1967 san francisco is transformed into city of missing children haight ashbury brims with scraggly orphans thousands sit on street curbs live in cars hang out on floors of shops roam streets parks sleep on sidewalks unthinkable social cultural phenomenon Odysseus embraces madness walking through different neighborhoods going without food sleep in golden gate park floral smells so strong he can taste flowers kids openly pass joints acid doses trip dance make music laugh Odysseus is risk-taker but he is not street smart along with flocks of totally wasted kids street hustlers abound Odysseus sets down backpack beside eucalyptus tree rests when he wakes backpack is gone he is penniless disconnected hitchhikes across bay to berkeley less congested more manageable meets some runaways like him but not like him they squatter in abandoned house off telegraph avenue maybe 20 hippies crashing in house Odysseus adopts enormous closet hidden in back bedroom as his space has small window feels like sanctuary sometimes he comes home finds 5 or 6 kids sleeping in closet in a way people in house become his family tribe some of people are suspicious especially older secretive man with 2 tongue-tied underage girls whom he claims are his daughters Odysseus suspects veiled ****** exploitation girls are lovely yet behave frightened repressed life on street does not come easy telegraph avenue overflows with lost souls searching to hook-up fragrance of frankincense drifts amidst music drug deals rip-offs bullying brawls hierarchy from hell’s angels down Odysseus stays high dances sometimes panhandles “i live in commune with 2 pregnant girls” whatever cash he collects scores acid **** subsists on diet of gum candy sunflower pumpkin seeds sometimes ketchup with french fries his acne crescendos he learns if he drops acid daily by third or fourth day he cannot get off no matter how much he doses tries peyote cactus buttons after waiting nearly hour to get off he suffers stomachache dizziness projectile vomits finally flies into freaky hallucinations he swallows mescaline capsules feels sick to his stomach forgets about his nausea trips for 9 hours tries psilocybin mushrooms laughing straight through night experiments with stp trips for 3 days Bobby Stern and Martha Quigley come out from chicago to visit they are curious about the scene need to hook up Odysseus introduces them to his friends shows them telegraph avenue he turns and they have vanished he does not know where they have gone everybody is losing everybody new kids show up everyday oakland **** named red rat kidnaps Martha is heiress from distinguished chicago family their disappearance makes chicago papers after week Bobby and Martha manage to escape they never reveal to Odysseus what red rat did to them radio plays doors’ “light my fire” and jimi hendrix’s "purple haze" Odysseus has crush on beautiful blonde Patty she  ran off for summer from her parent’s home in sunset section of san francisco Odysseus and Patty hang out go see country joe and fish in provo park on sundays hitchhike into city watch Jefferson Airplane play for free in golden gate park hitchhike to marin see Grateful Dead jam at muir beach dude hands out free acid Odysseus is total acidhead acid reveals everything in new intensified light *** on acid is beyond *** wilder than *** more primal *** so intense it transcends limits of eroticism acid helps Odysseus realize his true self his pain sadness tears lies crazy-*** side first tingling tremors in stomach chest hands then initial flashes of sparkle traces of color echoes of giggling laughter lucid thoughts sometimes he swallows such large doses all he can do is stare out at white light what is it about massive hits of acid? measure of how fierce his spirit? self-punishment? escapism? he wonders why he so desperately needs to escape from what whom? himself? Mom’s numerous efforts to convince him he is mentally disturbed? Dad’s fists? escape from real world to where? Odysseus hangs with Pluto skinny 16 year old ****-addict golden wavy hair rotting teeth finesse with girls Pluto claims crystal **** enhances *** more than acid needles frighten Odysseus he lets one of Pluto’s girls hit him up with methamphetamine feels sudden overwhelming rush through head body forgets about needle before it ever leaves his arm having been initiated Odysseus begins scoring with Pluto’s girls Pluto knows tons of girls Odysseus loves feeling numb free being out of control not giving a **** getting ****** ****** by pretty girl if he could have his way he would go from ****** to ****** with pretty girl all day every day deep in drug induced state because drugs lower inhibitions allow them to explore some sick disgusting stuff that is paradise for Odysseus he is rapidly slipping into street life drug addiction wakes up with ants crawling in his hair witnesses numerous fights freak-outs 2 different kids o.d. while he is present lots of creepy stuff  by early august realizes he might wind up dead soon or rotting like Pluto Odysseus has spirit but troubled by what he sees troubled enough to return home go back to school he feels lost desperate alone not thinking plots drug deal swindle double-crosses some people guilt and shame for conning people haunts him for years he gives Pluto half the money tells him to share with Patty with his cut buys ticket back to chicago Penelope is first to greet him she gives him big hug comments “you need a shower and shave real bad!” his hair is wild scraggly beard Odysseus holds on to her he has missed his little sister glad to be near her feels panicky his parents will punish him Mom and Dad are relieved but agitated their worry and shame at his flight have turned to anger resentment they rationalize he selfishly ran off merrymaking for 3 months they sternly make plans for his next semester while Odysseus was away in california Penelope has ****** ******* for first time in back seat of Jed Zurbeck's black pontiac Penelope in secret goes to see doctor for pregnancy test doctor recognizes Penelope’s last name calls house Odysseus answers phone doctor asks to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Schwartzpilgrim Mom picks up phone doctor informs her Penelope is pregnant all hell breaks loose doctor makes house call with Mom and Dad present offers 2 options for Penelope “you can be picked up by limousine on state street and blindfolded you will be taken to an undisclosed location where abortion procedure is performed then re-blindfolded and returned by limousine to state street or you can report incident as **** and get signatures of three physicians then have abortion in a hospital” Mom and Dad choose to report it as a **** fabricate story about Penelope walking home from school and being grabbed pulled into alley by black man who rapes her Penelope is made to tell lie three times deeply disturbs her after abortion is done in hospital Dad makes Penelope swear not to admit abortion to anyone insists she tell Jed Zurbeck she made up stupid lie and she was never really pregnant Penelope obeys and tells no one

All these kids,
They cry,
Scream,
And *****,
"I WANT FREEDOM FROM MY PARENTS!"

That simple freedom does not concern me.
I want freedom, but not just from my parents so I can stay out late.
I want freedom,
From my peers,
From my family,
From the government,
And from myself.

I want to be free to walk down the halls,
Hand in hand with a girl,
Who I'm in love with.
I want to be able to do that,
With no fear in my heart.
No worries or names called,
Or punches thrown.
I want that freedom.

I want the freedom to be able to bring a girl home,
And show her to my parents,
And tell her how much I love her,
In front of them.
I want to be able to talk to my mom,
About relationship problems,
About the GIRL who broke my heart,
But I cant.

I want the freedom to marry.
To marry any person I choose,
No matter the gender.
Male,
Or female,
It should not matter.
My happiness,
And the way I spend my life,
Is not something that should be voted on,
By those with half a brain.

I want freedom from myself,
To accept me,
And be who I am,
Without any shame.
But I can't do that,
Unless I have the freedom from others,
To be me,
And be happy with that.

I want the freedom to be gay.
Some may complain,
That the gays are already free,
Too much maybe.
But that is not the case.
We're not persecuted,
But we're not free.

All throughout history there has been movements for freedom.

There was one of religious freedom,
When puritans came to the New World from Britain.
A war was started,
And freedom came out with a victory.

There was one of freedom for slaves,
So that they could live the lives they wanted,
And not have to be owned,
And treated like property,
By another human being.
Once again,
A war was started,
And the slaves were freed.

There was one of freedom for women,
So that women could be the same as men,
Equals.
There were marches,
And protests,
And women rights came out on top.

There was one of freedom for those of color,
So that they can mix,
And mingle,
With the race that whites thought was superior.
There were marches,
And sit ins,
Protests,
And brawls,
But guess who won in the end?

We are working towards freedom of LGBTQ,
lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning/queer,
And one way or another,
We will eventually get our freedom.

Look at all these past freedom movements,
There were always two sides to it.

Which side are you on?
Is it the right one?

This is not the land of the free and the home of the brave.
This is the land of the *** ******* cowards,
And the home of the "You can be free, if we allow it."

I think its about time we either lived up to our motto,
Or changed it.

I forgive you
Yet not forget
The bluish hue
With a scarlet
Tinge on my cheek...

Your abusive taunts
Endlessly woven lies
Alcoholic brawls
The redness of eyes
Glaring at me
With naked dislike
Of me and my family
And all my tribe...

Yet I always pardon
As this is a **** curse
Bestowed upon
Me for using your purse
To meet my needs
How can I forget
Those early deeds
My wants were met
With your toil n sweat...

I truly forgive you
As you earned fame
Women too came to woo
Without any **** shame
Threw themselves at you
For wealth and name
Success in your head
Women by your side
Your drinking was raised
As guilt made you hide
Behind the glass and smoke
You made your life a living joke...

Forgiving I have to be
For when you compare
Those beauties to met
I am just dumb and fair
With a plain Jane face
And meagre background
Who brings you disgrace
To those who surround
You and your basking glory
Yet I belong to your days of penury...

And after the last Galactic War, those from the stars came and gods became. They indulged in the pleasures of the Earth. They created and mated. Over time they got bored and got innovative. They created hybrids to work for them and adore them. This hybrid had a confused consciousness. Once this hybrid was one (whole) but because he was too god-like and powerful, he had to be separated. Male and female were born. Because this separation caused a void in each and a longing for freedom, laws were made and temples built. And the world as we'd have it would be As It Is In Heaven. There were different civilizations of lords and they contended with each other as to what the best way to rule man was. So each sect had its belief system. However this didn't build a bridge to close the gap between male and female. These laws of Conduct and Engagement became integrated into what is called the Game. If you were a man you had to court a woman in order to have her company but because of intense ****** activity and interbreeding you had to marry before having ****** *******. The women were encouraged to make the men trail, suffer and earn to have ***. This was effective to the lords for man would concentrate on the illusion of the game rather than the divine art, mystery, sophistication and connective power of ***. So *** outside of marriage was ridiculed, the participants scorned.

There were brawls and arguments about who had the right to court which woman. The highest honour was laying with a goddess or god; as it gave you all knowledge and ability - This was forbidden by other gods as it would amplify the mobility and authority of man. It was decided then that those of the genetic line of the dominant gods of the time or the empire with the largest influence had a birth-right to marry the fairest women. It was at this point that kingship was born, the MacGods of pure blood. They would then be the intermediary between man and the gods. They would see that the game is carried out  as well as other affairs. This new style of relationship conduct caused much conflict, hate and intolerance. And as the ages went with man defending himself with passive oppression; as division was succeeding with language, culture and tribes... Those who were in resistance sought to restore or imprint the liberty of humankind; they were known as the Rebellious Liberals. In those days if a man fornicated without being married he was hanged. These acts of tyranny and Authoritarian dictatorship led to man hating the gods; yes man hated his selfish parents. So the wars against the gods began. And the kings sought to protect the dynasty of the gods. The gods that were conquered hid in the underground, others fled into other galaxies and planets and colonized there. The beauty of love had endured a grotesque wound. Man helpless continued to submit to the rules of the game. As the world fell from 4-D to 3-D man was taught that he would communicate with his ancestors in the afterlife for guidance, as well as when asleep and in trance states.

However the game survived under kings, although peoples separated and new tribes were formed; men held on to rituals and believed it was the will of a god or another. This consciousness tore the heart of the Earth and the insecurities of self expanded, an incessant feeling of fear and an imbalance of self-love. This led to many looking to and aspiring to kings... Over the ages the glamorous have had an upper hand to court and lay fairladies. The indoctrinating dogma that is religion sprout patriarchal homes.

This bred insubordination and woman became the place of weeping. The ages passed and men grew arrogant, women bitter and helpless. The institutions of the game, marriage and religion were now attacking the love they claimed to protect. The world grew careless and bitter, male and female drifting so far apart as though they were never one. Consequent to this there were poets and liberals, there were also charlatans who were lackeys for the game. The male charlatans giving advice to men, the female charlatans giving advice to women. So psychotic ideologies were passed from father to son, mother to daughter - father to daughter, mother to son. A new age sprung with the evolution of man, or rather devolution of man as mystics would have it, this was the age of Banking. Not that there weren't enough troubles. Now money grew itself an ego, an ego to be protected, protected by the very descendants of the gods-MacGods, they were the gatekeepers. It was expected that bank-robbers would be heroes and the new face of man. All this in effort to uplift a self long wounded. It wouldn't be long that gangsters would be overthrown and police the new heroes... But a crazy world it was as both faces would grow to be corrupt with no one investigating the source.

The source now devised Feminism, this would bring justice to women on the face of it but rather vengeance to men. Men would wear a new garment of infants and senseless idiots. What happened to the justice? There was no justice.

Women would replace the face of old obnoxious, selfish and abusive men. With better jobs, equal opportunities, better insurance; the sky was the limit for women. Men faced a new threat either than themselves or the threatening boundaries of the game (which leave you a public fool if you don't follow, a player if you do) - and players were cool - the threat was the wounded vengeful woman who was now given the power to run the game. Judicial systems protected woman, Education systems, Banking Systems, Insurance Systems and Media and Industry; all protected woman. The game promised self-esteem if its rules were followed but it only led to folly, sorrow and despair. As women have wide coffers, power they can bear and power was given to her by the source. Justice became vengeance, impatience became resentment, being broke meant loneliness. Institutions of poetry, art, fiction and even the white magical arts were under attack. The new god was money and everyone would be made to bow, his guitar would be love, esteem, health, cognition and consciousness; and masterfully play he did.

It was now up to the few descendants of the liberals to uplift the consciousness of the world once more... That there be love, peace, harmony, hope, equality and human liberty. The 144000 Pleiadian Warriors led by the General Immanuel who fought for humanity promised to return in a burning, blinding and stormy white cloud. Hovering in a ship of space (spaceship). And the liberals and poets of old from the ashes would rise and the Game of the Lords meet its demise. One again we shall be, whole and eternal.

The door to your heart is a horrifying puzzle
Your Jigsaw pattern I can't put together
The pieces I hold don't correspond
So I take parts from you
Which is making me Leatherface
And giving you a flatter taste
And the ****** chain I saw placed
Was pressed to your door with haste

You're a killer doll like Chucky
How could I have been so unlucky?
I can't even cut through your curtains
I become a cold corpse before the movie can start
Like a careless Jamie Lee Curtis
How long can such a curted courtship last?
Before I contrive the courage to crush
The Killer Croc in your rib cage
But the corrosive corrections officer
That is your puzzle piece door
Impedes all progress to your horror heart
Because the improper placement of pieces
Will make me think you're The Witch
When you tell me Don't Breathe

As my theater's lights dim
I scramble for an exit
But my only escape from the cinema is through your door
I grow cynically situated to the pitch black pictures
How could I expect to solve the riddle
Now that I need to?
Doors that can't be opened are walls
Speaking softly turns to brawls
As your pieces scattered like change
Your door completely wrapped in chains
I feel stupid and ashamed
Your puzzled movie's to blame

(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!

High in the sky
The castle stands strong
Each grain packed together with trust
That they may never separate from each other
The rooms fill with the laughter of a young lady
His hand graze each corner as he follows the familiar scent of his love
He wraps his arms around her waist and breaths in home
She nestles deeper into strong arms

Grey clouds in the sky
The castles stands strong
Sturdy walls stand on a solid promise
To never let go of one another
He paces from one room to another raging in silence
She sits on the edge of her bed with her head held low
He wants revenge for hurt

Sun in the sky
The castle stands strong
Clear windows look out into a bright future
Of a happy life together
Hand in hand they dance through their dreams of solitude
She looks deep in his eyes and sees his soul
He looks deep in her eyes and sees her heart

Stars in the sky
The castle stands strong
Gold ceilings as high as the queens expectations
No one could reach any higher
He hangs from the chandelier to her every word
She wants more than she deserves
The castle is not big enough for their love

Thunder and lightning rip through the sky
Tearing through the sturdy walls
A chilling wind cracking the once clear windows
Piece by piece each grain falls
It crumbles at their feet
Amongst their unforgivable brawls
The castle is only made of sand
It no longer stands tall

When I was a child,
I was given a silver necklace by my father,
Told the stories of how it was there when he met my mother
And cherished it dearly.
But as childhood would have it,
I lost the necklace,
In a full contact game of two-hand touch football,
In the backyard of my frenemy neighbor.
I searched for hours in the grass,
Coming across spiders, quarters
The remnants of dog’s passed,
But never again saw the silver chain
With the little cross
That was the closest thing I ever held to God.
Now I look back,
To the necklace, the touch football games
The neighborhood loving brawls,
And realize youth is an object,
It’s something we hold close
But never realize the importance of
Until years later,
When we miss it
Around our necks,
And we regret
Never truly
Falling in love
With what we had
Before it was gone.

We grew in this yard
in between the broken glass and dog ****
vine inches
minutes by hours by days
roots crept in an inconsistent soil
and growing despite

To arrive now with weekend garden centre eyes
you may see weakness in some leaves
that belies the truth of a fragile fruit
long nurtured from blood
and uncompromising viticulture

And if you try to claim the bouquet
or the legs on that glass
or the complexity of hard fought tannins
and subtle warmth
and lasting aftertaste

Then you will see us spit

How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Originally published by Measure

Keywords/Tags: Old English, Middle English, Medieval English, long night, lament, complaint, alas, summer, pleasant, winter, north wind, northern wind, severe weather, storm, bird, birds, birdsong, sin, crime, fast, fasting, repentance, dark night of the soul, sackcloth and ashes, regret, repentance, remonstrance



Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.



II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.



III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.



Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.



Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.



Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!

Note: This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.



The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.



Wulf and Eadwacer (Old English circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs roam this island.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings for him, but their end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,      created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,      Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 1530 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!



This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Summer is a-comin’!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots,
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!



Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?

2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within ...
what hope of my help then?



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!



Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously ...
And oh what grief it has brought me!



Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language? Reginald of Durham recorded four verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.

The first song is said in the Life of Saint Godric to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven.  She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison:

Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie

In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” ...

A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!

Original

Saintë Marië Virginë,
Moder Iesu Cristes Nazarenë,
Onfo, schild, help thin Godric,
Onfong bring hegilich
With the in Godës riche.

Saintë Marië Cristes bur,
Maidenës clenhad, moderës flur;
Dilie min sinnë, rix in min mod,
Bring me to winnë with the selfd God.

Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:

Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!

Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare



The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem aka The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane ...

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated ...
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.  

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
                                             the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
                                enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,

freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour, // Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That whilen ber that suete savour // That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In somer, that suete tyde; // In summer, that sweet tide;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour, // There is no queen so stark in her power
Ne no luedy so bryht in bour // Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That ded ne shal by glyde: // That Death shall not summon and guide;
Whoso wol fleshye lust for-gon and hevene-blisse abyde // But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that tharled was ys side. // With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



IN LIBRARIOS
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.



Brut (circa 1100 AD, written by Layamon, an excerpt)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.

Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the first known reference to King Arthur in English. The passage above is a good example of Layamon's gift for imagery. It's interesting, I think, that a thousand years ago a poet was dabbling in surrealism, with dead warriors being described as if they were both men and fish.



Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead . . .”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.

Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! . . .”

Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! . . .”



Deor's Lament (Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
   That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
   That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
   That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
   That passed away; this also may.



The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings ... oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



"The Husband's Message" is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem from the Exeter Book, the oldest extant English poetry anthology. The poem may or may not be a reply to "The Wife's Lament," another poem in the same collection. The poem is generally considered to be an Anglo-Saxon riddle (I will provide the solution), but its primary focus is persuading a wife or fiancé to join her husband or betrothed and fulfill her promises to him. The Exeter Book has been dated to 960-990 AD, so the poem was written by then or earlier. The version below is my modern English translation of one of the oldest extant English poems.

The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                 was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
           I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.

Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                 over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord ...
                                He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Lament for the Makaris [Makers, or Poets]
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”




Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.

True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?

Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."

Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.

Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.

The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.

Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?

Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.

Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.

Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.

God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!

Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c. 675–754). This may be the second-oldest English poem, after "Caedmon's Hymn."



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

2.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.



"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!



A cleric courts his lady
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady;
She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely.
I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green.
If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain?



The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer ...

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

. . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . .
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
. . . requiescat in pace . . .
May she rest in peace.
. . . amen . . .
Amen.

NOTE: I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be home sleeping in
A nice comfy bed 

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be smoking a joint
And watching TV

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be drinking a beer
And drunk barroom brawls

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out surfing the
Gnarly ocean waves

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather stick my arm in a 
Blender; cause some fun

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out banging some
Coked up prostitutes 

Work is boring, I'd
Rather dig my brain out thru my
My ears with a fork

Work is boring, you 
Can tell because I'm writing
Too many haikus

"I want to be a boxer" he said
Stomping his foot, his face red.
Angry at God for not making it happen
Now! Before his resolve does slacken

"I've got the skills for it." he whines
He neglects his practice half the time
He doesn't realise, it seems,
The difference between a hobby and a dream

"I've won many a fight!" he shouts
Those brawls with friends don't really count.
He did once won the junior championship
And into each conversation, he lets that slip.

"I can make it!" he says, His gloats, incessant
His actions, childish, His views, arrogant.
“Life’s so unfair!” he always cries
Though with all his heart, he never tries

He’s chasing the rush of winning a battle
But at the thought of war, his courage rattles
“If only I could follow my dream…” he muses  
One day perhaps he’ll run out of excuses

His wistful eyes gaze at boxing rings,
Lost in the visions of glory they bring.
“It’s my calling.” He brags, unable to see
The clear path leading him to his “destiny”

On self -made hurdles, he always trips.
It seems on reality he’s losing his grip.
In this mind, there is ample confusion
On the difference between a dream and delusion

As time passes, one day it’ll be clear
That all that stopped him was his own fear
But until then, he lets the truth be unheard
For isn’t it easier to keep blaming the world?

The King of Kings,
That's what he is called.
He made big empires
And won all his brawls.
His mighty strength
Could change the epics
In all the directions
Were his relics .
His pride was too much high ,
To be conquered by anyone .
His empire was in his warmth ,
As he was their rising Sun.
In the cry of battle hours,
He crushed all his enemies .
He was truthful and loyal,
But was unaware of his frenemies .
The person he trusted most ,
Gave him an unhealable scar.
No one else than his own brother,
Told him everything is fair in love and war.
In the jail he decided not to mourn.
He was strong willed and stubborn.
He told himself, He will rise high
Because no one can stop the rising sun.
He is the true king of kings ,
Lost All, but not the hope
His determination, will and
Strength marked no stop .
He took a deep breath;
So long that a decade passed.
He returned to silent wrath inside,
To claim the all that honour lost.
He showed them all,
Of what he is made.
Fought and conquered
With the power of blade
Again he proved it;
And returned to throne.
Determination, Morality and hope,
Are a King's real Crown.

A rose blossoms in the midst of the summer night, shielded by the shadows of the might of a hundred trees, whose great limbs reach towards the heavens engulfing the land beneath it by mere shadows. The rose flourishes with such fragrance and beauty, for under the roof of its sheltered home, may it only greater its beauty; each petal, gleamingly red by the absorption of the radiant day’s sun, the color: piercing to the eye, so immensely red and beautiful to absolute perfection.

Even the mere trees that stand above that rose are too a profound greatness. Through the most severe of storms and harshest weather has it endured. It’s unyielding trunk is but a symbol, a souvenir, tainted with battle scars and markings. For every tree that stands before us, holds hundreds of stories, stories that tell of its survival, its brawls with the natural world, its fearsome battles and mighty victories as it stands before us today. A country values and gives its greatest thanks to the fearless generals and military that encounters battle after battle, fight after fight; and for such reason, should these trees be of such value.

But what is even of greater value is something that humans treasure even dearer, something that portrays the facade of progression, something that gives falsified light to the dark that only lives in the minds of individuals - change.

With change and the facade of progression can we truly feel that something useful has arose from our existence, with change can we see something progress to something of greater value, for the smallest and most hideous of larvae can seemingly show its beauty and perfection in the progression of its life stages.

And yes, with change can we bring about the perfection of the world, for no longer must we stay still in the nonprogressive state of agriculture, where thy neighbor is truly thy friend, a friend who depends on you and vice versa, for through the means of trading and fellowship and each individual possess what they want. For with change do we no longer need to depend on natural powers, no longer must we be bestowed by Someone to bless our fields, no longer must we conduct dances to the heavens to have a yielding season. And of course with change, can we now lock our doors and shield us from the world, for thy neighbor be’st not your friend, but be’st thy owner of your material means if you fail to keep them; for with change, can we finally perfect the truth of material desire.

But what should be said is that with change can we finally shift perspectives; for the changed perspective is of course superior, for it is a progression therefore change must produce superiors rather than inferiors. And with such perspectives, our values, too, change.

The fearsome soldier, the tree, the honored item that stand so proudly tall almost as if it is a stairway to the heavens, no longer possess such great values. So should we relinquish the greatness have been bestowed here and deforest such proud items that have fought the fearsome years of natural events to stand so tall. And as we do such, will the rose’s roof collapse. Unable to hide from the piercing rays of the sun, will it then shrivel and die; for that change has brought upon another rose, another item waiting to share the same fate as before....

Slow to the jump, quick on the fall.
Falls in love, and gives it his all.
All tore up, his anxiety grows tall.
Tall list of insecurities, he lives as a thrall.
Thrall to the past, and with the past he brawls.
Brawls till he can't, gives up and falls.
Falls to the ground, lifts up and crawls.
Crawls to his room, picks himself up on the wall.
Walls up the past, climbs in bed and bawls.
Bawls himself to sleep, wakes up feeling small.
Small town where he lives, time to get on the ball.
***** up his pain and throws it away.
Time to start over. It's a brand new day.

i can't stand all the lying society does
and all the while they do it just because
the words they say just to fit in
little do they know my patience is wearing thin
i think that they're all egotistical,
their stupidity has become a ritual
maybe if they opened their eyes
they to would be surprised
they got so caught up in life
yet their actions were in strife
balling my fist as they attack my flaws
that's fine by me because i can fight my own brawls
because i realize they have people pressuring them
and all the while just to fit in.

You are as confident as broken nails
and as filthy as a rodent smells.
You're like infidels in cheap hotels
where prostitutes have body sales.

This guilt was berthed when your stomach fell
forever deep into an endless well.
This is as tragic as a soiled veil
as you've become an empty shell.

Cigarette smoke climbs the walls,
but broken alarms sound muted calls.
Out here, there are countless brawls.
Your city sleeps; our city crawls.

uh strippin' ya titles n fame
Ya got no game shame I had to show up in flame
burn every last one of y'all til a single grain
snorts of ******* to rush into my brain
gives me crazy pump
like kriss kross I'll make ya jump
got ya body arched like camel humps smokin' punks like a smoke blunts pull stunts more than steevo straight evil
ya can peep me on underground radios
**** mainstream and pipe dreams
make this ***** jalel sings
more than crows gathered around for the wicked sound
body molded to th ground for tryna step to Htown fools drown
with no water slaughter
Like shots from a thousand mortars
got bids on the Satan's daughter's
ya need to get smarter y'all fallen like denzel welcome to yosef cell no bail no fairytales as I silence ya yell
from my lyrical gat that goes through ya medulla oblungata
got more ranks than shabba mister lover lover undercover like brother as I smother
ya baby mama and ya mother like no other duck her with no rubbers
cut into ya head piece like cookie cutters
see ya in sta sta sta studder
yosef be hoppin' like hoes like mudd rudders
straight from the gutters
I got rhymes for days that's was displayed before even my rhymes was said
plus **** what ya said
I'll  leave ya dome open like a Sun roof
catch. spoof off my tactics
my lyrics be more controversial than the gulf tonka make ya wonder magnificent blunders sound the thunders
once yosef grabs the Mic enticing brawls under heat lights
sweatin' cuz I'm a threat ending ya fate and might uh

Just like i told ya ya can't stop the reign
as i bring the pain more than major playa hatas
move over theres a new sheriff in town puff by the pound
its goin' down in htown time to ****** crowns
off unknown clowns whos rounds
ain't hittin' nothin' but air as i heir
the rhymes from my hip hop ancestry
like i said who spit it better than me
****** is what i write
check the obituary even burn ya cemetery
while enemies stay worried i stay buried
with rhymes that pull like tech 9s through ya mind
as ya touch the flat line
give em pump up so he get the adrenaline up
only to get knocked the ****** up
by the mister evil sinister preach lyrics as a minister
this ain't the last inning
we goin' all out til we fall out got guns that clear the skies out
nuclear blast spin around emceez like taz hit ya with jazz razzamatazz
that's the sounds of gats bustin' that ***
left ya body soakin' breath chokin' hopin'
to make it but can't shake it as i mold it then break it
like my last drip a *** i shake it
til its nothing left cook up these lyrics like a chef
even make ears open of the deaf
cuz my lyrics be so powerful irresistible hard for ya know to go
and bob ya head to my **** i hit like rockets outta space
loose ya paper chase for tryna step into yosefs face
with that disgrace that ******* you call hip hop?
i got heat tha'tll make ya lip lock hip go hippy to the hop
naw talkin' sugar hill deliver more dead than clothes to Goodwill
we ***** as the Goodfellas knockin' tailfeathers money come like atm tellers
no pin toxic rhymes poisonous as donna,bella

Snags in her tights,
Chipped black on her claws,
She stands against walls,
Vulnerable to the brawls.

A skirt grazing her thighs,
Too small for her liking,
She pulls at the seems,
And feeds the old men lies.

Lips that bleed,
Mascara stained cheek,
Frame too slim,
She's in the gutter, sensual and meek.

Lady of the night,
Rolls to your car,
beckons you with her finger,
hopes you won't linger.

A ten note slips,
Into her grip.
She squeezes.
It will feed her addiction.

She has money to pay,
Children to feed,
She digs her knuckles so much they bleed.

Life carries by,
As she tries to get high,
On the fumes of other men.

But the red light comes on,
Her skirt hitches up,
She cries as he whispers
good girl.

As he kisses her neck,
She thinks what the heck
Am I doing with my **** awful life,
Selling cheap love,
To father above,
In hope she gets a better price
than the tiny sum
From every business bloke that comes, beckons her into his arms.

She pulls at her pleather,
At her last tether,
Why am I in this life?

Soho's her home,
But it leaves her numb to the bone.

She has more than budget passion,
She craves style,
She fashion.

But instead the needle pierces,
And she sinks down,
Hating the body she's in,
Women walk and they frown,
But they don't understand how the girl feels deep down,
She just wants true love.

Oh heaven above?
If there is a Holy Spirit,
Let me be it,
For this withered young *******,
Belongs in your constitute,
Please, she begs, save me from the charity brutes.

Our good friend gravity never lets us down
He helps us onto the sidewalks when we're walking the town

He helps us into the water when we're taking a swim
He helps us stay on the floor where we twirl and spin

He'll aid us as we're standing so we won't fall off of the floor
He'll aid us as we're jumping so we'll always fall back for more

He aids us in our brawls
So that our fists are sure to fall

He aids us in our slumber
so that we'll stay in bed together

But what if gravity left for a while,
And left us to figure out what's up and down

Strolling through the town in the sky
Not the ground

Taking a dive
and ending up in the sky

Dancing on ceilings and walls
And standing on the floor when you suddenly fall

Jumping up and not coming back to the ground
Gravity has let me down
and up you'd gone
Up to heaven
Up to home

Reality was bereft
As your head,
Caresses the pillow
A night deft.

As I hear the crickets
Lagging behind, I
With you on the way
To dreamland with a ticket.

Don the Hatter's Hat
In Alice's Wonderland.
As we sip tea
With Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat.

Be large or be small
Eating chocolates
And muffins
Down the rabbit hole.

A carpet of wings
We fly over
The Caspian, The Aegean
To where the Siren sings.

Three headed dog is yours
A gargoyle, mine.
Little pets we walk
Down Tartarus's corridors .

Europe behind, we face
South West
To the land of Mayans
And folk of a mystical race.

We play war chief,
Play in our blue tepee
Flying on the backs
Of eagles as they screech.

You dance around
My fire
Gyrating in that form
Bringing rain down.

Purple Rider
On a wind maned horse
Black One on a
Golden strider.

Barfights and shootouts
Brawls and scuffles
You gained a puffy eye
While I broke my stout.

Seeking a view
We jumped from
Skyscraper to skyscraper
Old and new.

Jumped from hills
Into rivers
Spoke to the wild
For time to ****.

Wary of the time
We take flight
Off the Everest
We just climbed.

Down and down
Into a sea
Coloured silver
Bubbly diamonds all around.

No lack of gas,
You put swimming to the test
Tripped on a rock
A jellyfish attacks!

Boom and Pow
Wham, slam and
A big crunch
Little jellyfish said ow!

Get stuck in traffic
Office hours
We suppose
As the birds swam chaotic.

We're here!
Portal to reality
Now exposed
By now the dream was dear.

Maybe now you can't see
But we will,
The sun rise,
From the bottom of the sea.

So we wait
As the sea turned
Silver to fire
A nice first date.

That ******
Cicada.
She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!

Won’t let me sleep –
When I’ve worked my shift,
I’ve paid my rent,
I’ve fluffed my pillow.

Won’t let me sleep –
In between harassment,
In between the bill collectors,
The brawls and the *******.

Won’t let me sleep –
When people fail,
When bombs fall
And children perish elsewhere.

She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!
That ******
Cicada.

She won’t let me sleep.

through the silence of the dawn of light,
through the silence of the sun set at night,
through the silence all through the halls,
through the silence befalls peace to settle temporary brawls,
silence everywhere, quieting all
through the silence comes peace of mind,
through the silence we rest as one of mankind,
through the silence comes great inventions,
through the silence we release past tensions,
silence everywhere, quieting all
through the silence leaves not one voice to be heard,
through the silence blurred between the lines of the absolutely absurd,
through the silence one's thoughts might go wild,
through the silence past deviance's can be reconciled,
silence everywhere, quieting all

There’s a superhero protecting the city,
And when the sun goes down he fights
To keep his friends and family safe
On treacherous, deadly nights.
He uses his marvelous super strength
For lots of things, it‘s quite practical.
And he uses invisibility
To be supremely sneaky and tactical.

Each and every night he goes to stop
Bad people from doing bad things
The city loves their superhero,
And treat him as their king.
They know him well and they can tell
That he’ll always treat them with care
They know they can call at any time,
And that the hero will always be there.

But many long and sleepless nights
Begin to take their toll.
The hero’s getting tired
Night after night on patrol.
And the battles fought aren’t easily won,
The hero’s decorated with scars
From poison darts, and fisticuffs,
Falling from buildings onto cars.

But no one else can protect the people
Whom the hero love so dear,
So the hero cannot take a break,
Not one day off because he fears
That as soon as he’s gone the baddies will come
And wreak havoc on his friends
And the hero cannot allow that to happen;
He could never make amends.

Though he’s growing quite weary, the hero keeps fighting
Because that’s the way heroes are wired.
But his strength doesn’t work like it used to,
And his invisibility tends to backfire.
His strength only works around other people,
He grows weak as soon as they’re gone.
He’s invisible almost all of the time,
So people can’t see something’s wrong.

It’s now to the point where the hero dreads
The sun sinking into the west
Because he knows that once the sun goes down,
He’ll be put to the test.
He’s so tired and weak and he’s ready to quit
But he knows he must go out again.
Isn’t protecting the city week after week
Worth any amount of pain?

He’s reluctant to go out, and almost dares to do evil,
To show that he’s in control.
But he knows he never will, his reputation’s at stake,
And he prepares to go out on patrol.
The city is asking to be saved once again.
And he cries as the sky turns red,
Maybe the city won’t expect to be saved
If the hero himself is dead.

For the hero feels so very alone.
He knows he can’t go on forever.
How many more super villains and monsters,
He asks, can this poor hero weather?
The hero knows that he can’t go much longer,
That he only has a little while
Before the people figure out he’s hurt
But for now he saves with a smile.

Though his bones are weak, and his skin is bruised,
Off to save the city once more, he goes.
He’s pushing himself far past his limit
As he brawls ‘gainst countless foes.
He wants to keep his people safe,
Though he may be going to his grave.
For no one ever taught this hero
To save others, first himself he has to save.

Night, the oldest of mysteries
settles, spreading like hunger.
A pall of mist
shrouding over the world.

Siren sounds and firefighters,
drunken brawls, and
receding beats.

Eyes of wonder asleep,
emerging out of
the network of shadows
growing creeper-like.

Stray nuggets of light
also reach the eyes shut
in meditation.

Furtive shadows of passion,
elsewhere. Muffled joys;
Shades of bottle-grey.

Cricket-song. Ululations
faint.  Raspy owl-calls,
intermittent.

In the deep, secret
rites of initiation.

Somewhere in the far
highlands
the stars and
the broken moon peep in.

Old song on a highway truck.
Little lamps adorning the hills,
courtyards in the distance.

She and he.
Joy and Pride,
loved and married.

Jewels and money
songs and wine
merry and nights.

Greed and Pride,
Joy and Pressure.
Greed and Pressure.

Vain and brawls,
corrupt and scandals,
charges and spared.

Temper and fist,
temper and crash.
Complaints and divorce.

Thoughts and lost,
reflects and tears,
Days and nights.

Broke and desolate,
cut and bled,
Dare and Dead.

I think back to 5 years ago,
To those days in northern New York,
Where my life felt like some coming-of-age tale,
Coming into my own.

Each day was its own chapter,
Shenanigans and hijinks,
Bar room brawls and short-lived loves,
Drunken tattoos and crutching on snow 2 feet deep,
Barracks parties and field exercise tomfoolery,
Oh, how it all seems like such a dream now.

Fleeing from authorities,
Cackling with buddies as we disappeared into the crowd to make it to the next bar,
Showing up to work on Monday with a recently broken nose, blackened eye, and ****-eating grin,
With my buddies sporting similar signs,
Our First Sergeant taking stock of these injuries,
And walking onward with a little smirk.

Walking through Watertown,
Feeling the age of that military town,
Filled with secondhand stores and oddities,
My God such a surreal dream.

Stuck in bed,
Knee wrapped up in bandages,
Protecting all the stitches beneath,
Looking out the winter at the blizzard outside,
Craving a working leg more than the percocet,
And knowing that the dream was coming to an end.

I came up the way that grew in shadow looked a tender shoot
but bent pushed through the freeze line in a killing frost
arisen first among its peers then hardened. Taught the way of walking
easy in bad men some can tell some left their teeth
on daddy’s knuckles. Knocked around until the eye is hard
moved unmoving like a gun recoils in a hand
even yet too small to sign a name.
I came up beside the tracks on stacks of plates
washing my way up riverboat stacks sleeping in the hulls
among dark men on plates of iron
in grimy weight pits torn down and built again.
Built again by Virgil in his tongue Cicero
the Caesar too of Gallic Wars blind Homer’s tongue
of Iliad and Odyssey. By Beethoven. By Bach.
By symphony of gun and pen bare knuckle brawls poverty
ghosts of the ****** murderers victims haunts of the poor
ways of the poor addicted captured by my sky my clouds
the mist and mystery of my own personal life.
In late hours dark skies clouds pass almost unseen
yet there the secret conundrum what have they wrought
where they have been? What are they coming to?

People living a lie, & hold secrets must die
Refusing to disclose the truth,
For a reason. I execute those for treason
Turning your back, demands I attack
Shoot back, retaliation on impact
I speak with mind, heart, and soul
Everybody sins so I won't judge you
But love you, place no one above you
Cuz I trust you with my life
I picture you becoming my wife
Only time can tell, boats set sail
Drink from a living well,
Break free from this evil spell
A burning fire dwells, demons hell
True story I must share
To those I truly care, beware out there
It's wicked full of sick tricks
Open your eyes, stop living a lie
Everyone deserves the honest reality
Kept hidden undercover
Destroying the process to self recovery
I'm free not controlled I'm talented
Through evils lust I'm tormented
I just need reassurance for altering chemistry
Reinforcement to overcome this urge
Other than that I've surpassed earths desire
Put it to death, left behind in ashes with fire

Crystal cups contain lost calls,
Scores on walls from grisly brawls.
Antique, dusty china dolls.
Cows are mooing as they fall.
Mystic, glittering gypsy *****.
On these floors, her babies crawled.
Ceaseless clamor in the halls.
Oh the stories in these walls!

I Seldom express my emotions and
I wrote this for the Ngudu's to marvel and
For paps's and mama's heart to console  

Though words describe, portray
And say a lot about a person
You are not just any person
Through the 18 years of loud mouth cursing
The raucous in the early morning
Shady and unpredictable plots
Being mischievous and devious
Being revengeful then forgetful
Disapprovals leading to arguments
The cause of the damaged Stellenbosch walls
Were the ceaseless and reneged brawls

Through the 18 years of living
I feel like I have failed
Failed to sum up the words that match you
Having them convey and having people understand you
But I feel the words do not get you
Like a lot of people that do not get you
If you knew him the way I do
The marvel of being a Ngudu
The marvel of knowing him like I do

Lightened my shoulders
You lightened my darkness
I love you very much like Maya Angelou loves her brother Bailey

Not only is he the Head Boy
The light skinned of the family
Nor the pretty boy of the family by default
He is a Master before kings
The doctors verified it on the birth certificate before Qamani
Rightfully on his high horse being all high and mighty
He is my inspiration
He is my motivation  
The very reason behind my episodes of satisfaction
He is the Kid to the Son
He is Qamani Kideo Ngudu
My twin brother