<![CDATA[Alexandra Writers' Centre - A Poem a Day]]>Thu, 13 Aug 2026 18:22:11 -0600Weebly<![CDATA[Puppeteer Come Home! by Michelle Warkentin]]>Thu, 30 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/puppeteer-come-home-by-michelle-warkentinWhere did she go?
Shadows of life, echo in empty rooms,
family photos, storyboard walls,
gather dust in empty halls.

She was here, she existed, 
There was laughter as she played with us,
she wrote songs, she charmed the crowd
she was not silent, she was loud!

Edits of her work sit on her desk, 
Messy notes and scribbles of life, 
scripts of story pages of rewrites.
Evidence she was here, where did she go?

She channelled story
through our ping pong eyes,
our puppeteer, our sacred guide,
lifting veil to the other side.

Now we slump sadly still,
frozen mouths begging for breath,
hands to impress, longing
to entertain her guests.

We exist, though make no earthly sound.
Our voices vibrate on sacred ground,
in her dreamscapes, we are found.
She will awaken from this dreamers cloud.

WE will call her home,  animate her form,
channelling our spirits, through mystical poems.
Our life source,  our old friend,
Time to play and laugh again!

Let go of what came before,
Discover and embrace life once more!
​
Letting go of what came before
To discover and embrace life, once more!
About Michelle Warkentin
I lost my husband a year ago to pancreatic cancer, he was sick for 18 months before.
I have been a puppeteer for many years, it has been hard to go back but I hear puppet voices calling me home.
]]><![CDATA[Red Convertible by Katherine Matiko]]>Wed, 29 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/red-convertible-by-katherine-matikoEight degrees Celsius
in February.
Not a bad day for a walk.
But it’s cold. I wish
I’d worn a warmer coat.
 
Is that . . .? Yes, that man
is driving his convertible
with the top down.
 
At the mailbox,
he crawls out
of his low-slung
conveyance. Sways
on legs birthed
in the horse-
and-buggy days.
 
Back in the car,
he throws me
a jaunty arm,
tweed cap in hand,
white wisps blowing
in the spry breeze.
 
I raise my hand
in silent salute:
Sir, give me a lift.
Take me on your joy ride.
About Katherine Matiko
Katherine Matiko lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, where she finds daily inspiration for fiction and poetry. Her poems have appeared in print and online anthologies in Canada and the United States. Katherine’s debut novel Eden’s Daughter was published in 2025.
]]><![CDATA[When You Know You Know by Torie Wotton]]>Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/when-you-know-you-know-by-torie-wottonI used to hope he was the one.
I hoped that I wouldn’t have to be alone again.
I hoped that, if I just kept trying, I could jam our pieces together into something that resembled a fit.
I should’ve known then that we were building lives out of separate boxes.
But I didn’t so I hoped.
I hoped he would call.
I hoped he’d show up on time.
I hoped he’d love me enough to stay.
So that I could know I was good enough.
I hoped so hard it drove me crazy.
I hoped until I knew he wasn’t hoping anymore
(and maybe for a little while after that too).
 
Now, I know you love me.
I know you’re never going anywhere without me.
We fit together seamlessly.
Piece after piece after piece, clicking together.
Creating an image that’s vibrant and bright and feels like home.
I know you’ll always call.
I know you’re racing home to me.
I know that I would be enough without you.
But I know I want you anyways.
I know it so deeply it grounds me.
Surrounds me with peace.
 
When you know you know
And when you don’t,
You hope.
About Torie Wotton
​Torie is an aspiring author in Calgary who loves using her writing to share wisdom and spread joy.
]]><![CDATA[The Lord of Hosts by Joan McTaggart]]>Mon, 27 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/the-lord-of-hosts-by-joan-mctaggartTread lightly upon this sacred ground which has been blessed by the king of all
 he lives in each of our hearts the believers of the world 
He will return ON  clouds of light and glory they will bow down at his feet and pray
 for only he can redeem them and allow them to see his kingdom 
The ground upon which he trod is holy and all who follow him will live forever 
A small grain of mustard in faith is all that is necessary for eternal salvation 
The master with gentleness and grace will smile at our feebleness 
We are but only a speck of dust and with a breath from his mouth would dissipate 
The greatest gift we can give is our hearts and that is enough for the Lord of all. The spirit within us will guide each towards the righteous path for his glory if we allow him to take our hand so open your mind and your heart and follow the one who only desires your faith.
About Joan McTaggart
Amateur writer
]]><![CDATA[​Bette and Me by Linda R Berndt]]>Sun, 26 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/bette-and-me-by-linda-r-berndtOne more morning
Twelve more hours until I sleep and avoid the emptiness, for some restless time
Oh Bette, why am I here?
A nearly toothless grin as an answer
I’ve been adopted by the mall mole family - not the family I ever imagined having
            At least I’m only adopted
Coffee and a bran – change that to a blueberry muffin
            I’m going to live it up today.  Thanks, keep the change
What’s a dime between friends? Are the free newspapers in? Oh good, they’re early today
And there she is beside me, gnarly fingers grabbing my sleeve
Morning Bette.  Yep.  I always have spare change for you…but not a lot today
            Here you go
What are you going to do with your fortune?
I’ll bet you keep a Cadillac hidden somewhere don’t you? 
Yeah Bette.  It’s good to laugh at ourselves.  You bet ‘cha
 Bette’s flaming orange hair always tied back with multi-coloured children’s barrettes
            Some loose tendrils hang down her front like a moth eaten boa 
Hobbling around me, laden down with a bright green packsack patched with black electrical tape, adorned with rubberized Ninja Turtle decals
She shows me a new one – says his name is Donatello… just like my son
Off to make more money for us she mumbles
            Stay here
I watch her work – she shares the donor’s space until they pay her to leave
A few coins thrown at her or on the floor
The rare person turns her down and sends her away 
Once a day the rent-a-cop bullies escort her out of the mall
            ​Temporarily
Bette always comes back
            I loathe Bette
            I see myself in her
            I am close to being Bette
            Could be I already am
            I won’t admit it 
I still have dreams
Walk through the mall holding someone’s hand, look through the windows at the brass ornaments or giggle at the birthday cards – without being asked to move on
Load me down with plastic bags filled with silk shirts and expensive sweaters I’ll finally give away because I don’t like the colours anymore
Sorry, I must have been daydreaming
No.  I don’t have time for another coffee
            I have to go
            ​Bette’s waiting for me…somewhere…
About Linda R Berndt
​With an energy that belies her 74 years, Linda enjoys every moment in her chosen home town of Tsawwassen, BC. When she is not enjoying her favourite snack of orange, greasy, sticky cheezies, she imagines playing one of her dream roles of Deborah Vance in Hacks, Hetty Woodstone in Ghosts and the old woman/Banshee in The Banshees of Inisherin (just to be close to Colin Farrell). In the meantime, she keeps writing, reading and auditioning.
]]><![CDATA[Stubborn by J.M. Marcotte]]>Sat, 25 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/stubborn-by-jm-marcotteI’m sick of having hope
I’m worn thin from believing
For the world in proving these are child’s things
Has sliced my little throat
Grow up it says
As it slaps me
And hurls me to the ground
And with a couple timely kicks
Brands me with pain profound
So that I won’t forget
 
How could I?
 
And I do not
But I do go on
And when I find myself
Here on the ground
I place a check beside all the rest
Then stand to be brought down
For when I stand
The stars above
Are closer to my hand
About J.M. Turcotte
Fantasy Author | Weaving Enchanted Tales of Magic, Ruin & Hope | Dreaming in Ink & Stardust | Fueled by Coffee
]]><![CDATA[Water Dancer by Judy Brownlee]]>Fri, 24 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/water-dancer-by-judy-brownleeHot inner-city park.
                   A homeless man runs
                   in the cool fountains,
                   sprays of water diamonds
                    in the sunlight,
                   shouting gleefully.
                   A security person strolls by
                   and asks him to be quieter.
The water dancer leaves.
 
 
               All the day's visitors welcome
                   the shade of the tall aspen trees.
                   Flowers, everywhere,
the black-eyed Susans,
                   the petunias, the pansies
          greet the morn with glamour
but wilt as the hours progress.
 
 
                   A bronze statue
                   of a mounted RCMP
                   towers above the rest of us,
the perspiration on his brow long gone.
About Judy Brownlee
A poet from Red Deer, starting to put her work "out there".
A member of a wonderful writers group who encourages me.
]]><![CDATA[Last Rites for Bookworms by Tanya MacIntosh]]>Thu, 23 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/last-rites-for-bookworms-by-tanya-macintoshStuff my favourite pages
in my mouth to pay Charon.
(I’ll leave you a list.)
He’ll know I’m bound for another shore.
 
Bury me under tomes in my tomb.
By my spines, the gatekeepers will know
I don’t belong with the trumpeters,
the roses, the warriors, the puritans.
 
Doors will open without keys, doors
connecting
Bodleian to Beinecke to Long Room
to Alexandria and to Ugarit
 
and all the libraries in between.
Grant freedom from Babel’s
muzzle. Ink sonnets in sinews,
sagas in veins, novellas in hair.
 
Remember when I said I’d sleep
when I’m dead? Absurd to
think I would, that the words,
the worlds would ever end.
About Tanya MacIntosh
Tanya MacIntosh writes speculative fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry. She has lived in Toronto, Quebec City, Jerusalem, and Calgary, which is now home. Gigi, her rescue dog, generously shares the house with her.
]]><![CDATA[the leaves have much to say by Lori Green]]>Wed, 22 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/the-leaves-have-much-to-say-by-lori-green​the murmur of endless days long-forgotten
linger among the maple branches that
stand vigil to your childhood memories
the foliage of jade and sorrow speak softly
                              watch—
our colours seep together like confetti
at the end of summer skies
jewels from heaven shot through with
amber, topaz, and rubies
tumbling down, scarring in reverse
see—
fall and we will catch you
be your soft place to land
in a bed of leaves and jubilation
                              listen—
as we whisper all the things you long to hear
           and carry you home at last. 

Previously published in Off Topic Publishing (Poetry Box)
About Lori Green
​Lori Green writes across several genres, but horror remains her true love. When she is not busy walking the local cemetery, she also writes poetry.
]]><![CDATA[Indeterminate by Marilyn Buehning]]>Tue, 21 Apr 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.alexandrawriters.org/a-poem-a-day/indeterminate-by-marilyn-buehningWithin the gentle stillness she knows herself
Accumulated kindling awaiting combustion
Freed to swirl in lightness until the time of returning
Wrapped in raindrops
Essential to life’s beautiful becoming

At peace with the simple act of falling.
About Marilyn Buehning
I am a mother and teacher living in Calgary. I love, and am inspired by the natural world. I'm fascinated, and unsurprisingly, continuously challenged by the Human Condition. Writing is a supportive way of being in relationship to the ever changing realities I find myself.
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