"atoll" poems
My pen, the shovel, you have one too,
that digs for nuggets,
of gold and finds coal.
Messy writing shuffle,
pen and ink, hug its
place on my paper soul.
The trick is like finding truffles,
writing to spread the fungus,
add heat, duress, be an atoll,
and
you may
produce a gem
a diamond in the rough is
still a diamond.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Milestones Toward Oblivion
by Michael R. Burch
A milestone here leans heavily
against a gaunt, golemic tree.
These words are chiseled thereupon:
"One mile and then Oblivion."
Swift larks that once swooped down to feed
on groping slugs, such insects breed
within their radiant flesh and bones ...
they did not heed the milestones.
Another marker lies ahead,
the only tombstone to the dead
whose eyeless sockets read thereon:
"Alas, behold Oblivion."
Once here the sun shone fierce and fair;
now night eternal shrouds the air
while winter, never-ending, moans
and drifts among the milestones.
This road is neither long nor wide . . .
men gleam in death on either side.
Not long ago, they pondered on
milestones toward Oblivion.
Keywords/Tags: oblivion, milestones, markers, tombstones, radiation, fallout, nukes, winter, path, destruction, Armageddon, Apocalypse, nuclear, a-bomb, atomic bomb, hydrogen bomb, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Bikini Atoll, Manhattan Project, Trump, planet, earth, war, violence, America, environment, holocaust
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 2:40 AM UTC
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
shuffled quietly into the busy day
transit thru layers of faces
and the thousand random sounds
meant to distract
but i keep pen to page till image surfaces
and words flow however uneven
almost seems like my poems are crossing roads
only every other phrase survives to the page
the rest lay unadorned baking in some
unrelenting internal sun
like roadkill my thoughts
strange and laughing
like prussian soldiers aligned wait for
the drunken magician to send
them charging into battle marching
lockstep backwards
they are sure to be slain
but they know they will be resurrected
later in my life as some odd little ditty
about some random babylon nubile kitten
**** and sweating at the door
looking for a fresh spike
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
the boat rocks slowly in the waves
and there on this un-named atoll lay the wreck of
some long beached sloop
her mast snapped in some long forgotten storm
and the poem i labored to give birth to
surrenders to such an image
of loss and forlorn dreams
goodnight my love
goodnight and sleep well iv got the watch
and nothing shall disturb
no storm nor pirate shall approach unheeded
lay back and dream of my poems to you
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
so i close my book and put aside my worn pen
for the night
take the tiller
and make haste for open sea
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
I won't be on site for some time. I'm writing the story of my father's life. He's 91 years old. In a power chair due to severe arthritis. Almost completely deaf and going blind. He can't read properly now and, being a very bright man, is filled with ennui. He doesn't know what to do with his time. I want to find out about his life. I know parts which I will put in this poem you are about to read...
My father's not a nobleman
Born a farmer's son
He has not the title Prince
In my heart he's surely one
My father is not tall of build
He's not a rugged man
But on his shoulders as a child
I saw the Earth's full span
My father is not wealthy
Has no Goods to share
But in my heart I know his worth
He is a billionaire
He is not a Wise Man
Has not those gifts to share
But he has a high IQ
Is bright beyond compare
Raised in the Great Depression
He ate the slop for pigs
Now he's a survivor
His grave cancer didn't dig!
He saw Okinawa
Eniwetok's grim atoll
Code named "Ivy Mike"
The Bomb landed on it's shoal
He went to MIT
Far 'above his station'
And he did it with a handicap
A 7th grade education
He is not a saint
He is far from 'pure'
But in my mind he's worth it
His tale should endure
So I will write his story
I believe it should be told
He is a curmudgeon
*But he has a heart of gold*
♡ Catherine
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
we left the old home just
before first light broke to the east
she looked weary and her head hung low
knew she didnt want to leave
but our song had run its course
and it was time to be movin on
and we knew it would never be the same
the summer sun on the rusted wrecks in the field
the cool cool deep waters that we would swim in
at the lake with the pine trees
the old house had one last night
and we had spent it talking on the roof
watching the stars doing their dance
and as the light creeps on in
we gathered ourselfs for one last kiss
at the door where so long ago had carried
her as a blushing bride across the step
starting our time
starting our lives
never thought we'd have to start all over again
nothing you can say
bank man came and posted his sing
and now we got to roll on
fore they roll over us
time is long in the tooth
but we will be ok im sure
as i look out into the breaking bright sun
and the wider world waiting for me
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
For a while now, I've had a thought swimming alongside my awareness, a fin cutting the water as I wait for it to save or **** me. Dolphin or shark? It came near enough for me to make out its shape recently.
**** or save? I know at least that it wasn't a fat guy with a prank fin and a snorkel. It closed on me and I realized what is most painfully missing.
When I am touched, it is simply that.
Dreamlike, my finned pursuer still refused to reveal its whole shape to me, and instead became the emotive image of a hand lovingly reaching for my face.
That small act of love is gone.
It means so much to me, that tenderness, that I ruined the last ship I sailed. I tore every beam apart in my search for what was just a three-legged spider deep in her darkest corner. So I burned down the good ship Treble and used the remains to float away.
I drifted to an atoll and chose a meek ******* It would certainly do, what better place to spend my remaining balance of time?
The breezes whispered and wouldn't stop.
Tides eroded and regrew my ******* until the even rhythm became inherently strange. So steady.
Evenly, unknown, eternity.
When the bottle washed up, I jealously guarded it from the ******* I should not have called the ******* Wilson.
Apparently Wilson controlled the weather.
Several gales and at least one hurricane punished my foolish hide. But the bottles kept coming, encouraged by the raging.
Shortly after, I learned to surf.
Well, I wasn't good at it. And Wilson didn't approve. It only took a little inclementation to sweep me away. If Wilson did control the weather, she must have been exhausted by then.
What a flimsy board.
It was my shield, held wearily up against the hungry ocean. Before my encounter with the amorphous beast, I was just drifting, again, unsure what quixotic urge took me so far.
And then the fin arrived.
**** or save?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
You ignite the papaya scent
of Zanzibar romances
spiced woods behind ears
seducing the body's non-senses
like kisses enticed from hints
formed in a humid land
kneading your cat pad toes
into my kicked off sandals
soft sinking
warm as sand spreading
on golden embers
smoking like a slow glowing dhow
sailing wine tumblers
spilling Matemwe beach rays
of crystal rain in sunshine
tinkling against my skin
like the random meditation
in wind chimes
tuned by the slight twitch
of Mnemba Atoll frangipani
to unwind my fire
into an isle of leaves
singing sunny
somewhere mysterious
through winding alleyways
we kissed on shady curves
sprung open
on to Stone Town seas
your weather
beaten hair
waving in Forodhani Gardens
showered into labyrinthine storms
travelled blue-black horizons
infused with times
of thunder roaming
lost in alluring plans
mindful I look back to check
your coral stone directions
we swept into an unclipped tent
of Salamah **** Saïd's
eating hot shwarma
like I was the Sultan and you princess
your attractions slipping a cargo off
of precious unguent wet essentials
drying to flow a silken scarf
around Darajani Market thrills
floating in a dark continent
on each kiss to my needy neck
leaning in the white wake
of Zani-bar dreams
which seek
to push the boat out
on your shoulder
once you're moored
on to my arms
longing for you
swaying now
under sweating hot
Gizenga road palms
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
I was changed.
Not changed like the tide,
which always changes back
But changed like an atomic bomb
went off in my body, in my heart.
She was a nuclear reaction
A tiny bit of matter that alters the state of everything she touches.
She was radioactive,
You could feel her coming.
She was a bomb
And I'm a lost atoll,
drifting in the Pacific.
Destroy me in the most
beautiful of explosions.
Split me, subatomically,
and realign me how you wish.
She was science and she was engineering.
She was mankind's best,
doing mankind's worst.
She was detonation,
She was a split second explosion.
Depth charges that awaken,
Super sonic flash wiring,
blinding brilliance.
She was self destructive implosions
Bringing down the walls.
I'm a deserted structure,
waiting to be torn down.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC
backpacking in the Jefferson wilderness
eating fresh wild blueberries
warmed by a late spring sun
the crystal blue sky captures me
and I stand, transfixed –
How could we have collectively been so blind?
pumping Co2 into the atmosphere
dropping atomic bombs
and an atoll
named after a bikini…
and the plastic island –
A wispy cirrus cloud
floats gracefully overhead
and takes my thoughts
on a journey
distant smokestacks dot the horizon
and drilling platforms stand menacingly
just beyond the shore,
and inside the bellies of sea creatures …
the plastic –
readjusting my pack
and leaning over to re-tie my shoestrings
the slow crawl of an ant packing lunch
sends me reeling
so many hungry children
just in the state I live
hopeless and *****
in run down or condemned houses
waiting, with tear streaked cheeks
for someone to show up with dinner
as the third foodless day
is always the hardest –
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
She in bikini
(the costume
not
the atoll)
on the beach beside a blue sea
and me with a bucket and *****
under the shade
of a palm tree on the beach
beside the sea
we build dreams it seems from sand
and bridges to cross our hearts.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
suspend me underneath natural light that reflects from your soul
shower me with your promising words that flow blissfully like spring drizzle on an atoll
the time has come, as my bud is finally opening for sprout
ready to meet your eyes, for I have grown to trust, and have shed my doubt
but it is in this revealing moment that you burn my orchid petals
and watch the charcoal shriveling of my innocent vines
as they disintegrate to moonless black in your hands
and the fauna and flora cry with my pain as they question your senseless crime
Injustice they yell! Love mustn't become lie, thou lack the universal testament of time?
now you bury my ash remains with the same deceitful hands
under the soil that must resurrect me with insidious plans
because as i blossom i must face this process again...
you were the match that danced so sneakily on my wick
as your love was guaranteed, but it blackened with my hope
nature waits despondently again for a true love
tick, tick, tick
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
Its blinking at me,
And its listening.
Its pondering my friend,
yet we are mincemeat
in the presence of absence.
The hole of the whole
Devouring, and falling out on its own accord.
Let the hand go to work and put the mind to rest,
Quiet the outside and lose yourself to dying-
on a sheet of paper,
on your way there,
in a waste basket ,
in a blown gasket.....
Find a space between the void
and peer into the eyes of a world
a tad perturbed
when you look too long
and things move to fall
that would not have before.
...but who's to boast?
Encapsulated in capsules
to see where my cap goes
to see the eyes of souls.
to know to atoll.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
To live down is to wipe out the memory,
Immunize yourself from the past infection of deceit.
Evoke good for a positive embrace of my love,
Do fetter me, a slave to your desires.
I assure you my love is atoll, visible everywhere and anywhere.
Attrition from a past, let time keep.
The world is waiting for you to retire your fear of me.
Love,
Is it still what you seek?
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 5:08 PM UTC
Friends, well let me describe my good friend Sally
She is like a breath of fresh air
blowing perfume from pink blossom.
The gentle touch in your hair of a leaf
massaging your face, stilling your thoughts.
She is like the beauty of an ocean
Calming waters around an atoll
clear as porcelain.
She knows what to say when, where and how
She is intelligent beyond belief
Homely and wise.
But Sally Bayan above all these things
you have a quality standing above all
Loyality.
You are a good friend Sally, and I love you.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
Picture This
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
Started as a DEBate, oh wait
Wasn't going so well, I could tell
Needed a mirACLE. This debacle.
There was the brandishing of threats, overheated bets,
Words and gestures exchanged, faces promised to be,"rearranged"
Physical constraint, did taint the purity and value, we became estranged
Crime and punishment, was the lament
"capital", thought one side, with pride
MERCY was preferred, as a key word.
By the others, "Sisters and brothers of
Law 11", the assignment was to DEBATE the lives and fate
of the criminal few who did the deed, do we accede?
It almost got out of control, peace took a hit on the atoll.
The teacher knew as animosity grew, there might about to
be a major crime which would mean to call out the law,
He called it "A draw" and "we'll let Parliament decide!"
In the end no one got hurt, save their pride, the teacher
himself said "it was a miracle, that the debate, did not
descend into a debacle". But to this day, there are some,
not in our class or the court of public opinion, but where
it really matters, think that this scatters to the four winds
justice.
DWE 2013-04-03
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
A Baltic atoll nigh
I am but a giant
of enlightenment
as I've been both years
here yet develop
strep in tears despair
days that might
stay when I came to
love our being still
mystery now season
in newly gotten wiles
only there to impress
a red rover machine
and target afresh
dreamscape by canal.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
Just thought I would share this with you again that I wrote for the talking newspapers for the blind. It was published in 2003.
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
The breadth of a cliff
Gauged as narrow,
Glossed with ego.
To his chagrin
He could fall in
And strike the final shoal.
Atoll, a toll.
On her cherry lips,
Beckons a cheery lay.
To have failed
Trounces the fool
That thorns his ears
Of her musical display.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 11:47 AM UTC
Ferry Christmas
There is no snow
Now 'tis the season
To get a little wet
Why are Brits surprised
When they're
Up to their eyes
In water?
When we weigh in stones
And drive on the wrong
Side of the road
Why wouldn't abodes
Begin to float?
We foreign men
Have seen some signs
We're not surprised
By what we see
In the Queen's country
The land's a little low,
And a little high
Are the lakes and sea.
There doesn't seem to me
Much mystery.
Ferry Christmas!
If the sea surrounds us all
It'll be 'The Life of Pi'
When we have to abandon
This English atoll
Sean Hunt
Windermere Xmas 2015
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
now that we agree that summer has
lapsed into a deep waning
that longer shadows corral golden pools of twilight;
as June bugs become ghosts
to dismay the Robins... explaining -
the cycle of impenetrable inertia
with an accent from
a turbulent void.
or some coastal atoll
of unanswered questions
babbling on about
the Love
Of You.
Without Question.
let's agree.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 11:14 PM UTC
My mother was a little girl when the Western Union man
Put the dreaded telegram in my grandmother’s hand.
It said that my grandfather would not be coming home.
It told her that she’d have to raise my mother all alone.
Grandfather was honored, in death, for his service overseas;
the Medal of Honor, we still have, awarded posthumously.
We thought that his remains were lost, committed to the sea.
Just one of many thousands who have died to keep us free.
Then recently, I traveled to the island where he died;
A mass grave had been discovered with some brave marines inside.
They found a tattered uniform that dressed grandfather’s bones.
Emotion overwhelmed me as I thought: “He’s coming home.”
In Sante Fe, New Mexico he’ll rest with all his kin.
Guns will fire in salute; they’ll fold a flag for him.
They’ll place it in my mother’s hands; his little girl grown old,
For her hero who died long ago on the Betio atoll.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC