#table
At dinner
someone mentioned politics
the room immediately
developed the atmosphere
of an airport delay
My uncle blamed capitalism
My cousin blamed socialism
Someone blamed immigrants
which felt ambitious
considering the potatoes
Meanwhile
my aunt kept refilling wine glasses
with the calm precision
of a battlefield medic
Outside
rain touched the balcony railing
like it was trying
not to get involved
At some point
two people began speaking simultaneously
in different languages
which honestly
improved the conversation
Then my grandmother asked:
“Does anyone want cake?”
The entire table went silent
as if peace negotiations
had unexpectedly succeeded
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 5:36 AM UTC
Grace at the table
<>e
*Grace is at the table
sitting quietly
observing, contemplating, collating
She
is shapely & invisible,
inviting, inspiring, intriguing,
absorbing her fill of each of us,
asking no questions, for we tell all,
and all tell,
for her visage is comely, pleasingly, despite
her transparency
Wistful Smile
Single Tear,
Grace
Is At
The Table
come partake,
of
Grace
for she
will follow you
everywhere
take her home,
ask her to stay,
invite her to stay,
you will be pleased, by pleasing her,
indeed,
She will spread her
embracing wings, sheltering, protecting,
for when Grace is at the table,
She is everywhere,
Inside Out
Outside In.
and there is no*
The End
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 4:59 PM UTC
I want to go home so much!
I want to go to my open essence.
There’s coffee on the table. It’s undrunk.
And there’s my future, which is pure taintless.
I want to go home, to my place.
The time is ripe: my heart and soul are holed.
To hell with being along! I go home!
I am invisible. And here I am cold.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 4:08 PM UTC
The dinner table.
It is called what it is despite the use for all meals
starts out with breakfast
the kids get their backpacks from the chairs and go to school.
The dinner table.
Come lunchtime, sandwiches
prepared on its rough tired surface
waiting for the children to come home and enjoy them.
The dinner table.
Now comes dinner,
A place of comfort and good thing
where every expressed meal takes place in the American home.
The dinner table.
Wooden, ovoid piece of furniture located in the formal dining room
such a work of art in yet such a pleasant, morsel-resting masterpiece
a family heirloom often overlooked for its uses.
The dining room is where the family can relax at the universal dining counter for mealtime.
The kitchen is where the food is made and prepared. But tonight, we have other meal plans.
The dinner table.
Let us rest our heads upon its surface and say a prayer of thanks
let us praise the Lord for the food he has blessed us with.
Now let’s eat! This takeout looks delicious!
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:03 PM UTC
He set out the long, round table
Sufficiently spatial for a up close wedding supper
with the family reclining,
face to face, facing the King,
with room for eternity
Oct 28, 2023
Oct 28, 2023 at 3:38 AM UTC
Sitting at a table in a pub with some other people who look really upset, nay
aghast at something I've just said
And I have this ventriloquist's Dummy on my
knee
His nose is very red as are his ears, even his
cheeks have a reddish tint
And he has this crazy wild look on his face
And he's also wearing this funny disjointed jacket which has all these very
flamboyant colours on it
Just like the colours of all the Bottles of
Spirits hanging over at the Bar
And I'm there and I'm pointing at the Dummy
explaining to the other people
"It wasn't me, it was just the Drink talking!".
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 11:41 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, and she dreams:?
expired sunset
a multicolored sky fired and met
wings of flee burnt rain
dawns of lasts in unseen flames
the table dines
lions chase forests of mine
like when the first sip shadowed
of the water green in lakes shallow
hands shot eyes intake
tremble ripped canvas of french fake
ashes unknown no name
to reach out faces or claim
polished the twenty third
out of the bathing bird
a Sunday morning motions
a faze of a dark table believed bad omen
-----ravenfeels
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just an old a family memory on a dinner table--sorry no rhymes :>
to the no one who is not recognizing......
when I stopped for a long stare for me
I stopped and looked around me searching for something that
I don't know stashed deep into the picture I view
I smiled for the happiness that invades those hearts
for the gratitude that my soul is permeated
I crowned the thrones of blood in pure joy
I stole the sounds of laughter
I screened that shot that is bottled into the core of my memories that shot the reason I am on ground in this life
the reason that I believe in the reason that I hang on to the reason
that I long on my stormy nights and deprived alones
I locked them on that table of love and warm clouds attached
when I stopped for a long stare for me
------ravenfeels
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
Quaint, small and overall,
Infatuating.
With the forest green.
Closest thing he has seen,
For a place to invite.
Those who lift the kites.
Beings who draw veins on leaves.
To whom believes,
In tiny things with wings.
He sings!
Chairs armless for their spread.
While exchanging the sweet bread.
Only three seats.
"One always open" he beats,
For an uncertain one.
Never to be filled it seems,
He still beams
Because he knows can see.
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 10:59 PM UTC
I will sip
This life slowly
Remember you
By Friday
With each carbonated hiccup
Your face reminds me
Of brightly colored wrapping paper
Always loud with a mouth ready to be opened
So I will collect this life
Into a chipped tea cup
Slightly jagged edge that nips my lips
With every sip
Like our conversations
Gathering up tidbits
Of current events, laughter, and insults
Pour them across the table
Come Friday
So I will sip
This life slowly
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 7:14 PM UTC
A glorious sight befell my eyes
A pristine untouched bearer of supplies
Made of wood, of steel, or anything buildable
The Table
Possessing an essence unlike anything else
Hearkening to an unalterable purpose and tableness
Providing unending sustenance on a platform that's stable
The Table
Though the lingering presence in this perceptual world is illusory
The unchanging, uncleft presence is perfection conceptually
Artisanal glyphs adorn its sides unmatchable
The Table
While strife and pandemonium reign in this material domain
There remains a bastion of stability man cannot attain
Indeed, this mystical countenance attains a fable
The Table
Weathered and wizened through inummerable epochs
Joyous outpourings bestow praise not enough
Remaining of unmatchable nature even with the made-in-China label
The Table
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC
I'm dying by hunger
he said
and I remembered about
all these ruined places
and its children
and their mothers
no
you're not dying
you just still don't have enough capacity
to realize
that you don't need a new jacket
and shoes
you own muddy ones in the hallway
and the others you don't like
*******
give me
a better reason
and try
to swallow your dreams
and keep them
in a digestive tract
to the last second
of not giving a ****
as the ones who are trying to fall asleep now
on the pillow of tomorrow's death
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
The Last Enchantment
by Michael R. Burch
Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend,
how time has thinned your ragged mane
and pinched your features; still you seem
though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged.
Your sword hand is, as ever, ready,
although the time for swords has passed.
Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady
meeting mine ... you must not ask.
The time is not, nor ever shall be,
for Merlyn’s words were only words;
and now his last enchantment wanes,
and we must put aside our swords ...
Originally published by Trinacria. Keywords/Tags: Lancelot, King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, sword, swords, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, loyalty, friendship, magic, prophecy, Once and Future King, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon
Northern Flight: Lancelot's Last Love Letter to Guinevere
by Michael R. Burch
"Get thee to a nunnery..."
Now that the days have lengthened, I assume
the shadows also lengthen where you pause
to watch the sun and comprehend its laws,
or just to shiver in the deepening gloom.
But nothing in your antiquarian eyes
nor anything beyond your failing vision
repeals the night. Religion's circumcision
has left us worlds apart, but who's more wise?
I think I know you better now than then—
and love you all the more, because you are
... so distant. I can love you from afar,
forgiving your flight north, far from brute men,
because your fear's well-founded: God, forbid,
was bound to fail you here, as mortals did.
Originally published by Rotary Dial
These Arthurian poems by Michael R. Burch are based on mysterious ancient Celtic myths that predate by centuries the Christianized legends most readers are familiar with.
At Tintagel
by Michael R. Burch
That night,
at Tintagel,
there was darkness such as man had never seen...
darkness and treachery,
and the unholy thundering of the sea...
In his arms,
who is to say how much she knew?
And if he whispered her name...
"Ygraine"
could she tell above the howling wind and rain?
Could she tell, or did she care,
by the length of his hair
or the heat of his flesh,...
that her faceless companion
was Uther, the dragon,
and Gorlois lay dead?
Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then subsequently by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times
Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch
Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.
Originally published by The Raintown Review, where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels' tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
Originally published by Celtic Twilight, then by Celtic Lifestyles and Auldwicce
Morgause's Song
by Michael R. Burch
Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.
I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.
Why him? Why him?
The years grow dim.
Now it's harder and harder to say...
Perhaps girls and boys
are the god's toys
when the skies are gray.
Originally published by Celtic Twilight as "The First Time"
Pellinore's Fancy
by Michael R. Burch
What do you do when your wife is a nag
and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag?
When the land is at peace, but at home you have none,
Is that, perchance, when... the Questing Beasts run?
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
Truces
by Michael R. Burch
We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur's hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, quite possibly the son of Wayland Smith. The legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan...
Artur took Cabal, his hound,
and Carwennan, his knife,
and his sword forged by Wayland
and Merlyn, his falcon,
and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,
he strode to the Table Rounde.
"Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,
and here is Wygar that I wear,
and ready for war,
an oath I foreswore
to fight for all that is righteous and fair
from Wales to the towers of Gilead."
But none could be found to contest him,
for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,
so he hastened back home, for to rest him,
till his wife bade him, "Thatch up the roof! "
Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Celtic Twilight
Midsummer-Eve
by Michael R. Burch
What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term "banshee") and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts.
In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;
when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;
when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven
cries;
we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil's
fen...
if nevermore again.
Originally published by Penny Dreadful
The Pictish Faeries
by Michael R. Burch
Smaller and darker
than their closest kin,
the faeries learned only too well
never to dwell
close to the villages of larger men.
Only to dance in the starlight
when the moon was full
and men were afraid.
Only to worship in the farthest glade,
ever heeding the raven and the gull.
The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch
The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
and the past and the future
have appeared, as though a vapor,
mingling with the here and now.
And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
to tell me that the gods, unsung,
will not last long
when the druids' harps grow dumb.
Merlyn, on His Birth
by Michael R. Burch
Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin was an albino, which might have led to claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name ("Artos" or "Artur") means "bear." Morydd is another possible ancestor of Merlin's. In Welsh names "dd" is pronounced "th."
I was born in Gwynedd,
or not born, as some men claim,
and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin
gave me my name.
My father was Madog Morfeyn
but our eyes were never the same,
nor our skin, nor our hair;
for his were dark, dark
—as our people's are—
and mine were fairer than fair.
The night of my birth, the Zephyr
carved of white stone a rune;
and the ringed stars of Ursa Major
outshone the cool pale moon;
and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer
saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky,
a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes
when falcons never fly.
Merlyn's First Prophecy
by Michael R. Burch
Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden,
but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in.
Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son,
recently shed, would ever hold the foundation.
"There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father;
his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower."
So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon,
and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden.
"To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears."
Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn's jeers.
"Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool.
At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool! "
When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red,
and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said:
"Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed."
Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed.
Published by Celtic Twilight
It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch
This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur's fame (and hyperbole)grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.
"It is not the sword,
but the man, "
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the "lightning-shard."
"It is not the sword,
but the words men follow."
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.
But none could budge it from the stone.
"It is not the sword
or the strength, "
said Merlyn,
"that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word."
"It is NOT the sword! "
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,
and so became their king.
Uther's Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
"Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age."
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
"Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb."
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
"Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done."
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
"Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be."
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch
According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector's court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere)might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or "lost" homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. ("Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too! ")Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as "small tales, " little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend most of their free time drinking and puking...
When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
till thems wasn't so shore which'un's tails wus true.
And these have been passed down to me, and to you.
The Song of Amergin
by Michael R. Burch
Amergin is, in the words of Morgan Llywelyn, "the oldest known western European poet." Robert Graves said: "English poetic education should, really, begin not with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Amergin was one of the Milesians, or sons of Mil: Gaels who invaded Ireland and defeated the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, thereby establishing a Celtic beachhead, not only on the shores of the Emerald Isle, but also in the annals of Time and Poetry.
He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs...
and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears,
while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
... and Time here also spumes, careers...
while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.
Stonehenge
by Michael R. Burch
Here where the wind imbues life within stone,
I once stood
and watched as the tempest made monuments groan
as though blood
boiled within them.
Here where the Druids stood charting the stars
I can tell
they longed for the heavens... perhaps because
hell
boiled beneath them?
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch
"I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves of 30, 000 Irish men, women and children, and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans
There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese...
There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.
When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.
These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.
And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.
And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!
At Cædmon's Grave
by Michael R. Burch
"Cædmon's Hymn, " composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon's ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric
Sun Poem
by Michael R. Burch
I have suffused myself in poetry
as a lizard basks, soaking up sun,
scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light
he understands—when it comes, it comes.
A flood of light leaches down to his bones,
his feral eye blinks—bold, curious, bright.
Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling;
here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead.
Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling,
simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed,
his tongue flicking rhythms,
the sun—throbbing, spilling.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:32 AM UTC
Morgause’s Song
by Michael R. Burch
Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.
I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.
Why him? Why him?
The years grow dim.
Now it’s harder and harder to say ...
Perhaps girls and boys
are the god’s toys
when the skies are gray.
Published by Celtic Twilight
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 9:13 PM UTC
It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch
This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.
“It is not the sword,
but the man,”
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.”
“It is not the sword,
but the words men follow.”
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.
But none could budge it from the stone.
“It is not the sword
or the strength,”
said Merlyn,
“that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word.”
“It is NOT the sword!”
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,
and so became their king.
Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, Uther Pendragon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
Merlyn’s First Prophecy
by Michael R. Burch
Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden,
but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in.
Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son,
recently shed, would ever hold the foundation.
“There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father;
his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower.”
So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon,
and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden.
“To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears.”
Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn’s jeers.
“Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool.
At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool!”
When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red,
and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said:
“Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed.”
Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed.
Originally published by Celtic Twilight
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, Ambrosius, Vortigern, dragons
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC
Merlyn, on His Birth
by Michael R. Burch
I was born in Gwynedd,
or not born, as men may claim,
and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin
gave me my name.
My father was Madog Morfeyn
but our eyes were never the same,
nor our skin, nor our hair;
for his were dark, dark
—as our people’s are—
and mine were fairer than fair.
The night of my birth, the Zephyr
carved of white stone a rune;
and the ringed stars of Ursa Major
outshone the cool pale moon;
and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer
saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky,
a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes
when falcons never fly.
Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin may have been an albino, which might have led to seemingly outlandish claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name (“Artos” or “Artur”) means “bear.” Morydd is a another possible ancestor of Merlin’s.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:04 AM UTC
On a rickety table
With battles of syllables
There was a scramble
Where cradle turns rumble
Wants insa-ti-able
Yet we're able
Able to disable
Every evil cable
Enough of this national gamble
The people are in shambles
With trailers of grumbles
For mountains of fumbles
May we not utterly stumble
For the flow stinks like a stable
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 1:46 PM UTC
I saw tendrils of smoke rise in front of your eyes,
That did linger and waft around your head like halos,
Some getting caught up in all of your breathing,
Much the same way I'm caught up in your speaking,
Bluntly landing with deadly accuracy,
Specifically demanding intransigent factors flee.
Melancholy stares from across the table,
Your thoughts waiting in line for me,
Each sentence I finish is a cue for you,
To race towards the end where your words are crushing.
My breath is now short as you leave the table,
The room begins spinning,
And I feel unable,
To stop what's been coming for so long,
I've been running in place,
Still face to face with the truth through all these years.
It was broken the whole time,
And you'd be the one to leave the table first.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC
You’re preparing me a table
In the valley
And we’re going to sit here
Just sit here for a while
You’re going to show me
The beauty in the darkness
Took me a while
To finally find it
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 3:01 PM UTC
Four seated
In a pizza place
Sharing a pizza
Cheesy and delicious
New York style
Talk between bites
Reaching for the Parmesan
The table slides
Hits one of them
Right in the gut
Pizza drops
Back on the paper plate
Grease splattering
Eyes wide
Heads turn
Bodies shift in their seats
To see the sound
Strange noise
From the little table
Table of four
Laughing it off
All things resume
They continue to eat
That greasy, cheesy pizza
Talk of life
Current events
Bites of pizza
Two slices left
Split and taken
Being eaten
When...
Slide
The table
So killer
Slides to one
Hitting their gut
Making them grunt
Pizza drops
Heads turn
Bodies shift
Movement from all about
The pizza place
Eyes fall upon them
Laughter
Then the table is fixed
Repositioned
Then the pizza
Cheesy and greasy
Is devoured
Talk goes on
All resumes
After a time
The four leave
Cleaning up their trash
And leaving behind
That killer table.
- Jay M
November 28th, 2019
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC