About Alan Reynolds

Poet born and raised in North Carolina and now after a sojourn in England a long-time resident of the Netherlands. More than 3,000 poems, many published in US and UK literary magazines and on CD and in books.

Pursuing Heaven’s Grin

I wink against the winter wind
and it winks back as if I’ve sinned.
I arrive at one end of a world
where men with power give no sign
they care that what they do is malign.
They give back little of what’s mine.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

We’ve won the war on nature now,
made tigers yield to plough and cow.
I arrive at one end of a world
where mystery is poured into a can
and woods reduce to blowing sand.
There’s nothing left to understand.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

When science saves what we destroy
we build new houses out of straw.
I arrive at one end of a world
where schools of doubtful quality
makes numbers up and pupils free
of values only blind men see.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

Above our orbit comets play
intelligent designs that fray.
I arrive at one end of a world
and wish it less apparent that
since we have learned the Earth’s not flat
its god acts like the Cheshire cat.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

The Wondrous Myth That Almost

I ask my muse to let me loose.
She says, ‘Let you loose on what?’
She says she’s sad that I confuse
What is with what is not.
I recognize she’s drawing me
Into another conversation.
That isn’t where I want to be.
What I want is cessation
Of all the memes she pelts me with
Especially deep in the night.
She says she’ll give me a wondrous myth;
All I must do is write.
I tell her I’m intolerably tired,
That her inspirations give me fits.
She says, ‘I feel I’m being fired!’
And just like that she quits.

Grand Old Elephant Remembers Bitterly

The gods said it before. They will say it again:
An elephant’s memory is his foe not his friend.
Remembering the days when the old GOP
Was conservative and decent covers him in chagrin.
Like poachers depriving his brothers of tusks
The Donald’s and crazies have stolen his heart.
His herds decimated, his high hopes now husks,
He remembers the divisions that tore him apart.

Prosaic Parting

I tire of the squirrels. They tire of me.
We agree to separate.
I walk towards the tree. They bark, ‘No, we!’
I retrace my steps and wait.
The squirrels run around me on the ground,
then they actually run up the tree.
I too could climb it given time;
I could climb it pitifully.
I will go home instead, perhaps to bed,
or more likely to a table
where I will sit and write though it takes all night
a squirrel-and-human fable.

Songs of the Soused

This bee, this venerable possum, and this snail
Were my Christmas guests. We wore bright paper hats
And the smiles one tries when conversations fail.
The possum sang a song all sharps and flats
The bee did wing flaps humming this and thats.
The snail shelled out for sherry and was able
To drink the possum underneath the table.
The bee and I, bemused that we had learned
That possums playing dead was not a fable,
Sang lachrymosely while the pudding burned.

The Angel ‘Stubs’

Stubs has the same number of names as the other angels

But they are persistent in addressing him as ‘Stubs’.

Today he wears faux ferret fur and bangles

And a frown, because too much sarcasm rubs

Even angels wrong. It’s not Stub’s fault he scrubs

Celestial floors and ceilings with his wings

Or that, in flying races, he runs rings

Around the cherubs, mixing metaphors

With miracles. His wings are wondrous things

That no feathered rival anywhere adores.