink of night.

I               watched anviltops charge over the city &

I          felt my hackles stiffen not out of anger or fear but exhilaration &

I          wrote equations in the air with my tail.

On occasion a heated waul would pull me down from

            my reverie to couple in the shadows.

I           must have hundreds of scions all over the city;

            all the desperate queens who sought my lineage.

I           licked my lips remembering scores of playful mollies

            hungry for an all-night rough'n'tumble.

Returning my yellow gaze to the book, how

Curious the page speaks of reflection:

My octave spent,

each ending                                                                          unreachable

                      yet every other memory

                      comes flooding back in my

                      augmented ninth.

Randall Thomas  ©MMXXV

Photo Credit | CaptivArt U.K.