Category: Poetry

Two Poems by Sharon Lask Munson

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

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

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

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

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

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.

Two Poems by Carole Greenfield

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

Cracked (A Rondeau for You)

Our future cracked open, fortune cookies brought
at meal’s end in restaurants drenched in gold and red, not
for nothing, opulence of lucky money colors, seats
where my kosher grandparents made exception for treats
like lobster sauce, pork fried rice, a sin sought,

consumed, dismissed with smiles, quite as you thought
of our stepping beyond what we’d been taught
as we lay kissing between peach-colored sheets
while our future cracked open.

Continue tempting fate until one’s caught,
live with heightened pitch, all nerves stretched taut
or keep to separate time zones, walk lonely moonlit streets,
travel up and down that tangle, one advances, one retreats,
penitence and passion weaving in, around, out until, so fraught
our future cracked open.


Shell

Shards of abalone traced across and down my skin,
beginning at the hairline, skating over my closed eyes,
slight slope of nose, half-open lips, to reach my chin
and leap aloft, the landing soft between my throat bones’ rise.

Descend from there to spiny sternum, stomach’s curving swell,
their edges sharp enough to pierce, sides grown smooth by sand.
For years to come, they’ll hold a secret, ours alone to tell.
Slipped from their bag, held lightly in my hand.

You gave me shells of moonlight sheen, a rock in shades of rust,
gifts that could shatter in a moment, scatter into gleaming bits of dust.

So what to do? Break myself away, or trust
my heart, my soul, in hands that hold me like a shell,
that carefully, that lovingly, that well?




Carole Greenfield was raised in Colombia and now lives in New England. Her work has appeared in Red Dancefloor, Gulfstream, The Sow’s Ear, Women’s Words: Resolution, Arc, Sparks of Calliope, and The Eunoia Review.

Two Poems by Janice Canerdy

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Do Not Enter; Do Not Exit

A sad-faced little man sits all alone.
His pricey suit is wrinkled, and his tie
is loosened. He’s exhausted to the bone.
His once-bright eyes no longer shine. His sigh
is inward. No one hears his weary cry.

“For thirty years I’ve had the same career,”
he mumbles to his lap. “I’ve known success,
but failing health has wrought a gnawing fear
that I can’t persevere. My happiness
may hinge on new employment with less stress.”

The lavish lifestyle he’s accustomed to,
he wishes to maintain. He can’t retire,
stay home, read books, and watch tv in lieu
of working; but the next job might require
REAL people skills. His circumstance is dire.

For decades, from behind his smiling mask,
he’s been convincing clients that he cares
about their futures, that his most-loved task
is helping them succeed. He never bares
his real self. Now, alone, he sits and stares.

If he stops getting richer, he will lose
his fiancée, who’s shallow, just like him,
and money-grubbing. He knows he must choose
to move—that he must jump in, sink, or swim.
His vision of the future’s looking dim.

He’s like a man ‘twixt doors with taunting signs.
The “Do Not Exit,” he cannot ignore,
for his predicament it well defines.
The “Do Not Enter” sign afflicts him more.
“Now what?” It seems he’s questioning the floor.


There’s Much to Be Said for Porch Swings

My porch swing is a special place
where past and present intersect.
While swaying at a peaceful pace,
on days of childhood I reflect.

Where past and present intersect,
with eyes closed I soon drift away.
On days of childhood, I reflect.
I see three happy kids at play.

With eyes closed I soon drift away,
I think of yards with rope-held swings.
I see three happy kids at play
on carefree days the summer brings.

I think of yards with rope-held swings
while swaying at a peaceful pace.
On carefree days the summer brings,
my porch swing is a special place.




Janice Canerdy is a retired high-school English teacher from Potts Camp, Mississippi. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Light Quarterly, The Road Not Taken, Lyric, Parody, Bitterroot, the Society of Classical Poets Journal, Westward Quarterly, Lighten Up Online, Halcyon Days, Penwood Review, the Mississippi Poetry Society Journal, Whispering Angel Books, and Quill Books. Her book, Expressions of Faith (Christian Faith Publishing), was published in 2016.