isobelmtl

Writing under a Montreal sky

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about

Isobel Cunningham has published short fiction and poetry. Her book, Northern Compass is available on Amazon. She was born in Wales but Montreal is her adopted home. She speaks French, Modern Greek ( it’s a fun story) and a little Spanish…oh, English too, of course. She welcomes comments on her blog and looks forward to chatting with you over cyber-space.

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  • Gate 86

        Gate 86 is the gate to sun, to cool nights and hot days.  Gate 86 is the gate to cobblestone streets and bougainvillea.  Gate 86 is the gate to wealth and poverty all wrapped up under the Mexican sky.  Certainly February is somehow less of a strain in Mexico than in the cold,…

  • Fallen angel

          Look look how he stretches out his bronze arms. One can hardly blame him. How beautiful she is, lolling back on her couch, A divan divinity How hot it is.!  No shame for her either for being a little careless in the matter of shirt buttons. Oh, how lovely to feel the…

  • Caribou memory

      Under the the huge sky with the gusty wind as my companion I came upon your remains. The others far off picking berries had no idea of the few moments we spent together. I thought of the day you were left behind as the great herd thundered away past the town. Even your mother,…

  • Animals in the city

        Walk  on, walk by, hurry to work or to play. to coffee or to the doctor. Quick, quick in fear or joy, into the fray. Hurry past what is still, stock-still, stone-still Carved, crafted, set apart. A door, a post, a fence or bus stop, A winged ox, a monkey on a horse.…

  • There is something about the sound of crumpling metal

    There is something about the sound of crumpling metal

        I could see, out of the corner of my eye, something big and white advancing on my little red car at an alarming rate.  I surprised myself by blowing the horn in a long and insistent beep.  ” See me!”, it said.  “See me and feel like an idiot and stop!”  She got…

  • Winter simplicity

        How things are stripped down in winter.  The exuberant green foliage of trees and bushes is totally absent.  Few birds sing.  All the details of houses and gardens are swathed in snow, flattened out, smoothed, obscured so that only streamlined shapes are visible.  My hearing is affected because sounds are muffled by the…

  • Baby Poem

            Not about about babies, it’s about feet. Here’s your morning doggerel, better than a tweet. What do we see on the sidewalk snow? Footprints of passersby, what do they show? A he and a she, yes we can see that Were they thin or were they fat? Were they in love…

  • Search somewhere else

      What have we here? Water droplets, hard rime, soft rime, hoar frost, ice crystals, winter around me. The heart’s winter, hidden somewhat better. “A white coating of ice crystals formed by sublimation of atmospheric water vapor on a surface”.  Thank you Britannica. Yes, there was a sublimation. “A deposit of needle-like crystals formed on…

  • Mobile graffiti

                 As as I went to the Metro today I spotted what looked like an ambulance decorated with graffiti.  My curiosity promoted me to go over and investigate.  I was greeted by two enthusiastic young people who explained that they were doing a little outreach for their organization:  Urgence Emploi.…

  • Je t’aime

            But look closer.  It says je t’aimne.  The apostrophe is backwards too.  Je t’aime.  I love you.  Everyone knows that.  And who made this for me?  Little Amine.  Little Amine of the passionate heart, of the temper, of cuddles so close that we share breath.  He made an anagram of his…