the moment you tell me poets aren’t in it for the bucks

I’ve yet to see a

poet

on our currency.

That’s not to say

that Fox and Viola

Desmond aren’t worthy—for

they are. And a preference

to the same old

privileged faces

on our cash.

Purdy’s a pretty

good choice to bump our

monarch off the twenty—

simply for his Service. It’s certainly

the Smart thing to do. Or maybe

stick his A-frame on the

fifty buckaroo—inhabited by a solemn

John McCrae—up to his

chin in poppies—not for seeds but

to remember.

An Acorn under the tree

with Brandi Bird, in a state of

pleasant Bliss along the

Glenn that’s brimmed with Stones—

once an Olive LoveGrove painted

Jade—now awaiting

the Amber Dawn—

perhaps to scribe a Sonnet,

not of where but

Howe and Wenn, laughing all

the way to the Banks once

back in vogue.

But my money’s

on Sitoski, on-Brand like

Paul Vermeersch. Peacock

on a thousand-dollar Bill—

a stride of wing & colour from

the Lane then onto Rhodes.

Let’s have Belcourt on

the toonie;

which is not to say he’s less 

as like the loonie it will

last a million years—

Lockhart on the single

dollar heads, flipped in Essex air

to Pick & choose.

As for me, I’ll wait for the copper

Penny to make a comeback.

It’s too bad they did a Cull

as with a Gunn—a flame

consumed the Wicks—

nothing left but Ash

in frozen Winters.

Kemp would have been a natural

but I’d etch her on a Nichol—silver—

just like days of old, when you

fished it from your pocket

as with a Rod, for a Deahl

we never thought  

would go away—a pack of

Cherry Twist, a

Maracle of coin

that's come & gone.

Andreas Gripp

May 23, 2026

photo by Andreas

38 Canadian Poets are alluded to or directly referenced in this poem. Can you name them all?