Passion ran wild

Scripturience smouldering

burning my innards

I
keep
leaving
cues
that
no-one
picks
up;
like
autumn
leaves
in
the
wind;
lost

Truth is found when one can
Reconcile the irreconcilable
That’s why it’s so elusive
And Illusive
Because you can’t,not completely,
At least not humanity,
Paradoxes obscure, but also vindicate,
The all
And everything.
And creation is a scientist
And we are its Petri dish,
And creation is a mystic,
And we are its parish.

Pity Clarity
by Michael R. Burch

Pity Clarity,
and, if you should find her,
release her from the tangled webs
of dusty verse that bind her.

And as for Brevity,
once the soul of wit—
she feels the gravity
of ironic chains and massive rhetoric.

And Poetry,
before you may adore her,
must first be freed
from those who for her loveliness would ***** her.

Published by Contemporary Rhyme (January 2005) and The Columbus Dispatch (Sunday, April 3, 2005). Keywords/Tags: Poetry, pity, clarity, obscure, webs, dusty, verse, brevity, gravity, irony, chains, manacles, massive, rhetoric, imprisoned, prisoner, jailed, *****, ******, *******

We seek for an excuse impatiently,
To keep living our life freely;
To endure the dreadful scene intrepidly,
Fraught with the mess, doom, and jeopardy.
A dark, infectious, virus may it be;
Unfathomable, and obscure seemingly
We are unaware of it wholly.
We wish to get out from this trouble,
So as to wake up on a bright day;
After it, we would have learnt
To face our reality as humans together.
We need these kinds of tragedies,
For them to remind us of our humanness.

A little sonder
goes a long way
in understanding you, him, her
--anyone not me;
your hands have their
own feel and peril;
your eyes, their sui generis orbit
with this world (of ours)
spinning on a differing axis;
and returning its sorrow,
its pleasure,
in an unabridged box
named after obscurities,
known only to you (not me);
the frustration of photographing
this amazing moment sets in
when I realize it already exists,
randomly,
vividly,
in every single person I daily see;
and their uniqueness
cannot be annulled.

Come one, come all,
With all your **** nonsense
Shed those serious souls
And serial brawls
Engage in gravelly goodness.

Touch hither soft lemony lightness
And ruminate on he said/she said
Like severed fingers in brine
Que appropriate melancholy rhyme

Like Lord Paragon of Virtue
With or withered will
Atop his freshly bejeweled spire
Delights to set the world on fire.

Esoteric Eleanor...
Is a woman set apart
She has an obscure interest
In a certain type of art.

She collects her little fairies
Has an interest in old tomes
Has few, if any, closer friends
Has tons of garden gnomes.

She owns a run-down mansion
With lots of dusty rooms
Her letters closed with sealing wax
She speaks in garbled runes.

She met her fate one cloudy day
Oh yes, she is quite dead.
Her foot slipped on the marbles
That spilled out of her head!

Yes, she lost her footing
Alas, she is no more
Lies within her antique coffin
Esoteric Eleanor.


Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/15/2019

Break me into chasm
then let the love pour in—
flower into deep well—
stem the umbilicus
of what you could say
you knew of me—

the privilege of living
inside your own head—
and me,
something made of sand,
a wink—

something of one
of many lives ago,
though how well
you knew me—
as did he—
how well they saw me—
and maybe no one did.

We were lovers
in a past life.
And now
I am obscure as
lost Atlantis, origin
of the fairy tale—
fragile
as gossamer and
the Holy Grail.