My world, my light, be pulled into my gravity.
My sweet cradle of sunshine, let me set you free.

Like a eagle of the night, God is always watching over us,
Let the pain roll like the Guatemala wind, let it roll away,
we will climb higher mountains than these,
for there will be blue skies, there will be blue skies.

By Texas, we'll be free,
By Georgia, we'll feel alive,
By Colorado, we'll touch the sky.
By Ireland, I'll be your summer.
By Carolina, I'll hold you up high.
By Romania, I'll be your armor,
By this world, I'll hide you  -

In the New Jersey Light.

Little white sails
Skimming the horizon
Little white clouds
Whisped throughout the sky
Little sandy pebbles
Tumbling through my toes
Little loudening thoughts
Of life just passing by.
|b.g.|

You know how, in those old quiet movies
the hopeless romantic would die in the end.
Or those faces, like a walk in the park would one
day end as well.

You know how in those silent films, without the
lively piano you would watch a completely different movie.
Like the actors are puppets being controlled, and you
can see the oldness in their eyes through grainy film.

You know, there's a beauty in watching the degraded old movies in my attic, on that reel. You can feel the artist's burst of creativity.
Really see the practical effects, the struggles to capture the same
world we can capture so easily now.

It makes me feel like I'm worth it; like one day someone might come across my poems and feel what people now can't. Like maybe in the future someone might understand my own bursts of happiness, and sadness, and recognize my attempts at capturing my world.

Laughter from Another Room
by Michael R. Burch

Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel;
as I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.

Only you and I are real.
Only you and I exist.
Only burns that blister heal.
Only dreams denied persist.

Only dreams denied persist.
Only hope that lingers dies.
Only love that lessens lives.
Only lovers ever cry.

Only lovers ever cry.
Only sinners ever pray.
Only saints are crucified.
The crucified are always saints.

The crucified are always saints.
The maddest men control the world.
The dumb man knows what he would say;
the poet never finds the words.

The poet never finds the words.
The minstrel never hits the notes.
The minister would love to curse.
The warrior longs to spare his foe.

The warrior longs to spare his foe.
The scholar never learns the truth.
The actors never see the show.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.

The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The artist longs to feel the flame.
The proudest men are not aloof;
the guiltiest are not to blame.

The guiltiest are not to blame.
The merriest are prone to brood.
If we go outside, it rains.
If we stay inside, it floods.

If we stay inside, it floods.
If we dare to love, we fear.
Blind men never see the sun;
other men observe through tears.

Other men observe through tears
the passage of these days of doom;
now I listen and I hear
laughter from another room.

Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel.
As I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.

Keywords/Tags: laughter, mockery, ridicule, another, room, anguish, brood, real, reality, dreams, persist, lovers, sinners, saints, madmen, poets, artists, minstrels, ministers, warriors, scholars, actors, proud, guilty, merry, blind, tears

two potatoes fell in love
deep beneath the ground
they didn't like the world above
the light, the wind, the sound

they preferred life to be still
away from noise and rustle
a life of stillness and of chill
without a hint of hustle

the only rush they ever got
was sprouting some new shoots
and when they had to deal with rot
or growing deeper roots

that's why with you i feel so glad
that we're together married
we'll be like two spuds till we're dead
then side by side stay buried

i thought i knew about
the waves,

i thought i knew about
the melancholy

of how the moon cycle
did curse the seas to

fold in and fold out
on command until

everything did pour out
onto the beaches;

exhausted.

a slave to cycles, they said!
well, the sea and a woman

they were always equal,
in that respect.

i thought i knew
about the internal

sense, how we do
anticipate tides of

distress to greet us
every so often by moonlight.

i expect it now; to
come home and weep,

but only by harvest moon,
and only by God’s hand.

so, here it comes,
the big one.

hormonal, chemical, awful
sickness; i wait for it.

no surfer skill could keep
me from falling prey to it.

nervous, so nervous
about the sea, pounding.

tricked into thinking,
that foresight was valuable.

that if i knew of its arrival,
i could yield, taste grass

instead of sands, coral
craggy beaches

where i am stranded
until spring rolls in.

so,

here it comes,
the big one.

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

I. Midas

i like to look at your picture because it reminds me that you are just a man

your hands have handed me horseradish and hard liquor and you’re about as chatty as the women on the view but it's great because i'm totally into this view

and ohio was gray until out of the blue, you touched me and i turned to gold

---

II. Indianapolis

i want to rage so hard in this life

i want to be so exhausted from living that i don’t even have the urge to fight back on my death bed

and i’ll be too worn out to walk into heaven that the angels will have to carry me in

only to have peter push me through the drop door and i’ll plummet straight into purgatory

which i’m convinced is the state of indiana

where there’s inexplicable construction funded by taxes from the four people who live there

inconveniencing all the rest of us who are just passing through

peeing in your roadside wallpapered bathrooms and marveling at your cows of many colors

the loudest noise in indiana is probably me screaming

it’s like each telephone pole took two days off my life

but i lived it.  if driving through indiana meant giving life a chance, fine.  i found a vegan restaurant in indianapolis and i got lost in indianapolis and i hated the fact that i got overwhelmed in indianapolis

but god put it there.  so while the angels escort me towards the drop door, my legs will be too sore from LIVING my LIFE and i can turn around and look at peter and say have fun standing in the same place on your stupid pink cloud and before i know it i’ll land with a thud in a truck stop on I-70W surrounded by billboards advertising breakfasts and best westerns

A cool December morning!
Today I rose much earlier than usual
I watch the night stealing away
Like an accused convict under cover

Sunlight peeks through the leaves.
In the haze of overhanging mist,
Only the blurred silhouette of trees in sight
The crows have begun their raucous call

The leaves of grass are misted with dew
A cool zephyr blows from the south
Clouds float like shredded cotton
Even Sirius, the brightest star has paled

Life is slowly beginning to unfold
And men like shadows have begun to move
The sun has now climbed to the Eastern hills
In scintillating glory like a mighty king

Shattering the mist with his lance like beams
He exults like a victorious warrior
His crystal rays rouse the sleeping birds
And they begin their chorus in wondrous rhyme

I enjoy the sweetness of this lovely morn
In serene silence, I stand and watch
The light that slowly fills the Earth,
Dispelling all trace of overhanging darkness!

You tied  shoelaces together
and tried to hang yourself
from McMillin’s
basketball
hoop.

The neighbors talked about
it for years over flapjacks
and grits.  

They couldn’t understand why
anyone would attempt
suicide. I knew
the reason;

you were homely
and dull, kind of
foul smelling

too.  You failed
at  death, me
at life.