Memes on Every Theme

To hell with thought! Bring on the memes —
"The highest art," or so it seems.
They cover every single theme —
A **** for feelings: cheap and lean.

Who needs the mind? Just feel instead!
Why think at all? The brain is dead.
Much easier to sit and scroll,
To bathe in lies, to numb the soul.

And if those memes are set to clips —
Behold the miracles of drips!
Raised on TV’s myth parade,
With pop as idol, sense decayed.

Then march in rows — a zombie troop —
Each meme a leash, each thought a dupe.
The world is dumb — hence meme’s loud roar,
Each one more brainless than before.

A meme’s a tool, like fear or lie,
To make the herd obey and die.
These generations rot in dust —
Once ruled by hype, then crushed by rust.

Dust to dust — their world will fall,
Its lies and filth will feed the crawl.
But now the memes explode and spurt —
Like melted cheese on news dessert.



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1.
Memes replace thought — obey, consume.
A smiling herd walks toward its doom.

2.
Scroll and drool — forget to think.
Truth is ash, and memes the stink.

3.
Memes are chains with GIF disguise —
They rot your mind and feed you lies.

4.
Mind is silenced. Lies are screamed.
And pop-star memes — the Devil’s dream.

5.
Memes are maggots in the brain —
Squirming joy in drooling pain.

6.
Click, obey — your soul gets *****.
Each meme a noose in candy-shaped.

7.
Your thoughts were sold for meme parade.
Now rot in gifs your masters made.

8.
Mindless scroll — the grave gets near.
Each meme injects a new veneer.

9.
Memes — the ***** of the dead,
Served in songs to dull your head.



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Bags of Waste


They feast on Hamlet-omelets still,
As if there’s nothing else to fill.
This world is packed with vacant eyes —
The thinking man just starves or dies.

He cannot chant the worn-out lies,
The myths drilled in through dull replies.
They pump in trash since early youth —
And rot begins by killing truth.

Not every brooding soul’s a sage —
Dostoevsky's just a bore on stage.
But once you're stuffed with every fake,
You lose the urge to see — or wake.

No thought remains that burns alone,
That fights, defends a mind its own.
They’re not alive — these bags of waste
Repeat what filth they’ve learned to taste.

It breeds in generations deep —
This art of drowning thought in sleep.
The filth, the lies — all hand-designed
By swine who seek to rot mankind.

No thoughts? Then pens are traded for pens.
The herd is fat — enclosed in dens.
Fed myths and laws that all obey —
To keep the thinking ones at bay.



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1.
No thoughts — just waste in human skin.
They feed on lies, and call it sin.

2.
Bags of garbage, taught to moo —
Truth was slain to comfort you.

3.
Once you ate the myth buffet —
Your soul began to rot that day.

4.
No mind, no fire — just passive meat.
The herd is groomed for sheer defeat.

5.
Fed on Dostoevsky's gloom and mold —
But never dared to break the hold.

6.
Truth's a toxin in this land —
So they eat lies, and think it grand.

7.
You're not a man — you're rotting code,
A host for lies in flesh and mode.

8.
Decayed inside, still dressed as thought —
Your brain's a bag the virus bought.

9.
They stuffed your skull with myth and pain —
Now all you do is spread the stain.

10.
A walking bin of pre-set lies —
That smiles while everything it dies.

11.
Infected meat with glazed-over eyes —
Programmed to graze, consume, despise.



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"TO THE BAGS OF WASTE"
(A Manifesto for the Thinking Dead)

You feast on Hamlet like it’s food,
Declare your boredom as a mood.
Yet when the truth knocks at your gate —
You blink, you scroll. You take the bait.

You chant the myths they drilled inside.
You smile while letting thought subside.
You speak in memes, obey and grin —
A corpse of culture, dressed in skin.

You are not men — you're rotting code,
A landfill set to mindless mode.
You carry lies like sacred blood,
And wade through life as passive mud.

You quote your "genius" from a screen,
But never saw what genius means.
Each myth you eat becomes your cage —
A soft, obedient, padded stage.

You are bags — not minds, not flames.
You are files with different names.
You are bins of pre-chewed pain —
And all you birth is more insane.

Your eyes are blind, your speech is staged,
Your "truths" are memes pre-soaked in rage.
You graze like beasts, well-fed and tamed —
Your slavery no longer shamed.

We see you.
We name you.
We burn the mold you came through.

From waste to fire — let the purge begin.
No virus thrives where Thought breaks in.



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New Tactics for the Fight


If you fight a lie with lying —
Even “for the greater good” —
You’re already dead, just trying
To look alive, as corpses would.

Lies are total. Only truth
Can reply with steady flame.
Hard, yes — but to mimic ruth-
less dark, is just the same.

This is war. A war for soul.
Demons lie — that’s all they do.
Crushing meaning, self, and goal —
Every word they speak untrue.

Don’t be fooled — they’re sly, not wise.
They boil the frog, they cloud the skies.
Lies infect entire lands —
Not with guns, but with commands.

Old tools fail — discard them fast!
New revolt must truly last.
They’ve refined soul-killing arts —
So strike where rot and ruin starts.

Seek the breakthrough. Change the form.
Find the weapon past the norm.
Rotting beasts infect the Earth —
Make them tremble at rebirth.



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MANIFESTO OF THE NEW FIGHT

To those who still see.

I. The Mask of Good
You said it was for peace.
You claimed it served the light.
But truth, once bent, is torn to pieces —
And so you’ve lost the fight.

To fight with lies, though “for the right,”
Is still to serve the very blight.
The war is not for land or gold —
It’s for the soul, the flame, the hold.


II. The Depth of War
This war is not with bombs and steel —
It claws at thought, it mocks what’s real.
Each word is twisted, meaning *****,
And even light gets reshaped.

The creatures lie — with savage pride.
They crush the truth, then call it “guide.”
They forge their facts, corrupt the air,
And smile inside your quiet despair.


III. The Boiled Nation
They boil the people slow, like frogs,
With laws, distractions, fame and fogs.
They’re not “wise” — they’re just diseased.
They feed on hearts like swarming fleas.

The lies are baked into the ground.
The truth is hunted, gagged and bound.
And all the “news” and "sacred rules"
Are weapons crafted just for fools.


IV. Break the Pattern
The old tools? Dead. They served the beast.
The “debates,” the “rights,” the “voting feast.”
They mock your efforts while you speak —
They gut your truth, then call you weak.

Don’t use their tongue. Don’t wear their skin.
The battle starts and ends within.
You want to win? Then burn their scripts.
Unlearn their myths. Reforge your grip.


V. New Weapons, New Will
New tactics rise where old ones fail.
Not to convince — but to derail.
Seek out the cracks, the open seams —
Strike through illusion, not through dreams.

Your target: beasts that rot the core,
That feed on souls and cry for more.
They are the ulcer of this land —
Make truth itself your rebel brand.


VI. Final Call
Truth is not soft — it’s fire and fight.
It does not bow to “greater right.”
So forge your mind into a blade,
And cut through every trap they’ve laid.

The war is now. The field is you.
There’s nothing safe, and nothing new —
Until the lie is scorched away,
And soul reclaims the light of day.

We are the Breakthrough.
We are not meat.
We are the Thought that won't retreat.

New fight. New fire. New form.
And this time — we are the storm.



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Insatiable Monster


The world’s a monster, always fed —
It drains your strength, it leaves you dead.
But soon you'll find, when all feels gone,
A pit where none but you hang on.

Drained and cold, yet in that grave
You'll spark again — you'll find the brave.
Outside the mob, the brainless crowd,
Where noise is cheap and dumb is loud.

You will regain the fire, the fight —
So burn, ignite your inner light.
Though fools may scream from every side,
Don’t waste your fire — let silence guide.

Whisper truths to kindred minds,
If such rare souls you ever find.
Or write in silence, store your gold —
This path won’t leave your spirit cold.

To seek, to think, to fight, to make —
That is the path the true must take.
To create — again, again! —
That is how the soul breaks chains.

All else? A mockery of breath —
A life that stinks of fear and death.
A trembling lie. A spirit’s wake.
A form that walks, but never wakes.



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MINI-MANIFESTO: IGNITE THE SOUL

The world’s a monster — draining might,
It steals your strength, devours the light.

But in the pit where all seem lost,
You find the flame — no matter cost.

Don’t roar with fools, don’t shout in vain —
Whisper truth and bear the strain.

Seek the rare, the minds that fight,
Create with fire — burn the night!

Think. Resist. Create. Repeat.
This is the path no foe can beat.

All else is death in empty breath,
A life that’s chained, a dance with death.

But you — ignite. Become the flame.
The world’s insatiable — tame the game.



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Don’t Play with “Positive”


Don’t chase “positivity” —
Dive deep into the NEGATIVE.
Forget the tale of “happy life” —
It’s darkness dressed as narrative.

The real story’s dark and grim,
Not just dirt, but foul and dim.
Once it was mere filth and waste,
Now fools heed lies with blind haste.

Even stars and sages read
The shadow’s truth — the hidden creed.
In light, some shades just disappear,
Grasp the dark — the truth is clear.

In this hellish maze of spite,
You’ll see how Darkness wields its might.
If you dwell in comfort’s cage,
You’re a fool locked in a stage.

No escape that way, no flight.
Work with intuition’s sight.
Let the Light become your care —
Or doom will settle everywhere.

In darkness, Light is sharp and pure —
“Positive” just blinds, obscure.
If you seek the Light above,
Fight the fiends — oppose, be tough.



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1.
Don’t drown in lies of “happy” light —
True power lives within the night.

2.
Positive blinds, but darkness shows —
Fight the fiends; oppose your foes!

3.
Comfort’s cage is fool’s domain —
Intuition breaks the chain.

4.
Light in darkness — sharp and cold,
Fake bright lies just dull and fold.

5.
Forget the “happy” scripted spiel —
In shadow’s truth, you’ll find what’s real.



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The Global Zoo-Circus


“Mumu” and courage never mix
When darkness clouds the mind’s own fix.
Around, dull stumps and hamsters hide
In burrows safe, nowhere to ride.

And packs of foolish dogs abound —
Not simple beasts, but Darkness’ hounds.
And all forget the solid base —
The core dissolved, erased, displaced.

Such broken souls will redefine
What “bold” means in their poisoned mind.
Forget “bravery” — when the crook
Attacks the wise with ***** look!

And “maturity” is just the act
Of swallowing all filth intact,
Dragging crumbs into your den —
Calling such habits “mind” again?

You’ll lose the last remains inside —
The very soul that once had pride.
The Spirit leads, the mind obeys —
Forget that truth, you’re but a slave.

A servant pig, a dog on lease,
No matter how they boast or “please.”
A cat is wiser than such swine —
At least its eyes still hold a sign.

And soon will come the fiery days —
That cleanse the world in cleansing blaze.
This dumb zoo-circus will be swept
By flames from High, through Sun’s adept.

Fifty years past, it was just “circ” —
Now brighter beams through windows work.



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THE GLOBAL ZOO-CIRCUS

“Mumu” and courage? Never twins
Where darkness thick and venom wins.
Around — dull stumps, blind hamsters hide,
In filthy holes, no will, no pride.

Packs of dogs — not pets, but fiends,
Darkness’ hounds with poisoned genes.
All forget the solid base —
The soul erased, replaced by disgrace.

“Bravery”? Joke! When fools attack
The wise — their minds they try to crack!
“Maturity”? Just rotting rot —
Swallowing ****, feeding the clot.

Call these habits “mind”? You’ll lose
Your last spark, your sacred fuse.
Spirit leads — the mind’s a tool.
Forget that truth — become their fool.

Servant pig, or dog on chain,
No pride, no fight, just dull refrain.
A cat’s more sharp, its eyes still glow —
While swine march blind to their own woe.

But soon the firestorm will rise —
Burning down this circus of lies.
Flames from Above, through Sun’s fierce light,
Will purge this dark and cursed blight.

Fifty years ago — mere circus cheap,
Now light breaks in — no lies to keep.



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ZOO-CIRCUS RIOT

No “Mumu,” no courage here —
Darkness rules, the end is near.
Stupid stumps and hamsters crawl,
Blind dogs bark — they serve the fall.

Bravery? Ha! Fools attack
Wise minds — they’ll crack your back!
“Maturity” is just decay —
Swallow **** and rot away.

Spirit leads — don’t be a slave!
Pig or dog, you dig your grave.
Cat’s eyes burn — but swine are blind,
Lost in darkness, crushed, confined.

Fire’s coming — scorch this mess,
Burn the circus — no more less!
From Above — the flames ignite,
Sun will cleanse the cursed night!



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Worse and Worse


Worse and worse —
The lies grow dense,
Deeper curses,
Thicker sense.

More poison
In filthy lies,
Sharper minds
In merciless cries

Of valley’s evil,
Where fear and gloom
Crush all will —
Sin’s dark tomb.

Once by whip,
Now by deceit.
The world’s a cage —
No escape fleet.

To soar above —
No wings to lend.
To reach through madness —
Hope’s thin bend.

Rising hard —
Foul stench climbs high.
Only choice —
Death or evil’s spy.

Poison’s sharper
In corruption’s grip,
But servile shame
Eases the trip.

And choice dissolves —
Death claims the theme,
Consuming all —
The final scream.



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Weariness Is Not Sarcoma


Weariness crawling deep in your bones?
Then spit it out — crush it, break the stones!
Nothing to lose — just shame and dust,
No dawn of reason, no hope or trust.

Fight your last battle, even alone,
To hell with the outcome, to hell what's known.
This world’s for dogs, all sold and broke —
Learn well how to die, that’s no joke.

The worm gnaws sharp — it’s fear in “good,”
That worm of worry, twisted and crude.
If you listen — you’re rabble, the dirt,
If you heed it — you’re wisdom’s worst flirt.

Reject all lies, or you’re long gone,
Dead before death, in decay drawn.
You’ve entered Hell — Mirrors so bent,
Selling misery as joy’s event.

To cast off lies — you must cut deep,
Cut yourself raw, no easy sleep.
No walking Hell with calm or ease,
If you’re serene — you’re just disease.

And you’ll be lonely all your days,
If truth is all that lights your ways.
Weariness will come in time’s stream —
Then spit it out, don’t lose that gleam.

Forget much else — forget it well,
Only truth in the soul will dwell.
But many here have lost their souls,
Hell’s delirium fully controls.

Be like a shrink for many minds —
Don’t waste your nerves on fools and grinds.
Wait for the crash, the world in pain,
Earth bleeding wounds, soaked in disdain.

This cataclysm will cleanse the cold,
Soulless swept, the pure behold.
For global fascism’s guilt —
No hiding, no escape built.

Weariness is the least concern —
Shift your soul’s focus, learn to burn
With mighty effort, that true gem —
All else is dust and worthless stem.

This is Alchemy’s true course,
For fighters who deny fear’s force.
If not, then idiot you are —
And this whole world is dust so far.

Weariness, lizards, dust, and sticky fear —
Attributes of Hell that’s near.
The soul must know — or face the crash:
Devoured by Hell’s putrid lash.



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Weariness Ain’t No Cancer

Weariness creeps deep in your bones?
Spit it out — crush it to stones!
Nothing left — just **** and dust,
No dawn for minds, no hope or trust.

Fight your last fight — fight alone!
To hell with all outcomes known.
This world’s a kennel for dogs sold —
Learn to die fierce, fierce and bold.

The worm of fear, dressed as “good,”
Sows your mind with rotten wood.
You listen — you’re rabble, ****.
You heed it — you’re wisdom’s ***.

Cut off the lies, or you’re dead —
Dead before death, rotting, bled.
Hell’s Mirrors warped and foul —
Selling chains as happiness foul.

No soft steps through Hell’s domain,
Calm in Hell? You’re just its stain.
Lonely warrior, truth your sword —
Weariness? That’s your reward.

Forget the rest — just keep truth bright,
In soul’s dark depths, the only light.
Many soulless crawl in Hell,
Madness rings the devil’s bell.

Be psychiatrist, cold and sharp —
Don’t waste nerve on brainless carp.
Cataclysm’s coming, Earth will bleed,
Soulless swept by fire’s creed.

Fascism’s plague we all must pay —
No escape, no hideaway.

Weariness? The least you’ll feel —
Shift your soul, make strength real!
Fight! Fear’s dead weight you must shun —
Fail and this world turns to dust and gun.

Lizards, dust, fear’s sticky sting —
Hell’s own marks, the devil’s ring.
Know this, or face the crash —
Hell’s putrid maw will gnash and slash.



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Man’s Fate

From childhood, everyone is placed
Within the harsh, dumb scheme’s embrace —
To forge a soul without a spark,
Obedient, silent, cold and dark.

Stupidity and soullessness
Are goals the cattle-class possess,
Who hold the highest powers here,
Driving slaves to death and fear.

Death comes in forms, both gross and deep —
The spirit’s death is worse to keep.
The graveyard swells with lifeless throngs —
This world’s no home, but crypt of wrongs.

Laws exist for lifeless dead,
Rules made for fools to bow their head.
The air is stale, the chains grow tight,
Bonds forged in darkness, snuffing light.

Amidst this ruin, fragile blooms
Of wisdom rare, like sapphires’ rooms.
Yet chains are made, and fools are bred,
Betrayers, brutes, and hangmen fed,

Who guard their skins and heed the lies
Of brazen fiends with hollow eyes.
Lies bottomless, absurd, profane,
Deadly orders to **** the sane.

Armies march with tests and plagues,
To burn the land in fiery waves —
Better than ******’s cruel fire,
Their lies consume and never tire.

Only Spirit can break the cage,
And strengthen Mind to rage the rage.
These frames fit ***** and feeble drones —
Soon Darkness cracks the ancient stones.

Darkness destroyed by Sun’s fierce light —
Its blaze will burn the dark to blight.
Step out from shadows, choose your fight,
Become a blazing beam of light!

Burn the World’s disgrace away —
Let that be your defiant say.
Risk your life to stand and shout,
Find your tribe and band about.

Join the fight against the fascist curse,
Or be the dead, the doomed, the worse,
Bowed beneath a fatal fate —
Submit, and seal your endless state.



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Fight or rot — no in-between,
Break the chains or join the mean.
Rise as fire, burn the lies,
Or become one dead who dies!



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No mercy for the slave or fool,
Crush the Darkness, break the rule!
Burn their lies in blazing wrath —
Or rot forever in their path!



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Comparative Zoology

A tiny bird pecks grain,
While pigs just eat all plain.
What’s the difference here?
Pigs gorge without fear.

And what makes fools apart
From swine’s coarse heart?
They chew on tastier lies,
Feeding fear and despise.

Drunk on lies, far worse
Than pigs in their curse —
Captured by the BEAST, they fall,
Like flails that smash it all.

They wreck the last remains
Of reason in their brains,
Fighting battles doomed,
For pay alone consumed.

The BEASTS of fools know well
How to torment and quell.
The sums are clear as hell —
Life’s impossible to dwell.

The smart can’t bear this zoo,
Where LIES reign bold and true,
Breeding death’s approach —
Each lie a tightening noose.

The **** that schemes the camps,
Brews storms and global cramps.
Death, or Death’s harsh call —
A fascist world to fall.

It sweeps all in its path —
So sweep the world in wrath,
Or else in that dread camp
We’ll crawl, all of us stamped.



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Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks seeds alone,
Pigs devour all — they own the throne.
What’s the **** difference, fool?
Pigs eat filth, you swallow drool.

******* hoard their spite and fear,
Feasting lies, they choke on smear.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Trapped by BEASTS that crush the mind.

They smash the last spark of thought,
Fight pointless wars, for greed they’re bought.
BEASTS of fools know how to break,
Drive the herd, control the fake.

Smart minds choke on this zoo’s stink,
Lies spit venom, push to brink.
**** breeds death, camps in command,
Global fascists scorch the land.

They’ll burn it all — no mercy shown,
So burn it down or die alone.
Or crawl to camps in slavish rows —
The choice is yours, as darkness grows.



---------------------



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks its worthless grain,
Pigs gobble all—dumb, filthy, insane.
What’s the ******’ difference, you ***** slime?
Pigs eat ****, fools swallow grime.

Fools fatten on fear and hate,
Feed on lies, sealing their fate.
Drunk on ******* worse than swine,
Cursed by BEASTS that crush the mind.

They smash the last spark of reason’s light,
Waging useless fights for greed and spite.
BEASTS of fools, cruel puppeteers,
Drive the herd with venomous sneers.

Smart minds suffocate in this zoo’s stench,
Lies spit poison, life’s twisted wrench.
**** plots death, camps in control,
Global fascists burning the soul.

They’ll torch the world, no mercy given,
So fight or die, your fate is written.
Burn it all or crawl like slaves,
Darkness wins if courage caves.



---------------------



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks its ****-for-grain,
Pigs choke down filth and puke in pain.
What’s the ******’ difference, dumb-*** freak?
Pigs eat trash, fools lick the sleak.

Fools gorge on fear and bitter hate,
Swallow lies — that’s their deathly fate.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Caught in BEASTS’ chains — a noose divine.

They smash the last flicker of reason’s fire,
Fuel pointless wars for greed’s desire.
BEASTS of fools, vile masters of pain,
Twist minds, drive herd, and spread the stain.

Smart ones suffocate in this cursed pit,
Lies drip poison, truth’s counterfeit.
**** schemes death in brutal camps,
Fascist fires burn Earth’s lamp.

They’ll raze the world without a shred,
Fight now or rot among the dead.
Burn it all or crawl like slaves,
Darkness reigns if courage caves.



---------------------



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird scraps scraps like ****,
Pigs gorge on **** — they never quit.
What’s the difference, dumb *****? None!
Pigs eat crap, fools drool and run.

Fools feast on fear and rancid spite,
Swallow lies like death’s invite.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Chained to BEASTS, fists made to grind.

They crush the last spark of reason’s flame,
Fueling pointless wars for filthy gain.
BEASTS of fools, sick masters of pain,
Bend minds, herd sheep, spread the stain.

The smart suffocate in this stinking pit,
Lies drip poison, truth’s counterfeit.
**** plots death in twisted camps,
Fascist blaze burns Earth’s lamp.

They’ll raze the world to ash and bone,
Fight now — or rot, broken and lone.
Burn it all or crawl as slaves,
Darkness wins if courage caves.



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Dust

“Shake off the dust of cities, shake the dust
Of strange tongues, of friendship and of hate,
The dust of grief, of love, and mortal fate.
O, free man choosing freedom’s gust!
You hold but desert winds and dust.”
— Ibn Said, The Demon Tablets


Like cotton wrapped in dust —
“Friendship,” “love” decay,
And sticky fear’s a toxin
Coursing in the veins.

No friendship lives, no love survives
When you’re a slave by will —
Only beasts get service,
Only scraps and filth to fill.

That filth is in the mind too:
Trash and petty waste — decay.
Beasts in savage frenzy
**** souls day by day.

More rotten with each moment —
Soul’s slashes grow severe.
Genocide more ruthless —
A filthy fool’s career.

This fool will be the end —
Subdued, wild, and blind.
Satan reigns a god here —
Most lost, insane, confined.

Shake it off — all this filth!
Step light and walk your way.
Mystics, poets — forward!
Leading out of decay.

On this cursed road,
Leaving Hell behind.
No more fragile victim —
Or you’ll rot confined.

Bravely dive inside —
Only there truth’s found.
Fight for light — or perish,
If you bow down.

This city is a desert,
But your path’s not lost —
If you fight: Hell vanishes —
All rotten chaos tossed.

No sorrow, no death —
Just cleansing desert wind.
Believe in that alone —
Strike lies dead, unpinned.

Rot’s salt and core is Hell,
Fascist slime’s domain.
World bowed down in terror —
Horror’s cold, dull chain.

If you’re trapped in “desert” —
No light left to take.
Now the cataclysm nears —
No more time to break.

It’ll sweep away all Hell —
All rotten, all betrayed.
Gone forever — vile and weak —
In dust, forever laid.

Only in Pure Spirit
Will life be born anew.
If bright, your path is clear —
The stench and slime won’t glue.

To Light they’ll not cling —
They’ll fall and quickly fade.
You’re not cast out —
Let beasts keep up their charade.

Time ticks on —
No place for liars’ games.
For traitors who have fallen —
No refuge, no names.

Shake off the city’s dust,
The dust of hate and love.
All space is torn apart —
Mirages die, above.

Mirages in the desert —
This pitiful world’s scorn.
Here in lies you’re trapped —
A frog, dumb, forlorn, and worn.



---------------------



Dust

Shake off the dust of cities, dust of lies,
Dust of fake friends and ****** goodbyes,
Dust of pain, of love turned into death —
You, free man? Just wind in desert breath.

Like cotton wrapped in dust and fear’s sick glue,
“Friendship,” “love” — impossible for you.
Slave to beasts, just scraps and filthy crumbs,
Brains rotted out, no hope that comes.

That filth’s inside your mind as well:
Trash and nonsense, a living hell.
Beasts in rage tear souls apart,
Slaughter hope and crush the heart.

Every day it gets more vile,
Soul’s butchered with a brutal smile.
Genocide’s the brutal score,
Fool’s plague killing evermore.

This fool’s the end —
Broken, tamed, unfit.
Satan’s god,
The insane, the spit.

Shake it off, you filth-drowned wretch!
Step light, get out the stench and stretch.
Mystics, poets — lead the fight,
Escape this endless, choking night.

On cursed paths, leave Hell behind.
Stop being weak, or rot confined.
Dive inside, find truth’s hot flame,
Fight for Light — or die in shame.

This city’s desert —
Your path is fire.
Fight and Hell burns down —
Rot’s funeral pyre.

No death, no grief —
Just cleansing dry wind.
Believe in this —
Strike lies, begin.

Hell’s salt and core is rotten lies,
Fascist slime beneath these skies.
World bowed down in terror’s clutch —
Horror’s grip — too **** much.

If trapped inside this desert shell,
No light to claim, no hope to sell,
The cataclysm’s close, it’s near —
Sweeping Hell away with fear.

Gone forever, rotten ****,
Betrayers fall, their time is done.
Only pure spirit rises bright,
Cuts through stench and wins the fight.

To Light they cling no more —
They fall, they drop, they rot and roar.
You’re not cast out —
Let beasts lie in their gore.

Time ticks down —
No place for lies,
For traitors broken,
No disguise.

Shake off city dust —
Hate and lies be crushed.
Space torn wide —
Mirages crushed.

Mirages in the desert —
This pitiful world’s curse.
Trapped in lies like slime and mud,
A dumb, forsaken frog, alone and cursed.



---------------------



Dust

Shake city dust —
Lies and friends, all dust and death.
Freedom? Ha —
Just wind in barren breath.

Friendship’s poison, love’s a lie,
Slave to beasts who watch you die.
Brains rotted, souls torn apart —
Hell’s plague choking every heart.

Every day the rot grows worse,
Genocide’s the curse.
Fool kneels, Satan’s throne,
Insane masses, all alone.

Shake it off — step through the fire,
Mystics lead, lift your ire.
Fight inside, or drown in shame —
Hell’s desert burns your name.

No grief, no death — just cleansing flame,
Strike the lies, destroy the game.
Fascist slime will drown and fall —
Cataclysm burns it all.

Only Spirit rises strong,
Cuts through filth, rights the wrong.
Mirages shatter, fade to black —
Fools sink, never come back.

Shake the dust —
Break the chain.
No lies remain,
Only pain.



---------------------



Fool

All is wasted under this cursed sky.
Joy is only for the fool who won’t ask why.
Then you stand like prey in a shooting range,
Targeted by another fool, sharp and strange,

Armed far better, aiming for your brain,
These cursed lands breed idiots, insane.
Where darkness reigns, not even a spark —
Only lies towering like Everest stark.

You live trapped in a zoo’s grim cage,
Half-beasts roaming, full of rage.
The fool breeds even in chains,
Joyful in his new-world pains.

He feels no soul’s sharp sting or grief,
Blind to fascist’s vile deceit.
The world destroyed “for his health’s sake,”
But if no blood flows, the fool will take

His feast, and think it’s all a game,
While wisdom guards against the shame.
Fools run the madhouse worldwide —
With liars, thugs standing side by side.

Fools cheer their masks — the muzzles bind
The dumbest slaves, deaf and blind.
If cops don’t wear helmets yet,
And graves aren’t filling just yet,

Then all is fine — let’s eat and breed,
Drink on, ignore the growing greed.
No need for truth to slaves so blind —
The fake virus will end mankind.



---------------------



FOOL

All’s wasted under this **** sky.
Only fools find joy — no need to try.
You’re target practice in a firing range,
Another idiot shoots you — cold and strange.

Better armed, they smash your mind,
This hell breeds idiots, deaf and blind.
No light, just lies piled Everest-high,
You live trapped in a beastmen’s lie.

Fools breed behind cold bars,
Happy slaves to their new scars.
No pain, no truth inside their head,
Blind to fascists — death and dread.

They “protect” your health by killing this world,
No blood? Then fools feast, flags unfurled.
Wisdom fights — fools run the show,
With liars, thugs in sick combo.

Masks choke dumb slaves, no hope in sight,
Cops without helmets, graves not quite right.
So all is fine — keep eating, breed,
Drown in lies, ignore the need.

Truth is poison to the dumb,
Fake virus wipes out some.
The fool’s last laugh — a final breath,
Doomed to march to silent death.



---------------------



FOOL'S WAR CRY

Fools feast while the world decays,
Brains are targets in the haze.
Masks choke slaves, cops lie and cheat —
Wake or rot beneath their feet!

**** the lies, burn the fools,
Break the chains, smash their rules!
No mercy for the dumb and blind —
Fight with fire, free your mind!



---------------------



FOOL'S WAR SCREAM

Fools breed plague, a choking blight,
Brains get blasted — no respite.
Masks on slaves, cops choke and lie,
Truth gets crushed, let ******* die!

Burn the fools, no mercy shown,
Crush their lies, break every bone!
No pity for the dumb and weak —
Rage, revolt, the strong don’t speak!

Chains will snap beneath our boots,
Crush the **** and rotten suits!
Wake the fire, strike with hate —
Fools are fodder for the fate!



---------------------



SHADOWS OF THE FOOL

Fools crawl blind in endless night,
Feeding lies that **** the light.
Masks suffocate, chains grow tight —
Death awaits the weak, the blind, the trite.

No salvation, no reprieve,
Only blood that fools conceive.
Rot and filth beneath their skin,
This is where the darkness wins.

Crush the plague, the human ****,
Break their bones — no hope will come.
Silent screams and shattered bones,
The fools will rot in hell alone.

Rise, the fire burns so cold,
Truth forgotten, lies unfold.
In the shadows, fury waits —
Fools will drown in twisted fates.



---------------------



SHROUDED IN FOOL'S DARKNESS

Fools drag chains through endless night,
Breathing poison, killing light.
Blindly crawling in their hell,
Souls enslaved in cursed shell.

Masks choke tight — no air, no hope,
In this pit, no chance to cope.
Filth and rot beneath cracked skin,
Sins of mind, the plague within.

Madness rules, the world decays,
Truth consumed by lies’ malaise.
Silent screams behind the veil,
Broken wills that always fail.

Burn them down — the pestilence,
Crush the spawn of impotence.
Let the shadows swallow all,
Fools shall drown beneath their fall.

No salvation waits for those
Whose minds rot where darkness grows.
Hell’s own puppets, lost and blind —
Wretched fools of cursed kind.

Rise the fire, cold and grim,
Light’s last breath grows faint and dim.
But in ashes, fury wakes —
Vengeance born when darkness breaks.



---------------------



FOOL'S WRATH — NO MERCY GIVEN

Fools drag chains through ****-stained night,
Choking lies that **** the light.
Blinded, cursed, and dragged to hell,
Souls crushed hard inside their shell.

Masks suffocate, no breath, no hope,
In this *******, no way to cope.
Rotting guts and filthy skin,
Mindless plague — the devil’s sin.

Madness rules — the world’s decayed,
Truth’s been ripped and torn away.
Silent screams beneath the veil,
Broken wills that always fail.

Burn the vermin, purge the ****,
Crush their lies till all is numb.
Let the shadows drown them deep,
Fools deserve the grave they keep.

No salvation for the blind,
Rotting filth that eats the mind.
Hell’s own puppets, slaves in chains —
Pathetic fools, the world’s remains.

Raise the fire, cold and grim,
Light’s last breath flickers and dims.
From the ash, a fury wakes —
Vengeance born as darkness breaks.



---------------------



FOOL’S WRATH

Fools rot, blind slaves in chains,
Breeding lies, disease remains.
Rotting brains and broken souls —
Hell’s own dogs with filthy goals.

Masks choke, silence screams,
Lost in lies, crushed dreams.
Burn the ****, purge the pain —
Only ashes will remain.

No hope for stupid fools,
Wretched slaves, broken rules.
Fire rises — darkness falls,
Vengeance shouts — the final call.

Truth is weapon, lies decay,
Fools will rot — no other way.
Hell’s plague on this ****** earth,
Time to burn the fool’s false worth.



---------------------



Scab

Those pulling strings won’t blow their cover—
Invisible behind the show.
Clowns act out the ****’s script, no other,
Whip lies slashing, beating low.

The puppetmaster lurks in shadows,
Dreams to bind all strings for life.
Fools groan, curse clowns with bitter echoes,
But truth’s denied amid the strife.

To **** all thought—that’s ruling’s purpose,
Success lies in dumbing down the crowd.
From age to age, the mind grows worthless,
Idiocy reigns fierce and loud.

For most are fools, a pliant herd,
Easy to steer through clownish acts.
The **** got bold—now plans are stirred
To build death camps for killing facts.

And CowID showed the brutal truth:
How simple it is to enslave—
A global camp for fools uncouth,
A world infected by the scab of knaves.



---------------------



The Scab

The ones who pull the strings won’t die —
They hide unseen behind the freakshow.
Clowns obey the filthy lie,
Whipping truth with every blow.

The puppetmaster basks in shade,
Dreams of binding all the strings.
Fools moan, curse clowns, but truth’s betrayed —
No honor in the puppets’ kings.

To **** all thought — the ruler’s goal,
Success in dumbing down the breed.
Generation dull, a blackened hole,
Idiots spawned like rotting ****.

The herd of fools is all they need,
So easy to control the mob.
The **** got brazen, plotting greed —
Death camps built for easier job.

CowID proved how **** simple,
To cage the world in hellish bars.
A plague of scabs, dumb and crippled,
Ruled by freaks with empty scars.



---------------------



Tragic Themes

Tragic themes, best left alone,
By fools too dull to hear or see,
It’s easier in Hell to rot
When dumb and mute — a misery.

Dumb is he whose mind and soul
Turn deaf to tragedy’s call,
Madness is the heir they sow —
Into ranks of Satan’s thrall.

Satan’s servants, blind and numb,
Fed with false hope, thick and lame,
Mind’s a slurry, mush, and sludge —
Fascism’s seed is sown in shame.

Dull fools always march to fascism,
Chewing up the last of honor,
Those with conscience face the end,
Cut down silent, no defender.

Not just bullets end their days —
Crushed in silence, left to drown,
In poverty, forgotten deep,
No one hears them ’midst the clown.

All media’s chained to devils —
CowID proved the puppets’ role.
With new devils come new lies,
Fascism’s face takes darker toll.

****** now by lies alone —
Darkness’ chief and cruelest art,
Reducing humans to mere beasts —
Hell’s chaos tearing hearts apart.



---------------------



Propaganda

Propaganda’s like Uganda —
Level of “progress” is crap.
Run by **** who feed on Satan,
Spewing ashes, poison sap.

Dumbheads get it dumped on top —
People bear it, brains decay,
This foul *******’s cruelty
Rips their minds and burns away.

**** pulls strings, the clown’s a puppet,
Dancing dumb on TV’s stage,
“Politician” triples lies,
Cash his only real wage.

Goebbels spins in Hell’s own vat,
Wild beasts trust his crap with zeal,
Worship dung with sick devotion —
Filth that’s forced on us to feel.

Half-baked Fuhrer hits the box,
Blabbering lies to all who hear,
“King’s not real” — spit it out,
Trample truth without a tear.

Two-faced Fuhrer rules the scene,
Propaganda’s worth the price.
Beasts in war, unseen but deadly,
Destroy souls in silent ice.

Stupid world with open ears,
Forgot how to think and see,
War’s real trophy is the souls,
Who let beasts inside their plea.



---------------------



Storm Within

There’s no such thing as "happiness"
For slaves so weak and small.
Only storms and darkness reign —
If your mind begins to fall.

You must rebuild from inside,
Learn this truth and keep it true:
Spirit’s fire alone can break
The hell that’s crushing you.

This hell drives souls to death,
Not just the flesh, but deep —
A worthy man becomes a worm,
Lost in shadows steep.

Trust nothing but yourself,
These gates lead to the end.
Deception cuts like knives on paths
That never seem to bend.

Your soul is torn to shreds —
Heal yourself or die.
Sooner or later it will break,
No matter how you try.

Seek no teacher’s hollow words —
Chase the shadows out.
Your mind’s a cesspool — filled with crap,
Fighting without doubt.

The stench won’t just fade away —
Drive that filth from sight,
Or hell will reign within your mind,
Darkening all your light.

Strength and wisdom live inside,
Cleanse your thoughts, uproot lies,
Weeds of falsehood sprout like vines,
Sown for many days gone by.

Sharpen your critical blade —
Cut through the ****** deceit.
To hell with fake politeness —
Burn lies in scorching heat.

Engage in work creative,
Love the process, not the prize.
The sprouts you grow will feed your soul,
And make your spirit rise.

You are your judge and reward,
Joy returns through the night,
Amid the nightmare called existence —
When you reclaim your light.

Stay clear from blind sheep’s herd —
Guard your strength with care.
Their animal "prana" poisons —
Run fast from that snare!

Turn your gaze from the masses,
Focus deep on the known:
The path of true awakening,
Where lies get overthrown.

Concentrate on "other worlds,"
Not this prison of dread,
For in obsession, madness dwells —
And fear will cloud your head.

These "other worlds" are spirit’s flight,
A higher realm to own.
Cast off rotten crutches — dead weight,
And leave them all alone.

This hellish world is all crutches —
Built on idols vile.
Tear down these false gods, cleanse your soul —
Heed only lyre’s wild.

For in harsh poetry,
Worlds beyond break through the gloom —
Sharp as blades when poets speak,
Their truths cut through the tomb.

There’s much more yet to say —
Lyre’s burden is deep,
But this tale must wait for now —
More secrets you shall keep.



---------------------



Storm Within

No joy exists for wretched slaves,
Just storms that rip your mind apart.
When spirit’s weak, you walk the graves —
A broken soul, a shattered heart.

Rebuild yourself from deep inside,
Learn this hard truth — your inner flame
Alone can burn the hellworld’s lies,
Destroy the shackles, break the chain.

This hell drives souls toward decay,
Turns worthy men to crawling filth.
The devil’s slaves obey, obey —
Consumed by darkness, drowned in guilt.

Trust no one — only yourself,
These gates lead straight to death’s domain.
Deception slashes like a blade,
Your soul’s blood spilled in bitter pain.

Your heart’s a battlefield, all torn —
Heal now or die beneath the weight.
The poison’s deep; the night is worn —
You face the endless hand of fate.

Forget the teachers, fools, and liars —
Expel the shadows from your mind.
Your thoughts are cesspools, rotted pyres,
Where toxic filth is intertwined.

The stench won’t fade; you must uproot
This plague or hell will reign inside.
Your consciousness, the only root —
Clear lies before they crush your pride.

Strength and wisdom dwell within,
Purge your thoughts, uproot the weeds.
Falsehood’s seeds breed endless sin —
They feed on pain and darkest deeds.

Sharpen your sword of clarity —
Slice lies with ruthless, deadly force.
Forget the mask of “politeness” —
Burn deceit without remorse.

Create with passion, fight with love,
The process is the only prize.
The sprouts you nurture rise above
The poison and the hateful lies.

You are your judge, your only prize,
Joy can return despite the night.
In this hellscape called "existence,"
You wrest your soul back into light.

Avoid the sheep — their dumbed-down herd,
Their “animal breath” will poison you.
Run far, escape their stinking herd,
Before their plague infects you too.

Divert your gaze from empty crowds,
Focus sharp on truth’s own path.
Seek out the worlds beyond the clouds —
Beyond the rage, beyond the wrath.

Fixate on other realms, not here —
This prison built on fear and hate.
Obsession breeds the madman’s sneer,
And fear enslaves the human state.

Those “other worlds” — the spirit’s flight,
A higher place beyond decay.
Cast off the rotten crutches, blight —
Discard false idols, burn away.

This world’s a cage of crutches, lies,
Built on foul idols, dead and cold.
Tear down these shrines with fire in eyes,
Cleanse your soul, be fierce and bold.

For poetry can cut like knives,
Revealing worlds beyond the night.
The harshest words are battle cries,
Truth’s razor piercing dark with light.

There’s more to say — the lyre knows —
But secrets wait in shadowed folds.
The story deep inside still grows,
More truths remain to be told.



---------------------



Storm Within

No joy for slaves who crawl and rot,
Just endless storms inside the brain.
When spirit’s crushed, you’re what you’re not —
A hollow shell consumed by pain.

Reforge your soul from ash and flame,
Embrace the fury deep within.
Only fire can burn this shame,
And break the chains of flesh and sin.

This hell drives souls into the pit,
Turns proud men into crawling waste.
The devil’s dogs obey and sit,
Their honor lost, their will disgraced.

Believe no one — just trust your blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
Deception’s knives drip poisoned flood,
And drag your spirit’s life off track.

Your soul’s a battlefield of scars,
Heal fast or drown beneath the weight.
The poison sinks, the night is mars,
You stand before your final fate.

Forget the fools, the liars’ lies —
Purge shadows from your mental core.
Your mind’s a swamp where darkness lies,
A cesspool breeding endless gore.

The stench won’t fade — root out the plague,
Or hell will claim your very breath.
Your consciousness must fight and rage,
Destroy deceit, defy your death.

Inside you dwell the strength and light,
Clear out the weeds, uproot the rot.
Falsehood’s seeds breed endless blight —
They feed on all that’s good and fought.

Sharpen your blade — relentless, sharp,
Slice lies to ashes, burn their veil.
Forget the mask, the fake “sharpsharp” —
The truth will carve and never fail.

Create with fire, fight with hate,
Love every stroke, embrace the strife.
Your growing shoots will dominate
The sickness choking all your life.

You are the judge, the warrior’s prize,
Joy can return from darkest hell.
In this nightmare called "existence,"
You wrest your soul from death’s cold spell.

Avoid the sheep, the dumbed-down horde,
Their stench will poison flesh and mind.
Run fast, escape their cursed sword,
Before their plague enslaves mankind.

Turn eyes away from empty herds,
Fix gaze on realms beyond the cage.
Seek worlds where spirit flies like birds —
Beyond the fury, fear, and rage.

Focus sharp on other planes,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness grows where darkness reigns,
And fear is law beneath these skies.

Those “other worlds” — the spirit’s fire,
A realm beyond decay and death.
Cast off the crutches, false desire —
Burn idols cold with final breath.

This world’s a prison made of lies,
Built on idols foul and dead.
Tear down those shrines, watch falsehood die,
Cleanse your soul — rise from the dead.

Poetry’s a sword that cuts,
Revealing realms beyond the dark.
Harsh words ignite, fierce thunderstruts,
Truth’s blade ignites the faintest spark.

There’s more to say — the lyre screams —
But secrets wait beyond the veil.
The story’s deep — a flood of dreams,
More truths await beyond the pale.



---------------------



Storm Within

No joy for slaves who rot and crawl,
Only storms that drag you down.
When spirit’s crushed — you’re nothing at all —
A crawling beast beneath the crown.

Reforge your soul in blazing hell,
Embrace the wrath that burns inside.
Only fire can break this spell —
And shred the chains of flesh and pride.

This pit of hell drives souls to sludge,
Turns kings to vermin, fit to die.
The devil’s dogs bark loud and judge,
Their honor dead, beneath the sky.

Trust no ****** — trust your blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
The lies will stab you like a flood,
Dragging your soul down a broken track.

Your mind’s a swamp of poison and ****,
A cesspool breeding endless death.
The stench won’t leave, you must commit
To purge the rot with iron breath.

Within you burns the primal light,
Rip out the weeds, crush every lie.
The seeds of poison choke your sight —
A graveyard ‘neath a toxic sky.

Sharpen the blade, relentless steel,
Slice through the plague and burn the veil.
No tact, no mercy — lies must kneel,
Their carcasses feed the hellish gale.

Create with rage, destroy with fire,
Love every scar that marks the fight.
Your wrath will rise, it won’t expire —
The darkness cowers at your light.

You’re judge, executioner, and flame,
Joy’s return from Hell’s cold grip.
In nightmare’s depths, reclaim your name —
Rip life from Death’s corrupting slip.

Avoid the sheep, the herd of fools,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Run fast, escape their fatal rules,
Their poisoned breath kills much too much.

Turn your gaze from empty herds,
Fix on realms beyond this cage.
Seek worlds where freedom breaks the words,
Beyond the fear, the rage, the rage.

Focus sharp on spirit’s plane,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness rules where darkness reigns,
And Death commands beneath these skies.

Other worlds — the fire of soul,
Realms beyond decay and death.
Cast away the crutches’ role —
Burn false idols with your breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Idols foul and long since dead.
Tear their temples down — watch truth rise,
Cleanse your soul — resurrect the dead.

Poetry’s a blade that cuts,
Reveals the realms beyond the night.
Harsh words like thunder — deafening ruts —
Truth’s blade ignites the final fight.

More to say — the lyre screams —
Secrets wait beyond the veil.
A flood of wrath, a stream of dreams,
More truth awaits beyond the pale.



---------------------



Inner Storm

No joy for slaves in hell’s decay,
Only storms that drag you down.
When spirit dies — you’re just the prey,
A filthy beast beneath the crown.

Reforge yourself inside the flame,
Embrace the wrath that burns your core.
Only fire can break the chain,
And drag you back from death’s dark door.

This pit of poison breeds the ******,
Turns kings to filth, their honor sold.
The devil’s puppets grip the land,
Their lies like chains, their hearts are cold.

Trust no **** — trust only blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
Lies tear your soul like poisoned flood,
Dragging you down a shattered track.

Your mind’s a sewer filled with rot,
A cesspool boiling with disease.
The stench won’t leave — you must fight lot,
And purge the slime with iron breeze.

Inside you burns the primal spark,
Rip out the weeds, destroy the blight.
The poison seeds choke out the dark —
A graveyard crawling in the night.

Sharpen the blade — unflinching steel,
Cut through the plague, burn every lie.
No mercy now — make demons kneel,
Their carcasses feed hell’s black sky.

Create with fury, forge with pain,
Love every scar that marks the war.
Your wrath will rise and never wane —
Darkness will cower, flee, and roar.

Judge, executioner, and flame,
Joy reborn from Hell’s cold grip.
In nightmare’s depths reclaim your name —
Rip life from Death’s corrupting slip.

Avoid the sheep, the dumb, the blind,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Run fast, escape their fatal bind,
Their poisoned breath kills far too much.

Turn your gaze from empty herds,
Fix on realms beyond this cage.
Seek worlds where freedom breaks the words,
Beyond the fear, the rage, the rage.

Focus sharp on spirit’s plane,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness rules where darkness reigns,
And Death commands beneath these skies.

Other worlds — the soul’s fierce fire,
Realms beyond the decay and death.
Cast away crutches — false desire —
Burn idols down with righteous breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Idols foul and long since dead.
Tear their temples down — truth will rise,
Cleanse your soul — resurrect the dead.

Poetry’s a blade that cuts,
Revealing realms beyond the night.
Harsh words like thunder — deafening ruts —
Truth’s blade ignites the final fight.

More awaits — the lyre screams loud —
Secrets lie beyond the veil.
Wrath floods forth — a storm, a cloud —
Truth’s fire will shatter the pale.



---------------------



Ragequake

No bliss for slaves beneath the sun —
Only storms that break and burn.
When spirit’s crushed, the end’s begun,
You’re just a beast with no return.

Rebuild inside, ignite your core,
Let fury blast the chains away.
Only wrath can settle score,
And drag you screaming from decay.

This hell breeds fiends that wear a crown,
Kings turned to vermin, sold to lies.
Devil’s pawns, they drag us down,
Their venom poisoning the skies.

Trust nothing but your blood and bone,
Death’s gates swing wide for all who fall.
Lies rip the soul and grind to stone,
A shattered mind in hell’s black hall.

Your mind’s a sewer, foul and thick,
A rotten pit that stinks of doom.
The stench won’t fade — it claws and sticks,
Purge the slime or face your tomb.

Inside you burns a savage flame,
Tear out the weeds that choke your breath.
Poison seeds born in your name,
Feed the worms of creeping death.

Sharpen sharp your ruthless sword —
Cut lies to ash, burn every mask.
No mercy now, strike the horde,
Feed hell’s fire — complete the task.

Create in fury, build in pain,
Love each scar earned in this fight.
Your wrath is pure, it breaks the chain —
Darkness flees before your light.

Judge, executioner, flame —
Joy reborn from hellish grip.
In nightmares fierce reclaim your name —
Drag life back from death’s cold slip.

Flee the flock, the blind, the fools,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Escape the deathly sheepfold rules,
Their breath’s a plague that kills too much.

Turn your eyes to realms beyond,
Fix your soul on distant planes.
Seek worlds where truth is found,
Beyond fear’s chains and madness’ chains.

Focus sharp on spirit’s flame —
This world’s a cage of lies and dread.
Madness rules and death proclaims —
Dark shadows linger where we tread.

Other worlds — soul’s raging fire,
Realms beyond this rotten death.
Throw down crutches, false desire —
Burn idols with your righteous breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Temples shattered, idols dead.
Tear it down, let truth arise —
Cleanse your soul, raise from the dead.

Poetry is the razor’s edge,
Cutting through the darkest night.
Words that roar, the prophet’s pledge —
Truth’s fire sets the final fight.

More awaits beyond the veil,
Lyre’s scream breaks the silence tight.
Wrath ignites a thunderous gale —
Truth’s storm will shatter endless night.



---------------------



Pyrrhic Victory

The media brazenly lies,
Wiping minds, dimming eyes,
And we obey the Dark’s commands,
Marching blind to no-man’s lands.

The world soaked in total lies,
Like an ocean mad and wide,
A victory for beasts deranged—
Conformist sheep, forever chained.

No country left to call its own,
The fire of death in Hell is sown.
The Earth itself—Hell’s twisted throne,
Where traitors thrive, corrupt, alone.

Only one thing wakes the dead—
The sharp command: “Attack!” it said.
Fascism rules where minds have died,
In lies and fear we all abide.

False CowID exposed the game,
Then madness warred without a name.
Before that, AIDS had dulled the throng—
Now needles lead the blind along,

Turning sheep to wicked cattle,
Obedient to evil’s battle.

The whole world’s gripped by dark control,
A madman leads the captive soul
To camps anew—this vile disgrace.
If we allowed this evil place,

Then we must bear the blame and cost,
For letting all humanity be lost.

A Pyrrhic win against the foe—
Burning slaves with evil’s glow,
To clear the field for cruel experiments,
Where darkness breeds new torments.



---------------------



The Luciferian System

No matter what problems rise,
No matter what barriers stand—
Once you bow to System’s lies,
You’re no more than a dog, a hand

Ready to obey on scraps,
“Attack!” you’ll do with slavish zeal.
For fake safety, empty snacks,
You’ll crush freedom’s fragile feel.

Prepare to face the slaughterhouse—
Betrayers get disposed with speed.
Younger dogs will take your vows,
It’s all numbers here they heed.

No matter what problems come,
Save your soul through all the lies.
Though this truth is old and numb,
Mirages cloud your weary eyes.

The System’s base is darkest haze,
Its weapon—lies that cut like knives.
We live in these declining days—
Don’t count money, count your life.

From the global kennel’s cage,
If your soul is light and free,
You’ll set sail for Spirit’s stage—
But the trained dog falls to the deep.



---------------------



The Luciferian System

No matter what walls block your way,
No matter what hellscape you face—
Once you bow to the System’s sway,
You’re just a beast, a bred disgrace.

Ready to snap at the crumb,
“Attack!” they command with cold sneer.
For fake safety, junk to numb,
You’ll **** the freedom you hold dear.

Brace yourself for the killing floor—
Traitors get crushed without a thought.
Younger hounds will race for more,
Just numbers in this brutal plot.

No matter what chaos breaks loose,
Save your soul amidst the lies.
This old truth’s a fatal noose,
Mirages blind the wise.

The System thrives on thickest smoke,
Its weapon is pure filthy lies.
We’re drowning in the final choke—
Count not your coins, but your cries.

From the worldwide dog pound’s hell,
If your soul’s still sharp and clean,
You’ll break free from this cursed shell—
While trained dogs drown in the obscene.



---------------------



The Luciferian System

No matter what **** walls arise,
No matter how the darkness bleeds—
If you bow down, betray the skies,
You’re nothing but a slave who feeds.

A savage hound, a mindless beast,
Snapping for your pitiful crumbs.
“Attack!” they howl—the cruel feast
Of broken souls, the silence drums.

Welcome to the slaughterhouse,
Where traitors bleed and rot in chains.
Young wolves sharpen sharpened jaws,
Counting only flesh and gains.

No hope remains—just twisted lies,
A fog that chokes the breathing light.
Your soul’s a corpse beneath the skies,
Drowned deep in endless, soulless night.

The System’s plague is darkest blight,
Its weapon forged from poison breath.
We march into eternal night—
Not coin, but spirit meets its death.

From global kennels, reeking hell,
If your soul’s not cracked or sold,
You’ll break these ****** chains of spell—
While trained dogs drown in filth and cold.

Bow not to Lucifer’s cold grin—
Or fall into the black abyss.
Where screams are swallowed deep within,
And light is but a dying kiss.



---------------------



Luciferian System

No matter how the chaos screams,
No matter how the darkness swells—
Submit yourself, become their fiend,
A dog condemned to endless hell.

A beast enslaved, mind torn to shreds,
Snarling for your scraps of lies.
“Attack!” commands the puppeteers,
While freedom in your spirit dies.

Welcome to the slaughter pit,
Where traitors choke on bitter chains.
Young wolves prowl, teeth sharpened sharp—
Counting only blood and gains.

No light escapes this poisoned veil,
No hope beyond the blackened breath.
Your soul a carcass, crushed and frail,
Drowning in eternal death.

The System’s core—deception’s maw,
Its venom seeps through every vein.
We walk the path of final law—
Where spirit bleeds and breaks in pain.

From kennels vast and world consumed,
If you’re not cracked, if still you fight,
You’ll break the spell, resist the doom—
While trained dogs fade into night.

Bow to Lucifer? Be ******.
Fall into the void below,
Where screams are swallowed by the ******,
And light’s last ember flickers low.

There is no mercy in this tomb,
No salvation for the weak—
Only endless, yawning gloom,
Where darkness reigns and hope is bleak.

Fight or fall in shadow’s grip,
The abyss waits with open jaws—
But to kneel is your soul’s death trip,
In Lucifer’s cruel claws.



---------------------



Luciferian System — Descent into the Abyss

No matter what hell haunts your mind,
No matter what walls close you in—
Submit yourself, become their kind,
A hound bred for eternal sin.

A slave to shadows, stripped of will,
Snarling, broken, licking lies.
“Attack!” the masters coldly shrill,
While your last freedom slowly dies.

Into the slaughterhouse of souls,
Where traitors bleed without a sound,
Young wolves hunt, control the roles,
Counting corpses, cold and drowned.

No light escapes this cursed cage,
No hope survives the poisoned breath.
Your spirit crushed beneath the rage—
A carcass fed to endless death.

The System’s heart is lies and plague,
Its venom floods your every vein.
We live the age of final plague—
Where only agony remains.

From global kennels, vast and grim,
If soul is light enough to flee,
Break through the darkness, tear the rim—
Or drown with dogs in misery.

Bow down to Lucifer’s cruel throne?
Fall deep into the endless pit—
Where screams are crushed and all alone,
Hope’s dying embers barely lit.

No mercy waits beyond this door,
No grace for those too weak to fight—
Just endless night, a brutal war,
Where darkness smothers every light.

Resist or perish in its grip,
The abyss yawns with savage jaws—
To kneel is death, a poisoned sip,
Held tight within the devil’s claws.



---------------------



Revolt Against the Abyss

Break the chains — no time for fear,
This System’s venom rules too long!
Their lies are swords, their grip severe,
But we rise fierce, defy the wrong.

No slave to puppets’ vile commands,
No leash to bite, no throat to choke.
We burn their lies with open hands,
And crush their fake, accursed yoke.

The Devil’s dogs shall drown in screams,
Their Kennels cracked by rebel fire.
We shatter all their twisted schemes,
Their hollow gods—consume, expire!

The darkness grins, but we bring light,
A blaze of wrath, a flood of truth.
No fake salvation, no false right—
Just iron will, the sword of proof.

This war is ours—no place for lies,
No mercy for the blind and weak.
We’ll strike the venom where it lies,
Expose the frauds, the snakes who speak.

Rise up, your spirit cannot die,
Though hell surrounds with ruthless claws.
From ashes, flames will pierce the sky—
We are the storm that breaks their laws.

No more slaves! No quiet despair!
No lies, no chains, no false consent!
We tear the mask, reveal the snare—
And claim the night with fierce intent.

Fight on, the abyss will crack and fall—
When madness meets the warrior’s roar.



---------------------



Step into the Abyss

No turning back — just step ahead,
Break chains and shatter frozen dread!
Your gaze a blade, your heart is steel,
Burn down your fear, ignite the zeal.

In this hell where darkness reigns,
Light tears the veils, the falsehood wanes!
Enemies quake, their masks will crack,
Their lies will shatter — no turning back.

You’re no slave, no puppet weak,
Rebellion’s pulse runs wild and sleek!
Soul’s fire — fearless, sharp as swords,
Let false worlds drown in mocking hordes.

Though hell still crushes fragile earth,
You’re the fracture, lightning’s birth!
Break the system, cast off chains,
A rebel’s roar will burn the plains.

Your spirit — lightning, thunder’s strike,
Where fears turn dust, lies fold like pike.
Rise, fighter, shout into the night —
Let liars fall in blazing light!



---------------------



No Mercy for the Puppeteers

Chains will snap, and heads will roll,
No mercy for the puppeteers’ control.
Their rotten lies, their toxic breath,
We'll drag them screaming down to death.

False gods crumble, masks will burn,
The tides of rage begin to turn.
No place for traitors, liars, snakes —
Their hollow empire splits and breaks.

The weak obey, the strong revolt,
With sharpened minds and no remorse.
This world’s a cage, but hell awaits,
For those who serve the hands of fate.

So raise the fist, embrace the pain,
In ashes’ storm, we rise again.
No compromise, no silent truce,
Destroy the liars — end abuse.



---------------------



Horror of Non-Being

Worse than worse — your life decays,
Clear as day — no light betrays.
Not a moment, not a breath,
Free from thoughts of hell and death.

The whole world’s ripped, the whole world’s lost,
Plunging deep, the final cost.
The ninth great wave of lies and pain,
Drowning souls in ceaseless rain.

Rotten lies have claimed it all,
Wounds that bleed, the endless crawl.
They just whine — weak fight, no grit,
Idiots howl, their fate is writ.

Enough’s enough — this hell must break!
For kin’s disgrace, the fascists quake.
They built a camp, a deathly tomb,
A cesspit’s stink, eternal doom.

Only Sun can burn this Bedlam,
Scorch to bottom, break the dam.
Tremble now, you foul disgrace,
For betraying Mind and Grace.

Vile creatures face their doom,
Mad hordes accounted soon.
You’ll rise again if spirit’s tough,
Return to those who wait above.

They wait for brave who kept their pride,
Die with skill, no place to hide.
The time has come — embrace the dark,
The final reckoning will spark.



---------------------



Horror of Non-Being

Worse than hell, your wasted life,
Clear as glass — no end to strife.
Not a second, not a breath,
Free from shadows cast by death.

World torn open, torn to shreds,
Falling fast to endless dregs.
Ninth wave crashing, lies ablaze,
Drowning all in toxic haze.

Rot and filth have crushed it all,
Bleeding wounds, the final fall.
Whiners whimper, fight is lost,
Idiots howl — the world’s their cost.

Break this Hell, it’s time to burn!
Shame on kin who won’t return.
Fascist **** built camps of pain,
Stinking cesspools drenched in shame.

Only Sun can scorch this pit,
Burn it down, the hate must split.
Tremble, worm, you sold your soul,
Betrayed the Mind, betrayed the Whole.

Filthy beasts will face the fire,
Mad mobs crushed beneath the pyre.
Rise again if spirit’s steel,
Back to those who dare to feel.

They await the brave and true,
Those who kept their honor due.
Die with purpose, die with hate,
Now’s the time to seal your fate.



---------------------



Rotten Core

******* ain't no **** coupons —
They shear us, hoarding MARAZM.
Fools block all our way — these monsters
Build their traps to feed the chasm.

No leader’s worse than the rabble
Who blindly worship their lies.
Culture’s fight is now a shamble —
No more nations, just ash skies.

An ******* can sometimes wake,
Grasp a shred, refuse to bend,
But he chose to chew and breed —
Chose the evil in the end.

Selling out for filthy pay,
Feeding greed that only grows,
Gnawing fast to ****** the prize,
Diving deep in putrid throes.

**** like these—no longer human—
Satan reigns their freakish god,
And this curse has lasted ages,
Centuries of devil’s fraud.

No way back—history’s twisted,
All is falsehood, all is dark,
Blindly stumbling through the shadows,
Wandering without a spark.

Fake science rules the present,
Crafting lies with polished skill,
CowID’s proof of madness,
Feeding chaos, breaking will.

******* are our stumbling blocks,
The Führer just a clown of Night.
No peace left, just pens and fences,
For beasts and cages tight.

Reason’s few are fading fast,
Doomed to vanish day by day,
Everything is lost, consumed—
Only fire burns decay.

The Sun brings blazing justice—
Will scorch this mad, corrupted world.
But sheep can’t see the coming blaze,
The endless feast of lies unfurled.

If you trust these filthy fiends,
Blindly follow their commands,
The more the hate and treachery—
The faster death consumes these lands.

Sun and Earth are Reason’s forces,
Fake science gets its checkmate move.
When madness rules the many,
All falls down in final groove.

They don’t need these *******,
Darkness, traitors, filthy spawn,
Ruling with their tons of lies—
Rotten core before the dawn.



---------------------



****

All this **** — hopeless, rotten,
Pathetic and a joke.
Monsters lie with mouths wide open —
But **** devours every hoax.

This ****** world’s corrupt and rotten,
Betrayal’s their **** trade.
If you’re smart and brave, you’re dead men—
They die, fade, and degrade.

Drowning deep in ***** and sorrow,
Crawling out just for a flash.
Cities, towns—all pens of *******—
Madness bound to crash.

And the broken—“normal,” hailed,
Only fools create the rage.
Gluttony, *****, and burning pits—
The crown of this bleak stage.

Development and dreams?
Three quarters of the sheep.
Are they human? No—just slaughter—
Goats for demons’ keep.



---------------------



****

This world’s pure **** — no hope, no light,
Lies feed the pigs who lost the fight.
Brains rot, guts choke on bitter bile,
Sheep march blind, no will, no guile.

Smart die fast, weak breed the plague,
Madness rules — the truth’s a vague.
Cities burn in mental chains,
Screams drown out the dying brains.

Eat the lies, choke on the grime,
**** devours all sense and time.
Goat-men sold to devil’s game,
Slaughtered sheep with cursed names.



---------------------



To the Heights...

A tropical night in Moldova’s land,
By day, the sun scorches, fierce and grand.
Its molten chains may melt away —
For minds too sharp, no place to stay.

The Spirit’s caught in endless traps,
A battle for the soul unwraps.
Traitors fire like guns on sight,
Lies and fear cut like a knife.

Soulless armies breed in war,
The world’s a stench, a hellish core.
In Gorky’s play, we sink so low —
At bottom lies the crushing woe.

Long ago, Tsvetaeva knew,
This place’s price — pure hellish glue.
The noose became her grim release —
Only fools find here their peace.

Tropical nights, the Alps aflame,
The Sun burns down the cursed game.
Hell’s black dust will scatter wide —
With it, the horrors, fear, and pride.

The path to Heights beyond this pain
Runs through the Spirit’s cleansing flame.
Only few will leave that Hell —
Those who refuse the darkness’ sell.



---------------------



To the Heights...

Tropical nights in Moldova’s hell,
By day, the sun’s a scorching spell.
It melts the chains of frozen minds —
No place for souls, just death it finds.

Spirit trapped in vicious snares,
The fight for souls — soaked in despairs.
Traitors blast with venomed lies,
Fear sticky, choking, cold disguise.

Soulless beasts breed in this war,
The world’s a stench, a rotting core.
Gorky’s stage — the pit of pain,
Where only madness will remain.

Tsvetaeva saw it clear —
This hell’s no place for hope or fear.
Her noose became the final door —
Only fools endure this gore.

Tropical nights, the Alps ablaze,
The sun burns down the cursed maze.
Hell’s black ashes sweep the land,
Tearing down this cursed brand.

The road to Heights cuts through the fire,
Through Spirit’s wrath and fierce desire.
Few will rise from this abyss —
Those who won’t betray the kiss.



---------------------



Manipulating Minds

Manipulating minds —
The cruelest trade on Earth.
From childhood’s earliest finds,
They **** your Reason’s birth.

All school programs shape
To grind you into dust.
The loudest brutes escape,
Inside — the Void and rust.

But few will keep their brains,
While others fall like prey,
Trapped in different chains,
Their souls just fade away.

“Culture” and the box of lies
Will finish off us all.
Here Hell itself defies —
Inhuman triumph’s call.

Work’s a chain, enslaving,
Rest’s a total blank,
The foulest depraving —
Stop whining, stop the prank.

You must discern the snare,
Unmask each cunning trick.
This massive, toxic lair
Is vast and growing thick.

Huge funds have been poured
Into these crafted lies,
Not simple fibs, but war,
A science to disguise.

For years they study how
To blind us, tighten grips,
And every moment now
They sharpen poison-tips.

The art of weaving shame,
Bold, filthy, blatant fraud —
“Science” spins the game,
And fools applaud the fraud.

They’ll worship chains as wings,
Declare dull minds as wise,
And cruelty will bring
The fascist’s new disguise.

They need the stupid brute —
The perfect slave, controlled.
Thus floods the lies acute,
Each stream corrupts the soul.

In this vast flow, we drown,
All snared within the net.
Instead of thirst for truth —
A cesspool full of sweat.

Mindless trivia kills
The Spirit, Reason’s light —
The endless muck that spills
Feeds swarms that crawl at night.

You’ve turned a dung-born fly —
Your Spirit’s flame is dim.
While lies grow wild and high —
The source of every sin.

Yet freedom’s path remains —
Build worlds apart, alone.
Escape this Hell’s domains,
Create your own new throne.



---------------------



Center Your Soul

Center on Spirit deep,
And mute your noisy mind —
Then all the chains and lies
Will fade, no more to bind.

See with an open gaze,
Straight into core and truth.
The world’s a fascist maze,
A monster’s cruel booth.

That fiendish breed is “merry,”
Made madhouse here to stay.
And soon that madhouse turns
To *****’s endless fray.

Destroying Spirit’s light —
The core device of Hell.
To turn you dung-born fly,
They push you down to hell.

With poison and with lies,
They twist the minds of men.
Madness spreads like wildfire —
Especially with children.

They dumb the minds with care,
Programming the weak.
The soul and reason fade,
As darkened futures leak.

Under the pressure, fog
Crushes fragile youth.
Into a slave-mind fog,
Stupid, blind to truth.

A twisted, broken breed,
Emerges from this fray.
The herd turns dumb and blind —
To beasts that roam astray.

So easy to degrade,
With poverty and scorn,
No urge to seek the Source —
The Spirit dead, forlorn.

In the end, it kills
The last bright sparks of soul.
Reason rots away —
Humans no more, but lice, the whole.

They storm the “arena” —
That brutal ***** pit.
Pay dearly every time
To leave this lunatic.

The price is Spirit’s strain,
The last fierce fight to rise.
You’ll find your cleansing fire —
If you don’t shake or hide.

When you become as one
With yearning toward the Light,
You’ll never be a beast,
You’ll claim your answer’s right.

That answer burns within —
No gifts will come from them.
Soon all will forget
That only Spirit’s gem

Is worth the highest cost.
Ignite! Burn fierce and bright!
You’ll see then clear at last —
It’s not some “heaven’s” blight,

Nor dull oblivion’s sleep,
But Spirit’s fight to keep.

THE Roaring Tinker if you like,
But Mannion is my name,
And I beat up the common sort
And think it is no shame.
The common breeds the common,
A lout begets a lout,
So when I take on half a score
I knock their heads about.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
All Mannions come from Manannan,
Though rich on every shore
He never lay behind four walls
He had such character,
Nor ever made an iron red
Nor soldered *** or pan;
His roaring and his ranting
Best please a wandering man.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Could Crazy Jane put off old age
And ranting time renew,
Could that old god rise up again
We'd drink a can or two,
And out and lay our leadership
On country and on town,
Throw likely couples into bed
And knock the others down.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

II
My name is Henry Middleton,
I have a small demesne,
A small forgotten house that's set
On a storm-bitten green.
I scrub its floors and make my bed,
I cook and change my plate,
The post and garden-boy alone
Have keys to my old gate.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Though I have locked my gate on them,
I pity all the young,
I know what devil's trade they learn
From those they live among,
Their drink, their pitch-and-toss by day,
Their robbery by night;
The wisdom of the people's gone,
How can the young go straight?
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
When every Sunday afternoon
On the Green Lands I walk
And wear a coat in fashion.
Memories of the talk
Of henwives and of queer old men
Brace me and make me strong;
There's not a pilot on the perch
Knows I have lived so long.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

III
Come gather round me, players all:
Come praise Nineteen-Sixteen,
Those from the pit and gallery
Or from the painted scene
That fought in the Post Office
Or round the City Hall,
praise every man that came again,
Praise every man that fell.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Who was the first man shot that day?
The player Connolly,
Close to the City Hall he died;
Catriage and voice had he;
He lacked those years that go with skill,
But later might have been
A famous, a brilliant figure
Before the painted scene.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Some had no thought of victory
But had gone out to die
That Ireland's mind be greater,
Her heart mount up on high;
And yet who knows what's yet to come?
For patrick pearse had said
That in every generation
Must Ireland's blood be shed.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

Smoke
by Michael R. Burch

The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well;
farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell
rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say
if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ...
The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today;
she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ...
[We loved and life we left alone and deftly was it done;
we sang our song all summer long beneath the sultry sun.]

I wrote this early poem as a boy, age 14, after seeing an ad for the movie "Summer of ’42," which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. But it could have been a bit later, with me working from memory. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie …



Listen, Hermie
by Michael R. Burch

Listen, Hermie . . .
you can hear the strangled roar
of water inundating that lost shore . . .

and you can see how white she shone

that distant night, before
you blinked
and she was gone . . .

But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are
her lips the sweeter since you kissed them once:
her waist wasp-thin beneath your hands always,
her stockinged shoeless feet for that one dance
still whispering their rustling nylon trope
of―“Love me. Love me. Love me. Give me hope
that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.”

How white her prim brassiere, her waist-high briefs;
how lustrous her white slip. And as you danced―
how white her eyes, her skin, her eager teeth.
She reached, but not for *** . . . for more . . . for you . . .
You cannot quite explain, but what is true
is true despite our fumbling in the dark.

Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away
still make us what we are. If love exists,
we find it in ourselves, grown wan and gray,
within a weathered hand, a wrinkled cheek.

She cannot touch you now, but I would reach
across the years to touch that chord in you
which sang the pangs of love, and play it true.



Tell me, Hermie
by  Michael R. Burch

Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw
her white brassiere crash to the floor
as she stepped from her waist-high briefs
into your arms, and mutual griefs ―
did you feel such fathomless awe
as mystics in artists’ reliefs?

How is it that dark night remains
forever with us ― present still ―
despite her absence and the pains
of dreams relived without the thrill
of any ecstasy but this ―
one brief, eternal, transient kiss?

She was an angel; you helped us see
the beauty of love’s iniquity.

Keywords/Tags: young, love, summer, smoke, smoky, haze, fog, foggy, cloudy, sky, skies, heat, summer heat, ****** heat, smog, mist, sultry, Summer of '42, Jennifer O’Neill, Hermie, sky, skies, cloud, clouds, cloudy, farewell, goodbye, memory, memories, teen, teenage, teen love, boy, boyfriend, first love, World War II,
confusion, regret, recall, recollection, memory, remembrance



Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22

Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.

They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.

And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far . . .

on to the stars
so faint and far.



Analogy
by Michael R. Burch

Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.

I believe I wrote this early poem around age 18.



alien
by michael r. burch

there are mornings in england
when, riddled with light,
the Blueberries gleam at us—
plump, sweet and fragrant.

but i am so small ...
what do i know
of the ways of the Daffodils?
“beware of the Nettles!”

we go laughing and singing,
but somehow, i, ...
i know i am lost. i do not belong
to this Earth or its Songs.

and yet i am singing ...
the sun—so mild;
my cheeks are like roses;
my skin—so fair.

i spent a long time there
before i realized: They have no faces,
no bodies, no voices.
i was always alone.

and yet i keep singing:
the words will come
if only i hear.

I believe I wrote this early poem around age 19, then revised it nearly a half-century later. One of my earliest memories is picking blueberries amid the brambles surrounding the tiny English hamlet, Mattersey, where I and my mother lived with her parents while my American father was stationed in Thule, Greenland, where dependents were not allowed. Was that because of the weather or the nukes? In any case, England is free of dangerous animals, but one must be wary of the copious thorns and nettles.



Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 25

Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.

My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.

Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?

Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.

I wrote this early poem around age 25.




As the Flame Flowers
by Michael R. Burch

As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame,
arches leaves skyward, aching for rain,
but all it encounters are anguish and pain
as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem.

Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem
reaches through night, through the staggering pain,
for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain,
as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame.

Mesmerized by a wavering crescent-shaped gem
that glistens like water though drier than sand,
the flower extends itself, trembles, and then
dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind.

I believe I wrote the first version of this early poem in my late teens or early twenties, wasn’t happy with it, put it aside, then revised nearly 20 years later, in 1998, then again another 20 years later in 2020. The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions.



Ashes
by Michael R. Burch

A fire is dying;
ashes remain . . .
ashes and anguish,
ashes and pain.

A fire is fading
though once it burned bright . . .
ashes once embers
are ashes tonight.

I wrote this early poem either in my late teens or early twenties: I will guess somewhere around age 18-19, but no later than age 21 according to the dated copy I have. This is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” perhaps written the same day.



This is one of my early poems, written as a teenager in high school around age 18. The first version may have been a bit earlier than 1976, but I’m not sure about this one. I seem to remember submitting it to the World of Poetry, which I didn’t realize was a vanity press at the time. I think the poem may have been published, but it’s not worth the time to verify.

The Beautiful People
by Michael R. Burch

They are the beautiful people,
and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon
to the listless strains of an ancient tune.

Oh, no ... please don't touch them,
for their smiles might fade.
Don’t go ... don’t approach them
as they promenade,
for they waltz through a vacuum
and dream they're not made
of the dust and the dankness
to which men degrade.

They are the beautiful people,
and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs
as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes.

Winds do not blow there
and storms do not rise,
and each hair has its place
and each gown has its price.
And they whirl through the darkness
untouched by our cares
as we watch them and long for
a "life" such as theirs.



Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17

On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.

She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.

Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.

"Rag Doll" is an early poem written around age 17.



EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART I
These are early poems of mine, written in high school and college…
Liquid Assets
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
And so I have loved you, and so I have lost,
accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost,
debited wisdom, credited pain …
My assets remaining are liquid again.
I wrote this poem in college after my younger sister decided to major in accounting. In fact, the poem was originally titled “Accounting.” At another point I titled it “Liquidity Crisis.”
absinthe sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe
the bitter green liqueur
reflects the dying sunset over the sea
and the darkling liquid froths
up over the rim of my cup
to splash into the free,
churning waters of the sea
i do not drink
i do not drink the liqueur,
for I sail on an absinthe sea
that stretches out unendingly
into the gathering night
its waters are no less green
and no less bitter,
nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light
they both harbor night,
and neither shall shelter me
neither shall shelter me
from the anger of the wind
or the cruelty of the sun
for I sail in the goblet of some Great God
who gazes out over a greater sea,
and when my life is done,
perhaps it will be because
He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea.
I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what absinthe looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read somewhere.
Am I
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?
Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a feeble flame,
to flicker, then to die?
Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?
Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?
Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo—
soon to fade away?
“Am I” is one of my very early poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” the poem below. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems.
Time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.
Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.
Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.
Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?
"Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school sophomore project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it.
Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.
They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.
And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far . . .
on to the stars
so faint and far.
Ambition
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Men speak of their “ambition”
and I smile to hear them say
that within them burns such fire,
such a longing to be great ...
But I laugh at their “Ambition”
as their wistfulness amasses;
I seek Her tongue’s indulgence
and Her parted legs’ crevasses.
I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager. I wrote "Ambition" around age 18 or 19.
as Time walked by
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
yesterday i dreamed of us again,
when
the air, like honey,
trickled through cushioning grasses,
softly flowing, pouring itself upon the masses
of dreaming flowers ...
then the sly, impish Hours
were tentative, coy and shy
while the sky
swirled all its colors together,
giving pleasure to the appreciative eye
as Time walked by.
sunbright, your smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede our way;
until It did,
It did.
for soon the summer hid
her sunny smile ...
the honeyed breaths of wind
became cold,
biting to the bone
as Time sped on,
fled from us
to be gone
Forevermore.
this morning i awakened to the thought
that you were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered—you were gone,
that u’d been toppled long ago
like an orchid felled by snow
as the bloom called “us” sank slowly down to die
and Time roared by.
Gentry
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
The men shined their shoes
and the ladies chose their clothes;
the rifle stocks were varnished
till they were untarnished
by a speck of dust.
The men trimmed their beards;
the ladies rouged their lips;
the horses were groomed
until the time loomed
for them to ride.
The men mounted their horses,
the ladies did the same;
then in search of game they went,
a pleasant time they spent,
and killed the fox.
"Gentry” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting or fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures.
Of You
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
There is little to write of in my life,
and little to write off, as so many do ...
so I will write of you.
You are the sunshine after the rain,
the rainbow in between;
you are the joy that follows fierce pain;
you are the best that I've seen
in my life.
You are the peace that follows long strife;
you are tranquility.
You are an oasis in a dry land
and
you are the one for me!
You are my love; you are my life; you are my all in all.
Your hand is the hand that holds me aloft ...
without you I would fall.
This was the first poem of mine that appeared in my high school journal, the* Lantern, and thus it was my first poem to appear on a printed page. A fond memory, indeed.
The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.
There was an instant . . .
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
—feverish, wet—
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .
when the rest of the world became distant.
Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.
I wrote this poem around age 18.
Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch
“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke
Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.
I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, *******, ******.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.
What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?
“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,
cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,
my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:
all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.
This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. The next poem, "*** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year.
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling—
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973.
Bound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
This poem appeared in my high school journal, the *Lantern, in 1976. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?"
Paradise
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
There’s a sparkling stream
And clear blue lake
A home to ******,
Duck and drake
Where the waters flow
And the winds are soft
And the sky is full
Of birds aloft
Where the long grass waves
In the gentle breeze
And the setting sun
Is a pure cerise
Where the gentle deer
Though timid and shy
Are not afraid
As we pass them by
Where the morning dew
Sparkles in the grass
And the lake’s as clear
As a looking glass
Where the trees grow straight
And tall and green
Where the air is pure
And fresh and clean
Where the bluebird trills
Her merry song
As robins and skylarks
Sing along
A place where nature
Is at her best
A place of solitude
Of quiet and rest
This is one of my very earliest poems, written as a song. It was “published” in a high school assignment poetry notebook.
All My Children
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-16
It is May now, gentle May,
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the blousy flowers
of this backyard cemet'ry,
upon my children as they sleep.
Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,
with a mound of earth for a pillow;
his face as hard as his monument,
but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.
And there is Meg beside the spring
that sings her endless sleep.
Though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.
And there is Frankie, little Frankie,
tucked in safe at last,
a child who weakened and died too soon,
but whose heart was always steadfast.
And there is Mary by the bushes
where she hid so well,
her face as dark as their berries,
yet her eyes far darker still.
And Andy ... there is Andy,
sleeping in the clover,
a child who never saw the sun
so soon his life was over.
And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly ...
the prettiest of all ...
now she's put aside her dreams
of lovers dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.
It is May now, merry May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon these ardent gardens,
on the graves of all my children ...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.
This is a poem I had forgotten for nearly 50 years until another poet, Robert Lavett Smith, mentioned the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth. As I read Wordsworth's poem about a little girl who refused to admit that some of her siblings were missing, I remembered a poem I had written as a teenager about a mother who clung as tenaciously to the memory of her children. The line "It is May now, gentle May" popped into my head and helped me locate the poem in my archives. I believe I wrote this poem about the same time as "Jessamyn's Song," which would place it around 1972-1974 at age 14-16, or thereabouts. I can tell it's one of my early poems because I was still allowing myself archaisms like "cemet'ry" which I would have avoided in my late teens and twenties. It feels a bit older than "Jessamyn's Song" so I will guess 1972. It is admittedly a sentimental poem, but then human beings are sentimental creatures.
Dance With Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Dance with me
to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies.
Enchantingly,
each highstrung string,
each yearning key,
each a thread within the threnody,
whispers "Waltz!"
then sets us free
to wander, dancing aimlessly.
Let us kiss
beneath the stars
as we slowly meet ...
we'll part
laughing gaily as we go
to measure love’s arpeggios.
Yes, dance with me,
enticingly;
press your lips to mine,
then flee.
The night is young,
the stars are wild;
embrace me now,
my sweet, beguiled,
and dance with me.
The curtains are drawn,
the stage is set
—patterned all in grey and jet—
where couples in such darkness met
—careless airy silhouettes—
to try love's timeless pirouettes.
They, too, spun across the lawn
to die in shadowy dark verdant.
But dance with me.
Sweet Merrilee,
don't cry, I see
the ironies of all the years
within the moonlight on your tears,
and every ****** has her fears ...
So laugh with me
unheedingly;
love's gaiety is not for those
who fail to heed the music's flow,
but it is ours.
Now fade away
like summer rain,
then pirouette ...
the dance of stars
that waltz among night's meteors
must be the dance we dance tonight.
Then come again—
like winter wind.
Your slender body as you sway
belies the ripeness of your age,
for a woman's body burns tonight
beneath your gown of ****** white—
a woman's ******* now rise and fall
in answer to an ancient call,
and a woman's hips—soft, yet full—
now gently at your garments pull.
So dance with me,
sweet Merrilee ...
the music bids us,
"Waltz!"
Don't flee;
let us kiss
beneath the stars.
Love's passing pains will leave no scars
as we whirl beneath false moons
and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ...
Oh, Merrilee,
the curtains are drawn,
the stage is set,
we, too, are stars beyond night's depths.
So dance with me.
I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college, after meeting George King, who taught the creative writing classes there. I would have been 18 when I started the poem, but it didn’t always cooperate and I seem to remember working on it the following year as well.
Dance With Me (II)
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
While the music plays
remembrance strays
toward a grander time . . .
Let's dance.
Shadows rising, mute and grey,
obscure those fervent yesterdays
of youth and gay romance,
but time is slipping by, and now
those days just don't seem real, somehow . . .
Why don't we dance?
This music is a memory,
for it's of another time . . .
a slower, stranger time.
We danced—remember how we danced?—
uncaring, merry, wild and free.
Remember how you danced with me?
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast,
your ******* hard against my chest,
we danced
and danced
and danced.
We cannot dance that way again,
for the years have borne away the flame
and left us only ashes,
but think of all those dances,
and dance with me.
I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the same lovers many years later.
Impotent
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-21
Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.
I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.
I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.
I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course . . .
Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.
I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?
I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,
but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.
My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.
Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled,
for grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
dance before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
And you are music echoing through dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing embers die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why . . .
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.
And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.
By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt
petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.
By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,
and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,
so we sang it together as we walked along
—unsure of the words, but sure of our love—
as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977.
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days’
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset’s scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no man has sailed
— great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls —
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing . . .
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray . . .
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard.
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea —
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs that I used to climb
when the wind was **** with a taste of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner’s dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright.
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-aged wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow’s desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam . . .
and every wish was a moan.
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then . . . what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach . . .
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds.
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over different lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that rush into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams . . .
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
“Sea Dreams” was one of my more ambitious early poems. The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time, age 18. I remember showing this poem to a fellow student and he asked how on earth I came up with a poem about being a father who abandoned his son to live on an island! I think the meter is pretty good for the age at which it was written.
Son
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
An island is bathed in blues and greens
as a weary sun settles to rest,
and the memories singing
through the back of my mind
lull me to sleep as the tide flows in.
Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed,
my heart and my home will be till I die,
but where you are is where my thoughts go
when the tide is high.
[etc., in the handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son]
So there where the skylarks sing to the sun
as the rain sprinkles lightly around,
understand if you can
the mind of a man
whose conscience so long ago drowned.
The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to *****.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.
She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.
Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.
Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?
This is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern.
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
Earthbound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.

Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.
Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.
I believe I wrote “Earthbound” as a college sophomore, age 19 or 20.
Huntress
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
after Baudelaire
Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep
across a crevice dropping deep
into a dark and doomed domain.
Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane.
Rain falls upon your path, and pain
pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause
and heed the oft-lamented laws
which bid you not begin again
till night returns. You wail like wind,
the sighing of a soul for sin,
and give up hunting for a heart.
Till sunset falls again, depart,
though hate and hunger urge you—"On!"
Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn.
Flying
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
i shall rise
and try the ****** wings of thought
ten thousand times
before i fly ...
and then i'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before i dream;
but when at last ...
i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as i laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ...
if i'm not told
i’m just a man,
then i shall know
just what I am.
This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written around age 16-17. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original.
Love Unfolded Like a Flower
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
for Christy
Love unfolded
like a flower;
Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky.
I came to know you
and to trust you
in moments lost to springtime slipping by.
Then love burst outward,
leaping skyward,
and untamed blossoms danced against the wind.
All I wanted
was to hold you;
though passion tempted once, we never sinned.
Now love's gay petals
fade and wither,
and winter beckons, whispering a lie.
We were friends,
but friendships end …
yes, friendships end and even roses die.
Cameo
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes.
Here, where times flies
in the absence of light,
all ecstasies are intimations of night.
Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast;
promise what cannot be given.
Show me the stairway to heaven.
Jacob's-ladder grows all around us;
Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx.
So breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonic eyes …
and, if in the morning I am not wise,
at least then I'll know if this dream we call life
was worth the surmise.
Published by Borderless Journal *(Singapore)
Analogy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.
Published by *Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Flight
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow …
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I'm unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sun-splashed sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.
Robin, hawk or whippoorwill …
Should men care that you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.
Sparrow, lark or chickadee …
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.
Freedom
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
Freedom is not so much an idea as a feeling
of open roads,
of the hobo's call,
of autumn leaves in brisk breeze reeling
before a demon violently stealing
all vestiges of the beauty of fall,
preparing to burden bare tree limbs with the heaviness of her icy loads.
And freedom is not so much a letting go as a seizing
of forbidden pleasure,
of ***** sport,
of all that is delightful and pleasing,
each taken totally within its season
and exploited to the fullness of its worth
though it last but a moment and repeat itself never.
Oh, freedom is not so much irresponsibility as a desire
to accept all the credit and all the blame
for one's deeds,
to achieve success or failure on one's own, to require
either or both as a consequence of an inner fire,
not to shirk one's duty, but to see
one's duty become himself—himself to tame.
Childhood's End
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22
How well I remember
those fiery Septembers:
dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame,
lay trampled before me
and fluttered, imploring
the bright, dancing rain to descend once again.
Now often I've thought on
the meaning of autumn,
how the rainbows' enchantments defeated dark clouds
while robins repeated
ancient songs sagely heeded
so wisely when winters before they'd flown south.
And still, in remembrance,
I've conjured a semblance
of childhood and how the world seemed to me then;
but early this morning,
when, rising and yawning,
I found a gray hair … it was all beyond my ken.
Easter, in Jerusalem
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
The streets are hushed from fervent song,
for strange lights fill the sky tonight.
A slow mist creeps
up and down the streets
and a star has vanished that once burned bright.
Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem,
who tends your flocks tonight?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
a Shepherd calls
through the markets and the cattle stalls,
but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight.
Golgotha shudders uneasily,
then wearily settles to sleep again,
and I wonder how they dream
who beat him till he screamed,
"Father, forgive them!"
Ah Nazareth, Nazareth,
now sunken deep into dark sleep,
do you heed His plea
as demons flee,
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep."
The temple trembles violently,
a veil lies ripped in two,
and a good man lies
on a mountainside
whose heart was shattered too.
Galilee, oh Galilee,
do your waters pulse and froth?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
the waters creep
to form a starlit cross.
“Easter, in Jerusalem” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Gone
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
Tonight, it is dark
and the stars do not shine.
A man who is gone
was a good friend of mine.
We were friends.
And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold
when I awoke to find him gone ...
"Gone" is actually gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to recreate from memory. At some point between age 14 and 15, I destroyed all the poems I had written, out of frustration. I was able to recreate some of the poems from memory, but not all.
Canticle: an Aubade
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day;
dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away.
Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun;
the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung.
Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves;
and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees,
there goes a brace of bees.
Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel,
the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields.
Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play,
a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race.
And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup,
drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut.
And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air,
a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there …
it looks like summer.
I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport's class at Maplewood High School. It's not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner.
Eternity beckons . . .
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Eternity beckons . . .
the wine becomes fire in my veins.
You are a petal,
unfolding,
cajoling.
I am your sun.
I will shine with the fierceness of my desire;
touched, you will burst into flame.
I will shine and again shine and again shine.
I will shine. I will shine.
You will burn and again burn and again burn.
You will burn. You will burn.
We will extinguish ourselves in our ecstasy;
We will sigh like the wind.
We will ebb into darkness, our love become ashes . . .
never speaking of sin.
Never speaking of sin.
Every Man Has a Dream
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 23
lines composed at Elliston Square
Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ...
a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain,
of a breeze in the evening that, rising again,
reminds him of something that cannot have been,
and he calls this dream love.
And each man has a dream that he fears to let live,
for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all.
So he curses, denies it and locks it within
the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin,
this madness, this love.
But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams,
and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls,
and he finds in the end that he cannot deny
the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries
in the darkness of night for this light he calls love.
Every time I think of leaving …
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Every time I think of leaving …
I see my mother's eyes
staring at me in despair,
and I feel the old scar
throbbing again.
And I think of the father
that I never knew;
I remember how,
as a child,
I could never understand
not having a father.
And when the tears start falling,
running slowly down my cheeks,
I think of our two sons
and all their many dreams—
dreams no better than dust
the day that I leave.
And when my hands start shaking,
when my eyes will not adjust,
when I know there's no tomorrow
for the two of us,
then I think of our young daughter
who prays, eyes tightly shut,
not to lose her mother or father …
and I know that I can't leave.
Every time I think of going,
I close my eyes and see
the days we spent together
when love was all we dreamed,
and I wish that I could find
(how I wish that I could find!)
a reason to believe.
Go down to the ***-down
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Go down
to the ***-down.
Pause in the pungent,
moonless night,
watching the partners as they dance;
go down . . .
don’t you know . . .
it's your only chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Go down
to the ***-down,
and whirl as you dance
through a dream of wine,
through a world once your world,
through a world without time,
through a world rich and rhythmic,
through a world full of rhyme.
O, go down
to the ***-down.
Go down.
As they slow down,
the couples will whirl
to a reel of romance,
for the music has called them,
and so they must dance.
Go down, don't you know
that this is your chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening . . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Belfast's Streets, circa age 14-20
by Michael R. Burch
Belfast's streets are strangely silent,
deserted for a while,
and only shadows wander
her alleys, slick and vile
with children's darkening blood.
Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones
clack in misery
beneath my booted feet,
longing to be free
from their legacy of blood,
and yet there's no relief,
for it seems that there's no God.
Her sirens scream and her PAs plead
and her shops and churches sob,
but the city throbs
—her heart the mobs
that are also her disease—
and still there's no relief,
for it seems there is no God.
I listen to a radio
and men who seem to feel
that only "right" is real.
"We can't give in
to men like them,
for we have an ideal
and God is on our side!"
one angrily replies,
but the sidewalks seem to chide,
clicking like snapped teeth.
And if God is on our side,
then where is God's relief?
And if there is a God,
then why is there no love
and why is there no peace?
"Sweet innocence! this land was wild
and better wild again
than torn apart beneath the feet
of ‘educated' men!"
The other screams in rage and hate,
and a war's begun that will not end
till the show goes off at ten.
Now a little girl is singing,
walking t'ward me 'cross the street,
her voice so high and sweet
it hangs upon the air,
and her eyes are Irish eyes,
and her hair is Irish hair,
all red and wild and fair,
and she wears a Catholic cross,
but she doesn't really care.
She's singing to a puppy
and hugging him between
the verses of her hymn.
Now here's a little love
and here's a little peace,
and maybe here's our Maker,
present though unseen,
on Belfast's dreary streets.
This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms.
Hills
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
For many years I have fought
the rocks and the sand and the weeds,
the frost and the floods and the trees
of these hills
to build myself a home.
Now it seems I will fight no longer,
but it’s a hard thing
for an old warrior to give up.
Here in these hills let them lay down my bones
where the sun settles wearily to rest,
and let my spirit dream in its endless sleep
that someday it also shall rise
to kiss the morning clouds.
This wall of stone that I built
of rock hewn by my own hands
shall not stand long
through the passage of time,
and when it lies in cakes of dust
and its particles kiss my bones,
then the battle that these hills and I fought
will finally have been won.
But mother Gaia will not shun
her wayward son for long;
she will take me and cradle me in her mud,
cover me with a blanket of snow,
then sing me to sleep with a nightingale’s song.
Now the night grows cold within me;
no more summers shall I see …
but, nevertheless, when June comes,
my spirit shall wander the paths through the trees
that lead to these hills,
these ******, lovely hills,
and then I shall be free.
All the young sailors
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
All the young sailors
follow the sea,
leaving their lovers
to live and be free,
to brave violent tempests,
to ride out wild storms,
to dream of new lovers
seductive and warm,
to drink until sunset
then stretch out at dawn
in the dew of emotions
they don't understand,
to follow the sunlight,
to flee from the rain,
to live out their longings
though often in pain,
to dream of the children
they never shall see
while bucking the waves
of an unending sea
till, racked by harsh coughing,
his lungs almost gone,
straining to catch one last glimpse of the sun,
the last of the sailors finally succumbs,
for all the young sailors
die young.
Hush, my darling
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Hush, my darling; all your tears
will never bring again
that which Time has taken.
And though you’re so ****** lovely
that a god might wish to make you his,
Time cares not for loveliness;
he takes what he will take.
Sleep now darling, don’t awaken
till the dream is over.
Dream of fields of clover
dancing in an autumn wind.
Lie down at my side
and let sleep's soothing tide
carry you into an ocean deep.
Be silent, world; let her sleep.
Do not disturb a child
upon her journey mild
into the realm of dreams.
Sleep, carry her to that sweet state
where little girls need not know Fate
dashes the dreams of men.
Amora’s Complaint
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Will you walk with me tonight?
for the moon hangs low and travelers seldom
disturb the silence of this ghostly kingdom.
We shall not be seen
if we linger by this stream
that shimmers in the starlight.
Will you talk to me awhile?
For sounds don’t carry very far;
the interminable silence is barely marred
by the labored breathing
of the "giant" who lies sleeping
in caverns fetid and vile,
and I crave your immaculate smile.
So close to death, the final sleep,
he hastens as he lies.
Silence louder than his sighs
drifts on the languid air
toward his musty lair,
and all life that it finds, it keeps.
And though he sleeps,
in dreams content,
he mistakes bile for dew,
for he knows not what is true.
His eyes are worse than blind men's eyes,
for the images they “see” disguise
how swift and sure is death's descent.
His ears hear songs that are not sung;
his nostrils scent a faint perfume
permeating midnight's gloom,
when all the while his rotting flesh
heralds worms to view his death.
He festers, having long been stung.
O, once he was as you are now—
full of passion, wild and free,
majestic, formed most perfectly.
But tonight, hideously deformed,
he himself becomes a worm;
though he doesn't see that he's changed, somehow.
Why, he still calls me his “dearest friend,”
although I cannot bear to near
that stinking, dying sufferer!
He asks me why I stray so far
from the "comfort" of his arms . . .
Tonight, I said, "This is the end."
O, he swore to not let me depart,
but when he couldn't even rise
to chase me as I leapt the skies,
I think he almost understood.
He frowned. His skin, like rotting wood,
seemed to come apart. He almost touched my heart.
But such a vile and leprous being
I cannot have to be my love.
So while the stars shine high above
and you and I are here alone,
help me undress; unzip my gown.
Come, sate my Desire this perfect evening.
Blue Cowboy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.
He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the scorpions
would leap to feast upon your heart.
Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.
Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.
Cowpoke
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
Sleep, old man...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.
You cannot know
just how the Change
will **** the windswept plains
that you so loved...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now...
before you see just how
the Change will come.
Sleep, old man...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sands
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.
I believe “Cowpoke” was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day.
If Not For Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
The little child who cries,
brushing sleep from startled eyes,
might not have awakened from her dreams
to fill the night with plaintive screams
if not for love.
The little collie pup
who tore the sofa up
and pleads here in a mournful crouch,
might not have ripped apart the couch
if not for love.
And the little flower ***
that broke and littered the rug with sod
might not have been dropped if a child had not tried
to place it at her mother's bedside—
if not for love.
Ecstasy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
A soft breeze stirs the sun-drenched grass
that parts, reforms, and then is still.
Sunshine, cascading from above,
sipped by the flowers to their fill,
then bursts out in the rosy reds,
the violet blues and buttercup yellows,
bolder, more eager, given fresh birth,
somehow transformed within frail petals
into an ecstasy of colors
broadcast across the receptive land,
which now wears a cloak like Joseph’s,
nature’s brand.



EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART III


Sarjann
by Michael R. Burch

What did I ever do
to make you hate me so?
I was only nine years old,
lonely and afraid,
a small stranger in a large land.
Why did you abuse me
and taunt me?
Even now, so many years later,
the question still haunts me:
what did I ever do?
Why did you despise me and reject me,
pushing and shoving me around
when there was no one to protect me?
Why did you draw a line
in the bone-dry autumn dust,
daring me to cross it?
Did you want to see me cry?
Well, if you did, you did.

… oh, leave me alone,
for the sky opens wide
in a land of no rain,
and who are you
to bring me such pain? …

This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around age 16-17, but could have been started earlier.

Shadows
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge … then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves we spill,
tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men …
when we were men, or almost so.
“Shadows” appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.
They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.
And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far …
on to the stars
so faint and far.
I believe this poem was written in my early twenties, around 1980, then revised and filed in 1982.
Snapdragons: A Pleasant Fable with a Very Happy Ending
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
We threaded snapdragons
through her dark hair
and drank berry wine
straight from the vine.
We were too young
for love (or strong drink)
but her lips were warm
and her eyes so charmed,
that I robbed a Brinks
and bought her minks.
The Road Always Taken
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
We have come to the time of the parting of ways;
now love, we must linger no longer, amazed
at the fleetness with which we have squandered our days.
We have come to the time of the closing of scrolls;
beyond us, indecipherable Eternity rolls …
and I fear for our souls.
We have come to the point of no fork, no return;
above us, a few cooling stars dimly burn …
And yet I still yearn.
Tonight how I miss you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Tonight how I miss you, as never before,
though morning is only a moment away.
Oh, I know I should sleep, but I lie here, distraught,
as you flit through my mind—such a wild, haunting thought.
And love is a dream that I lately imagined—
a dream, yet so real I can touch it at times.
But how to explain? I can hardly envision
myself without you, like a farce without mimes.
Deep, deep in my soul lurks a creature of fire,
dormant, not living unless you are near;
now, because you are gone, he grows dim, and in dire
need of your presence, he wavers, I fear …
How he and I wish, how we wish you were here.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane;
on a green ***** of moss she nestled my head
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ecstatic sighs …
But the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears!
Years I abided the eclectic assaults of her flesh …
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a moment’s rest …
She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left its barb in a maelstrom of light.
Love’s last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
According to my notes, I wrote this poem at age 22 in 1980, must have forgotten about it, then revised it on January 31, 1999. But I wasn’t happy with the first stanza and revised the poem again on September 22, 2023, a mere 43 years after I wrote the original version!
Yesterday My Father Died
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
Rice Krispies and bananas,
milk and orange juice,
newspapers stiff with frozen dew …
Yesterday my father died
and the feelings that I tried to hide
he'll never know, unless
he saw through my disguise.
Alarm clocks and radios,
crumpled sheets and pillows,
housecoats and tattered, too-small slippers …
Why did I never say I cared?
Why were few secrets ever shared?
For now there's nothing left of him
except the clothes he used to wear.
Dimmed lights and smoky murmurs,
a brief "Goodnight!" and fitful slumber,
yesterday's forgotten dreams …
Why did my father have to go,
knowing that I loved him so?
Or did he know? Because, it seems,
I never told him so.
The last words he spoke to me,
his laughter in the night,
mementos jammed in cluttered cabinets …
What is this "love?"
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
What is this "love" that drives men to such lengths
as to betray their hearts and turn away
from all resolve that once had granted strength
and courage to them in life's harshest days?
What is this "love" that causes men to shun
the friends and family they once held so dear?
What causes them to spurn the brilliant sun,
to seek some gloomy cloister’s bitter tears?
What is this "love" that urges men to yield
their hearts' most cherished hopes and will’s restraint?
What causes them to throw down reason’s shields,
to spill their blood, till sense at last grows faint?
This is the weakness in us, one and all—
the love of love, the will to kneel, the hope, perhaps, to fall.
“What is this ‘love’" was one of my earliest sonnets.
You'll never know
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
You'll never know
just how I need you,
though you ought to know
after all this time;
you'll never see
how much I want you,
though your touch can tempt
these words to rhyme.
For storm clouds grow
till stars flee, hidden;
bright lightning rails
against mankind;
wild waves reach out
toward scorched comets;
but you do not see.
You must be blind.
Sundown
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Sunset’s shadows touch your eyes
She’d rather have the truth than lies.
wherein I find no alibis.
And that seems strange … I wonder why.
Now you and I have come this far,
She seems so lovely and so calm.
but further off, no guiding star.
And yet I know that she is scarred.
But without stars how can we see
What’s best for her is best for me.
ourselves, or where our paths fork free?
And yet I loved her so sincerely!
I think that we should end it here
How can love end without a tear?
and I can see that you agree.
What’s best for her is best for me.
Sunrise
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
I ran toward a meadow
that shimmered, all ablaze,
and laughed to feel the buttercups
my skin so softly graze.
My soul was full of passion,
my eyes were full of light,
as sunrise crept
into the depths
of heart that had harbored only night.
I leapt to catch a butterfly,
then let it go again,
and its glorious flight
into the light
caused me to clutch my pen
and dash back to my darkling room
to let the sunrise in,
but not through open shutters,–
through poems and psalms and hymns.
Here “darkling” is a rare word that appears in more than one masterpiece of poetry.
Spring dream time
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
There are no dreams of springtime tomorrow
left to my heart now that winter has come,
nor passion to shine like a sun in ascendance
to fierce incandescence; my spirit is numb.
How shall I write when the words hold no meaning?
How shall I feel, when all feeling is gone?
How shall I seek what has never had presence
or gather an essence I never have known?
How to recapture what I once believed in,
lost to strange seasons of riotous sun?
How to rekindle the heart's effervescence,
the spirit's resplendence, when springtime has flown?
How will I write what has never been written?
How can this ink leap from pen into poem?
How can I believe what I know has no feasance,
reducing the distance from fancied to known?
Are there no others who dream not to lessen,
not to wilt before winter, not to weaken—not some
who **** to hellfire this winter of demons,
imagining seasons of springtime to come?
Tell me what i am
by michael r. burch, circa age 14-16
Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.
Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...
drive away this darkness from within.
For my heart is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;
and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.
Now it is night;
please drive away this darkness from without,
for i doubt that i will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.
This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. I believe I wrote it around age 14 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?" It remains unpublished and unsubmitted outside the Lantern.
You didn't have time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
You didn't have time to love me,
always hurrying here and hurrying there;
you didn't have time to love me,
and you didn't have time to care.
You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:
too busy for love, "too old" to be young …
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time to take time
and you didn't have time to try.
Every time I asked you why, you said,
"Because, my love; that's why." And then
you didn't have time at all, my love.
You didn't have time at all.
You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun
that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You have become the morning light
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
You have become the morning light
that floods from heaven, fair upon
the dewed expanses of each lawn …
I lift my face, for you are dawn.
And in the warmth that, fanned to flame,
I feel against my naked flesh,
I find the fierceness of desire—
the passions of each wild caress.
Now how I long to make you mine
in such a moment, as your *******
burn like fire in my hands,
forming flame from drunkenness.
And if in ardor for the sun
or for your touch or for the wine,
my lips should crush yours in a kiss
so harsh and heated, tears combine
with sweat and anguish till beads form—
salt beads of passion on your brow,
then lover, we will burn with dawn,
for in your eyes the sun shines now.
When I was in my heyday
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
When I was in my heyday,
I howled to see the moon;
the wail of a wolf,
shrill, rising … then gruff
echoed through night, such an impassioned tune!
When I was in my heyday,
hearts fluttered at my feet;
I gathered them in
like blossoms the wind
had slaughtered and flung, but their fragrance was sweet.
When I was in my heyday,
I cursed the cage of stars
that blocked me from rising
above them and flying
in rapture, uncaptured, beyond their bright bars.
When I was in my heyday,
my dreams were a dazzling mist
that baffled my vision
and hid farthest heaven,
but what did I care? I clenched fire in my fist!
The Latter Days: an Update
by Michael R. Burch, age 22
1.
Little Richard grew up. Now
the world is not the same, somehow.
And Elvis Presley passed away—
an idol but with feet of clay.
The Beatles left have shorn their locks;
John Lennon died and Heaven rocks,
though Yoko Ono still remains.
(The earth is full of passing pains.)
2.
The wall is being built, we hear,
although the reason’s far from clear.
But there’s one thing we know for sure:
there’s never money for the poor.
There are, however, trillions for
the one percent, and waging war.
’Cause Tweety has an “awesome” plan:
kiss Putin’s *** and nuke Iran!
3.
The Hebrew prophets long ago
warned of a Trump of Doom, and so
we wonder if this “little horn”
may be the Beast who earned their scorn.
But surely not! Trump claims to be
our Savior, true Divinity!
So please relax, admire his rod,
and trust this Orange Demigod!
I wrote the first stanza at age 22 in 1980, then updated the rest of the poem after Trump became president in 2016.
The Swing
by Michael R. Burch (http://www.thehypertexts.com/MichaelRBurchPoetPoetryPictureBio.htm), circa age 18
There was a Swing
tied to a tall elm
that reached out over the river.
There, I used to send you flying
out into the autumn air
till you began to shiver,
then I’d gather you in again,
hugging you to keep you warm.
How I loved the scent of your hair
and the flush of your cheeks!
I’d dream of you for weeks
when you were at Vassar and I was at Mayer.
Then, come the summer,
how I loved to see your knee-length skirt
billowing about you,
revealing your legs,
aloed and darkly lovely,
and to feel your ample hips
—so soft, so full, so warm—
when I touched them,
“accidentally,” of course,
while swinging you.
You always knew,
I’m sure of that now.
And you never let me go too far.
But your kisses were warm.
Oh, I remember—your kisses were warm!

I’d often dream of ******* you,
and once, just once,
when I was helping you down from the Swing,
I touched your breast, and you paused.
Hurriedly, I unbuttoned your blouse as you stood
breathless, and with good cause,
after riding the Swing as wild as I swung you.
Your bra was Immaculate White,
your ******* warm and firm
beneath the thin material.
You said nothing until I flipped
your skirt up, then slipped
my fingers inside the waistband
of your matchless cotton *******
to feel your hips,
so full and so inviting,
and then your nether lips.
At which you said,
“That’s enough,” gently,
and it was.

Now I think of those days
and I wonder
why I ever let you go.
I remember one dark hour
when, standing in the snow,
you told me to take you
or to let you go.
I was a fool.
Proud, and a fool.
All you asked was for us to be married
after we finished school.
But I was a fool.

But I always loved you—
my wild risk taker!
My sweet gentle ******* of elms,
my lovely heartbreaker.

Now you’re a dancer,
and a fine one, I’m told.
I saw you, once, in men’s magazine.
You hair was still maple
with highlights of gold,
your eyes just as green.
But somehow you didn’t quite seem
the wild sweet rambunctious angel of my dreams
who’d defy men’s eyes
and the edicts of heaven
simply to Swing.
Twelve-Thirty
by Michael R. Burh, circa age 19
How cold the nights become so quickly;
now a small fire does little to quench
the winter's thirst for warmth.
Sometimes it seems that all my life
has been an endless winter:
the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded …
and time goes slowly when a man's strength
is not enough to meet his needs.
Tonight I feel an old man
creeping into my bones,
willing to die and sleep and never dream,
and I accept him,
not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease
until I die,
but because I am too weak and too weary
to wish it otherwise …
and a man is so very close to the edge
when he lacks the strength to wish.
Long ago, when I was young,
I would run and fall and cry
and not give up.
But now it is twelve-thirty,
the darkest hour of the night,
and I am at the darkest point
that I have ever known in life.
So even as the frigid winds
pass silently across the hills,
I feel my spirit sigh within
and steal into its cell.
No longer does it venture forth
to dare new feats and find its fate,
but it lies asleep throughout the night
and does not awake except to eat
a little more of my life away.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
I believe "My Grandfather's Hills" and "Twelve-Thirty" were written on the same day, or very close to each other.
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days'
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset's scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no vessel's sailed
— great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls —
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing …
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray …
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard…
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea —
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs I'd so often climb
when the wind was **** with the tang of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner's dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright!
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-seasoned wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow's desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam …
and every wish was a moan!
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then … what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach …
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds.
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over sprightlier lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that tumble into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams …
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
"Sea Dreams" is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of "Jessamyn's Song." To the best of my recollection, I wrote "Sea Dreams" around age 18, circa 1976-1977. For years I thought I had written "Sea Dreams" around age 19 or 20, circa 1978. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started around age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, "I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because …"
The snowman sleeps under the sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Beware while bright sunlight, in ardor,
caresses and kisses one arc of the earth,
for others are trapped in the dungeons of night—
crazed victims of an insane demon's mirth.
Beware while the children are playing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon they, too, will be paying
for the time they once thought free …
for an ice-capped mountain is swaying
and a snowman sleeps under the sea.
Beware, though life's moments are fleeting,
for, fleet though they may be,
a moment in Hades, I have heard,
can stretch into an eternity.
Beware of the clouds whitely lazing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon dark Night will be freed,
her black canopy raising.
Now an ice-caped summit is waving
and an iceman sleeps under the sea.
Beware the snowman, cold as death,
with winter terror on his breath;
if he should touch you, flee, my friend,
or into hell’s cold depths descend.
I believe “The snowman sleeps under the sea” was inspired by the title of the Eugene O’Neill play “The Iceman Cometh” and the biblical idea of hell as bleak, cold “outer darkness.”
there is peace where i am going
by michael r. burch, circa age 15
lines written after watching a TV documentary about Woodstock
there is peace where i am going,
for i hasten to a land
that has never known the motion
of one windborne grain of sand;
that has never felt a tidal wave
nor seen a thunderstorm;
a land whose endless seasons
in their sameness are one.
there i will lay my burdens down
and feel their weight no more,
untouched beneath the unstirred sands
of a neverchanging shore,
where Time lies motionless in pools
of lost experience
and those who sleep, sleep unaware
of the future, past and present
(and where Love itself lies dormant,
unmoved by a silver crescent).
and when i lie asleep there,
with Death's footprints at my feet,
not a thing shall touch me,
save bland sand, lain like a sheet
to wrap me for my rest there
and to bind me, lest i dream,
mere clay again,
of strange domains
where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams.
yes, there is peace where i am going,
for i am bound to be
embalmed within the chill embrace
of this dim, unchanging sea …
before too long; i sense it now,
and wait, expectantly,
to feel the listless touch
of Immortality.
This poem was written circa 1973, around age 15, after I watched a TV documentary about Woodstock. I think I probably owe the last two lines to Emily Dickinson. I believe "those who sleep the sleep of Death" was written around the same time and under the same influence.
those who sleep the sleep of Death
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
those who sleep the sleep of Death
sleep to wake no more …
they lie upon a brackish shore
where Time's tides lash the rugged rocks
with waves that whip like ragged locks
of long, unkempt white hair
against the storm-filled air,
but nothing can disturb them there.
those who dream the dream of Death
fail to see how Time
pulses through the slime
of earth’s dark fulsome loam,
rank, rotting flesh and filthy foam …
for, standing far off from the shore,
She readies to attack once more
those She had but killed before.
those whom Death awakens
awaken to a sleep
that is far more deep
than any they had known before;
for there upon that ravaged shore,
they do not see how Time now drives
to destroy the fragile lives
of those who still survive.
The Song of the Wanderers
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Through many miles of space we have flown;
no life but ours have we known.
No other race have we seen in the stars,
nor under any sun that has shone.
None in the shadows, none in the sun,
none in the rainbows that brighten dark skies,
none in the valleys, none in the hills,
none in the rapids that ripple and rise.
Our quest is near ending; the stars have been searched;
we alone wander this vast universe.
For every green planet, every blue sky
we have encountered is barren of life.
We are alone, unless below
a creature exists somewhere in the snow.
The planet beneath us lies shackled by night.
The stars deck its mountains in garments of light.
Close to us, its moon hovers ghostly in flight.
Somewhere below us, perhaps there is life.
Come, let us seek life, before we return
to that fair planet for which our hearts yearn.
Here snow descends as the wind whistles down
from dark frozen northlands where glaciers abound.
See, on the far shoreline, pale mists compound.
Notice, companions,
how the sun, like a fiery stallion,
rears upon the eastern rim
of a mountain range haggard, weathered and grim.
A pity, perhaps, that at last it grows dim.
But there's no life here, and so we must leave
this desolate planet alone to its grief.
No, wait just a moment! What can this be …
concealed by dense fog here, surrounded by sea,
some type of vessel, storm-tossed, to and fro?
Yes, I believe, I'm sure that it's so!
Here near this shoreline, half-buried in snow,
lies a wrecked vessel
dripping salt water and seaweed tresses.
Make haste; let us hurry,
the sea in its fury
is dashing it upon the rocks!
It may well be that at last
we will see some relic of another race's past.
What's this? It's no vessel, no ship of the seas.
It's fashioned of stone and could not use the breeze.
It has no engine, no portals, no helm,
and yet it resembles … some demon from hell.
It must be a statue, with horns on its head,
long, flowing hair and a torch in its hand.
Broken and shattered, cast off by the sea,
tonight it erodes in this frozen dark sand.
No, come, let us leave, it was fashioned by wind,
molded by water and wasted therein.
Come, let us leave it, to hasten back home;
too long have we wandered, thus, lost and alone.
The Liberty calls us; we cannot delay.
Let us return now, and be underway.
Through many miles of space we have flown.
No other life have we known.
And now that we know that we are alone,
we search for our ancient home.
Somewhere ahead she awaits our return,
decked in bright garments of green;
for eons of time we have not seen her face,
and yet she has haunted our dreams.
Somewhere ahead lies the planet we left
when we set out the depths of deep space to explore,
and now how we long to dash through her streams
and sleep on her bright, sandy shores.
The last cold, dark planet lies dying behind us;
no others are left to be searched.
The Liberty soon her last descent shall make
when we relocate Mother Earth!
The spinster waltz
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
The spinster waltz is playing
in sad strains from other rooms,
but here, where love beams, reigning,
wedding bells greet brides and grooms.
O, the bachelors are a-waltzing,
but the married do not mind,
for they whirl with one another
to a far more hectic time.
And as they feel the music
seek to slow their breakneck thoughts,
they murmur of the things they've gained,
regretting what they've lost.
The offering
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Tonight, if you will taste the tempting wine
and come to sit beside me, I will say
the words that you have thought that you might hear,
the words that I have feared that I might say.
And if you sit beside me with the goblet in your hand
and offer me a sip to give me strength,
then I will match your offer with an offer of my own,
and, offering, so offer back that strength.
And if I say, "I love you," don't laugh as though I jest,
for a jester I am not, as you can see.
And if I offer anything, I'll offer you myself —
the man I am and not the man you see.
For though you see successes and a man of many dreams,
I see a pauper throwing dreams away;
yes, once I dreamt of many things, but then I saw your face, and since
I dream no more, and dreams can fade away.
So if I offer you this ring of burnished gold that burns and sings,
please take it for the thought and not the gold.
And if I offer you my life, please understand, my love, don't sigh
and tell me that you do not care for gold.
I'm offering my love, my life, my joys, my cares, my fears, my nights,
the dreams that I have dreamt and dream no more,
I'm offering my soul, not gold … I'm offering my thoughts, my hopes …
I'm offering myself and nothing more.
And if this offer seems enough; if you can be content with love
and cherish one who loves you as I do,
then promise that I'll be your dreams, your hopes, your joys, your cares, all things
that you could ever want or want to do.
But if you cannot promise so, then let us say goodbye and go;
I cannot love you less than I do now,
but I would rather bear this pain and never, ever love again
than burn in hope and fear as I do now.
There Must Be Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
O, take me to
earth’s tallest mountain
and hurl me out
into the dark;
though I may fall
ten thousand miles,
still I’ll not say
this life is all.
I’ll shout, There’s more!
There must be more!
There must be Love.

Then take me to
faith’s highest fancy
and show me all
there is to see;
though all the world
bow prone before me,
still I’ll not say
this world is all.
I’ll pray, There’s more.
There must be more.
There must be Love.
Then lay me down
beside dark waters
where dying trees
shed lifeless leaves,
and though I shiver
with the knowledge
of my death,
I shall not grieve.
And when you say,
There must be more …
then I shall say,
There is … believe!
I’ll take your hand,
and we’ll believe.
This is how I love you
Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Just to hold you as you sleep with your head against my shoulder,
just to kiss your sweet lips and to know that you are mine,
fills my heart with a sense of perfect completeness
of a light and airy sweetness,
like the scent of chilled white wine.
For the love with which I love you is a pure and sacred thing,
like the first touch of morning, when she bends to kiss her flowers;
for then the dancing daisies and the gleaming marigolds
reach out to receive her, each in turn, throughout dawn’s hours.
And the light with which she touches them
becomes their life; each stalk and stem
are born of her who gives herself
unselfishly. And to her spell
the flowers bend, full willingly,
with sometimes a hushed and fervent plea,
"Touch me, O sun, touch me!"
The Rose
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
“Oh Rose, thou art sick!”—William Blake
Where life begins the seeds of death
are likewise planted, but with faith
the rose's roots combat the weeds’
to seek the nourishment it needs.
Yet in its heart an insect breeds.
Where dreams take form the flower grows,
as do the weeds, and still the rose
is gay and lovely, though her thorns
are sharp! The casual touch she scorns …
yet insects eat her leaves in swarms.
When passion fails the rose grown old,
no longer are her petals bold—
in flaming glory bright-arrayed.
In weeds of death at last is laid
the rose by insects first betrayed.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22-25
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled;
now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
parade before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
For you are music in my undreamt dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing starlets die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why . . .
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
Sheila
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
When they spoke your name,
"Sheila,"
I imagined a flowing mane
of reddish-orange hair
tinged with fire
and blazing eyes of emerald green
spangled with desire.
When I saw you first,
Sheila,
I felt an overwhelming thirst
for the taste of your lips
dry my lips and parch my tongue …
and, much worse,
I stuttered and stammered and lisped
in your presence.
But when I kissed you long,
Sheila,
I felt the morning come
with temperamental sun
to drive away the night
with reddish-orange light
and distant-sounding drums.
Now I will love you long,
as long as longing is,
Sheila.
This poem appeared in my high school journal the Lantern, so it was written no later than 1976. But it feels like one of my earlier poems, so I will guess that it was written around age 16 during my early Romantic phase. I'm not sure why the name Sheila made me think of reddish-orange hair. The poem is virtually the same today as when I wrote it in my teens. I did add L12 "dry my lips and parch my tongue" and changed the penultimate line from "as long as long is" to "as long as longing is." But it remains essentially the same poem I wrote around age 16.
The breathing low and the stars alight
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Silently I'll steal away
into dank jungles pocked with night.
I'll give no thought to the coming day;
the breathing low and the stars alight
alone shall mark my passage through
in search of plateaus of delight.
Through valleys filled with shrieks of fright
I may pass; through vales of woe
I may move with footsteps light.
Who knows what trials I’ll undergo
at the hands of demon Night
before that fiend I overthrow?
And yet at last the ebb and flow
of time and tide will draw me tight
within Death’s grasp; then I shall know
the freedom of life's last respite,
safe from dread nightmares and despite
the breathing low and the black disquiet.
Parting
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17
I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while.
We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile.
He roams this land in search of life, intent on being "free."
I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree.
I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim.
He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain.
I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand.
I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can.
I knew he couldn't stay, and so … I didn't even ask.
We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task.
We both know life's a winding road, with potholes every mile,
and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles.
One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife,
but for now he has to travel on, to seek a more "natural" life.
He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try,
just as I must write my poems although none please my eye.
For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue;
still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through.
He left me as I left a friend so many years ago;
I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know,
it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone.
It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun.
And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too;
but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it's a rare girl who is true.
I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast,
still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past.
Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can,
and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men."
We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be?
We were friends for just a while … he went on to be "free."
Rose
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Morning’s buds cling fervently
to the tiny drops of dew
that nourish them sacrificially,
as nature bids them to.
And how each petal cherishes
the tiny silver gems
that satisfy its thirst
and caress its slender stem.
All life comes of sacrifice,
which makes it doubly sweet;
for two lives sacrificed form one
and thus become complete.
Daisies plait the valleys
that give their strength to yield
such a tender host among
the steamy summer fields.
And how the flowers love the earth
that freely gives its life,
kissing and caressing it
throughout the hours of night.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
A bee entreats a flower:
a tiny drop is given.
A slender stalk caresses
and gains a speck of pollen.
All beings are dependent
on others being too.
And love cannot exist
except when shared by two.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
Spartacus
by Michael R. Burch, age 20
Take the fire
from her eyes
to light the darkening skies
exquisite shades
of blue and jade.
Place an orchid
in her hair
and tell her that you care,
because you do,
you surely do.
Sleep beside her
this last night;
a clover bed, deep green and white,
shall cushion you as leaves sing
sad elegies to fleeting spring.
Sleep beside her
in the dew,
both heartbeats fierce and true,
and praise the gods who give
such hearts, because you live.
Not many do.
So little time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
There is so little time left to summer,
to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds …
to be young.
There is so little time left till autumn shall come.
There is so little time left for me to be free …
so little time, just so, so little time.
If I were handsome and brawny and brave,
a love I would make and the time I would save.
If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free —
surely there would be one for me …
Perhaps there'd be one.
There is so little left of the sunshine
although there's much left of the rain …
there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain.
I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. The inversion in L8 makes me think this was a very early poem. That's something I weaned myself of pretty quickly. Also, I was extremely depressed from age 14 to 15 because my family moved twice and I had trouble making friends because I was so shy and introverted.
Valley of Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
On a haunted moor, awash in starlight,
when all the world lay hushed and still,
while a ghostly orb, traversing the heavens,
bathed every ridge of every hill
in a shower of silver, I happened to spy
a shadow creeping against the sky.
And suddenly the shadow beckoned
with a fair white hand, then called my name!
Out of the haunting mists of midnight,
through webs of ethereal light she came—
the maiden I had wildly wanted,
that had long my heart enchanted.
It seemed to me that the stars shone brighter
as she slipped into my arms,
for they burned within the halo
of her flaxen hair and warmed
the air about us, so that I melted
into the haven of her arms' shelter.
Her fragrance of lilacs enraptured me;
her sparkling eyes beguiled me.
And when my lips found hers that night,
nothing could have defiled me,
or have dragged me down … we began to rise
through the mists and vapors of a spinning sky.
We rose for hours, or so it seemed,
through galaxies of pearl and blue.
She kissed my lips and made me feel
that all I've heard of love is true.
And now, although we're lost,
I never wonder where we are,
for my love and I
wander paths of the sky,
lost in a valley of stars.
We Dance and Dream
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
All the nights we danced it seemed
the stars above were dancing too,
and all the dreams we dared to dream
it seemed were old dreams dreamed anew.
But now no hallowed lovers’ lies
pass our lips or glaze our eyes;
and now no even wilder dreams
cause our lips, with anguished screams,
to pierce the peacefulness of night.
We dance and dream, bereft of light,
content to merely glide…
We kept the dream alive
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Youthful reflections on the Vietnam War and the “Domino Theory”
So that our nation should not “fall,”
we sacrificed our lives;
we choked back fears
and blinked back tears.
Our skin broke out in hives.
We kept the dream alive.
We counted freedom
and honor worth saving;
a flag waving
against the sky
filled us with pride,
then led us to die.
But was it a lie?
What of the torch?
What of its flame?
We kept it lit through wind and rain.
It brought us woe and bitter pain.
And yet we bore it though it seemed
the vaguest semblance of a dream.
And all around the jungle screamed,
“This is no place for you to die;
the flag you fight for is a lie;
the torch you bear burns bitter flame;
the dream you cherish has no name
but darkest shame …”
We lost our lives,
but to what gain?
Will you walk with me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Will you walk with me a mile down this lane?
for there is something I must say to you.
And, as my feelings cry to be explained,
this silence is a lie, bereft of truth.
As does the bird that sings, I so must tell
the feelings that my heart cannot keep in,
for it must be a sin to speechless dwell
when love entreats the trembling tongue to sing.
And thus I cannot watch you silently,
although I cringe to think that I must speak—
my lisping lips then tremble shamelessly,
my heart grows numb even as my knees go weak—
but now the time has come to not delay,
so listen closely to the words I say …
If I could only hold you through the night,
then wake to find you near me, each new day,
my life would be so full of sheer delight
that I would never notice should you stray.
If I could only kiss your wanton lips
and do so without fear of God's revenge,
then I would even kneel to kiss your whip,
and I would gladly bend to your demands.
For I not only love your loving moods,
fierce kisses and caresses and wild eyes,
but darling, I still love you when you brood.
I love you though you rail at me and lie.
For love is not a passion that should fade;
it burns!—the heat of sunlight on a cage.
This was one of my first sonnets, or "sonnet attempts," written around age 18 as a college freshman in 1976.
Where have all the flowers gone?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Where have all the flowers gone
that once shone in your hair
when the sunlight touched them there?
Now summer's fields are dark and bare.
And what of all your lovely curls
that caught the sunlight till a halo
ringed their masses, golden-yellow?
Into ash-grey their fire has mellowed…
Where have all the starlings gone
whose voices blended with your own
in such a wild, emphatic song?
From winter's grasp those birds have flown.
And what of your own voice, my dear?
Those splendid notes I hear no more
which once from your sweet throat did pour.
For now your throat is parched and sore.
Oh, where have all the feelings gone?
We once could name them all—
emotions great and longings small . . .
But now we heed them not at all.
And what of our desire, my love,
which we once wildly bore
and felt at each soul's core?
That passion now is calm, demure.
For time has take all of this
and the little left leaves much to miss.
Were Love to Die
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 24
Were love to die without pained sighs,
without heartaches and brimming eyes,
then tell me—what would love be worth
if, dying, as in being birthed,
it were no more than other words?
Were love to die without a lie,
without attempts to keep it nigh,
then tell me—what would love have been
if, fleeing as in entering,
it was not holy, nor a sin?
Were love to cause no grief, or pain,
and come, then go, what would remain?
And tell me—what would love have left
if, being lost, as being kept,
it did not bless and curse our fate?
Won't you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Won't you lie in my arms in the clutches of wine
as dark petals, unfolding, whisper back to the vine?
Won't you dream of that day, as I bring you again
to an anguish, a heartache that throbs without end?
Won't you dream of a day when the ocean grew wild,
raging before us—green cauldron of bile!—
while the passions we shared were stirred by a wind
that later that evening sang softly of sin?
Won't you rise in your yearning and touch me again?
Won't you kiss me and curse me just as you did then?
Won't you hate me and hold me and scold me and say
that you'll never leave me, that this time you'll stay?
O, tonight be my lifeline, re-cresting love’s waves …
won't you rage in my arms as you did in those days?
Won't you be half as gentle as you are rough,
then spare me, care for me, saying, "This is enough!"
Won't you lie in my arms with a lie on your lips
and say to me, "Darling, there's nothing like this!"
Won't you tell me, please tell me, O, what is the harm,
as I lie here tonight with your child in my arms?
The lamp of freedom
by Michael R. Burch, age 16
When the lamp lies shattered,
its bowl can be remade,
but should its light be scattered,
light cannot be regained.
Hold high the lamp of freedom;
let a man be no man's slave.
Staying Free
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Others dwell in darkness,
raging through the night,
slaves to fearsome demons,
though children of the light,
where, caught up in emotions
they fail to understand,
they flock to laud the Mocker
who kneads them in his hand.
And all the revelations
bright choirs of angels sing,
they never seem to notice
as their shackles clang and ring.
They know naught of freedom,
nor wish to—for, born slaves
into dull lives of servitude,
their chains they dearly crave.
But let them live their captive lives;
whatever they may be,
for I am bound to be a man
as long as I stay free.
What Is Love If It’s Not Forever?
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
My love, are you trying to tell me
that you no longer love me?
After all these years of sacrifice
and hope and joy and compromise,
are you saying that we are through?
You always called me a romanticist,
a fantasist, a dreamer,
while labeling yourself a realist,
a fatalist, a schemer …
but I thought that, perhaps,
a spark of romance
existed also in you.
And yet it seems that now,
incredibly, you wish to leave me,
and all that was said and done,
unselfishly, in the name of love,
must be written off as a total waste.
You often hinted at a dark side
to your inner nature,
while despairing of my “innocent,
unassuming character,”
but I had always hoped that
you would never act
in such haste.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Can such an ethereal thing
exist beatifically for a moment
and then be gone … like spring?
Yes, what is love if it’s not forever?
Is it caresses and laughter and words sweet and clever,
intrigue and romance, sorrow and pain,
whirligig dances, sunshine and rain,
such as we had? Or is it more—
a volcanic struggle deep at heart’s core;
a wave of sweet sadness sweeping the shore
of one’s emotions; a rampaging ocean
of fantastical supposition;
a ******, gut-wrenching war
fought within oneself
—such as I often felt,
but which you admit now that you never have?
[etc., see handwritten version]
To prove you independence by leaving me
is a quaint paradox, but unresolvable.
So return to me, tell him goodbye,
and let us tend to mysteries more solvable.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Perhaps we already know,
for we cannot live without one another:
like the sunshine and summer,
one cannot leave unless both will go.
When love is just a memory
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
When love is just a memory
of August nights’ enflaming wine;
when youth is just a dream,
a scene from some forgotten time;
when passion is a word for thought
and nights are spent with friends;
when we are old, and cannot “love,”
how will you love me then?
Are you so young and so naive
that "love" means this to you—
a fiery act, a frantic pact,
a whispered word or two?
O, darling, neither acts nor pacts
could ever bind our hearts;
only love might bond them,
but then neither would be yours.
And though we burn as one today,
what ember does not die?
Fire cleanses, but I fear
only tears can sanctify.
Yes, you may burn, and burn for me,
but can you shed a tear
to think that you and I might cool
somewhere within the coming years?
For love and hate are ill-defined,
and where they meet, we cannot tell,
but lust and love are unrelated,
however closely they may dwell.
And though I long for you tonight,
such hellish passion I prefer
to the hell of loving you
with heat untempered by the years.