Category: Poetry

Two Poems by Elaine Sorrentino

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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 Rising, Willawaw 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 Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Gyroscope Review, Your Daily Poem, Panoplyzine, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com.  She was also featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications.

“Cassius the Wanderer” by Victoria Garton

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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 Taken, The 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

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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.

“Kings” by Churl Sullivan

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Across the whale-roads ride Sons of Thor
hulls bound for glory, heads painted for war
a-wing the drake-ships for distant shores
to carve our names in Ymir’s oar
                    Embark we the Norns bescyle!
Through fearsome storm, o’er water dark
six hundred sail, six hundred stark
for we see Hloridi in lighting arc’d
                    He heralds the Kings of the Isles

How bleak the face of Cape Wrath’s span
how rough the strait we pierce to land
how dense the mist, gray-ghast the sand
how gnash’d that hellmouth rocky strand
                    Enfang we the Norns bescyle!
Let Midgard tremble, let Christian flee
let foes be dashed upon the scree
let keen across the lochs their plea:
                    “Rule us, ye Kings of the Isles!”

Six hundred leap from karves afoam
six hundred charge onto the holm
six hundred reap amuck the loam
six hundred cleave into the gloam
                    Ingrieve we the Norns bescyle!
Across the moor blood-rivers wend
wine-dark with woad and Pictish end
tonight their weak-kneed witan bend
                    to name us Kings of the Isles

Now fly our colors and blow the horn
let feast the crows on them life-lorn
this fight hard-won by men oath-sworn
one hundred by five hundred mourned
                    Arrive we the Norns bescyle!
But what awaits us in the nether?
bind we bonds that Skuld should sever?
dream we fools to rule forever?
                    forever as Kings of the Isles




Churl Sullivan is a writer of no repute from St. Louis, Missouri, for whom a nominal association with boorish, intractable yokels is a great badge of honor. He’s been published nowhere, as a harlot has better odds at heaven than he at literary legitimacy; and until such time as this is no longer the truth, he’ll be napping in his pithos. You can find him at @Churl_Sullivan, but you probably shouldn’t.

Two Poems by Sir Walter Raleigh

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Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618) stands as a Renaissance luminary celebrated for his profound impact on poetry and literature, alongside his adventures in exploration and his complex life at the English court.

Born in Devon, England, Raleigh initially pursued a military career, where he showcased bravery and intellect in campaigns across France and Ireland. Yet, it was his charisma and intellectual prowess that enchanted Queen Elizabeth I, elevating him to a cherished courtier. Beyond his martial pursuits, Raleigh’s pen proved his might.

Raleigh emerged as a prolific and celebrated poet, his verses adorned with eloquence and poetic finesse. His literary masterpiece, “The History of the World,” attested to his intellectual acumen. However, it was his lyrical poetry that secured his status as a poetic icon.

Amid his poetic pursuits, Raleigh sponsored expeditions to the New World in the late 16th century, notably the ill-fated Roanoke Colony venture in present-day North Carolina. These ventures, though challenging, laid the foundations for future English colonization in the Americas.

Raleigh’s cultural influence extended beyond verse. He introduced tobacco to England, a legacy that endures, and popularized the “Raleigh cloak” in fashion.

Yet, Raleigh’s life took a dramatic turn with his secret marriage to a lady-in-waiting, leading to a fall from favor and imprisonment in the Tower of London.

During King James I’s reign, Raleigh embarked on a perilous journey to South America in search of El Dorado. His defiance of the King’s orders ultimately led to his arrest and tragic execution.

Sir Walter Raleigh’s enduring legacy as a poet remains etched in history, his verses continuing to inspire. He exemplified the indomitable spirit of a Renaissance man who also left an indelible mark on the world of letters, as evidenced in his poems below.


The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.


A Vision Upon the Fairie Queen

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen:
For they this queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura’s hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
Where Homer’s spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief!


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.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

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Ballad of the Video-Game Hero

I rode in a mine cart, back home from the land
Of my favorite video game,
Through the pixelized prairie and vast seas of sand,
Over rivers of lava and flame.

The hero sat there in the rickety cart
Staring off into pixel-sky space,
Much older than on the game cartridge’s art,
With tears on his wide, wrinkled face.

“I’m leaving and never returning,” he said.
“Come listen and hear my sad story.
The princess and I, we hoped someday to wed,
Way back in the days of my glory.

“The dragon would kidnap the princess, then I
Would run through an obstacle course
To his minions’ dark castles in mountains up high
And take back their strongholds by force.

“My princess was in the last castle I’d raid;
I always found treasures to haul.
The Kingdom would welcome me with a parade
And a sumptuous banquet for all.

“But after some years, the dragon found ways
To undermine me and my quest.
He gave up the tactic of ‘pillage and raze’—
Bribed the people with treasure-filled chests!

“My princess then fell for the dragon’s top minion;
The Kingdom surrendered the war
And exiled me out of the dragon’s dominion—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!”

We came to my world, and we sealed up the gate
To the land of his video game.
My world is secured from his land’s tragic fate,
But I’m worried for us just the same.

For evil has bribed all the people here, too,
With shiny new gadgets galore.
No more do they care for what’s good and what’s true—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!


The Adventures of Verb

At six, I had a dictionary
Where I would meet a man named Verb,
Superb and quite extraordinary.
In every definition’s blurb,
Right at the finish, did while doing,
For example: “Verb chewed, chewing.”

In my mind, I saw Verb clearly,
With brown hair, mustache, thin, and tall.
“Verb smiled, smiling” sincerely
And “Verb told, telling” me of all
That “Verb did, doing” through his days
Within a sentence or a phrase.

“Verb ran, running,” “Verb swam, swimming,”
“Verb vaulted, vaulting,” “Verb gave, giving,”
“Verb bought, buying,” “Verb trimmed, trimming,”
“Verb flew, flying,” “Verb lived, living,”
One day I came real close to crying:
The day I read that “Verb died, dying.”

I looked up “verb,” and then I knew,
It’s not a man who lived and died;
It’s just a word that means to do.
Relieved, I put the book aside
And ran outside, where I “played, playing”
The things Verb did that still “stayed, staying.”

“Ballad of the Video-Game Hero” and “The Adventures of Verb” were first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas.  His poetry has also been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, Atop the Cliffs, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.