Covalent Bonds

Covalent Bonds
by Sunbry Fieldhat

Zane Grey slipped near the drain
losing his never to be forever balance

He was often careless like this
lost in the milieu of millennial-like
reflections on self, and life, and the careless
way he stepped, reflected the careless way he

Losing touch with the ground was simply
body following mind

Inevitably and quickly
his brain case,
filled with brief wonder,
closed the gap
met the ledge

A robust stream
of blood
slipped warmly down
his neck

His girl, exasperated,
having made allowances
for his flitting mind and
inattentive hands heard the
thud but didn’t move

better to let hope rub a rush to heat
than call 911 right away



Shower and Steam by Bryson Hatfield

I’m letting it all rush over me,
each molecule
how the exasperation of
the heat rubs off
and the allowance of such a thing

every complex covalent bond slipping warmly
over my skin

waiting for the inevitable


and I wonder what part of them stays with me
what is with
what is without
what do i keep
what falls freely
without my knowledge.

what bit of intense connection did I lose
because I was too busy
too careless
too wrapped up in millennial narcissism

something lost in a moment
slipped forever down the grey drain


Visit Little Spud In The Big Apple to see the poem in its original context

Lost Love Poem by Marty Steyer

                  — To Patty 

Maybe it's sheltering today under
a blizzard of paid bills and bank receipts,
or maybe it flew south. Do you wonder,
dear, why old age (a murder of crows) greets
us with cawing? We've faced its raw music
lightheartedly, scattering our last crumbs
among mourning doves, which, just in the nick
of time, pecked them before it snowed. Numb is
indeed what our paired hearts must hope to be
to keep pounding through another season
of teeth-chattering cold. Calamity
has not yet touched us, love, which is reason
enough for good cheer and celebration.
The snow flowers like a white carnation.

1960 by Billy Collins

In the old joke,
the marriage counselor
tells the couple who never talks anymore
to go to a jazz club because at a jazz club
everyone talks during the bass solo

But of course, no one starts talking
just because of a bass solo
or any other solo for that matter.

The quieter bass solo just reveals
the people in the club
who have been talking all along,
the same ones you can hear
on some well-known recordings.

Bill Evans, for example,
who is opening a new door into the piano
while some guy chats up his date
at one of the little tables in the back.

I have listened to that album
so many times I an anticipate the moment
of his drunken laugh
as if it were a strange note in the tune.

And so, anonymous man,
you have become part of my listening,
your romance a romance lost in the past

and a reminder somehow
that each member of that trio has died since then
and maybe so have you and, sadly, maybe she.


This poem called to mind one of my favorite recordings (below) which has embedded in it some remarks/reaction and laughter from a lady in the audience which I feel is priceless and which I anticipate and enjoy hearing every time.  It really puts you there.  No, she wasn’t chatting up her date, but fully immersed in the experience she was having.  I especially love her laugh around the 4:18 mark, and again at the end.


If you wish to purchase the book this poem appears in, here is the link:



Wine and Vinegar

Little Spud in the Big Apple

“At the end of the day all my conscience can experience is limited to what is in my own mind,
why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

penned quietly with the pads of fingers unknown to my device of primary communication,
“I can’t say that you need to care, I’m not one to always care either but I think it’s important for something deep inside.”

Letting the words steep like wine,
age with the settling dust of time,
and after years,
softly popping the cork out,
noting how the tannins have developed themselves,
and though this has taken so long in my world of words
it is nothing to the ticking seconds,
to your mind,
you have forgotten,
will more likely than not forget again
upon reading your old thoughts:

“why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

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Over Thought Over

Little Spud in the Big Apple

Trying to break down the patterns of the mind,
the looping,
wall of thoughts,
that which builds up.
I often see patterns in my writing,
the looping,
even now with this pen to paper,
paper and pen
and paper and
pen and paper
and pen and
paper and pen,
I see the half
life of it all.

And I wonder, Dear Reader,
Dear Reader, I wonder,
the looping,
patterns in my writing
Do you, do you, Do You,
And I wonder, Dear Reader,
If you can see
my hand
Do you see?
my hand


the blue veins shrinking away,
blue, pink, where is the oxygen, blue
blue, red, red, oxygen, color
oxygen escaping to nowhere,
building up,
building up
buildingbuildingbuildingbuilding UP
popping underneath the greying skin,


the ink
the loops
the loops
the ink ink ink ink…

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Smelling Smoke

Little Spud in the Big Apple

somewhere among the
crashing and burning
the forest,

Far off from my
on Meadows
but you can
the smoke
over the flowers
the clumps of
long-stemmed grass.

Far gone,
lost to dreams and paintings,
Summer burning away everything,
Apollo too close to sage,
an attempt to naturally
pull more carbon into the world,
cycle it back to the roots,
to reestablish lost updrafts of life,
billowing clouds of ash and spark
into heaven,
tickling the feet of God.

I smell it,
feel the once strong roots
tickling my nostrils,
the bugs,
the clay,
the stems,
what could have been a haven once,
now reduced to ash,
like a red wine sauce over steak,
I pay through the nose for this too.

Unwittingly at first, I eat
Unwillingly then, I breathe,
being forced to notice that I’m
sitting here,
an artist, trying to fight

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