Tag: Poetry

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

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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

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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

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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.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

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The Ballad of the Heroic Mother

a true story

A toddler into water fell
And sank as quick as rock.
At nine feet deep, she couldn’t yell
Or jump or thrash in shock.

Her mother heard the splash portend
Her daughter’s water grave;
She dove into the pool’s deep end,
Her little girl to save.

She grabbed her daughter, held her tight,
And with a presto prayer
Sprang toward the shimmering sun of white
To give her girl some air.

She held her up while sinking down,
And knew to save her daughter
That she herself might well soon drown
So inched toward shallow water.

Seconds before her lungs gave out,
Her face felt heat and air.
Her feet on ground, she breathed a shout:
“Success!” An answered prayer!

The whole crowd cheered the mom en masse;
She gained a hero’s glory.
She told the public-speaking class—
I still think of the story.


Signs of a Broken Home

“The bigger the issue, the smaller you write.  Remember that.  You don’t write about the horrors of war.  No.  You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying on the road.” -Richard Price

At the foot of the dumpster lay signs on the ground,
But I wonder why these were there lying around.

I would never have guessed that there someone had laid
The sign: “Home is where all the best memories are made.”

And a heartbreaking counterpoint next to it lay:
“We create our tomorrow by dreaming today.”

There are people who write of the horrors of war,
But a child’s burnt socks on a road will say more.

At the foot of the dumpster lay signs on the ground,
But I wonder why these were there lying around.




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.

Two Poems by Philip A. Lisi

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

2023 Best of the Net Nominee

2024 Pushcart Prize Nominee

Not Killing a Spider

Yesterday, my colleague in the room next door
reported a sighting–
So disgusting! The ones that look like baby tarantulas.
Horrifying. I kill them on sight.

I am seated at my desk when you arrive,
feel you before I see you–
an uncanny sensation of weight
and dread in the air, then nothing–
but I know you are there,
and I cannot find my next breath.

Now I see you–
black mass of eight-legged menace,
and I consider my colleague’s quick solution–
the crush and crunch of dominion,
and this appeals for a moment–
but two of your eight segmented limbs,
the pair framing what I take for your head,
positioned on either side of venomous black scythes,
reach gently, slowly, into the air,
as I hear my father’s voice–
Spiders are friends.

My father never discarded things unnecessarily,
spiders or otherwise–
closet full of old tennis shoes fortified with duct tape,
baskets stacked with remnants
of worn out red plaid pajamas for dusting,
a toolbox filled with shards of bar soap
others would have thrown away
without a thought as to their second life as
material for coating wood screws.

This is how he cultivated his peace,
his place in the world,
and spiders were friends–
even the ones I imagined lurked
in the recesses of the cellar,
watching from little lairs of dust and shadow.

I have tried to see the world as my father did,
as he so wanted me to see it–
a place of good hearts and mercy
and potential for repair
and new uses and purposes and lives.

Yet, then, as now, I cannot help but notice
the dark things in the corners of the cellar–
ancient, otherworldly things,
alien to waxed floors and artificial light–
or any light at all.

I am not my father,
and I see dark things still–
but, as you raise and lower your arms,
Considering something in the air,
I find my breath again
in your return to the liminal
beyond desk and wall.


Elegy

Your paws have always reminded me
of a ballerina’s pointe shoes,
beauty in seal-brown silk.

You look at me with disdain
(as any self-respecting cat would)
as I gently scoop you up to help you climb
the last few steps to my office–
oh, excuse me–
your office.

You yowl in protest–
your voice still strong–
and I wonder how a sound
that resonates with such ferocity
can come from such a frail body,
diminished to next to nothing
in a period of weeks.

Tantrum over, pride restored,
you sit at my feet as I write,
cerulean eyes fixated on my lap–
which is also yours.

I pause and let you know I love you–
and I remember when you were a kitten
and used to wait for me at top of the stairs,
perched regally in the manner
of your ancient sister, the sphinx,
before bounding down to meet me at the door.

You seem content this evening,
sitting with me at my desk,
and I can feel the little rumble
from deep in your chest against my own–
a purring of tiny timpani,
a fanfare of feline affection–
too proud for andante con dolore.
You look up at me–
old eyes framed by long whiskers
the color of clotted cream.
Do you know?

I hold you now–
my arms wrapped around your body,
your dainty, dark-socked feet
indignant in a final pas de chat.
Beautiful girl–
I do not want to let you go.




Philip A. Lisi lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he teaches English at his high school alma mater by day and writes poetry and flash fiction by night alongside his family and the ghost of their cantankerous Wichienmaat cat, Sela. His work has appeared in Sparks of Calliope, The Abbey Review, Litbreak Magazine, Rosette Maleficarum, and the Serious Flash Fiction anthology.

“Speculative Marriage” by Kate Falvey

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i.

So we presented ourselves
to some bored local judge
dressed in our least crumpled finery,
accepted the baffled family diners
and the checks, then came back
to our rented rooms and wondered
how this changed us.

We’d already amassed
cast-off silverware and china,
mirrors and chairs from the roadside,
lamps and radios bargained from heaps
of dated mayhem in a down-and-out
old barn in the woodland damp
of mid-coast Maine.

We were married to Maine,
each in our separate terrain, you
on an icy cliff edge by the sea, me
humbled in a grove of ancient cedar
or an isolated glade ringed by white pine,
pent with the possibility of deer and mother
turkeys trailed by endless hopping chicks.

We both loved the fires
you meticulously stoked in our camp,
the dark lake eerie with loon wails
and the human laughs of teals.
We loved the night winds
and the shimmy of starlight
through the maddened branches
when a storm muscled in,
lightning scarier than bears,
thunder moving us together
like nothing else ever could.

ii.

The space between us
in the canoe is where
our lives might have been –
life vests not worn;
flip flops cast off;
a canvas tote filled
with peasant bread,
odd smokey local cheddar,
purple grapes and wine –
no safety gear or shoes
for nimble walking
over rutted, shaky ground –
just food we’d pack
for a solo jaunt anyway,
except, perhaps
for the wine.

We were caught once
in the marsh weeds,
the eely creek
a dead-end alleyway
I needed to explore.
You’d had too much
sun and wine,
too much
aimless agitation,
rowing nowhere
over the wind-raked rivulets,
against the brawny heat
and the unanticipated
roiling of the clouds.

We tried to shrug it off but
were stranded in gauzy,
otherworldly light
and crawling vegetation,
a fierce storm lowering.
A kindly passing boatman
dragged us out with pole and rope.

We were chastened,
dopey with fatigue,
embarrassment, and
flustered gratitude.
We offered him
our uneaten grapes and cheese,
tipped them into his boat
as he glided greenly
into the boggling haze.

We were always kind to others,
always aware of kindness
as a shared belief in virtue, you
with your altar boy conditioning,
a scamp from way back,
but venerating the rituals
and holy offerings of
stringently regulated spasms
of chastening peace,
me with my residue of faith
in saints and sinners, desperate
for signs of detectable, inviolable life.

iii.

Fire doused, camp struck, and home
is soup cans and threadbare, dusty brocade.
Even the sea we live by tosses with
frothy disdain, riddled with glimmers
of more remarkable tide pools on craggier,
more abundant, evergreen shores.

iv.

Peeling the carrots, I wonder
what will be left when I leave
and how this leaving will change us.
There will be artifacts: wooden bowls
scored with years of dinnertime blades;
a scoff of bedclothes, frayed from over-
wear and washing; a trove of stones slipped
into pockets or packs, their origins forgotten;
and the usual detritus of cards and ticket stubs,
testaments to doings and occasions, forgotten
like the stones.




Kate Falvey has been published in many journals and anthologies; in a full-length collection, The Language of Little Girls (David Robert Books); and in two chapbooks, What the Sea Washes Up (Dancing Girl Press) and Morning Constitutional in Sunhat and Bolero (Green Fuse Poetic Arts). She co-founded (with Monique Ferrell) and for ten years edited the 2 Bridges Review, published through City Tech (City University of New York) where she teaches, and is an associate editor for the Bellevue Literary Review.

Two Poems by C. R. Cantor

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At the Gulf of Patras

Arriving in Nafpaktos at dusk,
we found an old hotel above the port,
Venetian in aspect, white,
stucco flaking, iron balconies
dotted with rust.
We climbed worn stairs to bed,
our room illuminated
through closed shutters
by bars of fading light.

Awakening at dawn,
I cut my left thumb
reaching for a razor.
You laughed; I bled.
You told me how Cervantes also
injured his left hand
(in a greater cause, of course, you said)
when struck by Turkish bullets
at the Battle of Lepanto
below us in the gulf.
You opened the shutters.

All this happened decades ago.
I remember your laugh,
the bite of the blade,
the peeling shutters, how later
we walked to the harbor
and saw the morning’s catch,
fish upon fish along the quay
in iridescent piles,
blood lining their gills.


Archaeology

You return to my dreams incognito.
Tonight, disguised as a statue,
you hide among cypress roots
to waylay me on my path.

As I enter the grove
I see no one.
You lie neck deep in the ground.
Your face seems a species of stone.

Then you smile the archaic smile:
You were buried alive, you explain,
and time has turned you to marble.
You beg me to exhume you.

For love of art, you say
or for the sake of archaeology–
But too much earth lies between us
in dusty unnumbered particles.

Tomorrow I’ll see cypresses
outside my window and recall
how my hands refused to dig
in that dry soil.

When you were a woman
you withheld nothing from me.
Not mind, nor language nor embrace.
I can never forgive you for this.




C. R. Cantor lives in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, and works at the University of Pennsylvania.