When we met at the Ale House

All I can say: true story.

When we met at the Ale House
by Daniella Ponticelli

I met you again for the first time
last night
same light brown hair
matching the light brown ale
held so comfortably in your big hands

You’re bespectacled, and tall
Giant might be a stretch;
but your warm smile brings you down
to my level
And across from the table
all is equal.

Kind of like when we met
In the park the first time
Across from each other on a picnic table
just talking; four hours

but tonight it’s only two,
and we’re at an Ale House
Much like our second date
At the brewery
Where I met your friends.
Much like tonight
when we meet again
for the first time.

You and your sarcastic shirt,
matching your silly manner
Not quite a ninja turtles hat
with a matching tee
but tonight you’re wearing my favourite colour
How did you remember?

I guess you didn’t know

And no surprise you’re not alone,
with your well-used
socially abused
iPhone (which used to act up)
with your tweets –

That’s how we met, isn’t it?

You grumble about the crap comic
say you can do better
I joke about you being a snob
especially about your beer.
You laugh and order another
craft brewed delicacy.
Then mention how you’re a writer
and a soul-searching travesty

Who found his way to the Ale House.

It’s you – completely and exquisitely you
And my heart stopped,
And had I not started anew,
there’d have been an

I figured seven hours was enough
distance between us
You (time) travelling (handsome) devil.

At least your names aren’t close
That’s a plus, I suppose
And now we gather for an IPA
Just like old times

Even though you pretend there was never a time.

So I finally start again,
and we meet again
where we drink again
Even though we’ll never speak again.
And there’s laughter,
And bad music and fellow happy people
And we revel in each other’s company
And I think back to us
Even though we just met
that night, now last night
and I agree it’s time for you to go.

And so I remain in the Ale House
with the man I came to see again
And he settles the tab
as I playfully quip that his friend,
with his light brown hair
and awkward, cute, nerdy aura
and passionate love of beer
and fervent flair for writing
(and batman screensaver)

reminds me of somebody I used to know.



Roadside musings

It’s coming up on my three-month anniversary here in Saskatoon. There are many stories I could share, but most I don’t want to waste too much breath on – although I’m sure my harrowing tales on intra-city moves will come out with a glass of wine or two (mark your calendars Winnipeg, I’ll be in town November!)

I love it here though, now living five minutes away from a river trail that is never under water – because it is built on very high ground – and meeting new people now that I have new room mates. Who are more friends than roomies.

Anyhow, I’ve been meaning to share a quirky piece of writing with you, because for those who know my brand of poetry, you know it always stems from a bizarre thought or what would happen if jumping point.

This one began with … “So what should I do to stay awake [on a 7 hour road trip to Winnipeg]?”  I had a few suggestions thrown my way, but this one was quirky and (definitely perfect) as poetry fodder. Bon Appetit!

Roadside Heist
by Daniella Ponticelli

The radio signals cuts in
and out.

The road ahead never winds around
or about.

The tummy rumbles, and grumbles and moans.
An almost depleted mobile is mute
without tones.

It’s just over half way,
where the road , ahem, stays straight and uptight.
The same feeling in your back, and the bum cheek that fell asleep

Yes, the one on the right.

Out of nowhere (if such a place exists)
emerges a sign post with directions, and text and very few

It’s a little daring, mind me – a little bold
to do as a sign says, without being told.

Follow along to a loose gravel lot
where a corner store beeps and meeps and wheezes
as a flower dies lonely in its pot.

This is the place, prime for the picking
Out on recce, as the clock keeps on ticking.

A back door, a front, with a little quaint awning
with a cashier, a vendor and a fat tabby yawning.

A Saskatchewan town if one ever did see,
but a Manitoba licence plate out for
a free spending spree.

No one suspects, it’s far out of character,
back up, butt awake and brave demeanor

Stroll in, look for jerky, milk and maybe some condoms
Act normal, be polite and then state the conundrum:

While I would love to purchase
these things here so fine,
I’d much prefer to take them as is,
as a thief would transact, you understand?
to be mine. 

Yes, I can afford it, but what good a heist would this be?
Shall I offer you some prose in exchange, or simply bid my leave?
I have no weapon, just my sharp wit.

Oh let’s call it a day and be done with it.

A blank stare, and a small wicked grin
The cashier bites the joke,
as one would poke another’s ribs.

Leave with the goods and just don’t pay
a textbook heist, the papers shall say.

 The radio signals cuts in
and out.

The road ahead never winds around
or about.

How to stay awake, stay alert, for more
to lull out of the boredom, and withhold a snore?

A heist is one way; another, caffeine
to break up the flat, and the yellow and
the unending, overbearing, just plain glaring

Saskatchewan green.


Mile High Dreams

They say yes ma’m
please ma’m
– take your seat
No ma’m
Can’t ma’m
would you like fish or meat?

They pander and fawn
over every last whim
“Which religion are you?”
(Each one gets a hymn)

They work up high
in narrow aisles of space
with hundreds of customers
a taxing array of tastes

They smile and nod
like good people do
but once you arrive
they happily – in every language –

What’s their life like?
how does one change?
From a beautiful servant
(who helps the deranged)
to a mother,
a friend,
or perhaps someone engaged.

Do they think of ovens
Did I leave it on in Dubai?
or do they pine over lovers
and unfed pets –
who “now here lie”

Who do they miss
when house is not a home
when days and nights are spent
in an airborne aluminum dome

Do they envy passengers
who at screens stare blank
hoping, wishing, sighing
they had enough in the bank

To vacation on a cruise
(of course nothing to do with air)
where they can frolic on sand
without a bun in their hair

But alas
they must return to their seats
the turbulence shaking awake dreams
while altitude swells their feet.


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