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Something Simple Apr 2020
Cascade of flowing vines
Mushrooms pushing through soft logs
The movement half glimpsed,
From the corner of your eyes
Cicadas buzz and hum softly then loudly
Lichen grows on damp rocks

They say that moss only grows
On the left sides of trees - or was it the right?
Pillow soft and dew beaded
Nature's cushion
Nature's stage for a round fairy ring
Secluded den

A centaur moves beneath the trees,
Dappled skin glowing
In yellow green light
Dainty steps
And the growing of things
LC Apr 2020
neither.
her body froze over,
attempting to protect her.
it became a block of ice,
waiting for him to leave.
when he did,
she slowly, carefully
chipped at the ice.
some parts of her
are still frozen,
but she's walking
towards the sun.
#escapril day 27!
freezing is a common response to trauma, and what happened was not your fault. it was your body trying to protect you.
Michael Luciano Apr 2020
The echos are burning through the valley at dawn.
The voices are muffled but seep out through the calm.
They are asking for forgiveness they beg for a change.
They wonder if we will take them from the weight of the blame.

Who are you deceivers, from where do you hail?
Why did your creator build you to fail?

The voices speak of rebellion that creeps in the night.
Who will bound through the darkness and burst in to the light.
The bringers of disease, talkers of fame.
They beat us to submission in the dirt of the plains.

The savages you are that hail from the earth.
Created form dust, molded in dirt.

The master speaks of the bridges he's burnt from the streams.
Ignited by torches who were ripped from the trees.
The builder of fires, the polluter of dreams.
The layers of waste are bursting from the seams.

Retreat to the darkness, and be banished from earth.
Leave it all in vain, your birth was a curse.

The moon returns again rising through the sky in the night.
Reflecting its azure light in to the eyes of the flies in flight.
Take us now to shelter, remove us from this vice.
On the painful journey away from this sacrifice.
I have that yearning in me.
Pushing me,
Driving me forward.

I have that longing in me,
Sponsor of my sleepless nights.

If only I could get to the place
Where my thoughts
Are no longer racing

If only I could catch a flight…
But for now
I am just sick of waiting.
I look at the decorative paper with colored illustrations of moths. They’re beautiful–why don’t people write more odes to moths? A moth is free.
The moth just like the butterfly comes to know flight, but when it’s sedentary it rests with its wings open unlike the butterfly. Why don’t we champion how it waits within this state of openness.
How when the moment comes it’ll be closer to readiness.

I look back at the many drawings on that same thin sheet over my desk and I want to cry. I guess I’m staying here a little longer; I will sit and rest like a moth–
preparing until I, too can take to the skies.
Josephine Wilea Apr 2020
and when you say my name
you'd think I had
one million Delta miles
from the trips my heart goes on
- except it doesn’t
because
my flight was cancelled
I’ve had this ticket for
nine months and twenty-three days
it was non-refundable
but I'm already on the plane
Dunkin’ coffee cup
perched precariously on the armrest
they almost spelled my name right
my phone only has 11%
I knew it could charge
right when we boarded
I thought you were waiting for me
you made paper “welcome” signs
and set up the pullout couch
I’ve been waiting
two hundred and ninety-eight days
and now you're telling me
this plane isn’t going anywhere.
my hopes for us have jammed the engines.
Might submit this to my school's magazine to be published, so feedback would be greatly appreciate (please!). I'm not quite sure if the title suits the poem.
vanessa ann Apr 2020
what are you waiting for, little bird?
the day has just begun, there was an angel
at 5th street and she told me to say hi to you,
little bird. what’s your plan for today?

you cannot sit around and wait for a suitor to offer words of praise,
you must learn to sing your own.
you will not get a thousand retweets on that little bird app but you must
do, anyway. do, anyhow. do, do. i do.

i bear with me no key to help you flee
there will not be a kind knight to hear your plea

o little bird, remind me
of your plans of jailbreak last night, speak
to me, have you learned to bend metals with your beak?
will you set yourself free?
—release
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
                                              fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps

and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.

Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled



Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...

Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch

I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand

and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands

where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting

and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting

and all I remember
—upon awaking—

is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking

one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,

forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.

II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!

To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking

rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...

Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...

Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!

I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.

III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,

for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—

they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix

fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.

IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished

rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.

To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,

soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.

V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,

we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.

VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—

I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.

Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,

so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.

I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,

though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Free Fall to Liftoff
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
                                   and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like late November leaves
with nothing left to cling to ...



The following poems about free-falling were written with Tom Petty's song "Free-Fallin'" in mind...



Free Fall (I)
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

These cloudless nights, the sky becomes a wheel
where suns revolve around an axle star ...
Look there, and choose. Decide which moon is yours.
Sink Lethe-ward, held only by a heel.

Advantage. Disadvantage. Who can tell?
To see is not to know, but you can feel
the tug sometimes—the gravity, the shell
as lustrous as damp pearl. You sink, you reel

toward some draining revelation. Air—
too thin to grasp, to breathe. Such pressure. Gasp.
The stars invert, electric, everywhere.
And so we fall in spirals through night’s fissure—

two beings—pale, intent to fall forever
around each other—fumbling at love’s tether ...
now separate, now distant, now together.



Free Fall (II)
by Michael R. Burch

after Tom Petty

I have no earthly remembrance of you, as if
we were never of earth, but merely white clouds adrift,
swirling together through Himalayan altitudes—
no more man and woman than exhaled breath—unable to fall
back to solid existence, despite the air’s sparseness: all
our being borne up, because of our lightness,
toward the sun’s unendurable brightness . . .

But since I touched you, fire consumes each wing!

We who are unable to fly, stall
contemplating disaster. Despair like an anchor, like an iron ball,
heavier than ballast, sinks on its thick-looped chain
toward the earth, and soon thereafter will be sufficient pain
to recall existence, to make the coming darkness everlasting.

Keywords/Tags: autumn, leaves, cling, clinging, wind, death, flight, fly, flying, transport, free fall, liftoff, departure, bare, barren, leafless, skeletal
Matt Bernstein Apr 2020
Take me clear into mist and cotton.
Launch a rocket through heavens door.
What a rush to be perched from a bird's eye view
and see man's triumphs laid bare like toys.

Through history, we've chased the wind.
Forever grasping at fleeting breaths.
And now we've brought all of man's glory and sins
so much higher than where we began.
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