#envelope
The runes are like the North Star they give
insight
They are like the wise ancient avatars ,
Always the prominence of the ages
They are all so ancient like the stars,
They are inscrutible and old like the night .
They are like the wise ancient avatars .,
Always the prominence of the ages ,
They are inscrutible and old like the night .
They are like an arras of the sages,
They are like the wise ancient avatars.
Always the prominence of the ages
They are inscrutible and old like the night
They are like an arras of the sages,
Like a bitter drug they can fill you with fright
They are like the wise and ancient mages
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 9:32 PM UTC
The runes are like the North Star they give insight- that's right
They are like ancient avatars .
Always The rock of ages
They are old like the stars.
They are ancient like the night
They are like ancient avatars
Always The rock of ages .
They are ancient like the night
The runic teaching of the ages is like a tapestry woven from the teaching of the sages.
They are like ancient avatars.
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 8:57 PM UTC
I feel entrapped
in this shell
wrapping me around
It covers
- envelops -
every part of me;
But, inside
I still
Shiver.
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 6:40 PM UTC
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her Tears ...
Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Palestinian Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe."
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Palestine
It’s not that every leaf must finally fall,
it’s just that we can never catch them all.
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
"War" is a poem I wrote in my teens that mentions the Jordan River and wars waged with axes in ancient Palestine.
War
by Michael R. Burch
lysander lies in lauded greece
and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow,
unseeing as sunset devours limp willows,
but War glares on.
and joab's sightless gaze is turned
beyond the jordan's ravaged shore;
his war-ax lies to be taxed no more,
but War hacks on.
and roland sleeps in poppied fields
with flowers flowing at his feet;
their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep,
but War raves on.
and patton sighs an unheard sigh
for sorties past and those to come;
he does not heed the battle drum,
but War rolls on.
for now new heroes grab up guns
and rush to fight their fathers' wars,
as warriors' children must, of course,
while War laughs on.
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch
War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.
But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night).
For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light! —
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.
For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?
Something
by Michael R. Burch
for the children of the Holocaust and the Palestinian Nakba
Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.
Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.
Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality has swept into a corner ... where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.
Keywords/Tags: Frail, envelope, flesh, Nakba, Gaza, Jordan, Palestine, Palestinian, children, mothers, tiny, hand, kiss, mayfly, deluge, tears, epitaph, grave, butterflies
The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One leaf falls, enlightenment!
Another leaf falls,
swept away by the wind ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Advice to Young Poets
by Nicanor Parra Sandoval
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Youngsters,
write however you will
in your preferred style.
Too much blood flowed under the bridge
for me to believe
there’s just one acceptable path.
In poetry everything’s permitted.
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs ...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees ...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ...
... of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ...
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch
for Caitlin Shea Murphy
To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day ...
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."
But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
Everlasting
by Michael R. Burch
Where the wind goes
when the storm dies,
there my spirit lives
though I close my eyes.
Do not weep for me;
I am never far.
Whisper my name
to the last star ...
then let me sleep,
think of me no more.
Still ...
By denying death
its terminal sting,
in my words I remain
everlasting.
I have the most childlike heart ...
—Sappho, fragment 120, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Awed by the moon’s splendor,
stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.
—Sappho, fragment 34, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Those I most charm
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Even as their hearts froze,
their feathers molted.
—Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your voice beguiles me.
Your laughter lifts my heart’s wings.
If I listen to you, even for a moment, I am left speechless.
—Sappho, fragment 31, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sappho, fragment 138, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
1.
Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.
2.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.
3.
Look me in the face,
smile,
reveal your eyes' grace ...
4.
Turn to me, favor me with your eyes’ acceptance.
Sappho, fragment 52 (Voigt 168B / Diehl 94 / *** 48)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1a.
Midnight.
The hours drone on
as I moan here, alone.
1b.
Midnight.
The hours drone.
I moan,
alone.
2.
The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent
and yet
here I lie—alone.
Sappho, fragment 24, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
1a.
Dear, don't you remember how, in days long gone,
we did such things, being young?
1b.
Dear, don't you remember, in days long gone,
how we did such things, being young?
2.
Don't you remember, in days bygone,
how we did such things, being young?
3.
Remember? In our youth
we too did such reckless things.
Sappho, fragment 154, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The moon rose and we women
thronged it like an altar.
2.
Maidens throng
at the altar of Love
all night long.
Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean,
intoxicated by lust.
—Sappho, after Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Did the epigram above perhaps inspire the legend that Sappho leapt into the sea to her doom, over her despair for her love for the ferryman Phaon? See the following poem ...
The Legend of Sappho and Phaon, after Menander
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Some say Sappho was an ardent maiden
goaded by wild emotion
to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks of Leukas
into this raging ocean
for love of Phaon ...
but others reject that premise
and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis.
In Menander's play The Leukadia he refers to a legend that Sappho flung herself from the White Rock of Leukas in pursuit of Phaon. We owe the preservation of those verses to Strabo, who cited them. Phaon appears in works by Ovid, Lucian and Aelian. He is also mentioned by Plautus in Miles Gloriosus as being one of only two men in the whole world, who "ever had the luck to be so passionately loved by a woman."
You ask me why I've sent you no new verses?
There might be reverses.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me to recite my poems to you?
I know how you'll "recite" them, if I do.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere?
You're not there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I love fresh country air?
You're not befouling it, mon frère.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You never wrote a poem,
yet criticize mine?
Stop abusing me or write something fine
of your own!
—Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
He starts everything but finishes nothing;
thus I suspect there's no end to his f---ing.
—Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You alone own prime land, dandy!
Gold, money, the finest porcelain—you alone!
The best wines of the most famous vintages—you alone!
Discrimination and wit—you alone!
You have it all—who can deny that you alone are set for life?
But everyone has had your wife—she is never alone!
—Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You dine in great magnificence
while offering guests a pittance.
Sextus, did you invite
friends to dinner tonight
to impress us with your enormous appetite?
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father,
I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love’s daughter.
who died six days short of completing her sixth frigid winter.
Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear;
muzzle hell’s three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed!
Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade,
her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games
as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
To you, my departed parents, with much emotion,
I commend my little lost darling, my much-kissed Erotion,
who died six days short of completing her sixth bitter winter.
Protect her, I pray, from hell’s hound and its dark shades a-flitter;
and please don’t let fiends leave her maiden heart dismayed!
But lead her to romp in some happy Elysian glade
with her cherished friends, excitedly lispingly my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was such a slight burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Martial wrote this touching elegy for a little slave girl, Erotion, who died six days before her sixth birthday. The poem has been nominated as Martial’s masterpiece by L. J. Lloyd and others. Erotion means “little love” and may correspond to our term “love child.” It has been suggested that Erotion may have been Martial’s child by a female slave. That could explain why Martial is asking his parents’ spirits to welcome, guide and watch over her spirit. Martial uses the terms patronos (patrons) and commendo (commend); in Rome a freed slave would be commended to a patron. A girl freed from slavery by death might need patrons as protectors on the “other side,” according to Roman views of the afterlife, since the afterworld houses evil shades and is guarded by a monstrous three-headed dog, Cerberus. Martial is apparently asking his parents to guide the girl’s spirit away from Cerberus and the dark spirits to the heavenly Elysian fields where she can play and laugh without fear. If I am correct, Martial’s poem is not just an elegy, but a prayer-poem for protection, perhaps of his own daughter. Albert A. Bell supports this hypothesis with the following arguments: (1) Martial had Erotion cremated, a practice preferred by the upper classes, (2) “he buried her with the full rites befitting the child of a Roman citizen,” (3) he entrusted her [poetically] to his parents, and (4) he maintained her grave for years.
Catullus I (“cui dono lepidum novum libellum”)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom do I dedicate this novel book
polished drily with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius, for you would look
content, as if my scribblings took
the cake, when in truth you alone
unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
as learned as Jupiter and acing the course.
Therefore, this little book is yours,
whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
I pray will last more than my lifetime!
Catullus LXXXV: “Odi et Amo”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I hate. I love.
How can that be, turtledove?
I wish I could explain.
I can’t, but feel the pain.
Catullus CVI: “That Boy”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See that young boy, by the auctioneer?
He’s so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
Catullus LI: “That Man”
This is Catullus’s translation of a poem by Sappho of ******
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’d call that man the equal of the gods,
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
Meanwhile, in my misery,
I’m left speechless.
Lesbia, there is nothing left of me
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water
till they swim in darkness.
Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness,
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it’s the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
Catullus XLIX: “A Toast to Cicero”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cicero, please confess:
You’re drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you’re the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I’m the dregs of the glass.
The famous Roman orator Cicero employed “tail rhyme” in this pun:
O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam.
O fortunate natal Rome, to be hatched by me!
—Cicero, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Latin hymn "Dies Irae" employs end rhyme:
Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla
***** David *** Sybilla
The day of wrath, that day
which will leave the world ash-gray,
was foretold by David and the Sybil fey.
—attributed to Thomas of Celano, St. Gregory the Great, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and St. Bonaventure; loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I must admit I’m partial
to Martial.
— Michael R. Burch
Did Sappho write the world's first "make love, not war" poem, more than 2,500 years ago? This poem has been variously titled “The Anactoria Poem,” “Helen’s Eidolon” and “Some People Say.”
Some Say
Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.
And this makes sense
because she who so vastly surpassed all other mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
lightly set sail for distant Troy,
abandoning her celebrated husband,
leaving behind her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or all their infantry parading in flashing armor.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC
Drifting in the shade
of Hello Poetry's long lost grave
In archive (a kingdom's history)
the past that has been made
Stepping on the bleached out bones
The pale parade of long dead dreams
Crunching fragments of sentenced themes
burning books , poems stuffed inside the reams
Epitaphs to their honor
2010 comments to poets
Vickey , Fix , and O'Connor
Poems to praise lost in time
I hold in hand the words that bind
Great poems whose eyes
were never shed
In a broken aspiration
now lay dead
Cruch , crunch ,
the landscape littered in 2012
Oh what sacred feelings
not forthwith
Here ! lay my poems
to rest here
In 2014 my poems
of yesteryear
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 1:20 AM UTC
Pushing the envelopes one at a time
contents not easy too read
the postage paid some of the time
planting a runaway seed
If only the deed was so easy
sending out mail, by the bag
writing the writs and words easy
like waving a popular flag
Reading of troubles and woes
of all of us here on this globe
caring and showing we're there
and maybe love
fosters and
grows
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC
She's weird, different. She can make more with less. She can be more focused on the finer detail. More enveloped in the abstract. She is more involved in being involved. She is more with you when she's with you. The shadow to your light. The inverse thought. The reflected passion. The parts belonging to each side being and finally meeting. Two created. Two in their own path unaware. Two-who's path intertwined in a beautiful thing of many flavors- one being a flavor. Senses and beauty and to make it real- love.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 12:03 AM UTC
Paper endures everything – it is not silk.
A piece of paper in an envelope with a poem on it.
Diligent, handwritten,
Keeping simple thoughts.
Fourteen lines about the city,
Fourteen points back and forth.
Fourteen lines about ships,
Dashes, commas, crosses, zeros.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
I’m wearing your old jacket. Remember? The one you used to fish in. The one with the tear in the silk of the right-hand pocket. You used to tease me. You used to say that this jacket kept your loose change safe from my chocolate addiction. You being left-handed; me being right.
I bury my face in the nap of the moleskin collar. My nostrils fill with your scent - stale cologne, a hint of woodsmoke, and...fish. More disconcerting than unpleasant, it’s all I can do not to choke on my memories of you. Of me and you. Together.
_'Tell me, how can I be, now that you alone are gone and I am left behind?'_
I feel like I’ve been abandoned in a foreign capital with nothing more than the clothes I stand up in and a wallet full of the wrong kind of currency. The day is drawing to a close. My luggage has disappeared with the exhaust from the bus which took off before I could catch my breath and explain my dilemma - that I’m not sure where I’m going or even where I’ve been. Lately.
Maybe a kindness will point me in the right direction. An open-all-hours diner on an inner-city corner, snuggled in between the high-rise office blocks. Maybe I’ll have enough cash for a meal and a trail of hot, sweet tea to lead me into tomorrow. Maybe I’ll close my eyes and remember where I’m supposed to be and what I should be doing.
And just maybe, as the rhythm of the traffic slows and the night progresses, I’ll find some peace in the ever-changing cityscape. A time-lapse production of late revellers, harried shift workers, the dispossessed and restless; until finally the earliest commuters and exercise fanatics emerge from the riverside neighbourhoods to face the new dawn.
‘Hey, lady.’ A disgruntled voice shatters my reverie. 'I ain’t got all day, y’know.' Scrambling for cash, I reach deep into your left-hand pocket and find...WTF...a limp fifty-dollar bill...and a battered envelope. There’s a note scrawled on the outside in your familiar hand:
_'How can you be, now that I alone have gone and you are left behind? The short answer is: you will be. For you are as singular and complete today as you were before 'mine' became 'yours' and 'I' became 'we'. My darling, I’m no tourist. You know how impatient I can get - always taking the most direct route. I’m just out of sight around the next corner. You take your time and meet me when you’re ready. Sometime...later. Whenever. I’ll be waiting.'_
Stunned, I mutter an apology to the waitress and step out from the warm fug of the café into a bright, fresh New York morning. The doorbell tings shut behind me and I realise with new-found clarity that I know exactly where I am. I’m home. It’s not going to be a great day but it’ll be a better one, which is a start. Besides I have things to do - chocolate to buy, a jacket to launder, and a needle to thread.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC
'uP'
Prayers are wing's to envelope our thoughts spoken or not to God's ear,
Every word He does indeed hear,
It can be a plea, a question, or just a statement or two, So lets lift one another up to God's loving ear's,
A prayer can erase your every fear, help us carry one another's burden with care,
So let's lift those uP feeling defeated because of these floods. In Your Holy Name I Pray, amen
I wrote this during Hurricane Florence along with several others. Let's lift one another up! © an hour ago, Venjencie Arnold ~SacredInkedBlood
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Kissing her was more than transcendent.
I came to the realization that this one moment was infinite.
Setting ourselves as a door.
Revolving the same emotion that otherwise would flee.
The exact teachings teachers and prophets set as the floor.
We elevated.
Our breath becoming the message stuffed in the folds of our mouths.
Licked and sealed.
We were but envelopes made of flesh.
Our ***** left open, receiving the best of our former selves.
We discussed the effects of paper once wet.
Neither of us cared.
Becoming one with another.
Our fears smeared across our face.
No longer a label our stamps fell off.
We categorized ourselves the sender of mail we often thought to send.
But as over thought occurs.
We become shuffled around. Lost in thought.
Until we mailed ourselves.
***** left open
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
I am a sealed
envelope
licked by
past promises
that have found
a home
in the corners
of my frame
Go on
cut it open
liberate me
I dare you
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 4:42 AM UTC
*Know not the turn of my cheek
The strength of my chest
Or the way in which my mattress rests
Just beneath the sill
Yet in front of the envelope which waits for you
Though you ought to know
That every line and every word
Was meant to be
In broken verse
Just as it it
That way one day
Only you could find me there within
And surpass the number set before
Thirty-two
For I am my own
And none of her names
Though in idealism
Perhaps a bit, one and the same
And should you never arrive by me
Then the envelope as directed will be
Delivered to you
So worry not
But hopefully it will not come to that
And that I will live to see your face
As you learn such of things
Like the envelope without a name*
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
See a familiar name on a birthday card
My parents hand me one that I soon discard
They didn't write a thing on the envelope
But that's better than giving me false hope
Their envelope is full of lovely gifts
Not an empty gesture, at least I don't think (so)
Because they know that she's a memory
And I am grateful but that won't stop me
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Drifting in the shade
of Hello Poetry's grave
In archive (a kingdom's history)
the past has once been made
Stepping on the bleached bones
parade of dreams
Crunching fragments of sentenced themes
Epitaphs of honor
comments to poets 2010
Poems laid bare of praise lost in time
Great poems whose eyes
were never shed
In a broken aspiration
now lay dead
Cruch , crunch ,
the landscape littered in 2012
Oh what sacred feelings
not forthwith
Here ! lay my poems
to rest here
In 2014 my poems
of yesteryear
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
You are an envelope
I am pen
I am paper
I am words
I am a letter
I want you to write
I want sweet words
Now fold me
Put me inside you
I want you to wrap me
In your envelope
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Place silhouette pieces or outlines of my heart in thirty or more envelopes.
Paste each one with a new soft paintbrush which clean cream bristles. Push them into torn up fragments of clean new watercolour paper. The sharp edges feel through onto the wooden table leaving mistaken, accidental grooves. Glimmers of sawdust are ****** up into the pockets of your lungs, where they contaminated and will permanently sit.
It was a small heart, the colour of grey sky reflected on seas and carried in bloated raindrops. The texture of diamond. Carved up as easily as wax by a blunt butter knife.
The envelopes are neatly labelled with white tailors chalk powders.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC