lay out your map to me
unfolded, unrolled, exposed

i'll climb your high mountains
all the bumps, the rise and fall

i'll swim thru your ocean
thru quiescent bodies of water
thru unrelenting waves

my fingers, they'd venture
thru lands, unsullied
and thru those, besmirched

La la la, la la
La, la la

My dear child,
You have room to grow still
Venture out, free and wild
Sit not at the sill
Looking out at the world below
Remain not in woe
Move to the next season
For you need not a reason

Grow, deepen thy roots
Release the childhood leaves
Mature, reach for the stars
From your good works there shall be fruits
Yes, eventually one grieves
But all scars
Heal and tell thine tales
Greater than ever before
Leap o'er the rails
Above those who are a bore
Following no known road
Create one of your own
Like a frog out of cover of a toad.

- Jay M
April 10th, 2020

With minimum effort

Weakness they thought, as they were boys
Silence it was, as he was a man.

Vengeance they sought, as they were boys
Forgiveness he had , as he was a man.

Popularity they craved, as they were boys
Respect he had , as he was a man .

Talk they did, as they were boys
Actions he took, as he was a man.

The society made a shell around him , trying to keep him a boy, All filled with ego,insecurity,show off,anger,hatred.
Courage it took , to break the shell and
                        BE A MAN

i’m a year to twenty.
soon to be twenty-one,
twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty four, and suddenly halfway to fifty;
when life gets a little more busy,
perhaps with a few kids running around,
and god forbid—my breath smelling like whisky.

then i’d turn sixty,
hopefully still as witty
and my tongue just as filthy.

and perhaps by then,
i’d gladly sell my kidney,
because it’s no biggie,
really,
if it means god takes pity
and returns me back to my fifties,
forties,
thirties,
twenties,
teen-ties.

Hearthside
by Michael R. Burch

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats

For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.

The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.

I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.

This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, mature, love, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove

Secret plots and whispered conversations
They've drawn down their lines in the sand

My limbs and legs dance in painted mirth
For the strings are in their hands

But a part of mine has escaped their eyes
The smouldering flame, the closet arsonist

Parched with a desire, to set the world on fire
Tired and old, tied in a fold, the soul begins to resist

I know,
They'll come with sharpened claws
and hardened steel
But like a snake, I'll escape,
I will shed my skin
I'll crawl through the crevice
that they've never seen
They can't stop me forever
Yes - I'll be free!


The smell of incense and the sound of bells
do not appeal to the senses any longer

For the messengers swoop down like vultures
and I sense I am outnumbered

They're all cut from the same cloth,
Gloating authority and feigning wisdom

Unnecessary absolution awaits in their arms
should the sinner kneel before their Gods

I know,
They'll come with righteous preachment
and medicine
But like a rebel in defiance
I'll bathe in sin
They will pray, say, everyday -
that I am sick
They can't stop me forever
Oh I'll be free!


My pen does not understand the pangs of hunger
It does not feel the need to be polite
It dances to the tune of the chaos in my mind
It moves like a runaway kite

You know,
They want a people of marionettes,
to make promises they never keep
They want to keep us in separate boxes,
So that we may never meet -
They will try to take our languages,
Censor the truths we speak
But they can not stop us forever
This world is ours, and we'll be free.

Just you see.

Quiet meal, just the two of us
is something we still like to share.
It’s always easier to be ourselves
when no one else is there.

Slow dance, is still our favourite dance
you and I together, me holding you near.
While you listen as I softly whisper
words of love in your ear.

Gentle passion, that’s how we want it
when you share your love with me.
Still romantic and always tender.
That’s how we like it to be.

Night falls and you share my pillow
feels good holding you close like I do
Dawn breaks and then you kiss me
and I know all I need is you.