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Gary Glauber

GaryDoubleSelfie2018Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist.  His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press) and a chapbook Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press) are available through Amazon. This past summer he read selections from his most recent collection at the 2017 NYC Poetry Festival. Amazon Author Page:


I see fish trying to amuse us,
darting this way & that,
slivers of liquid iridescence,
colors stolen from unseen rainbows,
swimming in & out of view.
I see fish trying to confuse us,
going about their business
oblivious to audience,
leaving us wondering how
such a life of dreary dullness
is possible, as we obsess on
meetings missed by being here,
wading through waiting,
angst of being thrown from habit,
commuting our daily routine.
I see fish trying to defuse us,
take our minds from
daughter’s red-faced fever,
her cries of senseless anguish
cutting right to the heart.
These silent lines that
race behind glass,
undelivered diagnoses
that we pray are nothing major,
taking us through chalk castle
luckily, without incident,
this one more time.

Errand Boy

I carry out the trash
& with it an unburdening
of suburban responsibilities,
careful care of tended lawn,
the weight of native souls long gone
from formerly forested high ground.

I am haunted with
afflictions of love, desires
to simplify mortgage
& insurance shackles,
shady cloud formations
slow dancing across
fading cerulean sky.

This is the pedal steel’s
low wail of sweet longing,
the open tuning that invites
unassuming ear to listen.
This is how weeds invade
gardens, how those sporting antlers
make scant winter meals last,
how lush growth morphs into
bright blinding bleak terrain.

I sing along with coyote pack’s yowls,
gooseflesh raised in reflexive salute,
bloodlust of the wild unleashed
toward unsuspecting moon.
Martyrs of the makeshift unite,
sliding over black ice toward
dark inevitable, eyes closed
to hymn of engine thrum,
careening anthem-like chorus
calling Aeolus from afar.

Rust never oxidizes here
& everything stays just so,
Currier & Ives with an
insider’s nod & wink.
The cans at end of driveway
innocuous bystanders like
ancient seers, lifted & emptied,
but back again brimful with insight
same time the very next week.

Bird in Springtime

It’s always you at the door
sprouting some new declaration,
blue with brash enthusiasm,
loved & over-encouraged.
My place becomes a shrine
to you via careless remainders,
books, videos, post-its
to remind (that you since forgot).
You are the constant
matched up with fresh x factors,
wild cards that repel as vortex,
sending you back always different:
drunker, wiser, older,
more likely to lose your way.
Yet internal compass returns you
like swallow to Capistrano,
licking wounds & riding winds,
wanderer turned mighty worrier.
Again, batty battle ensues,
and when you knock, I answer,
recipient of your comings, then goings,
welcome mat for well-traveled narrative,
knave to your fickle vixen’s visits,
forgiver of seasonal sins.


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