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.
We had a map, of course we did! And the names of the streets were clearly written in English. The names on the streets were also clearly written but in Cyrillic Greek, of course they were! This was Athens in 1966 and we were struggling to find the Folk Museum.
Then we had a stroke of luck! We spied a grand building with sentries in national dress standing outside and we knew we’d found it! So we went inside and wandered around for a bit.
It was unusually empty, the rooms and corridors devoid of the expected folk exhibits. A smartly dressed woman descended the stairs carrying a file of paper. We asked her if she had a Guide. She threw us out! Of course she did! The Royal Palace was not open to tourists!
It was to be an unrepeatable incursion. A few months later the colonels took power and everything changed except the alphabet.
“An Alphabetical Error” first appeared in Pure Slush, 25 Miles From Here Anthology.
Where Are They Now?
In 1967, I hitch-hiked to Belgrade. My friend and I would take an overnight train to stay with our Albanian friends in what is now Kosovo. Until then we had some hours to kill.
The local cafe culture called and we ate a modest meal, two great slabs of the ubiquitous cheese puff pastry washed down with colas.
We went to the counter to pay but the Server refused our money. He pointed to a table where some guys were enjoying a few beers. They had already paid, he said.
We were mystified. They had made no contact with us and we tried to tell them we could not accept. They explained that they wished to thank us for the help Britain had given in WW2.
Fast forward to 1999 when the right to self-determination was all the rage. and NATO bombs were falling on Belgrade. I thought about them a lot back then. I think of them now when territorial integrity is all the rage and the right to self-determination a forgotten dream.
Yes, I think of them now when the bombs fall in Europe once again.
But I still have my friend in Kosovo. Sometimes we feel human, sometimes not.
“Where Are They Now?” first appeared in Topical Poetry.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places, and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. You can find her on her blog or on Facebook.
A day almost too warm for comfort. Why the look and sound of fall but not the feel? The sun lies lazing in the southern sky— veiled in tissue of cloud ordained to steal each stretching shadow’s edge: a sight sealing a sigh.
A rustling leaf ballet inflects the light Along lean birch limbs that will soon be bare, yellow intensifying the bark’s white. One branch’s last two leaves hang by a hair. Two ancient lovers hark to every sound and sight.
Each autumn sees the story being told— Their story—truer than the year before. They feel themselves commingled with the gold now drifting down, less able to ignore, despite the warmth, the stillness of the impending cold.
The winter is their future; it will come to them as surely as today it lies in patience for the fall of the last plum, claim of the snow; which underneath gray skies, if not too late, may prove some watchful creature’s crumb.
The Plum Stump
The old plum tree was sawed off near the roots, some branches in full leaf and others bare, but not one promising a healthy yield— a soon to be forgotten entity, perhaps to be replaced eventually.
The stump looked up, a surface flat and raw, a witness to the world of damage done, though futile (being unattended to); as good as dead, this remnant of the tree, thought any who knew what it used to be.
The passing months would do the stump no favors. The sun’s light bleached it to a ghostly pale, and cracks appeared—the marks of heat and rain working their weathering way with energy. The stump slid quietly toward grotesquery.
And as decay inexorably progressed across this surface, from the bark below all ‘round the stump a miniature grove of shoots sprang out, a veritable sea of life to frustrate death’s hegemony.
Julian D. Woodruff retired from a life as an orchestral musician, teacher, and librarian (art, music). He recently moved from Rochester, NY, to Toronto, where he continues to write fiction and poetry, much of it for children. His poetry is available online at The Society of Classical Poets, Carmina, and Green Silk Journal, as well as Sparks of Calliope. WestWard Quarterly and The Lyric have also published his poetry.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874–1936) was a prolific English writer, poet, philosopher, and critic, whose vast body of work encompassed essays, novels, plays, and over 500 poems. Known for his wit, paradoxes, and rich imagination, Chesterton’s poetry explored themes of faith, morality, beauty, and the human condition, reflecting his deep philosophical and theological convictions. His poetry was characterized by a sense of wonder, a celebration of the ordinary, and a keen understanding of the complexities of life.
Born in London, Chesterton’s literary journey began with a love of art and literature, which he studied at University College London. Although he never completed his degree, his early exposure to the visual arts influenced his poetic imagery, and his keen eye for detail became a hallmark of his work. In 1900, Chesterton published his first poetry collection, “Greybeards at Play,” a humorous and whimsical exploration of human nature that showcased his gift for clever wordplay and satirical commentary.
Chesterton’s poetry often reflected his deep religious beliefs, which became more pronounced after his conversion to Catholicism in 1922. His poem “The Ballad of the White Horse” (1911) is considered one of his masterpieces—a narrative poem that tells the story of King Alfred the Great’s battle against the invading Danes. Combining historical legend with allegory, the poem celebrated the virtues of faith, courage, and perseverance.
Many of Chesterton’s shorter poems, such as “Lepanto,” a rousing tribute to the Christian victory over the Ottoman fleet, and “A Christmas Carol,” which combined festive imagery with spiritual reflection, demonstrated his ability to weave humor, devotion, and historical insight into lyrical verse. His poetry was also marked by a profound appreciation for paradox, evident in works like “The Donkey,” where he transformed a humble, scorned animal into a symbol of divine grace.
Beyond his poetry, Chesterton’s impact on English literature was profound, with his writings influencing figures like C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien. His poetic voice remains celebrated for its clarity, joy, and intellectual depth, offering readers a window into the mind of a thinker who saw the world as a place of endless mystery and divine meaning. Today, G. K. Chesterton is remembered not only as a master of prose but also as a poet who brought wisdom and wonder to every verse he penned.
Elegy in a Country Churchyard
The men that worked for England They have their graves at home: And bees and birds of England About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas for England They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England, In stately conclave met, Alas, alas for England, They have no graves as yet.
The Song of the Strange Ascetic
If I had been a Heathen, I’d have praised the purple vine, My slaves should dig the vineyards, And I would drink the wine. But Higgins is a Heathen, And his slaves grow lean and grey, That he may drink some tepid milk Exactly twice a day.
If I had been a Heathen, I’d have crowned Neaera’s curls, And filled my life with love affairs, My house with dancing girls; But Higgins is a Heathen, And to lecture rooms is forced, Where his aunts, who are not married, Demand to be divorced.
If I had been a Heathen, I’d have sent my armies forth, And dragged behind my chariots The Chieftains of the North. But Higgins is a Heathen, And he drives the dreary quill, To lend the poor that funny cash That makes them poorer still.
If I had been a Heathen, I’d have piled my pyre on high, And in a great red whirlwind Gone roaring to the sky; But Higgins is a Heathen, And a richer man than I: And they put him in an oven, Just as if he were a pie.
Now who that runs can read it, The riddle that I write, Of why this poor old sinner, Should sin without delight- But I, I cannot read it (Although I run and run), Of them that do not have the faith, And will not have the fun.
The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.
It’s snowing And I am certain Fairly certain It will snow again Settling lightly Upon the orchard Just so just so A whirlwind of white Unpruned branches An exquisite chaos Just beyond My window for Nearly thirty years I have anticipated A whirlwind of white Blossoms each spring But now too weary Its limbs brittle Dry old bones I am certain Fairly certain There will be no Flurry of petals Only the saw It’s heartrending But I am certain (Never absolutely certain) I’ll see snow again
Blasted Oak
I am this Blasted oak (Well not quite yet But soon enough) Brittle wizened limbs Wrenched just so Splintered by the wind A Friedrich painting A poignant sublime In stark detail For your perusal Far from a sapling And now no longer Tall stately timber (You’d think I’d be weary of Ponderous allusions) Eventually this tree Will rot and crumble Wend its way Returning to loam Nevertheless I am this Blasted oak
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.
Our love mixes with seaweed,
a sweet memory,
sprinkled with salt. It grows
between the breeze
and the hurricane,
the fruit of an inner struggle.
The green waves crash
in a murmur that
cools the warm and
ancient sand; limits; perception.
New tides of change
cast our minds back;
the courage to exist.
In the space between
ancientness and nowness,
our perfect love is eternal,
a song for a dance,
an invisible one, and
a wave-like movement
on the shores of our hearts.
We can feel our holy angels,
wounded wings,
echoes of a distant cry.
In every salty breath, a prayer
and a promise.
Between freedom and serfdom,
we fathom our dodecahedral geodesic,
spiritual sphere out.
The reality is circumjacent;
contiguous eyesight.
The voice of God becomes an echo
to inhabit the twilight world.
Echoing Shells
Bleeding shadows seemingly run away;
disappear into the blazing sand.
Wet rays hit the skin;
change the meaning
of the colors.
A new song cannot be heard;
It is not born yet.
Waves covering dead shells,
lost steps, and destroyed castles
echo with the inner silence.
Battleships are eaten imperceptibly
by the horizon.
The gales remain to scream
in the blue while bringing
ghosts to the shore.
‘Tis a new time in the old one~
always different.
Nature seems to be the same;
suffering brings peace
in an invisible way~
in this need for love.
Marieta Maglas has been published in The MockingOwl Roost, Lothlorien Journal, Verse-Virtual, Silver Birch Press, Sybaritic Press, Kingfisher Poetry, Oddville Press, Prolific Press, Dashboard Horus, Coin-Operated Press, Mayari Literature, Synchronized Chaos, Al-Khemia Poetica, PentaCat Press, The Queer Gaze, Phoenix Z Publishing, All Your Poems Magazine, Journal of the Akita International Haiku, and others. Her poems have also appeared in anthologies such as Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, Nancy Drew Anthology, The Cardinal Anthology Vol. 3, Ain’t no Deadbeats Around Here, and Startled by MUSIC 2023.
April is National Poetry Month. Started by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, this observance has not quite turned 30, yet has become an established tradition in the American poetry zeitgeist. For our part here at Sparks of Calliope, we will mark the occasion by taking another short hiatus. While I pride myself on being a man of many hats, I am absolutely swamped and a little beaten down by the present nature of public discourse. I am not giving up the mission of elevating observations of beauty and our common humanity, so we will once again return to our regular publication schedule after a brief hiatus. This means there will be no new poetry on:
April 8, 2025
April 11, 2025
April 14, 2025
April 17, 2025
April 20, 2025
April 23, 2025
April 26, 2025
April 29, 2025
Please take this opportunity to peruse past contributions to Sparks of Calliope. Present submissions will be read in the order they were received. Stay healthy, stay positive, and try not to contribute to the needless anxiety-inducing hyperbolic negativity that informs the world my children are set to inherit as they come of age.
Exploding inside me emotions, feelings I didn’t know existed overwhelmed me as I held, new tiny human creature I’d never seen before and she calmed hearing my voice, all she needed in that moment when her life turned upside down, but one point remained and was enough. I was lost in love and my little life never the same again: I was now “Father.”
Success One
I have succeeded despite constant failure constant lack absence of acceptance all through childhood. I’ve proved that wrong. I am competent. I am able I am capable I have achieved and far more than those against me. Their efforts to restrain, silence me, utterly failed. I am success! I can carry myself with satisfaction.
Duane L. Herrmann is an internationally published, award-winning poet and historian. His work has been translated into several languages and published in a dozen countries, in print and online. He has seven full-length collections of poetry, a sci-fi novel, a history book, and more chapbooks. His poetry has received the Robert Hayden Poetry Fellowship, inclusion in American Poets of the 1990s, Map of Kansas Literature (website), Kansas Poets Trail and others. These accomplishments defy his traumatic childhood embellished by dyslexia, ADHD, a form of mutism and, now, PTSD. He spends his time on the prairie with trees in the breeze and writes – and loves moonlight!
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