The Traveller

The traveller wears his hat down low

Nobody knows what the traveller knows

Nobody knows where the traveller goes

Head full of secrets, head full of lies

Born in a town where everybody dies

No love from a sister, no love from a brother

The traveller has no recollection of a caring mother

The stale wind blows which ever way the traveller goes

Don’t expect a smile, don’t expect a tear

There is nobody that the traveller holds dear

Head full of trouble, head full of death

Soon the traveller will be the only one left

The traveller wears his hat down low

Nobody knows, nobody knows

But the traveller knows where everybody goes



This is the parody I wrote in class, quite  a long time ago but I found it and thought it would be great to blog.

O asparagus, asparagus! Wherefore art thou asparagus?

Deny thy roots and refuse thy name!

Or, if thou wilt not, know that I will not eat you

Tis but thy name that is my digestive enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a vegetable

What’s vegetable? It is not spicy, nor salty, nor savory, nor sweet, nor any other part belonging to a tasty food.

O, be some other name!

What’s in a name? That which we call a mother by any other name would still be as bossy

Without that title, asparagus, weed whack thy name.


Hit The Road

Though the bumpy road may have potholes and cracks

It will lead you to where you need to go

You may take the wrong turnoff and lose your way for a time but get back on the road

It will lead you to where you need to go

The map may not always be correct but don’t fret

It will lead you to where you need to go

You may be afraid to go too fast or too slow

But the road will always lead you to where you need to go

Scene Writing Assignment

The window is cold to the touch. He kneels on the hard mattress and tries his best to breath in the fresh air coming from the draft. He can’t get his nose close enough because of the bars but he feels the sting of frost on his cheeks. It is his only source of light, his beacon from the darkness that surrounds him every day. The bed he lies on squeaks every times he moves and the blanket they gave him is much too small. It smells like sweat and urine, needless to say he doesn’t sleep much. Laying on the floor isn’t any better; it is cement and his muscles ache from doing nothing but sitting, laying and waiting. Sometimes he hears the screams of the others. Those who are desperate, and unstable. They wail like sirens that no longer work. They are sometimes too loud and too high. They are punished for screaming, and he hates it when he hears the buzzing of the gates opening because he knows that the silence that follows is that of a deadly fear. He has his window, but he knows that the madness he already feels creeping in his mind will soon consume him and then it will all be over.

People Don’t See

People don’t see it when they look at you, that sometimes in that mind of yours, you secretly wish that you were a pirate, an actress, a rebel, a spy, or that you wish you could sing or solve crimes, like Sherlock Holmes.

People don’t see it when they look at you, that sometimes in that mind of yours; you’re secretly in another time period. You wish you could have been one of the first to see a Shakespeare play, see Elvis or Sinatra perform, or see the fireworks on July 1st 1867. Whether it’s the Renaissance, 1800’s, the 20’s or 50’s you secretly wish you were there.

People don’t see it when they look at you, that sometimes in that mind of yours you allow yourself to believe in the impossible and that you sometimes find yourself praying for a miracle.

People should see this when they look at you and you secretly hope they do. That you are a friend to anyone and everyone who needs one, that you are a student, prepared and organized. A daughter and a sister, an annoying sister so you’ve been told many times.

And though you secretly wish all those things, it’s no secret that you are the happiest right where you are.



*This is one of the writing exercises we did in class. It’s a cute, short poem.



My mommy made me drink milk while wearing silk.

My mommy took me to the movies and paid with loonies.

My mommy believed in magic and daddy thought that was tragic.




Proflie: Shelby Wagler

*I wrote this profile of a friend a while ago.

Shelby Wagler: Farm Girl

She insists on sitting across from me, but I don’t think she prefers the distance. I think she likes the eye contact and she does not want to hide from me. She is ready to be open. We start with her future plans, and at first she is hesitant, thinking. But finally she explains where and why. It makes sense that a future in agriculture is what she plans since she is wearing a John Deere shirt, and her heritage is rooted deeply in farming and animals.

“Animals are my people” She claims. It’s hard to imagine her in a big city office dressed professionally, while she’s sitting here hair up and in comfortable clothing. She is certainly a homebody, but does hope to travel. Although, she laughs as she tells me that she is always worried about something going wrong after getting sick on a trip a few years ago.

Shelby is considerate of her family’s profession, and tells me that if she had grown up in a city that she would hope to have appreciated the farmers and not be a snotty kid who didn’t understand the importance of our farming community. She surprises me when she tells me that she wants to cure cancer; she wants to be that person to make all the pain go away.

Shelby Wagler let me in on her treasured goals, and her love of where she is and where she’s from. But I am sure where she is going will only make her a more diverse individual and further her admiration for the more simple lifestyle.