Two Poems by Ron Riekki

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After the fist fight at the bus stop

After the fist fight at the bus stop, we all stand there,
          still waiting for the bus, and
the boys are gone, three of them, because odd
numbers make everything worse and it was in
winter when it’s too cold to argue, but there it
was, the fists and the notebook papers every-
where and the snowflakes punching all of our
faces so gently and it all came on so fast, this
stop where there are too many of us, the red
apartment complex painted with fire where
seventy-nine percent of us live and fathers
buried in the mines and their soot-in-brains
and the noon dynamite explosions on week-
days every week like clockwork and work
in the mines is for those whose history has
been swallowed, and there is a peace, now,
with the boys gone, the bloody boys, with
their tumbling fight, the circus-y wrestling,
the barks of I’ll kill you and no one killed,
no one, really, all that hurt, just a bunch of
books destroyed, covers lying like corpses
on the ground, and no one picks them up;
instead we are all silent, the snow silent,
the bus in the far distant silent, the mines
just out of sight screaming their silence.


On the day they fired me

On the day they fired me, they took all my
          possessions and never gave them back,
because corporations can do anything they want
and I worked hard for them, overtime and under-
time and holidays and holy days and when I was
sick and when I was dying and even after I died
I worked for three months for free, but still they
fired me, but I found out that four months later
they fired my boss who fired me and I thought
of that moment, with her, surprised, absolutely
unprepared for karma, and it made me smile to
know that we all fail in the end.




Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to Cat Powers’ “Werewolf.”

Two Poems by Richard West

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The Passing of Time

Roofless the temple stands, its purposes and priestesses
long gone, its fluted columns holding up only the stars
by night, and by day the thoughts of those who pass it by.
Silent it sits, its outer court thronged now by grasses that
genuflect to every breeze, and by history’s clinging dust
that remembers all, but will not share its words.
Stripped of the song of acolytes, its walls hear only
the anaphoric calls of birds that come and chant their
blessings on the lonely stones. Even the naos – once
the meeting place of the numinous and men – now knows
only the murmuring of winds that shadow discontent,
but which measure in their way the demise of gods and
the passing of time itself.


Sky Dance

As light fades from winter’s whiteboard-sky,
gathered starlings lift together with the urgent
rushing sound of countless wings, and the flock begins
what it had not planned, but knew deep in its genes –
the synchronous dance of murmuration.

Guided by an unseen genetic hand, leaderless these
avian actors move in unison – a collective mind that is
more yet less than surging flocks and beams of flight –
a miracle of mind directing matter, a testament to
life lived free, yet dancing still on nature’s puppet strings.




Richard West was Regents’ Professor of Classics in a large public university for a number of years. He has published numerous books, and many articles and poems under his own name or “Richard West” and other pen names.  He lives with his wife Anna in the beautiful American Southwest, where he enjoys cooking and trying to add flavor to his poems.

Two Poems by Charlie Brice

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Somehow

you knew
all along that

nobody hears your song
the notes belong
only to you

nobody will read
your autobiography
because it wrote you

you’re naked under
all those clothes

the worst invention
of the 20 th Century
identity
now no one knows
who they are

according to Camus
Sisyphus is laughing

the thing about humor
it hides sadness
behind balloons
and noise makers

you’re the only one
at your party

you can’t invite anyone else
if you could
they wouldn’t come


Winter Walk in Pittsburgh

Blizzard so bright the sky turned dark.
Pleasant-sting of flakes against cold-
flushed cheeks. A parka-bundled neighbor
shovel-scrapes his front walk. We gesture
to the snow, palms up, as if in prayer. I love
it, I yell. Me too, he says. Cold-mist erupts
from our mouths—incense to the gelid gods.
I get worried, I say, when we don’t have winter.

A block later, a plump beagle named Clyde
lets me pet him in the storm. I love it, but
it makes me miss Mugsi, gone four months
now. Clyde’s sweet tongue and wiggly body,
oddly unsatisfying, like expecting a recipe
to quell hunger without fixing the dish.




Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His eighth full-length poetry collection is Miracles That Keep Me Going (WordTech Editions, 2023). His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, Chiron Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.

Two Poems by Mike Hall

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The Letting Go

Her tiny hand was swallowed in his own,
Intent to steady her unsteady gait,
Guiding and aiding until she’s more grown.
The letting go, for now, will have to wait.

The hand held the bike as she learned to ride,
Its grip, a hedge against her wobbly state,
Guiding her, helping her feel safe inside.
The letting go waits for a yet seen date.

The hand holds hers once again in his own.
Time for the letting go has come at last,
For the hand being given is now grown,
Trusting another as her hand is passed.

The letting go starts with a dose of fear,
But the hand remains poised, faithful, and near.

The tiny bundle in the hand was placed,
Its small size nearly engulfed in his own,
His heart swelling, a feeling fully graced.
The letting go, for now, he must postpone.

The hand holds tight to this new little one,
Recalling another long-ago date,
He, guiding the other, before they could run.
Oh, how the letting go needed to wait.

The hand has grown old with the march of time,
Other hands now guiding with love and care
The hand that served many well past its prime.
The letting go, for them, did not seem fair.

This final letting go is full of tears,
But smiles abound remembering the years.


A Stitch in Time

I looked at the old Singer in the corner,
dust covering it from the lack of use.
This had not always been the case.
Many hours had been spent using the machine
as garments were made – dresses, skirts, shirts, pajamas –
some of them into the late hours of the night,
the whir of the needle resonating as it performed its task,
attaching the pieces which had been carefully cut,
the fabric pinned together, awaiting their becoming one,
the two-dimensional puzzle becoming three-,
the result, more than an article of clothing.
It was an object of pride in craftsmanship mixed with love.
I can remember the smile on her face when she finished,
the joy on the faces of those receiving the gift buoying her spirit,
making the time she spent worthwhile,
but her art – this craft – is slowly dwindling away,
disappearing . . . one by one . . . with her generation,
memories fading . . . vanishing into the past . . .

I turned to leave but could not resist looking one last time.
Maybe it was a trick of the light or just my yearning.
As I looked, the dust particles floating in the light seemed to settle,
forming the outline of her sewing with needle and thread,
giving a faint glimmer – a diaphanous, dreamlike vision.
I smiled and timidly lifted my hand as an acknowledging gesture.
She looked up, returning my smile, then returned to work,
focused on the next stitch . . . intent on finishing,
trying to preserve and protect what once was,
repairing the fabric of time, connecting the past with the present
before the memory drifts away into the ether of bygone days.




Mike Hall is the author of two collections of poetry, Autumn’s Back Porch and Thinking Out Loud. His work is a call for us all to think of our place in this world and how we can be kinder and more respectful to each other. He and his wife, Cynthia, live in the Dallas, Texas, area.

“The Frog at Tinker Creek” by D. Marie Fitzgerald

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“It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.”
   — Annie Dillard, from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

His upper torso clings to the rock,
bottom half concealed beneath
the water’s surface,
mouth agape, body still.

He should be scurrying away by now,
instead, he is letting me come closer.

It is then I realize the violence
being played out below.

Giant water beetle approaches its
prey from behind, sucking out
the insides of the victim,

Therefore, the frog is not moving,
adheres to the rock with his spread-out hands,
horror on his face, mouth a silent scream,
the exhausted skin now opening and closing
like the petals of a wilting flower,
soft as shoe leather.

Finally, the emptied skin leaves nothing of the frog
except the awful gaping mouth, frozen eyes,
upper arms stretched out in a sort of last appeal
as he offers himself to this role he must endure
to its finality.

At long last the face sinks slowly down,
body deflated, face following,
surrender solidified on a frog’s face,

The body a parachute fluttering
slips soundlessly into the water

His acquiescence as serene
as death should be.

“The Frog at Tinker Creek” first appeared in Cholla Needles.




D. Marie Fitzgerald is a retired English and creative writing instructor. She is the author of six collections, and her work has appeared in several publications, most recently Down in the Dirt, Cholla Needles, and Academy of the Heart and Mind. She currently hosts a monthly featured readers series in Palm Springs, California, and runs a poetry critique group.

“The Killing” by Carol Lynn Grellas

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I squeeze the tick between my fingers—
blood stains the soft belly on my dog’s tender
skin. It spreads across her open sore

like a scarlet flower blooming beneath
the sun. Below my nails, deep down
to the quick, a tiny predator lies pulled

to bits. Inhumane in my removal, the savage
that I am, remnants of the unwanted trespasser
linger like an echo from far beyond, a distant

reminder, all creatures, great and small
are always feeding off others for the good
or bad, for the need or want, nothing will

ever be truer than this. And if I stop to listen,
take a silent pause of gratitude in the midst
of my own survival, I can almost hear the echo

after the trauma of one over another, feel
the wind exhale in sympathy—a whispering
rejoice in the celebration of victory or mourning

of a loss, the universe humming its
ongoing chant as my dog licks my finger,
and I apply salve on her wound.

“The Killing” first appeared in The Grey Sparrow.




Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is a graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts, MFA in Writing program. She is a thirteen-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a seven-time Best of the Net nominee. In 2012, she won the Red Ochre Chapbook Contest with her manuscript, Before I Go to Sleep. In 2018, her book, In the Making of Goodbyes was nominated for The CLMP Firecracker Award in Poetry, and her poem “A Mall in California” took 2nd place for the Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize. In 2019, her chapbook An Ode to Hope in the Midst of Pandemonium was a finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards. In 2021, Her latest collection, Alice in Ruby Slippers, was short-listed for the Eric Hoffer Grand Prize and awarded an honorable mention in the Poetry category.

Her work can be found online and in print and has been featured in Mezzo Cammin, Verse Daily, and many more. She is a former editor-in-chief for the Tule Review and The Orchards Poetry Journal. She is currently a member of the Board of Directors for Women’s Wisdom Art, an organization in Sacramento that supports women’s wellness through creativity in all forms. Her latest collections of poetry, Handful of Stallions at Twilight (Finishing Line Press) and A Shared and Sacred Space (Kelsay Books), were released in 2024.

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

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How Doth Professor Superstar

How doth Professor Superstar
Pursue his shining quest.
His glory awes us from afar.
He dwells atop the crest.

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly wields his clout,
To welcome all his cronies in
And keep outsiders out.

“How Doth Professor Superstar” first appeared in The Providence Journal.


Anti-Biology Theology

We mustn’t improve our biology
Despite all its limits and pains.
If God had approved of technology,
He would have endowed us with brains.

“Anti-Biology Theology” first appeared in The New York Daily News.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had around 375 poems published in a wide range of places, including thirty in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.

Two Poems by D. R. James

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Recycling

When Dad had his easy operation
he quit smoking, cold turkey,
and Peggy and I traced and crayoned

the encyclopedia’s glossy plates.
I gave him a cardinal, a goldfinch,
a blue jay and still know those basic colors,

their cocked depictions. Today, near
blind, he’s ready to hand back over
whatever can’t be moved—some

’20s textbooks, Grandpa’s elaborate camera,
the table saw that hasn’t cut much in years and
years. And I’m trying my best to feel sad

about now but grope around another corner
instead: I see I should settle again,
start collecting for sons who, in another

thirty-five years, will need to help
clear out a house, haul away
quaint power tools, inlaid tables,

floor lamps, a love seat, an assortment
of dusty cup hooks and nails, and
several odd poems featuring birds.

“Recycling” first appeared in Oberon.


The Day I Got My Timing Down

It was in that phase of pure
sarcasm, midteens, when guys
work out an awkward stance,

work their pack’s patter
till they maybe have it. I don’t
really remember the day but

the single-moment wonder of hitting
my first come-back just right
by accident, then their free, true

laughter, my perfect follow-up,
the never-looking-back. From there
a career: from Senior Class Clown

to smooth talker in any crowd to
flip teacher spinning lit to wordsmith
chiseling chin-up come-backs

to the tin-clad sarcasms
every life dishes out as it
disarms or drops you or

leaves you hanging, slamming
its clanging locker door in your
gullible, stuttering face.

“The Day I Got My Timing Down” first appeared in Rattle.




D. R. James, retired now from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared internationally in a wide variety of print and online anthologies and journals.

“My Bedtime Stories” by Kenton K. Yee

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“Space, the final frontier. These are the...”
I still hear them, the catchy theme songs
that turn evenings to light-years, islands
to civilizations, 3-hour tours to lifetimes.

Mary Ann, Ginger, or Mrs. Howell?
Lucy, Sally, or Olive Oil? I aimed to be
like Popeye or Thurston Howell the Third
but turned into a Gilligan answering to
an overbearing Skipper—but without
an eponymous island like TV’s Gilligan. 

I dreamed of cruising stars and starlets
like Kirk, but morphed into the Professor,
way too spacey to star in my own spin-off.
On my deserted island, only Kirk gets off.




Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Kenyon Review, Threepenny Review, Cincinnati Review, RHINO, Quarterly West, I-70 Review, Fairy Tale Review, and Rattle, among others. Kenton writes from Northern California.

Two Poems by Russell Rowland

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Angels Unawares

If all the most vibrant feathers soared together—
Bluebirds, Goldfinches, Cardinals,
additional primary colors—we’d get a rainbow.

I had a child tell me once, the sweetest songbirds
are angels in disguise.

I decided she must be one herself, to think that.

And I wondered if the seraphim
in Isaiah’s Temple might have been Goldfinches;
maybe two Bluebirds in the empty tomb;

a Cardinal flock, the twelve flames of Pentecost.

Now, whenever I hear a White-Throated Sparrow
sing on the summit ledges,

I reply, “Let it be to me according to your song.”


Interventionist

Wells went dry, grass crisped.
“Chance of showers” was all that meteorology
could offer us.

Upstairs under the roof at night,
windows wide to welcome the least rumor of rain,

we listened, sleepless—hopeful, but in vain.

It took intervention,
and the interventionist needed to act from a tree
at the edge of encircling woods,

wearing ceremonious barred apparel for the task.
He chanted his mantra,
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

And at that very moment, the rain began to fall.




Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire.  Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.  He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region Conservation Trust.