#giggle
Wink
⬇️
Tease
⬇️
Chase
⬇️
Giggle
⬇️
Tangle
⬇️
Bounce
⬇️
Repeat
🔄
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 6:03 PM UTC
some sounds and guttural expressions,
unique property of individual & groups,
no, won’t explicate this
too much further
but…
anyhoo, in the realm of naked laughter ,
undisguised, unhooded,
a modest-ly hand-covered giggle,
primarly but not exclusively,
the propety of the feminine wile,
so much so, a ‘girlish giggle’ needs no
hyphenation, or hydration,
just imagining grinning
eyes and lips, crinkling
and the ability to easy while
through one’s
nose breathing
well understood it is the
la feminine,
this witty twitty
in the provence, of women,
particularly the younger at heart
who titter with the glee
of reckless uninhibited unlimited
gig-gig-gigl-ling-ling
(N.B. young st heart is an ageless concept)
the Frenchies in their
Frenchified (1)
(alt.; frenchfried) ways
call a giggle, a puff of laughter, (2)
which sounds so modestly ladylike,
but in the US of A, a girl giggle,
a really good GG,
needs not be so demure,
and can possibly extend into a raucous cackling infectious,
yet discreet
uncontrollable belly slapping laugh,
given the kerrect circumstances
love me them GG’s
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 9:18 AM UTC
Egbert the Octopus can be viewed here, in all his high-IQ’d-ness and adorability:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V32yeA9yUuk
Egbert the Octopus
is so **** cute
& smarter than u
(the point is moot)
’cause he doesn’t pollute
when he commutes,
only, perhaps,
when he (ahem) “poots”!
—michael r. burch
I have also seen the diminutive Einstein’s name rendered as Eggbert the Octopus.
Monarch
by Michael R. Burch
I had a little caterpillar,
it wove a cocoon for its villa.
When I blinked an eye
what did I espy?
It flew off, a regal butterfly!
Nonsense Ode to Chicken Soup
by Michael R. Burch
Chicken soup
is fragrant goop
in which swims
the noodle’s loop,
sometimes in the shape
of a hula hoop!
So when you’re sick,
don’t be a dupe:
get out your spoon,
extract a scoop.
Quick, down the chute
and you’ll recoup!
Preposterous Eros (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
Feel the tingle,
then (take it from me),
you’ll fall in love
with the next ***** you see!
She’ll spend your money,
she’ll take your car...
you’ll soon end up alone
in a sad little bar.
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
I was so drunk my lips got lost requesting a kiss.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Inconstant Cosmologist
by Michael R. Burch
An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made whoopee much faster than light.
She orgasmed one day
in her relative way,
but came on the previous night!
Pale Ophelias
by Michael R. Burch
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
with a comical father crying, “Desist!”
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
“Children, be careful!” our mothers insist,
and yet we plow forward, in search of bliss,
ever in danger of a lethal tryst.
“Remember Eve’s apple,” some inner voice hissed,
which of course we ignored, the prudish miss!
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
Such a sweet temptation!, and who can resist
the enticements of such a delectable dish,
whatever the dangers of a lethal tryst?
“Stay away, Cupid!” With a balled-up fist,
we lecture the stars when things go amiss.
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
Lovers are criminals & need to be frisked!
We’re up to the task, like lobsters in bisque.
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
U.S. Travel Advisory
by Michael R. Burch
It’s okay
to be gay,
unless, let’s say,
you find your fey
way
outside the Bay.
They
will want you to pray
to their LORD, or else pay
for the “wrong decision.” Stay
in San Fran, or maybe LA.
Rhetorical Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
don’t tell me man’s lot’s poor:
i always wanted more.
don’t tell me Nature’s cruel
and red with visceral gore.
i always wanted more.
please, dial up ur Gaud and tell Him
i don’t like the crap He’s selling.
if He’s good, He’ll listen, i’m sure,
this Gaud u so adore.
Speak
by Faiz Ahmad Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Speak, while your lips are still free.
Speak, while your tongue remains yours.
Speak, while you’re still standing upright.
Speak, while your spirit has force.
See how, in the bright-sparking forge,
cunning flames set dull ingots aglow
as the padlocks release their clenched grip
on the severed chains hissing below.
Speak, in this last brief hour,
before the bold tongue lies dead.
Speak, while the truth can be spoken.
Say what must yet be said.
Ebb Tide
by Michael R. Burch
after Goethe
Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark things abide.
Hush, pale child.
Never fear.
None as dark
as men, my dear.
Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark creatures glide.
Hush, now father.
Never fear.
Men are nothing
where you are.
Moonflower
by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Hayden
Marveling,
we at last beheld the achieved flower—
both awed and repelled by its alienness,
its moonlit petals,
its cloying fragrance,
its transcendence,
its shimmering and wavering intimations of mortality ...
How could I understand?
by Michael R. Burch
for the victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts
How could I understand
that light
might
be painful?
That sight
might
be crossed?
How could I understand
the cost
of my ignorance,
or the sun’s
inflorescence?
Who was there to tell me
that I, too,
might be one of the
Lost?
Sarjann
by Michael R. Burch
What did I ever do
to make you hate me so?
I was only nine years old,
lonely and afraid,
a small stranger in a large land.
Why did you abuse me
and taunt me?
Even now, so many years later,
the question still haunts me:
what did I ever do?
Why did you despise me and reject me,
pushing and shoving me around
when there was no one to protect me?
Why did you draw a line
in the bone-dry autumn dust,
daring me to cross it?
Did you want to see me cry?
Well, if you did, you did.
... oh, leave me alone,
for the sky opens wide
in a land of no rain,
and who are you
to bring me such pain? ...
This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around 1975 at age 16-17, but could have been written earlier.
Into the gloom
by Michael R. Burch
Into the gloom, beyond the point of caring,
past fascist rows that stare and blanch and cross
and watch us always, by the sunset’s flaring,
we watch our footprints vanish. Sponge-like moss
absorbs our heavy bootheels, till the whisper
of passing from the earth, our soft refrain,
sounds like the hoot owl’s eerie lonely vesper
from distances like hers: Remain. Remain.
We cannot stay, for all our fond returning,
although the earth sighs too: Remain. Remain.
This bridge aflame with sunset coldly burning?—
another cross, another cold domain.
I cannot think of why we came; now, leaving,
we do not go as quickly as we should.
The sun wants nothing of our pallid grieving.
The darkness we encounter, just a wood,
is neither good nor bad. Nor hell nor heaven
is found here in this small plot’s barren ground.
The owls that “weep” are not our solemn brethren,
not do they weep; their cry is just the sound
of something mournful to our ears, that dying
seems metaphor for death. Perhaps a mouse
would understand their ghastly ghostly crying
and think to flee, or hope they chase a grouse,
a-tremble with the sudden realization
that life is full of talons and small cries.
Out of her corpse there spills a squalid nation
of worms and lice: which proves that nothing dies
that does not spring to life as something lesser.
O, leave her to herself! Let others guess here
what death can “mean.” I do not hope to know!
I only hope to leave, while we can go …
PETRARCH TRANSLATIONS
Sonnet XIV
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lust, gluttony and idleness conspire
to banish every virtue from mankind,
replaced by evil in his treacherous mind,
thus robbing man of his Promethean fire,
till his nature, overcome by dark desire,
extinguishes the light pure heaven refined.
Thus the very light of heaven has lost its power
while man gropes through strange darkness, unable to find
relief for his troubled mind, always inclined
to lesser dreams than Helicon’s bright shower!
Who seeks the laurel? Who the myrtle? Bind
poor Philosophy in chains, to learn contrition
then join the servile crowd, so base conditioned?
Not so, true gentle soul! Keep your ambition!
Sonnet VI
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I once beheld such high, celestial graces
as otherwise on earth remain unknown,
whose presences might earthly grief atone,
but from their blinding light we turn our faces.
I saw how tears had left disconsolate traces
within bright eyes no noonday sun outshone.
I heard soft lips, with ululating moans,
mouth words to jar great mountains from their traces.
Love, wisdom, honor, courage, tenderness, truth
made every verse they voiced more high, more dear,
than ever fell before on mortal ear.
Even heaven seemed astonished, not aloof,
as the budding leaves on every bough approved,
so sweetly swelled the radiant atmosphere!
Overshadowed
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The brilliance of stars goes unnoticed
since the moon overshadows them every night.
So Be It
by Rahat Indori
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If we’re opposed, so be it; there’s more to life.
There’s more to the skies than mere smoke.
When a fire breaks out, many wounds abound;
it’s not just my home in flames.
Yes, it’s true that many enemies also abound,
but they don’t control life with their fists.
What comes out of my mouth, are my words alone;
they don’t speak for me, do they?
Today’s rulers will not be tomorrow’s;
We’re all tenants here, not owners.
Everyone's blood irrigates Earth’s soil;
India is no one’s paternal possession.
Daredevilry
by Michael R. Burch
Trees
full of possibilities
whisper of ancient mysteries—
mysteries of birth, of life and death.
Each leaf—illuminated, light as breath—
gives up clinging to the old verities,
embraces its frailties,
skydives …
Kabir Das (1398-1518), also known as Sant Kabir Saheb, but often called simply Kabir, was an Indian mystic, saint and poet who wrote poems in Sadhukkadi, a vernacular dialect of the Hindi Belt of medieval North India. Sadhukkadi was a mix of Hindi languages (Hindustani, Haryanvi, Braj Bhasha, Awadhi, Marwari) along with Bhojpuri and Punjabi.
The world grows weary reading scripture’s tomes
but a leaf of love enlightens us.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Without looking into our hearts,
how can we find Paradise?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How long will you live by eating someone else’s leftovers?
Find your own way, don’t live on regurgitated words!
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keep the slanderer near you, build him a hut near your house.
For, when you lack soap and water, he will scour you clean.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A true wife desires only her husband;
a starving lion will not eat grass.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Certainly, saints, the world’s insane:
If I tell the truth they attack me,
if I lie they believe me.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When you were born, you wept while the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die, the world weeps while you rejoice.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The one who enlightens the world remains unseen,
just as we cannot perceive our own eyes.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No medicine rivals Love:
one drop transforms you whole being to pure gold.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Either grant me death or reveal yourself:
this separation has become unbearable.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They called the doctor to investigate Kabir’s illness;
the doctor checks my pulse to diagnose my disease.
But no doctor can understand what ails me.
It cuts too deep.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I neither have faith in my heart, nor do I know anything about Love.
And what do I know of Love’s etiquettes?
How will I ever live with my Beloved?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My Beloved calls me with such intense love,
but I am sinful and gone astray.
The Beloved is pure but the bride is soiled.
How dare she touch his feet?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Kabir kept searching and searching until he was completely lost.
The drop dissolves in the ocean; now nothing can be discovered.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Whatever you need to do tomorrow, do today,
for time evaporates and vanishes like a mist.
Thus work undone remains undone forever.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Autumn Lament
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.
And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter's palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.
Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?
Where are the lovely maidens
who browned 'neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?
Alas, the moss grows brown and stiff
and tumbles from the trees
that shiver in an icy mist,
limbs shivering in the breeze.
And now the frost has come and cast
itself upon the grass
as the surly snow grows bold
as it prepares at last
to pounce upon the land.
Where are the sheep and the cattle
that grazed beneath tall, stately trees?
And where are the fragile butterflies
that frolicked on the breeze?
And where are the rollicking robins
who once soared, so wild and free?
Oh, where can they all be?
Alas, the land has lost its warmth;
its rocky teeth chatter
and a thousand dying butterflies
soon'll dodge the snowflakes as they splatter
flush against the flowers.
Where are those warm, happy hours?
Where are the snappy jays?
And where are the brilliant blossoms
that once set the meadows ablaze?
Where are the fruitful orchards?
Where, now, the squirrels and the hares?
How has our summer wonderland
become so completely bare
in such a short time?
Alas, the earth is green no more;
the sun no longer shines;
and all the grapes ungathered
hang rotting on their vines.
And now the winter wind grows cold
and comes out of the North
to freeze the flowers as they stand
and bend toward the South.
And now the autumn becomes bald,
is shorn of all its life,
as the stiletto wind hones in
to slice the skin like a paring knife,
carving away all warmth.
Alas, the children laugh no more,
but shiver in their beds
or'll walk to school through blinding snow
with caps to keep their heads
safe from the cruel cold.
Oh, where are the showers of April
and where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?
Where are the lovely maidens
who browned 'neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?
“Autumn Lament” is one of the earliest poems that I can remember writing. The use of the archaism "'neath" is an indication of its antiquity. Unfortunately, I don't remember when I wrote the first version, but I will guess around 1972 at age 14. “Autumn Lament” has been published by The Lyric.
Trump’s Trumpet: ******* Up or *******
by Michael R. Burch
Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His “pieces of *** Braggadocios!
His tool though? Immense!
Or perhaps just pretense,
since Stormy declared “hocus-pocus!”
Why does Melania flee
Trump’s unthreatening ******
It looks like a cauliflower
and its taste is sour.
—Michael R. Burch
An Aging and Increasingly Senile Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch
I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!
Trump's Catches
by Michael R. Burch
Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
“I laugh when I’m sad,”
I said.
And then
I giggled
Softly.
Apr 2, 2024
Apr 2, 2024 at 7:22 PM UTC
i know these memories with you are the ones i will cherish
for once i have a memory so tangible
that when i look back to smile at it
all the emotions return too
i not only smile at the memory but i relive the entire moment
i will never not be thankful that you entered my life
through the pains and the joys
and the heavens know its been the slowest journey
our friendship
but what a journey it's been
every day, a new memory, a whirlwind of emotion
looking back like flashing images
the day we dashed across the busy road
our legs shaking from laughter
the day you held my hands and put your head to mine and i truly
in that moment i truly understood literature
and what it is meant when people say they feel like
the world has stopped and they are the only one's in it
for that is what happened
and when i see your face it certainly brightens up the room
when you goof around and play your silly games with me
it warms my heart
when we have our inside jokes and we're leaning against
one another trying to hold in our giggles
so that others are not alarmed
when you choose to sit next to me in a room of people and
when you confide things in me
i still don't understand all these feelings coursing through me
but i do understand one thing
you have taken a total eclipse of my heart
i am content with our friendship
and i hope i never lose you
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 7:28 AM UTC
It's snowing
Snowing like it was
All those years ago
Snowing it like it was
When we stumbled outside
Giggling and shivering
Snowing like it was
When we kissed the icy flakes
Off of each other's eyelashes
Snowing like it was
When you and I
were us
It's snowing
So I should be with you
But you're with her.
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 2:19 PM UTC
I'm awestruck in your presence,
So aware of my words,
Trying to craft the perfect sentence.
It works in theory,
But in practice it fails.
I'm too entranced by your laugh,
Warmed by you words,
Infatuated by your tone,
How could I focus when you jest at my heart so.
It's unfamiliar to me,
The thought that someone could care.
Yet you warm me to it,
As if it's my heart you dare.
I feel open for the first time in a while,
With you I feel the 'myself ' I always used to see.
Just...just the way you giggle...
Makes me bite my lip and hold my tongue,
'Cause I'm still too scared to say it feels like love.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
Poems about Laughter, Giggles and Smiles
Here and Hereafter
by Michael R. Burch
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter.
Laughter’s Cry
by Michael R. Burch
Because life is a mystery, we laugh
and do not know the half.
Because death is a mystery, we cry
when one is gone, our numbering thrown awry.
Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch
Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.
(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)
Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.
When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when
all that it knows
is: O, because!
The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow ...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes―
I can almost remember―goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much".
So more than "much", much more than "all".
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you ...
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ...
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me."
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms
Laughter from Another Room
by Michael R. Burch
Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel;
as I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.
Only you and I are real.
Only you and I exist.
Only burns that blister heal.
Only dreams denied persist.
Only dreams denied persist.
Only hope that lingers dies.
Only love that lessens lives.
Only lovers ever cry.
Only lovers ever cry.
Only sinners ever pray.
Only saints are crucified.
The crucified are always saints.
The crucified are always saints.
The maddest men control the world.
The dumb man knows what he would say;
the poet never finds the words.
The poet never finds the words.
The minstrel never hits the notes.
The minister would love to curse.
The warrior never knows his foe.
The warrior never knows his foe.
The scholar never learns the truth.
The actors never see the show.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The artist longs to feel the flame.
The proudest men are not aloof;
the guiltiest are not to blame.
The guiltiest are not to blame.
The merriest are prone to brood.
If we go outside, it rains.
If we stay inside, it floods.
If we stay inside, it floods.
If we dare to love, we fear.
Blind men never see the sun;
other men observe through tears.
Other men observe through tears
the passage of these days of doom;
now I listen and I hear
laughter from another room.
Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel.
As I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.
I wrote this poem either my first or second year in college, around age 18 to 19. It remains largely the same, with only minor changes.
Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron―
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful―
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
See
by Michael R. Burch
See how her hair has thinned: it doesn't seem
like hair at all, but like the airy moult
of emus who outraced the wind and left
soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes
are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs,
and deepens on itself, as though mirth took
some comfort there and burrowed deeply in,
outlasting winter. See how very thin
her features are―that time has made more spare,
so that each bone shows, elegant and rare.
For loveliness remains in her grave eyes,
and courage in her still-delighted looks:
each face presented like a picture book's.
Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes.
Originally published by Writer's Digest's―The Year's Best Writing 2003
Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch
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.
Originally published by Black Medina
Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep, and the Ali family paid them $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying: “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ****** The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in an Iranian publication called Bashgah. ―Michael R. Burch
Love Sonnet XI
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I stalk the streets, silent and starving.
Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me
from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor.
I long for your liquid laughter,
for your sunburned hands like savage harvests.
I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles.
I want to devour your ******* like almonds, whole.
I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty,
to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face,
to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade.
I pursue you, snuffing the shadows,
seeking your heart's scorching heat
like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue.
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin, a Uyghur poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.
The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.
Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.
Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.
Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that ****** man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence,"
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you ...
Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To me that boy seems
blessed by the gods
because he sits beside you,
basking in your brilliant presence.
My heart races at the sound of your voice!
Your laughter?―bright water, dislodging pebbles
in a chaotic vortex. I can't catch my breath!
My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak.
My ******* glow with intense heat;
desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh.
My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily.
My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof.
I sweat profusely. I shiver.
Suddenly, I grow pale
and feel only a second short of dying.
And yet I must endure, somehow,
despite my poverty.
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes―
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ...
Premonition
by Michael R. Burch
Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ...
we stand in the doorway and watch as they go―
each stranger, each acquaintance, each unembraceable lover.
They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go,
though we know their warm laughter’s the wine ...
then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows
endlessly on toward Zion ...
and they kiss one another as though they were friends,
and they promise to meet again “soon” ...
but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end,
and the mockingbird calls to the moon ...
and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines,
and the crickets chirp on out of tune ...
and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight,
seem spirits torn loose from their tombs.
And I know their brief lives are just eddies in time,
that their hearts are unreadable runes
to be wiped clean, like slate, by the dark hand of fate
when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ...
You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss
as though it were something you loved,
and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light
of the stars winking gently above ...
Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside;
if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while."
And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie
and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile.
I rather vividly remember writing this poem after an office party the year I co-oped with AT&T (at that time the largest company in the world, with presumably a lot of office parties). This would have been after my sophomore year in college, making me around 20 years old. The poem is “true” except that I was not the host because the party was at the house of one of the upper-level managers. Nor was I dating anyone seriously at the time.
Keywords/Tags: Laugh, Laughs, Laughter, Giggle, Giggles, Smile, Smiles, Humor, Light Verse, Friendship
Published as the selection “Poems about Laughter, Giggles and Smiles”
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Horses clop,
Rabbits hop.
Frogs jump,
Caterpillar ****
Worms wiggle,
Bugs jiggle.
Snakes slide,
Seagulls glide.
Lion stalk,
I walk.
Come on all lets dance,
Let's take a chance.
Clippity clop, hop hop,
Jump and ****
Now bump your ****
One,two jiggle and wiggle,
Please don't giggle.
Slide and glide,
Don't hide,
The room is wide,
You can even ride.
Dear Mr Lion don't stalk,
Sit on a rock,
So I can do moon walk.
27/3/2019.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
Joy alike to mine residest in the wet smile of that granddad with
whose son every stranger wishest to play with and giggle with
Joy alike to mine residest in the eyes of that goon whom approached thee
with a wish of disappearing his misery
Joy alike to mine residest in those
those sculptures who were freed after the perennial to get broken
Joy alike to mine residest in those drizzles departest who from the cloud,their master for good
A joy,brought to me by thee,unrelatable and unreasonable,
when showest understanding and trust,
there assures though no tyrst,
something that blooms out of broken pieces,
drenched in love
ever and ever
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC
I sit across from you and let my imagination play it's game darling I need a fix
Behind your ear, down your neck and a couple cigarettes away from your lips
The small of your back is dying to be pulled closer to me a nervous giggle slips
Stroking your rists softer than a breeze sliding to the palm of your hand tight grips
I'll lose my mind in your smell my breath singing your name. a moon in full eclipse
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
I once took a trip to Colorado,
consuming edibles by a grotto.
Trees began to squiggle,
as I started to giggle.
Now I'm an aficionado.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
Proprioception
Is the perception
Of your hand when it is out of view.
My proprioception
Is tuned to perfection
And I hope that the same's true for you!
Although I can't see
My hand behind me
I can give all my fingers a wiggle;
It may not seem much
Very different to touch,
But with touch someone lets out a giggle!
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
Happiness
Is just part of our journey
Unconditional love
Undying commitment
Will make it last.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Advice from mum,
For my little ones,interesting some.
A hug and a kiss when they cry,
Will make their tears dry.
Always take time to listen,
See how their faces brighten.
Children have fears,
Just hold them tight dear,
Soon their tension will disappear.
Young minds love to explore,
To be messy they adore,
Your anger turnoff,
Dirt washes off.
About anything when they question,
Answer them without hesitation.
Be good in your attitude and speech,
For them to have strong characters you will teach.
Housework will never end,
Be silly, open up and giggle and be their friend.
Cherish every cuddle,
They won't be with you forever after all.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:43 AM UTC
In dream God spoke when I was nine
Advise I cherish gave so kind
Mom asked what did he say
Her look I see today
To make my bed a waste of time
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
New place,
New pace.
I'm now ready to face
My new race.
Now I've set my game
I don't care about fame
I wont let anything stop me
I will be who I want to be.
The atmosphere suddenly changed...
The air feels strange....
My heart starts to beat fast
I can't believe this, I saw you at last.
I didn't saw that one comming...
About you, I know nothing...
Meeting you again was unexpected,
Being in the same school was not intended...
Time has passed...
But my feelings still last,
I promise I never felt lust
I can assure you, you can give me your trust.
This is so stupid!!
With you, I got hit hard by cupid...
I don't think this is puppy love...
I guess to you, I truly am inlove.
Im sorry,
There is nothing to worry.
Just stay off my sight,
For you, my feelings, I will stop it and fight.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
all of our kisses with giggles
for her it's like the first steps of a lovers dance
how wonderfully dizzy it makes you feel
how you long to be lost in those moments
for her it's like a taste of forever
for her it is us
all the moments of us
all the passion and light
all the lefts with the rights
all of our kisses with giggles
treasures them like jewels sparkling
like reflections of the sky in a summer rains puddle
heavens are found in the simplest lovers embrace
and renders them in deep flowing waking dreams
with all the colors of a hearts rainbow
all the moments of us
passion and light
all of our kisses with giggles
naked in the night while we lay entwined
adorned in latest fashion among the beautiful people
wherever our lovely hearts wander
are the moments of us
a lovers dance that captivates us
lost in her while she's in lost in me
a new heaven found each day in her embrace
a sweeter song in her every loving word
all the moments of us
all the passion and light
all the lefts with the rights
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
I want to go to Switzerland.
I want to see the snow and I want to hold you under the covers.
I want to gaze into the fireplace and be warm.
I want to taste your sweet lips as we watch our favorite movies.
I want to giggle with you and see your adorable face.
I want to travel with you to Switzerland.
I want to be yours.
-Lynn
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
Sweet face,
Soft ears.
Her eyes pierced me.
Soft giggles.
Everywhere she went,
She left a little piece of herself
Behind.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC