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.

Troubled Tuesday

A random act of meanness was crossing swords
with an angel of good intentions. Guess who lost.
I am having trouble deciding. They’d had words.
and things had escalated when one tossed
the other’s mother’s name in. Reason blurred.
Swords flashed. I saw the loser’s name embossed
by blade point on his forehead. I strained trying
to read. I failed because the light was dying.

Modern Monday

I was sitting pretty. An angel descended and cursed me.
‘Foul!’ I shouted. ‘Angels must not curse.’
‘In another game,’ said the umpire. ‘Curse sustained.’
I grovelled. When that did not work I smirked.
‘Foul!’ chorused a heavenly host. ‘Wipe off that smile.’
‘Sustained,’ the umpire ruled. I dived in the sea
but, being cursed, I could no longer swim.

We Want to Believe That Ours Were Private Dreams

We hide our eyes at breakfast. We hunker at the table.
We avoid contact, focus on the trees
and pray that we, the dreamers, are awake.
The sun seems real, but not more than last night’s.

The Last Night Sun rose privately and red
in what we want to believe were private dreams,
although thirty suns for sixty sleeping eyes
are more unlikely than we want to think.

Edging Off

We walk along the edge of cosmic meaning.
‘Which edge?’ you ask, as if an answer mattered.
The edifice you erected keeps on leaning
over. Others of its ilk have splattered.
You hear their last survivor’s plaintive keening.
Which edge? … Which edge? — I read the questions scattered
like petals of this season’s last live rose.
I give you my best answer: ‘I suppose’.

Sounds Off

We splash the glass with dihydrogen monoxide.
We had wondered were it wetter would it ring
more crystal like, less jelly glass. We’d tried
a tuning fork, a rind of pork, another thing,
but nothing sounded perfect. We both sighed
at the sneaky ways that imperfections bring
base sounds to chimes my muse’s muse had taught her
to play on crystal kissed with sparkling water.

Live Simulation

Remember when you had to bring two things to the table to enjoy Facebook? You had to be online and you had to be alive? Remember the excitement when the engineers overcame both barriers? Well, it hasn’t all been positive, has it?

I, whatever that term means these days, am thinking about these things as my car expertly flies in formation in thick traffic. Looks like everybody wants to be home for Thanksgiving and like nobody knows where home is.

I, that term again, have had a lot of homes in these 300 years. You probably have too. Shall we merge our cars and see where we end up?

That was easy. No sooner dead than done. Sorry, said. Where is this that we are arriving?

You haven’t been here before either? Lots of dudes in white robes. Thought this might be heaven until I noticed their pointy hats.

That was easy. Getting away simply a question of backspacing and two timing. Our motion sickness is only simulation – you can turn it off.

You like it on? Okay. Nostalgia for morning sickness is an extreme case of empty nest syndrome. Had a lot of children did you?

They are in here with us? Oh yeah, I see them now. You’re right, there are a lot of them. Several of them seem to be me. Oh look, one of them is you.

The engineers still have some tweaks they need to attend to.