Poets Online Archive

BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST
after Daniel, Ch. 5 and Phillips' Exploring the Book of Daniel

Imagine a party. Not just any party.
A party a mile long in hanging gardens.
A thousand guests. Elaborate half-moon
tables filled with fresh-water fish
from the Euphrates, with game and

goat and suckling lambs, dried or
smoked to perfection on altar
of alabaster and gold. Pomegranates,
piled as high as the Taurus Mountains
decorating side tables, along with grapes

and apples and almonds and dates.
And the breads. O, the baskets of bread
and pastries, along with tureens
of venison and lentil stews flavored
by the Mediterranean. Look around.

Take in the magnificent walls.
The extravagance. See trained peacocks
harnessed to miniature gold and silver chariots
carrying hors d’oeuvres and wine, the most
precious of the vine. Hear orchestra, raucous

and wild, its blaring trumpets and bassoons
competing with the rowdy nobility, their wives,
their concubines, their special guests shouting,
O king, live forever. Note the one reveler
on terrace steps amongst the flaming torches,

more frenzied than the others and calling out
for the confiscated sacred vessels
from the Holy City that he might raise toasts
to Marduk and Babylon’s other patrons,
his gods of gold and silver, of bronze and

ivory, of wood and silence and stone. See
his countenance change, his visage
grow pale, his hips loosen, the wine goblet
slipping from his grip as he staggers and
lunges toward the phantom hand,

toward the lettering on plastered wall.
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. Hear
the soldiers’ footsteps on cobblestones
outside the castle. Weighty. Like judgment.

Jo Taylor

I DO NOT THINK THEY WILL SING TO ME.
"I do not think that they will sing to me." - "The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

But I know there will be singing. Well, really, I don’t know, but I assume so, as every year, on the Eve of the Eve of Christmas, meaning December 23rd, and why don’t they call it this? there is singing. What I do know is that there will be two colors of vegetarian soup, gluten-free treats, and I will bring deviled eggs that the vegans will eat when no one is watching but me. I don’t mean to taunt my friends; I rarely do, but the eggs are from our chickens, and now that the days are long and dark, and the ladies aren’t laying many, they seem that much more special. And the eve of the eve is a special day, right? And there will probably be singing. The piano is in the living room, the winter boots are in the mud room, and the hot tub beyond the window is steaming and calling. And there will probably be singing, but I do not think they will sing to or for me. Still, our voices will rise like that steam out the fogged and icy windows, and we will open our hearts and mouths and sing.

Patty Joslyn

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Got a call from Art & Marty
to come to their New Year's party
(rent a car strikes me as bonkers
just to drive up to Yonkers)
Instead I went to a posh bistro
with Michel and his Angelo
(of course we had a few just before
peach brandy - which you know I adore)
When we were asked by the maître'd
I quipped we were party of three
there's me myself and I ...
zippidoo, here's mud in your eye!
(he gave me such a withering look
that uptight, pompous, snooty schnook)
They turn the lights there way down low
(like being inside inside Caravaggio)
The food? Yeh, I must admit.
Resto reputations are rarely legit.
So for next year there's the plan I'll hatch:
throw a huge party that no one can catch.

Timea Deinhardt

UNSEEN UNTIL YOU
I
arrive at the party
alone and unassuming
easing myself
into the background
chameleon like
blending into nothingness
I
not wanting to be
seen
watching the partyers
resenting
nobody seeing me
I
scan the room
until
my eyes meet your
inviting smile
warm and unsolicited
I
crossed
the room
and we danced
and talked
all night

Douglas J. Sweeting, Sr.

PETEY IN PARADISE

Near the Hanalei Canoe Club of Kauai,
Petey is pawing at my screen door.
The sun rises over the mountain peaks.
Roosters call good morning to each other,
drowning out Petey’s pathetic and heartbreaking mewl.

He’s persistent with his nearly human words.
His tenacity and range annoys my wife.
But I can make out a few
as “feed me” and “maybe some water?”
as “some of that chicken would be nice.”

We were cautioned about the feral cats:
Do not yield to their practiced cons,
and with an ever-raised index finger to
my face, my wife reminds me to
reserve my empathy for the more deserving.

But this, my birthday present from her —
the days of sand and margarita nights
for the feat of lasting eight decades —
how does it require abandoning the needy,
in this case, Petey, my broken doppelgänger?

Rob Friedman

POTLUCK POETRY PARTY

Our workshop for the week before Christmas
has become a party – a potluck of snacks and poems.
What shall I bring? I bake cookies for the holidays.
Used to bake. Grandma’s once-famous icebox
cookies can’t pass the health-food test. All of us
with leisure – to read & write poems & come
to weekday daytime meetings – wish to live even
beyond our dreams of literary fame. Yes, I have
poems aplenty for the potluck. All featuring nature,
eco-friendly verse. Today I bought quick rolled
oats, bananas, and dark chocolate chips –
an experiment based on an internet improv – not
an actual recipe. And yes, I do consider dark
chocolate, in moderation, a health food.

Taylor Graham

THIS TONGUE OF FLAME
"Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse." - Dante Alighieri, Inferno.

One drink past drunk
with no time
to make decisions
and no opportunity
to make revisions
to words soaked in alcohol.
A bathroom stumble,
a long, dark hall,
the night’s mistakes coming back,
the toilet now an inky black
Someone’s panties on the floor in a ball
A drunkard’s walk home in snow ,
how I made it I do not know,
then falling clothed upon the bed,
fire burning in my head,
it comes to me that
I should have said,
“That is not what I meant at all.”

Katie Milburn

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
(Circa 1965)

To cement my bonds of friendship
With Brendan, and Geoffrey, and Glenn,
I invited them to ‘my’ house,
For a birthday party, way back when.
The sun shone down from an August sky,
The scene was set, and hopes were high!

A pack of youthful hyenas,
Pawed, restlessly, at our front door.
With new-washed faces and hopeful smiles,
We couldn’t have asked for more.

They dashed on through to the kitchen,
To help themselves to cake,
Careering into the garden
To see what a mess they could make!
Town dogs, let loose in the country,
Came scenting all manner of crime,
Though Brendan, and Geoffrey, and Glenn
Were lovely lads most of the time!

Geoffrey Bobbles Bonbon
Climbed high into a tree
Snatching all my father’s apples
To throw them down at me!

They wrecked our antique furniture
In a mad game of musical chairs
And a ball thrown, in a game of tag,
Caught the conservatory window unawares!

My dad surveyed the carnage
As he gave a sad shake of his head,
And he picked up some pieces of wreckage,
“What? Call this a party?” he said.

I would call my friends ‘misguided,’
Rather than outright ‘bad.’
But, of course, this birthday party,
Was both the first, and the last one, I had!

John Botterill

OFFICE PARTY

The invitation arrives on my desk
predictably as December snow,
proclaiming in glittery calligraphy,
Come to the Annual Company Bash!

In my chicest dress and stiletto heels,
I enter a ballroom festooned with greens.
A Christmas tree ornamented with coins
soars to the ceiling beside the bar,
which features wine and drinks with names
like Profit Punch and Moolah Mojito.

Waiters bearing silver platters
offer sushi, mini quiches,
bacon-wrapped dates, chicken satay,
and shrimp the size of a toddler's fist.

A jazz quartet performs beside
a table laden with petit fours,
chocolate mousse and macaroons,
cut-out cookies sugared in gold.

I weave among my office mates,
wondering if they can see
the spinach dip between my teeth.
Strains of karaoke float
from the room next door,
growing increasingly out of tune.

After the boss gives an endless speech
thanking guests for their tireless work,
I slink out to my frozen car
and fall into bed with a sigh of relief,

unaware that my colleagues and I
will get pink slips the following week.

Susan Spaeth Cherry

OFFICE PARTY DREADED

Oh, how I wanted to dodge this
but couldn't think of a valid reason.
Must remember names
And ask after the kids
But do you have kids?
And ask about your trip
But where did you go?
When are you due
Or have you just put on weight?
No pass the balloon with your knees, please
Or team building games of any kind.
No getting merry or chit-chat about
My holiday plans, my hair, my dress.
Please no vol-au-vents
Or rum punch with too much rum
Or things on sticks or wine in boxes.
Because you don't know me.
Things you don't know about me include:
My middle name.
My favourite novelist.
My favourite flower.
My worst fear.
How long must I stay before
It's acceptable to leave?
At last, out in the street, fresh air,
No more requirement for polite small talk.
Just get home to the people who know me.
The right lights in the right window.
The right people in the right chairs.

No-one trying to explain me
And I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

Anne Iredale

DON’T BLAME IT ON THE BOOGIE

We were at a party
I think our first one together
Small, nothing fancy
A small graduation party
A friend of yours danced with me
Not the slow kind of dance
Not the I want to get to know you better kind
Definitely nada going on
But you were quick to anger
We walked to a pizza place nearby
I cried, we talked, you apologized
It seems to be my genetic emotional default
Why not rip roaring pissed off anger?
It was just the beginning, our beginning
Less than a few months in
We could’ve been over
Just another short-lived teen romance
I guess you either sit it out
Or wait for the music to change - or head home
I don’t recall if we returned to the party
But if we did, we didn’t linger
We’ve never been much for parties
But bad behavior tends to put a damper on things
No matter where you are
And while you can leave a party
The memories, like an unwanted party favor
Are yours to keep
We don’t always leave it all on the dance floor
Some things, if they’re not chucked out
Just sit on a shelf
Others take a lifetime to sort out
Sometimes longer

Terri J. Guttilla

SOCK SWAP

Mateless Wonders.
That pile of socks in the laundry room.
We swore two went in
yet only one came out,
like those parties we attended,
post-divorce.

Some socks in the pile have been single for years,
others just recently hung out to dry.
I found a couple that fit in my hiking shoes
and took them out on the trail.
Other boots joined in,
we became a mixed bag
of mateless wonders
figuring it out together,
hikes with mountain dinner parties
under millions of stars
in the night sky,
secrets shared,tears shed,
bonds made, we aged like fine wine
perfecting the blend
year after year.
Traditions stayed
Through
COVID, retirement,
children leaving,
relationships ending,
grandchildren arriving,
traveling together or
wonderfully mateless
seeking new pleasures
bringing home new treasures.
Each year
we travel further to get together,
we drink less, we laugh more
as we gather around the Christmas tree
to play our traditional game.

Yankee Swap-
unwrapping the distance
traveled each year.

Leslayann Schecterson

THE BEST PARTY EVER

If your friends and family have any class at all,
Your funeral will be the best party of your life.
You won’t be alive anymore, of course, because
Your soul will have chosen to embark
On your next journey. But your transition should
Be celebrated with dignity, elegance and aesthetic grace.
As Antigone pointed out to her shameless uncle millennia
Ago, burying the dead is a sacred obligation, and
A funeral is a work of art, like Botticelli’s Annunciation.
How long did the painter reflect on the spray of lilies
In Gabriel’s left hand as the angel bowed to the Virgin Mary?
And the loved one in charge of your funeral
Will need an artist’s eye for symbol and detail,
And he or she will definitely need a firm hand:
No fake minister who got his license online,
No balloons, no weak coffee in Styrofoam cups
At the reception, and no stale store-bought cookies.
A decent funeral takes the high road.
If you are from New Orleans, there will be a parade.
If you have even one drop of Celtic blood, there will be
A bagpiper, playing “Amazing Grace.”
And even if you are a Baptist, a first-rate mezzo-soprano
Should be hired to sing “Ave Maria.”
No one will be allowed to make your funeral about himself.
If one of your old buddies gets drunk and sways up to the
Pulpit, intending to ramble on about all the pot you smoked
In high school and how he slashed your math teacher’s tires,
Your spokesperson will signal a trusted friend who will escort
This lout out of the sanctuary.
If you are Jewish, everyone will say, and really mean it,
“May his memory be a blessing,” and if you’re Buddhist,
As the priest chants from the Sutras, your friends will line up
In silence and one by one, add a pinch of incense to the
Smoldering fire, lighted in your memory.

Rose Anna Higashi

CONVIVIUM INEPTUM

In a corner and on my own,
feeling weirdly awkward and alone.
Overwhelmed, I can read neither faces nor tones,
like I've forgotten every social skill
I've ever known.

I've spent the last year
living in a small city in South Korea
developing, unnoticed, a visceral fear
of being around fellow native English speakers
and it's choosing this moment to appear.

This is not a hostile crowd!
Yes, the beachfront apartment is packed, and loud,
with friends, and friends of friends; no need to be cowed
into a corner, on my own,
beneath a grey, personal thundercloud.

You OK? I'm fine. A blatant lie.
I'm picking at the buffet, trying not to cry.
A spring roll. Some crisps. A bowl of spicy stir-fry.
But the fear's killed my appetite; I can't even taste!
I retreat to the balcony as it intensifies.

Several deep breaths of warm Pacific air.
Sit myself down on a rattan armchair.
I can smell frangipani and gardenia
and slowly, very slowly, the turmoil subsides
along with that strong urge to be elsewhere.

Johnny joins me. Then Celia, Trevor, Tone.
I stay outside until most of the guests have gone.
In the early hours, I'm once again on my own,
feeling better, more grounded, my equilibrium restored,
and happy this unsettling episode is now done.

It turns out that was a one-off event.
I never figured out what it really meant.
I've never since found myself spiraling, sent
so deeply into self-doubt and fear.
I try to live right here, in the present.

Robert Best

After the Party
“To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.” - Matthew Arnold, “Growing Old”

After the party I drove home in the dark,
alone as always, old eyes flinching at coming
lights, carefully following the runic curves
of our suburban enclave north of the city.

After the party I thought of you, our chairman
now retired, looking forward to coming days
of rest, of reading, of grandchildren on your lap,
of writing one more paper on Arnold’s work.

After the party I thought of how you became
our leader when no one else would, planning
schedules, hiring adjuncts, visiting classes,
all the minutia of running the department.

After the party I thought of how you enjoyed
talking about writers, of raising a glass at our
favorite pub, of your wry humor, your love
of people, grandchildren, poetry, friends.

But you left too soon, before you could
take the measure of your days, before
the last paper was finished, before you
could raise one last glass to the enduring word.

Rob Miller

THE YEAR I TAGGED ALONG TO FRAT PARTIES

He pledged Chi Phi
rejected by other frats

the boy from down the hall
who knocked nightly

to drag me into the scene
on the Greek row

where they poured beer
down their throats

I google his house
three decades later

the one with creaky floorboards
and an unused pool table

the boy's name
long forgotten

but the faces
in the photos

are blank
as paper cutouts

Jackie Chou

THE AFTER PARTY

When grandpa Kelly passed away
they laid out his remains in the front parlor
of 519 23rd Street in Watervliet, NY
Just one block away from St. Patrick's church
where they said his funeral mass

After the cemetery, we returned to the house
to reminisce about his storied life
Women comforted aunt Rita in the kitchen
while the men drank whisky in the parlor
We kids stood back against the wall and listened

Stories of a man with sparkling eyes and gnarled hands
who loved to sing and dance and drink
tell stories till his listeners fell asleep
A man with heart so big it sheltered all of us
a wit so sharp it cut through any argument

Cousin Mark and I stepped out onto the stoop
to catch a smoke and talk about
how we would find some pretty girl to marry
make a million bucks before we turned thirty
live anywhere but in this bombed out neighborhood

Fast forward sixty-seven years
I'm at another after party -- this one for Mark
We are one hundred friends and family
gathered in the clubhouse of his country club
A twenty minute drive from the old family home

I am his oldest living relative, and asked to speak
of a man whose heart was like a red umbrella
whose wit was lightening quick and surgical
who loved life, family, friends and being Irish
who gave me hope when I was suicidal

I read a poem I wrote, in which I beg
those who I have loved and left behind
not to mourn my death, but celebrate my life instead
which, I suggest, is what we're doing now --
by throwing Mark a sempiternal after party

Frank Kelly

THE PARTY (OR NO RSVP FIBONACCI)
“It is hard to laugh at the need for beauty and romance, no matter how tasteless, even horrible, the results of that are. But it is easy to sigh. Few things are sadder than the truly monstrous.” - Nathanael West, The Day of the Locust

I froze at the sight of my parent’s barren liquor
cabinet, empty save for a
pepperoni topped
pizza slice;
popcorn
filled
cracks
between
their sofa’s
new leather cushions;
purple Red Mountain wine spill stains
permeated Mom’s shag rug—prized more than her crystal.

Cigarette burns on oak coffee tables concerned me
little because my father had
set the standard for
branding wood
grains with
scorch
marks;
though guests
who ignored
coasters left circles
behind, Dad embossed tabletops
with six perfect sets of Olympic rings long before….

When Scott crashed through the sliding glass door chasing Suzy
the prom queen, to the swimming pool
I told them: “Leave! Now!”
Instead they
shed clothes
jumped
splashed
in nude
laughing and
screaming until cops
arrived in twenty minutes when
wild skinny dippers looked to me as if I would help.

My guests acted like a plague of insects senselessly
ravaging my parent’s fine home:
a huge savage horde
destroying
singing
in
the
seedy
grass until
silence reigned in a
devastated field; no party
had been more decadent in The Day of the Locust.

Sterling Warner

TONY

It was a Physics Society party.
I’d been to many
and didn’t like them much.
Physics students were creeps.
Well, they were generally creeps,
but Tony was different,
he thought they were creeps as well,
even though he was one of them.

He was a miner’s son from North Yorkshire.
He thought the rest were upper class,
including me it seemed.
‘What did your father do?,’ he asked.
It seemed weird to say ‘Tram Driver’
when the trams were so long gone
and saying he was dead didn’t satisfy him,
so, I opted for the marriage certificate occupation.
‘Garage Mechanic, that’s not bad’, he said.

I didn’t share his experiences of class and entitlement,
the students in my course were mainly working class
Grammar School products, like Tony, like me,
so I thought he had an unreasonable chip on his shoulder
and we had nothing in common.
Now I understand him better
and wish I’d talked longer
and known him more.
I think we could have been friends.

Lynn White

Poets Online Archive

Party January 2026 - Issue 342

Party
January 2026 - Issue 342