Below are selected online journals and magazines
that have published some of my prose poems.
Please enjoy reading them.
Meanwhile, here are a few prose poems you can read without leaving this page!
Below are selected online journals and magazines
that have published some of my prose poems.
Please enjoy reading them.
Meanwhile, here are a few prose poems you can read without leaving this page!
CHARLES SPRINGER
Selected prose poems from
NOWHERE
NOW HERE
published by Radial Books
2021
DAY AT THE BEACH
A truck carrying inflated beach balls just skidded off I-95 near Roanoke and now the beach balls, probably hundreds are dotting the highway causing pileups, quite a few flying up into trees like giant jelly beans and there's such a state of joy among the flocks of red-winged blackbirds and cats are chasing dogs for a change into the median, dogs that always wanted but never had the courage to enter and those surviving the chase are relieving themselves like never before and me, I'm just lying here in the sand listening to the radio, looking at the sun through my eyelids, waiting for some big new world to come out of nowhere and bounce off my head.
QUAKE
Moe is hoeing his row of turnips toward a stubborn clump of quack grass when suddenly the sugar maples catapult a flock of grackles into a waiting breeze while the blue sky whites itself out with clouds and as the sun fades in its effortless dominion, the ground suddenly does something Moe has no name for and whatever it is is taking its good ole time and Moe begins to hop and skip around to surprisingly keep from falling down while the purple mirror ball on its pedestal in the backyard thrusts itself into the carp pond making tiny waves and despite their tiny size, they team toss the mirror ball at Moe's shiny head and he catches it even though he's always been afraid of balls of all kinds and now he sees his face in it and his newly permanent teeth chatter some and if he isn't a sight for sore eyes like his father used to say and when the ground finally stops doing whatever it was doing and the carp pond calms and grackles are back on branches, Moe jiggles the mirror ball a little in his hands only to discover right there in the turnip patch he too can jar a world when he puts his hoe down.
PHALLIC SENTIMENTS
Clarence confessed to me if he could do it all over again he’d have been a candlestick maker and I tell him there’s still time, you’re young and wick and wax are still reasonable but he’s had his urology practice for nearly forty years now and he knows half the town by their penises alone and then he remembered how much fun and how much money he made summers with his popsicle stand at the end of his driveway and I informed him that sticks are a dime a dozen anymore and then he asks me how I've become so content waving a baton in the air twice a week in front of instruments and thousands of people and I tell him the baton itself is content and it’s leading me, it’s like a candle, a popsicle, a penis all rolled into one and I go places where I can’t go without it but right now, I’m going to stick some kabobs on the grill. You want one?
Selected poems from
JUICE
published by Regal House Publishing
2019
PYROGYRO
I tell you in a whisper
I enjoyed your warm words
over the burn barrel. And what
a lovely spectra as the fabric
softener jug turned to goo.
Wasn’t it thoughtful
of the officer in his chopper
to descend to just above us and declare
the degree of your singed brow?
He was one and the same
who spread your uncle’s ashes
over our desert crater. Didn’t you
want to add The Sun about now?
Watch page by page so much thought
on our world go up in smoke?
You know this very moment
hundreds in Samoa and the Congo
are roasting supper on a stick
while hungry thousands abide outside
the stone circle. And countless
homeless here at home are rubbing
hands together over flames
as if mere hands
were keeping flames going.
HOOKEY
I ask Titus, an alien from CX-48
in the constellation Cassiopeia
why he doesn’t want to meet
the gang down at the bowling alley.
He says they’ll take one look
and want to knock some pins down
with his head. He’s right.
So let’s go fishing.
We wade Paduka Creek halfway
where Titus reaches down
among the rocks and picks up
trout, three per hand. Trout,
he says six times before he lets them go.
I’d like to get some pictures first,
and he agrees but when I look at them,
he’s barely there, only trout
that look like they are roosting
in the aspens. I forgot Titus
really doesn’t capture well,
if at all, and my pics look like I ran them
all through Photoshop.
I ask Titus why he’s always
stretching his arms up in the air
and he tells me that he’s reaching
for his long-lost playmate
back on CX-48. I ask him
if he’d like to stand up
on my shoulders. He does.
Titus starts to cry. His tears
come out all purple
and silky like Johnson’s baby oil.
Then he disappears.
But only for a moment and then
he’s back. I ask if he’s forgotten
something and he tells me
he was told it’s not his time
but I know he misses the trout.
THE TWO ARMSTRONGS
Boy deep down inside the man
has Keds on. Springy as a pogo stick.
Divides his day-to-day among his pockets:
maps, collapsible telescope,
Mars bars, compass.
On his belt, canteen full of life force:
Kool-Aid or Tang.
Boy’s been rattling the man’s
thorax. Man just calls it gas,
something he ate. Words come,
sound like module, lunar.
Doctor comes,
pulls a beanie, bent propeller
from the man’s esophagus.
Boy launches
like a Saturn 5 rocket. Lands
in a silver-on-the-inside cape.
When he lifts his arms,
a thousand parakeets fall out.
Doctor falls down.
Man puts down
his instruments.
Throws his keys
into nearby weeds and woods.
Donates explorer/discoverer biographies.
Stops the mail.
Boy shows him
how to walk all over again,
leave prints
that make good pics. How
not to kick up dust, jar rocks.
Eventfully they plant a flag.
Place hands upon hearts.
Never before, stripes
wide as these. Never again,
stars this close.