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Mei Aug 11
To trust someone
is something frail
you give others.

They break it with ease,
You're left alone to fix.
I look into your drawn eyes
I realise the tired
Person you have become
You ask me who iam
Why have you come.
I can't fight back the tears
You are a shadow of dull personality
As distant memory of  the past.
There  is no *future
it's gone
Let's face it
You have gone
I don't know you.
I did .
What happened to your sense of humour.
It's died with you
I miss you *Dad


I  cry tears of sadness
For the dad I once knew.
Lost in a body
One in soul
Your spirit will move on
To a better place beyond
Oh dark is the soul
Without God
Tread carefully
with a clean heart.
Better late than never.
Oh how I miss you Dear Dad
It is so hard to watch you leave.
Especially,
when you turn away
without saying a word.
It feels as if someone has stabbed
through my heart with a sword.
I can’t breathe, it is as if someone
is breathing the life out of me.
I want to break free
but I am too weak.
I am too frail to even try and fight.
This feeling is sickening
and it is filling my heart with grief.
A grief that I didn’t know existed
till I saw you leave.
I see your hands touch the door ****
and I want to scream your name,
but all I can do is sit and watch.
No, I can’t watch!
I can’t watch you leave
because it fills my heart with grief.
Instead I will turn my back on you
and let you go.
Just scribbled something and thought of sharing it. Happy reading!


Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2020.
All Rights Reserved.
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her Tears ...

Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe."

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
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?

Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gaza

There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

Keywords/Tags: Frail, envelope, flesh, Gaza, Palestinian, children, mothers, tiny, hand, kiss, mayfly, deluge, tears, epitaph, grave, butterflies
Grey Mar 20
I raise my gaze toward the pale blue sky,
staring out my window as I watch the world go by.
Pale cheek pressed against a ****** hand,
I daydream of travelling across unknown lands.
Fantasy worlds and magic forests tug at the back of my mind,
things that only characters in books could ever really find.
But always stuck in my room, nothing around,
how can I truly know what wonders abound?
To a prisoner, fiction is being free --
something that I know I never will be.
My frail fingers trace the words engraved on the window's wood --
"Your mind will let you be what no one else ever could."
Except how can it really let me live
if life is a present that no one will give?
Trying something new :) This one kind of reminds me of Repunzel, though it was partially inspired by the lockdown.
See
See
by Michael R. Burch

See how her hair has thinned: it doesn’t seem
like hair at all, but like the airy moult
of emus who outraced the wind and left
soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes
are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs,
and deepens on itself, as though mirth took
some comfort there, then burrowed deeply in,
outlasting winter. See how very thin
her features are—that time has made more spare,
so that each bone shows, elegant and rare.
For life remains undimmed in her grave eyes,
and courage in her still-delighted looks:
each face presented like a picture book’s.
Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes.

Keywords/Tags: Elderly, woman, grandmother, thin, thinning, hair, airy, emu, moult, soft, plumage, wrinkles, laugh lines, frail, gaunt, bones, winter, grave, eyes, courage, laughter, family, gathered, bedside, kisses, hugs, goodbyes, farewells, life, death, photo album, pictures, photos, photographs

Published by The Eclectic Muse, Love Me Knots (an anthology of the top 100 contemporary love poems), Nutty Stories (South Africa), Black Medina, The New Formalist, Better Than Starbucks, Potcake Chapbooks, Strange Roads, Sonnetto Poesia, Litera (UK), Poems About, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (in a Farsi translation by Dr. Mahnaz Badihian), Somewhere Along The Beaten Path (Anthology), Freshet, Life & Legends, Famous Poets & Poems, Short Quotes & Poems (listed in the top 10 short poems) and Victorian Violet Press. “See” won 3rd place in the 2003 Writer’s Digest Rhyming Poetry contest, out of over 18,000 overall entries, and was published in Writer’s Digest’s The Year’s Best Writing.
Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address
by Michael R. Burch

(for the victims and survivors of the Holocaust)

We saw their pictures:
tortured out of our imaginations
like golems.

We could not believe
in their frail extremities
or their gaunt faces,

pallid as our disbelief.
They are not
with us now ...

We have:
huddled them
into the backroomsofconscience,

consigned them
to the ovensofsilence,

buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.

We have
so little left
of them

now
to remind us ...

It was my honor to work with survivors of the Holocaust as we translated their poems and prose accounts into English as a way of preserving them and making them available to larger audiences. Unfortunately, time waits for no one and the Holocaust survivors I worked with are no longer with us. But their words and testimonies remain, if we will only take the time to read and consider them. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, victims, survivors, mass graves, pictures, images, tortured, frail, gaunt, skeletal, emaciated, thin, malnourished, golemic, horror, terror, inhumanity, madness, racism, antisemitism, slave labor, slavery, death camps, concentration camps, gas chambers, ethnic cleansing, genocide, memory, remembrance, memorial, tribute
Jacob Charest Feb 17
Take solace in my blistered heart
a disarray of bleeding memories
for I will rise from the ashes
unharmed and unscathed

a moment of equilibrium
glances of ambition
shattered photos of weathered faces
it would appear that I've been reborn

Bask upon the decline
the memories once again fade
becoming decadent once more
for I am frail.
This is a poem from when I was in a depressed state of mind. I always write when I feel upset. This poem is about the feeling of hopelessness and falling back into bad habits, which I think we can all relate to. Thanks for reading.
Poetic T Feb 7
I was the nail in a coffin
                       of hardship.

But just because I was a nail
didn't disconnect me from
                the ideology of my use.

I held it together,
        for many this was to much,
brittle and frail they never dug
                                  down deep.

Where I held this all together,
          I wasn't about to let life
pull me out,.

I was a nail, holding my life together,
           a coffin of hardships that 'll
                                        bury one day..

but for now I'm in deep enough
                          to keep it together.
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