Ali's Song
by Michael R. Burch

for Muhammad Ali

They say that gold don't tarnish. It ain't so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, "called a ***** a *****."
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.

Ain't got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can't be lukewarm, 'cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, "Now here's your bullet and your gun,
and there's your cell: we're waiting, you choose one."
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.

My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—BOLD.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

The poem above has been set to music in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong.

You are free to copy the poem for noncommercial use, such as a school project, essay or report, or just because you like it and want to share, but please credit Michael R. Burch as the author.

NOTES: (1) Muhammad Ali said that he threw his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio River after experiencing racism in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep. The Ali family paid $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. Ali later made a joke about the incident that caused him to toss his medal into the river. He said that he took his medal into a white downtown restaurant and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress told him, "We don't serve negroes." Ali replied, "I don't eat them either. Just bring me a cheeseburger!" (2) When drafted during the Vietnam War, Ali refused induction, reputedly saying: "I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******." (3) The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. (4) The poem was originally published by the literary journal Black Medina. It has since been published by Other Voices International, Thanal Online, Freshet, Poems About and Poem List.



For Ali, Fighting Time
by Michael R. Burch

So now your speech is not as clear . . .
time took its toll each telling year . . .
and O how tragic that your art,
so brutal, broke your savage heart.

But we who cheered each blow that fell
within that ring of torrent hell
never dreamed to see you maimed,
bowed and bloodied, listless, tamed.

For you were not as other men
as we cheered and cursed you then;
no, you commanded dreams and time—
blackgold Adonis, bold, sublime.

And once your glory leapt like fire—
pure and potent. No desire
ever burned as fierce or bright.
Oh Ali, Ali . . . win this fight!



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch

The poem above was written in response to the Quora question: “Can you write a poem titled “Me”?



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina



Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

This poem imagines a discussion between Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who spoke so poetically about his dream of equality, and a poet who speaks in parentheses.

I have a dream
(pebbles in a sparkling sand)
of wondrous things.

I see children
(variations of the same man)
playing together.

Black and yellow, red and white,
(stone and flesh, a host of colors)
together at last.

I see a time
(each small child another's cousin)
when freedom shall ring.

I hear a song
(sweeter than the sea sings)
of many voices.

I hear a jubilation
(respect and love are the gifts we must bring)
shaking the land.

I have a message,
(sea shells echo, the melody rings)
the message of God.

I have a dream
(all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone)
of many things.

I live in hope
(all children are merely small fragments of One)
that this dream shall come true.

I have a dream . . .
(but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?)
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!

Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
(i can feel it begin)
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
(poets are lovers and dreamers too)



I, Too, Have a Dream
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
I, too, have a dream ...



My Nightmare ...
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.



Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch

Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!



Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch

BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?



Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch

Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.



Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air

Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch

A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch

Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.



Keywords/Tags: Muhammad Ali, boxing, violence, The Greatest, race, racism, racist, discrimination, black, slave name, Vietnam War, Olympics, gold medal, God, Muslim, Islam, Islamic, tribute, mrbali, mrbrace, mrbsport, mrbsports, mrbsong

Going from a smoke bomb
to a pipe bomb
to a fire bomb
call it vietnam.
Take it to the car bomb
to the time bomb
to the flying bomb
we call the atom bomb.

bp bp bp bp
footsteps nearing me
why do i get nervous
bp bp bp bp
wait
i’m alone
my heartbeat again
bp bp bp bp bp bp bp

i haven’t been sleeping
but i sleep good when i do
lots of dreams lately
but they’re all too realistic

i’ve been daydreaming about vietnam:
i’m following this lady
who sells bananas on a bike
she’s leading me through the bazaar
to find man who sells spice
spice man just cracked a watermelon
the juice running down his hands
the aroma strong, clean
i can’t speak vietnamese
but i wonder how much he’d haggle
on a wedge

this morning on my cold walk
air blew back my rusty hair
i was purposeful tardy
but i was happy
i saw the browned ginkgo biloba leaves
limp by my feet
-they’re lucky you know, the ginkgo leaves
and i wondered if banana woman had ever seen ginkgo

Helicopter water ballet
And Charlie's on the grid

Front and centering feng shui
Choreographed in the fields
Where ****** sticks to kids

War is the fashion
That never wears out

Smell its smoke
Sickly sweet and orange
In the early decay of morning

This far divided land

Where the rice grows free

Has always had corrupt men

Stopping their life's dreams

It's in their veins

It's not that easy

To make it flow on out

For a thousand years

The same has been

Even when a million men

Wearing blue denim jeans

Came marching in

To change our ways

It's not what this is all about

While the people we trust

Pop out of man-made holes

And look like they've been

Tunnelling like moles

Where the enemy lines

Have stood for a thousand years

During the day

We're all so polite

But in the night

We all have to go and fight

The un-invited western men

Always seem to lose sight

Their communist fears

Were ingrained in their mothers womb

And will always end in tears

Where the streets smell of Pho

As you pass on by

And if looks could ****

If you dare to say hi

The aromatic love incense

Wafts in the fog filled air

Where the market crowds come

And traders buy and sell

The lonely planet guides

Write of this unusual smell

The local giggles should tell you

That you don't really belong there

So goodbye Hanoi

This time we can't ignore the flack

I'm going home

And I ain't ever coming back

My wife is waiting

To mend me back in one piece

We've had that awful feeling

Since it all became so fierce

I want to head home so bad

Now they've invaded our embassy

When they don't want our help for a truce

And it doesn't bring the change

That the westerners wanted to produce

So just leave it in the hands of ones own chosen destiny.

You’re eighteen-years-old.

This role is not yours to be had.

If it were, you would challenge the direction of your country.

College isn’t beyond the summer.

Draft cards don’t burn easily.

Enlistment is the only choice; at least you get a choice.

All, because your country called so loudly.

Soon, you will be on a boat halfway around the world.



To get there, you will travel the path of least resistance.

Any attempt to object would be futile.

Sailors do as they are told.



Pain, both mental and physical, are in store for you.

But, for now, you are nervous and excited.

This torment will last you a lifetime.

It will only be known to a select few.

I am proud to be in that group.

How did you get here?

A boy from Frederick…

A life defined by a cell.

These moments are meant to crush normal men.

You aren’t a normal man.

No, you’re a caged bird meant to fly.

And soon you’ll make your greatest escape.



As you do, lives will be forever changed.

Each decision will alter the timeline.

Space and time will bend.

Men will be left on the battlefield.

Lives will be saved.

Boots and blood; blood all around.

Crimson shines brightest in the moonlight.



Years from this moment, you’ll blame yourself.

The night will be filled with terror.

Please remember though, all you could do was run.

You still had wars to fight.

This world keeps disappointing me
and I realize now how
lucky I was to have met you,
such a fateful night ago.
Of all the ships and stars
and silly obligations,
we were two fools walking
barefoot down the streets
of a lantern-lit overripe spring night.
God, the night never ended,
and you
never answered my questions.
You were perfect that way,
always let me think
you were infinite and
I, the cleverest thing you'd ever met.
You loved me so easily and
it scared me to no end
that I knew you'd left.

It was noon, sometime in mid-July;
Imagine the road, a twisting highway to my grave.
The bus, a roller coaster ride unhinged from the tracks.
Dodging missiles with headlights, horns rattling my nerves.
Just another three hours.

It was midnight, somewhere out at sea,
Somewhere in the universe, the Milky Way, another galaxy.
A shallow heartbeat, a distant echo of a Chinese Karaoke show, but all else was still.
The stars never seemed so vast, and I remembered that they were bigger than me,
I was just a speck.

It rained on the way back to ** Chi Minh,
The roads turned to rivers, the scooters grew ponchos; under them a family of three.
The city brought chaos; sad, tired faces, begging for one thousand ****; a cent.
The children danced in the downpour, jumping over sticks
Like hopscotch.

I thought of Ha Long Bay, just the night before,
I couldn’t hear the silence; I couldn’t see the stars; a dingy hostel ceiling, grumbling strangers snores.
I went to sleep dreaming of peaceful valleys, fresh spring waters, trees as far as the eye could see,
For tomorrow was a new day,
The next part of my journey.