Tag Archives: Pulsebeat Poetry Journal

Simon MacCulloch, ‘As Yet Not Come to Life’

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The chain between your ankles clanks upon each creaking stair
As you ascend from cellar depths through shadowed drops to where
I lie behind my bedroom door. A cartoon ghost, you seem,
Come dragging from a TV tale to shamble through my dream
Then out the waking end, with chains a-rattling, bones stripped bare.

No doubt you have a story of your own; it isn’t mine,
And if you have a role for me it’s one I must decline.
I’ve never been a Montresor, a Scrooge is not my style,
(I may not lack the malice but I surely lack the guile).
I hide no guilt of which a ghost might form the outward sign.

Well, yes, there’ve been some peccadilloes (now you’ve reached the landing),
But nothing on the scale I sense your bloody bones demanding.
The murders I have dreamed of I have quailed from in the doing,
The chances I have missed the only fuel for my rueing.
There’s nothing you can lay before the door at which you’re standing.

And yet this door is opening slowly – slowly in you come,
Your grin as final as the grave, your empty skull as dumb,
Your only sound the rusty crepitation of the chains
That drape the fleshless network of your hollowed-out remains.
There’s nothing in you – mine the depths your pitted sockets plumb.

And now I grasp your import, and I shake with joy and dread.
For what was it that Shakespeare’s Earl, in dark foreboding, said?
“Such things” (our present seeds) “become the hatch and brood of time”.
And thus I birth the spectre of my destiny in crime.
Strike off your chains – my deeds to come will raise you by their dead!

*****

Simon MacCulloch writes: “As Yet Not Come to Life” takes as its starting point an image that terrified me as an infant. It was in a televised, animated adaptation of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol – at one point, the ghost of Marley is shown mounting a staircase  towards Scrooge’s room, and we are shown only the skeletal lower legs as they slowly ascend the steps, inhibited by shackles round the ankles. This image became the main focus of my typical childish bedtime fears for a long while afterwards and has never been quite forgotten. I hope to take it to my grave, though not just yet.”

‘As Yet Not Come to Life’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

“Simon MacCulloch has published hundreds of poems in a variety of outlets, including literary, academic, genre, humorous and religious publications. He lives in London. His Lovecraftian sonnet sequence, The Eyes of Azathoth, is due from Jackanapes Press in October 2026.

“Marley with Chains figurine” by Peter E. Lee is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Len Krisak, ‘A Life’

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The streets, albeit not with gold, were paved,
The path both broad and even; wide the way
And easy, with no uniform to don.
By almost nothing was he put upon.
Old age had been foreseen, and so he saved,
The modicum matched with its rainy day.
The sheets were clean, as were the neat clothes worn
From bawling babe, to teen, to man, and on.
Few were the oaths required to be sworn,
And almost nothing had been sacrificed,
Or found worthwhile, or worth the dying for.
As to the depredations brought by war,
None had been undergone. All things sufficed,
Since almost nothing crucial had been needed.
Yes, easy, broad, and even, he conceded,
Though through it all, what all of it had meant
He couldn’t say. No, not in any event.

*****

Len Krisak writes: “the speaker, slightly morose (?), confesses both to a life of no particular hardship and to an inability to decide on the meaning or quality of such an existence.”

‘A Life’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Len Krisak’s translation of the Aeneid appeared in 2016. His translation of the Inferno will be out from Routledge in September, as will his own poems, Magpie. The past winner of the Richard Wilbur and Robert Frost prizes, he is a four-time champion on Jeopardy!

“empty suits” by paul goyette is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Paul Burgess, ‘Sea Turtles’

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The cruelest welcome party greets their birth.
Instead of feeding at a mother’s teat,
they’re stretched upon a table for the mirth
of birds and crabs that hunger for their meat.
No time for toddling, sprinting from the first,
the lucky reach a second party where
their thinning band of comrades is immersed
in pools of creatures glad to eat them rare.

The world’s so honest with them from the start —
no lullabies, no fairy tales believed,
no revelation of the brutal part,
no sudden grief at having been deceived.
They learn so young of running for one’s life
to earn the chance to swim in seas of strife.

*****

Paul Burgess writes: “Even though I’ve spent much of my adult life far from the ocean, my hometown is Hilton Head Island, which is a barrier island off the southern part of the U.S.’s East Coast. There are many provisions there to protect the loggerhead sea turtle nesting sites and to avoid disturbing the hatchlings scrambling to get to the ocean. However, even when humans refrain from making things worse, the reality of what the turtles face from the second they hatch is one of the bleakest existential scenes nature has ever produced. The image and its symbolic potential suddenly hit me one day out of the blue, and I had to write this poem.”

‘Sea Turtles’ was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Paul Burgess is the sole proprietor of a business in Lexington, Kentucky that offers ESL classes in addition to English, Japanese, and Spanish-language translation and interpretation services. He has recently contributed work to The Road Not Taken, Blue Unicorn, Light, The Orchards, Pulsebeat, Snakeskin, Lighten Up Online, and several other publications. https://paulburgesswritingandlanguage.blog/

“seagull eating baby turtle” by maveric2003 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Janice D. Soderling, ‘Lost Friends’

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It’s sad to lose a friend, you know,
In bloom of youth,
In healthy glow,
Full of vigor, ethics, truth.
It’s sad to lose that friend.

It’s sad to lose a friend of old,
His fumbling brain,
Old jokes retold,
Full of misery, aches and pain.
It’s sad to lose that friend.

But sadder still to lose a friend
To politics,
The ugly end.
To hate and scorn and fascist tricks.
Oh, how I miss that friend.

*****

Janice D. Soderling writes: “This is one of those poems that sometimes comes in a rush and you have to grab a pencil to write it down before it disappears. But of course I had been ruminating, pondering; who has not in these divisive times? We are many who have lost a dear friend, perhaps even a family member, someone who once was compassionate and kind and fun to be with, but suddenly, or gradually, has become unrecognizable, full of blame and contempt, even hate, for the Other. Not for a person, but for a vague collective, the Other.”

‘Lost Friends’ was published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Janice D. Soderling has poems, short stories, and flash in many literary journals and anthologies. Her most recent poetry collection is Naming the Names which includes “Lost Friends.” Soon to be released is Short Circuits, about one hundred very short poems, none longer than twelve lines. Both collections are published under the Kultivera Production imprint.

“A Single Leaf” by Miss C.J. is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Max Gutmann, ‘The Self’

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The self I love
and try to be

is fashioned by a deeper me,
a me that’s crafted deeper still,

where things like impulse, taste, and will
derive, a dimly curtained core
of which I fathom little more

than that I fathom little, and
that I will never understand,
unfairly blank, unfinely bleak,

a dark obstruction as I seek
a fuller understanding of

the self I am
and try to love.

*****

Max Gutmann writes: “”The Self” strikes me as a strong piece of light verse, light because it’s almost entirely intellectual.It relies on form: its single-sentence, mirror-image construction in which the  beginning and end of each half reflect (on) the end and beginning of the other.”

‘The Self’ was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Max Gutmann has contributed to dozens of publications including New Statesman, Able Muse, and Cricket. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. and have been well-reviewed (see maxgutmann.com). His book There Was a Young Girl from Verona sold several copies.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, A WordPress.com Website.

“Love yourself” by QuinnDombrowski is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Ballade: Gail White, ‘After the Opera’

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Although we came in hopes to find
the most amazing staging yet,
the final act still filled the mind
with all the trappings of regret.
Although the happy lovers met
with joyous singing – hers and his –
we’ve seen from Carmen to Cosette
how sad the ending always is.

Why do we cry for womankind,
for Tosca on the parapet,
for Butterfly, her love declined,
for Manon and for Juliet?
Haven’t we seen the sweetest pet
fall victim to the wily Wiz?
Haven’t we seen – from death to debt –
how sad the ending always is?

The villain always lurks behind
the arras, holding out the net
that will entrap the golden hind,
the mark of arrows ready set.
At first we didn’t feel the threat;
we never thought our hopes a chiz,
But now we’ve learned our alphabet:
How sad the ending always is!

But pour champagne, my friends, and let
the golden bubbles rise and fizz!
For just a moment we’ll forget
how sad the ending always is.

*****

Gail White writes: “It was Barbara Loots who called my attention to the fact that the plots of many operas could end with the words “and then she dies.”  Being an opera heroine is almost always fatal.  My first poem on this theme was a short one,  “Opera Rondeau”.  Then it occurred to me that the same idea would support a ballade.  Writing this was fun, as finding enough rhymes for “is” pushed me into the realm of slang.  And, of course, life is indeed a process of finding happy distractions from an inevitable tragic ending.”

‘After the Opera’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Gail White is a widely published Formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her new chapbook, Paper Cuts, is out on Amazon or from Kelsay Books. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats.

“This picture makes me happy” by James Jordan is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Fairytale’

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Sweetheart, let me tell ya
I don’t need a Cinderella,
no coach from lowly pumpkin
or fairy godmother will do,

Rapunzel’s hair from prison tower,
no magic lamp or ring of power
and I don’t agree it’s freedom
having nothing left to lose,

I know that I’m not much
but if you think that I’m enough
then we’ll be happy ever after,
writing our story me and you

we can steer clear of poisoned apples,
fight the dragons, choose our battles,
but sweetheart, what kind of a halfwit
goes out dancing in glass shoes?

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “I wrote this one years ago, for the sweetest person I’ve ever met, after promising that I would write her a poem every week. In the end they filled a book, writing just shy of a hundred for her.”

‘Fairytale’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Lindsay McLeod lives by the Port in South Australia where he is driven by his cattle dog, Mary. Lindsay’s most recently published work can be found in Rat’s Ass Review, Snakeskin, and Meniscus. Currently, he is said to be considering a life of crime to support his poetry habit.

“Cinderella Glass Slipper” by Tsts Sheng is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Susan McLean, ‘Mending’

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Her cashmere sweater, navy blue,
was passed to me when Mother died.
Though soft and warm, with little wear,
it has a hole that needs repair.
Mending it from the other side,
I spot another, then a few.
I hold the sweater to the light.
Small holes shine out like stars at night.

From her I learned this homely art,
as well as not to toss or waste
what might be saved. I thread and sew
and knot and thread again. Although
I salvage what the moths defaced,
I cannot patch my threadbare heart,
for I can never, never, never
suture what is gone forever.

*****

Susan McLean writes: “I got the idea for this poem and began writing it in my head as I was mending the sweater, and since, as I mention, the mending took quite a while, I had several lines completed before I was done with the sewing. The rhyme scheme, ABCCBADD, rather mimics the activity of closing up a hole and tying off the thread with the final couplet, though that was not something I was conscious of as I was writing it. My unconscious does its own thing while my conscious mind struggles with finding what to say. However, I was quite conscious of echoing Lear’s lament for Cordelia in the repeated “never, never, never” of the next-to-last line. That repetition and negation have always struck me as being the epitome of grief.”

‘Mending’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Susan McLean has three books of poetry: The Best Disguise, The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and her latest, Daylight Losing Time (Able Muse, 2026). She had also published a book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Crab Orchard Review, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.

“darning a sweater” by henna lion is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Bubbles’

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The Earth’s a pot of water on the range,
and nothing happens for a billion years;
then as the water heats, things start to change
and movement – formless, unaware – appears.
Next the first tiny bubbles start to form,
brains self-assembling, they form, collapse,
form and collapse in water barely warm,
minds that start yearning for some Great Perhaps.
They grow, they start to rise, still fade away
while dreaming of a life that will not fail;
and this is humans as we are today,
starting to boil up from this mortal jail
to break into the vastly bigger air…
unknowing where steam goes, what happens there.

*****

This is as close to religious belief as I can get. Somewhere at the intersection of Nietzsche and Vonnegut, of reincarnation and “It’s all a simulation”, with Musk aiming for Mars and wondering aloud if he’s an NPC, is a place of absolute and unknowable change. And that’s where we are.

‘Bubbles’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

“Boiling Pot” by Brad Ruggles is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Timothy Sandefur, ‘Aubade’

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I kiss you every morning, even though
you’re far away; even though your bed’s
a thousand miles out of reach. I know
it’s fantasy — only in my head —
I know I cannot slide my fingertips
across the smooth skin of your shoulders, your arms —
or along the sleek sloping of your hips —
or fall into oblivion in the warm
raven tangle of your hair — and that
it’s just poetic silliness to think
that you can feel my chest against your back,
or the brush of flesh when my body instinct-
ively reacts —
               and yet somehow I feel
the distance, not the touch, is what’s unreal.

*****

‘Aubade’ was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Timothy Sandefur is an attorney practicing law in Phoenix, and also the author of several books including biographies of Frederick Douglass and Jacob Bronowski, and a book of poems called Some Notes on the Silence. He has a Substack page: sandefur.substack.com.

“5/365 – Reach Out {Explored}” by susivinh is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.