Twinkle twinkle my little star
How I wonder how you got that scar
Up above the world so high
I could hear your silent cry
In this lullaby
Let me tell you a story
It's not a mystical fantasy nor just a legend spread by many
It's nothing but a harsh and cruel reality

I once got off on a damaged road
And met this child who wore a tattered coat
No slippers on his ***** foot
On his back was probably some loot
He got somewhere in the neighborhood
The cemented path was scorching hot
Oh how could I forgot?
It's 40 degrees outside and I could see sweat dripping down from his face non stop
How could I bear watch him that way?
So I approached and say if he want some ice tea
The child nodded with his tiny head
I led him to sat on the grass at the nearby park
Talked about things that made me upset
Things that snapped by bottomline thread
With a muffled voice he pretended
To be fine as he recalled scenes that made me shuddered
Who could have known a child who should be in kinder
Is working his bones for what?
A money so meager it couldn't cover his meals for dinner?
It hit me
Blindfolded eyes that couldn't see
That Jack and Jill did not just went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Needeed some lumber
Till the soil for the cucumbers
Catch some fishes at the river
Dig the goldmines deeper
Lights flicker, it's time for supper
Only noodles for the tummy
Where is empathy? humanity?
This was a result of poverty
Lack of responsibility
And a deaf society
His name was Juan and Juan got a sister
Who was so lovely it became her tragedy
Caught the pervert's attention
Made use of her innocence for exploitation
Robbed her dignity
She couldn't care less for your sympathy
She needed for you to stop being a silent somebody
Itsy bitsy spider
Spunning webs on tiny rough fingers
Cover the nose, chemicals in the air
The sharp tools beware
Take good care of your welfare
Ah, why do they have to bid farewell?
To stardust dreams? To fluffy teddybears?
To have notebooks instead of burdens?
To play hide and seek instead of running away from the grim reaper?
Open your eyes, people!
This is nothing simple
This is not a fairy tale
They are our children with stories to tell
Stuck at the deepest layers of hell
Being slaves to demons who don't give a care

It's time to row row row our boat
Gently but quickly down the stream
To rescue Juan and his sister
And a million more who we owed
Childhood memories and sparkling dreams
Row row row our boat
Get that voice you swallowed
Be their voice in a noisy seas
Let the world hear their pleas
To the children who had factory noises as everyday melodies
To the children who had stale breads as cookies
Who had rags as clothes and having shoes means luxuries
Show them that you care
That you are aware
And their hopeful shouts didn't led to nowhere

Twinkle Twinkle my little star
We are not so far
Up above the world so high
I could still hear your silent cry
But be ready to say goodbye
To the life worst than ants

Hold my hands
Let me listen to your heartly laughs
We rowed our boat for that
To see you away from the labor's grasps

Twinkle Twinkle My Little Star
Let me see you shine as the star you are

sense heavy
  i plough at the day slurred
  pushing putty steps
aching and unfocused
  going about chores
  tackling things ...like...
...have i been delivered head trauma?

unbearable attention is drawn by my visible condition
pain inducing communications are fired at me
inquiry that i bat at and parry pathetic

Can I lumber onward
nauseated i
and be
in anyway productive ?
muscular suffering
this astronaut
this deep sea explorer
is
receiving a poor mix of gases

valve

A billion dollars I have gathered
That’s the billionaire’s way
The bit that I’ve earned
a tiny fraction of that
(only so many hours in a day)
Instead of hard work
I work around rules
that once described the way
that one who worked hard
spending effort and hours
could secure that hard day’s worth of pay

Many have struggled
to build the wealth I’ve now juggled
into shelters and holdings and banks
I could carelessly burn it
‘cause I didn’t earn it
But those who did,
I guess,
deserve thanks

Waiting on the elevator
For my day of labor
Instant gratification after
Days of waiting safer
Now we talk in secret
Spaces craving the others
Flavor of disgust leaving
Rust in my joints and bones
Masochistic I remember
Pain has always been my
Home.

-First car.

Shiny fine silver,
For
A shy new driver,
Who in time,
Saved
Every dime,
So he
Could buy,
A sweet New ride,
for
A fair Price.

Sonnet: Second Sight (II)
by Michael R. Burch

(Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.)

Wiser than we know, the newborn screams,
red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means
this close to death, amid the arctic glare
of warmthless lights above.
Beware! Beware!—
encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts?

Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts—
the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist.
Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist—
this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense.
Why can he not float on, in dark suspense,
and dream of life? Why did they rip him out?

He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt—
and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!,
re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null
ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, newborn, baby, birth, labor, slap, breath, screams, life, sight, vision, mrbson

everyone has heard of the acorn tale
”Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded.”
everyone has listened to the Little Red Hen
”she made the bread herself, she will eat the bread herself.”
----------------
not everyone has their hands stained with labor
we all need to work together
stop the bickering and name-calling
stop the delusional thinking and help make the bread
we got this - we have to get this!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 249

Have you ever bought a perfume labeled
“Monday in the Fields” ?

It has a faint fragrance where
milkweeds and lilies linger in the air,
as if a gust of wind from the clouds
drifted it towards you.

Slowly but surely the aroma gets stronger,
as if the milkweeds and lilies are gathering
to form a bouquet made especially for you.
You reach out your hand to accept them
but an unexpected musk flows past you.

Suddenly a smell as salty and natural
as the deepest parts of the ocean appears.
An ocean filled with oxidized metal
and fields of brackish seaweed.
It is a distinct and intoxicating smell,
a smell that can only be found in one place.

That place is from the beads of sweat
that drip off the back and forehead of the laborer.
The very laborer who picked the milkweeds and lilies.
The very laborer who works under a scorching sun.
The very laborer who skips meals to work overtime.
The very laborer who helped arrange this scent.

Not every scent is placed in a perfume bottle.
Well...at least not the natural ones.

I don’t accept
I’m not ready
You’re not ready

To say
“I’m sorry”

Because to forgive for me
Is to forget for you

And I’m not ready
For you to forget

I need you to remember
To think
To agonize

As I have remembered
And thought
And agonized

Not as punishment
Sometimes pain is necessary for growth

So I need you to struggle
To grow
To seek to understand

Otherwise your “sorry”
Is a blank canvas
Meant for me to write
The meaning

I refuse to do your labor
To bear this pain alone

I don’t accept
Your “sorry”