David Herbert

Where did your muse come from?

Did it rise from deep down the coal mines

Your father aspired for you to do a man’s work,

But that your mother wanted you to stay away from,

Inspiring you to rise above the grit and ash of the English countryside

Like a phoenix to teach in universities and write and write more about all you saw?

You saw the despair in working men

And anguish in even harder working women.

You saw hope and hopelessness,

And real love and fake love in a brutal world

You saw a world war maim and kill many thousands,

And people buried in what may have been truths or falsehoods.

You wrote Sons and Lovers and The Rainbow

And continued with Women in Love and that grand finale,

Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

It was labeled obscene and quickly banned,

But eventually recognized for simply being just

Merely many dozens of years ahead of its time.

By then you were long gone,

Having been banished from England

To move from place to place in Europe

And eventually Australia and on to that

American wild west world where you arrived 

And made New Mexico your home a couple of years.

All the while you continued writing and writing

Novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays, criticisms,

And being the target yourself of much scorn from a society

That could not and would not tolerate reading underlying truths

Of what it actually was or what it pretended to be or what it was not

As it looked in the cracked mirror of the pages you wrote for all to clearly see.

Across the ocean nearly 50 years later a young man

Listened as a rose of a professor who once was a nun

Read aloud your prose and adoringly sang your praises.

I absorbed nearly all your books over the next several years

And even visited your Nottinghamshire hometown to find out for myself

Just where that muse that eventually enlightened many had come from.

Copyright 2026, Charles A. Bruns

Originally published by Noble Mouse Press (St. Lexia and the Lesser Feasts chapbook)

Poems for a 250th birthday

The request from the organizers of the Long Branch Poetry Festival this year was to consider presenting “historical, patriotic, non-political” materials for the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The assignment proved more challenging than I expected. Following are the two new poems I wrote for the Fourth of July event.

Land of hopes

 

Long Branch NJ to Long Beach CA,

What a big beautiful country this USA.

Woody Guthrie sang it many years ago, 

This land is your land this land is my land,

… this land was made for you and me.

 

On huge transporters many arrived,

To this great land with many opportunities,

A true melting pot full of hope and ambition,

And the promise of freedom for us all,

Whether tired or poor or fleeing persecution.

 

Parents wanting better for their children,

Sacrificing for them to receive the education

And the skills they need to attain success

And happiness that was proving too elusive 

In the land of their own birth and youth.

 

New Americans assimilating with the old,

While adding their own flavors and sounds 

To the mosaic of this still young land,

And continuing to expand and redefine

Just what is the culture of the USA today.

 

That’s the past and present at 250 years.

But what of the next hundred or so years

For the future generations of Americans?

Are the best of times in this land behind us,

Is now what they’ll say is the good ol’ days?

 

America can continue to build its strength,

Greeting people with dreams and ambitions 

Who value our democracy and economy 

And contribute to the hope of better days

As this wonderful land continues to evolve.

 

Copyright 2026, Charles A. Bruns

 

Stamps

 

Only one country in all of the world

Could transport information of all kinds

Through its beautiful lands north to south,

East to west and up mountains down valleys

With these colorful images as the fare of passage

Since January twentieth two thousand twenty five A.D.:

 

Crab nebula, the horse, galaxy pair, sunflowers, 

Angel’s trumpets, winter landscapes, lowriders.

Luna moth, bald eagle, SpongeBob SquarePants, schooner,

U. S. flag, baby wild animals, goodnight moon, star cluster.

 

Vibrant leaves, the Appalachian Trail, American bison, dahlias, 

1794 compass rose, spiral galaxy, Route 66, American vistas.

 

Harriet Powers, Betty White, Muhammad Ali, 

Jimmy Carter, Elie Wiesel, Phillis Wheatley,

Ben Franklin, Barbara Bush, William F. Buckley, 

Allen Toussaint, and Bruce Lee.

 

Happy birthday, holiday cheer, 250 years of delivering, 

Colorado statehood, day at the beach, freshwater fishing, 

U.S. Army 250th, U.S. Navy, Marine Corps, postcrossing.

 

Treasures of the revolutionary era, 

Battlefields of the American revolution.

Powwows, summer sunset, North American soccer,

Boston stamp show, International peace, love forever.

 

And today, the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence it is,

As depicted on the very latest stamp from the US Postal Service.

 

Copyright 2026, Charles A. Bruns

 

New book, Shorts: Poems and Short Stories, receives great AI reviews

 

I was pleased by the wonderful reviews generated by OpenAI’s ChatGPT, Google’s Gemini, and Microsoft’s Copilot artificial intelligence (AI) chatbots when I asked them for a 250-word review of my latest book, Shorts: Poems and Short Stories, a few weeks after its November18 publication. Each of them responded very positively about my collection of poetry and prose. I'm also quite impressed by how aligned their views of my latest work are. It’s yet another indication of how quickly and how far AI has advanced since my first book was published four years ago. 

ChatGPT stated that Shorts: Poems and Short Stories, is “an inviting and heartfelt collection that captures the beauty, humor, complexity and contradictions of everyday American life … The poems are rich with place and memory … The short stories anchor the collection with narrative depth … Bruns writes with sincerity and accessibility … Shorts is a celebration of lived experience.” 

To read the full OpenAI ChatGPT review, click here. 

Gemini stated my latest book is “a compelling and diverse collection that deftly captures the pulse of American life through dual lenses: evocative poetry and insightful short fiction … a vibrant scrapbook of observations and reflections … Bruns’ writing is accessible yet poignant … a rewarding read for those who appreciate writing that finds the extraordinary in the everyday”

For the full Google Gemini review, click here.

According to Copilot, my new book is “a vivid tapestry of literary expression, weaving together poetry and short fiction with impressive skill and heart … The emotional range displayed—tenderness, humor, melancholy—makes Shorts an accessible and memorable read … a collection that invites readers to pause, ponder, and enjoy the artistry of well-crafted words.” 

The full Microsoft Copilot review can be read by clicking here.

Thank you, AI chatbots! For more information about Shorts: Poems and Short Stories, visit my author website at: https://charleslopezbruns.com/shorts-poems-and-short-stories/.

 

The warbler and the wasp

Singing its song while flying the skies,
The warbler happily looks at the world below.
Wings flapping morning, afternoon, and evening,
She glides low before landing to find her sustenance.

 

Buzzing a bit erratically above land,

The wasp darts menacingly around the area.

It manages to climb higher only when necessary,

He is seldom welcomed or greeted by anything he sees.

 

But coexist the warbler and the wasp manage to do,

Just like many of God’s creations on this earth of humans.

One can sing happily while the other goes buzzing hazardly,

Because it takes all kinds, sizes, shapes, to make this world spin.

 

And so it goes night after day, all year,

Come sunshine, heat, wind, rain, cold, snow.

As youth gives way to age, business to pleasure,

War to peace, dismay to hope, short stops, and all the way.

 

And then one night the warbler and the wasp meet,

Unplanned and to the detriment of all in that moment.

The warbler was gliding low as the wasp buzzed higher,

And both were startled and unable to avoid each other’s body.

 

There was no song for the warbler,

It was not sustenance to continue onward.

No buzzing for joy from the wounded wasp,

For it had encountered a mass much too large.

 

There was a short fall from the sky,

Straight to the cold and dark waters below.

With sounds on the way down swallowed quickly,

After a splash, some flapping, and sinking of their bodies.

 

As quickly as they met unwillingly,

Their rendezvous was forever all over.

After years of singing and buzzing separately,

It all ended for them in familiar skies and waters.

 

Other warblers and wasps will fly,

Few will ever have such a fateful night.

Their songs and buzzing will fill the skies,

With the grace of God all over this big world.

 

 

Copyright 2025, Charles A. Bruns

Newark, 9:30 p.m., Wednesday

Newark Penn Station was a grand part of New Jersey’s largest city in its day.
Now it’s just an other example of the city’s struggling attempt to recover from decay.

Where’s the fruit of the urban investments made in this metropolis that once thrived?

Where are the 23 degrees The Weather Channel claims are hovering outside?

It’s a Wednesday night in Newark in the dead of winter,
And seeing a Seton Hall basketball game at The Rock bring some hither.
But what about many of the others inside this God forsaken transit center?

A little girl in a pink jacket sings while sitting and playing on the much-trodden floor.
A young woman with pink hair frowns while strutting her black boots toward the door.

A big fellow with a black coat and white beard begs passersby for five dollars.
A man and a woman navigate their wheelchairs around the halls and holler.
An old guy in a hoodie sits on a wooden bench holding an iPhone and writing poetry.

Copyright 2025, Charles A. Bruns

22 Dream

 

The dreams by ‘72 were nestled in her head,

A few years after a family friend took them

For a magic carpet ride she would never forget.

“I want one, I’ll have one, someday, someway,” she said.

 

Eighty-two gave way to ‘92 and the love of a man,

Along with higher education and bills and a career,

And in due time a house, two children, and minivan,

Not merely one, not just two, but eventually three.

 

The new millennium dawned without mayhem,

And the little boys got big and left the nest.

The jobs came and went with the passing of years,

But not those dreams of the smiling little girl.

 

Life at the shore with boardwalk strolls and the beach,

Cruising along leisurely on bikes along Ocean Avenue,

Watching the river flow and all kinds of wheels,

Spinning north, south, east, west, on the roads.

 

The most magical of carpet rides emerges,

Complete with the world’s smallest bow tie.

“We can do this,” her mate declares one spring,

And begins reaching out on their computer and phone.

 

The waiting list stretches to seven months,

As the details of the dream become clearer,

Then a voice on the phone merrily announces,

“We’re ready to make your dream come true.”

 

Three months of winter later it’s a reality.

Her blue eyes stare at the long body in disbelief,

The mid-engine roars, the hard roof comes down,

And she smiles while finally driving away in her 22 Dream.

 

 

Copyright 2024, Charles A. Bruns