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unnamed Feb 2012
Robert Jordan
Ofelia

One

Sing, my forest. Sing, groans. Sing, snapping. Sing life and wild, sing trees, sing limbs that course and bend thick with sap and soil-blood. Sing, my child. Sing, my sweet love and dirt and life. Sing, sweet death, sing, sing.

Two

Find *Robert Jordan
. Find Robert Jordan in my forest among my kind limbs and find his breath, find his breathing through thick growth and his steps delicate upon the paths of tender dirt and find these paths great in number that wind as veins through the forest body.

Find* Ofelia. Find Ofelia in my forest among my kind limbs and find her breath, find her breathing through thick growth and her steps delicate upon the paths of tender dirt and find these paths great in number that wind as veins through the forest body.

Three

Robert Jordan and Ofelia sit upon the stump of a dead tree in the depths of a clearing in the forest. The stump is monumental in size. The diameter of the stump is that of a building. Robert Jordan and Ofelia used hatchets to make gashes into steps in the side of the stump and in this way climbed to the top. The top of the stump has been worn smooth like glass. The forest surrounds the clearing in its thickness and is heavy in every direction and curves up above them and to the center like a temple would and the top of this temple is many hundred feet above them. Robert Jordan and Ofelia sit on top of the stump and in the center, facing opposite directions, his back touching hers and her back touching his, rigid, perfect posture, legs crossed, their respective hatchets bridging the gap between their respective knees, blades shining in a dull silver light that hangs about their forest’s temple as any fog hangs about any forest. In the forest surrounding them hang many mossy vines. The vines weave through the trees and connect them and carry themselves through each other as webs though without order. Robert Jordan and Ofelia see the silver light illuminate the edge of the forest around them and the trees and vines there and they are sure the pattern continues through the deep forest though they cannot see into it fully. In the deep of the forest around them through the silver fog hang hundreds of small red lights that sit at every different level in the forest from the forest floor up through the canopy many hundred feet above them. The small red lights look as small eyes do and are perfectly circular though do not appear so in the silver light. The red eyes glint as far-away lights do when these lights are out of focus and so have the same dagger-shaped spires that extend from the center and outward in various numbers. They eyes reflect into and off of the hatchets and stretch themselves along the length of the blades. Ofelia opens her mouth slightly to speak. Robert Jordan knows her mouth has opened. Robert Jordan knows her breath comes from the forest and knows that with its drawing she also draws in the silver light of the clearing and the small red lights of the eyes around them and small parts of the forest suspended in their midst. Ofelia ventures to speak and invites these things to enter and live within her and that in her body, though only slightly, is where part of the life of those things now reside. Ofelia knows what Robert Jordan knows. Ofelia continues to speak:
jordan is a star athlete,
envied by all
on the opposing teams.

jordan is also creative,
and intelligent,
and an all-round amazing
human.

jordan is strong,
and powerful,

but also delicate
and emotional.

jordan wants you to know
that she doesn't have to
conform to gender stereotypes.

she knows her place in
this world -

she knows that her place is
wherever she wants it to be.

she is independent
and doesn't need your negativity :)

- v.m
august 8th.
happy women's day!
jordan and i want you to know how amazing you're doing. have yourself an amazing day/night/morning/evening & sparkle like the unicorn you are !

[this was sort of inspired by an ad i saw on instagram a few weeks ago.]
Livingdeadgirl Apr 2015
“No one understands me. I don’t want any of these guys; they just won’t leave me alone!” I said to my best friend, Sarah Heart.
“Well, Μαρία, try not to look so nice!”
I am 17; long black hair, hazel eyes, and deep red lips, am about 5’8”, and have unusually pale skin. “I don’t ever look nice, and you know it! Besides, you’re the one who looks great, one of the best in Femenino.” Sarah is 16, long blond hair, blue eyes, pale pink lips, is about 5’, and has very tan skin. “They only like me because I am almost of age.” Here on Femenino, when a girl turns 18, she is ready to be wed. The guys are born with their wings patterns. When the girl decides to marry a certain person, she will mirror the design the guy has after they both say their vows.
“Μαρία, why do you always talk down about yourself?” Sarah said.
“I don’t know, but can we discuss this tomorrow? I’m tired.”
“Ok, but tomorrow we’ll talk about who you’re going to marry. You only have 1 week left to decide.”
“Ok, Sarah,” I yawned, “good night, sweet dreams.”
“Yeah, I’ll have sweet dreams, of the prince marrying me!” she said with a devilish grin. No one knew the prince’s real name, so we just called him ‘prince’.  We laughed at that, “but, good night, girl, we will definitely talk tomorrow.” I fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with the question of who I was to marry in 1 week.
Raven black hair, one eye brown, one eye black, tall, tan, and body like a warrior.” kiss me, Μαρία” he said, “Never leave me, please.”
“I won’t leave you, ever, I swear.”
I woke up, not knowing who the man was. ‘Well, all I know is, it’s time to make a new potion.’ “Ok, let’s see, a bit of baby’s breath, wild flower, lilac blossoms, and a pinch of rose petals. Ok, add them in boiling water, mmmmm that smells good.  Hmm, now, before the dream with him, what did I do with the potion? Oh, yeah, I dabbed it behind the ears, and everyone was happy to see me, even, surprisingly, the girls.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t try it, because some of the girls have never liked me, and I’m probably going to forget what I did, and wonder why they are happy to see me all day, I’m always forgetting things, that’s why I put all my spells in a book, after all.” I mumbled to myself. I went to write it down, calling it the ‘Like Me’ spell. Ok, I have the ‘Love’ potion, a few body, hair, and ****** changing spells, a ‘Find it’ spell, a spell to bind the heart to a specific person. Oh, cute, I still have the spell I made when I was seven, so my heart wouldn’t break if I found a guy, but I didn’t cast it because then I would be sad in the end if I never found the guy I had asked for.
‘Oh, boy, I’m going off to dreamland again. Sigh, will I ever find my kind of guy?’ Well, the only thing that could be worse is the prince picking for me, well, except that we were born on the same day, but at different times, he was born about an hour before me in a room next to me, and since he’s royalty, he chooses a wife before I choose a husband, and I will be mortified since I have to stand next to him, but I doubt anyone would want me as a wife because I’m, in my Aunt Feranium’s words, “an inexcusable excuse of an abomination, no one could possibly want to even be near me, much less marry me”. Well, Aunt Feranium, you’ll get to see if your right or not in 1 week.
Well, today I have to go meet up with some of the guys here, and get some ingredients for my potions and spells. I’m hoping at least one of the guys is ok with how I am and who I am. I guess I’ll meet with guys before I get my ingredients, so I can cheer myself up afterwards.
I met with three guys for the first half hour. Each and every one of them was wealthy and smug. All I could think was, ‘I can’t wait to get away from here and finish up talking to some other guys.’ One guy, named Damien was saying, “When we get married, you will love your life.” Another named Lucas said, “No, when WE get married you will be in the laps of luxury, far more than either of these two could ever give you, Μαρία.” The third guy, named Jordan said, “We all have wealth, so why don’t we let Μαρία choose for herself?”
They all turned to me and looked expectantly. I smiled politely and said, “Well, I have quite a few more people to talk with, so I must not say who of you fine,” and I almost choked on that, “gentlemen. I’m sorry to say, I must go now to meet the others. Good day.” I smiled, got up and left before they could argue/complain/persuade me to stay longer.
I went to meet one of my friends, who was being forced by his mother to court/marry me. I saw him and waved. “Hey, Alejandro, what’s up?”
He did a slight nod of his head, telling me his mom was nearby, eavesdropping on us. He said anyway, “Not much, but you look lovely today. How are you?”
I smiled, because he was not usually like this when his mom wasn’t around. “I am fine. You don’t look so bad yourself.” He blushed, which made me smile, since he only sees me as his one of his best friends, which is the same way I feel about him. I nodded to him, letting him know his mom can no longer hear us, or see us. ‘Goodness, I love being able to do spells with little effort. I just wonder where his mom thinks we went.’
“Thanks Μαρία. So who’d you have to deal with first?”
“Three rich guys.”
He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Full of themselves and saying who you were going to marry?”
“Yea, well, except the one, he actually asked ME who I’d marry. It was interesting, since no one would usually care what I thought.”
“What did one of them look like?”
“One, named Jordan, who asked my opinion, had short brown hair, tan skin, about 5’ 10”. A second, Damien, has medium ***** blonde hair, dark skin, about 6’. The third, Lucas, had sort of long blonde hair, sort of pale skin, about 5’9”. Why?”
“I think they are following you.” He pointed behind me, and when I turned to see, there they were, a few tables over.
I looked back to Alejandro, smiled, and called for a waiter. “Excuse me, could you send a note and a round of drinks to those three gentlemen over there?” I pointed to the three guys, and gave the waiter 50 coins, and a tip of 20 coins, which is our currency. He smiled and lightly bowed, for the most a waiter would usually get as tip was 5-10 coins.
“What is your note?”
I told him, “Chill out and have a fine day.” He nodded and did as I asked.
When the guys got their drinks, I told Alejandro to come on. We left them there, and made sure they didn’t follow. We got to the market district, because, in truth, Alejandro was the only other person I was to meet. We got there and I showed him a list of ingredients I needed. The list went as follows:
Dew Drops
Sunlight
Sun flowers
Fresh Baby Laughter
Freshly Fallen Snow
Tear of Love
Hair of a Beauty
Sob of a Broken Heart
A Child’s Doll
Petal of a Fully Bloomed Rose
Lilac
Babies Breathe
Final Breath of the Dying
Rose Thorns

He whistled low at how much I needed.  I smiled; because that was the least I needed in quite a few months. We went about getting my stuff and just hung out, until we came upon Sarah, who knew me and Alejandro did not like each other, but teased us saying we did all the same.
She smiled and said, “Hey lovebirds. What goes on? Oh, are you guys finally realizing you’re meant for each other and going to marry each other?”
We said in unison, “No! We are not.” Alejandro scowled while I laughed.
“Sure sounds like you’re meant for each other to me!” Sarah laughed while Alejandro’s scowl grew longer.
I said, “Sarah stop teasing, poor Alejandro couldn’t possibly take all the scowling.” ‘And the heart break, since he’s in love with you Sarah, you just never see. I’m about to tell you straight up.’ I looked over at Alejandro and smiled, since he didn’t tell me, he didn’t know I knew, even though it was written plainly on his face, he thought he was discreet.
He looked down at his feet, letting the hurt pass over his face for a brief second. “I need to get the rest of my ingredients from my list. Okay, let’s see, just a few rose thorns is all I need to get.” We went to go get them. And there, a few feet away, were the three guys again. I pointed them out to Alejandro, and he rolled his eyes. I walked straight up to them.
They acted surprise to see me, I said, “Why are you following me?”
They were all flustered, but Jordan said, “We weren’t following you!”
“Oh, really, you three, follow me, Alejandro, Sarah, you can come to.” We went into an alley way and I continued, “So you three just happened to be at the same café only a few tables away, and then be just a few feet away from me?” They nodded in unison, and I got raged. I used a spell and had them pinned against the wall behind them and asked angrily, “Who are you working for?”
They looked fearful, and Lucas said stammering, “You ought to stop, ‘cause there are witnesses.”
I looked at him, “They are the only thing keeping me in check, you idiot, now, answer my questions, why were you following me and who are you working for?”
They looked at each other, then at me, and swallowed loudly and hard. Damien said, “Sheesh, when we saw you, we thought you’d be no problem to us, but dang! We might as well tell her since she got us, and ‘cause I don’t know her limits.”
They all nodded their heads, before looking frighteningly at me. Damien continued, “We are guards, some of the finest, and I now see we are some of the most arrogant.” I rolled my eyes.
“Why were you following me?”
“We were told to act as the people that we were told to be. It seems your something of interest.”
I glared at them, “You’re lying.” They were wide eyed with fright.
“No! That’s all that we were told!”
“You two might, but he was told more, and he’s not telling.” I glared at him and came close to his face. I looked in his eyes and asked as calmly as I could, “What are you hiding?”
He would not answer, so I let them go, and said, “Don’t follow me anymore! Just leave me alone.”
They stayed in place, frozen with fear, but Jordan piped up, “Wow, with your strength in spells, Μαρία, would you ever consider joining the guard? We really need you and your strength.”
I glared at them and said, “Go!”
They ran, still not sure of my limits when I was mad. My friends burst out in laughter after the guards were well out of ear shot. They said in halting gasps, “I can’t believe you bluffed them while you were mad!”
I smiled, knowing I wasn’t someone that could harm anyone. When I get angry at someone, I always try to bluff them, I guess I’ve either gotten better, or they were not good at telling my bluff. “Well at least we learned something out of this whole episode. Now, let’s get my ingredients and get back to my house, I had a dream about a new spell last night.” I felt a pair of eyes on me, but when I looked, there was nothing there. I shrugged and thought, ‘I must be getting paranoid.’
When we got back to my house, they helped me put my ingredients away, and I showed them my new ‘Like Me’ spell. “I don’t know how long it lasts, so I won’t let it be used on either of you.” I felt the eyes on my back, I turned and saw nothing. “Do either of you two feel like someone’s watching us?”
They shook their heads no, Alejandro said, “Maybe you should do a spell for protection over yourself for whoever’s watching you.”
I nodded, and found one that was simple to do but difficult to break through and lasted a long time. I cast it over my friends as well, who smiled when they felt the spell cover them as well. Sarah said, “Ok, now, Alejandro, shoo, me and Μαρία have a few things to talk about.” She grinned wickedly, and so he left.
He said, “Bye.” And got out as quick as he could.
I looked at her, “Now why’d you do that for? He doesn’t even count as a marriage choice; it’d be too much like marrying a brother.”
She shrugged, “Does it matter? This is girl talk, now spill who you like.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I really don’t know, I’ll just go with my gut when the time comes, okay?”
She sighed dramatically, “Fine!”
I laughed, “You know, it’s not your time to pick, you have a few years, and more than a few admirers.”
She flipped her hair and laughed lightly, “I can’t help if guys like me, Μαρία!”She shrugged, "That's my image, Μαρία, I have to keep up with it, or I'll be ruined!" I laughed.
"You can be so dramatic. You know that?"
"Yea, and now I know you can be to. ‘They are the only thing keeping me in check, you idiot', nice one, especially with the idiot, it added to your tone."
I looked at the floor sheepishly. "It just came to mind, and I went with it. Was I that convincing to you?"
"Are you kidding, I thought you would of killed 'em on the spot! Your bluff is way better Μαρία."
I smiled, "Thanks Sarah."
We went about our own thoughts for an hour, until it was time for Sarah to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow Μαρία."
"Okay, see ya." I flicked my wings out, mostly because I still felt like someone was watching me. I thought about my wings, and how soon I'll have a design. I remembered a type of fairy that used to exist long ago. They were called the florescent fairies. Unfortunately they died off. They all had wing patterns of their own. Even the females had their own patterns that they kept after marriage. Their wings were always so big and elaborate.
I felt my wings tingling, so I went to my front door. There on my doorstep was the guard that I knew as Jordan. He was in his uniform. I said, “What do you want, Jordan, if that is really your name?”
He cleared his throat. He was afraid, but put up a brave front and said, “I came for you were summoned by the head of the royal guard.”
I rolled my eyes, “And why would I be summoned this late at night?”
His bravado was fading when he said, “Because the head of the royal guard wants to see you now.”
“Why?”
His bravado was completely gone now and he was shaking in his boots, “He just wants you to come.”
I rolled my eyes again, turned out the lights, and locked my house up. “Lets’ get this done and over with. I do need to sleep like others’, you know.” Then I felt magic welling up around me. I found them easily with my magic, and brought them out in front of me. I threw them all into a pile in front of me. “Tell me three good reasons I shouldn’t put you all in a magic hold that would leave you motionless for the rest of the night.”
They were all struggling, and I was holding Jordan with a glare. “I am tired, and would not regret it. And you all need to learn to hide your magic. That’s how I knew where you were.”
They all tried to plead for me to let them go, but with a wave of my hand, they fell silent. Jordan said stammering, “They were only supposed to be back-up in case you wouldn’t come.”
I waved my pointer finger side to side, “Tsk, tsk, tsk, not nice to play tricks with me.” I used my magic to send the pile of guards back to the palace, while I looked at Jordan and said, “I told you to leave me alone.” I flicked my hand at him, and he went flying back to the palace. I went back into my house, went to my room, and after taking a hot shower, went to bed.
The next morning, I got up and ready for the day. I was about to leave my home when my wings tingled. Someone was at the door. I looked through a peep hole and saw my friends, Sarah and Alejandro. I opened the door, and they came in talking at me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, so I said, “Slow down, now what?”
They started laughing. Sarah said, “Apparently, you gave all the guard’s a scare. What did you do?”
I looked at them, confused for a second, and then I remembered, and told them the events of last night. They laughed, so I said, “What? I was extremely tired, I wasn’t taking their crap.” That just made them laugh harder.
Alejandro said, “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Μαρία.” He chuckled and said, “Can you teach me some of your **** kicking moves?”
I grinned devilishly and made to look like I was going to use it on him and said “Sure,” and mocked what I did with the guards without using my magic. We all laughed. There was a knock on the door. I rolled my eyes and yelled, “Who is it?”
Whoever it was just knocked again. I went to the door and looked through the peep hole. There was no one there. I motioned my friends back, away, and I used a searching spell. I calmly looked all around my house, then finally smiled. I opened my door fast and
Comments appreciated/wanted!!
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,

reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

These are poems about sports like baseball, basketball, boxing, football and soccer. Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, locker room, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation



Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, more bronze than gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child.
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Published by Black Medina, Bashgah (Iran, in a Farsi translation), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Freshet, Formal Verse, Borderless Journal, Interracial Love, and in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying, “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in a publication called Bashgah.



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch



hey pete!
by michael r. burch

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.

Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player as a boy; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather ironic commentary on the term “superstar.”



Baseball's immeasurable spittin’ mixed with occasional hittin’.—Michael R. Burch



Larry Seivers had golden hands
by Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands,
platinum hands,
diamond hands,
hands of jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth and amethyst.

Other receivers were more elusive,
bigger,
faster,
more physical,
flashier ...

but Larry Seivers had hands.



Julius
by Michael R. Burch

Instinct
in an unplanned moment
as you rise
will teach your limbs the art of flight:
the waltz of light
through vaulted skies.

A falcon flies:
its keening cries
as sunlight fails
fall hollow to the earth below,
and you must know
how fierce the light of sunset feels.

You hear
those ringing cries, their echoes clear
though far away, and so you pause
—defying even gravity,
suspended over some vast sea—
then fall ... into applause.



Larry Legend
by Michael R. Burch

He's slow, can't jump,
looks pale and plump.
He talks too much;
he brags, and such.
He's not real nice,
has blood like ice
and will like steel
(and steal he will).
But when the game is on the line,
your team, or mine?



Big Mc Attack
by Michael R. Burch

Johnny Mc
Enroe
is back—
the fierce
attack
of words
and serves,
returns
and taunts.

He flaunts;
he flails,
reviles
and rails.
Sometimes
he wails.
His ego
swells.
He grunts
and groans
and moans
and gee . . .
I think
he wants
to referee!

Johnny Mc
(thank God)
is back—
wisecrack
ing, fiery,
taking flack
(not hesitant
to give it back).

We love
to watch
him glare
and wince,
and since we sense
his dreams
(intense),
we sit
on pins
until
he wins.



For Jack Nicklaus, at the 1987 Open
by Michael R. Burch

When you were young
every putt was makeable
and every dream remarkable;
the stars were unmistakable
you set your sights upon.

Then, in your youth,
time not yet a factor
and age not yet your rector,
you plotted every vector
and victory shone ahead, like truth.

But uncouth youth was fleeting ...
soon losses grew more numerous;
time's skies became more cumulus;
the nerves with age—more tremulous,
as the sun from the sky was setting, retreating.

How have you then, as sunset nears
and the world looks on with unsure eyes,
cast off the crutch of age to rise
and stand as though the butterflies
have no effect, no, nor the cheers?



I wrote this poem after Tom Watson chipped in at the 1982 US Open to defeat Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus was getting older, but he was still competitive.

There Are Dreams
by Michael R. Burch

for Jack Nicklaus

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that are etched into your eyes.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that resignation can’t disguise.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed . . .
O, I’ve dreamed them, esteemed them.

Like fire,
desire
flares most brightly as it dies.



Jimbo
by Michael R. Burch

for Jimmy Connors

Pounce like a panther,
all sinew and nerve;
attack, arched in anger,
your quarry—the serve.
Imagine a moment
of glory to come
as you lunge for the path
of its flight through the sun.

Are you a Templar
like warriors of old,
forsaking your loved ones,
crusading for gold?
Or could it be
need for fame drives you on?
Do you soak up the cheers
as you dash through the sun?

As you battle those younger,
those stronger, more fleet,
still none can be fiercer,
less yielding, complete.
Oh, what drives you onward,
what makes you compete?

I think not the riches, acclaim, even love . . .
but your heart is incentive enough.



The Great GOAT Debate
by Michael R. Burch

The great GOAT debate
can no longer wait:
we MUST know who’s best, and know NOW!

Is it Jordan, Kareem,
or Hakeem the Dream?
Is it Gretzky, the Rocket, or Howe?

Is it O.J. or Brady,
or are they too shady?
Tom Burleson or Monte Towe?

But now that I’m thinking
and done with my drinking,
before I make friends with a large purple cow ...

It’s the Babe, let’s get serious!
Babe Didrikson Zaharias!
Let the Ultimate GOAT take a bow.

Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias was a basketball All-American, a baseball and softball star, a professional golfer who accumulated ten major championships, and a track and field legend who won two gold medals and a silver in three different disciplines at the 1932 Olympics while setting four world records in the process. She was also an expert diver, roller-skater, bowler and billiards player. Didrikson won the 1932 AAU track and field team championships while competing as an individual, by winning five of the eight events she entered and finishing second in another. She remains the only track and field athlete, male or female, to have won individual Olympic medals in a running event (hurdles), a throwing event (javelin), and a jumping event (high jump). Despite taking up golf in her mid-twenties and having to wait until age 31 to regain her amateur status, Didrikson won 17 straight women's amateur tournaments, an unequaled feat. Altogether, she won 82 golf tournaments. She made the cut at two men’s PGA golf tournaments, the only woman to do so, and she did it sixty years before any other woman even tried. In 1934 exhibition games, after being taught the curve ball by Dizzy Dean, she pitched one scoreless inning against the Dodgers and two scoreless innings against the Indians. Didrikson still holds the world record for the longest baseball throw by a woman. The world has never seen anyone like her.

“She is beyond all belief until you see her perform ...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen.” – Grantland Rice, considered by many to be the greatest sportswriter of all time



Ring-a-Ling Bling
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is mostly bling.

Determining an individual athlete's greatness by counting championship rings (i.e., team success) makes no sense to me and seems disrespectful to all-time greats like Ernie Banks, Charles Barkley, Elgin Baylor, **** Butkus, Ty Cobb, Michelle Kwan, Karl Malone, Dan Marino, Marta (who may be the greatest female soccer player of all time), Barry Sanders, John Stockton, Fran Tarkenton and Ted Williams. Perhaps the best example is the player most cited for rings these days: Michael Jordan. In reality, Jordan didn't win a ring his first six years and was 0-6 against
the Larry Bird Celtics and lost two more playoff series to the Isiah Thomas Pistons. Were Bird and Thomas the better players, or did they simply have better teams? The answer seems obvious.
Jordan only began to win rings after he was joined by outstanding players like Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, et al, and even then it took time for that team to jell. Jordan was a transcendentally great player before he won a ring. If he had failed to win rings because he never had good-enough teammates, would that make him a lesser player? Judging individuals by team success or failure makes no sense, unless Jordan was a lesser player for six years while his teams struggled and then he miraculously became the GOAT when more capable players showed up. Ditto for LeBron James. The first thing he does after changing teams is use his influence to get better players to join him. LeBron is not foolish enough to believe rings are won by individuals.



The Ring Thing (is entirely Bling)
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is entirely bling.

Michael Jordan was zero-for-six
against the Larry Bird Celtics;
moreover he was twice sent home
by Isiah’s Pistons;
his ring case only began to gleam
when he had Horace, Scottie and B.J. on his team.

Thus the ring
thing
is bling.



The Ballad of King Henry the Great
(aka Derrick Henry)
by Michael R. Burch

Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!

Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!



No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch

Lines written after the aptly-named Eric Eager said, “A. J. Brown is Terrell Owens.”

I’m young, I’m big-hearted,
but I’m just getting started.

I’m running my own race
at my own **** pace.

T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I’m A. J. Brown.

The second stanza was actually written by A. J. Brown, a budding poet, and published in the form of a tweet.



Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.

Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.

Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.

Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.

Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate ...
and fly!

Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.

Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
"He's safe!"
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.

A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.

Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away ...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.

Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.

Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.

Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse ...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.

This was an early attempt at free verse, written in my teens.



The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch

If you’re not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson’s magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe’s, at seven;
or if you’re a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you’re shoeless
because you’re also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you’re less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you’re better at drinking
than at dieting and thinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi’s
your triumphs are really your tragedies . . .
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society’ll proclaim you a WINNER!



Tremble
by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening



Y2k: The Score
by Michael R. Burch

You should have known
when you were giving us wedgies,
pulling down our pants
in front of the cheerleaders,
playing frisbee with our slide rules . . .

that the years are exceedingly cruel.

You should have seen,
dashing across the gridiron
(as the cheerleaders screamed
in a *****-show of ecstasy),
playing the hero, the bull-necked **** . . .

the hands on the face of the unimpressed clock.

Though you were popular,
the backseat Romeo, the star
who drove the flashiest car,
though you lived out our dream
and took the prettiest girls to the dances, the prom . . .

you never had a chance.  Something was wrong.

We missed the big dances and proms
as we hissed and we schemed,
as we wrote and re-wrote our revenge
while you partied like Stonehenge.
Now your business is in debt to the hilt.
It’s too late to cry: Foul! Unsportsmanlike! Tilt!

One statement of ours and yours are all lost!
Your receivables, aging and gathering dust,
will yellow like ***** one soon-coming day.
While you were scoring, you missed this play—

Jocks: Zero. Nerds: Y2k.



Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
evolove Sep 2021
Saturn = Satan = Death Cult

Michael Jordans number was 23.
(2x3=6)
Saturn is the 6th planet from the sun.
Michael Jordan played for the Chicago Bulls. C(3)× B(2) = 6
Saturn's planetary symbol is a bull.
Michael Jordans nickname was "Air Jordan".
Saturn is the god of air (A.K.A. The prince of air)
Michael Jordan also has "6" championships.
Michael Jordan played 15 season (1+5=6)

Do you see the world around you?
Are you awake...
PoetWhoKnowIt Sep 2013
(Notes at the bottom to explain all this nonsense)

Eggman, oh Eggman
quite a driver you've become-
And an army man (in 3D)
in battleships we understood none

And Eggman, oh Eggman
we'd laugh until we died!
And when dark night came
from the tickle monster we'd hide

Thus Eggman, oh Eggman
we planted the ethereal seed.
A seed that grows forever on;
a friendship that I need

...

Jphel, oh Jphel
Please avoid the horrid stench-
of being peed on in the army,
or hit by a (freaking) bench!

And Jphel, oh Jphel
I think Max Renga laughed last-
or maybe thus did the tree.
still have pieces of my cast?

Thus Jphel, oh Jphel
I know I paid you close to none-
but carrying all of my books
still really means a ton.

...

J-man, oh J-man
athletes go down the trial,
and rats laugh a hell of a lot!
...yet somehow Campbell never smiled
              (and his many wives)

And J-man, oh J-man
I know you learned a lot;
like, 'Don't move your hands in art',
and- 'Don't talk of bad burritos' Kaneda taught

Thus J-man, oh J-man
my vacancy began...
oh how I wish to make it up
with every chance I can.

...

Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
what psychotic schedules we kept!
with so many things to do
we hardly ever slept.

and Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
I enjoyed nothing more than the Gov games we made-
... but perhaps the poker nights
and (endless) SC Poker D we played.

Thus Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
I should have been a better friend-
to one who is always there for me
but I know it's not the end!

...

Jordan, oh Jordan
You've been my inspiration;
in work, in act, in play, in sense-
my deepest admiration.

And Jordan, oh Jordan
find that girl of yours and lift her!
but you better... BETTER!...
remember your secret admiffer.

Thus Jordan, oh Jordan
Remember that I'm near
if you ever need a hand, a hug,
or just a listening ear.

...

So Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
march forward and make your mark-
with a mind and drive such as yours
you'll fly like Kent, Clark.

And Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
I'll never seriously call you that
I could not stop without a Spongebob quote-
Cause we're like twins in Squidward's egg sac

Thus Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
No matter who's got the biggest yacht in the end
you best remember now and always
Captains are Captains and _ ___
A poem I intend to give to my best friend of many many years who leaves for a 2 year missionary trip soon. Each triplet's stanza's beginning's are a name I called him throughout the years, the following lines are strong memories.

Eggman I called him because we played a Playstation 1 game called destruction derby and he picked the sunny side up egg decal for his car- and the name followed and stuck. We also played Army Men 3D and a battleships game that was SUPER confusing.

We'd laugh as we played anything- and still do, and at night my step-dad would play a game called Tickle-monster (basically hide in seek in the dark but when caught you'd be tickled relentlessly) with us. The best of times I tell you.

The horrid stench and bench are stories from our favorite teacher- our fifth grade teacher- who told us of stories when he was in Germany in the army someone peed on him and someone knocked him out by hitting him with a bench.

Max Renga was a ****** kid who knocked me out and the tree broke my leg in 6 places and  I was in a long leg cast and physical therapy for two years. The entire time I was in that cast he carried my books for me, EVERYDAY :). I paid him $6 and some odd cents.

Athletes go down the trial and rats laughing are two hilarious stories about our middle school teachers and campbell was out favorite middle school teacher- he never smiled and always complained about his five ex-wives.

He got his first (and only) detention in school for moving his hands- we had a crazy art teacher- and we played a little mmorpg and the admin hated him because he said "I do like burritos but they sure don't like me".

The vacancy is when I started hanging out with other folks due to stuff going on at home I was too ashamed to hang out with him- so I got sub-decent friends.

In high school we both took two years of college and I did two sports while he stayed heavily active in church. We made these board games for our government class and it took us like 48 hours straight labor  and they turned out awesome.

I have poker nights often with 10-20 people where we dress up in nice clothes like the 40's and play for like 7 hours. We also played Starcraft on a map called Poker Defense for HOURS.

We watched spongebob and quote him daily. And the yacht refers to him saying that he feels like he always works harder than me but gets much less return so he joked saying he's going to work his whole life and be out on the ocean in his nice yacht and I'll roll up next to him in a yacht twice as big having done near nothing :). Since then I referred to eachother as captains... and  I always say to him "Captains are captains and captains are friends".

I love this kid endlessly, he's played an immense role in my life. Let me know what you think and read some of my other stuff if you'd like. This is the only personal one I've posted. :)
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
judy smith Aug 2015
Since a wedding is said to be the most important day of a woman's life, some brides-to-be are prepared to bring out whatever it takes to ensure that their big day is nothing short of spectacular.

A new documentary from the UK titled 'Now How The Rich Get Hitched', a provides a glimpse into some of the world's most lavish weddings.

The programme follows the glamorous goings-on at Knightsbridge bespoke wedding boutique Caroline Castigliano, where, for most customers, money is no object.

According to Daily Mail, bridal couture queen Caroline, who lives in Surrey, has been creating breathtaking intricate gowns for 24 years, cashing in on the £10 billion global bridal market.

But while the average UK bride is said to spend around £1,000 on her dress, Caroline revealed that one client, a Saudi Arabian bride-to-be is spending £40,000 on her dream gown - the same price as the Duchess of Cambridge's Alexander McQueen dress.

Despite the eye-watering prices, the 55-year-old designer claims that for most women this is one of the most important things they will ever buy.

She said: 'They buy into the overall power of the dress. I really truly believe that since they were very young they have dreamt of this day.'

Caroline's clientele aren't just drawn from the global elite, however. One of her clients, Jordan, 23, is a hotel heiress from Durham who has spent the past year travelling 300 miles with her family for fittings for her £9,000 dress.

Jordan's gown is made from one of the most expensive silks in the world, which costs hundreds of pounds a metre.

Jordan said: 'For a girl the dress is what everyone looks for. People would rather spend more money on the dress and look perfect on the day.'

Her mother Helen, who is helping to pick up the bill, added: 'I think once you see your daughter in something so beautiful and she's so happy you do stretch that extra mile.'

At around £9,000 Jordan's dress is almost half the average budget for UK weddings, which now comes in at an astonishing £21,000, but the day itself will set her family back far more than that.

The no-expenses-spared bash is being held at one of her family's hotels and costs include the £7,000 on importing 6,000 flowers from Holland, the hire of a 20-piece brass band and a Victorian carousel to entertain guests.

Gissa, 29, an Iranian socialite, who is planning a lavish ceremony in Turkey, journeyed to Caroline's boutique just to try on veils to go with her bespoke gown, which is embroidered with 200,000 sequins and 50,000 beads - and was one of the most expensive dresses in the shop.

The bride-to-be explained that her fiance was very amenable when it came to splashing out on her dress.

He said "I know this is the most important dress that a woman is going to wear in their lifetime so if you really like it and you love it, we'll get it."'

However, some brides look further afield for their dream wedding location and one of the boutique's clients, Katie, 29, was planning her ceremony in Southern Spain.

Katie admitted that she had fine-tuned every element of her wedding right down to her proposal.

She said: 'I'm a bit of a control freak, I think I emailed [my fiance] a picture of the ring after about three weeks of dating, so subtlety isn't my finest point but he's done really well.'

Katie visited Caroline for a bespoke wedding dress costing between five and six thousand pounds that has taken five seamstresses 200 hours of sewing and 250,000 beads to complete.

Another of Caroline's client, Kashmir, revealed that she took two years off work to get married and her husband is now determined to prolong the wedding celebrations with lavish gifts.

She and her husband also paid £75,000 to commission a portrait of Kashmir sitting in a chair in her strapless lace Caroline Castigliano dress, which was then unveiled at a party in the designer's boutique.

However, as any prospective bride will know a dress does not a wedding make and any ambitious bride-to-be will enlist the help of a wedding planner, with none more knowledgeable than luxury wedding planner Bruce Russell.

Bruce caters for the most ostentatious and demanding of weddings. He said: 'If it's physically possible, we'll make it happen - it might come at a cost.

'If you've got the money and you've got the budget to spend and you want to spend a million pounds why not spend it on a wedding it is the most magical day?'

Bruce's finely tuned expertise and impeccable taste come at a cost and he revealed on the show that he takes around 20 per cent of the wedding budget as commission, which rewards him with a £30,000 pay cheque for a £150,000 wedding.

The show followed him as he took one of Caroline's clients, Erina, on a tour of London's famous luxury five-star hotel, The Savoy, as a possible venue for her dream day.

Hosting 350 guests would set her back at least £70,000 and to stay in the Royal Suite, a further £10,000 a night - although it does come with its own butler.

But the documentary revealed that for women who want to up the 'wow' factor on their big day - and have the budget - couture jeweller Andrew Prince is the man to call.

But Andrew insisted that elegance is often confused with showiness: 'Glamour has changed. It became, at one point, very shiny and that's really not glamorous that's flashy. I like opulence.'

Andrew's creations may be an indulgence but for him there is no better way to spend your money.

He said: 'It's a celebration. We can be really sort of smug and factual about it, and say "oh no one should spend the money on something more practical", but what's more fun than just having a wonderful day?'

Many couples will argue that such extravagance is a waste of money and resources for just one day, however Caroline says that these are memories to last a lifetime.

She said: 'The most important people in your life have come to attend this day. It all comes down to the same thing, it's what you want to spend money on and what matters to you and how much money you have, it's all relative.'

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Grace Jordan Mar 2015
I love my name.

Well, my pseudo name.

The name I chose for myself, I am in love with it.

Not that I don't like my real name, that name is lovely. It lives in a palace with princes and stars ad magic, and I appreciate my mother for choosing it. It is magic, and I feel that fits me.

But my chosen name, my writing name, is a part of me too.

Grace Jordan.

It holds a pun and a dream and my heart all in one.

I always see myself as messy, clumsy, but not in the traditional senses. My mind is a mess and my actions are clumsy, sometimes even thoughtless. I am impulsive and too much of me for me to handle. I see myself as something far from grace.

Yet it is a dream. I would love to be poised and handled and stable and graceful. I want to live up to the name I have given myself, so in all honesty it is more of a hopeful promise than a pun, though I always write it off as one.

But I doubt I will ever attain that. Not being cynical, merely knowing myself. I love mess, I love spontaneity, I love the chaos that comes with living. I guess in a way I mean to find grace, find peace in the chaos, and be a stable mess. I know it all sounds like contradictions and complexities, but that's all I know, and all I will ever be. So I must work with that and make it my own.

Now the heart. Jordan was someone I lost long ago, and he holds my heart and always will. But I can still love, and I can still dance, and I know he would smile at that, so its all that matters. His happiness, and in turn, my happiness.

So self-centered, to write an entire piece about my name, right? Well maybe I am a little self-centered. Maybe I have actually learned to love myself a bit, and revel in my own glory. I love my writing self most, I think. And my writing self, in my heart, I will be.

Grace Jordan, reporting for life.

That's who I will be, secretly.
Born Aug 2017
Poem. Call me poetry
Debbie Jean Embrey  ***! how those words spoke to me! Very well done! I love the part about calling you 'Messenger.' Keep inking! :)

Poem. She's said II
Terry Jordan  Amazing piece, esp. "It is for us to wash away our painful confusion with tears...." I'm sending a sympathy card today to the mother of a former student of mine, so this really speaks to that most terrible loss that we have no word for it. TFS, Born

Poem. I won't forget that you liked my poetry
Mary-Elizabeth Cotton  Beautiful write! I especially love the lines "When I could barely form words,/that would impress my shadow."


Poem. I'm Born
Pradip Chattopadhyay  your words are fabulous

Poem. Hi(gh)
Kim Johanna  Baker  Great write Born...I must say, you are a great writer and enjoy very much your pieces...this is raw and gets the message across.. tyfs... kimx

Poem. If I told you my story
Law lith iminika Reading this was like observing a preview to a movie, but I didn't pay for it, instead showed up willingly. And I'm hungry for knowledge and inspiration because I was refused popcorn

Poem. Thank you Pamela Rae
Pamela Rae  Please know that you have such talent and your words not only touch me, but so many here--keep writing, expressing and touching our souls, dear Born. You are a gift to this world and deserve to find your way, to embrace peace and tranquility and it will come. Will be sending along good vibes, thoughts for peace and happiness and Room to breathe with ease... (((hugs)))

Poem. Hello poetry
Wolf spirit Wow ..is this a poem . Because Id rather read this than delve on eloquent flattery of wistful words . Honesty expressed with such brevity is still the best policy .


Poem. When my heart pounds a little bit more
Modern Serenity  very well executed! truly deserves to be the poem for atleast a week. freaking fantastic poem. well done. honestly totally jealous of your poem its truly amazing and well said.


Poem. Shantel
---  Superbly penned, echoes of the great Pablo Neruda

Poem. Here we are
K Balachandran  so peaceful and meditative
yet passion filled love and life
chiseled and beautiful...without hiding truth
you have eyes full of love and light
exquisite..
Bala

Poem. Virgo 
Star BG  And..... open gateway to healing the soul.you are such a master with words. Thank you

Poem. Dusty coin
Pax  there will always be hope, even just a spark, or one candle, it can do many things in the dark..

Poem. My deepest sympathies
South by Southwest  There are answers to every question you pose . Only by a lifetime of searching will you find them .

Poem. Muse dear daughter
Sylvia Frances Chan  A most divine poem, loving and caring words. I have enjoyed this poem very much. God's Blessings be upon thee. Thank you for sharing this divine piece.

Poem. Leonard Cohen
Lazhar Bouazzi  Ah! Wonderful poem about one of my favorite poets/composers/singers of all time! Thank you for sharing

Poem. This poem III
Wyatt  Such a harsh, blunt piece. It hit me right in the gut! Congrats on the daily!

Poem. I won't forget that you liked my poem
patty m  Comments are a wonderful gift. I love your poem and the emotions that surface you are truly gifted.
hugs

Sally A Bayan  So much truth in your wondeful, touching words, Born..
I keep coming back to this poem...just had to repost.
Thank you for sharing

Poem. Juliet
Jamie King  I like the flow here the transition from one imagery to the imagery while maintaining the same flow requires a certain degree of finesse. Excellently executed piece

Poem. Un(real) istic
Botan  A high tech emotional intelegence will take over while humans express thier feelings by emoji. good writing
Poem. Poetic flavor
SøułSurvivør An awesome tribute! You're one of the poets I would elect for showing the most growth of any on this site. My heart twinkle with happiness, TOO! Thanks for your heart, Born! ☆♡☆

Lori Jones McCaffery  You make exquisite use of the words you have captured, Born. Keep thirsting. Love

SøułSurvivør Awe! I'm so glad to encourage you... you have such a powerful way with words. An innate talent. I count you as one of my best friends here. Be blessed!

Poem. 5 million am not just a number
Corvus  Wonderfully compassionate. It's so easy to be kind and sympathetic to those on your doorstep. Those further away but in even greater need are often ignored. Brilliant write.
The most important part of posting a poem is the response you get, I'd love to appreciate every single one of  you for the words you offered. For those who didn't make the list, I still appreciate you.

This poem is coming from an emotional place, for the longest time I never believed in myself. But now I do, thanks a lot

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