Category: Poetry

“Song of Husks” by Jennifer Voyles

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

Today our black walnut opened its underside
to the shadowless light at noon. I never watched
it happen until now—the way the fleshy pale leaves,
like hands, flipped themselves over as if longing

for something to calm them, your presence
now that it’s gone. I’ve heard of plants bending
toward a window, desperate for food in the dark,
but this—with wind, each branch, a new rosary of leaves,

betrayed its body by turning. The leaves will settle
soon. I’m still in that day we pulled out maps of Ireland
and plotted tours of Cork—planned, with a picture,
to capture the same time on each side of St. Anne’s clock,

the Four-Faced Liar— the day we said that the land
wasn’t stationary: stolen and sold, broken, plates
crashing, we agreed everything changes with a whisper.
Erosion. We tried to stop it. Our tree, when we planted it,

was only nut—to give it a chance in the ground,
we stomped the green husks till they cracked, then
peeled back the hulls with our fingers. They stained
our hands for days. It’s that cracking, that constant rattle

of shell against the road, that echoes, an endless
refrain. And when the sound is beginning to fade,
I will press my hand against the bark to listen.




Jennifer Voyles lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where she directs the Learning Commons at Laramie County Community College. A graduate of University of Maryland’s MFA program and 2014 Artist-in-Residence at Acadia National Park, she has worked on several literary journals, including Sakura Review and Third Coast. When she is not working, Jennifer climbs mountains and spends time outdoors with her family. www.jennifer-voyles.com

“Frozen Ground” by W. Roger Carlisle

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

I remember the winter when my mother left.
My dad and I walked bare frozen
ground on the Nebraska farm, no trees,
just a few broken stalks of corn.
“Your mom is gone,” he said
everything will be OK.”

I was nine.
We were visiting my grandparents farm.
I kept asking about my mother,
listening to family whisperings,
receiving no answers,
stunned by how quickly people disappear.

Years later, I learned from my father
the unspeakable truth:
She had been in a mental hospital,
too crazy to be mentioned,
too ill to be seen.

I still live in that frozen moment.
Even now, I never ask for help,
expect no one to listen.

 

 

W Roger Carlisle is a 74-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He grew up in Oklahoma and was a history major in college. He has been writing poetry for 10 years. He is currently on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process.

“A Response From A Killer Of Coral” by Victoria Hunter

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

The thing came green like kale 
I’ve needed to toss out for days–and bought on sale
and removed edges browning 
and bent in with the texture like tips of my dead kinky hair. 

The thing came like ideas have to my mind,
when I have drunk so much
I could have been Charles Bukowski
on a day he spent fighting off
the shadows of beatings he got from his father.

I admit—I did what many of our species
have done to our own, 
and to a heart we’ve helped become what it is today.
I quickly picked a way to get rid of it,
like we do of a harsh tearing sound 
when we need back in dreamland.
What I did was put it in super hot water
and watched it be devoured.

What part of it went in it first never mattered. 
Sometimes, I think I know how it felt 
when it went in, as I remember my friend’s face
as we went into the courtroom for his divorce. 

There was never a moment
I almost decided not to do it;
another killer in the world can say the same.
It could be in this room right now, 
grinning with its mask off, yet nobody sees it.

And why should I regret sending it to its death?
My own skin has done it 
to skin it made become, it’s bathed and fed. 
The sickening threat it put into the atmosphere, to defend itself, 
was no worse than what my own skin has put in my life.




Victoria Hunter is from Pennsylvania and was a Pushcart Nominee for 2020 and was also nominated for Best Of The Net for 2020. She has completed various courses in writing, including poetry classes at IOWA University Online, and at The Poetry Kit Online.  Her work has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, Poetry And Fiction Journal, Sparks of Calliope, Writing In A Woman’s Voice, Online Blog, Black Telephone Magazine, The Writers and Readers Magazine, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Conceit Print Magazine, Amulet Magazine, WordFest Anthology, and others. She manages a YouTube Channel dedicated to the craft of poetry.  

“Tabula Rasa” by Leslie Neustadt

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

I long for the perfect journal—alabaster pages
with an opalescent glaze. Her virginal terrain, an invitation.
Fine lines that keep my wilderness at bay.

I judge her by her cover—a quiet beauty
that doesn’t demand perfection.
Just the right heft—A spine that holds her
together but doesn’t bind too tight.

Each journal is a promise of possibility, a prayer
for illumination. I begin the first page with neat print
cultivated by decades of following dotted lines.
Soon my writing dissembles.

Once I have tattooed her like a slattern,
I abandon her, seduced by the promise
of another unsullied page.




Leslie Neustadt is a retired New York Assistant Attorney General, poet, visual artist, and the author of Bearing Fruit: A Poetic Journey. A board member of the International Women’s Writing Guild, Leslie’s work is illuminated by her Jewish upbringing and inspired by the beauty and power of the natural world, mortal joys and struggles, and an unwavering commitment to human and civil rights. Online at www.LeslieNeustadt.com.

“Miss Marietta” by Stefanie McCleish

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Miss Marietta sits on her front porch
smoking a cigarette,
talking to her boyfriends–
the matriarch of White Oak Estates.
As she flicks the ash into her water bottle
a makeshift tray,
Blair zooms by on her scooter
hollering, “Hiiiiiiii Miss Marietta!”
Marietta cocks her head back
releases her mystically hoarse laugh
returning the greeting with an effortless and joyful,
“Hi honey!”
Her perfectly placed curls
barely waiver as she smiles
from her throne.

Miss Marietta appears on her stoop
her foot casted and trapped,
her spirit unchanged–
the epitome of resolve
as she details her plan
to heal from the fall.
Blair chases lighting bugs
on the front lawn
appearing inattentive
but yelling, “Get well soon, Miss Marietta!”
Always sitting on the porch,
always the gracious beneficiary
of a little girl’s warmth.
Blair and Marietta,
each a beacon for the other
illuminating what just a little
tenderness
can do for a person.

Miss Marietta doesn’t emerge
onto the vacant porch.
It’s been a few days.
Even five-year-olds notice
these things.
The rumors are swirling
and we hear enough to know
Miss Marietta isn’t well.
Kindergarten Blair has heard about
filling other people’s buckets.
She knows what to do.
An avalanche of art supplies
dumps onto our well-loved kitchen table.
She is determined to fix it all,
relentless hope inside,
with the crooked letters
she is just learning to make.

It doesn’t matter how little we know
about the beautiful stories
or the wondrous adventures
of Miss Marietta’s life.
A person doesn’t need to be
well-known
to be cherished.
Blair taught me that.

Miss Marittea’s spot on the porch
remains empty, unoccupied.
the silence,
deafening
her absence
palpable.
A visual for a conversation about loss
that will soon need to occur.
The house next door searches
for peace and comfort
juxtaposed with ours,
full of cartoon characters, giggly squeals
and storybook dreams.
Blair’s encounters with death are limited
to angels and pets crossing rainbow bridges.
And I’m thinking about how
I don’t know how to even begin
to parent through this,
but each night
she says a prayer for Miss Marietta,
never wavering in her unending support.
Stating, that if she needs
to go,
she will watch over us all
and always be
our great neighbor,
our friend.

Miss Marietta,
the Matriarch of White Oak Estates.
She watches over us all
from her front porch throne.
A beacon for Blair,
a light in the clouds.
A person doesn’t have to be
well-known
to be cherished.
And I just try to remember
what a little tenderness can do for a person,
because Miss Marietta taught me that.




Stefanie McCleish is a high school English and Multimedia Communications teacher in a suburb of Illinois. Although a voracious reader and lover of the humanities, she is new to the poetry scene. She is excited to grow as a poet and show her students that it is never too late to become a writer. The mother of two inquisitive children who keep her on her toes, she lives in Frankfort, Illinois with her supportive husband and dog Archie.

“Caesarion” by Peter J. King

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

(after Kavafis)

The eldest son of Cleopatra
stands upon the steps of the Gymnasium
before the Alexandrians,
his rich and royal clothing gleaming
in the midday sun.
Slightly to his rear, his brothers
whisper jokes, but he cannot join in
their muffled laughter.
Even when a soldier faints in the oppressive heat,
Caeasarion stays solemn, not a flicker
of a smile.  A trumpet sounds.

Antony declares that Cleopatra
is the goddess Isis, Queen of Kings,
the Queen of Egypt and of  Cyprus.
Their two young sons are named as Kings
of Syria, Cilicia, of Parthia, Armenia, and Media,
their daughter Cleopatra as the Queen
of Libya and Cyrenaica.

A pause.  A drop of sweat begins to form
above Caesarion’s right eye; he feels it trickle
slowly down his cheek.  The trumpet sounds.

The voice of Antony, his mother’s husband,
now goes up in volume but its pitch is lower.
It declares Caesarion to be the son
and rightful heir of Julius, who’s recently
been made a god in Rome.  And, as the offspring
of a god and goddess, he is therefore
doubly divine, and made the King of Kings,
joint ruler with his mother of the land of Egypt.
The small boy, dressed as Horus, somehow
stands erect and bears the cheering of the crowd,
in which he thinks to hear
an undertow of mockery.

Some four years later, at the age of seventeen,
the last of the unhappy line of Ptolemy,
Caesarion lies dead in Alexandria,
his crime: to be an excess Caesar.




Peter J. King was born and brought up in Boston, Lincolnshire.  He was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s, returning to poetry in 2013.  His work (including translations from modern Greek and German poetry) has since been widely published in magazines and anthologies.  His currently available collections are Adding Colours to the Chameleon (Wisdom’s Bottom Press) and All What Larkin (Albion Beatnik Press).

https://wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/

“The Artist Observes a Dead Tree” by R. Nikolas Macioci

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee
2021 Best of the Net Nominee

Five separate offshoots of one tree trunk twist
into each other.
It looks as if a giant has braided
the limbs together into one gnarled distortion.
Nothing is more naked than barren limbs
when everything understood about a tree is dead.
What illness killed the annual rings, or was it
stone cold nothing of old age that stripped it bare?
There will be no more listening to language
of restless leaves. Maybe somewhere its heart
still struggles. As the book says, everything
has a psyche.

Someday someone will paint, sculpt, or photograph it
because it is misshapen, malformed, and gnarled.
Some people hunger for the ugly, enjoy breathing
dark thoughts and even adore the deterioration of stars.

This tree is nothing now but a rupture in the earth
from which birds still speak echoes. This tree
represents impeccable death, wrapped in the question
of what it is still doing here? Someday an artist,
swayed by appreciation, sympathy, or regret, will paint
this tree that has poked a hole in heaven from which
a surprise of butterflies will pour out of the opening.




R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University. OCTELA, the Ohio Council of Teachers of English, named Nik Macioci the best secondary English teacher in the state of Ohio. Nik is the author of two chapbooks as well as eight books: More than two hundred of his poems have been published here and abroad, including in The Society of Classical Poets Journal, Chiron, The Comstock Review, Concho River Review, and Blue Unicorn. 

“Big Bang Theory” by Richard DJJ Bowdery

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

This present is where
past and future collide,
Exploding into
the here and now,
A microcosm of life
in a single moment,
Before that moment
Is devoured by history.




Richard DJJ Bowdery has published three pamphlets of poetry — Out of the Darkness (1978); When the Cock Crows (1984); The Travelling Poet Wanders (2013). His poems have also appeared in a variety of anthologies including: Making Waves (1985); Poetry Now (1995); He is Risen (1999); Reflections from Two Continents (2000); Forward Press Poets — South & East England (2008); Honest Rust And Gold (2020).  Between 2015 and 2018 his work featured in several books published by community publishing house Cray 150 Publications. He is also co-author of Dove On The Wing (2013), a biography of English poet and pacifist Donald Ward.

“Crush” by Susan J. Bryant

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

I love English Literature, 
especially my Master –  
Atticus Finch with a pinch
of Rhett Butler 
and the lure of Count Dracula. 
Oh, the droll roll of his tongue  
around ‘onomatopoeia’ 
sends a spine-tingling shiver… 
a ripple and quiver 
like a leaf on wild water. 

He says that’s a simile 
in tones crooned to thrill me. 
He’s my period six lover 
(he’d say that’s a metaphor 
although I’d beg to differ) 
and no other teacher 
comes close to this preacher  
of linguistic delights… 

He ignites dull school days 
with his suave Mr. Darcy ways.




Susan Jarvis Bryant is a church secretary and poet whose homeland is Kent, England.  She is now an American citizen living on the coastal plains of Texas. Susan has poetry published in the UK webzine, Lighten Up On Line, The Daily Mail, and Openings (anthologies of poems by Open University Poets).

“Athena, Minding her Business” by Ellen Huang

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

Falling in love is their term for it
but I am not as careless as Zeus
desperate to spread himself thin,
spread his likeness on a fawning earth
with hyperpopulation. I do not depend
on the title of king of the gods
to get a yes and make an impression.

Aphrodite teases me for it
but many goddesses understand
what it is to find passion elsewhere
and be pleased so deeply, like offerings, like ambrosia,
with the humans with beautiful minds.

I lean against their head,
rest on their shoulders,
whisper in their ear,
play with their hair,
visit their dreams.
I inspire.

I listen to them, and let them listen to me.
Zeus knows nothing of such practice,
(Hades and Poseidon perhaps a little more)
and his type are bewildered at the mystery
of woman’s dangerous intuition.
Pity he remembers nothing from when
I was born of his mind, a warrior cry full-grown
from his skull. Pity he overlooks his brainchild
and returns to his endings and beginnings.

But with my most intimate followers,
I exchange words and philosophy,
lacing together a fully-clothed vulnerability
of the stars, an infinite space of knowing
and intimacy. I bring them fighting
spirit and maturity, and the patience
of immortal writers.
They will watch the world bloom.

I deliver and conceive much
as my brainchildren walk the earth,
born of great minds, adopted of great thinkers,
destined to meet their kin
and, for lack of genetics in the gods,
trace divine influence back to me
grey-eyed goddess who made them wise.




Ellen Huang holds a BA in Writing with a minor in Theatre from Point Loma Nazarene University. She is published in Royal Rose, X-Ray Lit, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Nymphs, Tealight Press, and Exhume Lit, among others. Follow her magic: worrydollsandfloatinglights.wordpress.com.