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,000 drafts of poems proposed, some but a bit, a title, a bob, some wondering why are they kept in suspended animation, the fire of exiting from placenta to screaming baby, most, patient waiting, over the undivided divide, the Cumbersome Attention Gap to cross, to the state of hallelujah completion this race should be an Olympic one, it is unwinnable, but only open to poets who willing to go the unlimited distance, every finished oeuvre, spawns bornes two more, so you, fool, even a fifth grader, intuits the higher math of you’ll never catchup, but rise invigorated to meet, greet the wonderous sunrise challenge… and the promised ones, “next one for you,” the unconditional incompleyedy poems so overdue, the muses send an armored truck to collect just the largesse of fine fines… as my old West Village friend sang, you poet, “might as well try and catch the wind” this leads me to observe a new day’s first birthday, even as Leonard sings Yom Kippur hymns of mortality, and all the ways humans can pass thru the gap in the morn clouds that is the passageway to the Higher North… you see, this is this poems day of naissance, one day, one candle, now extant, but sooner to be a not, one more poem sent heavenward after a  brilliant brief coexistence with the innards of my mind…
0
Aug 14, 2024
Aug 14, 2024 at 10:37 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
40
,000 drafts of poems proposed, some but a bit, a title, a bob, some wondering why are they kept in suspended animation, the fire of exiting from placenta to screaming baby, most, patient waiting, over the undivided divide, the Cumbersome Attention Gap to cross, to the state of hallelujah completion this race should be an Olympic one, it is unwinnable, but only open to poets who willing to go the unlimited distance, every finished oeuvre, spawns bornes two more, so you, fool, even a fifth grader, intuits the higher math of you’ll never catchup, but rise invigorated to meet, greet the wonderous sunrise challenge… and the promised ones, “next one for you,” the unconditional incompleyedy poems so overdue, the muses send an armored truck to collect just the largesse of fine fines… as my old West Village friend sang, you poet, “might as well try and catch the wind” this leads me to observe a new day’s first birthday, even as Leonard sings Yom Kippur hymns of mortality, and all the ways humans can pass thru the gap in the morn clouds that is the passageway to the Higher North… you see, this is this poems day of naissance, one day, one candle, now extant, but sooner to be a not, one more poem sent heavenward after a  brilliant brief coexistence with the innards of my mind…
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32
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
0
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 5:17 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Ali's Song
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
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166
I walked through these doors. I just wanted to get away. I just wanted to pass a unit at uni. I just wanted to start afresh. Its been three years. I still walk through these doors. I met good people here. I had a lot of fun here. I still have fun here. I tell people about here. 3 years of growth. 3 years of loving you guys. 3 years of happiness and going places. 3 years of managing sport. I'm glad I came I,m glad I met you. Now I know, home can be anywhere.
0
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
brendamukisa
Home can be anywhere
I walked through these doors. I just wanted to get away. I just wanted to pass a unit at uni. I just wanted to start afresh. Its been three years. I still walk through these doors. I met good people here. I had a lot of fun here. I still have fun here. I tell people about here. 3 years of growth. 3 years of loving you guys. 3 years of happiness and going places. 3 years of managing sport. I'm glad I came I,m glad I met you. Now I know, home can be anywhere.
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17
Paint with skates, Gliding fashion, Crystalline dull mirror, "CAUTION" The sign said, "Danger of Slipping." Hearing the notes from a somber tune., Gift to the world, “Arirang." Her spin cycle gyrating like a porcelain doll's dream. As she drifts abroad to other shores, They shiver oh, how they shiver. Goosebumps she brings! The Ice Queen! © 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
0
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
ronald-j-chapman
Ice Queen (Regional Korea)
Paint with skates, Gliding fashion, Crystalline dull mirror, "CAUTION" The sign said, "Danger of Slipping." Hearing the notes from a somber tune., Gift to the world, “Arirang." Her spin cycle gyrating like a porcelain doll's dream. As she drifts abroad to other shores, They shiver oh, how they shiver. Goosebumps she brings! The Ice Queen! © 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
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12