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Damian Murphy May 27
Those who lack a common purpose,
A strong sense of fraternity,
Rarely shall be victorious
Against a common enemy.

Those who choose to work together,
  Who share responsibility,
Who unite in their endeavours,
Have much more hope of victory.
These Hallowed Halls
by Michael R. Burch

a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age . . .


A final stereo fades into silence
and now there is seldom a murmur
to trouble the slumber
of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched
the passage of time—alone,
not untouched.

And I am as they were
for the days
stretch out ahead,
a bewildering maze.


Ah, faithless lover—
that I had never touched your breast,
nor felt the stirrings of my heart,
which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration
of a heart that has vaulted the Pinnacle of Love,
and the result of each such infatuation—
the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.


A solitary clock chimes the hour
from far above the campus,
but my peers,
returning from their dances,
heed it not.

And so it is
that we seldom gauge Time’s speed
because He moves so unobtrusively
about His task.

Still, when at last
we reckon His mark upon our lives,
we may well be surprised
at His thoroughness.


Ungentle maiden—
when Time has etched His little lines
so carelessly across your brow,
perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen
your youth, as He certainly shall in course,
perhaps you will wish you had taken me
along with my broken heart,
even as He will take you with yours.


A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.

To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.


So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills’
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any;
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your perfect pillowcase?


If I had been born when knights roamed the earth
and mad kings ruled savage lands,
I might have turned to the ministry,
to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today—
theirs is a lost occupation
carried on, if at all,
merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude—
he craves companions, song and drink,
seldom seeking a quiet moment,
to sit alone, by himself, to think.


And so I cannot shut myself
off from the rest of the world,
to spend my days in philosophy
and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can,
and learn to keep my thoughts away
from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth,
centuries past though lost but a day.


Yes, I must discipline myself
and adjust to these lackluster days
when men display no chivalry
and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.


A single stereo flares into song
and the first faint light of morning
has pierced the sky's black awning
once again.


This is a sacred place,
for those who leave,
leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here,
add, with their sleepless nights and tears,
quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls
of these Hallowed Halls.

NOTE: I wrote this poem from the window of my freshman dorm at age 18, while watching students returning from rush week parties in the wee hours of the morning. There is also a sonnet version of the poem. In this longer version there are clues that the poet, like Prufrock, is aware of the quaintness of his Romanticism in the modern age. I consider “These Hallowed Halls” to be my Ars Poetica, along with “Poetry.” Keywords/Tags: College, dorm, fraternity, rush, Romantic, unrequited, love, ivy, halls, learning, education, ivory, towers, stereo, music, romance, chivalry, maidens, damsels, knights, kings, monks, hermits, clock, time
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
There's an apology written in the snow
'I'm sorry about last night. Can I see you again?'
Her wordless exhalation causing the glass to fog
In nearly the same way as her thoughts
About last night

Second date
First ****
"25% of college women report that they survived **** or an attempted **** at some point in their lifetime.
Every 21 hours, another woman is ***** on a college campus today." --
Zywa Oct 2019
Shoot me, shoot me
shoot me to heaven
up in the oak, everyone
barefoot on the family bed
.....Come join us, here you are free!

We don't have to believe in anything
except in each other, the singer too
is loose, he laughs at his amulet
and waves to the old man:
.....Come join us, here you are free!

The greybeard sees everything
with fun eyes in his long beard
full of bushes of moss in which
the wren whistles:
.....Come join us, here you are free!

Come in the Crown
take off your shoes and socks
together on the family bed
a warm blanket to each other
.....Come join us, here you are free!
“Come together” (1969, John Lennon)

Celtic symbolism: Ouir (the Oak), the tree of calm, truth and steadfast knowledge; the Oak should be guided by Dagda (the father of all gods) and the Wren (the king of the birds and the symbol of wit and subtlety)

Singer: Chuck Berry

Collection “Lilith's Powers" #28
Hey Human! I am your Sibling.

Queen bee wings are Ripped,
bee niblings are Smoked
For Your Honey Sweet.
Hey human! Listen your Sibling’s Buzz.

Tiger lost bones for Medicine,
Fox lost fur for Fashion,
Sharks lost fins for Soup.
Hey human! Do Not Butcher Siblings.

Simba’s life is not your Trophy,
Jumbo’s tusks are not Decors,
Helmets of Hornbills are not jewels.
Hey human! Do Not Reap Siblings.

Emperors of ice continent lost land,
Economics is making Amazon less,
Logging makes Orangutans homeless.
Hey human! Do Not Invade Siblings.

Warm oceans bleach corals,
Water depleted in cities,
We ingest plastic regularly.
Hey human! Do Not Desert the Earth.

Overfishing is holocaust of aquatic life,
Livestock levitates toxic emissions.
Hey human! Do Not Prey on Siblings.

Lichens stunned by pollution,
Symbionts are disintegrating,
Biodiversity is declining.
Hey human! Be Together with Siblings.

Hey Human! We are Offsprings of Mother Nature.
Monera, Animalia, Fungi, Plantae, Protista
all have common roots.
We are branches of the one Phylogenetic Tree
rooting Common Ancestry unto LUCA.

Hey Human! We are Siblings.
Hey Human! Recall your Siblings.
Hey Human! Revive your Siblings.
Fraternity eliminates exploitation.By developing kinship with animals and other life forms we can pave way for sustainability.

This poem says how humans are exploiting various life forms of Earth and attempts to inculcate fraternity with them.

It deals with trophy hunting, ivory smuggling, animal skin trade, glaciers melting - Antarctica - Emperor penguins, deforestation, coral bleaching, endangered microorganisms, loss of biodiversity, plastic pollution, over-fishing, ill effects of animal husbandry, traditional medicine.
Zywa Apr 2019
My heart is not smiling
my eyes are watchful
I am a chameleon

From my cave, I crawl
cautiously through my life
wet when it rains

arid when the sun burns
shy under the leaves
when the masters go by

who don't want to see me
their eyes don't smile
it is a game

that doesn't make me happy
I dream chameleon dreams
of a smooth, uniform skin

that can always be the same
I dream of shedding my skin
that way for once, like a snake
Inspired by “Once upon a time” (1989, Gabriel Okara)
Julian Delia May 2018
Liberté, égalité, fraternité.
L’ homme est né libre,
Pourtant partout il est enchaîné.
An eternally torturous question,
Oozing out of our minds like an infection;
Are we all equal?

Perhaps not when it comes to skill;
Some can lead, some can thrill.
Some can cook, and therefore feed;
Some can run, some can read.
All of us can do something –
No standardised test,
No uniformly assigned competition
Could ever possibly measure
This unique treasure,
The human ability to set off on an endeavour
And achieve astounding feats.

So, then –
Are we born equally endowed?
Perhaps not; should differential talents
Be stimulated, encouraged,
Voiced aloud?

A resounding yes, a thousand times yes!
We should only accept being under duress
When of forced labour and working to exist
We start hearing less and less,
When that concerted effort is directed
Not at striving at surviving
But at truly living, not just slowly dying.

Truly living is about doing what you love,
Being able and free to do so,
Learning that which you don’t know
And expanding that which you do know.
This is not our reality –
We are all born exactly the same,
Yet the country you were born in
Hell, even your family’s name,
Are things that determine
Where you will be positioned
In this foul, ***** game.

This is where we aren’t born equal –
In our right and access
To freely engage in the pursuit of happiness.
There is a seedling of potential in all of us,
One that can be grown –
Let it be known
That all seedlings can become a mighty tree,
If given the following three:
A space in which a fertile mind can be cultivated,
A community in which love can be propagated,
And the freedom to exist without being incarcerated.
Liberty, equality, fraternity.
Man is born free, yet everywhere he goes he is in chains.
(Jacques Rousseau)
Alianna Nov 2017
One time when I was on acid
I climbed to the top of a mountain
And mimicked the trees
Danced in the breeze
Colors pulsing from the roots to the leaves
Everything breathes
Has a purpose to be
A choir of soft voices
Whispers inaudibly
The hums are enough to comfort me
They keep me warm on this balcony
Bird's eye witness to the souls of the young
The jovial
The sprung
fighting for fun
They entertain me
But like all pups
still in training
They sleep too long, play too much,
Bite too hard, drink too much
Can I join the club?
Youdont Needthis Jan 2017
Drunk and violent
I am stumbling over the civil dead
And my toe is caught in their quilt of twisted limbs
There are mother necks
Daughter legs
And fat infant heads
Their skin is a flesh ceramic
That is smooth appearing
Icy cool against my feet
Ceramic soon to be sculpted by scavengers’ ravenous jaws
Into disfigured cradles for writhing spawn of bug

With force I free my toe
I have no time to idle
I am late to my brother’s home

We are in his garden
Backyard desert earth
Clods of clotted dirt
His hands are watering the tangled vines at their pinkish roots
Solemnly he waters with copper tears and spit
To the east I am staring
At the white wall of brick
I wonder what lives inside these spongy chunks

When he finishes watering
He turns his neck
His head
He faces me
Killing my gaze with the porous wall

The lips beneath his compound eye swing wide and fully apart  
He mournfully breathes
Words with sharpened vowels
The letters are sallow blond

My wife
She left
My wife
I slit her throat
My wife
I beat her
Beat her dead
She’s buried by child oak
You smell like whiskey
You smell like musky goat
You smell like the civil dead that line the path to my wealthy home
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