Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nylee Aug 19
My battleship,
it fell in the living room,
didn't even cross the door
to outside world.

My sinking ship,
much like the Titanic
will reach the deep oceans
can't breathe the air.

My broken bridge
the path has disappeared
the ends don't support
no one can cross.

My punctured tyre
miles left ahead of me
stranding me on a lonely road
away from home.

My defective piece
the phone that won't call
never served it purpose
not smart at all

My dead plants
with surplus of sun
and my infinite watering
you had no chance to live.
Since the day, the wispy clouds and the blooming flowers had taught me to love...

I had so much longed to cross the bridge that leads to your house...

But now, when I have crossed the bridge to reach you, only a haunted mansion did I behold...

That neither harbours you nor your faking heart!
Just a random thought on how a true heart is often cast down by a false love! Gratitude for reading this!
when the bridge becomes a pier (Connectivity Poor!)

extended arm, but finds no counterpart, empty air friction,
the bridge becomes a pier, ocean refuses to red sea split, yield,
road divides, dead-ended headed, no turnaround, only STOP! signs

when broken ends are splintered, jagged, glue won’t work, no fix,
two too twisted arms cannot hold on, too tense, too tight,  
being over-alone, solitude passed, secrets go untold

tongue buds are busted broke, vicissitudes of pandemic,
voices, once golden, now just rusted, red flecked word droppings,
only one message from above: Connectivity Poor, Try Life Again, Later!
?What good is to be a King
when you cannot lead,
what good is to be a shepard
when the flock dying,
what good are David’s psalms
when God is not listening
I once crossed a bridge,
That now is burnt.
It seems that behind,
All are hurt.
A word too quick.
Can't be taken back.
My whole world,
Goes to black.
Actions and reactions,
Done in haste.
It all seems,
Such a waste.
Regret, it rears it's ugly head,
and desires to be fed.
But regret, A bridge, can't rebuild
Not when it's very foundations are crumbled.
And covered by the embers,
That used to be a bridge.
Bridges are built on faith and trust.
The strong ones are steel,
And will withstand rust.
But thoughtless words,
Spoken in haste.
Can lay even the strongest,
Bridge to waste.
A reminder to myself, to us all that we should engage our brain before opening ones mouth.
Dimitris Jul 24
I heard you travelled to Rome,
with that new man you fell in love
You drunk espresso on a boat
he even bought you a red rose

He wears sharp clothes, he has good style
but let me guess he has no clue
that you would rather have some tea
and jasmine is your favourite bloom

So, why are you smiling a half smile?
why are you sharing a half heart?
when baby you're my only one
and I'm the only man you want

I heard you went to Pantheon
as we were planning to do,
confessed to Gods a heavy secret
carrying along with you:

As you walked across the Milvian Bridge
a memory flashed through your mind
The time we danced when we first kissed
under the Acropolis at night

So, why are you smiling a half smile?
why are you sharing a half heart?
when baby you're my only one
and I'm the only man you want
Hermes Varini Jul 24
Thou, dishonorable Highlan' skellum,
Thy dreary whunstane shall not see again!
Nor thy unworthy Clan Banner,
Yet my Blade!
Yet my Blade!
Gleaming here, owre,
At auld Stirling Bridge,
Wi' fiery bluid imbued,
Graving still deep mirk stane,
Under yon Steel Glare
Ne'er to wane!
Another poem of mine, still in a medieval Scottish tone, and mentioning the great battle of Stirling Bridge in AD 1297. There is a semiotic variant of this martial-philosophical composition.
Author’s note: A few months ago, an email appeared in my inbox. The sender submitted an unexpected, yet important question. He asked, “What is the easiest way to **** myself?” My answer was unorthodox, but it came from my own experience and pain. I have stared Death in the eye before, and I knew exactly how to answer this sensitive question. This poem was my response.

Each time that my mind was finally ready to end it all,
I stood on the end of a bridge, ready to jump.
It always seemed like it would be quick and cheap.
The pain would end in seconds.
It is bold and dramatic, and makes a statement to the ones that have harmed you.
Avoid jumping into oncoming traffic, and no one else’s life is at risk.
In truth, there are worse ways to die.
I’m not gonna tell you to “better” your life. That’s dumb.
You don’t want to hear that s*.
People DO NOT understand what it feels like to want to die.
They do not understand the pain of despair, in its purest form.
They think they do. But no.
Craving death, is a dinner for one.
You don’t need someone to tell you that you are loved.
You don’t need reminded that you have your whole life ahead of you.
Sometimes it feels like I’m being smothered by people.
Smothered in fake love and care.
And I can’t deal with it…I CAN’T BREATHE!!!
People only pretend to care now because they know we’re not scared anymore.
They know we have stared Death directly in the eye,
as he beckoned for us,
and we didn’t run. We smiled.
We stared back at Death and said,
You don’t need to be smothered with love.
You don’t need reminded of life.
You need space.
You need to be left alone, to think. To breathe.
Be at one, with your thoughts.
That’s where my mind was, when I stood on the edge of that bridge.
Breathing. At one, with myself.
In that moment of beauty and peace……I jumped.

Time froze.

At once, I remembered what being alone felt like. Truly alone.
It was just me. Floating in air. No one else.
But amazingly, that felt ok. I was ok.
Even though I was alone, I was not lonely.
This crisis my mind was enduring, was only temporary. Fleeting, like life itself.
This just one tiny moment, in the grand scheme of things.
I was wrong. I was SO wrong.
I realized, in that moment, as the water grew closer…
That everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable, was totally fixable —
except for having just jumped.
Yet, here I am. Alive.
A survivor.
Some broken bones, and a couple of fishermen serving as my guardian angels—
and I was just fine.
And I was so happy. It was not my time to go.
When I stared at Death and told him, “ok”,
Death stared back at me, shook his head, and said:
“Not today. You are not finished yet.”
If it’s your time to go, then I’m not going to tell you to stay.
But while your standing on the edge of the bridge —
And you look at your life, and put that moment into perspective.
Remind yourself:
This is the only moment you won’t be able to take back.
Look down, off the edge of that bridge,
of your darkness…
and turn around.
Smile real big,
and walk away.
“Not today. You are not finished yet.”


Final note: A week after I responded with this poem, I received a message that simply read:
“Not today. I am not finished yet. Thank you.”
This is the most important thing I’ve ever written, and 100% a true story. I hope this helps someone out there who is struggling to make sense of their place in this life.
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."

Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"

Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.

Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.

by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

Where Does the Butterfly Go?
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?


The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch

He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.

by Michael R. Burch

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.

To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
translation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.

Dog Daze: Poems for and about Man's Best Friend

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.

Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch

for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever

Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.


This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.

My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.

One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.

Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!

But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?

His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.

His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with ***.

But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.

Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.

Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held *****,
his face suffused with the salt spray.

Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.

Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.

He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.

Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.

by Michael R. Burch

Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .

You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed

Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.

Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.

May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold

and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.

Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!

The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch

for Harmony

Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.

Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,

strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move

with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!

When autumn came early,
you could not stay.

Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom

and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room

is your resting place.

Await by the door
her remembered step,

her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.

Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret

its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,

And when you awaken,
she will be there,

at the Rainbow Bridge.

Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).

Lady’s Favor: the Noble Ballad of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch

Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?

From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!

When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a Scrubbie that it could crawl on like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent her the message she had requested.

Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch

Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.

Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.

And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.

Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch

Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!

Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for his mommies,
one of the SEVEN ―

the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.


Keywords/Tags: animals, nature, dog, dogs, love, lovers, cat, cats, bird, birds, butterfly, rainbow bridge, soul, soulful, friends, best friend, mrbanim, mrbanimal
Qweyku Jun 30
Deception sought to beckon in the shadows,
But the wind carried the gentle lips of Wisdom,


“...only fools believe in the trickery of darkness.”

Such a fragile bridge
From dusk to dawn today
Its moorings & way too narrow,
The fingers of the heart
clinging to deceit.

Set the dew of diligence at the gate
Like the flaming sword of Eden!
Forbidding fear ingress, but
Thoroughfare to the Comely Trio;

Righteousness, Peace & Joy!

Permit the Spirit of His Kingdom
Wholly reign within.

© Qwey.ku
Grey May 4
The words are twisting around me,
wringing me out like a wet towel.
The tune is stretched and thin
as if it's an ode to the last of my happiness.
It speaks to me almost as loud
as the ghosts screaming in my ears,
except the unprescribed medication
I drown myself in
doesn't keep it out of my head.
I have to remind myself daily --
they don't know you
they don't care about you
the words aren't sung about you.
But how could they not,
when they ring so true?
How can they not
when my stomach turns
to the time of the music,
when the tears leak out of my eyes
the same way the last notes
leave the guitar?
How can they not
when they're the only bridge to reality
I have left?
Next page