Josh K. McIntyre

The Bitters in the Sweet

Is it merely my potential,
I have tossed finely to the sewer?
This will bother poor mother
Trembling toward a glass of Dewar's.
"Could this be the same son
Whom I did swaddle"?
She will surely weep,
As she reaches for the bottle.
"Yeah, Ma, I got published -
In Modern Drunkard Magazine!"
And, perhaps, it dimmed the luster
From this poor Poet's sheen.
I have hope, though, it will mean something
To someone, somewhere, some how.
Some literate drunkard
Stumbling our interminable prowl.
Maybe one verse of distilled wisdom
Will cast some glint of beacon
Through that bleary last call prism.


From yonder churchyard
All grays of stone and old road
Listing mysterious in the evolving dusk,
Fresh heralds of late Autumn chills,
A thick dusting of snow melted
To slough among the drown flowers
In hour's light
And begun now to harden to ice
Patches along the pavement's limits
From which no footfalls resound
For our mourners drift this evening
Undiscovered inches above, or
Amidst our final flowers
And mingle effortlessly with our fears
From all distances.

Lab Results

I was sitting, watching planes,
Feeling considerably distant.
I was up early, living but worried
Watching smoke white lines climb so high,
Not knowing what all was meant.
Perhaps everything would be a sign today
And I could only wait, pray not to fade away.
I know those white lines were not Heaven sent,
They are signs of men battling the ancient.
Warriors tussling with Mother Nature
Futile to defeat her sole desire.
Striving to live forever, to be the first creature
To resist our recurrent return to her mire.
My soul needed to be that first one
As I sat there too near fear, alone
Waiting for a miracle to come through the phone.

About the Author

Josh grew up in and all around the Capital District, and currently resides in Ballston Spa. He has been writing poetry for nearly a decade now. He writes poetry because he cannot sing. Also, he thought it would help him escape the rigors of grammar he associated with prose writing. He was wrong. But he still cannot sing, so he has worked to improve his craft, taken up reading poetry where he can, and sought out what publishing might be available to him. Josh's work has been published in Metroland, Screed, Modern Drunkard Magazine (sorry, Mom), and also at Josh is now tired of referring to himself in the third person - so, thank you for clicking on my name, and I hope you enjoy my work.

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