Bobby Bolt – 3 poems 



In July we sang cat tail whispers swaying in a heat

with the seasons.  One month of rain made us


the most enlarged versions of ourselves,

so fullness became our biology, the Middle-West

with its many volumes inviting Gemini rain destined

to pale under an angry star.  Battle cries rang


more like warnings in a song christened

Arthritic Bending and the Ultimate Snap. July,

when a supply vessel ailed by overpressure

events exploded in deathless spectacle


before piercing its destination.  How I would learn

the dodged bullet perseveres, never homeless.


throwing wishes to the future, promises of autumn

for extinction of the present as a highway mirage,

one through which I drove with black-blooded


roadkill left behind in a poem called

How to be One with Nature: Something I Learned Too Late.




It won’t really feel like leaving

if you remember the scar hiding

just below your hairline, how places

like this could split you red and wide

and flying into the next, your

swordsmanship tested and proved

absent on two continents—some

fingers were harmed in the making

of this food—while three Japanese

characters were drawn in the making

of your name, the one found

on a green sheath because what’s

the point in concealing a sword,

and if you remember old thoughts

like how people used to look braver

and swing battle-worn words at each other

in the pictures you weren’t alive to take,

then this might look more like a time

machine than an escape plan,

where nervous fingers run through

your hair, pulling like tires for answers

in the foreground and if you hit a bump,

slip and fall between the creases

of your brain then think of a four-mile

island, letting the luck of fifty polydactyl

cats and their leader MacLeish float you

back, chasing the far-away echo

you thought you heard, and if you keep

her voice closer to your ear like

the freckled reminder of a piercing

that never happened, or the poem

in the towered, singing bell then

you’ll know to keep near some coverage,

all walls and ceilings and floors

and the matching shapes within remind you

what will blanket your nervous sleep:

the lesson of spider-child born in the center

who uses his years to spread and re-center,

as such you will leave your crisp summer stanzas

of corn and soy with the sight of her

footprints on the unwashed passenger

side windshield, and some home can fly

with you to other towns on golden song

where you might close your eyes, and breathe.




There’s a curious movement in going anywhere,

and didn’t you know we’re all hanging,


spinning upside down and dangling

by the roots?  Stay still if you like, and stare,


or go find a way out but even if you runhere

you’re actually going there.  Not lost, but losing


change and keys, heels over head when moving

more around the question than toward.  Veering


blood unequipped with rear view, your vessels

won’t move backward, just stop and flow.


A thousand numbers you’ll never know, breaking

codes and making codes and who guessed


the end from Mayan stone?  With buttons pressed

on peace we’re waging, vacant silos make our homes.


Bobby Bolt recently received his BA in English from the University of Illinois at Springfield, and will begin his candidacy for an MFA in Poetry at Texas State University this fall.  At UIS, he served as Poetry Editor for both Alchemist Review and Compass Literary Journal—the latter a publication he co-founded with some classmates.  Bobby’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Postcard Poetry & Prose MagazineRoute 7 ReviewAmore: An Anthology of Love Poems, Rappahannock ReviewSink Hollow, RunestonePretty Owl Poetryand Lincoln Land Review.

By Heavenly Flower Publishing

Bindweed Magazine publishes two anthologies each year: Midsummer Madness and Winter Wonderland. Bindweed is run as a not for profit, labour of love endeavour by an author/poet couple: Leilanie Stewart and Joseph Robert. Bindweed can be found at

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s