Polish
by Michael R. Burch

Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.

Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.

You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.

I thought about titling or subtitling this one “A mini-ode to manicure” but thought better of it. Please note that this poem is not about female predators but the way the human race “glosses over” its predatory nature. We may appear to be “civilized” but what are we doing to the planet and its other inhabitants? Keywords/Tags: polish, nails, talons, claws, predator, gloss, loss, red, tooth, claw, pollution, climate change, global warming, mass extinction, genocide

Every morning while it was dark
He'd wake and pack his boards
With plastic men, his soldiers
To do battle with no swords

He'd put them in his basket
Load them all into the cart
He'd have a tea and bagel
And then, his day would start

He would walk from his apartment
To the park, before the sun
Two miles and a quarter
Just past highway eighty one

There, inside the complex
In the middle of the park
He'd play chess, against all comers
And he'd stay 'till after dark


A prodigy at ten years old
He would beat men three times his age
He would sit there in stunned silence
As they stormed around in rage

A master by his eighteenth year
He hadn't lost on his home ground
He would play and play and nothing else
To the chess board he was bound

Although he had his title
He couldn't leave to play
If he left the country
Then, back home is where'd he stay

He played some competitions
Made his points to climb the list
But, still he kept on thinking
Of the games that he had missed

I saw him in Toronto
Playing for a buck a game
He played against  all comers
The result, always the same

His accent was a harsh one
His beard was slightly rough
With some he'd be a softie
With others, he was gruff

Each day he'd make the journey
Pull his boards down and set off
He'd joke about while playing
And at bad moves he would scoff

"In Russia, they would shoot you"
"If you made a move like that"
Was he lying in the bushes
Should you move or just stand pat?

He moved on down to Yonge Street
When the park land all was sold
No one knew just why it happened
He went there, and it was closed

On a small street down by Eatons
He moved his boards so he could play
He didn't need to walk there now
He could now go by subway

There was more room here for players
To learn at this man's feet
They would line up with their dollars
Knowing full well, they'd be beat

The crowd that came from Yonge street
To see this rock star of the board
Were much different from the park folk
But to this street they poured

College players, bankers
Strippers from the Zanzibar
would come and drop their dollar
Then lose and find a bar

As time went on, his game it changed
He'd take more time for his moves
He would talk more as distraction
And once I saw him lose

His brain was getting fuzzy
Age was now taking a toll
Time, it owned his body
But the board still owned his soul

He'd flirt with the young maidens
Showing cleavage in the sun
One girl even flashed him
Because she thought she'd won

He joked about her actions
Told the crowd that it was nice
He joked that if she showed some more
He'd let her come close twice

As time went on the master
Didn't come downtown each day
He'd stay at home in silence
Downtown was far away

He dreamed of heading home again
But, he knew that couldn't be
Then we saw him on the news one night
On the local CBC

He played downtown for seven years
He last played in 85
He took sick and nearly passed on
Thankfully, the master did survive

His name was Josef Smolij
He was Polish, but we thought
He was Russian from his comments
Made when our bad moves were caught

His absence still is felt there
Gould street it was his space
The area he used to play
Is now called Hacksell Place

He left and went to Europe
Germany became his home
But still down there off Yonge street
The old chess ghosts still roam

I remember playing Smolij
I remember it was hot
I lost and then he told me
"Back in Russia...you'd be shot"

He was 60 when I played him
He'd be 99 or so
I'm glad I got to meet him
The Master known as Joe

how can i see?
how can i let you
away

you told me
you hate me
and be away

but i love you
i will not as spider
who ate the gift
then her beloved
what does he get?
he became the martyr of love

the scorpion did the same
so every man must kiss his beloved
leg and hand
as she loves him, and let him love
her
, let him in life sustain
what a gift!

i am not selfish
i will let you at finish
but i will push
any one will hurt or tend to polish
your honor and makes it *******

i will be as the great fish
who will face every worst fish
and may **** myself and you live
long happy , you deserve

Over Silesian mountains
Somewhere beyond black seas
There is a forgotten dream
Conjuring visions of peace

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Many lives faced the dream
More of them fade to black
But in the eyes of the eagle
There is no turning back

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Their hearts are worn on sleeves
Determination so earnest
Merely calm before the storm
Quiet before the Tempest

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go
Inside the city walls
The static is meant to frighten
Those who await the call
In the echoes of the siren

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

There are many roads to follow
Some of them are painted red
Yet as long as we march on
No one can declare us dead.

A
Being
Is here
To get you
But it’s not so
Simple to get you
Huh? Everyone thinks
Its so easy to get someone
But it is much harder than it
Seems really. Have you ever tried
To get someone, and it turned out to
Be the most difficult task you have ever
Created for yourself? I am sitting here in this
Empty room listening to music doing completely
Nothing and if so only pointless things like writing
Poem even tho i have never wrote a poem before. It
Just hit me to write one and im just letting my brain go and
Spit these words like guitar releases its cords. Right now the flow
Is pretty slow, because the music slowed down. Now we are searching
For the right words to use, and when the chorus comes, our brain gets hit
By some strange feeling that it can create whole universes in just a few seconds.
Chorus has ended again and my brain is a flop. Why is it a flop even tho nothing has
Really changed only sounds that i hear changed. Why my brain is connected to these
Sounds with such strength? Why can’t i escape these sounds, they are all the time with
Me. Help me. Help me find help. I need help. I know that i need help. I don’t know where
To seek help.

Why this poem looks so strange? i want
My poem to look different.
                  Chaotic.
but this isn’t strange
it’s just different help me find help. i need help i need help please help me why is it so hard to be alive to be human to be a living thing i don’t wanna die but i don’t wanna live is it a curse or a gift life is not precious life is terrible only from time to time is worth living but still look at the cancers of the world all the terrorism all the sick people all the cataclisms   i hate life i hate world i hate living



why can noone help me please
help
me
      .
oh well music changed looks like i am happy again but only for few minutes.
                    unfortunately.

Everything can look
      like a poem
  The only thing
       you need
  is to put enough
   ******* spacebars
  to make it look
         like
                 one