This fountain
Started off beautiful
Water flowed gently
All parts working together

But like good things,
Something dark looms
The outside looks put together
The inside is a mess

It takes a lot of work
To make the fountain function
The outcome may be beautiful
The road there isn't

Gears turn
Pumps push and pull
To make the water gush
So majestically

To become what it is
It had to be built
With hard labor
And ugly sweat

Sure the foundation gets attention
Sure it gives so little
Sure it's beautiful
But that's not what it takes
To be so great

Fountainhead
by Michael R. Burch

I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets’ wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:

to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean ...

to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs

seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun’s pale tourmaline.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, PW Review, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times

Keywords/Tags: Fountain, love, heart, pulse, bathe, kiss, sun, marble, bust, tides, sighs, eyes, sun, tourmaline

the firmament calls forth delicate bubbles from deep beneath the soil
under my feet, pine tree roots
further below, the fountain gone stagnant

glimmering spheres moving through air compliment the evergreen needles
unavoidable bursts of rot, exuded from that which grows beside the fountain
in a swampy green place, mother of the pines

eternal life giver, balancing this forest upon it’s ancient branches
with every step, a wobble
with every misstep, another burst

to which i inhale my worst of days, and live from those days onward

I saw you in Roman Holiday years ago
but you are much thinner now
today is Monday
both you and your master have a day off
the sea horses make no waves
nor the Triton and the chariot

Wishing for a happy return
I stand with my back toward you
as done in the movie
and quickly toss
three five-hundred-lira coins

Hoping they won’t devalue too badly
before they hit bottom

I walk through the park every day.
Sometimes I squeeze through the crowd and toss a coin into the fountain, longing vibrating through every molecule of my body.
I’ve done it maybe twenty times now. I wish for the same thing each time.
(I can’t say what it is, though— then it won’t come true. And I really need it to.)

Amid a cluster of intermingling people, I stand almost-alone;
Me and my coin and my one wish.

I wonder, sometimes, how much it matters.
If I’m just deluding myself and tossing  
pennies nickels dimes quarters
Into the water, emptying my wallet splash after splash in naive pursuit of something I know I will never have.

Small children join me in tossing nuggets of wishful thinking, their parents laughing at the naivete of it all.
I imagine a world where I don’t rely on a coin to shift my luck.

I wonder if I know somewhere beneath this self-deception that it doesn’t matter.
That no matter how many pennies I toss,
No matter how many stars I wish on,
No matter how many dandelions I blow into the wind, eyes squeezed tight with desperate desire,
Sometimes wishes just don’t come true.

But I know I’ll toss another coin in tomorrow. I don’t have to wonder about that.

In the water
Our spinning coins join to
reflect a halo round the moon,

Beautifully glowing in place before the inevitable fall.

In the park, soft-study of sands and swings,
Where the birds while away the unabridged air
Like rains on green, copper roofs ~ their wings.
So I have touched my rainy fingers on the fountain’s surface,
And tum-tumed at the dumpy belly of a dog,
So I have felt the vendor’s balloons like cantaloupes for freshness,
So I have a pocket-change of smiles for all.
At the fountain’s edge,
Like green-molded quaystones feather-singed
By the touchstrokes of the arcing wings of the sea,
Or like a saucer of warm milk
For the alley-cats to drink the milkiness of sun
And then with their paws,
Plink at overturning the day into porcelain shadows.

I'll draw you a picture;
I'll draw it with a twist;
I'll draw it with a razor;
I'll draw it on my wrist;
If i do it correctly;
A red fountain will appear;
To take away my pain,
And wash away my fears

I am beautiful like heaven glows,
and fountains of time kiss my cheeks,
wisdom of fragile sensibility and grace.