There is a knight riding through the woods,
A brave and noble knight is he.
And surely he is on an urgent quest,
He rides so hastily.
He passed the oak and the birch trees,
And many other trees passed he,
But pleasant to him was the slender willow,
For beneath it he did see
The fairest lady that he ever saw,
She was so bright and fair.
And there she sat beneath the willow,
Combing her golden hair.
The knight said “Oh beautiful lady,
What chance has brought you here?
Just say the word and you shall go
Back to your family dear.”
The fair lady spoke up:
“I have no friends or kin,
But in a little boat I live,
Amidst the waves’ loud din.”
The brave knight answered:
“I will follow you through all,
For if you live in a little boat,
The world seems to it small.”
They went through the woods, to the end they came:
And there they saw the sea foam white.
And then they saw the tiny boat,
That danced atop the waves so bright.
First got in the fair lady,
Then the brave knight.
They rowed in the tiny boat
With all their might;
But the brave knight turned about,
And looked upon the lady bright;
He looked upon her rosy cheek,
And into her eyes so bright,
But her cheek grew deathly pale,
As if she was dead that night.
The false, false knight grew pale with fright,
His hair stood up on end,
For days gone by came to his mind,
And his former love he did recognize.
The lady spoke “You false knight
Have done me great ill,
You did forsake me long ago,
But I am constant still;
For though I lie in these cold woods,
At rest I cannot be
Until I suck the lifeblood
Of the man who caused me to die.”
He saw her lips were wet with blood,
And her merciless eyes did shine,
Loud he cried “Get away from my side,
You unclean vampire corpse!”
But no, he was in her magic boat,
On the wide and winding sea;
And the vampire sucked his lifeblood,
She sucked until he died.
So beware, whoever you are,
That walks in this lonely wood:
Beware of that deceitful ghost,
The ghoul that drinks the blood.
###
James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879) was a Scottish mathematician and physicist who made major contributions to electromagnetism and thermodynamics. He is best known for formulating the classical theory of electromagnetic radiation, bringing together electricity, magnetism, and light as different manifestations of the same phenomenon.
Madison Julius Cawein was an American poet born in 1865 in Louisville, Kentucky. He was associated with the “Kentucky School” of writers and was known
The Vampire
by Madison Cawein
A lily in a twilight place?
Or moonflower in the lonely night?—
Strange beauty of a woman’s face
Of wildflower-white!
The rain that hangs a star’s green ray
Slim on a leaf-point’s restlessness,
Is not so glimmering green and gray
As was her dress.
I drew her dark hair from her eyes,
And in their deeps beheld a while
Such shadowy moonlight as the skies
Of Hell may smile.
She held her mouth up, redly wan
And burning cold:—I bent and kissed
Such rosy snow as some wild dawn
Makes of a mist.
God shall not take from me that hour,
When round my neck her white arms clung!
When ‘neath my lips, like some fierce flower,
Her white throat swung!
Nor words she murmured while she leaned!
Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—
The spell that binds me to a fiend
Until I die.
###
Madison Julius Cawein was an American poet born in 1865 in Louisville, Kentucky. He was associated with the “Kentucky School” of writers and was known for his poetry featuring mystical themes of nature and mythology. Some of his notable published works include Blooms of the Berry (1898), Kentucky Poems (1900), Mystery and Romance (1901), and Myth and Romance (1908).
Cawein’s style was heavily influenced by the English Romantic poets like Keats and Shelley, with much of his poetry conveying a dreamy, romantic, and imaginative tone. He led a largely reclusive life, suffering from depression and alcoholism in his later years. Cawein died by suicide in 1914 at the age of 49.
At the peak of his career, Cawein was compared to renowned Romantic poets like Keats and Shelley. While mostly forgotten today, he was considered an influential regional American poet at the turn of the 20th century. His poem “The Vampire” is one example of his works dealing with supernatural subjects and themes. Though he died in obscurity, Cawein contributed a substantial body of mystical, nature-inspired poetry during his lifetime.
Richard LeDue (he/him) is the author of eight books of poetry. His work has appeared in the Eunioa Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Briefly Zine, and other publications, both online and in print
The Person I Used To Be
by Richard LeDue
3 AM musings
smelled of desperation,
while unicorns sniffed dreams
hidden behind my open eyes.
Extra maple cookies
helped the night
seem less like black coffee
gone cold.
My computer keyboard singing
a ten dollar poem
that died as easily
as someone in their sleep.
This was my defeat,
clean like a blank page
and practical as waking up
at a sensible hour.
###
Richard LeDue (he/him) is the author of eight books of poetry. His work has appeared in the Eunioa Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Briefly Zine, and other publications, both online and in print. His latest book, “Secondhand Salvation,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2023.
The poem’s unnamed narrator is alone at night feeling sad and weak as he pores over old books. As he is about to fall asleep, he hears a tapping at his chamber door. He opens the door to darkness and whispers the name “Lenore,
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered: “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Summary
The poem’s unnamed narrator is alone at night feeling sad and weak as he pores over old books. As he is about to fall asleep, he hears a tapping at his chamber door. He opens the door to darkness and whispers the name “Lenore,” whom the reader presumes to be his departed lover. The tapping continues, now at his window, but it turns out to only be a raven who flies into the room and perches above the narrator’s door.
When the raven refuses to leave and continuously croaks the word “Nevermore,” the narrator begins asking it questions, growing distraught at its ominous responses. He asks if he’ll be reunited with Lenore in Heaven but the raven simply responds “Nevermore,” devastating the narrator.
The narrator grows angry and tells the raven to leave, but it refuses. His soul is tormented by the bird’s persistent presence and grim pronouncement that he’ll never see Lenore again. In the end, the raven remains perched above his chamber door, casting a shadow on the floor, a sad symbol that the narrator’s grief will also remain.
Key themes include grief over the death of a loved one, loneliness, despair, melancholy, the supernatural, and the burden of painful memories. The raven and its haunting refrain of “Nevermore” symbolize the narrator’s profound sorrow and sense of loss.
Bio
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer, poet, critic and editor best known for his tales of mystery and horror. He is considered a central figure in the American Romantic movement and was one of the first American practitioners of the short story.
Poe was born in Boston to actress Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins Poe and actor David Poe Jr. His father abandoned the family when Poe was a toddler and his mother died of tuberculosis when he was two, leaving him orphaned. He was taken in by the wealthy tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife Frances in Richmond, Virginia.
Though never formally adopted, Poe took Allan as his middle name. He had a strained relationship with John Allan who did not support his literary ambitions. As a young man Poe attended the University of Virginia but was forced to drop out due to lack of funds.
His publishing career began in 1827 with the poetry collection Tamerlane and Other Poems. In 1835 he became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. He later lived in Philadelphia working as editor for magazines like Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine and Graham’s Magazine.
It was during this time that Poe established himself as a critical reviewer and published many of his most famous stories, including “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
Known for his Gothic, macabre themes and melancholic tone, Poe pioneered the modern detective story and helped define early science fiction. He married his cousin Virginia Clemm in 1836 who died of tuberculosis in 1847. Poe himself died under mysterious circumstances at the age of 40 in 1849.
Though not widely recognized during his lifetime, Poe’s stories and criticism have had a profound and lasting influence on American and international literature. He is now considered one of the most significant writers of the 19th century.
John Frank Haugh’s writing has been published in storySouth, The North Carolina Literary Review, Notre Dame Magazine, Main Street Rag, Rat’s Ass Review, The Wall Street Journal, and elsewhere.
Pretty Lights
by John Frank Haugh
Pretty Lights Nine days left in his twenty-ninth year the Businessman
slips silent from Claustrophobia House. He climbs
shadows, stands on a darkened church roof.
Four hundred bucks, a bus ticket, a backpack with apple
& paperback. A long wool coat scratchy-sodden wet,
tight at shoulder and hip. I bought a birth certificate,
it carries a different name. Two cement block are three sixty two,
at Lowes. Pretty cars pass. I could leave my overpass note or river
bridge note as if jumping, then Greyhound. Walk on, consider.
Weight paper with cement or drop a block? I could almost take out
one of the lights streaming below, tonight. Block through glass
as they speed curves. Pretty cars drive by, unaware
John Frank Haugh’s writing has been published in storySouth, The North Carolina Literary Review, Notre Dame Magazine, Main Street Rag, Rat’s Ass Review, The Wall Street Journal, and elsewhere. He won the 2022 Randall Jarrell Poetry Prize, was selected for Poetry in Plain Sight, a couple anthologies, and other things. Haugh lives in Greensboro North Carolina, was a good fencer once, and spends untold hours in bookstores like Scuppernong and Bookmarks. When not helping fix supply chain problems, walking, or napping, he works on his next book.
Edgar Allan Poe was born in 1809 and died in 1849. He was an American writer and poet. He was one of the cornerstone writers of the Romantic Movement.
Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
###
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer known for his dark and macabre tales and poems. He is considered a master of Gothic and Romantic literature and is famous for works such as “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Raven,” and “The Fall of the House of Usher.” Poe’s writing often explored themes of death, madness, and the supernatural, reflecting his own troubled life marked by personal tragedies and struggles. His distinctive style and contribution to the horror genre have left a lasting impact on American literature and continue to captivate readers to this day.
William Wiggins is an African American writer who is currently pursuing his Master’s in Psychology at the University of Cincinnati in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Life is Precious
by William Wiggins
Even as the night sighs,
I am enamored by the silence
of the trees. The leaves sleep
in the air as the boys
huddle closely together,
whispering of their fathers.
Fireflies hover in place
around us, barely glistening
as a woman rests her eyes
bedded with if.
Life—it’s still here.
Sometimes I forget.
But when there’s no more deer on the hill
or birds in the bush, we know they’re still,
too. Gone, but there. Waiting. Tomorrow,
the sun will rise, kissing the earth awake
and we’ll thank her with our being, our eating.
Nodding, I’d like to imagine
that there will be horses.
Some galloping, sweating with pride;
some sitting with the foal near the trees.
A gentle heat sliding through the leaves.
Or bees, buzzing by the flowers
as the boys sway in the field.
One humming, the other singing.
Or even, just the woman.
Sitting in the grass, shining.
And simply smiling.
###
William Wiggins is an African American writer who is currently pursuing his Master’s in Psychology at the University of Cincinnati in Cincinnati, Ohio. He has been writing poetry since July of 2022.
Michael Waterson is a retired journalist originally from Pittsburgh PA. His career includes stints as a seasonal firefighter, San Francisco taxi driver and wine educator. He earned an MFA from Mills College.
Winging It
by Michael Waterson
Whooshing past my ear on my sunup walk,
a mockingbird mimics a bird of prey.
As the bogus raptor whirls for a second swoop
at my head, my thoughts fly to augury.
If we matter to the gods, the Stoics said,
they drop us subtle signs to know their will.
I’ve wondered at starling murmurations
that seem cursive hints of a higher hand.
But how can my skeptical eye throw light on
fleeting glyphs penned by irate fluttering?
Perhaps this omen mocks my parroted songs,
featherweight intellect and flighty psyche,
or imparts portent from those dear departed
I soon will join beneath the grassy hill.
I don’t roost long in aerie clairvoyance
before learning grounds my alary alarm:
This is no dispatch from the sky that I
have run afoul of some affected deity,
no prophet from a Plutonian shore.
She’s a brooding, ruffled mother, egged on
by my lumbering, unintended menace,
a judgement even Marcus Aurelius’
unflappable flock might land on.
Though now demystified, my oracle
lifts my spirit with her audacity,
her affirmation of life’s buoyancy,
a pedestrian presentiment I gloss
as auspices this fledgling morning.
Michael Waterson is a retired journalist originally from Pittsburgh PA. His career includes stints as a seasonal firefighter, San Francisco taxi driver and wine educator. He earned an MFA from Mills College. His work has appeared in numerous online and print journals, including California Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest and The Bookends Review. His information may be found at: michaelwatersonpoetry.com.
Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland.
Sunlight Crystal
by Scott Thomas Outlar
I wounded all my alibis
before fully forming
now the theory is dizzy
crash point of fever
shine where the clovers are smitten
gathering red leaves
for spells of caution
You told me every story
takes on a life of its own
when eager
now my mouth is dry cotton
thick fabric turn autumn
glow in the gown of soft feather
lining up the charge
for signs of contact
Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He is the author of seven books, including Songs of a Dissident (2015), Abstract Visions of Light (2018), Of Sand and Sugar (2019), and Evermore (2021 – written with co-author Mihaela Melnic). Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 14 languages. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past eight and a half years. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks
Welcome To The Moon
by Bruce McRae
Of course I have no idea
what it is I’m doing here,
a little house on Mare Librium,
the icy nights and lack of atmosphere,
a door that’s always ajar,
the light on the veranda
swarming with moon-moths and asteroids,
moondust getting into everything.
I’d rather be sailing,
though I’ve never been sailing before.
I hardly go anywhere
that I’m not invited.
For instance, the Vatican,
its secret library and underground passageways
that lead directly to a netherworld
they neither confirm nor deny,
the existence of heaven also in doubt,
in the same way some question
the moon landings or fairies in the garden.
I mean, who’d be an astronaut,
gravity’s dearth and glut a problem,
the cosmos just another god to be denied . . .
But I digress, a series of digressions,
footprints in ash leading us away from ourselves,
Luna City rising up from a crater’s bottom
and its suggestive connotations.
When what I’d wanted to say is
come one, come all, the moon awaits thee,
its enticing vistas and stoic panoramas,
though ‘stoic’ may not be the word I’m looking for,
perhaps ‘stoney’ or ‘stolid’ instead,
my point being we need the tourist dollars
if ever we hope to survive. And hope we must
if we are to flourish in the future.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his poems have been performed and broadcast globally.
George Moore’s poetry has appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, Arc and Stand. His recent collections are Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls
On the Last Day
by George Moore
after João Cabral de Melo Neto
On the last day of the world I’ll walk the dog along the shore
and we’ll notice the little things grains of sand glistening in the moonlight
all the smells he knows so well and we’ll not worry about Columbus
misreading the roundness of the world or Cortez the worship of horses
or Khan where to hide himself when the world is gone
Something will be going on somewhere
and we’ll feast in the honor of mornings with the traditional toast and jam
George Moore’s poetry has appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, Arc and Stand. His recent collections are Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016). A finalist for The National Poetry Series and nominated for eight Pushcart Prizes, he has taught literature and writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and now lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia.
Quince, the golden peach
its essence blooming from glass jars, just sealed,
aromatic, warm,
raw November banished,
retreating through opaque windows,
I close my eyes, taste the air, redolent of the hours,
those carriers of narrative, each facet a glimpse of time remembered,
an affirmation of then and now,
a particle held captive in its amber pool,
the essential blemish,
that grounding mark, reminding me that perfection distracts,
there is always another layer,
a lifting of the lid,
promise of process between seed and harvest,
touching earth,
this year has gifted the maker with bounty,
as if the sands of time ran too fast
we husbanded with acknowledgement and skill,
intuiting the all too precious moments,
lost and found,
as we passed through together
in remembrance of warmth in the soul
Anna Banasiak have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, China, Cuba, Israel. She is the winner of poetry competitions in London, medal Unesco, Berlin, Bratislava, gold, gold and silver in Kamena, gold, silver and bronze at All Poetry.
Infinity
by Anna Banasiak
I’m looking at people
lost in the rushing universe
I’m only a drop of time
in a gust of eternity
I’m searching for the truth
in the music of things
wandering in the world
like a blind bird.
Anna Banasiak have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, China, Cuba, Israel. She is the winner of poetry competitions in London, medal Unesco, Berlin, Bratislava, gold, gold and silver in Kamena, gold, silver and bronze at All Poetry. silver for short story, silver for dog poem, bronze for Mother poem, poems of the day at poemhunter, poems of the month at Poet bay, editor picks at Prose, winner at Poems and Quotes and Writers Café. I publish books of poetry in India and Japan.
Nolo Segundo, pen name pof L.J.Carber, became a widely published poet only in his 8th decade in nearly 140 literary magazines in 10 countries and 3 trade book collections: The Enormity of Existence [2020], Of Ether and Earth [2021], and Soul Songs [2022]
The Low Hanging Sun
by Nolo Segundo
I went to take out the trash,
the good trash, glass and paper
destined for re-incarnation
and as I stepped outside,
the air cool and pearly white,
the low hanging sun smiles,
throws a late afternoon warmth
over my body, a blanket of silk.
For a moment I stopped to think,
then thanked the low hanging sun
for being there, the last defense
against a cold deep unto death….
In our immense Universe, wall-less,
ever expanding, is mostly night,
utter and fearsome darkness, all
pitch-black and cold, a coldness
beyond comprehension or life—
so the light and heat of every
myriad star is precious, precious….
Nolo Segundo, pen name pof L.J.Carber, became a widely published poet only in his 8th decade in nearly 140 literary magazines in 10 countries and 3 trade book collections: The Enormity of Existence [2020], Of Ether and Earth [2021], and Soul Songs [2022]. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, he’s a retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] who has been married 43 years to a smart and beautiful Taiwanese woman.
