I've been pacing from room to room

Waiting for the world to stimulate

Something other than haunting gloom

Scroll unrolling a new series of emotions

Trends are mountaintops so better follow

The path is winding and this high peaked

Enjoy the view of this digital landscape

As the rest of the world crumbles at your

Feet

peep this...you can't see the forest or the trees because of material in the way, and when you hold up a mirror, you see perfection...i never liked mirrors, because i want to see something new...yes i was born and raised in ohio

up up in ohio
two brothers got together
to talk about some wings
to talk about the weather

thanks for the wind lord
we have to spread the word
eagles can't even speak
we need wings like a bird

on orville's death bed
his wishes were his plan
please use this bird for good
and let the pilot only be a man

moral of this story is that the female was trying to prove something and landed near cannibals, who only thought of living and not proving
the wright brothers doing for fellow man...women aren't evil, but will be used as a vessel until they accept their role...to be whole...i know it's offensive to women, but it's logical to religion and science alike. My favorite writer ever is Mary Shelley, and one of my favorite poets and singers is Chrissy Hinde. Women aren't less than men, so when they don't feel a need to prove it, things will change. Just trying to think of a whole, and what it takes, Because that will make me whole. Love.

look at their names
the wRIGHT brothers
amelia AIRheart

drones controlled by women refer to documentary "america's bird"

sinister

maybe someone else invented flight...maybe god maybe nasa

One day I hope to put these feelings down in writing
To find a way to simplify the way these carry me
The smell of worn leather and pine trees in December
A cold wind and a creek half frozen
The line of trees that separate my house from the wilderness
And how some days I wish I could disappear in there with you

We would hunt and forage
forge a path of our own
Play an out of tune guitar around a smoldering fire
We would live in the trees and hide in the grass
You would braid my hair and we would dance barefoot in a clearing
To the sound of cicadas and leaves underfoot

I love, I miss, I want you.
I hope for you.
More than I will ever be able to tell you.

The town I’m from
has a history
an excommunication
of diversity
at the helm
of self-serving
Caucasian propriety.
My sister is 50 percent
black -
her ancestors once
ran towards the freedom
promised
in the small towns
like this one.
This small town -
97.4 percent white -
instead hung her ancestors
in the town square,
jeered at their attempts
to live among the same people
who were proud
to live in a land of freedom.
Only certain freedoms
are allowed, however,
in towns like this one -
only a freedom
of a certain color.

Ali's Song
by Michael R. Burch

for Muhammad Ali

They say that gold don't tarnish. It ain't so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, "called a ***** a *****."
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.

Ain't got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can't be lukewarm, 'cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, "Now here's your bullet and your gun,
and there's your cell: we're waiting, you choose one."
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.

My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—BOLD.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

The poem above has been set to music in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong.

You are free to copy the poem for noncommercial use, such as a school project, essay or report, or just because you like it and want to share, but please credit Michael R. Burch as the author.

NOTES: (1) Muhammad Ali said that he threw his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio River after experiencing racism in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep. The Ali family paid $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. Ali later made a joke about the incident that caused him to toss his medal into the river. He said that he took his medal into a white downtown restaurant and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress told him, "We don't serve negroes." Ali replied, "I don't eat them either. Just bring me a cheeseburger!" (2) When drafted during the Vietnam War, Ali refused induction, reputedly saying: "I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******." (3) The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. (4) The poem was originally published by the literary journal Black Medina. It has since been published by Other Voices International, Thanal Online, Freshet, Poems About and Poem List.



For Ali, Fighting Time
by Michael R. Burch

So now your speech is not as clear . . .
time took its toll each telling year . . .
and O how tragic that your art,
so brutal, broke your savage heart.

But we who cheered each blow that fell
within that ring of torrent hell
never dreamed to see you maimed,
bowed and bloodied, listless, tamed.

For you were not as other men
as we cheered and cursed you then;
no, you commanded dreams and time—
blackgold Adonis, bold, sublime.

And once your glory leapt like fire—
pure and potent. No desire
ever burned as fierce or bright.
Oh Ali, Ali . . . win this fight!



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch

The poem above was written in response to the Quora question: “Can you write a poem titled “Me”?



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina



Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

This poem imagines a discussion between Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who spoke so poetically about his dream of equality, and a poet who speaks in parentheses.

I have a dream
(pebbles in a sparkling sand)
of wondrous things.

I see children
(variations of the same man)
playing together.

Black and yellow, red and white,
(stone and flesh, a host of colors)
together at last.

I see a time
(each small child another's cousin)
when freedom shall ring.

I hear a song
(sweeter than the sea sings)
of many voices.

I hear a jubilation
(respect and love are the gifts we must bring)
shaking the land.

I have a message,
(sea shells echo, the melody rings)
the message of God.

I have a dream
(all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone)
of many things.

I live in hope
(all children are merely small fragments of One)
that this dream shall come true.

I have a dream . . .
(but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?)
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!

Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
(i can feel it begin)
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
(poets are lovers and dreamers too)



I, Too, Have a Dream
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
I, too, have a dream ...



My Nightmare ...
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.



Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch

Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!



Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch

BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?



Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch

Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.



Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air

Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch

A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch

Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.



Keywords/Tags: Muhammad Ali, boxing, violence, The Greatest, race, racism, racist, discrimination, black, slave name, Vietnam War, Olympics, gold medal, God, Muslim, Islam, Islamic, tribute, mrbali, mrbrace, mrbsport, mrbsports, mrbsong

My wife holds my hand tightly as we enter the tiny church
The harsh odor of wet wool, cotton and dust fills the foyer
The pews are full.  The signature book thick with names
Sifting through, we find a seat as the dirge comes to a close

The preacher is loud and sweaty and a distant cousin, I’m told
His mud-brown suit and tie clash against the stage’s ornate bouquets
He assures us there’s a heaven and that my grandfather was a good man
His thick southern draw a slow assault; the eulogy, a battleground

Stories are shared, and they are sweet. He paints a righteous man
Hands are raised, amens shouted. A relative grips me hard and weeps
In Jesus name, hallelujah, the lord giveth; the lord taketh away
Bow your head in prayer, he says. Let us remember our brother

And I remember. Images enter my head, and I clench my teeth
The drunken fights with grandma, the hammer used to defend herself
The scar on his palm, the knife mom drove through his calloused hand
The dark coat closet, the sound of the lock his children heard, the cries

The line to his casket is long. The sobs overpowering the morose hymn
His children are lined next to him. My grandmother is holding his hand
I lean in to see him one last time.  His red nose has vanished
He smells of embalming fluid, and his shirt is wet with tears

An hour away, a petal falls
A petal, a petal, a petal
They fly to Utah, they fly to Maine
They fly to Brazil, they fly to Spain
A petal falls, a petal falls.
Watch them drift, watch them land
They are passed from hand to hand
Across our minds, across our home
We watched it grow, we let them go
A petal, a petal, a petal