There, the caldera bevelled
In the spitting image of her bell
Looking shy above the shore
Was the essence of her smell
Liquids sharp, naked harp
A catamite in my succor
Graceless heave, tender sleeve
Pearly trailing tail

Entwine, surrender, entwine, surrender
Scintillating boy or throbbing girl

In new moments, waves collapsed
Ink lashed on our toothless gaps
A monkey washed, motions high
Pink shores creased, began to cry
Swelling up like a storm
Smells of Eden, the baby is warm
In the cool flame which sits down still
As it marvels at the hole that it filled
Overlapping with her blue commotion
Like two hills on a vicious plane
Eunoia sighs in consummated sky
They curled deep inside
The cavity of their hands

As vesper came, they awoke with no name
But there was something on their tongues

The shyness of the night
Laid still by fright
How lonely you must be
To crave that tired eternity
So impervious it is
That impermanence, bliss
Dots of haggard attitude
In place of solemn gratitude
Pray you are sick
For the hound’s wet lick
Will find you, haunt you
Until that emotion blue
Is uttered from your tooth
So rough, this youth
Which seeks beauty
In the light of shame
And vicarious fame
Through the network
Of many a hollow name
Engulfed in shallow flame

In Praise of Meter
by Michael R. Burch

The earth is full of rhythms so precise
the octave of the crystal can produce
a trillion oscillations, yet not lose
a second’s beat. The ear needs no device
to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch
drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched
by kisses, should the heart put back its watch
and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout.

If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what’s been left to chance?
Should poets be more lax—their circumstance
as humble as it is?—or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer?

Published by Poetry Porch/Sonnet Scroll, The Eclectic Muse, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, Famous Poets & Poems, Poetry Renewal Magazine, Mindful of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia, Trinacria and Poetry Life & Times

Keywords/Tags: Rhythm, rhyme, meter, beat, music, octave, heart, pulse, watch, numbers

I first heard the
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
****** and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.

At five years old,
I remember closing
my eyes, and lying
down to go to sleep,
it felt like I was
being rocked.
I wonder if the
subconscious mind was
remembering the
rhythm of the womb.
My Mom--pregnant with me
walking upstairs--downstairs,
elevators
escalators
movement
pulse,
the eternal lullaby of
the womb.
When I closed my
eyes, it felt like I
was being rocked.
It felt like I was
in a swing;
back and forth.
Easy, like a fragrant
spring night.

I feel and hear the
pulse--the rhythm,
the heart in everything.
In footsteps--in the wind,
in the ancient river, and
in the mermaid's song.
I feel it in
the beating of the
hummingbird's wings.
I see it in
Van Gogh's jagged sky,
in the flight pattern
of the wasp.

There is a rhythm in
death and birth.
Oh my God, the rapture of
the rhythm of love and
joy--so sublime.
The primal beat of a
heartbreak--pain,
like painting with
blood.
So real
too lucid.
Icarus, let's fly into
the sun, drunk on
***** or cheap wine.
We'll escape--liquid smooth,
until our wings melt,
and we fall back down,
crash
to the pulse
the rhythm
***  ***
***  ***
***  ***.

Sometimes,
I wish I were
a rock.

I don't really know you.
The sparse details scattered across
Days unremembered yet unforgotten
Are but small glimpses to a life
Beyond my knowledge.

The true nature of your heart lies
Between the sunrise atop bumper crops
And the sky that holds it illusionary,
Yet the orange glow shines through my window
Every morning since our meeting.

Eastward drifts my soul,
Beckoned regardless of wakefulness;
Foreign things kept in choice vocabulary
Run away to from the moon
To only be considered there of--

Do I know you...?

I know how you went about your day when you
Woke up with a weight in your belly,
Groggy eyes squinted in sorrow and sleeplessness;
A tired mind running on hamster wheels with
Thoughts organized in bedhead disapproval,
Feigning extraterrestrial happiness
With bookwork and a cup of coffee,
Topped off with a bad taste in your mouth
And a blunt headache that didn't go away-

I know the monotonous capital of existence,
The placemat of our truths walked upon
Without a sole by the hustle imposed;
Drudgery felt like clockwork in the digital a.m
Shining neon "Go! Go! Go!" and you go,
"go. go. go..."

As I have gone...
As we have gone together...
As we'll have come before and since,
In shared moments of stasis every morning
We rise-

I will not forget how you greeted the day,
Not to yourself or your love or your household
But to myself and blessed others in those morning hours,
Knowledgeable and fierce,
Optimistically aware of every day past and upcoming,
Guiding the times as if set to sculpture

-Arisen is the phoenix at dawn,
Flamed feathers spawn the day
As we greet the nighttime gone;
I don't know you,

Not really, anyway.