Lone Cypress, Pebble Beach

Crack of stone for rest and bed,
Wrack of storm unpressed I tread,
Sun and proud and bright and gold;
Dun and shroud of night, I hold.



I have some friends I got by word,
We never met and rare conferred,
Ann Arbor, Berkeley, Athens tend
To mind and thought, which comprehend
An ancient truth, from day of yore:
When thought be one? From yonder, more.


Long’s Drugstore, Lunch Cultus


By “lunch” is meant this pharmacy,
Persistent, from mid – century,
As many eggs for dollars three,
The kind of place we like to be.

Where they mention Sigma Chi,
Where you’ll hear On Jewish Rye,
With Father’s Father’s Father nigh,
And on the wall:  that kind of guy.


Neal Dachstadter is a poet living in Tennessee.  His work has been printed in Decanto Poetry Magazine (UK), Western Viewpoints and Poetic Images: the Great American West (Woodinville, Washington), Society of Classical Poets Journal 2015 (Mt Hope, New York), Rocky Point Times (Puerto Peñasco, Mexico) and The Lyric (Jericho, Vermont).  A member of the Demosthenian Literary Society at the University of Georgia, he deployed to Hawija, then wrote on Lookout Mountain, continuing with Delta Kappa Epsilon International.  Berkeley, Ann Arbor, and Athens encouraged him as a writer.  In 2015 he wrote in Arizona at Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument five miles north of Mexico.

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One Response

  1. Durlabh Singh


    Poetry is the blood of your visions
    It rips you apart against
    The torrid consolidations of mundane
    Strengths elongated in the retinues
    Sparked for uncertain verses in trials.

    It wants huge skies to fly
    It wants ruined castles for your dreams
    Vast open spaces for its habitations
    Wilder faces and unknown stipends
    And the spirit of beauty for
    Its hearty congealments.

    Open up the worlds for incantations
    The barbarous that do not hold
    Shipwrecks of your flesh
    Sinking downwards
    Pleads of the familiar
    In an unfamiliar word
    Silenced petals and anguished flowers.

    It flies to faraway lands
    It reaches molten cores of earth
    It dances on raindrops of hope
    It talks with dry ghosts
    In the scorched summers
    It accepts the cindered fragments
    Forms frolicking in the liquid sea
    Or shadows dipped in nothingness.

    Durlabh Singh.


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