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June 2024 (111 editions in total)
59th edition as a webzine
Poems listed in surname alphabetical order
To view Pulsar Poems from earlier years, refer to Home Page, for listings
***
Poem Index - June 2024
A Small Town in November, poem by Liam Aungier
We Should Be in Miami, poem by Salvatore Difalco.
Lunch Break, poem by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Driving the old Afghan Trail, poem by John Grey.
A Short Visit to Your Childhood Home, poem by John Grey.
Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner, poem by Maëlle Leggiadro.
Now Damaged, poem by David Pike.
The Evening News, poem by Brett Reid.
Untitled, poem by Mykyta Ryzhykh
Blitz Years , poem by John Short.
*
A Small Town in November
The rain blows in your face
And you don't care.
Your back to the harbour,
You are walking along the beach,
Shoes sinking into the rain-wet sand.
Late autumn and the sky
Is a symphony in grey.
The holiday makers
In tee-shirts and fake tans
And their rumbustious kids
Have all returned to their lives.
A padlock rusts on the gate
Of the rickety fun-fair.
And you are content.
Your town is itself again:
Sullen, introspective,
It's cobbled alleys
Rained on; it's river
Restless in it's bed, gurgles
Under a concrete bridge.
The "Imperial Hotel"
Lies under a cloud, and nothing
Is finer now than this rain
Falling on a small town in November.
Liam Aungier
Co. Kildare, Ireland
*
We Should Be In Miami
My thumbnail, purpled by hammer,
is doomed this winter morning.
The sunshine deceives, the air
out here will seize-up your nose.
Sitting on chairs of snow, we know
we are far away from Miami,
its chameleons and monarchs,
burnt orange dusks and blow.
We sit nodding, snug as grubs,
on a Sunday in mid-January,
smoking the air, or slapping
our thermal mittens together.
Give thanks to life, for giving us
this moment, frozen in time
as it were, but we aren’t talking.
We are thinking of Miami.
But aren’t you glad we’re alive?
It could be otherwise:
black-curtained windows,
a Clydesdale-drawn hearse.
My thumbnail aches
in its thumb-sleeve tomb.
Alas, I have never claimed
to be a fucking handyman.
We are sitting out here in ten
below zero centigrade, so
pissed off we can’t express
our peeves, our deepest bones.
We should be in Miami
bronzing on the beach or
drinking Margaritas from a fish tank
and singing Jimmy Buffet tunes off-key.
Salvatore Difalco
Toronto, Canada
*
Lunch Break
Throttled by shopping
mall words and
spattered by spit
from a flap of lips,
then scarred by a set
of sharp white teeth
camouflaged as a smile,
I sit on a bench
to rest my feet,
close my eyes,
listen to stories
entangled in a slow
drift, a click of heels,
a shuffle of soft soles,
I doze my hour
on a hard slab of wood
and then awaken to
my own story
still half-told.
Richard Dinges, Jr.
Walton, NE, USA
*
Driving the Old Afghan Trail
On a flat stretch
of nothing but red dirt
and occasional spinifex,
where the distance
is taken up
with rock formations
and the occasional watery mirage,
the near –
in fact the road ahead –
is clogged with four wild camels.
Despite much honking and shooing,
those creatures refuse to budge.
One even looks in our direction,
lowers its bottom lip
in a kind of comical sneer.
The Australian outback
has its eccentricities.
Even the easiest of going
is not guaranteed to go on forever.
Stubbornness can set down
just about anywhere.
John Grey
Johnston, RI
USA.
(formerly from Australia)
*
A Short Visit to Your Childhood Home
The bed seemed out of place,
like it didn’t belong in the room you slept in.
But maybe it was the room that was out of place:
the pennants, the posters, the yearbooks,
the two-shelf bookcase stacked with fairy tales.
Most likely, you were out of place:
your body three inches longer than the mattress,
your arms hanging over the side.
You were glad to reach the airport early,
The plane couldn’t come soon enough.
You longed to spread out,
to reconnect with your life now.
On the flight home,
you were squeezed into a middle seat.
John Grey
*
Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner
London rushes me outside
I get carried away by goals
That were never mine
Every minute is precious
I got accustomed to holding my breath
And forgetting to look up
I watch the shadows in the street
When walking home at night
I have double-booked weekends
And buy tickets for unnecessary events
I get flowers delivered to my door
And count my blessings before bed
I believe in signs but I don’t have time
To stop and seek any of them
We earn just enough to cover the rent
It costs five pounds to leave the house
And we speak of flying somewhere South
When we don’t even bother
Seeing our friend who lives across the river
London is railways, beeping sounds,
“Unmissable” plays in the West End district
Where no one can afford to go
Fake eye-lashes, the secret services, café neros
The greatest show of the year
And angels weeping on churches’ doors
It’s the most beautiful and painful city to live in
And every Londoner feels a twinge of pride
In calling it home.
Maëlle Leggiadro
London
*
Now Damaged
‘There’s no easy way to approach this,’ he said, kicking the door of the garden shed off its hinges. All-in- all his reaction was poor and didn’t take prisoners. If it didn’t work or fit after cajoling and shoving it for a bit, then he’d explode in a comedy of violence and expletives. “Patience is a virtue,” some unremembered guru once said whilst waiting at a bus stop for a bus that never arrived. So, our person, (we’ll call him a person), would let rip, feel the better for it and then contrive to put the door back where it had hung before, albeit now structurally unsound, damaged and a poor fit.
Perhaps that’s the answer, kick the door before it kicks you, then make a run for it.
David Pike
Camelford, Cornwall
From DP’s new book of poems, Avoiding Potholes, release date late 2024.
*
The Evening News
With no clear intent
I took a slice of slate
from the beach at Baltray.
Fast forward a year, I hold the slate
not to my ear but pressed tight
against a pane of winter’s blear light.
In a split second I’m thrown
by the silhouette
to a lounge floor in 1967,
where I watch up close
Sir Donald Campbell’s boat.
Nose almost touching the grey screen
I see a man for all his life’s worth
living a boy’s dreams
of speed and engines,
in a race to be the fastest in the world
before the last of that day becomes night.
Then it flashes white.
Brett Reid
Auckland, New Zealand
*
***
We slept with you in the crack of a cut hand
Not a single air bothered us with its presence
All clouds and trees were covered with a veil of nakedness
The weapon itself also hid in the anal slits, apparently there it belongs
Finally you raised your finger up and I realized that I was dreaming
I wake up in the silence of the graveyard hidden under the bed
I wake up I sleep I fall asleep I invent your finger
Thrice tied to the lord I come up with a finger
I teach my brain to live again.
Mykyta Ryzhykh
Tromsø, Norway
(Formerly from Ukraine)
*
Blitz Years
She used to tell me often
of the war, only twelve
and that nightly blitz,
how they’d scramble inside
an Anderson shelter
submerged at the garden’s edge
all except her brother,
nonchalant in bed
snoring while bombs fell
on the Websters just nearby.
Dad had his stories too:
some old bloke down their way
who landed intact, unscathed
in the middle of the street.
That one never quite convinced
but it’s true he was evacuated
to Holywell, north Wales
where he learned the language,
scraps of it at least, rolled
out at family parties to impress.
John Short
Lydiate, Merseyside
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***
March 2024 (110 editions in total)
58th edition as a webzine
Poems listed in surname alphabetical order
To view Pulsar Poems from earlier years, refer to Home Page, for listings
***
Poem Index - March 2024
Glitch, Nikos Chrysikopoulos.
Above the Wispering Pines, Joanne Holdridge.
More or Less, David Pike.
I Teach Adult Eduction Classes - Brandon Robshaw.
Fools Aftermath, Gordon Scapens.
No Rain, Daniel P. Stokes.
Feigining Sleep, Daniel P. Stokes.
Fissure, Peter Venable.
Claws, Thomas Zimmerman.
***
Glitch
in this critical moment
when you expect me to explain
my thoughts are too fluid
to find words to step on
and the words are too jagged
for my few baked thoughts to rest on
the fan of my brain starts and stops
gasps of breath not transmuted into words
the fear extending its half rime on my palate
between honesty and self-preservation
the algorithm of my brain breaks down
into algos and rhythmless silence
Nikos Chrysikopoulos
St. Gallen, Switzerland
*
Above the Whispering Pines
The perfect metaphor can’t be caught
like a bass with the just right colored lure
coaxed like a child with the promise
of ice cream later if she’s good
can’t be kidnapped for ransom
swum after and held up like a prize
for a race quickly won
won't appear when you go out
wearing your rain slicker and hat
umbrella clutched in your right hand
or when you’re searching
between damp cobblestones
magnifying glass out
peering down at your feet
They dance out on the open
plain, where you don’t know
how you could have not seen them
light dazzling, expanse wide open
and you’re on a hill
looking down not a tree
or shrub in sight
but like chasing after the sunset
in a boat planed off
and heading toward
that sinking sun
it’s only when you stop
chasing and head away
from what you seek
that your life
a perfect metaphor
will come and find you
Joanne Holdridge
Devens, MA, USA
*
More or Less
He was beside himself
with rage. When I say
beside himself I mean, close
but farther down the page
than you at first
might have expected.
So, there he is
or was
glowering, incandescent, howling
for all he was worth
which wasn’t a lot,
half man, half something else
100 percent clot,
shouting the odds
making a show of a show,
beside himself
but farther down the page
as I previously explained,
than at first you might know.
David Pike
Camelford, Cornwall
*
I Teach Adult Education Classes
I teach adult education classes
and look the part, with my tweed jacket, beard
and glasses. History of Ideas: art,
literature, science, philosophy.
We meet in shabby run-down parish halls
with pallid flickering fluorescent lights
and walls of peeling beige. In midwinter
night falls by four. Drizzle patters
on the windows. Outside it’s bitter cold;
in here the radiator’s on full blast.
Every head is grey. I’m sixty-two
and I’m the youngest in the room.
In twenty years or so we’ll all be dead.
Meantime, we consume tea and plates of
hobnobs, and we feed our hungry minds
with Plato, Dante, Darwin, Hobbes, and Hume.
Brandon Robshaw
Walthamstow, London
*
Fool’s Aftermath
A swarm of wasps
are questions in my head,
a pavement tries hard
to hold me upright,
a spent night
wonders where I’ve been,
and you are nowhere
to be seen.
That clock with no hands
is telling me lies,
a roundabout
ignores my pleas,
my way home
needs the kiss of life,
and you are nowhere
to be seen.
There are words lying
where you left them,
there’s an excuse
that cannot be excused,
there’s a life running
headlong into a whimper,
and you are nowhere
to be seen.
And if there’s no you
I don’t want to be
who I think I am
in the morning.
Your face
will forever be
the speech I didn’t hear.
Gordon Scapens
Penwortham, Preston
*
No Rain
I check the window.
The ocean slaps the wall below
and clouds are scudding.
But there’s no rain.
Out the door and down the path
my brute and I go marching.
Inside, as I typed, he lay
and brooded. Outside alone,
fields vying for inspection,
he skulked about the yard
and eyed the door.
But now we’re off together
and he’s prancing, bucking, whirling
his approval. I’m infected.
Reflection, speculation are suspended. We’re
freewheeling. He’s on
a trail of smells that must be tested,
I’m stepping in the pawprints of his quest.
This ridge that’s under snuffle
spans the headland. The ocean,
on my left hand, melds with sky.
We’re down the other
towards a fern-fringed lake.
He, voracious at the sight of so much water, laps and slavers.
A gallon later, we shuffle
up a rise to meet the sea
upon the other shore.
His eyes are gunsights.
This water’s not for drinking.
It’s a target. He jounces
belly-high in seaweed,
around a rotting hulk and,
after splashing anything nose-worthy,
scrabbles back. At the ditch
I snag him by the collar
to let a car by, the driver
lifts a finger in salute.
And here’s the quay - a squawk
of gulls, bewailing our intrusion,
as he, unscrupled, smiling
on the seawall leaps and war-whoops,
keeping them in flight.
A glance across the bay affirms
The Bens are watching
and with the self-same gusto we return. House in sight, he rushes up the drive as if he never wished to leave it.
brushes by me indoors, mauls
his bedding, and, uninclined
to write a word about it,
slips to sleep.
Daniel P. Stokes
Dublin, Ireland
*
Feigning Sleep
The mornings you get out of bed before me,
feigning sleep, I watch you dress
to gauge how you behave
when no one’s looking.
And as you waddle round the room
attacking drawers, I focus,
fascinated, on your fork,
your breasts, your buttocks
as if I’d never seen them.
We’ve linked our aims
and fused our flesh
and know we’re better paired.
Still… having to concede that you exist
outside of my conception
and create a universe that overlaps with mine
with perceptions that don’t pertain to me
and dark matter I can never sound
nor work my will on,
leaves me frantic to find out what I can.
But even as I curl here, concealing
my intent to see what you’ll reveal,
I’ve half a notion you’re aware
intuitively of being watched,
instinctively amused by my poor ruse
to find insights in your undulations
and artillery in the manner
you pull on your drawers.
Daniel P. Stokes
*
Fissure
Every autumn grandpa hunted bobwhite
Castle Hayne NC. At dinner,
he always warned “Bite slowly”
but at nine years old, holster
and cap gun strapped to my hip,
chipmunk-cheeked with mashed potatoes and biscuits,
gravy odor filling my nose, I chomped into the spicy meat
in rapture—eyes closed—
bit on a birdshot, chipping
and cracking an incisor down the middle.
My tongue found it, spit it out
on great-grandma’s Royal Albert China plate.
It rolled up the edge and back by a pea.
Gramps shook his head.
I let out a cry a neighbor declared
she heard half a mile away.
Sixty years later
my tongue still probes its worn cleft,
that metallic aftertaste
tainting every buttered biscuit,
birdshot embedded in every bite.
Peter Venable
Winston Salem
NC, USA
*
Claws
Just trimmed your nails this morning. You don’t need
them to remember that we all have claws.
Reminds you of a conference years ago:
a poet told you, “There are claws around us.”
Then, “How long have you been writing?” This
before a curt dismantling of your work.
Your miniatures lay there scratched and chipped.
The poem the poet liked the best was one
about your death. Just sayin.’ Why not sample
it: “Streams nibble behind my knees.” That night,
the poet read a poem you loved. About
kids playing hide-and-seek. At dusk, the parents
cry, “All in! All in!” A fine refrain.
Evading claws. Or entering their clutches.
Thomas Zimmerman
Ann Arbor, MI, USA
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