By Arcassin Burnham

Brainwashed over time to not believe the theories,
Talking , why you speak to Siri?
For all your problems , you get weary,
I let God sort it out,
Hasn't come down from the throne,
His presence was there since birth,
But I hope he desends his physical on Earth,
So the lust and the evils will disappear,
No longer embezzling death and fear,
Do your research on everything and you'll be fine
In a world this crooked dear,
And they say,
"People take care of their phones like pets instead of really taking of themselves",
And that's why the parents nowadays need professional help,
And counseling for the love ones they lost to text messages and tweets,
Did the tax dollars really just move on their own and grew feet,
Man the devils busy just like God has funny ways​ of miracles,
Rope is tight for black people that America provoked,
Staging wars for other countries trying to kill us , Trump that's you?
The end is near , and they are gonna sensor this by the time that I get this through.

Dunking choc biscuit
into milky coffee..''tis
like day kissing night

I don’t bow to money,
  I don’t bow to fame

I kneel to that one thing,
  that time cannot change

I don’t speak for ‘right,’
  and won’t speak for ‘wrong’

My liege is the truth,
  all court jesters gone

I don’t hope to be knighted,
  my shield more concave

And rejecting all title,
  the past still enslaved

My will lay unbroken,
  my heart for a throne

A crown jeweled with memory,
—all scepters disowned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)

In the swash zone
a desperate crab somehow overturned,
belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless,
she twitches feet and claws
grasping only air
as seagulls gather, smacking lips.

Shall I intervene?
Who do I favor, crab or gull?
Frankly I have problems with both personalities.

Can’t ignore a creature in distress.
(Who programmed that?)
Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast.
Flip.
With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles
sideways to a spot in the wave wash
where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself,
eyeballs above.
Seagulls scream curses.

What did I expect, a thank you?

Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus

Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"

Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the butt
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut

stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write

Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.

Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.

The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.

Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.

Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.

'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.

'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.

And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.

So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:

'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.

'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.

That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.

'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.

'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'

And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.

As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
  Against her beauty? May she mix
  With men and prosper! Who shall fix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.

But on her forehead sits a fire:
  She sets her forward countenance
  And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting all things to desire.

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain--
  She cannot fight the fear of death.
  What is she, cut from love and faith,
But some wild Pallas from the brain

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst
  All barriers in her onward race
  For power. Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first.

A higher hand must make her mild,
  If all be not in vain; and guide
  Her footsteps, moving side by side
With wisdom, like the younger child:

For she is earthly of the mind,
  But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
  O, friend, who camest to thy goal
So early, leaving me behind,

I would the great world grew like thee,
  Who grewest not alone in power
  And knowledge, but by year and hour
In reverence and in charity.

Should there be guilt in evolving dreams?
Must we apologize to our younger selves for wanting different things?
The universe isn't how it seemed.
We have seen wider and wider rings.

Our aspirations are changing,
And the thoughts are scary.
To what will we anchor our feelings?
Longing for some assurance and stability?

Yet we can't blame our mind,
Finding new questions to every answers retrieved.
To the Forward we can't hide,
As such is the only thing feasible we can achieve.

The past is a place we can never be,
While tomorrow is a possibility.
It'easier to dream of being 25 when you're 20;
But never 29 when you're 30.

We will always want something different,
Bigger, more, always at the comparative degree.
May these possobilities be met,
And may the soulless be free.

I watched a softball game
two girls during warm-up
tossing a ball-
flirting
with each iteration
they took a step back
with each step
they were growing closer
more personal
falling in love
with a ball
and a glove

Plant me in your chest,
Sow my love into your skin.

Water me until I grow.

Love me with
Your eyes of emerald
And hair of gold.

Resting my eyes next to you,
Hearing you breathe beside me,
Eyelids fluttering,
Chest rising.

My darling,
How can I describe a love,
I'm not even sure of?

Leave my sanity at the door,
Leave my heart in your hands.

How can I not miss you at 4AM
When I'm drunk on whiskey
And all alone.

But darling,
I miss you the most at 5PM
When I'm eating dinner
In my apartment
All alone again.

I can't bear to be without you.

However,
I can't bear to lose myself in you,

again...

darling,
       you're beautiful.
                      but not in the way most
                             people see
                      in the way your eyes blend
                             from brown to green
                and the way your freckles scatter
                             along your face
             and how more beautiful can you be
                      when your eyes light up
                                your smile appears
                                        & laughter springs
                                            out of your chest
                                   what a beauty you are
                             special, like the stars

For weeks I spent,
This time amongst familiar faces I knew.
19 years and counting still,
Remembering the walls of the room,
I spent thinking about everything.
That familiar scent in the air,
From the make-shift ashtray I had filled.
Remembering the memories of friends,
Or so they seemed.
But I was glad, alone and happy
Sometimes sad.
In the room, where nothing needed to be rational.
I could cry when I wanted to,
Smoke when it felt like,
And curse when it was needed.
But most of all I was alone.
They said it wont help me,
Locking myself In a cage of secrecy.
What else was there?
Should I have spent time around more of those who didn’t care?
And as I sit counting days for me to return,
Return to this familiar land.
The more I find myself longing for change,
Was it really helpful?
A look at the list of unanswered messages,
A recall of memories of humiliation and self centered proposals.
I made the right choice.
This is what I was meant for,
Staying in the dark utopia I had created.
My soul binded to the isolation I had created,
And I craved every minute of this.
Away from every lie,
Away from every urge for contact.
Just me in this isolation,
Absorbing me into madness.
And I loved every minute of it,
For that is my life,
One better than the lies and clichés I despised.

you twinkle in my night sky when everything else is dark and dull
and somehow i am never tired of how you illuminate
through the windows and catch my eyes
once in a while

little star, you seem so grand
as you lighten up the shadows and corners
of where everything else went wrong
that sometimes your brightness is so overwhelming
even i can't mistake it for anything else but you

glistening in the moonlight
i see you from afar and yet somehow
you are always here
and i feel your warmth before i go to bed
before i sleep and before i dream

little star, will we ever meet?
through all my smiles and all my sorrows
as the sun sets and the darkness comes again
you appear in my sky just like yesterday
and the days before
and i am left with your light
to which i find serenity
and which i call home

she have to die a thousand deaths,
for people to laugh a thousand smile.
she have to bleed a liter of blood,
for her name to be remembered.
so never underestimate poets and their poetry,
for the have to underwent direst of circumstances,
to be solely accepted.

i am sick of writing poems
about skin color

but

please

bring back the child, his hair like cashmere. bring him back and we will mourn

ordinary dead things, dead like american pride for anyone who doesn't fly a confederate flag.

black things, things that are purer and more beautiful than we could ever imagine.

mourn the feeling his mother must of known. child. poof. gone.
he is no more.

just a shell on the floor, and the officer is given paid leave, hailed as a hero to the right wing, gun slinging, bible clinging majority that 

elected our president, and now will tear us apart
through protests, twenty two dead in manchester, stabbings on 

trains
bombs, steering planes into the world trade

forty nine dead in orlando, four dead in ohio
and it just goes on and on

we come out, with signs and voices
someone shoots us down

i want war, not to defend honor
but to bring back the boy

bring back the boy who once stole
just to pass the time

and take away the officer who thought
petty crime

was worth a life
or two

bring back the boy, the boy who is all of us
bring him back for all the others

the others who saw the black tongue of the bullet
in their final moments

and cried
for we are too worthy for a city of ash.

I am still walking.
It feels like a miracle.
I am still walking.
There is someone sitting on the street and I walk right past.
There is someone sleeping in the snow and I walk right past.
There is a love I cannot explain and I still walk past.
I remain a machine because that I was raised to be.
But what I was created to be was human.

Who rejects unwavering goodness;
Bares fang against his Benefactor?
T0 even those who reject Him He
Continues to show kindness. Will
Not the enemy be reborn to be in
Service to the One that served him
Even in his perversity that he might
Know that  is now, ever was ,and will
Be Love needing no coercion makes
All things new to sing His praise with
Gladness of heart and mind.  Let us
Not then be discouraged but continue
In the faith that the victory is ours by
The grace of Him who saves sinners;
Who by the power of Love raises the
Dead to life everlasting.  Lord  we will
Be with you in that day I know even
So Lord I say: Lord Come Quickly!

For Eliot

a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers quietly step forward from places you never heard of, no longer cowards,
invoking a blessing of:

"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see, I think I can, I think therefore,
I am, a named human.
no longer an asterisk."

6/22/17  2:40am nyc

I've never been good with words

I won't build you a castle with broken phrases and incomplete sentences, I couldn't defend your honor with an unsure voice and trembling lips

I can't make flowers bloom with clumsy confessions of love and the moon will never weep over my attempts at romance

I'm afraid I'll never be able to look you in the eye and declare my undying devotion for you to the world

I've never been good with words

But with my hands I could construct a grand mansion, and offer you comfort and security with my gentle caresses

I'll plant flowers in your garden that will grow to be magnificent, while the sun and rain gives them sustenance

My kisses would allow you to see the stars, the universe clinging to every sweet gasp that slips through your soft lips

I won't be the one to write you poems and sing your praises, but with my actions I will convey exactly how I feel, I'll let everyone know just how much you mean to me

I write when my chest gets tight and it feels like I can’t breathe
And for (what feels like eternity) everything I’ve worked so hard to keep down comes

crashing.
down.

Imagine being in a wave pool, going deeper than you knew you should and getting knocked under,
and considering the possibility

maybe

that you might not come back up for air;
now imagine that feeling everytime you open your eyes.


Poetry about happiness?

I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.

Whenever I hear new music,
its like the artist knows
Missing you hurts.
out of all The Life my heart holds for you
I don't know how to let it out..
for now, I just bleed words that cant rhyme
Lyrics, melodies, beats and time-
and nothing can tame my heart
so hopefully My poetry will reach yours

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic

1
2
3
4
5

I count things in 5’s

one cat
two cat
three cat
hula hoop
tote bag

My notes are organized Cornell style
but it can’t fill the void you left.

Light switch
one slipper
two slippers
lotion
candle

I’ve got my life organized down to the the minutes
but you aren’t in any of them.

Long distance.
We’ll see.

Roses are red,
violets are NOT blue.
Who ever said they were is lying to you,
okay, maybe one can argue violets have a blue-ish hue,
but they are not all the way blue.
So stop saying violets are blue because that's not true.
Here's how it should go, so no more people are confused.

Roses are red,
Violets are purple.
[ Insert something romantic here ] Circle.

After the scorched, parched and relentless,

finally dark rain clouds begin to gather

that’s when l love to wear my sunglasses.

The sky looks darker through them

I feel as if I hasten the rains with this magic

An expedited expectation of quenching

falsely accelerated through my shaded vision

Yet, the illusion cheekily breaks in the corner.

A small puncture in the tinted coating

Like Dahlias drifting in the sky, our love is delicate in Spring.
Within frost, our love is warm — it blossoms from fingertips to toes.

Beyond this moment of Winter, Spring sings,
“If the heavens are pale, our love is tender — Mother Nature awakening in the sun.”

In the water of evening the trees wander,  
the cold tide floats always to the flower.

If thunder billows, our love is tranquil.
It wildly falls between stars and cosmos’.

When flowers bloom, our love is bold, like salmon petals on Sakura trees.
When autumn leaves fall, our love is gold, shining bright like harvest petals.

She grabbed the moon as the stars screamed,
“From season to season, I’ll love you always! My one, my only, my sunshine.”

This muse of mine
Remains silent and invisible
And is no less intense for that
I still write to her
Tell her of my dreams and my pain
And she is part of both of these

This muse of mine
May be no more than a ghost
But she is still my only truth
The one who loves me
For all my damned and damaged past
For all my pointless future

This muse of mine
May be unreal or gone
Yet still I hold on
And still there'll be no other
Because within my muse
Hopelessness and hope
Have me enthralled

                              By Phil Roberts