Pulsar Poetry Webzine
       Pulsar Poetry Webzine

Published Poems

Link: Return to Home Page




March 2017 (82 Editions in Total)


30th Edition as a webzine, see below.


Poets listed in alphabetical surname order


* * *


Poem Index


She is Sci-Fi - Stephen Philip Druce


It - Robert Dunsdon


Hunting and Gathering - Jennie Owen


Grimshaw - David Pike


Key West Cemetery - Ron Yazinski




She Is Sci-Fi


She stripped off her

retro boots - ripped up

her non-descript Sunday suits,


trashed her ugly

dresses - burnt


the dark cuttings from

her tresses - now short

dyed ocean blue -


in futuristic design she

put on some devil horns and

a wrought iron spine of

prickly thorns -


square shades and

silver-glittered roller blades,


giant collar and shoulder fakes,

face paint and wings of snakes -

open jawed,


she flew with higher birds, and

with her sabre sword she carved out

the words in the sky -


I am sci-fi.


Stephen Philip Druce







Sometimes it was too much on me,

sometimes so tenuously there it seemed it might dissolve,

but I always thought to frame it:


to paint it in its shyness with caution

and in its pomp freely, forgetting the art and getting it down

with freshness damp on its face.


I thought to understand it, to hang on its every word and worry it;

extemporising hymns, cajoling and persuading it

to reveal more than perhaps was reasonable -


and I’ll not desert it;

only regret a complacency

carried far beyond an allowance for youth.


It is the whisper in a drift of nettles,

the light off a weather-cock animating a town;


it is the kick or benediction taken off a breeze

that is accusative and kind, admonishing and promising the Earth -


that over time is fading; over the drip of a thousand compromises thinning

to little more than an idea.


Robert Dunsdon

Abingdon, Oxfordshire




Hunting and Gathering


The hovering black knot

aligning dawn blush,

beats tension.  Poised to fall

so quickly out of view,

beneath the dot-dash

of moon and jet fuel.


Grim and bloody beaked,

I know what you catch

in those grisly talons. 

Crushing  tiny heart-flutters,

leaving a lingering absence

punched into the ozone.


Idling a weave along the path

I gather your feathers

from under damp hedgerows.

Finding them curved like boats

floating on mirrored skies.


Jennie Owen

Mawdesley, Lancashire






The Grim Reaper

stood at the foot

of my bed

in the early hours,

a time when minutes

are devoured

by comatose heads,

as nocturnal creatures

flit unseen

in the shadow land

between night

and dreams.


The grim burglar

jabbed the duvet

with a white finger

and said

“now my friend,”

but in a foreign language,

which I took exception to.

He was no friend

of mine.  I hadn’t

met him before,

nor would wish to.


He sighed and reiterated

“now my friend,”

in a strange dialect,

which at the time

I couldn’t comprehend.


The Reaper stood

swaying there, standing tall

and all-in-all

appeared the worse for wear,

possibly pissed

and a tad underfed

with clothing that left a lot

to be desired,

clad in a rag-and-bone shroud

that had almost



He remained standing,

glaring around

holding a black metal scythe

which he swung about his head


as bones clicked randomly

like yellow castanets,

and he mumbled for effect

“now my friend.”


I gestured

with a show of hands,

and said “I don’t understand,

what you’re about,

perhaps you could come back

another day,

with someone who speaks English

to interpret what you say?”


With that he folded the scythe shut

and with a disgusted grunt

stomped out, muttering

an indecipherable spell

which was hard to comprehend

but as far as I can tell

encompassed chickens

and music

or something similar,

and sounded a bit



“clucking bell.”


David Pike

Swindon, Wiltshire




Key West Cemetery


Key West is a good place to consider death;

Christened “Cajo Hueste,” or “Bone Island,”

By the Conquistadores,

It was littered with the remains of Indian forefathers,

Rowed to this spot closest to the setting sun,

Where there was enough fresh water

To supply their next voyage;


Now in the Key West Cemetery,

Amid the sounds of bicycle bells and crowing roosters,

Surrounded by bunkers built to keep the newly departed secure,

Until the next big blow washes them out to sea,

I shade my eyes from the glaring sun

With the headstone of “Captain Bob,”

A local sailor and luminary,

Whose marker is topped by a sailboat, tacking into the wind,

Its epitaph reading, “The Adventure continues.”


Perhaps, for him, it does,

As it did for the natives before him.

But I’m more like the countless, stranded roosters that scuff this island,

Mazing their way through grave sites,

Strutting as if they’re treading on hot coals,

Scratching the dust and crowing about it.


Ron Yazinski,

Winter Garden, Florida , USA


Link: Return to Home Page


* * *


December 2016 (81 Editions in Total)


29th edition as a webzine, see below.


Poets listed in alphabetical surname order, below


* * *


Poem Index


Ode to Olga - Gregory Santo Arena


Fading Pleasure - Gary Beck


At Arm's Length - Will Daunt


Gulls at Night - Will Daunt


Coshton Avenue, 1977 - Daniel David


Leaf Blower - Daniel David


The Promises in My Garden - Holly Day


Letter Not Sent - Michael Jennings


The Final Shift - Lynne Munn


Gun-Site Kent - Lynne Munn


On the High Plains - David Pike


Somewhere Among These Things is Part of What We Mean - John Timothy Robinson


Other Man's Junk - Ian C. Smith




Ode To Olga


 I love you Olga.

To Russia with internet love.

Most beautiful Olga.

Actually I had written it in Italian,

Bellissima Olga.

I do love you, I think, in a fashion...

You said you loved me and wanted to come

And live with me in Italy.

No new messages.


Gregory Santo Arena

Bergamo, Italy




Fading Pleasure


Culture lovers

are a minority

without rights,


just desire

for the arts.

Beethoven is alien

to most humans,

so is Picasso,

T.S. Eliot,

an endless list

of creators

appreciated by fewer

and fewer,

as the Information Age

encourages the spread

of the common denominator.


Gary Beck

New York, NY, USA




At Arm’s Length


Move back: the building’s been alarmed.

Its doors are closing like a quilt

held close to foil intruder’s arms

and curled around the warmth of day

and dark as some abrupt dead end.


Shut down: some daylight risks a last

caress, a tender brush with matt

and gloss that ventures over blind

and vinyl, closing up and close

as breath - or fingers in the dark.


Let go: the grey custodian

takes care to set the other dials

to sleep and isolation. Stairs

lead nowhere, coldly, lie alone,

repelling every dark advance.


Will Daunt





Gulls at Night


Awake is sleeping fast while still awake

in this vacated harbour town of squalls

where thousands stir if several curse the night

and gulls dispute the wrecks of cod and spud.


A dream’s no dream and nightmares lap and lurk

around the idle swing bridge, under lamps,

when brittle sirens break the patterned din

of seabirds marking out their blind terrains.


Some loneliness is more when by the sea

against the smoke house, through the undead crowd

or in the withered souvenirs of how

a few may graft where those that fly, hold sway.


Will Daunt




Coshocton Avenue, 1977                                                                             


In 1977, Jim Teeter played the drums on those pulsing, summer

afternoons when all was loud heat, blunt asphalt, concrete, a few

houses down, on the edge of Coshocton Avenue, thumping on his

little porch, shaking his mother’s house by the shoulders so hard

it might bounce off the foundations. He’d open the window and set

the stereo speakers on the sill, behind his ears, pounding to all

the usual bands, roaring snare, symbols, bass, each blow clashing

with whining tires, bad mufflers, a tumultuous, rhythmic din

of rubber and metal, rubber and metal, each engine a battle, again

and again. I had no guitar, no beat, nothing to whack or wallop;

didn’t know where to stand, whether to slouch or shuffle; wouldn’t

know the band; wasn’t paying attention; after all, I was just now

hearing the tempo of Bach, of Chopin for the first time; I had no

intention of contributing to the clamor. Jim didn’t know his dad;

there was a battered silence on the subject; his drumsticks hammered

at this circumstance. And I had a small, throbbing crush on his mom

after she passed the window in a black bra, but she was always

a mother getting ready for work. My dad and she, thunderously

alone, drifted precariously on the edge of the same street;

however, I was certainly no matchmaker, not in all this racket.


Daniel David

Berlin Heights, OH, USA




Leaf Blower                                                                                                  


When we were gassing up the tractor, greasing the bailer,

setting twine, Grandpa remarked – and my memory is vivid

as he rarely offered any sort of conversation – and how his

nostalgia was exceptionally earnest that day – an old man

peering into the past, divulging to a young man peering

too far into the future – he said simply, with no elaboration,

that he missed plowing with his team. I guessed,


without the clatter of machinery, he heard the sloughing

of earth across steel, the huffing of horses’ breath, the

slight jangle of harness, the easy slap of leather on broad

flanks – their strength gauged in the reins – a soft, rhythmic

thumping of hooves on sod, a lowing of trees in the woods

and the squirrels’ barking there – overhead, the piqued cry

of a hawk evading crows’ beaks, and if you listened acutely,

a popping of buds, the palpable clamor of the sun igniting dew.


I recall this past as the wind, up to now, has been timid

in its task. Leaves are loitering at the fence, snagged among

lilies, iris, hibiscus, an aimless carousel whirling around

the birch tree. I know, eventually, the wind will pick up

and using the rake, in the scratching, I might better admire

a singular moment – my mind might wander. However,

I am impatient. The leaf blower, a deafening bluster,

dispatches these vagrants with its artificial tempest.


Daniel David




The Promises in My Garden


The moth selects the leaf carefully from the others

following some algorithm or philosophy only she knows

lays her eggs on the ribbed, green surface in patterns that seem

either profound or random, depending on the decipherer.

There could be messages for her unborn offspring in the discarded casings

they will soon burst from, perhaps a forwarding address so her children can find her

a map to a treasure of honeysuckle vines and wide, green backyards

religious texts that have been passed from one generation to another.


In turn, the leaf reacts in dismay to having the eggs deposited on its surface

begins layering cellular material around the encased larvae, like an oyster or a clam

trying to protect itself from an irritating grain of sand

by creating a pearl, leaving the moth’s original message all but obliterated

by a jungle of thick, green spikes jutting out of the leaf

its formerly flat surface curled and distressed. But perhaps this, too

is part of the moth’s message, the transformation of her words

into a Braille illuminated by the agony of a weed.


Holly Day

Minneapolis MN




Letter Not Sent


This is not the letter I planned to write –

your problems with next door’s dog,

my trip to Nottingham to buy a shirt,

were surrogates for deeper thought.


Thought not deep enough, even now,

that still reflecting on what I could have put,

only a cloudy yearning vagueness

is the result.


Elopement?   Well not that for sure,

nor that I am sick with love,

or I wish to take you in my arms

and yet those things contain some truth.


It is as if there needs to be

a higher category of close rapport

that leaves the outer world unharmed

and us in an eternal, depthless bond.


Michael Jennings

Keyworth, Nottinghamshire




The Final Shift


Hang your docker’s hook

For the last time behind the door,

No more faltering through icy dawns

To the fog-bound river, swept by a wind

That cuts like a sabre.


No more huddling in crowded pen

Straining to hear your name,

Ravaged and worn your once fine frame,

Younger men are called out now.


Sit at home, take your rest,

Wonder sometimes what happened to the beat

Of you, where did it go?

Wrung out drop by drop, bitter drop,

In the dark holds of countless ships,

What have you to show for all of it?


Lynne Munn

London, NW6




Gun-Site Kent


Night so black, night without stars,

Except the fiery stars of bursting shells

Stalking a singer-seater, enemy plane.

Pinned like a butterfly collector’s item

In the searchlight’s brilliant silver bars,

Until suddenly plummeting out of them

As an eye-searing pennant of flame.


I pray the pilot was not young,

Eager and quick, warm and good.

Pray he was ironical and grey,

Weary of flight and fight.

Uncaring if his blood

Pumps into tremulous age,

Or waters the earth this night.


Lynne Munn


Editor’s note: I hope the above poet won’t mind me noting she mentioned, in correspondence, that during the war she served in the army, on a gun-site on the Kent coast.




On the High Plains


A herd of steel

shopping trolleys

gallop and graunch

on castor wheels,

sliding, objecting

on a carpark hill,

squealing obscenities

jostling around

wrangling the angles,

juddering ever down

the ASDA prairie,


towards a plastic



David Pike

Swindon, Wiltshire




Somewhere Among These Things is Part of What We Mean

Winter. A country road at night beneath clear sky, stars.
The moon crouches tight in a tree-limb's pocket.
Windows over snow-sloped fields
glow in the softer glow
among icy glitter all around.
And the sound,
that almost soundless sound
of deer hooves
up these blue-emblazoned, steepness of hills;
river horns . . . a distant train.
Somewhere among these things is part of what we mean.


John Timothy Robinson




One Man’s Junk


Referring to my barn-cum-office on auction day

the agent whispers, Have you anything of value there?

after he directs a slovenly man to where

what I cherish waits, inky hours flanked by books.

Only to me, I reply, my intended rueful tone

somehow sounding rather pitiful, a groan,

the creak of an old boat slipping its moorings.

Strangers, smirking locals, peer into nooks,

taking selfies before coloured glass, yakking on phones.

The agent has seen my collected belongings;

my boys’ blue-tacked art, loosened now, framed prints,

among them, a $10 flea-market Raymond Wintz,

sentimental scene typical of both artist and me.

He knows, shrewd witness to clients’ collected longing.


Ian C Smith

Sale, Australia


Link: Return to Home Page


* * *


September 2016 (80 Editions in Total)


28th edition as a webzine, see below.



Poets listed in alphabetical order, below


* * *


Poem Index


Brief Encounter - Frank De Canio


Brother wreck - Dominic James


Umbra - Kim Malinowski


On Occasion - David Pike


Clothed in Memories - Fiona Sinclair


Human Aposematism - Fiona Sinclair


Water Rights - Ron Yazinski




Brief Encounter 


If you had scorned my overtures

of friendship and, with scathing yawn,

dismissed my amatory lures,

I would have stoically since drawn

the curtain on the show’s sole act.

But exiting before the play

concluded made me rue my tact

at walking flippantly away.

Aside from grades of happiness 

ensuing as the dividends

of many dramas that progress 

as such, I won’t know how mine ends.

I rail thus on an empty stage

where want of closure is my wage.


Frank De Canio

Union City, NJ, USA




Brother wreck


No foothold on this black, unlucky spur,
with icy hands he clings as best he can
to naked rock despite the mighty waves’
increase in shock and pace to drag him down,
his bitter sobs and high despair soon lost
in night’s relentless surge.
                                        The sea rides high.
The lifeboats of his entourage, old friends
and kin, inevitably pull away;
he knows that at this station he must drown
but daren’t abandon barren purchase.
In endless shows of lightning crashes
he composes epigrams for comfort:
let them remember one held true, drawn-in
he did not sink, it was the waters rising.


Dominic James

Chalford, Gloucestershire






My shadow deepens the carved

name and dates,

grooves lovingly traced.

I’ve laid a picnic blanket

over the neatly trimmed grass,

saving a clump of buttercups

near the stone.

There are mimosas to toast

our anniversary.

I am eating a rhubarb jelly sandwich,

wearing a peach colored day dress.

The cedar stands beside us,

its branches protecting, blossoms faded.

A couple sits near,

placing irises by dirt.

I see your face

gasping at the foot of your bed.

The wind ruffles the cedar,

the blanket,

your limp hair would blow in the breeze,

my palm touches the grass and buttercups.

I would like to uproot you,

my shadow obscuring your name,

and then you wouldn’t be dead.


Kim Malinowski

Laurel, Maryland, USA




On Occasion


“During winter

the wind blows

so hard

you have to lean forward

at a slant,

to address the gale,

or be blown


by the squall -

and fall away,”


said distractedly

during a brief interlude,

passing the time of



another Cornish anecdote

from a local resident

to a summer migrant

who was there by arrangement

for a temporary stay.


David Pike

Swindon, Wiltshire




Clothed in Memories


He recalls favourite garments with

same transcendental gaze into past

as remembering Norton, Ducati, Triumph.

At 17, a Here be Dragons trip north of Watford gap

to course in Manchester. Only land mark that registered,

clothes market under railway arches

colourful as St Pepper album cover,

where he found herringbone Oxford bags,

with flares, high waist, indigo dandy twist.

And on a rainbow rail of afghan coats

one cobalt suede with white coney trim.


Was it just you so foppish?

but all his mates took inspiration from favourite front men:

hunting down in indie boutiques, Hendrix hussar Jackets,

Bowie spangled stacks, Jagger velvet flares,

Accessorized by hair so long your Granddad

Thought he was a girl from the back.

But no girly squeamishness in face of a ruck,

rather platform boots ideal for crotch crippling,

shared tips for getting blood out of a shirt,

becoming as adapt with needle and thread as a spanner.


Now Marc Bolan, Rod Stewart, Bryan Ferry

are replaced by memory slipping lead singers

who come and go like office temps.

And young men whose warrior avatars fantasy fight

whilst they online skim shop Matalan for polo shirts,

for whom under the bonnet is unfathomable as

brain surgery so leave cars at Kwikfit,

killing time in Burtons buying another pair of jeans,

lunch time dash into Next to grab they’ll do brown lace ups;

every garment forgettable as a drunken one night stand.


Fiona Sinclair

Houghton, near Faversham, Kent




Human Aposematism


Historically tattoos meant armed forces, Hells Angels, ex-cons;

anchors and daggers branding service men non officer material,

diabolic coat of arms making bikers indelible members for life,

love-hate on knuckles warning no rehabilitating these prison hands.

Some toughness skin deep though; ‘Mother’ embedded in heart,

‘Emma’ entwined in rose, kids’ names enlacing armband.

Many woman get clit tingle at twisted designs grown on Pop-eye muscles

proof bearers can handle pain; so other blokes watch their words…




Water Rites


Here in the Bible Belt, folks

Talk of Jesus as a loving grandfather

Who lives in the nursing home down the road,

Who forgives anything they do,

As long as they put up with his funky smell once a week.


Soon it’ll be time to divvy up his estate,

And buy that new Chevy pick-up with the gun rack

They have their hearts set on.

Then they’ll drive to Daytona, park on the beach,

And watch the sun rise over the warm Atlantic.


Which, with my Catholic upbringing, is blatantly silly,

Because a worthwhile god doesn’t give you things,

He just leads you down to the pier at Newton Park,

To look at yourself in fouled Lake Apopka.


Ron Yazinski

Winter Garden, Florida, USA


Link:  Return to Home Page



June 2016 Edition (79 Editions in Total)


27th Edition as a Webzine, see below


Poets listed in alphabetical order, below


* * *



Poem Index


Owl - Richard Dinges, Jr


Cold Deceit - E A M Harris


Moving - David Pike


A Small Town In The South - Sam Silva


View from an attic window - Ian C Smith


Release - Tim Taylor






We have become

friends, this owl and I,

each evening after

darkness prevails

and trees become

shadows against

a pale divide

between sky and

where I stand, this

sound no question,

an echo from

a question asked

long ago by someone

I once knew.


Richard Dinges, Jr

Walton, NE, USA





Cold Deceipt


‘Tweren’t no rain

when I put yon out.


The air were thick, like,

and the clouds way high,

but I c’ld stitch a shipful 

o’ sailors’ britches

from them blue patches.


There were a breeze

when yon and I stepped out,

friendly, like, after the vandal gale.


No frost. I checked th’ forecast;

I knows yon’s fear o’ cold.

I turns, the dale’s whited,

cheating, behind my back.


Like that hoss

at th’ New Year races;

look away and he’s lost.


I blinked is all,

not one second,

and yon limped off.


E A M Harris

Bridgwater, Somerset






Down in a cellar

something stirred,

something that shouldn’t

be there

but was there

anyway –

to linger and lurk


with an ugly smirk

across its face

in a place where

darkness dug a trench

and light paled

to something less,

dust fell as velvet


in a recurrent


upon something that

was there

moving, persisting,



but shouldn’t have



David Pike

Swindon, Wiltshire




A Small Town In The South


A simplicity of sleeping things

under cold rain and wet earth

...and that dazzle

of blue jazz

on the computer stereo


giving light and sound to images

where the mind mingles

...one half on the screen

...the other...on the yard outside


and with its own interior voices

...the lingering voices of the others

...more strange and frightening

than nature

or dead brick.


Sam Silva

Fayetteville, N.C.





View from an attic window


Fields of frost below, early days of writing,

shucking the duvet on runny nose mornings

to fill pages instead of slouching off to work

quickened me, my dream world manifested.

I didn’t know about nearby Adlestrop station,

had never heard of Edward Thomas’s poem.


Rain on wind protested at the window

of my attic I probably called a garret,

ruffled rooks high above sheltering horses.

A gas heater on castors by my side

like a metallic seeing-eye dog-cum-desk,

collected a pattern of Olympic coffee rings.


I backpacked on after winter toting an archive,

crisscrossing latitude and longitude’s grid,

an urge to arrest smell, sight, sound,

a selfish kind of love like a secret luring me.

Now at ground level I feed a wood stove,

outside, attendant currawongs, different crows.


I squeeze into my navy pea-jacket

worn those years gone, heavy with silence,

the spare button in its silken pocket

to finger-fiddle, conjure past voices,

a high window, a view, a fierce fever,

breath steaming through the strainer of memory.   


Ian C Smith

Sale, Victoria, Australia






You question me with patient tenderness.

“I’m fine”, I lie: my leaden undertones

reveal what language struggles to express.      

This sullen murk that seeps into my bones:

I have no name for it, nor has it shape

or substance.   Stagnant, undefined, it sits

in hidden pools from which there’s no escape.

It is my prisoner, as I am its.   

But do not cease to ask: for you, each day

I try once more to picture it in words.

If I could make it concrete, find some way

to form it in the semblance of a bird

and, through the gift of wings, to set it free

then it would lift its cold embrace from me.


Tim Taylor

Meltham, West Yorkshire


Link: Return to Home Page


* * *


March 2016 Edition (78 Editions in Total)


26th Edition as a Webzine, see below.


Poets listed in alphabetical order, below


* * *


Poem Index


With Fire For Eyes, A Mouth Full Of Grubs - Holly Day


Dream Ephemera - Mark A. Murphy


Appearance of . . .  David Pike


Autumn Reverie - Jane Stuart


Faults - A K Whitehead


Return and Release - John Zedolik




With Fire For Eyes, A Mouth Full Of Grubs


in my living room is a woman

dirt under her chipped nails


pouring out of her very skin,

like tentacles underwater


of sick sea serpents

in my kitchen is a man


criss-crossed with old scars and new bruises

dangling by a hook


ever since I bought that cursed locked storage chest

from that guy with the sinister laugh and the bad facial hair


at the boarded-up second-hand store

things just haven’t been the same around here


Holly Day

Minneapolis MN, USA




Dream Ephemera


In the first and in the fading light,

whilst the wind yawns at the gable ends

and the impudent traffic below

ebbs and flows, I dream of your return

from the dead, as if your death

was only temporary and absurd.


Almost strange to hear you whisper,

‘I love you.’ High above the town

and the pavements of loss,

locked in the garret, I hardly concern

myself with the affairs of men

preferring instead the low notes


of your whispering across space and time

to fill my head with other longings.

As the mist beneath begins to lift

we must insist on laughter.

All will become clear soon after –

in the moonlight we dream as one.


Mark A. Murphy

Huddersfield, West Yorkshire




Appearance of . . .


. . . a stereotypical

young bloke

in a hooded coat

hood up;

by default

a dodgy sort,

nothing more.


It’s a kind of uniform


to conform with

others of a same


just a phase

at a moment in time,

not something emblazoned

deep within

when born.


Just a temporary



David Pike

Swindon, Wiltshire




Autumn Reverie


When summer came, the world was autumn-green,

with dark leaves floating on the bristling grass.

Earth filled with sunrise, wind blew through the trees,

and shadows dark as moments, dark as glass,

filled every meadow, every star-filled night

and days that keep the glow of midnight’s moon.

This world was made of love and silver light

and swept across the hills, across the dunes,

and reached time’s cold beginning, on the shore

where ocean water waits for warming sun-

There is no window and there was no door,

when night was early, day had just begun,

and moments made of madness-love’s fair flight

over the wave, in autumn’s cold moonlight.


Jane Stuart

Greenup, KY, USA






You are to me as some would see Lastrade

to Sherlock Holmes, who incurred the latter’s

scorn as one who was stubborn to select

the right clues to indite a wrong suspect,

or make the right suspect blighted with wrong



            My faults were plain, but your somersaults

invented other ones that better fit

your own philosophy and special needs,

that turn the truth into a parody

of what could be perception - - just the blood

of selfishness that masquerades a wish

into the place of some reality.


Let not invention be the galleon

that sails my ego to the rock of lies.


A K Whitehead

Pontefract, West Yorkshire




Return and Release


Venice is sinking outside of sight

while the man extends his arms.


His hands must contain bread, for scores

of pigeons alight, which, he may hope,


will lift him from the city drowning

in the lagoon that will claim every Chiesa


pressing centuries into the submerged earth,

a long-delayed return, at least to the salt and sea,


and, I imagine, an acceptable occurrence, a substitute,

for the dead emperors of the eastern Rome,


who—brazen steeds and sundry booty sunk—

 would likely let the man and birds alone.


John Zedolik

Pennsylvania, USA


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Video, (below), of Talis Kimberley performing her original song, The Orchard,

'live' at a Pulsar Poetry Evening at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard.


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