Robert Aaron Firth Winnipeg, Manitoba

I was born on March 28, 1967, in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I began writing poetry in high school, and began writing science fiction in my early twenties. I have had my poetry published by the National Library of Poetry and I am currently enrolled in a course at the Institute of Children's Literature. Besides writing, I enjoy reading and playing the guitar, and would love to develop a career in writing. "Writing poetry has been very important to me for a long time now, almost therapeutic, helping me focus on and keeping in perspective the important things in life."

Reflections Human beings, always the center of the universe are we. Forever trying to catch, the biggest fish in the sea. What do we see, when we look in the mirror? something unreal like a store window mannequin. standing alone while nothing becomes clearer. All our problems and complexities, we put them on like some cute little dance. All the while never realizing, our own overpowering, arrogance. We float in a misty void, forgetting we are mortal. What on Earth will it take, for us to be, moral?

Portrait What ever happened to old fashioned values? It would appear we prefer vengeance, rather than saying than you. Why is it so hard to be kind to a stranger? Would we not appreciate aid from one, were we in danger. WE seem to have lost our decency, when did this occur in our history? We call ourselves enlightened beings, yet we continue to ignore all the misery. It's time to make an effort, out humanity is slipping from our grips. Saving others will help save ourselves, otherwise we may awake in apocalypse.

Stranger's Bane I awoke one morning and the mirror cracked, said a stranger to me. Perhaps it was an image of truth, said I to he. It is difficult to know yourself, said I to the stranger. We turn to fortune tellers and tarot cards, expecting someone else, to ward off the danger. Could I find the truth if I went to school, said the stranger to me. Scholars and sages, replied I , can only teach so much, you must turn the pages by yourself, and see. Then he stranger basked, what should I do, we're all on borrowed time? I replied as I stared at him aghast, you can't find your answers, not the psychic hot line.

All poems Copyright © 1996 Robert Aaron Firth. All rights reserved.