Category: Poetry





Unwelcome to me

The too bright light from

From across the street.

Spilling in, over the sill, onto


The undusted dresser,

The bedposts of an empty bed,

Blankets and rumpled sheets cast aside,

The door half closed as if she still slept there.


I wish to be left to my dreams.

And random memories of

Departed friends, scattered family,

The despair of lost security.


As another final morning dawns

The light through my window dims,

No match for this sky, gray like new steel,

The clouds at end on the far horizon.


Now awake, the Neighbor I see is only me

Reflected back on my window.

He naps fitfully in his last comfortable chair;

He will leave the light on again all day.








The General, a poem by Phil Cline

The General, a poem by Phil Cline

My General


Up along the hill

On worn and weathered knees

He strived headlong, stubborn,

Leading us to our destiny.


Our Captain shouted No! to him,

Warning of shocks and shoals,

Of arrows, pins, shards and blades,

Of bent, broken flags and escutcheons.


And all us foolish boys

Who marked his words,

Respected his histories,

Who stepped from platform to train


And left our fair loves

Huddled down against the rain,

Who laughed cadence to each other

Loud, hearty and brave,


Only to be vanquished

On this foreign hill,

To lie red in the mud, to stretch crooked

Across these rocks in death and misery.





Just Once, a poem by Phil Cline

Just Once, a poem by Phil Cline

Just Once


Just once watching the tides at play

A wave cut fiercely left to right,

Never topping nor breaking to white,


A green watery blade it was

Rising and rending the wind,

Scattering the screaming gulls,


Then calmed to mere swell,

It withdrew seaward

Never crashing to shore.


I did not know oceans could do that.

I do not know if it’s something

I need to fear.



Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach, a poem by Phil Cline

Dry Grass at the Beach


Dry grass at the beach house

Beneath rainless clouds,

Thirsting next to eternal acres of sea,

The drought remains, piteous, aloof.


The fog’s damp mist wet insufficient

To reach down, nourish, resurrect

Dead roots and parched strands

Of sun burned grass.


The retired captain peered outward

At an ocean of wavering memories.

He watched their white caps peak, glance, roll under,

Returning to their watery depths forever.


Gone now, those Wet years of Plenty,

A Frolic of time expended freely,

The Loud discordant Songs,

The Drinks, The Dances, The One Regret.


The Captain cupped his callused hands,

Against the warm wind, lit his cigarette,

Deeply inhaled, swallowed really,

The cancer didn’t matter now anyway.


He dropped the smoldering match

On the dry grass.

And ground the final ember to death

Under his boot.


He resolved

There would be no more tears.

She was right not to wait for the rain.

It won’t return.





What would a Caesar do

If he knew they said

He could be a hero no more?


Would it matter to him

Where his monument went,

That they took it down,


Left it out back of a vacant lot,

Amidst the dust and gravel

Of Carolina or New Orleans?


Does a General care

Who once charged the redoubts

With noble heart


That his sacrifice,

His courage now

Be labeled most poor


By those less heroic,

Of rank character,

But more bombast,


Who from safe places

Malign so righteously

His purpose of a century ago?


Would he think no matter the loss

Of plaster and wire. It’s no worse than

The Busted Bust of Brave Columbus lying there.