Friday, December 18, 2015

Your narcissistic flower

Your malicious glare rips through
this cellophane wall
I’ve so carefully
drawn over my ragged nerves

but to my surprise
I feel nothing,
nothing at all.

Your narcissistic flower
blooms bilious yellow
in the corner of the room.

If I fail to bring it water
will it shrivel
and die?

Rachel Westfall
December 18, 2015

Thank you, Christopher, for this conversation in poetry.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Announcing: A Trail of Dreams

A Trail of Dreams

My daughter and I just published our second Sasquatch Tale. Please check it out!

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Reversal at forty below

Shards split off
and fall away. This mewling thing
emerges, reddened,
bold and puffy, burned raw.

I'd step outside again
but for the fear
that winter's splintered grasp
will devour me, whole.

Burrow deep
into this nest of covers;
shiver at the prospect
of shearing away 
their velvet heat.

It's time, I think,
to be unborn again.

Rachel Westfall
January 6, 2015

Friday, December 12, 2014

Blackflies dream

If only you could know
The musky tang of berries
Rotting on the bush.

The fug of muskeg, peat bog
Sucking wet below a crust of ice,
Blackflies sleeping now;

Or massed in spinning columns,
Riding currents of warm air
In the dream of summer.

Where else would they go?
This crust is one they can't break through,
Their wings a crumpled mess.

Rachel Westfall
December 12, 2014

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

The river

The river smelled like the sea.
Yet there were no clapboard houses
painted brightly, clinging like limpets,
strung across the rocky hillside.
There were no pinstriped garden snails,
no flock of gulls to snatch them up
and drop them down from high above,
to strip the bruised snail-flesh free
from shells with gleeful squawks.

The river smelled like the sea.
Terns gathered up the scattered figments
of an overactive imagination
and twisted their coiled, aethereal strands
into clever nests, impregnable fortresses
to house their squalling young.

Rachel Westfall
July 16, 2014

Wednesday, July 2, 2014


Ten thousand homes were without power
after Raven’s suicide, an impulsive death
by electrocution, followed by the slow, acrid burn
of shining feathers that lit the grass on fire;
a minor human emergency, an inconvenience
which hampered countless sales transactions.

Raven’s family, arrayed in the lodgepole pines
in ragged rows, watched the scurrying humans
and cackled their bird-brained delight
at Raven’s bold success. After all,
she had often been heard to say
how she’d like go out with a bang.

Rachel Westfall
July 2, 2014

Monday, June 23, 2014

Feline anarchy

Feline anarchy
Black and sleek, a shadow thin
Chaos stalks my soul

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Into the green

I am in the air
Though you may forget to breathe
My soul is the wind

As you lie there now
Tangled with your newest love
My thoughts brush your cheek

Iceland poppies bloom
Tangled vetch and columbine
When you dream of me

Rachel Westfall
June 15, 2014

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

A field of sad poppies

A field of sad poppies,
Their heads bowed down
As petals of red
Orange and yellow
Sing a final bold song
Of butterfly wings
Or torn parachutes
Spinning reckless colour
Over wind-whipped ground

Rachel Westfall
June 10, 2014

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Sasquatch Tales

Please visit my new site! 

This site profiles the Sasquatch Tales I've been writing in collaboration with my daughter, Ursula. Let me know what you think.

Happy sasquatch viewing!

Sincerely, Rachel

Thursday, May 29, 2014


Why stay dry when you can be

Wet? Soaking, gloriously rain-drenching wet
Thin rivulets of cold running through
steaming fabric, over ribs, over thighs, dripping
from wrists onto bundles of fast-wrinkling
books, into bags, into the parched thirsty ground

Until cracks fill with clay, drips become streams,
and earthworms rise in slow panic, reaching for air,
finding only the sharp beaks and grinding bellies
of gleeful red robins, or the tender hands of small children
on a mission to rescue who they can, god-kissed

Or, on the other hand,
you could always just use
your umbrella.

Rachel Westfall
May 29, 2014

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The wrong side of the bed

When the pot hit the ground she squirreled
to the side just in time to miss
getting her foot skewered by a shard
of terra cotta pottery, darkly smudged
with tetanus-rich soil, as her father
would have said, head shaking

And the pansies wept, their cheerful faces
mashed in a painful tangle of dirt
perlite and peat, while the sharp
scent of fertilizer pierced
the clear, cool air striped
by the morning sun

Rachel Westfall
May 15, 2014

Monday, May 5, 2014

A Sasquatch Tale for you

I'm excited to announce that my young daughter and I co-wrote and published a young adult novella! It's available through Amazon. Here's the blurb. If you get a chance to read it, please let me know what you think!

Estella of Halftree Village: A Sasquatch Tale

Published May 2, 2014
Scrappy Fox Press
By Rachel and Ursula Westfall
Contact: Rachel Westfall
Email: westfall.rachel @

Two generations ago, a handful of families fled the violence and poverty of the city to build a new life for themselves in the wilds.
Estella, born and raised in Halftree Village, finds herself caught between cultures when a team of sasquatch hunters arrives from the city. Myth becomes reality when she befriends a young sasquatch, and her village must tap into its remarkable resources to keep her hairy friend safe from harm.

About the authors

Avid readers and writers of fiction, Rachel and Ursula are a mother-daughter team living in Whitehorse, Yukon. When they aren’t writing stories, you will probably find them out in the bush somewhere, tromping around. They may or may not have befriended a sasquatch or two of their own.

Book availability (Kindle edition only, contact me for a print edition), (print and Kindle editions)
Print edition ISBN: 978-0-9937928-0-9
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-0-9937928-1-6 

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Rite of passage

The long hollow bone
of a swan carved into
a modest flute, its call
the wraithlike echo thin
as the wrists of the girl, hair
a dark stream tumbling,
rippled as a child’s
faith in the narrow
true line of the horizon

Torn, shifting hills
into valleys, the old
into the young
as the long hollow call
of the flute drives the swans
thundering skyward
smooth wings beating,
the wraithlike echo thin

Rachel Westfall
January 15, 2014