Tag Archives: relationships

Song: Marcus Bales, ‘Those Got-To-Leave-You Blues’

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Well, he was near played out when I went on and took him in.
His mind and body like his clothes were worn.
His self-control and wallet like his boots were mighty thin.
I patched him up wherever he was torn.
He needed somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’d begin
To grow a callus back someone had shorn.
There wasn’t much he’d ask that I’d refuse
Until he got those got-to-leave-you blues.

He said “I’ve got those got-to-leave-you blues,
You understand the way it is, I’m sure.
But I’ve got ramblin’ fever in my shoes
That only walkin’ lonesome roads can cure.”

I smiled and nodded and I thought there always comes a day
When being treated well will get to you
When hurt so bad you lash out in that narcissistic way
And all the good I’ve done or might yet do
Is twisted with dependence, and it’s something you can’t say.
So you are acting out now right on cue.
I said “I kept your outfit, every rag,
So here’s your boots and there’s your travelin’ bag.”

When they’ve got ramblin’ fever in their shoes
I give them back the worn-out stuff they brought,
Since if they think they’re giving me the blues
They won’t be gettin’ anything I bought.

He doesn’t know and I don’t say he’s not the only one
I’ve helped who’s helped me make it through a night
Or several whether in the short or in the medium run,
Nor will he be the last to find the sight
Of those white center-lines out on that road there in the sun
Will make him feel he’s never been not right,
And he’ll regret he’s giving me bad news
That he has got the got-to-leave-you blues.

He doesn’t see it’s me who gets to choose.
There’s half a dozen others just like him
Who’ll washed up here whose ramblin’ fever shoes
Are looking for a road a bit less grim.

He takes his stuff and tries to not look back
To see if I will notice that he does.
I give him one sad smile, then eye the pack
To pick the next one care-worn as he was.

And he’ll be near played out when I go on and take him in.
His mind and body like his clothes are worn.
His self-control and wallet like his boots are mighty thin
I’ll start to patch him up where he’s been torn.
He’s needing somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’ll begin
To grow a callus back someone had shorn.
There isn’t much he’ll ask that I’ll refuse
Until he gets those got-to-leave-you blues.

*****

Marcus Bales writes: “One of the song tropes my brother John and I used to enjoy mocking the most as we listened to records or the radio in our shared bedroom in the late 60s in Columbus, Ohio in our early teens was an odd one for a pair of Air Force brats whose whole life experience had been saying goodbye to new friends whose parents were being irrevocably transferred somewhere else, never to be seen again, or we were being similarly transferred away, and that trope was the country or blues song addressed to the woman by the ramblin’ man whose litany of reasons to leave seemed, to us, whose leavings and arriving were dictated by unequivocal orders, thin-to-non-existent. The singer was constantly moaning about how, despite how good he had it, he was movin’ on . John and I thought it was hilarious that civilians would voluntarily abandon situations in which, by their own accounts, they simply had no good reason to leave. We’d left, or been left, by that time, by a decade and a half of friends. The very notion that some cowboy or bluesman felt like there must be greener grass down the road that never ends seemed ludicrous. We’d seen those pastures. We’d ridden down those roads. We’d flown that wild blue yonder to other states and countries. We thought that plea of desperate yarning was a load of crap. 

What’s the woman’s side of the story? It occurred to me that she probably thought that ramblin’ fever was a load of crap, too. And, maybe, that it made for a nice change from time to time, since in all those songs and stories he wanders off, but she gets the house. Maybe she got the better deal. And, so, voila.”

Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, and his work has not appeared in Poetry or The New Yorker. His latest book is 51 Poems; reviews and information at http://tinyurl.com/jo8ek3r

Photo: “Pat, July 15, 2011 – Rambling Man” by pat00139 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Sonnet: Martin Elster, ‘Axis Denied’

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Earth, always the same distance from her star,
induced no crane to migrate, lark to sing,
chorus frog to trill, violet to spring,
nor leaves to turn. The solstice was as far
as the edge where galaxies all disappear.
The sun kept glaring down, as on that shore
where, from your tower, you chose to ignore
the thing I most desired. Wasn’t it clear?
Earth didn’t tilt. Her poles were locked in glaze,
sea level never changed, and when I walked
forever round your roost, you never talked
of waves, or even sensed the sun-launched rays
till yesterday when, with a sudden lurch,
Earth tipped and threw you off your chilly perch.

*****

Martin Elster writes: “The title “Axis Denied” works in two ways. Literally, it refers to a world without axial tilt, and therefore without seasons or change. Phonetically, “axis” echoes “access”—suggesting denied emotional entry or withheld intimacy—until a sudden shift finally breaks the stasis.”

Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. He finds contentment in long woodland walks and writing poetry that often draws on the natural world and on scientific ideas, from animal life to larger planetary and cosmic patterns. His honors include Rhymezone’s Poetry Contest (2016) co-winner, the Thomas Gray Anniversary Poetry Competition (2014) winner, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Poetry Contest (2015) third place, five Pushcart Prize nominations, and a Best of the Net nomination. His latest collection is From Pawprints to Flight Paths: Animal Lives in Verse (Kelsay Books).

This poem appears in Bewildering Stories #1122. His work has also appeared in the anthology Outer Space: 100 Poems (Cambridge University Press) and in the Potcake Chapbooks Careers and Other Catastrophes, Robots and Rockets, and City! Oh City!

Image: “‘SNOWBALL EARTH’ – 640 million years ago” by guano is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Iambic hexameter: Martin Parker, ‘Man of the Match’

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You swore at me and hurled your ring into the pond
then drove off back to London “for some bloody fun”
with friends whose Chelsea coven held you in its bond.
I was next in, scored twelve and hit the winning run.

The beers were long and cool, the Captain shook my hand.
Dusk shaded in, a final liquid blackbird sang.
A coughing tractor crawled a strip of fading land.
An owl flew low across the pitch, a church bell rang.

Two muddy urchins with a shrimp-net dredged the pond
their hopeful piping rippling in the cooling air
while you choked on exhaust at Guildford or beyond
along your golden road to Knightsbridge and Sloane Square.

Another world and just two perfect hours away
your eyes had been bright green. Or brown. Or were they blue?
I still recall the details of that Summer day
so much more clearly than I now remember you.

*****

Martin Parker writes: “The only point I might add is my hope that if the muddy urchins’ dredging efforts were rewarded they were not too disappointed to learn that the ring’s diamond might not have been a real one! The intervening sixty-five-plus years have, mercifully, erased the fact that I may have been nothing but a cheapskate!”

‘Man of the Match’ was first published in Snakeskin.

Martin Parker is a writer of mainly light and humorous verse much of which has appeared in national publications including The Spectator, The Oldie and The Literary Review. In 2008 Martin founded the quarterly light verse webzine, Lighten Up Online at www.lightenup-online.co.uk, now edited by Jerome Betts. His website at www.martinparker-verse.co.uk gives details and excerpts from his two “hopefully humorous and only occasionally wrily depressing books”.

Photo: “Village cricket” by Peter Curbishley is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘She’

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She drinks a bit more
she loves a bit less
she no longer fits
in her wedding dress.

She’s given up trying,
accepted her fate,
feels herself thinning
while she stacks on the hate.

Doesn’t feel like his partner
his mate or his wife,
all she feels is as hard
and as sharp as a knife.

She reels her mind back
but can’t seem to recall,
what she ever saw in him,
why she married at all.

It’s a dead man’s float,
face down on the bed,
they sleep separate, unsound
in their queen sized dread.

So she’ll tread bitter water
as she has done for years,
not so much married to him
as she is to her fears.

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘She’ was written in my head, wearing ear protection in a factory. It was about my (then) partner who had recently escaped a toxic relationship.” The poem was originally published in Fine Flu.

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his cattle dog,  Mary. Lindsay still drives a forklift to support his poetry habit.

Photo: “fulla-ocell / leave-bird ( Every little thing she does is magic )” by Jordi@photos is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Joe Crocker, ‘Stick and Twist’

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The more that you dislike the way I am,
the less I worry what it is you like.
I let go the way that you don’t like
the rattled heart of me, the way I am.
 
Perhaps we’re going through a sticky patch.
The patch that stuck us down long years ago
is not as sticky now. But even so,
its tar has held us close enough to catch.
 
It covers up the cracks and hides the shabby
seams we couldn’t mend. We still pretend
to rub along regardless. In the end,
perhaps we are just averagely unhappy.
 
The way we blister love and twist its scar.
We sort of stick it out. And peel apart.

*****

Joe Crocker writes: “I wrote this poem a year or two ago as an expression of frustration and sadness about the slow decline of a long marriage. The title is  an allusion to the UK card game Pontoon (Blackjack in the States?) where you can either hold your cards (stick) or ask the dealer for another (twist). It’s written from the perspective of one person in two voices. The italic lines are pained and self-pitying and the middle stanzas are him trying to figure out what has happened.”

‘Stick and Twist’ was originally published in the current Rat’s Ass Review.

Joe Crocker has a 25 yds breast-stroke certificate, several Scouting badges and “O” level Epistemology. He has won prizes – bubble bath mostly, a bottle of Baileys once. His poems squat in obscure corners of the internet. He doesn’t have a pamphlet or a website but if you Google his name and add “poetry” you’ll find most of his published work (as well as links to a deceased Sheffield rock singer.) He gets by with little help from friends.

Photo: “Playing Pontoon with tiny cracker cards” by Rain Rabbit is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Petrarchan Sonnet: Jane Blanchard, ‘Microsania imperfecta’

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She was the one who went off on her own.
She was the one who filed for the divorce.
You gave her what she wanted in due course.
Still she will never leave your life alone.

Available through email more than phone,
You have remained a favorite resource.
She contacts you supposedly perforce,
Less for herself than for a son long grown.

She seeks a certain something left behind,
A sterling ladle or an antique chest,
A recipe or record you must find.
Your common past has yet to enter rest
Since fire so often burns within her mind.
For smoke fly’s sake, you try to do your best.

*****

Jane Blanchard writes: “I came across the Latin term for this insect in an article in The Guardian about New York City in the summer of 2023, and the metaphor seemed curiously applicable to a particular person. A somewhat-Petrarchan sonnet then manifested itself. 
New Yorkers baffled by tiny flying bugs swarming city in wake of smoke | US news | The Guardian
On the Ecology of a Smoke Fly, Microsania imperfecta12 | Annals of the Entomological Society of America | Oxford Academic
I am gIad that Clarence Caddell chose to include the poem in the second issue of The Borough.”

A native Virginian, Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her collections with Kelsay Books include Metes and Bounds (2023) and Furthermore (forthcoming, 2025).

Photo: “Microsania” by Guilherme A. Fischer is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Last Call’

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If this isn’t what you’ve yearned for
or indeed what you are craving
then cup your hands, drink deeply
of a sweeter misbehaving.

If you cannot find your wine inside
the glass that you were given,
taste the new with eyes and thighs
and dye your lips a deep vermillion

with a juice that has been pressed
from vines let grow out of control
that taste of summertime and
sex and drugs and rock and roll

because if you…

find distaste in your final breath
dressed in another’s ill fit clothes
remember, this did not just happen
sweetheart, this is what you chose.

*****

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian poet that has won a few things and is widely published. He just had to start messing about with words again lately. You’d think he’d know better by now, but oh no. Some of his most recent work can be found in DILLYDOUN REVIEW, GRAND LIL THINGS, DRAWN TO THE LIGHT, POETiCA and MORTAL MAGAZINE.

RHL: In addition to Mr McLeod’s self-description, let me add that I have been trying and failing to contact him. I don’t even have permission to post this poem. If anyone can put me in touch with him, I would be grateful.

Photo: “98/365: ♫ Red, Red Wine…” by rogersmj is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Odd poem: Brian Bilston, ‘Brie Encounter’

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the skies are gruyere since she left me
i’ve never felt so danish blue
caught between a roquefort and a hard cheese
i stilton’t know what to do

don’t give edam about the future
now my babybel’s walked out the door
can’t believe i’ve double gloucester
i camembert it any more

i’ve ricotta get myself together
and build my life back caerphilly
cheddar tear for the final time
say goodbye to us and halloumi

*****

Brian Bilston is “the Banksy of the poetry world”.
You can find a daily poem on Facebook, and his books here.

Photo: “Cheese, cheese, cheese” by kurafire is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Communication Breakdown’

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I love you with that love floppy and large,
As one of us a man – the other, dog;
Involved, detached, our life’s a travelogue
Of countrysides seen from a rented barge,
“Travels With You” along some river’s marge,
Failing at interspecies dialogue
Till tries at talk are lost in night and fog,
Drifting with batteries we can’t recharge.

Yet there’s no option but to travel on,
Each varied day no different than before,
Wondering if we’ll find some magic door
Which, risking entry, gives communion;
And if, by talking, love would be enhanced,
Or if we’d then destroy all we have chanced.

*****

Sonnet originally published in Candelabrum in 2007.

Photo: “Accordion player” by eltpics is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Armen Davoudian, ‘Coming Out of the Shower’

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I shut my eyes under the scalding stream,
scrubbing off last night’s dream,
when suddenly I hear your voice again
as though it caught in the clogged drain

and was sent bubbling back up from the other
world where you’re not my mother.
This time, it’s really you. I’m really here.
I blink. We do not disappear.

Dad left, you say, to shower at the shop
so I don’t need to stop
just yet—and yet I do, unable to
resume old customs, unlike you.

In a one-bath four-person household, we
learn what we mustn’t see,
growing, in time, so coolly intimate
with one another’s silhouette

behind the opaque frosted shower screen
that once more stands between
us two. While at the mirror you apply
foundation and concealer, I

wash out my hair with rosewater shampoo,
which means I’ll smell like you
all day. Mama, I shout, I’m coming out,
and as you look away I knot

around me tight your lavender robe de chambre,
cinching my waist, and clamber
out of the tub, taking care not to step
outside the cotton mat and drip

on the cracked floor you’ve polished with such zeal
we’re mirrored in each tile.
Yet, you’d forgive spillage, or forget.
What else will you love me despite?

*****

‘Coming Out of the Shower’ by Armen Davoudian is reprinted with permission from Tin House Books from the book The Palace of Forty Pillars (2024). The poem was originally published in Literary Matters.

Armen Davoudian is the author of the poetry collection The Palace of Forty Pillars (Tin House, US; Corsair, UK) and the translator, from Persian, of Hopscotch by Fatemeh Shams (Ugly Duckling Presse, US; Falscrhum, Germany). He grew up in Isfahan, Iran, and is a PhD candidate in English at Stanford University.

“Shower Silhouette” by tausend und eins, fotografie is licensed under CC BY 2.0.