Been a long while since I was back in the city
  (at work)
Must be around two and a half years
The Old haunts... their all haunted now
Pubs I used to visit...frequent and frequently
  get a little bit drunk/tipsy in
I wonder am I still in there drinking still
I feel like if I went in I might see
  myself sitting in some corner there...

My favourite restaurant too where I used to
  eat
Every Friday afternoon with my    
  burger  black coffee and chips
Sitting in the window looking out at the
  world going by, the people passing
Glad to have made it through another week
Glad to have survived, glad to still be alive
I almost expect to see myself sitting there
  now.....

So many have gone, so many have left...
  retired, some even passed away
So many new younger faces around the place
I wonder "Am I too, on my way out"
Wherever I go all I hear are echoes of other
  times
See faces that remind me of someone else
It's like Life is moving relentlessly along
But I've been left behind some place.

I seen a face in the street that looked
  like myself when I was young
I just stood there and watched him disappear
  into the crowd
There's such an unreal ghostly feeling about
  the place
It's so strange coming back after being at
  home alone for so long.

At a funeral recently I met a lot of people I hadn't seen in ages
Like from a hundred years ago (so it seemed)
What got me was, some of them it looked like they'd hardly aged at all
They looked....they looked nearly exactly the same
Now Me! I'd changed... I'd aged a lot
The trials and tribulations of this life had taken their toll
I said to one of them "Y'know you're still as young looking as I remember you
Is there some kind of Dorian Gray thing going on here
You don't have some mysterious portrait hidden away up in the attic"
I went on "Y'know you could do a movie and you could play yourselves
And when you go up to the attic and unveil the picture
Me! I could play the part of The Portrait staring back at you
You'd recoil in horror O! It's my true self, it's... it's so decrepit, so terrible looking (LoL)".

Me! when I look in the mirror all I see is a ghost
The very distant memory of a once beautiful looking kid.

Sittin' listenin' to old songs I used listen to when I was much younger
Songs I haven't heard... haven't played in such a long time
The first sounds that ever excited me, thrilled me as a boy
How they bring me back, stir up in me old feelings and memories long past
For a moment I almost feel like I'm back there again
I swear... I swear I can almost see myself
And feel myself... what I felt back then
It's like I've just gone down a chute, a Time Tunnel
And coming out the other side
I find myself back there again with you
For a moment I can feel your colours, your presence
Can remember your world, what you were going through
Can see all the figures, the scenes and the players.

Just like the rings of a tree
The Body and Mind, they too, hold memory
And Songs, their the conduit for getting you there, the conduit in-between
We link together somehow
We meet within the emotion of the song.

It's like I'm looking through some ghostly mirror
At a younger version of myself
I can only gaze at you in wonder
I was so different a person then
So young and innocent... and unprepared, foolishly brave
So small in the face of so huge and dark and threatening a world
With little chance... little hope of succeeding
I watch you, you look pained and ill at ease,  playing your songs over and over
Trying to seek some solace there
Then you rise to leave
I think I know where you'd be going to,
And I want to call out to you "No! Don't go there. You don't have to go there,
There's another way, a better way, a better place
I know! I have all the answers now...well some of them anyway
There's better choices for you to make"
And it's like you hesitate at the door and turn
And look back towards me
We look at each other... across the years
I can almost see your face
I want to reach out and embrace you
But it's too late... the song is over
You've turned and you've gone.

When i close my eyes i think of you.
When your in my mind i cant' help but feel you.
Remembering the time we had our first kiss, knowing how warm it felt.
When i close my eyes, i think of the time your lips faded into mine, like a deep but yet subtle swarm so soft and genuine.
When your in my mind, i can't help but see you and your oceanic blue eyes and softly your kiss in my mind switches into yet another ghostly kiss i yearn to feel one more time because good bye kisses aren't enough when you're gone. All i can do is close my eyes and think of you.

Eerie when it's three twenty-five
In the mornings of a nevermore
Fiendish powers dwelling inside
Awakened in a feverous implore
Darkness harkens souls to stay
When in an illuminating twilight
Subconscious turns ashen gray
Plants suffering a certain blight
Sleep had long not hypnotized
Nights, they pass in dry spells
No ravens come a tip tapping
Upon my mind's sly betrothal
Yet, the witching hour beckons
My brain has a way of knowing
Night, just half of it is passed
Rest half would be my undoing

hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch

something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
golden, splashed on the easel of god;
what, i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike, flit
through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?

and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice enchantedly rang
chanting “Night!” . . .

till all the bright light
retired,
expired.

This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so it was written by age 18, but probably around age 16 or 17. That was my "cummings" period. Keywords/Tags: sun, god, sunshine, Apollo, elfin, phantom, ghostly, magical, enchanted, bright, light, brilliant, sky, golden



Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
  where mockingbirds cry,
  alone, ever lonely . . .
  yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
  you never shall wake.
  Go down to the valley;
  go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
  of souls such as yours —
  mad souls without meaning,
  frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
  reserved for the dead.
  They lie in her shallows
  and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion

My dusty mind is filled
with old memories,
lost amongst poems
I dribbled on to the window sill
one morning.

I got lost in the shuffle of time,
thoughts brought me
ink drippings from
the night before,
though I already ate
the leftovers and smeared
my poems all over the walls.

You may join me
for a Gothic meel,
just don't forget to bring
your open minds
so I don't have to knock
or ring the bell.

Welcome to my gloomy day,
where black is happy,
blue is true, and the roses
withered at your feet
though they smell lovely.

(slowly the poems crumbled
in my mouth) the ofter taste
was lovely, a bit of gloom was
left hanging from my lips.

Such taboos I display,
should I speak in ghostly whispers,
so the spirit's can hear me too?

Shshsh!
I am not finished with you yet.

Come back soon and I will write you
another Gothic poem.

For I am the weathered poet.

© 2018 By Amanda Shelton