I roll out of my bed with my lips dry clamping to the side of my sheets
Like the sand clings to the side of a wet cheek and refuses to leave
Without first scratching your skin, unless you brush with care-
But then that just gets it everywhere
And all over bedroom floor
And all over the room
And the tub
And the bathtub mat
And somehow in the bed.

I rip my skin off of my lip because I have no more motivation to lift my head and turn my neck to try and see what this world has to offer me
Because
To be honest I’m tired of dragging myself out of an eternally cursed sleep of finally escaping what this life and my work and my toil had to bring,
I am ready to be rolled over, nailed down, lowered, covered, and then lulled to sleep, and thereby escape the day’s tolls that bring me crawling back into my bed
Dreading another day
Dragging my feet.

I wake up to sweet, beautiful rain
I stick my head out the door and feel the coolness drip over my face
I stick my hands out and long for them to be washed by this water from heaven
Wash over me, rain
Wash over me, water
Wash me clean
I hear the voice of the Living Water
I have already made you clean
You are forgiven

The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch

The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,

the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,

the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,

the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,

the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,

rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.

Keywords/Tags: shape, mourning, bolt, steel, locker, memory, memories, penance, wake, keepsake, memento, rings, crosses, paraphernalia

The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

(lines written at the close of the 20th century and introduction of the 21st century)

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.
And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,

hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
“How can this be?”
A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.
I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.

Originally published by The Centrifugal Eye. Keywords/Tags: new, century, wake, new year, party, Central Park, fireworks, song, display

War with Iran was January's desire,
As if Australia wanted that pain,
February set our country on fire,
Until finally the sky gave us rain.

March has given us Corona Virus,
Keeping us prisoners of home,
Yesterday's news is the Auzzie fires,
Now home alone on our phones.

Did you hope April your friend?
As the government offers a hand
Just another step towards the end
As we fall to their commands.

The world has said we'll band together,
But watch the over shoppers greed,
Alone they try endeavor,
Alone they try to feed.

Be sure to keep your distance,
Be it distant in your mind,
While Covid19 is persistent,
Stay home while your bills fall behind.

Bar tenders stay away,
Caution off all play grounds,
Your children can not play,
Our streets echo without sounds.

But never mind still catch the bus,
Live your life within our rules,
We're your government! Have trust!
Keep your kids home out of schools.

Await the vaccination,
Be pressured for the juice,
The saviour of the nation,
The destruction of our youth.

Don't always do what they tell you,
After your own research you might find,
The only thing any of us can do,
Is make up our own minds.

Break! break! break dear friend, break the fretting chain
Wake! wake! wake yourself, not the time for sleep
Clean! clean! clean your hands, wash the little stain
Keep! keep! keep the distance, no time for weep.
Close! close! close your doors, sway of death in reap
Lay low, dim and low, let the season pass
Pain of ashes from unmade graves of mass
Frozen fear gripping through the silent hearts.

Let us hail those souls through our singing brass
Who kept fighting to save the human hearts.