Tag: Traditional

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

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To My Fellow Old People (Oops, “Seniors”)

I know we’re all supposed to say
We’re not afraid to die.
But when you claim to feel that way,
I want to ask you why.
You think it’s time to step aside
Because your work is done?
No way I’ll take that as my guide—
I’m having too much fun!

“To My Fellow Old People (Oops, “Seniors”)” first appeared in Light Poetry Magazine.


Proposal to Professor Superstar

 Come marry me! Come be my love
(Or fake it that you love me).
The job I crave is at your school,
But others rank above me.

The old boy system didn’t die.
It took a new direction.
Today the favored form of pull
Is marital connection.

To hold you fast when we’re a pair,
They’ll surely want to hire me.
When I get tenure, we can split.
There’s no way they can fire me.

“Proposal to Professor Superstar” first appeared in The Providence Journal.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had around 330 poems published in a wide range of places, including twenty-eight in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

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Peter Pan’s Soliloquy

In Never Land, each sunrise brings anew
A day of play and laughter to pursue.
I meet the mermaids, swim in their lagoon,
And dance with Indians beneath the moon.
I once fed Captain Hook to Crocodile!
Still every time I think of it, I smile.

Yet sometimes, when I lie awake in bed,
The Milky Way in glory overhead,
A little voice within says, “Peter Pan,
Would life be more fulfilling as a man?
To grow in Wendy’s world, to take a wife,
With whom to join to make and raise new life?”

The fairies died; some new ones came along,
Continuing to troll their endless song.
I’ve played in Never Land two hundred years,
From simple hide-and-seek to dodging spears,
And yet, I’ve never aged a single day.
Am I a creature solely made for play?

My friends abandoned me. I live alone.
They all moved in with Wendy, soon were grown,
And one ran off, with Wendy as his bride.
They soon had children, then grew old and died.
Time massacred them all, but me, he spared
So I could see him murder all who cared.

I played with Wendy’s daughter, but she grew
And then forsook me for a man she knew.
Thus, even I, who never have to grow,
Must stay behind and watch my friends all go.
How dear the price to live this life of ease,
To fly, to play, just doing as I please!

I stare back up, as changeless as the stars.
Leave Never Land for realms of men and cars?
To slave away each day, no time for play?
I can’t. I have no choice. I have to stay.
Yet still, I ask: would it be best for me
To go, to be a better kind of free?


First Dealings with Death

The schoolchildren skipped and scampered at play.
One girl stood gravely, gazing down,
Holding out hands, where a hidden thing lay.
I went to see why she wore such a frown.
A fallen pre-fledgeling! She’d found a bird,
Hatched on high, now wholly perished.
She stood like a statue and stared, not a word,
At the bare little bird she blindly cherished.

I stood beside the schoolgirl of five
And mused and mentioned: no more could we do.
She kissed it to cause it to come alive
And wake (for this worked in Snow White, she knew)—
No definite dealings with death before.
She finally stopped fighting its fate: it had died.
When the recess bell rang, she roosted no more;
She buried the bird, said goodbye, walked inside.

“Peter Pan’s Soliloquy” and “First Dealings With Death” were first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland.  His poetry has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, The Lyric, Sparks of Calliope, Westward Quarterly, New English Review, Atop the Cliffs, Our Day’s Encounter, The Creativity Webzine, Asses of Parnassus, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, All Your Poems, Verse Virtual, The Asahi Haikuist Network, LEAF Journal, and the anthologyWhose Spirits Touch, and his short fiction has been published in New English Review, The Creativity Webzine, and Nanoism.

Two Poems by J. A. Wagner

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Visitors

visitors come, all through the day,
when the sun is here, and I am away,
soft September, days are mellow,
bright brown eyes, lashes yellow,
over the woods, to the west explore,
maybe a mile, likely more,
what nectar now, where to go?
daisies gone, hay cut low,
milkweed blowing, ragweed bent,
but one sweet source heaven-sent,
oh yes, still here, far from done,
shyly drooped, flowers of sun.


Next Summer

sweet summer zinnias,
alas, no more,
of those still colored,
maybe four,
all the rest,
though standing brave,
are dry and brown,
too gone to save–
time to pluck,
time to pull,
and gather seeds
till jars are full.




J. A. Wagner holds a Ph.D. in history from Arizona State University and has taught classes in British and American history at Arizona State and Phoenix College. A retired editor, he has written and published a dozen reference works in English and European history. His poems have appeared in Sparks of Calliope, Your Daily Poem, Blue Unicorn, WestWard Quarterly, and in the 2025 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar. He splits his time between Wisconsin and Arizona.

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

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Rose and Blue

My hospice room is rose and blue.
The blue is like the sky.
They think that if you’re happy here,
You’ll be content to die.
They proffer comfort, warmth, and peace,
All shining like the sun.
They strive to meet your every need.
They meet all needs but one.
So now I have another scheme,
My object all sublime.
I’ve gotten on a transplant list,
And so I bide my time.

“Rose and Blue” first appeared in Ragged Edge Online.


Professor Superstar

He values his peers, but he snubs lesser scholars
As if they could scarcely be seen.
He thinks that this shows that his standards are lofty.
It really just shows that he’s mean.

“Professor Superstar” first appeared in The Providence Journal.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 300 poems published in a wide range of places, including twenty-six in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.

Two Poems by James Bellanca

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On Waking to Shakespeare’s Garden in Autumn

On this young autumn’s sun-squint light-bright morn,
I snuggle like a Joey safe reclined
In pouch, so glad to dream sweet days fast gone.
I see round pink tails take their own sweet time
To nibble my much-loved, green garden down
Ignoring all but fragrant balm and thyme.
At last awake in William’s hut, I see
Only bits of chewed plants’ scattered debris.
This day, pink roses still greet the sun
and spread such scents I know with Puck in mind.
Rose Eglantine’s sweet nose my nose will stun
with floral scents to reach my soul now primed
to sense fall airs. I bend my head anew
to see the last surviving roses’ view.


Rings

I yet recall the day we stopped to buy
our marriage rings at the local jewelry store.
We searched each case. We peered through countertops
before the lone salesman (no sales “they” then)
displayed our choice. Breathless, we bought our bands.

Soon came new years to raise our four offspring
and then our children’s children grown too fast,
fast lost in widespread universities to play,
to learn, to sport, to seek new paths, new loves
fresh absent empty nest advice from us.

So many years have flown like birds gone south.
These nights we search Hulu and Netflix shows
reviewing places, we could not glob trot
or watching old BritBox comedy acts
with neighbor friends we’d gathered in our ring.

Full round the ring our lives have spun,
our life cycle now most likely marred
when Death brings news of loved ones rowed
across the river Styx. We clasp our hands,
our long ringed fingers locked, a single bond.




James Bellanca, 87, is a retired high school English teacher and author/publisher of teacher education guides who came lately to writing poetry. As a gardener, he learned to celebrate the natural world in his backyard. He favors formal narratives in which he weaves nature with themes of peace, justice, family with sardonic commentary into the foibles of senior life. His work has appeared in Witcraft, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Ethereal Haunted Journal, The Oakleaf, and Solution Tree Press. He organically gardens with his wife and friends in Lake Forest, Illinois.

Two Poems by Martin Elster

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

Playground In Early Fall

A woman pushes her child
who swings on a leather strap
as wings of sprightly yellow jackets slap

the afternoon. Beguiled
by the scent of bones, charred meat,
a mongrel wanders, scavenging the trash

near grills, as scattered cash
might make you pause. Kids, fleet
as pups, play wolf-cub-rough. Their howls carry

across the length of the park.
They wriggle through tunnels, dark
as a serpent’s gut, and slither down slides as scary

as seeing the teeth of the hound
now nosing around the fence
that shields them from a world far too immense.

He marks it, scuffs the ground.
He seems sublimely numb
to the squall of squeals and shrieks (as if the noise

that blooms from these boisterous boys
and clamorous girls must come
from beyond the world), while those who are climbing and crawling

are unaware a fog
will make them deaf as the dog
to the whispering leaves of memory, falling, falling.


Greenland Shark

Swimming adagio
through frozen seas, you grow
far slower than a hickory
and, by some wicked trickery,

are the oldest vertebrate
on earth. Is that so great?
Perhaps. Or maybe not.
It would depend a lot

on whether you’re go-getting,
letting your gills down, jetting
through the Atlantic Ocean,
or lost. You haven’t a notion

you were a youth when Bruno
was born. Perhaps you do know
that you’ve, indeed, outlasted
the hoariest whale that blasted

its songs across the sea
or a bivalve thought to be
five hundred seven years old.
While swimming through the cold,

you’re surely not aware
of the net which soon will snare
your ancient bones. They’ll floor us.
“Amazing!” we will chorus.




Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. Martin’s poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies in the U.S. and abroad. His honors include the 2022 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest winner, Rhymezone’s poetry contest, five Pushcart nominations, and a Best of the Net. A full-length collection, Celestial Euphony, was published by Plum White Press in 2019.

“Grave Thoughts” by Jeffrey Essmann

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

Perhaps, I thought, it’s time I bought a grave:
Just something humble by a chain link fence
With room enough my name there to engrave
And one or two geraniums to brave
With grace the passage still of earthly time
And mind the passersby of fairer climes
(An aisle down, where folks aren’t packed so dense).

It’s not so much that I’ve been feeling old
(At least not older than I rightly should)
But sense now everywhere some deeper cold
That nothing in me could have quite foretold,
And think: Perhaps just go there, take the tour;
Ask questions; look at holes; take a brochure;
Consider well my coffin: Metal? Wood?




Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them: America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, Pensive Journal, U.S. Catholic, Amethyst Review, The Society of Classical Poets, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the “Catholic Poetry Room” page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.

“Rainbow Hues Throughout Life” by Janice Canerdy

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

When hourglass sands were mostly in the top
and life was like a poem penned for me,
when forests beckoned friends and me, “Come play,”
love of adventure ruled and I felt free.

When rainbow colors filtered through the trees
and Nature served to thrill, fulfill, and teach,
imagination wove grand tapestries
and—for a time—all seemed within my reach.

********************

Let children have their dreams and fantasies.
They’ll grow up soon enough and see what’s true.
May each define “success” and work for it,
find joy, and keep those rainbow hues in view.




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.

“The Early Bird Gets the Worm Ballade” by Mary Winslow

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

Before fishing hour, psalms speak low
when quiet starts becoming restless
Canadian geese muttering slow
bacon and butter sizzle and wake us
the morning chases off the stillness
next the mist, then it starts raining
dawn, but it feels midnight nonetheless
minds swaddled simple as sun’s sleeping

I glance at the clock on the bureau
the fog lingers on diaphanous
a sliver of night silvers shallow
see the worm, that threadbare little cuss
in daffodils birds rustle the campus
the thistle where morning comes flying
the hungry aren’t yet ambitious
minds swaddled simple as sun’s sleeping

This Atlas beast at daybreak should know
and yet doesn’t hurry into business
when the magic hour of life’s marrow
sliding from night into consciousness
those on the fiddle can poach in the mess
who stagger or roll, some sleepwalking
without regular terms of success
minds swaddled simple as sun’s sleeping

Envoy

The robin arrives in best spring dress
no need for plan, she’s simply walking
before the law, there’s naught to transgress
minds swaddled simple as sun’s sleeping




Mary Winslow has been writing poetry for over 30 years. Her poems have appeared in The Road Not Taken, the Antigonish Review and many other journals and magazines. Her translation of Norwegian poetry has appeared in the Journal, in Wales. She has taught English at colleges and universities throughout the United States. She lives about an 18-mile canoe paddle from the shores of Canada on the Olympic Peninsula and teaches part-time in the Writing Center at Peninsula College.

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Death Can Be Good

Death can be good.
I’ll tell you how.
Just have it come
Decades from now.

“Death Can Be Good” first appeared in Time Magazine.


Simon’s Sentiments

Can’t resist those cakes and pies?
I don’t judge you by your size.
I won’t care if you get fat.
I’ll still love you–
I’m your cat.

“Simon’s Sentiments” first appeared in The Providence Journal.




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 300 poems published in a wide range of places, including twenty-four in past issues of Sparks of Calliope.