Niagara Falls, 1972 by Richard H. Fox

inside a wicker alligator basket
hides a black and white photo
his children are the age
of the faces looking back
he peers into her eyes
able to hold the gaze

the engine squealed
fan belt slapped
severing all ties
the gas pedal
became a foot rest
in the fading twilight
two pairs of feet
tracked neon winks
thunderclaps
drowned their steps
they sprinted through puddles
giggling and shivering
registered
as man and wife
in the motel shack

the cabin had one twin bed
a dresser left empty
she hung up wet shirt and jeans
“I’ll shower first if that’s ok”
he laid wet clothes next to hers
she emerged wearing a white towel
draped it over the headboard
raised the patchwork quilt
folded back the sheets
arranged the pillows
slipped into bed

he turned into the bathroom
slid off his underpants
let the hot stream
douse his hair
sat in the warmth
patting and drying
then opened the door
flipped the towel
onto the dresser
rolled under covers
she smiled at him
“Are you ok? you look nervous…”

they met at breakfast
sixteen hours ago
her mother sat opposite
pulling on the straps
of her pale gingham dress
long blonde hair unbound
garden flower above left ear
“Thank you for taking our daughter”
her husband patted his back
shook hands nodding slowly
kissed his child on the cheek
opened the car door
turned away

strangers in bucket seats
she told jokes
sewed a loose button on his shirt
brought sandwiches on french bread
vine fresh tomatoes
roasted peppers cilantro
smiled whenever he looked
laughed nervously
at the New York state line

she turned away
lay on her side
switched off the lamp
he stared at the ceiling
listened to her breath
he could touch her back
finger stroke the course of her spine
hand trace the shape of her arm
to her hip across her thigh
palm drift along rounded belly
her belly — tomorrow
feet in cold stirrups —
she may have turned towards him
kissed him full on the mouth
he slept on his back
hands on stomach

in the morning the motel manager
asks “How’s your wife?”
snaps a shot of the couple
brunette and blonde in greyscale
next to a highway sign
“Niagara Falls 18 mi”

© May 6, 2000  Richard H. Fox

Source: The author

Click here to see a revised version of this poem
Richard H. Fox’s website – GreenPoet

Biography of Laryalee Fraser

Lee Fraser

August 22nd 1940 – October 16th 2013

Headshot of Laryalee Fraser
Laryalee Fraser

On October 16th, Lee (Laryalee) Fraser passed away peacefully at Bastion Place at the age of 73.

In the seventies and eighties, Lee was a reporter and photographer for various newspapers throughout the area, including the Kamloops News and the Shuswap Market.

She then became a member of Chase Village Council for nine years,
including three years as mayor, 1993 to 1996.

She enjoyed volunteering for various causes, loved gardening, and for
several years she wrote poetry under the pen-name Laryalee Fraser. Her online friends know her as Lary. Click here to see her website, Along Poetry Creek.

See Laryalee’s poem Secrets of Niagara Falls

Secrets of Niagara Falls by Laryalee Fraser

Headshot of Laryalee Fraser
Laryalee Fraser

The book lay closed; each page encased in ice,
till languid eons breathed candescent mist,
releasing knowledge, drip by ponderous drip…

* * *

Twelve thousand years ago, Niagara shaped
its first intent; a trickled thoroughfare
along a chasm scarcely there. It swelled,
became a torrent — nudging, pushing, filled
with rampant longings, surging onward, thrust
of power building, frothing thunder leaping!

The source has birthed a sorcerer who hurls
ebullient roars of ecstasy, wears robes
of lucent majesty. The crowds are hushed,
bewitched by spells of wonderment and awe.

* * * 

The book was opened; secrets poured from cores
of weighted centuries and wisdom flowed –
in fluid script that no one understood.

Source: My Gentle Garden, 2001.

Biography of Laryalee Fraser

Niagara Mermaids by Priscila Uppal

Headshot of Priscila Uppal
Priscila Uppal

A colony of nudists sing through the waves
loose like sheer capes
at the border of here and south,
quivering unabashedly in orgasm.

It’s not the pirates or daredevils they want
or the hair of widows on balconies
stuck in their tracks with hearts spun like old records
under a mournful sun.

The honeymooners are who they desire
brimming with foam and white white sheets
trailing along the guardrail pungent with sex
even after a shower, still full of nerve.

Cascading down the cliff they signal,
follow the jump in their ears;
The mermaid voices sweeter, more difficult to cast
away than the lines of wedding bells.

Source: Priscila Uppal. Pretending to die. Exile Editions,   2001.

Read about Priscila Uppal

The Assassination of John Lennon as Depicted by the Madame Tussaud Wax Museum, Niagara Falls, Ontario, 1987 by David Wojahn

Portrait of John Lennon & Yoko Ono at Niagara Falls
John Lennon & Yoko Ono at Niagara Falls

Smuggled human hair from Mexico
Falls radiant around the waxy O

Of her scream. Shades on, leather coat and pants, Yoko
On her knees — like the famous Kent State photo

Where the girl can’t shriek her boyfriend alive, her arms
Windmilling Ohio sky.
A pump in John’s chest heaves

To mimic death throes. The blood is made of latex.
His glasses, broken on the plastic sidewalk.

A scowling David Chapman, his arms outstretched,
His pistol barrel spiraling fake smoke

In a siren’s red wash, completes the composition,
And somewhere background music plays “Imagine”

Before the tableau darkens. We push a button
To renew the scream.
The chest starts up again.

Source: David Wojahn. Mystery Train. Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press, ©1990.

N.B. – The Tussaud Wax Museum does not have an exhibit such as this – in correspondence with the author he imagined this scenario, and figured that Tussaud’s would be the logical place to have it if it existed.