Author: Randal A. Burd, Jr.

Randal A. Burd, Jr. is the editor of Sparks of Calliope. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his 2nd collection was "Memoirs of a Witness Tree" (Kelsay Books, 2020). Randal has published poetry in numerous literary journals, both online and in print. Follow him on X: @colonelrandal.

Two Poems by Jan Hassmann

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Bridgehead

Stately the old bridgehead muses over the canal.
Red bricks and a coat of arms,
charms the new bridge will never have.
Stronger, yes, and taller too,
but made from things that don’t grow.

Bigger ships need taller bridges.

50 years since they took her from him,
her crooked heart all black and rotten,
but not forgotten.
A plaque they put up, picture too,
commemorative, as they do,
living such short lives.

And so he watches, swans and ships,
and desperate souls flung off the bridge.
Oh, they jumped off the old one, too,
but not so many.

A lot more than you’d think!
says Millie from across the way,
she’s with the fire brigade,
she knows about these things.

They don’t put them in the papers anymore,
no need to advertise the spot.

The bridgehead cares not
who hears his lullaby,
as swans and ships and lives float by,
their crooked hearts all black and rotten.
But not forgotten.


Broken Clock

Still got that old clock I bought a while ago,
blue,
with fluorescent hands that glow
and watch me sleep at night.
It never worked, but it’s still ticking.

Sometimes.

I can’t bring myself to put it away,
at least once a day
I look up from my affairs,
hearing a tick and a tock,
reminded of a spark of life
still in the clock.

Like in roots under rocks,
rotten and soft.

It might just be showing another world’s time
maybe it’s not broken, but by design
made to measure
other things.

In a place where at noon the night begins
and the hands turn
widdershins.




Jan Hassmann earned his master’s degree in English Literature from the University of Tübingen, Germany, and left immediately after to teach the very same at universities in Beijing and Kunming, China. Fifteen years later he returned to Europe, where he runs an amicable poetry club in Plovdiv, Bulgaria.

Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

The Materialist’s Misfortune

I know you like to taunt me, Ma, until
My face is red with frustration. But will
You not regard the fact that I am still
A little boy?

“You are fifteen. Go find a girl.”, you say,
But teenage is to grow, not waste away
On girlfriends. No more of this theme today!
I have my joy.

“We’re glad you got the university.
I bet you’re seeing someone.” Well, for me,
What matters right now is the bursary.
Don’t start again!

“Congrats! My son! A graduate at last!”
Now find a match before youthhood is past.”
Profession! Ma! I want to make it vast
Like other men!

“You’re thirty one. It’s getting more delayed?”
It will slow down my progress, I’m afraid.
I swear, I will, right when my future’s made.
“Okay, lets see.”

I have all that I ever sought: no strife,
A good career, and fortune, yet my life
Lacks something, Ma. I wish I had a wife—
I’m forty-three.


My Uncle’s Desk

To him, this desk was no less than
A pretty maid is to her man;
The groom, my Uncle, wedded it,
His bride, the desk, he petted it.

At it, he taught my life’s first letters—
‘The more one reads, the more one betters’;
From it, harangued and often scolded
Whenever my mischiefs unfolded.

At it, reviewed his files, accounts,
Son’s tution fees, the bills’ amounts,
The sum to borrowers he gave,
A month’s expense, how much to save;

On holidays, at break of day,
He sat at it to fully pay
(Through lens of lunettes spectacles)
Attention to his articles.

He decked it with a flower vase,
A flagon old, an hourglass,
A penholder, a blunted comb,

And picture of the sacred ‘Om’.
When minded to hilarity,
Made aunt’s and children’s mockery
While sitting there and taking sips
Of Ginger tea with grinning lips.

And when in grave and tetchy mood,
Strict language formed his attitude,
But not for long this state would be
When he sat there for poetry.

He sat there one full night to catch
The Cricket World Cup’s final match,
And all throughout the coming day,
His run-down eyes upon it lay.

The countless verses that he penned,
The letters for his dearest friend,
The tomes of novelettes he read;
Each happened at this very stead.

Time passed. He aged, so aged his bride—
With oldhood comes life’s ebbing tide;
His movements slowed and came to rest
When Parkinson’s impinged his chest.

Brute Fate! it took from him the right
To feed and bathe, to hold and write;
With each day, it severely wrung
And stole the power of his tongue.

He summoned me on his last day
Through my aunt to make his last say—
She gave a note, it read: ‘My will:
Before I’m rendered cold and still,

‘I’m passing down my desk to you.
I hope, like me, you’ll love it too.’
I smiled at him, his eyes looked pleased—
Took one last breath and got released.

Before my eyes, his desk now stands—
No woodworms, cracks or trace of ants;
Still burnished, solid, gives a glow
As if produced a while ago.

I sit here now and tell my mind:
“The dearest thing he left behind,
Still keeps us close though we’re apart,
And bears the imprint of his heart.”

“My Uncle’s Desk” first appeared in The Hypertexts.




Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. Some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Westward Quarterly, and Disturb The Universe.

Two Poems by Carey Jobe

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

In Country

The conductor’s whistle,
an answering squeal as the train’s wheels
lurch, a quickening hiss
as milling, infernal crowds in the cavernous
Hauptbahnhof fall away to the dull sheens
of Frankfurt, the gray-green Main,
the cindery, static, mizzling slate
of a German sky…

Being American
is part of my baggage. Even before I greet
cabinmates with a botched
phrasebook sentence and sit, my tonsured scalp,
baby-pink GI face, draw stares or nods
of boreal politeness. I hunker,
arms locked, a deaf-mute, into my cushion.
Like a film screen,

fleeting scenery
at my shoulder offers bittersweet refuge out of
and into heaviness:
miniature, pastel, red-tile-roofed cottages,
bikers on beech lanes, pastures neat
as quilts under a skyline
of blue hills, like Tennessee’s, flash by.
What a poor guesser

the mind is!
Where is the Germany of the daydream? dirndled
villagefolk dancing
in the half-timbered Marktplatz? Horn-echoing
woodlands of Wagner, Goethe?—the generous
country of the tinted postcard
that somehow (oh, inevitable appetite
which makes the dissatisfied

put dreamage
to the proof!) enlisted a fleecy adolescent
indolence to board northeast-
erly-gusting winds and report for duty where
the Neckar feeds the Rhine? Today
I must confront
impermeable bedrock. The conductor, grunting,
punches my ticket.


On Grass

I stepped outdoors while the sun was warm
to search thin snow if something formed
could help dislodge a bedded, numb
river rock where the blood is warmed.

A robin kept fleeing my slow boot tread,
not far, re-staking each claim of ground
with quick jabs and quizzical cocks of head.
I wondered what livelihood it found.

The drab grass, strawy and rough to touch,
smelled moist, like spring, its patchy green
shiny with thaw in the windy March
day’s clashing tempers of cloud and sun.

“Winter will need to move indoors,”
I laughed aloud, misting chilly air
with cheer that nudged my heart-rock loose.
The scene didn’t notice or seem to care

about inner weathers, cheer or grief
or landscapes they carve in a human breast,
unless in the ruffled annoyance of
a bird hunting grasses for its spring nest.




Carey Jobe is a retired attorney who has published poetry over a 45-year span.  His work has recently appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken, The Chained Muse, and The Society of Classical Poets.  He has authored a volume of poetry, By River or Gravel Road, and is currently working on a second collection.  He lives and writes in Crawfordville, Florida.

“If A, Then B” by Jonathan Kinsman

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

He’s as tall as she is comely
and so he strides the valley floor.
He kicks the hills out of the way
and bows to open each and any door
for his young bride of angelic cachet;
endowed in Grace by blessed decree.
                    For surely she is comely.

He’s as smart as she is winsome
and so he squares the nth degree.
He keeps bridges in suspension
with histories of what will be, will be,
and advises all without pretension
on things out of hand or in some.
                    For certain she is winsome.

He’s as clever as she is beautiful
and nimble with his hands and wit.
He will never knuckle under
to overt pressure, pushed by peer or twit,
and arguments of lightning or thunder
will find him indisputable.
                    For truly she is beautiful.

He’s as resolute as she is charming
and answers rightly before asked.
He figures out all the angles
no matter the risk, or matter is tasked:
immune to lures, free from all that spangles,
he’s down, undone by her eyes disarming.
                    Undeniably charming.




Jonathan Kinsman styles himself as 8th grade Provocateur de Litterature & Grand Grammarian, 3rd Degree; Master of the Revels & Singular of Nouns.

Two Poems by Michael Minassian

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Phone Call

A few years ago,
I got a phone call,
a voice from the past,
my ex-sister-in-law
saying my former wife
had died alone in a hotel room
in Las Vegas, She finally
took enough pills to do the job.

Then she segued
to her son, now a grown man,
You’re his godfather,
she reminded me,
he needs you.

I remembered holding
him as an infant
in a light filled church
somewhere in Orange County.

I hope you kept his grandfather
away from him, I said.

Within the hour he called,
telling me about his life
as a cross-country truck driver,
and how he struggled with
his own demons, drugs, and alcohol.

I didn’t have much advice
to give him except to suggest
he get into therapy and rehab,
and said I would pray for him.

Just before he hung up,
he called me Uncle Mike,
and I wondered if it
stuck in his throat
the way it landed in my ear.

But what bothered me the most
was the description of my ex,
dead in Vegas alone on the bed,
black garbage bags next to her
filled with newspaper and rags,
There was nothing,
really, in the bags,
her sister-in-law said.

But I knew better—
she filled them with her rage
until there was no room left.


The Face in the Mirror

You’re not the first person to tell
me the surprise you felt looking
in the mirror; the fine etched youth
turned to trenches surrounding your eyes;
a treasure of beauty and lust gone,
buried within a fading smile; seeing
your parents’ faces between the lines.
The last time we met, you said,
“I’m turning into my mother.
I didn’t want to, but there it is,
filling my house with antiques
and cooking her favorite foods.”
As if any of us could escape age or time
or see something new as the years climb.




Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections: Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing, as well as a new chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information, visit: https://michaelminassian.com

“tempo: time’s tale” by Lou Ella Hickman

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

in this season
i sigh
as winter falls
into snow at evening
morning a clean sky
but oh, the nights…

then
i dream
as spring breathes
into afternoons that bloom
everything green…

when
i sing
as summer flows
into a molten sun
lingering at dusk
among purple clouds…

at last
i whisper
as autumn shuffles
into tipsy among dry leaves
later sidewalks cool after rain…

i live
as each cycle circles
into the sand of my hourglass…




Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS, has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, US Catholic, Commonweal, The Christian Century, Presence, Prism, and several anthologies. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020. Five poems from her book, she: robed and words, set to music by James Lee III were performed on May 11, 2021 as part of a concert held at Y92 in New York City. The group of songs is entitled “Chavah’s Daughters Speak.” Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023.

Two Poems by Christopher Sahar

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The Cheetah

The Cheetah is a blanket –
Polyester, furry, black spots
Spackled on a field of orange.
It kept my mother warm and swaddled
During spells of delirium as cancer
Tore through her bones.

The cheetah came from her bedroom
Which she visited aided by a holding hand
When the cancer retreated its decimation
And allowed her to climb our house’s
Narrow wood stairway carpeted in burgundy
Fabric slabs my father laid with Fidel, his employee.

She thumbed her notebooks there –
All scribbled with short stories and poems
To share at the writers’ group meetings
She could no longer attend, too weak
To compose, there seemed nothing to share.

Finished with her inspection, she sat slanted on her bed,                             
A floppy queen-sized one with her imprint still visible
From decades of sleep while that of her husband’s
Long gone  after ten years in the grave.
She would ask the aide to open a closet to choose
Outfits for the changing season to hang on the downstairs rack
Crammed to the side of her hospital bed  beneath the chandelier
That had glittered for Christmas dinner and special guests and now
Illuminates medications, hearing aids, flowers, books, and distilled water.

Soon those visits stopped as the cancer pounced
From its lair to spread and bind her to the hospital bed
For many days into nights – the cheetah covering her from
Clavicle well past the phalanges of her feet
When air-conditioning froze or the thermostat failed
To abate the winter drafts’ creep through warped windows.

The cheetah warmed her until the day before she died,
And when she died it comforted me through the winter-tide
That followed her death. I dreamt of her home of fifty years
Often: strangers to evict or my mother answering the door
Confused, dislocated as if cognizant she was imprisoned
Temporarily in one of my dreams. But soon the house
Dreams were engulfed by my Present, the cheetah
Clutter.

Yesterday, the cheetah was bagged and unloaded.
A space is open in my linen chest, my dreams
Relieved of hauntings from a home no longer.
Now, unexpected tears spring from quiet dens.


The Evergreens

I stand in an open field.
Sorrow blows the tops of tallgrass,
Sun’s flickering rays sieved through
Evergreens’ blue at the apogee of summer,
Cradling newborns in their limbs and trunks.

I raise my open palms to block the wind.
Turn and narrow my eyes upon the evergreens
With promise to shelter these fragile newborns,
Protect against the inevitable winter’s blows.

I allow sorrow’s gales to buffet me,
Question how long I can stand
To marvel and imbibe summer’s fleeting fecundity,
The evergreens’ potent promises,
Before Fall flags the end of all of this
With its gaudy, tattered tartan of gold, rose, and nectarine.

“The Cheetah” and “The Evergreens” previously appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal


Christopher Sahar is a musician who enjoys writing poetry as an avocation. Born and raised in New Jersey, he received his B.A. in English from Oberlin College and his Master’s in Music Theory and Composition from Queens College/City University of New York. He resides in the Astoria, Queens, section of New York City, where he works as a church musician, educator, and occasionally earns income from music compositions and freelance writing.  A composer, his works have been performed both in the United States and Europe, and he has written a libretti and lyrics for operatic and vocal works. 

“Ode to My Dad” by Patrick Connors

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

What I Am Left With

Walter Gretzky died two days before my Dad.
They were both born in 1938. Other than that,
they had almost nothing in common.

My Dad and me also had very little in common
except our first names
and our last

the propensity to drink
as a means of dealing with anxiety
and a deep and abiding love in Jesus Christ.

My childhood was a hopeless struggle, founded
on pleasing my Dad, protecting my Mom
and becoming the next Wayne Gretzky.

My Dad was deeply damaged.
He was torn between trying to save us
from this damage and sharing how it felt.

Finally, we became
a family, found the courage
to leave the source of our abuse.

I started to live my life
and make my own mistakes
and then, eventually, become sane.

Decades later, after
a few vain attempts to make peace
I found out my Dad was very ill.

I couldn’t go see him.
In the times of Covid, 5 provinces away
it just wasn’t possible.

From decades gone by
the distance may as well have been
a million miles, even in the same room.

My Dad died.
The pain he felt and the pain he inflicted
cannot be reconciled.

I never got to tell him how much he hurt me.
I never got to say I forgave him.
I never got to say goodbye.

“Ode to My Dad” first appeared in Canadian Stories.




Patrick Connors charted on the Toronto Poetry Map with his first chapbook, Scarborough Songs, released by Lyricalmyrical Press in 2013. Other publication credits include: The Toronto Quarterly, Spadina Literary Review, Sharing Spaces, Tamaracks, and Tending the Fire. His first full collection, The Other Life, was released in 2021 by Mosaic Press. His new chapbook, Worth the Wait, was released this Spring by Cactus Press. You can follow him on X, Instagram, or Facebook.

Two Poems by Jacqueline Jules

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Blemished Fruit

My mother taught me to stew fruit.
To core and peel. Add raisins.
A bit of brown sugar, cinnamon.
Simmer till soft.

For this family treat,
she used mostly blemished fruit,
apples and pears she deemed
perfectly good, save for a few
brown spots.

At my own counter,
paring knife in hand,
I remember Mom
in her green Formica kitchen
humming while she sliced
the bruises off battered fruit,
never doubting for a moment
she could make something sweet
with whatever was left.


Before You Needed a Chair in the Shower

We often spent Sunday afternoons
at scenic spots. We liked those sprawling
parks, created from old estates
with grand houses and grounds.

Now I leave you home when I drive away
with my neighbor Shelley, already widowed.

You couldn’t navigate this leaf-covered trail
with your cane. While I can still step quickly
uphill, over exposed tree roots.

Shelley, cheerful beside me, suggests a stop
after our walk at the market down the road,
the kind of place we would have visited
before your first trip to the ER.

Returning to the car,
I think of your stammering steps
from couch to table, the groaning
effort to sit back down in a chair,
and wish it wasn’t so painful
to mention how much we both miss
what we used to do together.




Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press. Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications including The Sunlight Press, Gyroscope Review, and One Art. She is also the author of two poetry books for young readers: Tag Your Dreams: Poems of Play and Persistence. (Albert Whitman, 2020) and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Visit  www.jacquelinejules.com.

Two Poems by James McIntyre

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James McIntyre (1828 – 1906)

Everyone has certain things to be thankful for which come to mind around this time of year, and were Scottish born Canadian poet James McIntyre still alive, his might be achieving immortal literary fame despite being named by some critics as “The Worst Poet in History.”

James McIntyre (1828-1906) was a 19th-century Canadian poet, famously known as the “Cheese Poet” due to his unconventional choice of subjects for his verses. Born in Forres, Scotland, McIntyre emigrated to Canada in 1841, settling in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he worked as a stonemason.

Despite lacking formal education, McIntyre possessed a keen interest in poetry. His poetic endeavors gained recognition when he began composing verses that celebrated the dairy industry, particularly his ode to cheese. McIntyre’s light-hearted and whimsical poems often centered around everyday life, nature, and his surroundings.

One of his most well-known works, “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese,” humorously pays homage to a mammoth cheese produced in Ingersoll. McIntyre’s verses, characterized by their playful and sometimes satirical tone, garnered him local fame, earning him the title of the “Cheese Poet.”

While McIntyre’s poetry may not have been embraced by literary elites of his time, his work resonated with the ordinary people of Ontario. His poems were published in local newspapers, contributing to his popularity in the region. Despite the seemingly mundane nature of his chosen themes, McIntyre’s poems reflect a genuine love for his community and a unique perspective on the world around him during his lifetime.

James McIntyre’s legacy endures as a charming and eccentric, though not overly-talented, figure in Canadian literary history. His ability to find inspiration in the everyday, even in the humble cheese, sets him apart as a poet who celebrated the ordinary in an extraordinary way. McIntyre’s unconventional approach to poetry has perhaps left an indelible mark, ensuring that he is remembered not only as the “Cheese Poet” but also as a distinctive voice in the rich tapestry of Canadian literature.

Below are a couple examples of McIntyre’s odes.


Thanksgiving Ode, November 15, 1888

 September came and with it frost
 The season’s pasture it seemed lost,
 And the wondrous yield of corn
 Of its green beauty it was shorn.

 Frost it came like early robber,
 But gentle rains came in October,
 Which were absorbed by grateful soil;
 With green once more the pastures smile.

 And cows again are happy seen
 Enjoying of the pastures green,
 And flow of milk again they yield
 From the sweet feed of grassy field.

 And we have now a fine November,
 Warmer far than in September;
 The apple, which is queen of fruits,
 Was a good crop and so is roots.

 The rains they did replenish springs,
 And it gratitude to each heart brings,
 When we reflect on bounteous season,
 For grateful feelings all have reason.


Ode on the Mammoth Cheese

Weight over seven thousand pounds.

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world’s show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We’rt thou suspended from balloon,
You’d cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.


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.