Welcome to The Kitchen Sink!

•May 23, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Hi there. This blog is devoted to all manner of creative writing and is (ideally) updated several times each month.

I invite each of you to provide investigations and analyses; poetry and prose; reviews of film, literature, and music. Submit your own dramatic writing, introspective writing, unique and original writing. Submit your own thoughts regarding your politics and passions, hobbies and recommendations.

I invite your comments or criticism; your suggestions and feedback, at any time. Simply e-mail me or insert your desired copy as a comment, with a small note to say so. Please include your own ‘byline’ information, copyright information and/or author’s note so you can be credited for your own work.

More voices mean more variety. Let’s fill this Kitchen Sink with all the beauty and originality it can handle.

Sincerely, Chris Hibbard chris.hibbard@alumni.uleth.ca


•December 2, 2016 • 1 Comment


A poem for Marina
By C.E. Hibbard
December 2nd 2016

On the other side of midnight
I dream about your face
About all the times that we’ve made love
and the many meals we’ve made
I believe you are the one thing
That can free this tender heart
On the other side of midnight
Is the perfect time to start

On the other side of midnight
Your voice invades my dreams
Whispering words of love and trust
It’s even better than it seems
I’ll be a proper man for you
I’ll try to stand up true
On the other side of midnight
I can’t stop lovin’ you

On the other side of midnight
I feel your skin beneath my palm
Like alabaster moonlight
Velvet-lined and warm
Won’t you be my soul mate
Won’t you be my queen
On the other side of midnight
You’ll see what I mean

On the other side of midnight
I’ll sing sweet songs to you
I’ll hold you close and keep you safe
And my thoughts will remain true
You can dance and swing
You can pluck your strings
On the other side of midnight
You can wear my diamond ring

Hooligans Vol. XIII

•November 16, 2016 • Leave a Comment


A children’s poem
for Norah and Rowan
by C.E. Hibbard

It had been several weeks since our hooligan heroes
had raced off on their newest wild tale
With school and work and skating and chores
their lives had grown pretty boring and stale

So when they encountered a mysterious man
who offered them magical powers
It didn’t take long for Norah and Rowan to say yes –
just seconds in fact, not hours

Norah said “Please, Mr. Magical Man,
I’d like to move things with my thoughts!”
Rowan said “That sounds like a whole lotta fun –
but I’d rather control fire – cuz it’s hot!”

“Your wishes are granted,” the strange man told hem,
“but be careful with your new powers!
For telekinesis and pyrokinesis
are certainly not like taking a shower!”

Young Rowan went first to practice his gift
he pointed his finger and ‘BANG’
As he thought about lighting an oak tree on fire
red flames leapt from his hand!

Then Norah shouted, “My turn! My turn!”
and she closed her eyes real tight
As she thought about moving the car down the street
it started to flash its headlights!

And now that they knew that their wishes came true
they began to practice a lot
Norah flipped cars, moved people and dogs
and even levitated herself on the spot!

Meanwhile Rowan was running around
lighting fires up and down the street
He’d snap his fingers and things would ignite
bursting into flames his internal heat!

Eventually our hooligan heroes
Began to work as a pair
Norah would make nearby objects fly
and Rowan would torch them in the air

It wasn’t long though before they realized
Maybe they had lost some control
Their street was now smoking and ruined
their powers had taken a toll

Sirens rang out and fire trucks rolled
to this emergency of psychic proportions
The neighborhood children were crying and sad
with their parents mad about the commotion

The hooligans now had decisions to make –
should they stay and get busted by the police?
Should they run away and hide somewhere?
How could they ever regain the peace?

Rowan said, “I wish I’d never gotten my power”
and Norah agreed, “Me too.”
“We should have been more careful,” they both said
“If only we’d known what our powers could do.”

Then Norah closed her eyes and she thought
Rowan closed his own and he wished
And Norah flipped all the cars back over
and Rowan’s fires were extinguished

Finally, when they’d righted their wrongs,
and things were mostly back to noraml
The magical man appeared once again from thin air
and asked, “Same powers, same time, tomorrow?”

“No thank you,” Rowan politely replied.
“I think we learned a valuable fact.”
“That’s right,” Norah said. “Those powers were bad.
Tomorrow I think we’ll just wish we were cats!”

Hooligans Vol. XII

•August 17, 2016 • Leave a Comment


A children’s poem for Norah & Rowan
by C.E. Hibbard


It’s been a long time since we last heard word
from our bold hooligan pair
They’re taller now and smarter now
and they both have longer hair

But their spirit remains unbroken, unchained
and there’s so much left to explore
So the hooligan heroes, Norah and Rowan
prepared for a new detour

Rowan packed a light sabre, Norah packed her pens
and they bid their fair mother goodbye
“We’ll see you soon, Mama Bear,” they said,
“so there’s no need to cry.”

And off they went, on bicycles both
with their destination unknown
A real adventure is as much about getting there
as it is about where you’re going

First they followed the Watermelon Road
paved with juice and sticky seeds
Until they reached Celery Street –
who knows where that road leads

Eventually they found a sign –
it read Raspberry Boulevard
They kept on riding, both excited and frightened
As they had not yet gone too far

They crossed Carrot Lane and Mushroom Ave.
passed Cucumber Park and The Peanut Store
They went further and further, into sights and smells
they’d never seen nor smelt before

And then it was, that the Hooligan team
found a bottle that had washed up on the beach
They examined the bottle and imagined where its journey began
before it floated within their reach

“Maybe it floated all the way from Egypt,” Norah said,
“past crocodiles in the Nile!”
“No way!” Replied Rowan, “I bet you it started at the North Pole,
and it floated south for 10,000 miles!”

Norah picked up the bottle to throw it back in the sea
but she saw to her surprise
That this ordinary bottle contained a message –
a paper note tucked deep inside

“Read it to me! Tell me what it says!, urged Rowan
“I betcha it’s a treasure map!”
She unrolled a tiny school covered in small letters
written in a familiar hand

As she read it she said, “I don’t get it,I just don’t understand.”
“What’s it say silly, tell me!” said Rowan all a-tither
“It’s a note from mom,” Norah replied
“It says we’re late for dinner!”


•June 2, 2016 • Leave a Comment




A Buddhist Poem
by Anonymous
(reportedly written by a 14th century samurai)
Posted June 2016

I have no parents:
I make the heavens and earth my parents.
I have no home:
I make awareness my home.
I have no life or death:
I make the tides of breathing my life and death.
I have no divined power:
I make honesty my divine power.
I have no means:
I make understanding my means.
I have no magic secrets:
I make character my magic secret.
I have no body:
I make endurance my body.
I have no eye:
I make the flash of lightning my eyes.
I have no ears:
I make sensibility my ears.
I have no limbs:
I make promptness my limbs.
I have no strategy:
I make “unshadowed by thought” my strategy.
I have no designs:
I make “seizing opportunity by the forelock” my design.
I have no miracles:
I make right-action my miracles.
I have no principles:
I make adaptability to all circumstances my principles.
I have no tactics:
I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.
I have not talents:
I make ready with my talent.
I have no friends:
I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemy:
I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armor:
I make benevolence and righteousness my armor.
I have not castle:
I make immovable-mind my castle.
I have no sword:
I make absence of self my sword.

The Wild Rose

•June 2, 2016 • Leave a Comment


A poem
by Marina Eileen Horsman
(Dedicated to Lindsey)
June 2016

Like the Wild Rose
she waits for someone to see her beauty
to drink in her intoxicating scent
to dispel the ghosts that haunt them and protect then from harm
she waits with vitality in her veins
courage in her spirit
and the strength of a thousand warriors
she grows in harsh conditions only to be admired by those who cannot cultivate her
for she is free from the white mans ways
she sees what no one else can
she hears the cry of the orca and the sound of the waves in the seashells
she watches over the gifts of the spirits
and when someone finally stops to admire her strength, beauty and healing power, she must not be tamed for she is a survivor,
the Wild Rose

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

•March 4, 2016 • Leave a Comment


A poem

by Wendell Berry (1991)

Republished without permission

March 4, 2016

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

The Other World

•March 4, 2016 • Leave a Comment


A poem

by Harriet Beecher Stowe (1867)

Republished without permission

March 4, 2016


It lies around us like a cloud,
A world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;
Amid our worldly cares,
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They lull us gently to our rest,
They melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring
‘Tis easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be; –

To close the eye, and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And, gently drawn in loving arms,
To swoon to that – from this, –

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,
To feel all evil sink away,
All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still;
Press nearer to our side;
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;
Your joy be the reality,
Our suffering life the dream.