The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: nighttime

Photo by José Luis Rodríguez Martínez on Unsplash

Chocolate Skies

1 June 2025 /

Poetry by Peter A. Witt

In the twilight, the sky drips chocolate,
a velvety hue, soft as a lover’s caress,
filling the horizon like melted dreams.

Clouds loom, thick and rich,
floating like frosted truffles,
each a promise wrapped in dusk.

I savor dark pieces, bitter and sweet as memories,
each morsel a kaleidoscope of comfort.

Stars prick the canopy, tiny sugar sprinkles
against the night, while the moon blushes,
a creamy ganache, pouring tranquility
over weary eyes, chocolate in the clouds
and on my tongue, molding time into moments,
indulgent and fleeting.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet, twice nominated for Best of the Net. Peter also writes family history, is an avid birder and photographer. His poetry has been published on various poetry sites and appears in several anthologies.

Photo by Daniel Hodgkins on Unsplash

Good Night, Jasper

27 April 2025 /

Poetry by Brian Christopher Giddens

At the end of the day, I go downstairs to where Jasper lays sprawled across the cushions of the couch he claimed ten years ago when he first arrived, shaking with fear, pressing himself into a corner against the armrest. But now he knows the nighttime ritual: he stretches his legs, rolling to the side to expose his white-fur chest. I perch on the edge of the couch, rubbing his belly, his eyes open, still not fully trusting, my touch gentle, slow, as Jasper doesn’t like surprises. One final rub and I move to the kitchen, the treat jar. With the clang of the pottery lid, he rouses from his bed for three small biscuits, gently taken one by one from my fingers. I walk to the stairs, stop on the landing, turning back to see him standing near his bed, watching me. “Good night, Jasper, be a good boy,” I say. His deep brown eyes stare back, as if he’s saying the same thing to me, making sure I’m on my way, before returning to his couch and an undisturbed slumber.

Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s writing has been featured in Sequestrum, Litro, Roi Faineant, Raven’s Perch, Hyacinth Review, Rue Scribe, Glimpse and Evening Street Review. His work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/

Photo by Joe Ciciarelli on Unsplash

Glancing Down at the Carnival

3 October 2023 /

Poetry by Robert Nisbet

Leaving a small dark town, hurrying,
we pass a notice, To the Carnival,
swing homeward over a sweep of bridge,
then glance down at the show itself,
in the valley, in its meadow,
a multi-coloured load of sight and sound.

We see and hear, briefly
the motley morrice of copious ribbon
the comedy notes of oompah-oompah
a cone of helter-skelter red
maybe a hurdy-gurdy grinding

We sense . . . maybe
the sketching of likenesses
the telling of fortunes in shadowed tents
and (as in American country fairs)
a bespectacled girl sitting at a card table,
typing poems for the passing crowds . . .

Stay, stay
oompah, oompah
but our car has to race on, race on . . .

Robert Nisbet, a Welsh writer, was for several years an associate lecturer in creative writing at Trinity College, Carmarthen, where he also worked for a while as an adjunct professor for the Central College of Iowa. His poems appear in Robeson, Fitzgerald and Other Heroes (Prolebooks, 2017). Read Robert’s poem “Later” published in The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

Stealing a Night from the Stars

24 January 2023 /

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

Chilled dusk shrouds the afternoon warmth. The sunset’s
pretty purpose draped in blue-haze. Night is coming on fast.

A firecracker bursts in the mouth of a frog. Shy stars crawl
out & realign their constellations. Water spirals down a polished

drain, pink with fresh blood. Curiosity cakes dry mud on loose
laces. Western clouds shaped like brains twin-mingle around

the chimney’s billow. Wafting through the boy’s flared nostrils
the ticklish smoke of parched brick. Peach-colored petals spoking

from a gerbera’s heart, droop under crystal dew. Blind
nightcrawlers slither desperate for longer lifetimes

beyond the flashlight’s halo. In dawn’s first amber wink
on the juniper and spruce the boy’s bait is hooked, a coffee can

of worms in hand. Wading from reed-bank to muddy pond, every
freckle on his cheek praying for another hot breath of sunshine.

His fishing rod in hand, he tosses the line. He’s a brave sum of all
his skinny parts, patient, though his heart’s on fire, anxious

for the bobber’s bob on the still black water. Here, where he caught
a twenty-four-inch bluegill worthy of a tale he’d tell.

Clarence Allan Ebert lives in Silver Spring, Md. He first published a poem in 1978 and since then hasn’t sat at the old oak writing desk in the parlor because he raised four children and spent his time litigating matters. Since COVID, he’s back in the parlor, writing away.

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