Category Archives: Poems

Marcus Bales, ‘Down-sizing’

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I will retire and go to buy a ranch-house home,
And a fenced yard build there, for the dogs to roam around,
And raised beds, full of easier-weeding loam,
And cultivate my garden’s ground.

And I shall have my wife there, who knows the signs of stroke.
Morning and night, we’ll take the pills our doctors gave us,
And cook our meals of beans and rice because we’re broke —
And hope the kids vote blue, and save us.

I will retire, and maybe write and, when I’ve napped,
Cruise the internet, perhaps, and lament the loss
Of civility, and watch the fascists arrive, wrapped
In the flag, and holding a Bible and cross.

*****

Marcus Bales writes: “Yeats‘s ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree‘ irritates me. Its narrator, left to live on an isle, would be dead in a week. Yeats’s mode of life was a series of retreats from country-home to country-home, sponging off the wealthy. Retreat is his vade mecum, and ‘The Lake Isle’ is only his most famous one. So I thought, well what the hell am I doing differently? And the answer is, not much. I made a career out of selling expensive things to rich people, too. And my retirement will be a retreat as well. Where’s my Lake Isle? In the suburbs, funded by Social Security instead of Lady Gregory, perhaps, but no less a throwing up of the hands and leaving it to the next generation to try to straighten out what mine has done.

“So Yeats’s narrator retreats to the high-fantasy farming of an isle in a lake, as if farming weren’t hard enough but it needed the difficulties of getting supplies across water. My narrator retreats to the suburbs without enough money to sustain his prior lifestyle. Two silly poets writing silly stuff.”

Not much is known about Marcus Bales except that he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, and that his work has not been published in Poetry or The New Yorker. However his ‘51 Poems‘ is available from Amazon. He has been published in several of the Potcake Chapbooks (‘Form in Formless Times’).

Photo: “Rosie poising with the garden Buddha, plants, raised bed, bamboo fence, Garden for the Buddha in progress, front yard, Seattle, Washington, USA” by Wonderlane is marked with CC0 1.0.

Barbara Lydecker Crane, ‘Justin Case’

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Justin Case is a very cautious man.
He keeps a cache of bottled water, food
and a pair of spares in the trunk of his sedan.
Others think that he’s aloof or rude
when he inspects each fork and spoon for germs.
His sisters know he swivels out of kisses.
He navigates the office on his terms;
Justin shuns each outstretched hand–and misses
clinching business deals. He cannot fathom
why colleagues eye him strangely when he hits
an elevator button by lifting past them
his wing-tipped toe. With snakebite kit
and mosquito netting, he’s ready to embark 
upon his lunchtime stroll in Central Park.

*****

Barbara Lydecker Crane writes: “This poem, first published in the Atlanta Review, was one of the first persona poems I wrote: I’ve written several dozen over the years, and I find I love trying to speak for another person, real or imaginary. Maybe the process develops empathy, as well–who knows?”

Barbara Lydecker Crane was a finalist for two recent Rattle Poetry Prizes. She has received two Pushcart nominations and various awards from the Maria W. Faust and the Helen Schaible Sonnet Contests. Her poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Ekphrastic Review, First Things, Light, THINK, Valparaiso Literary Review, Writer’s Almanac, many others, and in several anthologies. Her fourth collection, You Will Remember Me (ekphrastic, persona sonnets) was recently published by Able Muse Press, and is available from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/You-Will-Remember-Me-Ekphrastic/dp/1773491261. Barb lives with her husband near Boston.

Photo: “i’m so scared you know” by timsnell is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

Richard Fleming, ‘Time 2’

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A hamster racing on a wheel,
a movie spinning on a reel,
the clock-hands march inexorably.
What they record, we cannot see
or touch, or hear, or smell, or taste,
yet it diminishes. Make haste.

*****

Richard Fleming writes: “When young, I thought about time in terms of how quickly I could run 200 metres and, later, whether I could dip under 35 minutes in a 10k road race. Yes, I was shallow then but youth and shallowness often go hand in hand: they did in my case. Grown older (let’s be honest, old) , Time has acquired a capital T and seems to have morphed into a rather unnerving companion who demands more and more of my attention every day.”

Richard Fleming is an Irish-born poet (and humorist) currently living in Guernsey, a small island midway between Britain and France. His work has appeared in various magazines, most recently Snakeskin, Bewildering Stories, Lighten Up Online, the Taj Mahal Review and the Potcake Chapbook ‘Lost Love’, and has been broadcast on BBC radio. He has performed at several literary festivals and his latest collection of verse, Stone Witness, features the titular poem commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day. He writes in various genres and can be found at www.redhandwriter.blogspot.com or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/

Susan McLean, ‘Received Wisdom’

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Unpacking it, we wondered who had sent it
and why they felt we needed it. We thought
we’d managed fine without it. Had they meant it
as tribute or rebuke? We had been taught
to view unsought donations with suspicion.
Inspecting it, we found a hairline crack.
It doesn’t suit our taste or disposition.
In short, we must insist they take it back.

*****

Susan McLean writes: “Finding new meanings in old phrases is one of my favorite games. In the case of the poem’s title, I was thinking about how each generation wants to pass along advice to the next generation, which the next generation tends to reject. Advice always feels like criticism, however well intended it may be. Moreover, the world is changing so fast that advice that worked for one generation no longer fits the reality of the next generation.

“The alternating feminine and masculine rhymes in the poem are meant to mimic the interplay between two generations, or any two groups that have differing views. ‘Received Wisdom’ was originally published in Free Inquiry and later appeared in my second book of poems, The Whetstone Misses the Knife.”

Susan McLean has two books of poetry, The Best Disguise and The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and one book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Measure, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.
https://www.pw.org/content/susan_mclean

Photo: “sauce tureen 2, hairline” by pgintx1128 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Richard Fleming, ‘Time’

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He took the time to take the time
and taking it, although a crime,
was what he felt he had to do
so, whilst one might well take the view
that stealing time left others short,
he’d answer with a sharp retort
that time and tide wait for no man
and man must take what time he can.

*****

Richard Fleming writes: “This poem, written in response to a prompt in the form of an image of a man carrying a large clock, is primarily a piece of nonsense-verse and an exercise in word-play, two forms of writing that I particularly enjoy. That it rhymes and scans is something of a bonus.”

Richard Fleming is an Irish-born poet (and humorist) currently living in Guernsey, a small island midway between Britain and France. His work has appeared in various magazines, most recently Snakeskin, Bewildering Stories, Lighten Up Online, the Taj Mahal Review and the Potcake Chapbook ‘Lost Love’, and has been broadcast on BBC radio. He has performed at several literary festivals and his latest collection of verse, Stone Witness, features the titular poem commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day. He writes in various genres and can be found at www.redhandwriter.blogspot.com or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/

Prose, really: RHL, ‘Time is the Measurement’

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Time is the measurement of rearranging atoms.
Atoms are rearranged like blocks, and that is time.
Putting the blocks back as they were before is not going back in time.
There is no past,
there is no future,
there is only the eternal present.
There was a past, there will be a future… but you can’t get there from here,
except as the atoms rearrange.

A time machine would have to rearrange the atoms
of the world,
of the galaxy,
of the entire universe,
to put every particle back into some prior arrangement.
The calculations, let alone the actions, would be… difficult.

It is no wonder that we have never seen visitors from the future.
They don’t exist. There is no future, and there is no past.
There is only the eternal present.
Enjoy it.

*****

This “poem” was just published in Consilience, “the world’s first peer-reviewed science and poetry journal”. In addition to a poem, the journal requires a comment focusing on the science behind the poem. So here is
“The Science.
Time may be a dimension and a useful concept, but it is not a dimension in the sense of something that one can move back and forth in. We measure time with atomic clocks, which produce electromagnetic radiation that atoms in the clock absorb. Cesium atoms absorb microwaves with a frequency of 9,192,631,770 cycles per second, which then defines the international scientific unit for time, the second. Accurate time like this has helped to prove Einstein’s theories about time moving at different rates when clocks are moving at different speeds. Without accurate clocks and an understanding of Einstein’s theories about the speed of light and space-time, we wouldn’t have the Global Positioning System (GPS), which uses clocks in space and on the ground to show you where you are.”

There are limits to the amount that can be written in the Science section, so I haven’t gone into rambling speculation about the subjective aspect of time which appears to speed up as we get older. My suggestion is that we experience a ‘Subjective Time Unit’ as a constant amount of thought-processing. Say as a teenager you process 100,000 bits of information in a second (that’s a random number, but you get the point). Then as you age and the brain physically deteriorates, perhaps by age 50 it takes you two seconds to process that amount of information. You would feel the external world cycling twice as fast between day and night, because it would happen with the passing of half as many STUs. You would still think as logically, but time would feel like it was speeding up. The use of pharmaceutical uppers and downers will also change how much time you feel passes (by impacting how rapidly you are processing information), as will being half asleep (time slides by rapidly) or being in an adrenaline-enhanced emergency (time will appear to slow down).

But these are all mere speculations about the subjective nature of time, different from the question of the objective nature of time itself.

Photo: “LunarLanding – Gardens of Time” by mcscrooge54 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Melissa Balmain, ‘Bird in the Hand’

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It doesn’t caw or hunt or fly.
It can’t peck anybody’s eye,
or even grow a single lousy feather.
One-clawed, no match for any tom,
it’s stranded on a leafless palm,
regardless of the season, time or weather.

Yet what’s the bird that, all alone,
sticks up for you when gibes have flown
and you don’t care to verbalize or linger;
when someone’s mocked you to your face
or cut you off or swiped your space –
what bird? The one that moonlights as a finger.

*****

Melissa Balmain writes: “I’m pretty sure this would have been the Sphinx’s riddle if she had guarded the Brooklyn Bridge.”

‘Bird in the Hand’ was first published in The Rotary Dial and is collected in Walking in on People © Melissa Balmain, 2014. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.

Melissa Balmain’s third poetry collection, Satan Talks to His Therapist, is available from Paul Dry Books (and from all the usual retail empires). Balmain is the editor-in-chief of Light, America’s longest-running journal of light verse, and has been a member of the University of Rochester’s English Department since 2010. She will teach a three-day workshop on comic poetry at the Poetry by the Sea conference in Madison, CT, in May 2024.

Photo: “A bird in hand” by Whatsername? is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Shamik Banerjee, ‘A Lesson From Zaheer, Our Fishmonger’

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All things are measurable, son: the food
You have, the sprawling mains, for man has power
Over the world; He deems what’s bad or good;
Determines if a plant should wilt or flower.
But ordeals measure us—we take the test
Of mercy when affliction’s cavalry
Threatens to loot the kindness off one’s chest
As in the massacre of ’83,
When every lane had reeked of Muslim blood,
My Abba Jaan had fallen to the sword
Held by your neighbours; trembling on the mud,
He mumbled, “What’s my sin? My faith? O’ Lord,
Don’t charge them for their deeds.” Love was his wish
That lives through me, for I still feed them fish.

*****

Shamik Banerjee writes: “This poem was first published in Fevers of the Mind. The incident described by our fishmonger is the Nellie Massacre, which took place in central Assam (an Indian state) during a six-hour period on February 18, 1983. The massacre claimed the lives of 1,600–2,000 people. The victims were all Muslims. Abba Jaan is an affectionate term for one’s father (used by Muslims).”

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Westward Quarterly, among others and some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hoogly Review, Dreich and Sparks of Calliope.

Photo: “Old man inside Jamu Masjid, Fatapur Sikri” by nilachseall is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

RHL, ‘Walking then Running’

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Like ants searching randomly across a table
like water dribbling across uneven ground
and pooling here, running to the side,
filling and flowing to the next dip,
so we have walked out of Africa
for a hundred, two hundred thousand years,
over the hills, around the coasts,
seeking the greener grass, the next best land,
glad of a tree, glad of a cave,
catching the lightning for our own hearth,
settling, pooling, then spilling out
over the next hill, round the next headland,
following bird flight, following game herds,
exploring then leading then fetching our families,
finding and fighting with those who were there before,
killing or trading, absorbing or raping,
loving, despising the different, the ogres and trolls,
like a stain spreading out round the world,
and walking then running up as though to take a free kick,
walking then running up as though to bowl,
walking then running as along a diving board to
bounce once, twice in the air and launch into space…
Here comes, there goes the human race.

*****

The future is unknowable beyond the point where AI becomes more intelligent than humans, and autonomous. Enjoy what you have now, you will be nostalgic for it soon enough…

I wrote this piece as a long rambling exploratory sentence which picks up speed and purpose towards the end and a concluding rhyme. This (not exactly formal) poem was first published in Bewildering Stories a few years ago.

“Aboard Starship Hedonian – The Terminators [809]” by TimWB2020 is marked with CC0 1.0.

Using form: John Beaton, ‘Legacy’ (excerpt)

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Inside his penthouse office
he views his Inuit artwork,
carvings from a culture
reduced to buy-and-hold,
then scans the evening city,
his bar chart on the skyline
where real estate has grown his stake
but cost him bonds he’s had to break –
he hadn’t meant to so forsake
his parents. They looked old

that day outside the croft house
when cowed farewells were murmured
as cattle lowed in wind blasts
keening from the sea.
His mother and his father
stood waving from the porch step;
next year she’d crack her pelvic bone,
when winter iced that slab of stone,
and never walk again. I’ll phone,
and he was history.

(…)

He downs his drink and glances
again at his computer –
an email from a neighbour:
Your father died last night.
He’d lately gotten thinner
and seldom had a fire on –
what little peat he had was soft.
Some things of yours are in the loft
so mind them when you sell the croft.
The city lights are bright;

he turns again and faces
his metamorphic sculptures
of walruses in soapstone
that never will break free
from rock that locks the sea waves –
past fused against the future.
Another gin? That’s six. Or eight?
So be it. Clarity’s too late.
His real estate’s no real estate –
he’s left his legacy.

*****

John Beaton writes: “This is a composite. Elements of it are taken from my life but I’ve borrowed significantly from the trajectories of others, especially some of my father’s contemporaries who left Camustianavaig physically but never in their hearts. There are also aspects of the lives of some people I’ve known in business. 

I worked out the form so that each stanza would start out steadily and rhythmically for six trimeter lines then build pace for three rhymed tetrameter lines and rein to a halt with a single trimeter line that has a masculine rhyme with line four. Even though they limit word-choices, I thought feminine endings for the first three lines and lines five and six were worth it for the rhythm. And I like how they form a sort of rhyme and closure gradient with lines four and seven to ten.”

John Beaton’s metrical poetry has been widely published and has won numerous awards. He recites from memory as a spoken word performer and is author of Leaving Camustianavaig published by Word Galaxy Press, which includes this poem. Raised in the Scottish Highlands, John lives in Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island.
https://www.john-beaton.com/

Photo: “‘V for Vendetta’, United States, New York, New York City, West Village, Skyline View” by WanderingtheWorld (www.ChrisFord.com) is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.