When everything starts over

                         after "Bird of the Blue Sun" 

                                woodcut by Jay Seeley


there will be a blue sun

and you and I

will sway like the flowerings

on the floor of the sea.


There will be a new bird

and night will warm

our thoughts with twin

moons, will spread


and scent the ground. And you

and I will find mercy

painted on every stone. Rain

will sing its long song


and you and I. And you and I.

All My Flowers


I know ice whalebone white

         green and turquoise,


milky ice, ice blood-red

when the algae blooms; candle ice, pack ice,


pancake ice, and cat ice that glazes

water so thinly a breath would shatter it;

  lolly slush,


loose crystals in a salt-water slurry;

young ice and its false maturity.

I know the way fast ice locks on


and doesn’t let go;

the gray moire of grease ice, its sheen

of watermarked silk skimming the sea;


and fog ice, mists of diamond dust

that cancel skies, that conjure

multiple and dazzling suns,

bounce prisms, throw halos,

suspend a snow field, inverted, in midair.


The ice gives birth to ice.

The first filaments of ice mating are frazil ice.

Once it develops and grows muscular

Ice battles ice.

The ice barrage explodes in a din

Of booms, cannonades, cracks loud as rifle shots.


And when the ice buries ice

it is entombed with ancient atmospheres.


All my hours are ice hours.

All my flowers are ice flowers.

"All My Flowers," by Marion Starling Boyer,

published by The Pedestal Magazine, issue #85.

Go to The Pedestal Magazine,

to hear an audio of this poem.




A piece of smurry night broke off,

silver and fish-shaped. It drifted closer,


shimmering, massive as a god.

The navigation light was a single slow-


moving star and the ship purred as it glided

over. Our upturned faces lit with appalled


fascination. Lost, windblown off course,

the zeppelin lowered, sprinkled the lands


with parachute flares – small fires

wafting down –


and found its way to Yarmouth’s

cluster of coastal lights where Baptists


were closing the midweek prayer meeting

with the refrain singing to welcome


pilgrims of the night. Martha Taylor sat

at home knitting a sock. She set the needles


down before turning the heel, her fingers’

misery worse for the rafty weather.


On the road a dog barked and barked.

Two streets over, Liza walked the floor


with the baby, worn out, in a frap.

An unfamiliar throbbing noise drew Sam


Smith, a cobbler, outside to stand

with others in the wet.


The men in the gondola

wore fur-lined shoes with rubber soles.


They warmed themselves with coffee

from a thermos. One, lying flat on his


stomach, peered through a trap door

and dropped the first aerial bomb


ever to fall on England, and then nine

more, managing to ruin a church, to blow


apart buildings, a fishing drifter, Martha

in her chair and Sam standing in the rain.

"Airship, January, 1915" by Marion Starling Boyer,

from The Sea Was Never Far. Main Street Rag. 2019. 

Published by The Atlanta Review as a finalist

for their International Poetry Competition 2018.

(Use requires permission of author).

Antarctica Speaks of the Pack Ice published by

Escape Into Life

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Antarctica Speaks of the Pack Ice



Their territory is a gauzy netherworld

of sea smoke, of black water. Their credo

is freedom. Numberless drifters, the floes


and growlers cruise the decaying fringes

jockeying for position. They collide,

rupture, resuture. Cold thugs, the pack


encircles outsiders and carries them off

or crushes them. My winds are strong

and can drive the pack away, but needles


of skeletal ice always skulk back and bond.

The ice hardens to grease ice and once again

ice initiates ice into the pack.

Toady Tells Me, Over Tea and Tabnabs

For Brian Rudd


My father was Boy Toady and I was

Young Toady. Grandfather was Old Toady

and when he died we all moved up one.

Winterton people had nicknames

because there were too many in the village


with the same name. On a drifter,

there might be two Bob Greens asleep

below so if you're going to call the watch

you need shout up Bob-the-devil

not Bob Crow to get the right one.


In the George family there was Social George,

Cuddy George, Jack Starchy, Bill Starchy,

Eddie Starchy, and Punch George. Punch

George drove a big lorry into Yarmouth.

There'd be about eight hundred men and boys


to cart from Winterton for the fishing. Mute,

(I don't know why they named him Mute) he was

a Goffin, and he had two lorries. There was Fizzle,

Flat, and Fatty, Duff, and Dumps, Jello, Poachy,

Fourboat, and Eric Kettle who we called Teapot.


"Toady Tells Me Over Tea and Tabnabs,"

by Marion Starling Boyer, from

The Sea Was Never Far. Main Street Rag. 2019.

(Use requires permission of author).