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Unpolished Ink Feb 2023
Open a book
discover a landscape
waiting for you explore
your map is made from footsteps
where the writer walked before
Deep Sep 2021
A secret I want to tell you,
that is
are among those people
who make
this world a lovely place
by reading only,
Like stars to the universe,
You function the same to poets.
Wilkes Arnold Aug 2021
What does one do when the characters you hate
Are the ones you best construe?
Misgivings and flaws you can relate
To, tho venerable traits you eschew,

The green light gazers and "architect" praisers
Familial leeches or the confessor who preaches
That awareness absolves one of sin,
Compromisers and self-named kaisers
Resound and reverberate within

They pass by in my pages to be mocked and scorned
As evil, cruel, an oaf, or a tool
Too low to respect or too high on their horse
Despicable, maniacal, mediocre, or worse

And I do hate their vileness, I do hate their flaw
I want to shake them and claw at their skull
For nothing more than the gleam of recognition
That by some misfortune of natural law
They and I share a need for contrition.
I saw this once,
in Philosopher's Stone,
that the wand picks the wizard,
not the other way around

I realized today,
at the bookstore in town,
that the book picks the reader,
not the other way around
Susy Kamber Sep 2020
Writers choose pens that are inked with words.
The color of ink might be a peach colored verb.
The adverb joins in with a red that is flashy.
The prose is beginning to read somewhat ******.
The noun is thinking to mellow this down,
But the writer wants more from what has been found.
An adjective presents with its green colored hue.
Then gold trickles in making the vivid story true.
Yes, writers choose pens and words choose colors.
Stories then written,
For us and for others.
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
Michael R Burch May 2020
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch

(for my mother, Christine Ena Burch)

The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,

his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.

His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.

His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.

Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poems, poetry, editor, publisher, mother, recite, recitation, reciting, reading, phone, telephone

Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch

a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.

Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.

And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.

That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.

And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.

No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering NOT to call.
galaxyofentities Feb 2020
I want to thank you
faceless, nameless reader
for your kindness of sparing a second
reading an awkward soul's mundane poems.
Like screaming into a void with echoes.

you don't know me
but you lift the burden of my stress
so thank you
I hope warmth and kindness find you always
for a simple act of sparing a second to read my poem.
Thank you for reading, for helping me feel less lonely, for a platform where i can scream freely.
Liam Peare Feb 2019
You are the light, I am the night.
You are the telescope, I am the subject.

You are the root, I am the fruit.
You are the branch, I am the leaves.

You are the reader, I am the book.
You are the writer, I am the words.

You are the canvas, I am the brush.
You are the skin, I am the blade.

- priam ; twist
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