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Oceara Miedema Apr 2020
You still miss her so much.
I feel it when I touch the keys of your laptop.
Wet from your teardrop.
Last night there was a birthday party.
For a boy that was a zombie.
He didn't exist, only his mother.
In a ghost home like no other.
Dark and brown.
In a ghost town.
I watched them from very far away.
I watched a mother and child that used to play.
You'll find ways.
You'll find ways and people and days.
It will be so hard, impossible and too much.
Like trying to sleep when there's nothing that feels right for your body to touch.
And it all falls apart again.
And you have to start again and again.
Always with too many things happening.
And no certainty and the world spinning.
On and and on.
How to go on? How to hold on?
Falling backwards again into the storm.
Uncomfortable and cold in every form.
The calm before and after the hit.
And the loving inside surrounding it...
You just hold me when everything falls.
When the siren calls...
19-01-20
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Circe
by Michael R. Burch

She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

Keywords/Tags: Circe, enigma, enigmatic, enchantress, siren, enchanted, witch, goddess, magic, Ulysses, pigs, sty



Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
  where mockingbirds cry,
  alone, ever lonely . . .
  yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
  you never shall wake.
  Go down to the valley;
  go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
  of souls such as yours —
  mad souls without meaning,
  frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
  reserved for the dead.
  They lie in her shallows
  and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Max Neumann Feb 2020
don't drop crumbs on the floor
don't produce dirt on the sofa

don't be weak but
entertaining
don't tell me your story
cause i hate it

don't take control in bed
don't try to find the speed
don't talk about your needs

don't question my dont's
don't think that you won't
Today is a good day.
Holly Jan 2020
You do not want to love me.
I am a cold storm that you watch
from the windows of a home
and be glad you are inside.
I cannot keep you warm
on days where
the rain drowns
every good feeling
in our bodies.
I know
it is tempting
to linger,
all good things come
to drown themselves in me
eventually.
But I am a mess
of salt and bitterness
and the taste of sand
in your mouth.
And
If you stay,
I will be the one to
drag you out
into the sea
and leave you to sink.
M Grant Teague Dec 2019
She is sultry ash
In a smoky darkness.
Her voice pulls at my spirit,
Deep and seductively rattles
The chains around my wrists.
The red silk sheets flutter
In eerie circles of downlight.

Why does she hide in the shadows?

“Come to me.”
Slips that warm shiver
Up my pin pricked spine.
My breath escapes
Broken from below
Hailing the gods
Without a sound.

Darkness drips over this dream
Song is stripped from the air.
I hear nothing,
See silence,
Feel cold sweat run the length.
At a snap,
My throat is freed.
I sob.
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
Is she like Calypso
in The Camomile Lawn,
knelt down and speechless
by the fire, resembling
Jennifer Ehle so closely,
as the camera lingers
at her being naked as a jaybird,
and quite comely at that?

Or is she perhaps
more like Felicitas
in Flesh and the Devil,
a dead ringer for Greta Garbo,
who brazenly encouraged
illicit love and rivalry, only
to go quietly by falling
through thin ice?

Sometimes the siren's call
is more a winsome variation
in its silence.
Note: for those who don't know, Greta Garbo is widely considered one of the greatest actresses of classic cinema. She actually began her lustrous career in silent films. The luminous Jennifer Ehle, on the other hand, is a current thespian who never fails to captivate. She has quietly become one of the more gifted at her craft.
Cné Nov 2019
~
I'm a creature of the Fey
seeking souls that come my way.
A native of the deep blue sea
singing songs of sweet melodies.

Come to me, oh weary traveler.
I’m exactly what you seek.
No compass, map or spy glass needed.
You need only take the leap.

Siren’s gold, a coveted treasure,
worth the risk for a life of leisure.
And if you chance to know my face,
my hold shall be your last embrace

Come to me oh weary traveler
I’ll obliged to offer thee...
wanton eyes, silky tresses, and
pouting lips, your eyes will see.

I’m unlike a mortal lass
from dreams of longing, I have passed.
I came upon your lonely cries
revealed my beauty to your eyes.

Siren’s gold, a prized treasure,
swells your heart with prideful measure.
So shun the world that you have known
and spend your nights within my own.

You’ll be known by other men
for your great works of voice and pen.
Yet, inspiration has a cost.
for with me, know your soul is lost.

I shall be your secret lover.
I will sway you from all others.
I'll take your passion and your skill.
I'll take your life quicker still.

Cloaked in mist, the Siren’s Gold,
you lonely sailor, you’ve lost your hold,
through the kisses that I give
I draw from you, that I will live.

And though you think this weakness grand,
the touch of death, your lover's hand.
Your will to live, has come too late
Come to me and love your fate.

~
Simone Gabrielli Sep 2019
Lovelorn and sore she drifts to shore
Singing hymns from the sirens lure
Crying distant deep in the surf
What was all that sailing for?

Gods of the sea, sleeping serpentine
Neptune rising with his blue fantasy,
Casting hope into sleeping canyon nights
Days spent in pale dawn’s love bright light

The ocean breeze softly sings
Moody eyes safe beneath the sheets
All hungry sailors look to the sea
For a siren to come and sing them to sleep
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