shall i compare myself to others every day?
they are more charming, and more talented:
tough luck does take its toll; often too hefty to pay,
and the bill of regrets is way past its due date;
sometimes too hot the baton of pride burns inside,
and often in a sea of mediocrity naked, i swim;
and every ball from ball sometimes drops,
by a poet in his underpants, and *****, untrimm’d;
but my eternal hard-on shall not fade,
nor lose faith inside the hole i bore’st;
nor shall spite keep me from dues unpaid,
when that eternal hard-on in time so grow’st:
so long as i can sing, profoundly and care-free,
so long lives this - it’s a fun read, won’t you agree?

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

    As one man more, methinks, would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

    Let him depart; his passport shall be made
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
    We would not die in that man’s company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.

    This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
    And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
    Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,

    And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
    Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember with advantages
    What feats he did that day: then shall our names

    Familiar in his mouth as household words:
    Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
    Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,

    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered;

    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition:

    And gentlemen in England now abed
    Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Orpheus
by Michael R. Burch

after William Blake

I.

Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.

I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked

nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.

II.

Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,

the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.

III.

Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,

I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,

were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild

I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.

Keywords/Tags: Orpheus, singer, poet, William Blake, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, song, freedom

The guy that got confused between love and pain.

For most poets
it's  an obsession
a nagging one

a golden thread
through out their whole
sartorial collection of verse

we poets wear
our art
like suits some

fit better than others
and
some garments

well some
just need to be shot
like lame horses

I'm being tangential
and sorry
for the cruel morbid simile

but for my obsession
motels
the art deco flea circus variety

lately though
motel
and hotel art

it could be that
I'm in a really good place
for once in my life

that I can just
binge and gorge
on still lives of

cheap grocery store roses  
and
whimsical pictures of prancing horses

Whit Howland © 2019

Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer,
bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop.
Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments
he was surprised to find it contained a small book.
The book titled the Plaice of Cod
(a philosophical treatise on theology)
contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer,
several of which were wildly inaccurate
and a few that were accurately wild.
In the appendix there were twenty-three songs
attributed to a medieval troubadour,
who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones.
  
William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle
on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill,
a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes
and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs.
  
Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on,
took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals
and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ******.

Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew
which some say numbered sixty-nine
or seventy-two, but no-one could swear
how many were there especially
on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right
and the cattle lowed on their knees.
And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate
would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen,
and dreamers would dream
of jumping through flames
that carried the names
of those who were soon to be dead.

Goats head soup
with yarrow root
was served to the guests …..whose favourite request
was Wort of Sacred Johnny,
they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light
sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home
to the place where the days are shorter.
When the dew on the grass  …..comes to pass
and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway,
when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed
and the False ones only moved slightly
the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring"
and the treetops will shake with the dancers
the day is but done and the Knights just begun
to get a little bit longer.
   But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle"
And riddle me no riddle
I need to get high as the moon….
"which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?"
"Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes
to the ones I'm currently wearing"
and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew
the Stones roadie crew
withdrew
for the next seven years
their horses drank tears
and everyone's fears
were fried up for breakfast
with marmalade toast
two sausage
mushrooms
and beans
eggs over easy
rashers done crispy
a fried slice or two
and a teapot of glue
to ensure it stuck to the belly.

The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.

This is just to say
when i gave you that poem
I had no inkling

Of what was to come -
all the pain awaiting us
The ancestral sin

Temptation, assured
We were manicured, shared prose
Dog-hungry for plums.