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)

New Poems for the 2023 Long Branch Poetry Festival

Sea Changes

Things are not they what use to be,

It seems times are changing for the worse,

Lamented the blonde who looked too young

To be toiling 40 years at the family pharmacy 

That would be closing in just a few days.

 

Sometimes they change for the worse,

And other times they change for the better,

Offered the sad customer who has seen many changes

In over 60 years of living in old and new  neighborhoods,

To the very small comfort of the worker losing her job.

 

The home of original music closed its doors

But hope remained the new owner would reopen it

A better place with more music, drinks, and food.

But little more than a year later it was bulldozed to the ground,

Keeping everyone guessing what will be there next.

 

Maybe it will meet the same fate as the cool cafe

That was frequented at night by kids both young and old

Who downed their Dutch coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches.

So much in fact they tired the owner right out of business,

Giving way to plans for more new homes and businesses.

 

I see many of the changes in our neighborhood.

I sense the loss people feel around our world.

Why oh why fear change while also wanting things better?

The sea to our east changes every day after all,

But to it we always flock to relax and recharge.

Meeting Up at the Jersey Shore

 

I first saw you when the packed train left the station.

I watched you with your friends during the hour we traveled to the shore,

And pretended not to while talking to my buddies and trying to act cool.

When the doors opened, my legs caught up to yours and our eyes met.

 

I started talking to you and almost forgot about my friends,

And your bright smile lit up your face as we chatted with each other 

Among the throng that moved quickly and loudly toward the beach.

I whiffed the weed and saw the bottles but only cared about you that moment.

 

And the moment was soon lost as chaos broke out in the village by the sea.

There was pushing and shoving and yelling and then fights and blood.

There was drinking and smoking and then broken glass and debris on the street.

There was dancing and twerking on the boardwalk and then stomping atop cars.

 

And then just like that you were apart from me, out of sight.

I headed back to the train station and looked but could not find you.

I searched the packed platform hoping to see you again

And desperately moved from one car to the next on the train home to no avail.

 

I remember your name but never found out where you lived,

Or what you were doing during the rest of the summer,

Nor what your plans were for autumn or the rest of your life.

But I hope the two of us meet up again at the Jersey Shore.

 

 

©Copyright 2023, Charles A.  Bruns

 

Song for Hire

Here are some words that

Need to be sung

Could use to be played 

Might be helped with a tune.

So if you know a singer songwriter,

Tell them this song’s for hire. 

 

He comes to this land

With little but busy hands,

Sharp mind and desire

To have a good life.

So if you want a dreamer,

This boy’s for hire.

 

Give me your tired your poor

The stiff lady in the harbor beckons.

They flock in by ship

And by planes and by feet

Doing work few others want.

This country’s for hire.

 

Look at them on your screens,

Hear what they have to say.

These messages cost lots of money,

And they’re all trying to appeal to you.

Figure out who might be telling truth,

This election’s winner is for hire.

 

He looks far and wide 

For ways to make it happen.

Nothing’s impossible 

Or too hard, too big or too small.

So if you need to get it done,

This guy’s for hire.

 

Writing something that makes sense

But sounds to others like nonsense.

It’s fact, it’s fiction, it’s poetry, it’s literature.

What difference does it make?

Just enjoy the sound and flow of the words,

This writer’s for hire.

 

Freedom of speech

For all citizens rich or poor,

In various forums and media.

But that also implies the right to be wrong

And believe what you want to believe.

This truth’s for hire.

 

Words and pictures congregate on phones and tablets

And computers with little and big screens.

Some are offensive and others reassuring

So pick the ones you like and deny the others.

Eventually you see what you want to be believe.

This newsfeed’s for hire.

 

The day’s newspapers are delivered

To the building’s varied residents.

Local papers, out-of-town papers,

Religious publications, gossip sheets.

They’re all there for anyone to read.

These eyes are for hire.

 

I think so but I’m not sure,

Maybe possibly perhaps possibly maybe.

My gut tells me so, but my head’s not sure.

It’s just a sense I have somewhere,

Something in me just tells me.

This feeling’s for hire.

 

To want and be wanted

And embrace and be cared for.

Isn’t that what’s it all about?

But often there’s a price to pay,

Compromises and sacrifices to make.

This love’s for hire.

 

So, there are some words that

Need to be sung

Could use to be played 

Might be helped with a tune.

So if you know a singer songwriter

Tell them this song’s for hire. 

Copyright 2020, Charles A. Bruns