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 Larry Schug

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A Servant of the Muse

for Ed Turley

I think if you’d have asked him if he was finished,
He would have said no, though his time here has ended.
I think he would have taken comfort that the music
Which paused awhile within him keeps searching this world
For other hearts in which to nest,
Music being the heart’s salvation as long as hearts beat,
And there remaining so many that long to hold it closely.

Music remains, the world being made of song,
Like money, you can’t take it with you.
And he wouldn’t have anyway,
Being but a conduit, a servant of his muse,
Only temporarily was music his gift to give,
He left it behind to echo within us.
I believe it would have been his wish
That we shelter these rhapsodies of the soul.
Though we grieve his passing, we’re blessed by his return
Each time a piano is, on this earth, somewhere played.


Autumn into Winter

The sun, under a blanket of cloud
a slow rising old man, not yet about his work
of turning the sky to blue,
after putting away the stars where he can find them again.

Two ruby throats,
already busy working blossoms of bee balm
caught in a shaft of sunlight,
gather sustenance for a pilgrimage,
following the sun, their fickle goddess,
as she migrates south for the winter,
taking her blossoms with her.




Larry Schug is the author of eight books of poems: Scales Out of Balance (1990), Caution: Thin Ice (1993), The Turning of Wheels (2001), Arrogant Bones (2008), Nails (2011), At Gloaming (2014), and A Blanket of Raven Feathers (2017) – all published by North Star Press of St. Cloud, Minnesota – and a chapbook, Obsessed with Mud, published by Poetry Harbor (Duluth, Minnesota). Caution: Thin Ice was a 1993 Minnesota Book Award finalist and Arrogant Bones was a 2008 Midwest Book Award finalist. Larry has won two Central Minnesota Arts Board Individual Artist awards, a 2014 Central Minnesota Arts Board Established Artist award and a 2008 McKnight Fellowship for Writers award. Larry lives beside a large tamarack bog with his wife and their dog and cats in St. Wendel Township, Minnesota.

Two Poems by James G. Piatt

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Dawn Arrived in the Meadow

“I go to nature to be soothed and
healed, and to have my senses
put in order.” — John Burroughs

Dawn arrived in the meadow with a hint of
sweet fragrances of colorful wildflowers
wafting in the air. It awakened long-forgotten
memories in my mind about the apricot-colored
haze that sleeps in the woodland glen. The
woodlands are such special places, so colorful,
verdant, and serene. A place where downy birds,
holding on to gnarled tree branches, serenade
those who pass by, and ask for nothing more
than to give a piece of their tranquility, and a
serving of their sugared songs, to put the
human’s minds at ease. And I, an old man, listen
to them with dreams of past youthful days filled
with images of softly flowing streams flowing
into still, blue-skinned ponds, where wavering
reeds topped with brown tassels sitting like
sentinels on the side guarded the serenity of the
moisture. Forest meadows are places where the
misty atmosphere sings of summer’s beginning.
But anytime is a special time in the woodlands,
being in there is always a time when magic
awakens.


Another Day Comes

The rising apricot sun
ignites the dawn
clothing it with
a colorful visitation,
covering the remaining
night hours soaked in ebony.
Its daily tour over mountain
peaks and down into a
pink-tinted mist sleeping in
the earth’s hollows of
objectivity where things that
are invincible cover silent
things. Things that are
restless and vulnerable, like
people with aging time. My
solitary footprints in the soft
sedimentary loam leads me to
the new day with no promises
of beauty, or peace, but with
expectations born in naïve
hopefulness for them, like
fading hours caught in the
thundering clatter of stories
yet to be told.




James G. Piatt, a retired professor, and octogenarian, is a twice Best of Net nominee and four-time Pushcart nominee. He has had five poetry books, The Silent Pond, Ancient Rhythms, LIGHT, Solace Between the Lines, and Serenity, over 1770 poems, five novels, and thirty-five short stories published in scores of national and international literary magazines, anthologies, and books, He earned his doctorate from BYU, and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO.

Two Poems by Sharon Lask Munson

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Arizona Twilight with Friends

I arrange the cheese, set out crackers,
pour the wine.

The patio’s tiled roof gives us shade
as we watch the antics of bunnies

listen to families of quail
make their presence known
by their three-chirp call.

Our words are soft-spoken.
We share dream vacations,
real and imagined

beloved books we still own
read more than once.

We disclose the last thing
we bought online
bringing us all to laughter.

Someone shares
the color of his first car

and the magic of remembering
continues with a first pet,
first best friend, first date.

In the distance we hear
the hoo-hoo-hoo of a Great Horned Owl

his stuttering rhythm
reminding us of the reach of time.

The sky turns to shades
of rose dust and fuchsia
as it settles into darkness

and we appear in the shadows
like silhouettes: an outline, a profile,
curve of a cheek.


Wade a Little Deeper, Darling

i.

Decades later he will tell her
how difficult it was,
the two of them fly fishing together

her lines getting caught in tree branches,
snagging rocks on the bottom of rivers.

His time spent untangling,
removing fish from hooks,
retying flies to leaders.

But he was young,
in the beginnings of their marriage,
hesitant to speak.

ii.

What she had really wanted
was a smooth flat spot on a wide log,
stretches of time to listen to water
eddy around a bank,
hear the music of songbirds,

observe the sun glaring off the water
like a million stars ricocheting,
study a hatch of mayflies rising
as rainbow trout snatch them in mid air,

to marvel as she watched
her young husband cast a line,
the bend of his bamboo rod,
a horseshoe for luck

time to sit against a slate-gray pine,
letting the lazy day take shape.




Sharon Lask Munson is a retired teacher, poet, old movie enthusiast, lover of road trips, with many published poems, two chapbooks, and two full-length books of poetry. She says many things motivate her to write: a mood, a memory, the smell of cooking, burning leaves, a windy day, rain, fog, something observed or overheard, and of course, imagination. She lives and writes in Surprise, Arizona. Find her at sharonlaskmunson.com.

Two Poems by Royal Rhodes

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Afternoon Prayer

“We alone, a little flock,
   The few who still remain…”
                        –Amish Hymn

The county road that carried us north
    bordered a nearby field of mown hay,
       the second-cut stacked in peculiar bundles —

the mark of this plain folk, and the tedding
    shortly after the cutting that speeded drying,
       and the binding, like their own binding.

Our driver thought it was a herd of cows
    kneeling in the meadow, an incomplete Eden,
       distant from the other work of silo filling.

On the way back to our village homes
    we saw a great hay wagon slowly move
       in a pageant of toil, making the field a church.

Twin draft horses on strict six-hour shifts
    sweated in harness, as their hot manure
       dropped on the famished soil and stubble.

This was a broad bowl of earthy smells:
    honeysuckle, mown hay, some cast-off strawberries,
       while bearded men in wide-brimmed hats kept watch.

Edging this scene were tangled hedges and trees,
    a plant catalog of coltsfoot, wild geranium,
       Quaker ladies, Queen Anne’s lace, and ironweed.

The world deftly constructed here was a vast nest
    of goldfinch, cardinals, blue-jays, warblers,
       bluebirds, purple martins, dragonflies, and bees.

“O God Father we praise you,” their hymn of humility,
    was acted out in front of us as we passed,
       in the sadness and uncertainty of our seasons.

They came to this place, bonding with the land,
    and were taught by the phases of the luminous moon
       and wind currents to judge seed-time and harvest.

We slowed down, for just a moment, but could not hear
    the old German they spoke, stunned by God,
       as I trembled, knowing I heard nothing.


Voice from the Whirlwind

The storm never knew to stop
worrying the sagging roof,
the wind indifferent
that this is where I live —
but kept on battering
the silver metal sheets
set by Amish carpenters.

Death, distracted, passed me
overhead — for now —
where poems have acted
as a temporary guard,
as the vortex whipped,
lashed, and slammed
in whirlpool motion.

I left the shredded poems
where they fell with lumber
that could have made
a crucifix with broken nails.
Quiet came, as if a gift
of some departed spirit
that made the heartwood beat.

My heart will break — and has —
all vows that made me see
the temporary life I had
and would not always be
that showed as if I could
rest my head beside your head
and feel your wordless breath.




Royal Rhodes is a retired professor who taught classes in global religions, the Classics, religion & the arts, and death & dying. His poetry has appeared online and in a series of art/poetry collaborations for The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina. His current project is a poetry/photography collaboration on sacred sites in Italy.

“Finches in the Geriatric Ward” by Lillian Morton

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The molar-shaped hole still healing—dried blood, caved, new gum
beginning to fold over—I pick at it with my tongue.

The passing nurse teases how the finches are attracted to bright colors,
maybe one would land in your hair. They tap their beaks against the glass,
like morse code; me eyeing their very real, very untamed feathers.

Dad tells me, his loose canon of a thirteen-year old daughter, I cannot say
aloud what I know he is too thinking. It’s not just the smell of century-old perfume,
the ugly peeling wallpaper, the stains left on the carpet. We both see the finches’

wings, fresh from a clipping; the fluorescent sign—a sun that will never set
—the wrongness, the confrontation, the taboo of it all, an attempt
at peace, consolidation, grief; even inside a cage within a cage.

When I am noticed for my smooth hands I see the nurses’ hands
are cracked from their ritual washings—I allow myself to imagine
the shape of my new molar, what mold my gum cage will let it take.

An ancient wisdom tooth will erupt behind it, and even in this distant teenhood,
and the finches will continue to remain behind this glass wall, chirping,
flapping amongst the unchanging shades of frizzled, dying hair.

“Finches in the Geriatric Ward” was runner-up for the 2022 Colorado State University Creative Writing
Scholarship.




Lillian Morton is a writer based in Northern Colorado. She was born in Southern China and lived in Central Ohio during her childhood. Her poetry has appeared in issues by Laurel Moon, Polaris, and Dreamer By Night; her short fiction, “In Mason’s Time,” was honorable mention for the University of Colorado Boulder’s 2021 Thompson Writing Awards.

“Antechamber” by John Watts

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Suits arranged like mute clones on chairs,
either swallowing fashion failure
or wishing to boast about tailor
fits. Ties could voice a thousand cares
about the adjustment of knots
but rest pains in Italian silk.
Buttons pose like exquisite dots
in the silence, uncomprehending
to the state of matters. Shirts, white
as a glass full of soya milk,
dream ignorantly under vests.
Wax-rubbed shoes know they aren’t pretending
and hope gaudy socks aren’t in sight,
wants to remind them they are guests.
Wristwatches want to smuggle out
from under sleeves and seduce eyes.
Make-up is confident of its
power but thinks the pierced nose unwise,
the cheek-glitter something to doubt.
Earrings don’t fret, knowing they’re trusted.
Tattoos cower rather than shout.
The handkerchief knows where it sits.
Meanwhile the pictures seem offended
by the turquoise walls. There’s a little
empathy if it could be said.
The air is the reproach of prattle;
this is anticipated, fits
that which is known to be ahead.




John Watts lives in West Sussex and studied English Literature at Kingston University. He is now studying for his MA. He has had work published with the Academy of the Heart and Mind, Friends of Falun Gong, and Homeless Diamonds.

Two Poems by Patricia Furstenberg

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I Am Built

I am built on my ancestor’s dreams,
Of glass that was shores and wood that was trees;
I am built on my parent’s blueprints,
Of tears of joy, and white nights of dreams.

I stood on land that came all wrapped up,
Bows of rivers and a note of clouds.
I grabbed it, too eager, I opened my gift,
Forgot to say “thank you”, too greedy to live.

I lived and I loved and I used up my gift,
I forgot to look back; now I’m lost in my dream.
One last chance I am given, build my blueprint,
Gift others life, and love, and dreams.

I am sand, I am earth, I’m the seed of a tree,
I’m the foundation where others can raise their dreams.
I know for I looked back this time;
Life moves forward by recalling the past.


Like a Ladybird on a Daisy

A ladybird
dashes through my field of view,
recklessly she aims for all directions at once
like a hysterical airplane
that lost an engine.
Acute are the depths
of its diving
and the smears or red
in the still day,
like the tick line
of a teacher’s pen,
break the silence.
How do you perform CPR
on a ladybug
crossed my mind.
I’ve even drawn back
and offered her
my personal space:
the garden table,
wrought iron painted green,
my notebook
where I doodled
a daisy in black ink.
She darts still,
diving and nearly crash-landing
then performing an emergency recovery
and soaring again.
It knows geometry, I see,
it swirls and traces circles now
frisky over my notebook
where it lands.
On my doodled daisy.
I bow and thank
for such a compliment.
and look around
for an offering of sorts.
A cookie crumb,
for I can’t bring myself
to sacrifice an ant.
Wouldn’t that be execution?
The ladybird reads my mind
and saves me,
spryly dashing away.
I bow in thanks.




Patricia Furstenberg, with a medical degree behind her, has authored 18 books imbued with history, folklore, and legends. The recurrent motives in her writing are unconditional love and war. Her essays and poetry have appeared in various online literary magazines. Romanian-born, she resides with her family in South Africa.

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

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Professor Superstar Turns 65

Today is your 65th birthday.
Your status is ever so clear.
Your colleagues have set up a tribute
Extolling your shining career.

They bask in the secondhand honor
That flows from their honoring you.
They thrill to the visiting speakers,
Who radiate eminence too.

“Society’s far too unequal,”
Your colleagues are prone to lament.
But strictly within their profession,
They worship the top one percent.

“Professor Superstar Turns 65” first appeared in The Chronicle of Higher Education.


Dessert is Counted Sweetest

after Emily Dickinson’s “Success”

Dessert is counted sweetest
By those who need to diet.
When doctors won’t stop nagging,
I fantasize a riot.
Not one of all the cakes and pies
I might forgo today
Could fail to bring me pleasure–
Though later, much dismay.

“Dessert is Counted Sweetest” first appeared in The Emily Dickinson International Society Bulletin.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 250 poems published in a wide range of places, including sixteen in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.

Two Poems by Diane Webster

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Rust Background

Rust is the background
to the white paint chiseled
into graffiti petroglyphs.

The hunter stalks through
rocks and stone
for a deer creature
poised for flight;
its antler carving
snarls in branches,
in hiding.

No other picture
glorifies the kill.
No picture celebrates
the hunter empty-handed.
Rust awaits another
hunting expedition
as rain and sunshine
strip away more paint.


Shell Echoes

The abandoned Shell gas station
lies washed up near the highway.
Heatwaves rise like dreams
in traffic blurring past
to destinations beyond.

Weeds are allowed
to grow in cracks
like tree seeds dropped
into boulder crevices
to sprout and heave roots
like Samson leaning
on the temple pillars.

Shell gas station;
a conch shell pushed
ashore by waves
like mirage heat
boiling once reality.

Listen to the conch
echo whispers of the ocean
like abandoned gas station
hearing tires buzz on the pavement.




Diane Webster‘s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature, or an overheard phrase and to write. Diane enjoys the challenge of transforming images into words to fit her poems. Her work has appeared in El Portal, North Dakota Quarterly, Eunoia Review, and other literary magazines. She also had a micro-chap published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022.

“Hapless Decoration” by Shelly Elizabeth Sanchez

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In those old days
Upon that ceramic floor
I stared into her back
Where she was resting on her knees
And staring in the water

As if she was finely brushed
With ocean blue tears
Devoid of salt
Teasing at the seam
Of her existence

She harkens to the girl
Wet from chlorine
On a holy afternoon
Staring at the flesh
Of her youthful thighs

Who could imagine
A being so small
So fragile and fair
As to wonder why
And for what purpose

She rests in that frame
Bathed in clinical light
Mirrored by the one
Dripping onto the floor
Into the vast sea below

“Hapless Decoration” first appeared in The Colton Review.




Shelly Elizabeth Sanchez grew up in the North Carolina Piedmont beginning at age six. Her earliest memories include playing with the boys, some freaky nightmares, and random sessions on the family Nintendo 64. Her existential poem, “Hapless Decoration,” won first place in Poetry in The Colton Review: Volume 17, and she published flash fiction in The Colton Review: Volume 18.