The poetry of Harold Ackerman

Harts Drive Off Cliff into the Pacific Ocean

Turn away from the screen, abandon
this field where all of us play out, now,
are born here, now eat of various rich boards
and in exquisite sounds of loving tongues
grow, breed, exchange, work, kill, and die:
we’re all here now save only asleep or blind,
but at this stop.  The car will fall.
Nothing will grace it.  Pacific has lost its name.




First crude language.
Then efficient bombs.
Never, never once the small yellow barbs, then the calyx suddenly bursting,
April’s forsythia.

Harold Ackerman retired from teaching after 35 years.  Now he spends his time writing, mostly poetry, and gathering little squares of light.  He has poems this spring in The Comstock Review and Schuylkill Valley Journal.  He and his wife, Jane, live in Berwick, PA.  Welcome to visit his photo gallery at

One comment

  1. Thank you, Harold.  Needed to read your poems today.  Confirms the desperate feelings, but offers solace.  Miss reading your work.  May I purchase your latest book(s)?  Sharon Steiner  


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