Selected Poems by Robert Beveridge

December 15, 2017

Photo Source: PxHere









We sleep together

under the cold dark

sun of night


her father between bodies

keeps us from touching

moving together in sleep


the children are lost in the snowdrift

we have searched for them all day

now the warmth of the campfire dies


the cold

of the deep

north surrounds us


yet we cannot touch

for shelter

or warmth




The Rite




The old monk sits shirtless in the chair beside me

on the redeye flight from Newark to Pittsburgh.

His torso is covered with red scars

where, he says, he has beaten himself

with leather whips daily for forty-five

wonderful years.

                             In all that time he has

lain with many women yet he has never taken one

in the way we of the younger generation do.

Instead, he says, a wistful cast to his voice,

they serve a different function; these slight wraiths

cleanse my soul. Gazing on beauty makes me think

beautiful thoughts. I nod my head, silent.




Spelling Bee






on the blackboard

chalk sketches

a barrage of nine-year-olds

cover their ears

and shriek in chorus




spelling the names

of those around us:








the teachers begs a spelling

only three children left

the prize a plastic

St. Christopher.




Darryl is God spelled backwards.




Bow-tied child

spelling death

on the blackboard.








come down

to my white powdery river

you can just take

a quick dip

and get out

I won't keep you around


skinny-dipping only

in this place baby

you're so beautiful

clothes shouldn't hide

that body


once you swim

you'll want to come back

just like the rest

I know

I've been here forever





Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.


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