Pulsar Poetry Webzine
       Pulsar Poetry Webzine

Poems 2019 - most recent poems at the top.

March 2019 (90 editions in total)

 

38th edition as a webzine, see below.

 

Poem ,The Vale, to view via YouTube click:  The Vale - poem by David Pike

 

Poets listed in surname alphabetical order.  

 

* * *

 

Poem Index

 

Dictate – Gary Beck

 

Vermin – Holly Day

 

Old Crocker – Michael Jennings

 

American Beauty – George Cassidy Payne

 

Low Rider – David Pike

 

Roughing It – Fabrice B Poussin

 

Foundry – John Timothy Robinson

 

Cottage Song – Roger Singer

 

Unskilled – Ian C. Smith

 

*

 

Dictate

 

Statistically speaking

most humans

prefer to be told

rather than asked

to do this or that

at the behest of someone

rarely concerned

with the needs of the people.

 

Gary Beck

New York, USA

 

*

 

Vermin

 

I’m sorry

I think to the cockroaches that squish under my boots

as I walk home along the roaring breakers of ocean surf

on a thin strip of sidewalk crumbling slowly to sand. In the darker shadows

cat-sized rats scurry over concrete pilings, carrying greasy chip bags

hamburger wrappers and bits of rotting fruit in their mouths

claiming the fetid remains of the day for a midnight feast.

Years before, these rats and roaches would have been in hiding

in the ramshackle brick houses and empty warehouse spaces that used

to line this part of town, but now that all those old buildings are gone

and the new buildings, mostly condos, are too brightly lit for vermin

the rats and the roaches have all come down to the beach. The new condo owners

might have chased away the junkies and the whores

and the homeless drunks with their overflowing shopping carts

but the rats and the roaches are here to stay.

 

Holly Day

Minneapolis MN

 

*

 

Old Crocker

 

Old Crocker brought us coal.

His blackened, scary face

had bulging bloodshot eyes

which stared below a greasy cap.

From lorry to his leather-aproned back

he heaved each sack and humped it

down the concrete path

in battered blakey-studded boots,

which as he thudded through,

struck sparks,

until the thunder of black fuel

tumbling in the bunker.

Such was the fearsome ogre

who brought us warmth in winter.

 

Michael Jennings

Keyworth, Nottinghamshire

 

*

 

American Beauty

 

Is mermaid legs of

silk noodles and storm

trooper boots. It’s pant

less. A hemmed blouse

of Amazonian orchids.

Tattooed neck. Marine

haircut. A chair made

of wolf pelts. Dressed as

a lemon meringue pie.

Drinking mushroom

tea and giggling at stars.

 

George Cassidy Payne

Rochester, NY, USA

 

*

 

Low Rider

 

Opt me out

of anything spontaneous, spectacular

or rash,

but don’t let me stop you

having a bash

on the scariest rides

that thrill making engineers

design and provide

for fun seeking fun seekers -

 

persons who enjoy a thrill

to show they’re alive

though nearly being killed,

and queue for the privilege.

 

It’s their bag you see

to be at the peak of anxiety

screaming out loud –

but leave me out,

I’ll be taking a step back

to realign my inner self,

addressing a wealth

of calm idiosyncrasies.

 

David Pike,

Swindon, Wiltshire

 

*

 

Roughing It

 

A rough dress forgotten, designed for a lady, worn by 

a mother who never took much to the traits of stars.

 

Modelling hands of ruby nails and soft lotions, bare

no likeness to the digits crevassed by cold and rain.

 

Mouths needed feeding, food to be planted

and dirt soiled the folds of a skin still trying to be young.

 

No time for jolly waltzes in the dusty, musky ballroom

only a moment to turn from oven to table at work.

 

Eyelashes faded, braids unravelled with the passing days

the make-up hardened to become cement in a tight jar.

 

When death came at last beauty was allowed anew

she lay still rosy cheeks, peaceful under deep foundation.

 

The little girl had dreamed of a cover glamour shot

success indeed; that it is the last memory of her.

 

Fabrice B Poussin

Rome, Italy

 

*

 

Foundry

 

When I first saw the place one summer

it looked like someone dropped a bomb.

Through a chain-link fence

sheet metal siding charred black as coal

hung on steel girders.

From the car window

you could only look through one end

where furnace number nine made silicon.

When they tapped, a fiery glow exploded,

split darkness in a shower of volcanic light.

 

Waiting in the gravel parking lot

after dad’s shift,

the car was an oven of three o’clock heat.

They walked from the small building

covered in black steel-dust

like old photographs of miners.

Covered with fine filings,

this dust that resembled glitter

inside through a shaft of light,

you cleaned from your nose an hour after shift.

Black snot.  Black spit.

Steel was in their blood.

Fifty years, my father worked

through changing names, collective bargaining,

a strike, an employee buy-out.

 

Lines on his face and in his hands

were other stories.

He drove almost an hour every day to work.

one direction,

strung electrical wire,

checked switches, relays, transistors.

 

Sunflower seeds and cigarette buts on the plunging station floor.

Mess hall cuss and days of jokes.

Once in a while someone brought food.

Talk of mortgages, political snares.

One summer on furnace number two,

Miller looked at me and said,

“Welcome to Hell.”

Everybody just wanted a better life.

 

Many years later

one of them was pulled over;

a rumor of cocaine in his trunk.

Prison.

After all this time,

here and there they fall,

felled by life;

alcohol, heart disease and cancer.

 

John Timothy Robinson

Gallipolis Ferry, WV, USA

 

*

 

Cottage Song

 

I remember shadows

and the long arms of strength.

 

I see smiles and pain

seasons passing.

Voices over a river

one I’m familiar with -

 

thoughts provide a healing,

of scars no longer visible.

 

I recall the aroma of lilacs

in the morning,

dew covering canvas awnings

and red wing blackbirds

heading to the tidal basin.

 

Roger Singer

Old Lyme, Connecticut, USA

 

*

 

Unskilled

 

I have an apartment lease to offload, need a foxhole

after another upheaval in the hum of these days,

discovery, escape, possibility, blood fizzing.

I recognise the canny suit who responds to my ad,

taking me back to the cages of earlier restless times.

 

He was my boss when I quit, storming out offended

by tactless remarks criticising a distressing call,

a medical emergency halting sweaty work.

No phones in pockets.  Work scarce.  Bosses ruled.

I had vowed to find another job before day’s end.

 

He remembers me, an emotional boy-father

of an injured child, who showed up the next morning.

Smug, compassionate, I couldn’t tell back then,

he assumed I would retract my notice, was shocked

I landed a job that day I told him where to stick his.

 

He wants the apartment for his student daughter.

I mention my language studies, enjoy his surprise again,

omit shameful wreckage bobbing in life’s wake,

the married girlfriend, cheap drama like a bad movie.

We all want our hazardous lives to turn out magical.  

 

Ian C Smith

Sale, Vic, 3850, Australia

 

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