Collection of Poems by Candice James

Guest Poet Candice James

Guest Poet Candice James


© Candice James, Poet Laureate


Everything that isn’t,


Only when it isn’t.

Yo-yoing through layers of water

Deftly disguised as air,

My strings vibrate and dimensionalize

Into cut glass stones

So small I can’t see them.

So thick that they look like a rope to me,

Even when they’re not.


And so, I continue

Pedalling my miniature airplane

Toward the centre of a square Earth,

Hoping to find a clear blue sky

In an ocean of burnt amber stars,

Hot to the touch, yet cold as ice,

Even when they’re not.


The necklace of truth

Wet with tears, then sun dried,

Is shrinking, tightening,

Making it hard to breathe, hard to to live,

Even when it isn’t.


I stare into my mirror image

See myself fade away

Into the reflection

Until I am not the mirror

And the mirror is me

Even when it isn’t.


Everything that isn’t,


Only when it isn’t



© Candice James, Poet Laureate


I grind the worn heel of my boot

On the hard torn edge

Of this mirrored puzzle

Crushing its breath

Into flesh of my flesh.

My eyes burn through

The stone age stillbirth

Of a new tear.


Midnight blue days are sliding

On glossy ice slicked highways

Losing their edge precariously

Stumbling on the gnarled weave

Of majesty and tragedy.

One side of the face

One edge of the dream

One corner of the spirit

Exposed and juxtaposed

In the shards of broken mirror


They grind the hot tear in my eye

On the lip of this sorrow

On the razor’s edge

Of a wet oozing kiss

That scratches with stiletto fingers

Clawing and scraping

At an old inebriation

Cowering in this misplaced lost and found

I seek comfort in.


I grind the worn wheel of my heart

On the hard torn edge

Of this mirrored puzzle

From another dimension

Reflecting the ghostly residue

Of my stillborn children

From a distant stone age dawn



© © Candice James, Poet Laureate


Night rubs its whiskers

Against my heart

Chafing the edge of emotions

Still red and raw at the core,

Dead on the surface.

The wind cracks her knuckles

Gently against the streaked window pane

And I am lost to the world again


In the still small silence

Of hazy memories

A hollowed out whisper remains.

A snowflake in summer,

Liquid lightening

There for a moment

Fading like quicksilver

Into a stir of echoes



And I am lost to the world again


Painted rain fingerprint stains

Across a dark sky

Are random yet repetitive,

Forgotten yet familiar.

I search them frantically

For the key to me

The key

To set me free

To be

More there than here.


I drift away

On the breath of the breeze

And I am lost to the world again…

Lost to the world again.


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