“On Viewing the Corpse of My Mother-in-Law” by Nolo Segundo

How could this–thing–have been her?
Lying shriveled and small on the bed
As those who loved (and feared) her
Gathered in the bereft hospital room
To let their shock and grief melt and
Mold itself into its own atmosphere.
Her body seemed never to have been
Real, never to have been a woman,
Never to have been young once, and
Surely never to have been a mother….

And if it had been a body once, housing
A small dragon who could lash out fire
Solely with her harsh and brutal tongue,
Keeping those who loved her at bay and
The rest of us wary, aware of her power,
Her terrible gift for shrinking one’s soul,
Then where did she go when her mouth
Froze open as the last breath of a long
Life left quietly, without fuss or rancor?

Still, though imperfect as you or I, she
Was loved and mourned and honored.
If God only housed saints, think how
Terribly lonely He would be….

“On Viewing the Corpse of My Mother-in-Law” originally appeared in Adelaide.




Nolo Segundo, pen name of L. J. Carber, only became a widely published poet in his mid-70’s in over 130 literary journals in the U.S., Canada, England, Romania, Scotland, Portugal, Sweden, India, Hong Kong, Turkey, and three trade book collections: The Enormity of  Existence [2020], Of Ether and Earth [2021] and Soul Songs [2022]. These titles and much of his work reflect the awareness he’s had for over 50 years since having an NDE whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river: that he has, or rather, IS a consciousness that predates birth and survives death, what poets once called a soul. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, he’s a retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] who has been married to a smart and beautiful Taiwanese woman for 43 years.

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

The Gym Ceiling

I know it intimately—
the glaring lights
in the performance room
that bear down on me
as I lie, breathless, heart racing,
after a fifty-yard sled push—
the sprinklers embedded
above the mats as I stretch,
and the silver fan blades
that look like helicopter propellers.
I roll the fascia on my back,
stare at the vents, and get lost
in their mesmerizing Hellenic design.
In the mind-body studio, I focus
on the skylight and breathe,
while sunlight infuses the flaming orange
stained glass flower mandala,
and white fans whir softly above me.
This is a landscape as familiar to me
as my own body, which is now
a bizarre combination of muscles
and wrinkled skin that looks
as though it rolled out of a giant shell
on some faraway beach.
The gym ceiling is my touchstone
in a personal universe whose planets
often careen into chaos, and threaten
to collide—or implode—in space.
The gym ceiling covers me
like a low-hanging, multifaceted sky,
a reminder to breathe,
just breathe.


Close-Up

When I get near enough,
I can see that each
of the dragonfly’s eyes
is like a polished turquoise
stone—an oversized gem
on a flamboyant bolo.
Below, spikes like fine brushes
oppose each other above a thorax
that fades from cloudy white
to the blue of a clear sky,
where lustrous shells are flanked
by armor plates of solid gold.
Its transparent wings, etched
carefully by a cosmic laser,
spread before me. I get close
enough to see the the fine threads
on its claw-like legs;
it does not move.
Instead, it stares at me
with thirty thousand lenses,
and I feel seen in a way
I do not fully understand,
but which makes my universe
expand just enough for me
to remain perfectly still,
in a transcendent place of knowing.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press). She is also the author of three Origami Poems Project microchaps, and her poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction have been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana—just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans—also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large, and you can find her on X @WomenWhoServe.

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

Old Age Be Not Sugarcoated

Your language has me groaning.
I hate to be a scold,
But please don’t call me older
Instead of simply old.
And even worse is senior.
It makes me quite irate.
I haven’t been a senior
Since 1968!

“Old Age Be Not Sugarcoated” originally appeared in Light.


A Crispy Thanksgiving

I’m grateful for crispy-skinned turkey
And pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream
And freshly made biscuits with butter,
A dinner fulfilling my dream.

I’m grateful for loose-fitting garments
That cover my bulge without fail.
I’m grateful that one of my cronies
Has tactfully hidden my scale.

“A Crispy Thanksgiving” originally appeared in Lighten Up Online.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 260 poems published in a wide range of places, including eighteen in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.

Two Poems by Elaine Sorrentino

Landslide

On a steamy July night in 1976
Boz Scaggs, Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles
electrified Schaefer Stadium,
thrilling sixty thousand screaming fans.

A rock concert newbie, I was overwhelmed
by the crowd, the roar, the strong skunky smell,
all overlooked by elation at sharing the day
with the boy who had known my heart for four years.

A day-long party, by the time the Mac
crooned “Landslide,” nature was telling me
Find a rest room. How would I navigate
this crowd, I asked my boyfriend.

Taking my arm, he guided me up the stairs
down the ramp (so many ramps),
past the hundreds of stoned concertgoers,
to the entrance of my destination.

Patiently explaining how to maneuver back
to my seat, through the swarms of stoners,
up the ramp – oh God, they all looked the same,
down the steps, he took off for the Men’s Room.

I prayed I could follow his directions back
but I exited the Ladies Room, and there he was, my smiling GPS;
relief flooded my body as I grinned,
gazed into his eyes and said I knew you’d be here,

which in teenage boy-speak
means I have trained you like a dog.
Smile vanished, he disappeared into the crowd
leaving me to find my own way back.


Stage Fright

I’m a solo act
balancing on the edge
laying bare my courage

eyes shut, I teeter
on the precipice 
of dive in or chicken out

when a reassuring hand
touches my elbow,
They’re ready for you.

I unclench my eyes
prepared to dip my toe
into unexplored waters

as I step on stage
applause quiets my fears, 
and I begin.




Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva RisingWillawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, Global Poemic, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Agape Review, Haiku Universe, Sparks of CalliopeMuddy River Poetry ReviewGyroscope Review, Your Daily Poem, PanoplyzineEtched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com.  She was also featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications.

“Cassius the Wanderer” by Victoria Garton

from The Midnight Posse

I’ll read Moth
if I get a hall pass.
I need the nurse,
need a Band-Aid,
need to take my pills.
Can’t last till the bell.
Okay then,
I’ll go to the office.
Why? To turn myself in.

No, I won’t read “all.”
I live in a group home,
I don’t do group talk.
Teacher bad as the judge.
No pass as bad as lock up.
I’ll take in-school suspension.
I want out.

We got a problem!
This class is poison!
Everybody bickering,
how’s a guy to sleep?
Hate this whole f**ken set-up.
Maybe the nurse
got our pills,
we could make it
to the lunch bell.

Okay, I’ll read Moth,
two lines, that’s all.
Then I’ll fly away,
like a moth.
Just want my freedom.
Teacher bad as the judge.
No pass as bad as lock up.
I’ll take in-school suspension.
I want out.




Victoria Garton’s books are Venice Comes Clean (Flying Ketchup Press, 2023), Pout of Tangerine Tango (Finishing Line Press, 2022), and Kisses in the Raw Night (BkMk Press, 1989.) The anthology, From K.C., MO to East St. Lou (Spartan Press, 2022), featured ten of her poems. Recent acceptances are from Cosmic Daffodil, Sangam, Proud to Be, Thorny Locust, and I-70 Review.

Two Poems by Miriam Colleran

Differently

I miss you differently, Dad;
I see you in that older man’s face
as he excitedly talks about football
and how his parish team did.
I glimpse you watching the news
contentedly complaining about politics,
we both knew
that your vote would be unchanged.
I think of you when I cook dinner
and remember the meals we shared–
when I need your wisdom,
your support, your love,
I remember you and hear you say,
“There’s no such thing as a worry
That’s stupid to the person who has it.”
I feel your absence,
I miss you both, yourself and Mam,
just differently.


The Cherry Blossom Tree

They cut You down–
Our beautiful cherry blossom tree;
for over three decades,
You grew, and blossomed,
and spread your branches
to the sky, to the world,
and in our hearts.
They did not know the meaning
that You had for us,
Your role in our lives,
that You were a part of our story–
The way your pink petals
coated the ground with love in April.
It is their turn now and
they will have a different story,
one that matters to them;
But You are still a part of ours.




Miriam Colleran lives in Kildare in Ireland with her two daughters and their two doggies. She is a doctor working in hospice and palliative medicine, plays the Irish harp and is learning about poetry.

Two Poems by Angela Hoffman

I Have Webbed Toes

I was told by a potter that clay has a memory;
elements hold it in place.
If you try to reshape it, it remembers
it was once different, and will try to return to that state.

My genetics seem to come from the desert.
I have river-beds of veins that rise under thin skin,
a receding hairline, eyes the color of rattlesnakes.
My memories are mostly droughts of joy
that formed worry lines on my forehead, sides of my mouth.
From too much exposure, my skin has mottled
like an egg of the cactus wren.

But the mirages that keep appearing tell of another story.
I see her up ahead, the way she was from the very beginning.
I struggle to remember her, who formed her.
She has webbed toes. She once swam
in the land of milk and honey in the rain-filled streams.


Ouija Board

Inside a dumpster, I spotted the long forgotten game
forbidden by my mother
that I secretly played at a friend’s home.
I leaned far in to retrieve the board
on which we placed our questions while shrouded in the dark,
huddled, waiting for the pull of our hands by candlelight,
feeling for the wonder-filled naming of things,
an insightful thunder-crack, the fear-dropping answer to a prayer,
someone being claimed even when they were not looking,
a whisper, a silent reassurance, the answer spelled out.

I took it home, placed it prominently on a table.
I must resurrect the will, the courage,
the art of the question I possessed in my youth,
the living out of the answers.




Angela Hoffman’s poetry collections include Resurrection Lily and Olly Olly Oxen Free (Kelsay Books). Her poems have been published in Agape Review, Amethyst Review, As Surely As the Sun, Blue Heron Review, Braided Way, Bramble, Cosmic Daffodil Journal, Moss Piglet, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Muleskinner Journal, Of Rust and GlassPoetica Review, Solitary Plover, The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Poet Magazine, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Museletter and Calendar, Whispers and Echoes, Wilda Morris’s Poetry Challenge, Writing In A Woman’s Voice, and Your Daily Poem. She writes a poem a day. Angela lives in rural Wisconsin.  You can find her on Facebook here.

Two Poems by Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

Red-Gold Dog

I shouldn’t say so, but most dogs disgust me.

Like the one who ran after my wheels as I tried
to balance on my first bike, or the
one who dumped
a pile near my mother’s rose bushes.

Their glassy eyes—glued to their owners or vacant—
are rivaled only by their too-pink, too-long
tongues, forever hanging out.

Some are like Steiff toys you could give
a baby, some are beasts who’d gash your face
for power walking.

Guess who picks up their shit?

Lately, I’m adjusting my opinion. Today,
when I walked through town, the afternoon
sun glinted off a red-gold dog trotting
with her human, each paw moving lightly,
like a dancer.

I was enchanted.

From across the street, the dog
seemed to feel the warm beam
of my admiration. Her intent
expression, lean torso tugged
her owner to where I stood.

She sniffed my aura, I stroked her back.
Listening hard as I praised her beauty,
she looked into my face. Her owner
had to drag the dog away.


Seasons Like Frankenstein

Night is stealing afternoon, but brown
and yellow leaves hang on. They no longer know
when to let go.

Snow is a fairy tale we forgot.
Parched trees, weak from insects
winter once wiped away,
crack and fall into the river.

Where is the lamb of spring, where?
Raw March, April and May took
a knife to it. We wind mufflers around
our necks to staunch the blood.

The bikinis of July—don’t look for them!
They’ve run indoors to escape
a furnace. People without air conditioning—
the poor and old—die.

Under an orange moon, witchy storms
flood homes, rot corn and tomatoes
heavy in the fields.
The electric grid stutters.




Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet living in Tuckahoe, NY. Her work has appeared in Sparks of Calliope, The Orchards Poetry Journal, pacificREVIEW, Topical Poetry, Quartet Journal, and soon, Consequence and HerWords magazines.

Two Poems by Alena Casey

To Be in Paradise in October

At home the leaves are falling
crimson-orange through greying sky,
where misty morns are gleaming
or wind and rain are squalling.

At home the leaves are falling;
they rustle in the grass.
My sisters, laughing, screaming,
through autumn-heaps are crawling.

At home the leaves are falling;
bitter wind grows biting cold,
and my father is complaining
that this weather is appalling.

At home the leaves are falling.
Here, hibiscus bud and bloom,
but I lie on beaches dreaming
of my fiery maple sprawling.

At home the leaves are falling,
golden spirits on the wind
whose death next spring’s redeeming
in the sleeping soil is scrawling.

At home the leaves are falling.
When I stand beneath my trees
my blood with hope is teeming.
Autumn, promise-like, is calling.


Weariness

Weariness like a grey cloak I wear.
Strange that what brings me joy
can still exhaust me. There’s days
that music lifts my heart and days
when practice drains the blood from me.
A mistimed kiss can kill a budding romance.
The sun knows when to set, and stars
do not intrude on daytime’s reign.
I try to learn their gifts. I chafe.
Rest is elusive through the weariness.




Alena Casey is a poet, writer, and mother of four from Indiana. Her poetry has been published with The Road Not TakenThe Society of Classical Poets, and The Author’s Journal of Inventive Literature, among others. She can be found at strivingafterink.wordpress.com.

Two Poems by Geoffrey Aitken

keep it quiet

authority
has called us out

as nuisances
pranksters
and deviants

since birth

to be monitored
by surveillance

for the ongoing
safe operation of system

maximizing efficiency

that finds and discourages

nuisances
pranksters
and deviants

defined only
by criminal records

in households
where teenage angst

congregates around retro turntables.


a colder truth

every year it is harder

to accept the promise
things will get better

articulated in the belief
that a vote counts

while every day costs increase
to power the light

that casts that same
disproportionate shadow.




Geoffrey Aitken writes in Adelaide, on unceded Kaurna land as an awarded poet whose industrial minimalism communicates his ‘lived experience’ for publishers both locally [AUS] and internationally [UK, US, CAN, Fr & CN]. Recently, ‘Wishbone Words’, ‘Impspired’ [Aug ’23 – UK], ‘The Closed Eye Open,’ ‘Maya’s Micros,’ ‘Our Day’s Encounter,’ [US], ‘Oxygen,’ and ‘unusual work’ [AUS]; ‘The Canberra Times’ [Dec ‘22]. He was nominated for the annual Best of the Net anthology in 2022.