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Andrew Rueter Jun 2020
I know Christians and sinners
misfits and winners
sprites and spinners who fed me my dinner
while we weathered the blizzard
of the grand wizard’s
****** trigger.

We watched in dismay
as Satan decided to stay
to beat the enslaved
and show them their grave.

Their white hoods brought fear
because they killed the queers
and those who chuck spears
we saw the Bible smeared
yet steered clear
because a black man’s teammate
was just as good to cremate
so we figured we’d leave fate
to those who only see hate.

Not our problem
was our solution
we let bigots call them
this world’s pollution
while we built an illusion
of a country of inclusion
yet punished any intrusion.

I saw
and didn’t help
just prayed to God
to avoid those welts
worrying about myself
the Bible went on the shelf.

I saw my brother murdered
yet stood still as a girder
knowing if I went any further
I’d feel the end of their burner.

I wanted to speak out
but there was nowhere to reach out
in America’s deep south
so we put up signs saying KEEP OUT.
Nomkhumbulwa Apr 2020
It doesn't come as a surprise,
Of course life’s always a struggle;
But with Coronavirus too,
The struggle is only more real.

Suffering is not new,
Nor hunger, or poverty;
Yet more than ever
People now see the reality.

Coronavirus not the biggest risk,
yet its presence here is still deadly;
With an Economy crumbling to pieces,
We all wonder what will happen to this Country?

Though numbers are low,
Compared to the first World,
Collateral damage is devastating,
With the lockdown, the situation deteriorating.

We sit here, we wait,
Watch the news at nine,
For its impossible here
To be online all the time.

Some people are scared,
Some people don't care;
Or perhaps its more a case
Of being used to living in fear.

Queues are miles long,
Yet these people are lucky;
For many there is now dire hunger,
Food parcels not reaching the poor.

The Government is doing its best,
To limit the effects of this virus,
On the health of society,
But perhaps more, on the dying economy.

Inequalities are not new,
But now they are stark and real;
The rich minority at relative ease,
The rest of the Country diseased…

People die here all the time,
The health system stretched as it is;
So how do we tell these people,
They need to go hungry to live?

With untreated disease already a burden,
Coronavirus alone is not such a risk;
But what it does do
Is creates yet more poverty and sick.

People are trying to understand
What is happening in the World;
But for most the World is far…
That World is now affecting this World…

For us, neither rich or poor,
A rare case of “in the middle;,
We are able to grow vegetables,
Write music, get to the clinic.

We also watch in horror
At those suffering now even more,
For those in informal settlements,
Social distancing is just not possible.

People are going without,
Trying to live on one meal a day;
Or going to bed hungry,
Feeding their children instead, as they continue to pray.

People here live day by day,
Earning just enough to buy bread;
With this now taken away,
They’re desperate, and some are dead.

Not due to this virus,
But death still continues;
Beaten to death by the Army,
At home, with their families….

The situation here is dire,
This Country far from developed;
The poverty, the hunger, the desperate,
No water in taps in some districts.

The situation here is dire,
I cannot lie or pretend it’ll all be fine;
people are suffering all around me
And yet all I can do is …..stay at home.

I sit here writing this helpless,
Able to teach, if it was possible for those to learn;
I feel the desperation of parents,
Education in this land must go on.

But as for now
We are either “stopped in time”, or desperate;
How the schools will eventually cope
Is anyones guess.

People need food,
People need school,
people need help,
But…..people have not lost hope.

As for myself
I write, and I plan some more;
Hoping that one day soon,
I’ll be able to help a lot more….

……Nomkhumbulwa…….
Apologies im still new ;)
effie ebbtide Apr 2020
replica of the statue of liberty, made of
concrete, a beacon for weary motorists
stranded on route 66, endlessly
drifting in the dusty abyss, stands in front of entrance
with her readymade torch.

she mumbles into a phone, then hands us a key.
a tiny room for breakfast goes unused
and the swimming pool is cloudy,
the concrete walls reverberating
empty chlorine
pleasantries, a watered down
hotspring dream.

above the headboard
is a long mirror, spanning
the length of the smoky room's
back wall, a silvery strip
reflecting faded yellow wallpaper
with subtle unspecified flowers.

the side exit leads to an empty lot, long
grass growing out of neglected potholes, a cyclone fence
blocking off a direct route to the sonic
drive-thru.

the sky is orange, it's always been
orange, it always will be
orange, looming over distant mountains
with narcissistic strata.
travel poem on a place i visited three or so years ago
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
                                              fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps

and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.

Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled



Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...

Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch

I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand

and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands

where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting

and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting

and all I remember
—upon awaking—

is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking

one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,

forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.

II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!

To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking

rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...

Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...

Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!

I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.

III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,

for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—

they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix

fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.

IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished

rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.

To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,

soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.

V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,

we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.

VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—

I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.

Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,

so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.

I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,

though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Enigmatic Apr 2020
Her trust in you is as good as an empty tank headed south
She won't use the rearview mirror headed far from you
What she leaves behind remains no concern to her burnt out heart
Eyes on the first exit out of here
The highway is her only vision, burying your bones
This is her farewell
Nomkhumbulwa Mar 2020
I was beginning to know who I am,
Or so I thought until now;
But now im thinking again
…..do I really know who I am?

I thought myself a good person,
Though this thought comes and goes;
But now im not so certain
Am I someone you should know?

I feel like im under performing,
Stupid, and over reacting;
As Coronavirus reached our shores
Perhaps everyone is over reacting

I look on at the rest of the world,
Most Countries affected 1st world;
For South Africa the danger is greater,
Yet others say we’re not in the world…

Do they now understand?
Or is it me being pathetic?
Im not mocking these countries
I know life must be hectic

But is it wrong to be worried?
Although our case load is small,
For with a huge *** burden
The case load surely wont stay small

Here people struggle each day,
The economy fails more and more;
Yet we need to pick up the pieces
We need to do this for all

This is not a time to be greedy,
Solidarity and compassion a must,
There wasn't any money before…..
But now finding it is a must…

Though numbers are low right now,
200 overnight to 750,
With densely populated areas of deep poverty
The spread must be contained immediately

Yes, the measures we’re taking are drastic,
But the worry and fear is real,
If this should enter our townships
Its too late…too many will fall ill

Our poor rural people are vulnerable
The mass communication campaign not accessible
What will happen to these people?
To forget about them is just cruel

I dont think its a time for mocking
Or laughing at us here in SA;
For if we don't act, the risk is far greater,
affecting millions, more than the UK

Sometimes I look forward to isolation
But not from the people here,
Rather from the ignorance online,
To help me keep things clear

No one even sees im stuck here,
Not that I wish to leave;
But just knowing people are unaware
…of the disruption here by this disease…

I have faith in the Country to act,
They have witnessed mistakes made by others,
Yet never once did we mock them
For these are people- our sisters and brothers

I care deeply for this country,
So distance myself I may;
From the cruel internet entirely,
….Thats all I have to say…

……………………..Nomkhumbulwa
Sorry....im new
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

(dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.)

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat ...
though first, usually, he’d stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to seek it ...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

“Nobody knows that it’s there, lad, or that it’s fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin’s or lard.”

“Don’t eat the berries. You see—the berry’s no good.
And you’d hav’ta wash the leaves a good long time.”

“I’d boil it twice, less’n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it’s tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.”

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still ...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man’s angular gray grace.

Sometimes he’d pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name—“pokeweed”—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.
I still can hear his laconic reply ...

“Well, chile, s’m’times them times wus hard.”

Published by Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Grassroots Poetry, Poet’s Forum Magazine, Harp-Strings Poetry Journal, A Flasher’s Dozen (prose version), Poetry Life & Times, Centrifugal Eye, Better Than Starbucks. Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, South, father, grandfather, son, grandson, memory, memories, flowers, nettles, ****, weeds, pokeweed, poke salad, poke salat, bacon, lard, front porch swing, sweat bees, green,  greens, beans, forage, foraging



Playthings
by Michael R. Burch

a sequel to “Playmates”

There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered,
when you and I were playmates and the days were long;
then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies
from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . .

Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding,
and you and I were busy, then, as bees;
the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy;
each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . .

But you were more the doer, I the dreamer,
so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause;
while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin
and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . .

Then it came to pass you had no time for playthings,
for with strong hands you built, with bricks and stone,
tall buildings, then a life, and then you married.
Now my fantasies, again, are all my own.

This is a companion poem to “Playmates,” the second poem I remember writing, around age 13 or 14. However, I believe “Playthings” was written several years later, in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020.



Abide
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).

Originally published by Light Quarterly



Observance
by Michael R. Burch

Here the hills are old and rolling
casually in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . .

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . .

For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in . . .

This is an early poem that made me feel like a “real poet.” I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student. I believe that was at age 17. "Observance" was originally published by Nebo as "Reckoning." It was later published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Piedmont Literary Review, Verses, Romantics Quarterly, Setu (India), Better Than Starburcks, The Chained Muse, Formal Verse, the anthology There is Something in the Autumn and Poetry Life & Times. That’s not too shabby for a teen poet!



Ivy
by Michael R. Burch

“Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” — Pablo Neruda
“They climb on my old suffering like ivy.”

Ivy winds around these sagging structures
from the flagstones
to the eave heights,
and, clinging, holds intact
what cannot be saved of their loose entrails.

Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation,
cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers,
waxy, unguent,
palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs,
pausing at last to see
the alien sparkle of dew
beading delicate sparrowgrass.

Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse
grow all around, and here remorse, things past,
watch ivy climb and bend,
and, in the end, we ask
if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend.



The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch

There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.

There was an instant . . .
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
—feverish, wet—
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .
when the rest of the world became distant.

Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.

This is one of my early poems but I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it. Due to the romantic style, I believe it was probably written during my first two years in college, making me 18 or 19 at the time.



Moments
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

There were moments full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.

There are moments strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!—
when to be without you is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry, The Chained Muse, in a Soundcloud reading by Vex Darkly, in a YouTube reading by Jasper Sole, and in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte



Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch

Go then,
and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.

Bring back a pretty
flower—
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
although it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.

There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all
its pale forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times



Free Fall (II)
by Michael R. Burch

I have no earthly remembrance of you, as if
we were never of earth, but merely white clouds adrift,
swirling together through Himalayan serene altitudes—
no more man and woman than exhaled breath—unable to fall
back to solid existence, despite the air’s sparseness: all
our being borne up, because of our lightness,
toward the sun’s unendurable brightness . . .

But since I touched you, fire consumes each wing!

We who are unable to fly, stall
contemplating disaster. Despair like an anchor, like an iron ball,
heavier than ballast, sinks on its thick-looped chain
toward the earth, and soon thereafter there will be sufficient pain
to recall existence, to make the coming darkness everlasting.



Fledglings
by Michael R. Burch

With her small eyes, pale and unforgiving,
she taught me—December is not for those
unweaned of love, the chirping nestlings
who bicker for worms with dramatic throats

still pinkly exposed, who have not yet learned
the first harsh lesson of survival: to devour
their weaker siblings in the high-leafed ferned
fortress and impregnable bower

from which men must fly like improbable dreams
to become poets. They have yet to learn that,
before they can soar starward, like fanciful archaic machines,
they must first assimilate the latest technology, or

lose all in the sudden realization of gravity,
following Icarus’s, sun-unwinged, singed trajectory.



The Higher Atmospheres
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever we became climbed on the thought
of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings
ten thousand miles above the breasted earth
that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things
seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ...

I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling
my human form about; I writhe; I writhe.
Invention is not Mastery, nor wings
Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides
and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ...

Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love
melts callow wax the higher atmospheres
leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough
to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers.



Retro
by Michael R. Burch

Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your *******’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...

Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...

When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...

But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like *******—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.

Originally published by Erosha
Nomkhumbulwa Mar 2020
Nobody knows what’s going on,
What will happen next,
When will it be gone?

Silence is golden
When used by free will,
But when it is forced
Everything seems more still

What’s round the corner?
Nobody knows,
People wait anxiously
As everything slows

The world is slowing,
Although the trees are still blowing,
Other creatures seem safe,
But humans are not safe

Schools are closed,
No one able to learn,
Hospitals, clinics,
People waiting to die in turn

But nobody knows
what’s happening next ,
The whole world coming together,
And yet also separate

Self isolation,
Quarantine too,
This isn’t a problem,
But if only we know

To know what is coming,
Will it mutate again?
How many more countries affected
We just wait in vain

It’s not just the disease,
It’s much more than that,
Society is failing,
Can’t even buy food for a cat

Here in Africa
we were lucky till now
We may still be lucky
But nobody knows

Now there is tension
The unknown but a fear
Are there enough masks?
We don’t know what’s clear

As a microbiologist
It’s actually intriguing
Yet at the same time
It may become frightening

Africa looks on at first world countries
If it should happen to us....
There may be so much mortality

Have they acted in time?
We ask ourselves
Do those in power even know?
I think the answer is no....

Nothing on the shelves abroad
A common occurrence right here
But could we cope with less?
There is already not much here

Yet there is comfort here,
Most people are calm,
Accepting their fate
Without need for alarm

There have been trying times
In this country alone
Yet people danced and sang
Whatever may or not come

Is this Darwinism in action?
Will only the fittest survive?
The world is overpopulated
...we can only try to survive

We look on in shock and horror
At Europe, America too
How can this be happening?
Is it real,,... this flu?

But for us we remain
Day by day we struggle
It’s not new....
We just want someone to explain
Our Africa right now is on edge

To those impoverished it matters less
Others watch, doing what the tv says
Trying our best , wash, wash, wash and wash

But daily life goes on
People still die of TB
And with a heavy *** burden
Death is a daily reality

So for now we wait
Patiently as always
We wait for tomorrow
For its never guaranteed

Already our systems are stretched
Education is key, we know well
What must we do for these children?
Already behind and many unwell

Apart from waiting,
Listening.....following
One thing we do have is hope,
With crisis after crisis
......Africa will never lose hope

For to hope....and accept....is all we can do......
...sending best wishes to all of you ***
Apologies im still new and wrote this a week ago before the situation worsened, and now we too are entering a lockdown :( Best wishes....**
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle’s spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume ...

Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines ...

Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations’ dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree’s
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight ...

Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.

"Love Has a Southern Flavor" has been published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India), Victorian Violet Press and Trinacria
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