poetry

In That One Dream by Bruce Gunther

In That One Dream

Even pigeons could read my mind

as I walked without destination along

the sidewalk of the big city; the hot dog

vendor looked like Jack Nicholson.

The mystical canyon of skyscrapers

loomed, and Plato passed out copies

of his writings, anxious to share

his life’s work with anyone interested.

No one in their right mind wants what you’re selling,

someone said as he passed, so convinced

of man’s fallibility that nearby faith healers

and positive thinkers grew silent and anxious.

And the dark clouds hung full and heavy,

threatening to rain for the next 40 days.

A cleansing would do us all good, someone

else said as we formed a line behind Noah’s animals.

Bruce Gunther

(Image provided by Christopher J Ananias)

Class Reunion by Christopher J Ananias

(Ed note: Happy New Year to All! And although we have been up every day for several months, it is still a joy to announce our grand opening. Today we start the year with a wonder bit of work by Christopher J Ananias, who is also responsible for the header image–Leila)

from the bug eyes of isolation

put the trailer court into a paper sack

and drink it

thirty years of days, gone

classmates, like pickets

they want, (they say), to see me at the class reunion

an October affair

when the pink glories despair

I can’t recall their faces

no one to dismiss

surely they had the makings of which

hair lips teeth—smiles and such

no successful accolades

What can I give?

they don’t want to catch my limp

one more look over the yearbook

oh, heart jumping!

there’s Lori’s brown braids

and Ken’s grin

he passed the pot pipe—and more

frozen people on wooden bleachers

others marching with golden horns and blue pennants!

cheerleaders throwing stars!

teachers standing around

oh sadness!

what do they want with me?

I cannot face those faces

I’m on a suspended license

riding up in my junker with dog hairs

gray goatee and brown eyes, dodging

with a shuffling hunching

mortal coil nearly shucking

all these days of years, drinking

leaking me on the barroom’s floor

a living hole

should take a big step through yon skyward’s door

no kids’ picture to present

not even a surly seed

or his mother’s needs

just me

drinking foghorns of time

sleeping on cement slabs

bars and paper crosses

glued with mint toothpaste

Who could believe?

we were ever seventeen

bursting threads and heart seams

marching with golden horns and blue pennants!

one more look over the yearbook

Farewell Old Year and Happy New Year From Saragun Springs: Six Limericks by Geraint Johanthan

Ed. Note: Nothing is better to read for entertainment value than the mighty limerick. And today we close out 2025 (a somewhat quiet, dweebish year that appears happy not to have secured a place of infamy) with six limericks, in two sets of three, by Geraint Jonathan.

No rest for the wicked, the wiccan or the wickered. We will return tomorrow…Leila

3 Limericks from Wales, by Geraint Jonathan

(For John Bilsborough R.I.P)

There was a fine man from Caersws

Who went for a bath in his boots

He splashed for a while

But his feet remained dry

And his wardrobe full of moth-eaten suits.

There was a man by the name of Harris

Who dreamed of dying in a garret in Paris

But getting to France

He’d no fucking chance

Being skint and with it embarrassed.

There was an old man of Kidwelly

Who’s spent his life watching the telly

And so it was b’there

His eyes became square

As did, most curiously, his belly.

3 Limericks from the North by Geraint Jonathan

There was a young man new to Morecambe

Who loved the sea air it was awesome

But talk of monsters

Seen out in the waters

While untrue he still swore that he saw some.

There was an old man from Carlisle

Who bore his teeth in the shape of a smile

Among further adventures

He misplaced his dentures

And his gums did the work for a while.

There was a fine fellow of Kendal

Who was thought to be quite sentimental

I don’t know about that

He said but did add

It’s less of the senti, more the mental.

nobody number one, by Geraint Jonathan

(And as promised last week, here’s the third poem this month by brilliant Geraint Jonathan-Leila)

he was supernobody

a provincial jack

big on words

loaded with them

styled himself half-life

spun a tired line in self-deprecation

& all the while no self there

played phantom

(with a nod to phantoms everywhere)

on the offchance

phantoms don’t play themselves

in the popular imagination

being too absent abstracted

altogether too phantomlike

the world seemed

& those in it seemed unaware of it

seemed unaware of it that is

supernobodies can spot these things

the faces in a face

the suffering animal’s laughter

the engendering of toads in a petty dispute

being nobody helps

(makes anyone possible)

& with a wife & three kids 80 miles north

there was nothing for it but robes & wigs

& swords & the art of being somebody else

the word-load heavy but the money good

nobody par excellence

one shakescene of a country

disguised as himself

provincial jack

big on words

he-man, all-too he-man, by Geraint Jonathan

(We are blessed with another new item for this month–three actually by Geraint Jonathan. The first appears today, the second tomorrow and the third next week–Leila)

i said to her i said

unhesitating obedience is all i ask

taking what i say as gospel

hanging on to my every syllable

is all that’s required

apart from that

you’re free to do as i tell you i said

my good books are easy to be in

it’s wordy there for sure

but listen is an anagram of silent

& your silence is the best i’ve heard yet

& if you think that’s a riddle think again

that’s what i said i couldn’t’ve been clearer

but did she listen not a bit of it

so off i went

you’ve a vengeful nature she said

out of nowhere just like that

vengeful nature now is it i said

we’ll fucking see about that

Staying Fit by Christopher J Ananias

(CJA has previously published prose and photography in the Springs, now he successfully adds poetry to his site canon–LA)

only the vain

and who isn’t in this country?

can feel the strain

of trying to stay the same

sweat rolling down my brain

all the while lines appear

caked up thick!

in a funeral parlor’s pit

staying fit, I should trade it for a crucifix

exercise schedules

and dietary rituals

spread on low-carb bread

the gym and the road, to cheat

the old varicose veined hag of death

who appears by our bedside

the heartbeat’s timekeeper,

with a coroner’s stopwatch

destroying our sunshine

the temporal concubine

run five miles today

the flesh says, “Get slim, Sunny Jim”

still marked and measured for death

—I will fulfill your destiny yet!

with or without the benefit

of running shoes and exercise equipment

a Nike SWOOSH on your coffin lid?

Saragun Verse: Ode to the Bought and Sold

Such a pettifog, he

Scheming and placating,

Somehow forgetting the gods

Who foreclose on borrowed truth

Such an obsequity, she

Parroting upstairs melodies

Forgetting there are no loopholes

For heads tucked in the noose

It begins as sweet stuff

Everyone on the line

Everyone plenty good enough

Graham crackers and story time

Dreams on wind dried sheets

Stories with morals to be learned

Yet the cash machine must collect

Between the crib and the urn

Such a cynic, me

Listing and berating

Laughter without smiles

And when my phone rings

It kills without style

Destination by Dale Barrigar Williams

Beatrice had passed.

But now she was back.

She was naked

then not, and wearing

a long, strange, multi-colored

wig

that mostly covered some of her.

She was still beautiful, but

she looked so different!

In the dream, she died at 39;

so why is she still alive!?

And now we turned, and went

on a long, strange trip, traveling

on many bizarre, futuristic contraptions;

some like giant roller coasters that were,

and were not, at the same time.

(Just about to fall from your seat,

dangling in mid-air,

you realize you won’t,

over and over again.)

Fearless, fantastic, floating, futuristic

contraptions, stretching across a nameless

ocean which makes the Pacific look like

a puddle on another planet with

no final destination in sight.

And singingly, swimmingly, hey, ho, ah, oh,

whoa, my favorite girlfriend is back, still

beautiful but so, so different, somehow.

Friendly, whale-sized dolphins laughing

below us, fabulously glowing, radiant,

giant white seagulls soaring above us

as we two flew.

I could feel

the wind

from their wings

brushing our hair.

She had taken my hand

almost like in life

when mother was gone

and I was a child.

I didn’t know; we didn’t talk; we didn’t need to;

launched into a time where

no more talking is needed.

And it was OK, and she knew

where we were going.