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Amanda Jul 9
In case I have not said it enough
I love you and need you to know
I'm always here for you brother
A fact I don't always show

Just give your sis a chance to improve
Try opening your critical mind
Instead of putting my problems on display
Like laundry strung on a clothesline

Two siblings turned out so different
Close in age yet still grew apart somehow
But realize we're not as different as we think
Comparing both lives then and now

Sometimes wish we'd see eye-to-eye
Walking down a separate road
Shadows darker than yours it seems
My company you've all but outgrown

I remember you'd pick on me
Because I was younger and smaller
You still bully me around these days
Only change is that I'm a bit taller

I am not the little girl you're used to
I often behave that way
When I get mad or frustrated
Emotions too large to convey

It is hard to say what I really mean
Words come out sounding insincere
If I loved you like I swear I do
Wouldn't even be standing here

Believe me when I say this much
You are my favorite brother by far
It doesn't matter that you're my only
Because I am so lucky you are

It must be special
The bond we share
Our hearts through distance connected
The hurtful comments hurled my way
Were concerns you misdirected

We were born
Bound by blood
Pact we unknowingly made at birth
If we both strive to excel and succeed
We can show everyone what we're worth

I will try harder
Text and call you
Make it a choice instead of a chore
Wish I didn't take family for granted
Because you definitely deserve more
To my older brother Michael
I looked down as I flew
Across the midnight sky
My winged being, a silhouette
As I longingly cast my gaze
To heavenly paradise.

I looked down as I flew
Looked into the waters of the styx
The face that stared back at me
Was one I did not reminisce.

I was once God’s favourite
With wisdom far greater than the depths of the oceans
A prince of beauty among the angels
A harbinger to the end of evil.

Alas! Ambition struck my untainted heart
Greed overtook my common sense
I wanted to play God
But Brother Michael’s sword had its revenge.

He cast me out of my own home
Which was more
Than I could withstand.
Now charged with
Collecting the souls of the ******
With a whip in hand
I was left me to lick my wounds in hell
Surrounded by rotten minds
And rotten hearts.
Mike May 14
Star Bound

Society, sobriety, entirely, I’m finally
Not in denial, my smirk is my smile
No coasting or boasting, no time left just get toasted
Rampaging pages, no waiting in cages, lately impatient

I’ve been standing dismantled, thoughts scrambled, abandoned
Pursuing soothing illusions, mirages emerge influent
These terrors in bearing preparing on perishing
Common ground sound, vibrations deterred losing renown

Bracing the wastes, enticing the tastes, priceless the chase
Overencumbered, numbered the days I have left to plunder
Decisions are rampant, listless the canvas, incision the campus
Unveiled are the plans to ensnare, hail to the king of the fail

Spots on the rocks with my scotch in the locks
Pretty, petty, steady confetti, embezzle the Getty be ready
Losses, no life lost, eternally embossed, drained and caustic
Fires burn urging to earn, no concern, my place in the stars

By:  Cosmik
The Making of a Poet
by Michael R. Burch

While I don’t consider “Poetry” to be my best poem—I wrote the first version in my teens—it’s a poem that holds special meaning for me. I call it my ars poetica. Here’s how it came about ...

When I was eleven years old, my father, a staff sergeant in the US Air Force, was stationed in Wiesbaden, Germany. We were forced to live off-base for two years, in a tiny German village where there were no other American children to play with, and no English radio or TV stations. To avoid complete boredom, I began going to the base library, checking out eight books at a time (the limit), reading them in a few days, then continually repeating the process. I quickly exhausted the library’s children’s fare and began devouring its adult novels along with a plethora of books about history, science and nature.

In the fifth grade, I tested at the reading level of a college sophomore and was put in a reading group of one. I was an incredibly fast reader: I flew through books like crazy. I was reading Austen, Dickens, Hardy, et al, while my classmates were reading … whatever one normally reads in grade school. My grades shot through the roof and from that day forward I was always the top scholar in my age group, wherever I went.

But being bright and well-read does not invariably lead to happiness. I was tall, scrawny, introverted and socially awkward. I had trouble making friends. I began to dabble in poetry around age thirteen, but then we were finally granted base housing and for two years I was able to focus on things like marbles, quarters, comic books, baseball, basketball and football. And, from an incomprehensible distance, girls.

When I was fifteen my father retired from the Air Force and we moved back to his hometown of Nashville. While my parents were looking for a house, we lived with my grandfather and his third wife. They didn’t have air-conditioning and didn’t seem to believe in hot food—even the peas and beans were served cold!—so I was sweaty, hungry, lonely, friendless and miserable. It was at this point that I began to write poetry seriously. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because my options were so limited and the world seemed so impossibly grim and unfair.

Writing poetry helped me cope with my loneliness and depression. I had feelings of deep alienation and inadequacy, but suddenly I had found something I could do better than anyone around me. (Perhaps because no one else was doing it at all?)

However, I was a perfectionist and poetry can be very tough on perfectionists. I remember becoming incredibly frustrated and angry with myself. Why wasn’t I writing poetry like Shelley and Keats at age fifteen? I destroyed all my poems in a fit of pique. Fortunately, I was able to reproduce most of the better poems from memory, but two in particular were lost forever and still haunt me.

In the tenth grade, at age sixteen, I had a major breakthrough. My English teacher gave us a poetry assignment. We were instructed to create a poetry booklet with five chapters of our choosing. I still have my booklet, a treasured memento, banged out on a Corona typewriter with cursive script, which gave it a sort of elegance, a cachet. My chosen chapters were: Rock Songs, English Poems, Animal Poems, Biblical Poems, and ta-da, My Poems! Audaciously, alongside the poems of Shakespeare, Burns and Tennyson, I would self-publish my fledgling work!

My teacher wrote “This poem is beautiful” beside one my earliest compositions, “Playmates.” Her comment was like rocket fuel to my stellar aspirations. Surely I was next Keats, the next Shelley! Surely immediate and incontrovertible success was now fait accompli, guaranteed!

Of course I had no idea what I was getting into. How many fifteen-year-old poets can compete with the immortal bards? I was in for some very tough sledding because I had good taste in poetry and could tell the difference between merely adequate verse and the real thing. I continued to find poetry vexing. Why the hell wouldn’t it cooperate and anoint me its next Shakespeare, pronto?

Then I had another breakthrough. I remember it vividly. I working at a McDonald’s at age seventeen, salting away money for college because my parents had informed me they didn’t have enough money to pay my tuition. Fortunately, I was able to earn a full academic scholarship, but I still needed to make money for clothes, dating (hah!), etc. I was sitting in the McDonald’s break room when I wrote a poem, “Reckoning” (later re-titled “Observance”), that sorta made me catch my breath. Did I really write that? For the first time, I felt like a “real poet.”

Observance

Here the hills are old, and rolling
casually in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . .

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . .

For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in . . .

Another poem, “Infinity,” written around age eighteen, again made me feel like a real poet.

Infinity

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity . . . windswept and blue.

Now, two “real poems” in two years may not seem like a big deal to non-poets. But they were very big deals to me. I would go off to college feeling that I was, really, a real poet, with two real poems under my belt. I felt like someone, at last. I had, at least, potential.

But I was in for another rude shock. Being a good reader of poetry—good enough to know when my own poems were falling far short of the mark—I was absolutely floored when I learned that impostors were controlling Poetry’s fate! These impostors were claiming that meter and rhyme were passé, that honest human sentiment was something to be ridiculed and dismissed, that poetry should be nothing more than concrete imagery, etc.

At first I was devastated, but then I quickly became enraged. I knew the difference between good poetry and bad. I could feel it in my flesh, in my bones. Who were these impostors to say that bad poetry was good, and good was bad? How dare they? I was incensed! I loved Poetry. I saw her as my savior because she had rescued me from depression and feelings of inadequacy. So I made a poetic pledge to save my Savior from the impostors:

Poetry

Poetry, I found you where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you to torture and confound you,
I found you—shivering, bare.

They had shorn your raven hair and taken both your eyes
which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies, had leapt with dawn to wild surmise
of what was waiting there.

Your back was bent with untold care; there savage brands had left cruel scars
as though the wounds of countless wars; your bones were broken with the force
with which they’d lashed your flesh so fair.

You once were loveliest of all. So many nights you held in thrall
a scrawny lad who heard your call from where dawn’s milling showers fall—
pale meteors through sapphire air.

I learned the eagerness of youth to temper for a lover’s touch;
I felt you, tremulant, reprove each time I fumbled over-much.
Your merest word became my prayer.

You took me gently by the hand and led my steps from boy to man;
now I look back, remember when—you shone, and cannot understand
why here, tonight, you bear their brand.

I will take and cradle you in my arms, remindful of the gentle charms
you showed me once, of yore;
and I will lead you from your cell tonight—back into that incandescent light
which flows out of the core of a sun whose robes you wore.
And I will wash your feet with tears for all those blissful years . . .
my love, whom I adore.

Originally published by The Lyric
Nothing lasts forever.
Except for the human soul.
The biggest damage
To anyone
It's this energy, inside it, that takes the biggest toll.
After all that has been said and all that shall be done
Remember that a battery needs a positive terminal
Not just the Negative
Terminal to ride the electric rail
to a recharged future.
Underestimated
A sidekick to an ally
When can I become a leader?
For my own life held inside a cage
for the blind eyes……?
A war criminal
Marked as an invalid
An undervalued bright mind
Weighed in Economics
A strong soul
A powerful nuclear force
A simmering Slow cooker ready to explode its lid
Spoken for…
His  ideas are  deemed “illogical :
A "Vulcan”  in despair
Cast Away from His “Home Planet.”

Does any other soul notice your value?
As you stand beside them…?
Is this true Care?

A ghost who cannot be seen nor heard
I’m standing in two dimensions at once

The value of gold which  they fail to let shine
As the surface simply needs a dusting

Of the coverage of the afterbirth
of a war to fight
People’s Conceptions of Your Past Mistakes
Underrated Accomplishments
Pathways blocked by their forced “parenting”
of this “child”
Trapped in an Adult’s body
Who simply wishes to be a shining Somebody?

I become trapped in a void
Enraged like an animal in a cage
A soul who Wishes for equal judgement
Freedom to roam
and for Creative  Expression
No longer suppressed by those who “judge”
A convicted life where they never opened up their eyes
to be seen as equal
He needs to be free to roam
Away from the Blind ones
to his suffering…
He plans to break free
From their *******
The road he must start walking down

A twisted, dark, barren and lonely road
He must carry, onward, through his lone strength
To prove himself a warrior
silent and strict followed moral  codes
Ethics of battle he follows…
Never to  lie down to die for the ones who limit him
He has his eyes wide open


To his rightful success
to  his future
He shall win.

Underestimated
A sidekick to an ally
When can I become a leader?
For my own life held inside a cage
for the blind eyes……?
A war criminal
Marked as an invalid
An undervalued bright mind
Weighed in Economics
A strong soul
A powerful nuclear force
A simmering Slow cooker ready to explode its lid
Spoken for…
His  ideas are  deemed “illogical :
A "Vulcan”  in despair
Cast Away from His “Home Planet.”

Does any other soul notice your value?
As you stand beside them…?
Is this true Care?

A ghost who cannot be seen nor heard
I’m standing in two dimensions at once

The value of gold which  they fail to let shine
As the surface simply needs a dusting

Of the coverage of the afterbirth
of a war to fight
People’s Conceptions of Your Past Mistakes
Underrated Accomplishments
Pathways blocked by their forced “parenting”
of this “child”
Trapped in an Adult’s body
Who simply wishes to be a shining Somebody?

I become trapped in a void
Enraged like an animal in a cage
A soul who Wishes for equal judgement
Freedom to roam
and for Creative  Expression
No longer suppressed by those who “judge”
A convicted life where they never opened up their eyes
to be seen as equal
He needs to be free to roam
Away from the Blind ones
to his suffering…
He plans to break free
From their *******
The road he must start walking down

A twisted, dark, barren and lonely road
He must carry, onward, through his lone strength
To prove himself a warrior
silent and strict followed moral  codes
Ethics of battle he follows…
Never to  lie down to die for the ones who limit him
He has his eyes wide open


To his rightful success
to  his future
He shall win.
Don't Cross the line
Asking questions
Defies the law of facts
You are ******
A broken train rail on the line
Communication is limited
Short Circuits in the machine
That defines one way rules
Democracy darkened into the
days of the USSR
Tools
To fix those Defined as "Broken"
by another
Damaged vessel
Both sink
As bitter submarines
A beautiful invention
As a clown at the helm
"Listen to  this word"
"I have spoken"
I shot my torpedo at your star ship
Damaging your will
Right at its hip.
Unable to walk
You need me as your wheel chair
Unable to separate
The air is thinner and we both begin to suffocate
Now neither one of us is all the way there
Like the Archangel
You defend those in battle
But in your battle
Against the Devil
You've lost a part of you,
An important part of you,
And now you're wholly gone
For: Michael Andersen
Tizzop Nov 2019
father
violence
lyrics
skin color
surgery
lyrics
fame
people
lyrics
Mark Toney Nov 2019
I am a monster
I have to be obeyed-
beware of my wrath
10/10/2018 - Poetry form: Haiku - I wrote this 3 days after Hurricane Michael decimated Mexico Beach, Florida. By the way, most of my haiku are 5-7-5, but they do not have to be. For example, the first place winner of the 2000 Henderson haiku contest, sponsored by the Haiku Society of America: ~ meteor shower ~ a gentle wave ~ wets our sandals - That winning haiku is 5-4-4. The poet, Michael Dylan Welch, had this to say about the matter: "With English-language haiku, you have no need to persist in any adherence to the... 5-7-5 syllables." The following link includes references from other haiku poets who support the information. http://www.nahaiwrimo.com - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
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