May 2018 Vol. III No. V
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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Formal & Rhyming Poetry with Vera Ignatowitsch
Dante’s House
On a mid-December night I went astray
in the streets of Florence, dark and serpentine,
an underworld of winding way on way.
Lost in the realm of Guelph and Ghibelline
I abandoned hope of finding my way back
by signs in undecipherable Florentine.
A swarm of Vespas ripsawed through the black
piazza spewing the sulfur stench of hell,
but by their bug-eyed lights I saw a plaque
in English and Italian, placed to tell
a lost soul this was Dante’s house, and clear
and close I heard our Duomo’s vesper bell.
The church and poet told me I was near
the safety I had wandered from alone.
The night’s despair began to disappear;
I lit upon a footpath I had known
by day and came full-circle through the night
to see, across a square of cobblestone,
the steady beacon of our window light.
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Richard Wakefield's first poetry collection, East of Early Winters (University of Evansville Press), won the Richard Wilbur Award. His second collection, A Vertical Mile (Able Muse Press), was short-listed for the Poets Prize.
Midwinter Music
(written in the Orkney Islands)
The hawthorn branches’ lightning lines
are paralleled by seams of white
as snowfall mantles them, each jagged
angle traced,
each pronged and ragged
fork embalmed, perhaps embraced.
Around the fields, old stunted pines
grow flocculent with flakes. Despite
the fires within, the farms are wooled
with snow, their sills
and gutters ruled
and cushioned with small corniced hills.
The drystone dikes have scalloped crests.
On open moors, the windward sides
of standing stones blockade the blow,
black and upright,
till driving snow
feathers them into background white.
The moaning wind stravaigs and quests
but one communal call abides
as flurries hover, glide, and fall
among the drifts—
inside a hall
a cellist's hand position-shifts.
Won the 2015 “String Poet Prize” and was published in String Poet.
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John Beaton writes metrical poetry. His work has been widely published, won numerous awards, and he recites it in spoken word performance. Raised in the Scottish Highlands, he lives in Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island.
Averse
Even for those schooled in biblical verse,
Easy to skim over, easy to miss:
Judas greeted and betrayed with a kiss
And moments later—he would grieve and curse.
We know he planned, plotted and rehearsed.
Someone was absent from his heart’s abyss.
Months before, did he hear the serpent’s hiss
As he skimmed coins, from the disciples’ purse?
I have regrets. I’d shift gears, to Reverse
If I had such power; I’d cruise in bliss.
I have, I fear, greeted Him with a kiss—
Soon, passed the better way, and steered for worse.
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Peter C. Venable s poetry has been published by Windhover, Third Wednesday, Time of Singing and others. His fascination with rhyme and meter began in college. and he finds lyrics in anthems, especially hymns, edifying.
Rigor Mortis, or
Virginia Beach
A music-box rendition of The Sting
pings from the last remaining ice-cream cart;
I used to like that song. I used to work
before Virginia Beach though, that strange land
where no one labors but the ice-cream man
and the convenience store on Sandpiper.
Don't say that to the local residents
however, where they christen homes with names
like Happy Daze and Absinthe, Promise Kept,
Good Therapy, Sea-Esta. It's not that
they spend their lives on beaches. Read the names;
they'll kill themselves before they ever work
again; not now, not ever. And the beach
recedes in time, becomes innocuous.
Because they've proved their point; they've flailed themselves
and bought this beach-side with their weathered skins;
just try to claw it from them —
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Kathryn Jacobs is a poet, professor, and editor of The Road Not Taken. Her fifth book, Wedged Elephant, was published last year by Kelsay Press.
reality risotto
The recipe is simple.
Properly served, we taste the tongue of life.
Our every portion’s ample,
and every bite is full
of tears like honey sweetening each laugh.
The recipe is simple:
no fork or spoon: a handful
crushed on teeth and lips, or pinchling of
one portion can be ample.
Until the stained teeth crumple,
rip at the meat and bones, taste joy and grief.
The recipe is simple.
If we can savor all
in purity and blend, and learn to love
our portion, that is ample.
The hungry grave can call,
but if there’s nothing left for us to give? . . .
The recipe is simple.
Just make your portion ample
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JBMulligan has had more than 1000 poems and stories published over the last 40 years, as well as two chapbooks, two e-books, and appearances in several anthologies.
The Divide
The sea was not salt the first tide . . .
was man born to sorrow that first day?
The moon—a pale beacon across the Divide,
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the brighter for longing, an object denied—
the tug at his heart’s pink, bourgeoning clay . . .
The sea was not salt the first tide . . .
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but grew bitter, bitter—man’s torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing—forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
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flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.
The sea was not salt the first tide . . .
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imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.
The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love’s concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide . . .
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.
First published by Sonnetto Poesia.
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Michael R. Burch has been published more than 3,000 times. His poems have been translated into eleven languages and set to music by three composers. He also edits TheHyperTexts.
My Mother’s Scolding Spoon
She used to chase me with a wooden spoon
a game of cat and mouse, until the time
I felt the handle break one afternoon
It made me laugh, though laughing was a crime
when I was young, if making fun of her
implied a gain. A penalty I’d come
to know could be reversed. A saboteur;
I’d learned to wait for indications from
the way she’d say my name. Her lips would purse
unyielding, then I’d know, I’m done,
no glimmer of hilarity. She’d curse
surprisingly “Goddammit!” if I’d won
or broke the spell. I’ve saved her favorite things
her watch and spoon and all that memory brings
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Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is an eight-time Pushcart nominee and a five-time Best of the Net nominee. She is a member of the Saratoga Authors’ Hall of fame .
Limericks & Lighthearted Verse
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TWO IN PASSING
Spelling Pronunciation
(On passing St Weonard’s Church
in Herefordshire, a unique dedication.)
The woodcutting Welshman, St Weonard,
Looking black, or at least dark sienna’d,
Said, “ Where locally honoured,
My name’s pronounced ‘Wonnard’,
But for most I’m a misprint for ‘Leonard’.”
Assault and Cattery
(On passing a Devon signpost marked
'Neopardy Cross' )
A cat-loving couple from Neopardy
Left their neighbours in dudgeon and jeopardy.
They could stand being bitten
By a small furry kitten,
But then it grew larger, and leopardy.
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From Herefordshire, Jerome Betts edits Lighten Up Online in Devon. His verse has appeared in Light, The Asses of Parnassus, New Verse News, Parody, Per Contra, Snakeskin and other places.
Free Verse
So rarely do contemporary bards
Enjoy an upgrade in financial status.
Amassing riches isn't in the cards
When one's essential work is tendered gratis.
It's said that poets write for other poets,
Which isn't quite as bad as this must sound,
For those submitting verse at least will know it's
Not subject to review by Ezra Pound.
Of course they'd like a broader readership,
But bowing to contemporary culture
Would just legitimize the septic grip
Of modern poetry's licentious vulture.
As Robin might have said to Marian:
Preserve what's good — all else is carrion.
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First published in Blue Unicorn.
C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. His poems have appeared internationally, and his first print book, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder, was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
On this page we publish monthly selections of metrical poetry from our contributors. Submit your blank verse, metrical rhyming poems, villanelles, sonnets, sestinas pantoums, and other formal poetry to betterthanstarbucks2@gmail. We love both traditional and experimental forms and subjects, and please do submit your limericks and lighthearted verse as well! Vera Ignatowitsch
"some of the best poetry on the web" Vera Ignatowitsch
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