we were not meant ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡to take Flight ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡in such a manner
a brief act ‡‡‡‡‡‡of desperation ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡will cause lasting wounds ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡that can never heal
please
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡stay grounded
Source: the author, 2019
Burgoyne Bridge was infamous as a place to commit suicide, as it crossed high over the Twelve Mile Creek. Suicide barriers were installed when the Burgoyne Bridge was replaced in 2016.
atlantic was born and raised in Niagara Falls, where he still resides. A selection of his work is available on Instagram
try to imagine
Niagara as music
there are the Falls themselves, of course
sombre and awe-inspiring
but also:
the din and shriek of Clifton Hill
“at the house of Frankenstein… kill a little time with us”
if you tell me
you didn’t hear those words?
I’ll call you a liar.
the cacophony of sights and sounds
from the Midway on a busy day
or from Casino Niagara, the adults equivalent
endless cries and bellows from these arcades
a bazaar of peoples delights, backlight by ringing, screaming machines
bellowing players, young and old
while the fireworks echo out a beat of joyful thunder
busy traffic on Queen Elizabeth’s Way
summer tourists, coming to visit
residents fleeing to Muskoka, summer tourists themselves
the harsh buzz of helicopters
over Stanley Avenue and River Road
contrasts nicely with the steady whock of golf balls on countless courses beyond number
the Boulevard’s nightclubs and bars
keep their own pulsing, sensual rhythm
the great Horseshoe is a hymn
to nature’s power and might
but Niagara itself is calliope music
a happy carnival tune
Source: The author, 2019
atlantic was born and raised in Niagara Falls, where he still resides. A selection of his work is available on Instagram
“Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water.”
-Bruce Lee
CN train yard with Falls view towers & the mist from the Falls in the background, 2004. Photograph by Tammy Frakking. Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Graffitied train carts mock the lineup of halted vehicles, forcing us to direct our attention ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡to the tower in the distance whispering the swelling breath of tourism.
Thick mist plays hopscotch on ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡the front windows, shielding us as spectators ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡from the Falls’ ‡‡‡‡flow.
Upon parking on the Hill, our newspaper umbrellas ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡become wishing wells, where cacophonous cellulous break down to form unfamiliar intimacies of newly amalgamated ‡‡‡‡‡‡narratives.
As we get close to the seventh wonder, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡secreted ink swim into a symbiosis that roll further down our face, where Bush is ‡‡‡‡‡seducing Bin Laden and police brutality has become a national sport.
Ryan Racine earned his master’s of English language and literature from Brock University. Racine is currently working as a high school teacher and college instructor in Ontario. His poetry can be found in The Steel Chisel, Pauses/Words/Noises, The Brock University Anthology, Pictures & Portraits, Ekphrastic, Joypuke, Weekly Poems, and PACE Magazine.
See other poems by Ryan Racine on the Niagara Falls Poetry Project website: • Sorting Skins • Worldly Wounds
The roar of thunder
a natural wonder
water traveling freely
through crevices of rocks
flowing, flowing, flowing
in the Niagara River.
The brink is near
foamy white
dark shades of blue
sparkles the silky water
colours floating
how powerful
the hands of nature
a breathless spectacular.
Niagara Falls. Watercolour by Maria Cotrufo
Droplets of mist
moist in the air
surrounds this admiration
how beautiful
how rare
The Falls.
Maria Cotrufo is a resident of Niagara Falls who loves poetry writing and watercolour painting. Cotrufo enjoys yoga and walks throughout scenic Niagara for a healthy lifestyle. Through out the week she works full time in the health industry.
The Europa Hotel in Downtown Niagara Falls. Photo by Cole McInerney
And the street held silence for two strangers who didn’t have to stay that way. We stood silent below lamplight in the magnetic time.
Your suburban home stood parched in the dark and didn’t know me well. Your mother stood at the northern window and pretended to be passing by. The ten o’clock fireworks stood above the hotels and were heard in a tired sky. Your roof stood parallel to that forgiving horizon.
Your car stood locking and unlocking as we collided. We stood silent across from fire station number three then went around your block again. And in that silence we don’t celebrate the ending we just end up walking other ways.
Source: The author, 2021
Russell Street was first published in The Continuist, May 10, 2020
Cole McInerney is a poet from Niagara Falls, Ontario. He studied English at Toronto Metropolitan University. Currently, he is a MFA student at the University of South Carolina, studying poetry. His poems have been published in several print and online publications, including Feral Poetry, White Wall Review, The Bookends Review, and Echolocation Magazine.
