by Michael R. Burch
What stirs within me
is no great welling
straining to flood forth,
but an emptiness
waiting to be filled.
I am not an orchard
ready to be harvested,
but a field
rough and barren
waiting to be tilled.
Keywords/Tags: tillage, raw, potential, barren, field, tabula rasa, blank slate, palimpsest
Cooking her own world
Black and white
Swayed her way
Of what love proclaim
I know I should be sad at the thought of what we had being washed away,
But a clean slate doesn’t sound too bad
And I brought my umbrella anyway.
What do you say?
This year has been very transitional, and mindfulness has been a constant theme.
thousands of words race through my mind,
yet i still draw blanks.
the paper is still clean,
like the clean slate i dreaded for.
what can i say,
to embed those words from you.
i suppose that's why i can't come up with anything.
A small note attached to the small toe of the not yet dead woman
It read of sorrow and peace as she lay there still breathing
To why was she spread upon the iron table with eyes the color of coins
Displayed, surrounded by mirrors and windows ***** and unbreakable
Not a whimper slipped from her mouth as the small knife slit into her
Tearing the silk gown with precision of an artist,
the butcher masqueraded itself as husband
Emerald eyes shed no tears, reflexes halt to an end, an acceptance was reached
In her hands held a relic, one of the past and future. The piece was a watch
Ticking, counting down each second of breath. Belief in release the ******* death
Feeling of pleasure with each cut, the teasing texture of blood cascading downwards
How tantalizingly horrific the scene of sacrifice; a modern day alter
Rested upon rusted roses and sweet thorns the alive child laid
Silence for she has given voice to the goddess and the body to the God
My faith and heart
Were bold and brazen
When your hand
Enfolded my hand
As the floating slate wool up
Cried and you
And faith was watered
With bittersweet tears
My heart did not
When you hesitated
And pulled eme in
just another poem of the day
No one ever
The way the surface of the water is frozen
calling for you to break its perfect state.
easily fractured with the slightest touch.
Slowly ripples of different sizes make their way
across the liquid diamond
ending the tranquility it had.
Life's temporary stillness can be compared to that of a pool at midnight.
And the crisp air
caressing her face
at the start of each new day
reminds her of the clean slate
The fall begins,
the fresh start.
This is a cry of a person dissatisfied
the faint feeling of a blank stare stating:
Here I look upon the world,
to which I am dreadfully attached
I regret to love it so much
as I cling on harshly, gaping;
it is full of distaste and resentment.
I tried to see everything in it,
I have lived and saw life without grace
and sin devours envy controls hate
and men die holding their pride
and selfishness corrupted the soul.
It is without a doubt that I -
who swore to be free of the earth
withheld of freedom and deemed memory
a clean slate again.