Voting for Spillwords Press April 2025 Awards ends April 29

Hey, everyone. Just a quick reminder in case you missed it. I’m honored to be nominated for Author of the Month for April 2025 for my poem “The Bonfire” at Spillwords Press. I’m grateful to editor Dagmara K. for this wonderful surprise, and just wanted to post a brief reminder that voting ends April 29 in case anyone would like to check out my poem and lend a vote. Also, my good friend and absolutely brilliant poet Maggie Watson has a poem nominated for Publication of the Month titled “The Forest.” It’s sublime poetry from an amazingly talented writer. So, please cast a vote and support Maggie, too. She’s very much deserving of this award. You may find links to Maggie’s poem, my poem and the Spillwords Press voting page here:

“The Forest” by Maggie Watson

“The Bonfire” by Michael L. Utley

https://spillwords.com/vote/

Also, do visit Maggie’s blog if you can. Her poetry is poignant, intense and deeply moving:

Ephemeral Encounters by Maggie Watson

Your kind support would be greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy the poems.

“A Few Haiku (16)” published at Gobblers by Masticadores

Just a note to let everyone know the latest installment of my short haiku/senryu collections titled “A Few Haiku (16)” is now live at Gobblers by Masticadores. These small collections consist of six haiku and/or senryu. I sincerely appreciate Editor Manuela Timofte for sharing this mini-collection. Here’s hoping they connect with you.

“A Few Haiku (16)”
© 2021 by Michael L. Utley

(#91)

How can hope survive
Solitary kitchen chair
And the empty bed

…..

(#92)

These old feet are numb
Memories are bitter cold
I must watch my step

…..

(#93)

I sought from the fox
Wisdom; he gave me instead
A flash of his tail

You can read the rest of this mini-collection here:

Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.

I’ve Been Nominated for Author of the Month at Spillwords Press for My Poem “The Bonfire”

Hey, everyone. I’m excited to let you know I’ve been nominated for Author of the Month for April 2025 at Spillwords Press for my poem “The Bonfire.”  Many thanks to Dagmara K. and her staff for publishing my poem and for this wonderful honor and opportunity.

I’m especially thrilled as this poem speaks out against fascism and censorship, which have now taken over our government here in America as right-wing extremists tear our democratic institutions apart and kidnap and deport citizens who exercise their First Amendment right to freedom of speech. It’s one of the most important pieces I’ve ever written, and it would mean a lot to me to expand the reach of this poem so more folks could read its crucial message. As writers, our words are our swords in our fight against fascism and tyranny, and we must not remain silent against this existential threat to our democracy and our way of life.

If you’d care to cast your vote for my poem, all you need to do is register at Spillwords Press (it’s free and takes only a couple of minutes). Voting is open from April 26th-29th. You may cast your vote by following this link:  

https://spillwords.com/vote/

Self-promotion is not my strong point, and I don’t have any social media accounts to solicit votes, so this sort of thing is a bit awkward for me. It’s my sincere hope you’ll take a few minutes to read my poem and cast your vote. I’d be beyond delighted to have your support. I’ve always believed my poetry should do the talking, not me, so if you find my poem worthy of your vote, I’d appreciate it so much.

Congratulations and all the best to the other nominees. 

“A Few Haiku (15)” Published at Gobblers by Masticadores

Hey, folks. The latest installment of my short haiku/senryu collections titled “A Few Haiku (15)” is now live at Gobblers by Masticadores. These small collections consist of six haiku and/or senryu. Many thanks to Editor Manuela Timofte for sharing this mini-collection. I hope you like them.

“A Few Haiku (15)”
© 2021 by Michael L. Utley

(#85)

Fruit rots on the ground
In unattended orchard
Our love slowly dies

…..

(#86)

I plant hopes and dreams
In the fertile soil but I
Still must pray for rain

…..

(#87)

Sly kitsune slinks
Among magenta kiku
Shrewd white-tip-tailed imp

You can read the rest of this mini-collection here:

Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.

“The Bonfire” published at Spillwords Press

Hey, friends. I’m excited to let you know my poem “The Bonfire” has been published at Spillwords Press. Many thanks to Dagmara K. and her team for sharing this piece. I truly appreciate this opportunity.

This piece is especially important to me as it reflects America’s new fascist government’s crackdown on freedom of speech and basic human rights. Censorship of any type is oppression, and our current darkness here in the USA is a direct result of the evils of fascist authoritarian ideology, as well as hatred, racism, bigotry and power run amok. We need to fix this soon, my friends, lest it destroys us all.

“The Bonfire”
(c) 2022 by Michael L. Utley

“in our exuberance to burn the words
Bradbury sagely nods and Orwell sighs
as shock-troopers corral the motley herds
and churlish masses watch with sullen eyes

bonfires glow red in every city square
eight thousand million names recited there
black smoke and fetid fumes assault the air
as filthy faces flicker in the glare…”

You can read the rest of my poem by clicking this link. And once you’re there, take some time to check out the work of many other talented writers at Spillwords Press, where you’ll find a treasure trove of good writing.

“A Tanka Trio (4)” published at Gobblers by Masticadores

Hey, everyone. The fourth installment of my tanka series titled “A Tanka Trio (4)” is now live at Gobblers by Masticadores. Each of these installments contains three tanka (be sure to click this link or the link below to read all of them). A special thanks to Editor Manuela Timofte for publishing this installment as all three tanka in this set are especially appropriate at this time, given the destruction of American democracy by right-wing fascists.

“A Tanka Trio (4)”
© 2021 by Michael L. Utley

(#10)

Ersatz patriots
Gabble lustily amid
Smoke and blood and screams
Mindless primal mob worships
Q-birthed abomination

…..

(#11)

What have we become
Sun sets on all we have known
Cultists rend and tear
The soul of democracy
Freedom’s heart weeps in darkness

You can read the rest of this tanka installment here:

Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.

“Wildfire”

“Wildfire”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

nothing in life occurs
as it does in the
lyrics of songs
it’s all fantasy
all make-believe
carefully orchestrated
a plastic tableau
displayed behind
a plate glass window
look but don’t touch
lest the illusion shatter

her eyes were still open
when I entered the room
her body slowly
giving up its heat
the world had gone silent
save for my father’s
ragged exhalations
a blasted look
in his eyes
panic
dread
the weight of
heaven and hell
threatening to
crush him

there are protocols
for this sort of thing

my mind mumbled dully
lists upon lists
procedures to follow
and don’t skip anything
lest the facade crumble
lest all of creation
come to an end

I watched my hand
touch her wrist
warmth but nothing else
and a door in my mind
swung soundlessly
irrevocably shut
a box checked
I felt my hand
squeeze hers
no response
another box
another check mark
a window in my mind
battened
boarded up
permanently
and her eyes
dazed
tired
confused
staring into her
own private eternity
I tried to brush them
closed
like some celluloid hero
like someone who’s in charge
but they remained exposed
stubbornly resisting
my mind sputtered
clicked
observed
registered
a checkbox left empty
with only one remaining

I pulled the sheet over
my mother’s face
the final act
the list complete
my duty accomplished
my fate sealed

and my mind collapsed

I stood at my
bedroom window
as a misting rain
enfolded the earth
in a hushed dirge
a six a.m. requiem
an epilogue
to a life betrayed
a life cheated
my mother deserved
so much better
and the world
refused to move
its gears stripped
its dynamo fried
as the dawn
held its breath

the ghosts arrived
strangers in
bleak uniforms
muffled voices
latex gloves
clipboards
a gurney
uncanny inhabitants
of some other dimension
performing their
own obscure rituals
drifting room to room
in and out
covert thieves
stealing my mother

and still the rain fell

in my mind
a mantra arose
unbidden
urgent
inexorable
straining against
my temples
my eyeballs
my ears

my mother is dead

over
and over
and over

listen closely
the universe said
listen as you’ve
never listened before
because your life
your sanity
depend upon
this
one
thing
acceptance
now
or risk losing
yourself
forever

the words
pooled
eddied
in my head
swam like
mystical koi
gliding
in arcane murk
and I knelt
at water’s edge
gazing into this
saturnine mere
where my reflection died
and hope dissolved
and I drank
from cupped hands
and choked on
the bitter draught
of reality

and still the rain fell

there are woods
we dare not enter
treelines with teeth
green shadows
with poisonous
beckoning tendrils
restless copses of
voiceless supplication
leading us astray
from the path
numbness
timelessness
and nameless
plutonian pits
of despair
and despite
foreboding warnings
despite all that
screamed
to the contrary
I fled into this
grove of oblivion
where the darkness
promised succor
but instead
stripped me naked
gutted me
flung my entrails
among noxious thickets
and abandoned me
in a clearing
beneath an
eternally
moonless night
eldritch stars overhead
representing
obscene unknown
constellations
another place
another cosmos
another time

eyeless
voiceless
nothing left
of me
but my ears
damned by
deafness
weak
useless
my mother’s voice
no longer audible
her frequency
terminated
a static hum
where her
essence
should be
but I listened
anyway
strained to discern
her closing thoughts
her last whisper
her soul departing
but the only
sounds I heard
were the howl
of white noise
and the
wretched screech
of infinity

another mantra arose
this time a song
from years before
my mind a
musician’s mind
an artist’s mind
always seeking
the flow
the deep
slow currents
the steady stasis
of movement
the only balm
for my soul
a song of death
of sorrow
of loss
of seeking that
which can
never be found

my mother
lost in a June blizzard
chasing Wildfire

and still the rain fell

the sky cried
in my stead
my own tears
locked away
deep inside
far beyond my own
pathetic reach
the incense of
petrichor
and wet sage
lingering
settling upon
my skin
a patina of
unexpected
serenity
a cocoon
of protection
against a
reckless
arbitrary
God
an indifferent
heaven
the senselessness
of it all

weeks passed
but the song remained
and I clung to it
with all my might
I grabbed its reins
dug in my spurs
and rode it out
for all it was worth
for only it could save me
only it could deliver me
from the blackness
of that forest of torment

I said good-bye
to my mother on a
sweltering June day
my broken heart
buried with her
the burden
of her absence
carried with me
for a decade now
I kissed her forehead
gave her my parting gifts
three guitar picks
I love you, Mom
inscribed on each

and asked her
to wait for me

and when the
early snow falls
I shall chase
Wildfire
too

(Author’s note: This poem is inspired by “Wildfire,” a song by Michael Martin Murphey that helped me deal with my mother’s death in June 2015.)

“Bus Stop”

“Bus Stop”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

she stood there
stoic and still
as a river rock cairn
at the crossroads
bus stop
every afternoon
alone
save for her
reluctant shadow
that always seemed
to pull away from her
clawing at the gravel
to unpin itself from this
dirty-faced girl
with willow whip arms
and a mangled knot
of corn silk hair

she stood there
by my grandfather’s
mailbox with the
shot-up targets
and broken beer bottles
glinting dully
in the weeds of the
four o’clock sun like
dusty brown cataracts
and waited for someone
who never arrived
staring soundlessly as the
folding school bus door
juddered shut
and exhaust fumes
enfolded her
in a hydrocarbon miasma

she stood there
in her too-big
ratty plaid jumper
of indeterminate hue
and mismatched sneakers
and scab-caked knees
rooted to the ground
like some obscure totem
some miniature monolith
weather-worn
eroded
her features smoothed
by the passage of eons
at this nowhere bus stop
somewhere east
of benignancy
paused between
moments
stranded between
the dots of the ellipsis…

she stood there
as we piled off the bus
each day
a mass of larval humanity
gummed together
in sweaty profusion
and exquisite ignorance
and ran past her
down red dirt roads
that sliced through
cheat grass and junipers
sage and pines
kicking up dust
in our manic wakes
a mindless stampede
of vacuous hubris
and nascent dark desires
our souls’ eyes shuttered
against grace and mercy
our young hearts
already blackened
by vainglory
we perceived her
incuriously
in our periphery
discerned her
absently
incidentally
our puerile minds
negating her
ripping her brusquely
from the cloth of our
reality

she stood there
waiting
as the cracks
in the world
began to show
arrivals
departures
childhood’s horrors
comings and goings
day and night
week after month
after year
after generation
and I recalled her
vaguely
a tenuous mirage on the
distant silver horizon
of youth
and my children
and their children
spoke cryptically
of the uncanny silent girl
at the bus stop
until her novelty wore off
and she disappeared
from their collective consciousness
as their own childhoods
unwound in a chaotic blur

and the cracks widened
and deepened
and the world spun slowly
to a stop

she stood there
stoic and still
as a river rock cairn
in the withering gloaming
at the end of time
where no bus
had stopped
for millennia
where the damned
no longer
gamboled and
cavorted
where sepulchral silence
clung shroud-like
to the bones
of the earth
waiting for
someone
no one
anyone
and I approached her
my back bent with age
my gait halting
my old man’s eyes
dim and rheumy
my breath a rasping wheeze
and she looked at me
with pallid marbled eyes
and I recognized her
at last
and I sensed
the world sigh
and I took her
cold, ashen hand
as the final
sunset faded
and I waited
with her

Adam Fenner reviews my poem “From Tsukiko, While Watching the Moon”

Hey, folks. I was delightfully surprised when my recent poem “From Tsukiko, While Watching the Moon” was reviewed by Adam Fenner. Adam is a gifted novelist and poet, and his poetry reviews are both keenly insightful and enlightening. I was honored to discover Adam had written an in-depth, spot-on analysis of my poem and I thought I’d share a link to his review on his wonderful blog for those of you who would like to check it out. Take some time and explore his work while you’re there. He’s a formidably talented writer.

You can read Adam’s review here:

Thanks again, Adam. I truly appreciate it.

“Idyllic”

“Idyllic”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

Leroy blew his
fingers off with
blasting caps he stole
from some old granary
and he’d chew on the
blackened stumps
while waiting
for the school bus
like some kind of
hard dude
like he didn’t feel
a thing
I hated him
but I understood
numbness
and I knew he was
dead inside
knowing his
little sisters
were never
coming back
from that long-ago
pile of twisted metal
on the highway
he was sixteen
and already
an old man

Ronnie was a
psycho
and a pusher
and drove a
piece of shit
Chevy truck
with a .30-06
in a window rack
and his eyes
danced with
hellfire
when he wasn’t
shooting up crank
he was shooting up
mailboxes
and stealing anything
that wasn’t nailed down
and one surreal
summer evening
he almost killed me
and I saw the face of
true evil
up close and personal
my old man
would have been proud
Ronnie was already DOA
and he didn’t even
know it
a wraith
barreling down
a midnight country road
with Skynyrd blasting
and his mind
completely blown

Old Bud had a penchant
for booze
and young girls
and enough sway with
the local LEOs
to look the other way
when his granddaughters
came to visit
his self-proclaimed
redneck empire
collapsed one day when
his black heart came a cropper
and his corpulent ass
gave up its ghost
and its secrets
no shame for the shameless
his little kingdom in ruins
but all those skeletons
remain

my old man was
an anomaly
among this
cretin coterie
this hick menagerie
his arrogant bullying
earned him the moniker
“little hitler”
among the Leroys
and Ronnies
and Old Buds
of this nowhere place
this idyllic pastoral
version of hell
his NRA card-waving
wife-beating
chest-thumping
sturm und drang
racist dog and pony show
approach to country life
perhaps a little too much
for their liking
he was a laughingstock
and too proud to know it
hubris is a helluva drug

and one by one
between shoot-outs
and break-ins
and meth labs
and murders
and suicides
and all the
hidden horrors
birthed by the
brackish hearts of men
these restless ghosts
have faded into
oblivion
only barren fields remain
derelict houses
rife with caustic memories
and the soundless hush
of the uneasy dead
listen closely
and steel yourself
against what this
silent place may
tell you

things are never
ever
as they seem