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rock-rex.bsky.social
"Grow Old Along with Me".

#poem #poetry #roundel #sparksofcalliope
December 8, 2024 at 10:21 AM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"A Good Death" -- something of a response to Dylan Thomas, after the death of my father.

#poem #poetry #skypoets #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #sparksofcalliope
December 20, 2024 at 8:19 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
It's back!

#litmag #sparksofcalliope
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
Sparks of Calliope returns September 1, 2026
We’re back…
sparksofcalliope.com
August 26, 2026 at 4:16 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"Alzheimer's".

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #sparksofcalliope #randallaburd
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
What am I doing here, bewildered at the bottom of the stairs? Was there some task I should perform, some object lost? Time’s friction-flow my mind impairs. What am I doing here? My intellect was clear, and yet the years I’ve crossed Are being taken from me slowly, almost unawares, And like a standing stone I am becoming mossed. Now on this chilly step I sit and try to gather my affairs; I’ve outlived all my peers, but at too great a cost, For there is no-one left who cares. What am I doing here? (published in Sparks of Calliope, 1 ii 21)
June 27, 2026 at 9:29 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"Grow Old Along with Me", "Alzheimer's", "A Good Death" (in @sparksofcalliope.bsky.social 1 ii 21)

#poem #poetry #skypoets #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #sparksofcalliope #randallaburd

sparksofcalliope.com/2021/02/01/t...
Three Poems by Peter J. King
Grow Old Along with Me If I were kind then I should sayThat you’re as youthful as the dayI met you, and I’d claim to findFrom brow to chin your face unlined,          &nbsp…
sparksofcalliope.com
February 23, 2025 at 5:34 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"Caesarion" (after Kavafis).

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #kavafis #sparksofcalliope #mediterraneanpoetry
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
The eldest son of Cleopatra stands upon the steps of the Gymnasium before the Alexandrians, his rich and royal clothing gleaming in the midday sun. Slightly to his rear, his brothers whisper jokes, but he can’t join them in their muffled laughter. Even when a soldier faints in the oppressive heat, Caeasarion stays solemn, not a flicker of a smile. A trumpet sounds. Antony declares that Cleopatra is the goddess Isis, Queen of Kings, the Queen of Egypt and of Cyprus. Their two young sons are named as Kings of Syria, Cilicia, of Parthia, Armenia, and Media, their daughter Cleopatra as the Queen of Libya and Cyrenaica. A pause. A drop of sweat begins to form above Caesarion’s right eye; he feels it trickle slowly down his cheek. The trumpet sounds. The voice of Antony, his mother’s husband, now goes up in volume but its pitch is lower. It declares Caesarion to be the son and rightful heir of Julius, who’s recently been deified in Rome. And, as the offspring of a god and goddess, he is therefore doubly divine, and made the King of Kings, joint ruler with his mother of the land of Egypt. The small boy, dressed as Horus, somehow stands erect and bears the cheering of the crowd, in which he thinks to hear an undertow of mockery. Some four years later, at the age of seventeen, the last of the unhappy line of Ptolemy, Caesarion lies dead in Alexandria, his crime: to be an excess Caesar.
December 28, 2025 at 8:11 PM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
#poetry #poems #poetrylovers #SparksofCalliope #library #monday
Two Poems by Donald Wheelock
Monday Morning The wind whistled around the house just nowwith that insistence winter air reservesfor nights with something wistful to declare.A fly’s frustration breaks the daylight’s silencewith a buzzing at the windowpane. The treesalong the wood’s edge have that look that saysit’s time to give up color for the season. There’s not much new, I’ve seen it all before;
sparksofcalliope.com
February 10, 2025 at 3:08 PM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman sparksofcalliope.com/2025/03/06/t... #SparksofCalliope
Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman
To My Fellow Old People (Oops, “Seniors”) I know we’re all supposed to sayWe’re not afraid to die.But when you claim to feel that way,I want to ask you why.You think it’s time to step asideBecause …
sparksofcalliope.com
April 2, 2025 at 5:49 AM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
#poetry #poems #poetrylovers #SparksofCalliope #poetrycommunity
Two Poems by David D. Horowitz
Parking Space Forgetting fantasies of fame and cool,You stand before a green reflecting poolTo decompress. Beneath a grove of birch,You feel this park serves as a natural church.Away from charts, graphs, deadlines, and barrageOf calls, you shut your eyes and sense mirage:Retirement. In office, you might seetheAnd stew and gripe, but here you slow and breathe…
sparksofcalliope.com
February 7, 2025 at 6:00 AM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"Caesarion"

(after Kavafis)

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #sparksofcalliope #mediterraneanpoetry
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
The eldest son of Cleopatra stands upon the steps of the Gymnasium before the Alexandrians, his rich and royal clothing gleaming in the midday sun. Slightly to his rear, his brothers whisper jokes, but he can’t join them in their muffled laughter. Even when a soldier faints in the oppressive heat, Caeasarion stays solemn, not a flicker of a smile. A trumpet sounds. Antony declares that Cleopatra is the goddess Isis, Queen of Kings, the Queen of Egypt and of Cyprus. Their two young sons are named as Kings of Syria, Cilicia, of Parthia, Armenia, and Media, their daughter Cleopatra as the Queen of Libya and Cyrenaica. A pause. A drop of sweat begins to form above Caesarion’s right eye; he feels it trickle slowly down his cheek. The trumpet sounds. The voice of Antony, his mother’s husband, now goes up in volume but its pitch is lower. It declares Caesarion to be the son and rightful heir of Julius, who’s recently been deified in Rome. And, as the offspring of a god and goddess, he is therefore doubly divine, and made the King of Kings, joint ruler with his mother of the land of Egypt. The small boy, dressed as Horus, somehow stands erect and bears the cheering of the crowd, in which he thinks to hear an undertow of mockery. Some four years later, at the age of seventeen, the last of the unhappy line of Ptolemy, Caesarion lies dead in Alexandria, his crime: to be an excess Caesar. first published in Sparks of Calliope, 3 iii 21; republished in Mediterranean Poetry, 2 iv 21
August 26, 2026 at 7:39 PM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
#poetry #poems #poetrylovers #SparksofCalliope #poetrycommunity
Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee
Cricket with Father His legs, placed by the table's centrepiece,Revive a retro posture—crisscrossed feet—A style so august that it can increaseThe stature of his no-frills wooden seat.Although it seems those eyes are on the score,In truth, they try to gauge my mother's mood—If fine, he might receive a snack or moreWith tea—a fusion that's immensely good.
sparksofcalliope.com
February 13, 2025 at 6:02 AM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
Two Poems by D. A. Cooper sparksofcalliope.com/2025/03/12/t... #SparksofCalliope #poetrylovers
Two Poems by D. A. Cooper
Still The puppeteer prepares for coming night—he sweeps the floor, hangs tools above the stillunpainted woodland scenery. Pale lightstrikes fantoccini spines. Twilight invades the shop as sunlight …
sparksofcalliope.com
April 2, 2025 at 5:51 AM
sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
Two Poems by Matthew Johnson sparksofcalliope.com/2025/03/09/t... #SparksofCalliope #WritingCommunity
Two Poems by Matthew Johnson
The Neighborhood Rhapsody Mothers and grandmothers take turnsLooking over the brood, gripping their eyes to the worldThat is their neighborhood. Young men whose shifts begin in the evening, or…
sparksofcalliope.com
April 2, 2025 at 5:50 AM
rock-rex.bsky.social
In the style of Kavafis

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #promptcombo #inthestyleof #kavafis #sparksofcalliope #mediterraneanpoetry #amsterdamquarterly #artefactnouveau
@victoriaspires.bsky.social
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
The eldest son of Cleopatra stands upon the steps of the Gymnasium before the Alexandrians, his rich and royal clothing gleaming in the midday sun. Slightly to his rear, his brothers whisper jokes, but he can’t join them in their muffled laughter. Even when a soldier faints in the oppressive heat, Caeasarion stays solemn, not a flicker of a smile. A trumpet sounds. Antony declares that Cleopatra is the goddess Isis, Queen of Kings, the Queen of Egypt and of Cyprus. Their two young sons are named as Kings of Syria, Cilicia, of Parthia, Armenia, and Media, their daughter Cleopatra as the Queen of Libya and Cyrenaica. A pause. A drop of sweat begins to form above Caesarion’s right eye; he feels it trickle slowly down his cheek. The trumpet sounds. The voice of Antony, his mother’s husband, now goes up in volume but its pitch is lower. It declares Caesarion to be the son and rightful heir of Julius, who’s recently been deified in Rome. And, as the offspring of a god and goddess, he is therefore doubly divine, and made the King of Kings, joint ruler with his mother of the land of Egypt. The small boy, dressed as Horus, somehow stands erect and bears the cheering of the crowd, in which he thinks to hear an undertow of mockery. Some four years later, at the age of seventeen, the last of the unhappy line of Ptolemy, Caesarion lies dead in Alexandria, his crime: to be an excess Caesar. first published in Sparks of Calliope, 3 iii 21; republished in Mediterranean Poetry, 2 iv 21 If only, when you’d walked into that house, slowly climbed the stairs, ears pricked for muffled sounds, if only you had thought: ‘No, this is wrong’, and felt ashamed of your suspicious thoughts. If only you’d returned to work that day, and tried to put the whole thing out of mind; perhaps, then, you’d have left yourself with more than all these years of nothing but: “if only”. (first published Oxford Magazine 345, 2014) Symeon the Logothetis stood up from his desk and stretched; his neck was stiff, his eyes were sore and gritty, and his stomach rumbled. He had spent the morning calculating soldiers' pay, and tracking down corruption in the purchase of Greek fire, and now he needed food and rest. He ambled to the Neoríon, joined the throng that bustled through the gates, and bought some fresh-baked bread and Cretan cheese and wine at a taverna on the harbour front. A regular, he nodded greetings to the sailors, shipwrights, sutlers, and sawyers passing by, and one or two received a warmer, secret smile. Refreshed, he strode more briskly back to his expectant desk, and in the quiet of the Strategeíon (for the staff were napping through the drowsy afternoon) he laid out all his writing tools and his unfinished Chronicle. Sighing, then, he set to work where he'd left off the day before: the reign of Romanós Lekapenós, whose dark and liquid eyes he still remembered, gazing into his across a cushion of embroidered silk. first published in Amsterdam Quarterly 31, 2021 Desires (1904, K.P. Kavafis) Like beautiful bodies that never grow old tearfully sealed in a bright mausoleum, at their heads roses and at their feet jasmine — so look desires that grow cold unfulfilled, forever denied even one night of pleasure, or one of its light-filled mornings. Desires (a reply) As the bright thoughts of the blind from birth blossom ignorant of sunsets, building beauty from the bare accounts of drabness — so dance unfulfilled desires, imagination lending them the weight to balance wistfulness for what they never knew. translation of Kavafis © Peter J. King & Andrea Christofidou first published in Artéfact Nouveau 5:3, 2019 © Peter J. King
May 7, 2026 at 8:22 AM