He was my papaw and he was my father's dad.
When he died in 1994, it was both tragic and sad.
If Papaw had survived, he would be celebrating his birthday.
If he hadn't died, he would've become 100 years old today.
He was born on July the 28th of 1923.
Today he would've lived for a century.
When Papaw took some medication, he became very sick.
He died six days after his birthday because he was allergic.
Dad was hurt by Papaw's death and so was I.
It's always painful to learn that a grandparent is going to die.

A wild fire in her heart
Lightening in her eyes
Yet there's a gag over her mouth
And her arms are bound
Her legs in quick sand
Her steps uncertain and light




Dressed in black silk
And the most expensive perfume
Ginika bleeds
From her ears, nostrils and the corner of her lips.


Skin like honey and smooth like egg shell
Yet marked with traces of the heart's wound.
Upturned lips tinged with the colour of pain .
Paraded like the finest of masquerades.
Head held high but the whole world on her shoulders.
     Her picture on the magazine doesn't stop the whispers.

The world will empty
Eventually
You’ll find your way out
Be it space or death
Ultimately
The world will empty

Don't feel like a cog.


Don't feel like a bird either.

The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

(lines written at the close of the 20th century and introduction of the 21st century)

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.
And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,

hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
“How can this be?”
A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.
I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.

Originally published by The Centrifugal Eye. Keywords/Tags: new, century, wake, new year, party, Central Park, fireworks, song, display

She saw me with the twinkle in her eye
A smirk a wry grin mistaken for a cry
The smooth sound of voice with voice
Satiny smooth skin a perk of the ear, her choice
Her sensory saucy chagrin the uplift of silky tragedies
The embulient sound of, come hither, wise words that look to expound from deep forgotten cavities
Alas.
How one tries to read a phone!