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Terry O'Leary Sep 2015
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
They have written me off
They could have prevented my demise
But they would rather pay the cost
For a false witnesses lies
This epidemic
May soon have a remedy
As for me
It’s too late
They’ve already denied clemency

The power of God
In the hands of man
Leaving those who oppose
Too scared to stand
I was convicted
Before I was tried
The world rejoiced
As my mother cried
Could they not see it
From her side?

A suited tribe
Thirsty for someone to die
Feeling foolish
Because in my mind
Justice was supposed to be blind

Defense was worthless
Media circus
Where the jurors were
Corrupted clowns
Before they knew their purpose
Distorted versions,
They knew
I shot every round
Is what they found
I was victimized
By a victims cries
Seeing my innocence
Refusing to look me in my eyes
My sincerity had been denied

It was evidently evident
The evidence was irrelevant
Judge served no purpose
Playing God for the hell of it

Praying for the privileged
To pardon me
Pro-life defender
Discarded me

Waiting for the phone to ring
Hoping that it will
I’ve been denied clemency
My fate has already been sealed…
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Steve D'Beard Jun 2014
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.

I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.

I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.

I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.

I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.

I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.

I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
six months out
from her marriage
to a naval officer
her number was called
by God
she'd never marry
the man she loved
their plans for a life together
wasn't to be
Gail and David had dreams
yet none did they get to fulfill
God whisked Gail away
to heaven's embrace
her death bought David pain
and for years he felt  
the sadness of the rain's tearful stain
had God given
my sister Gail clemency
David and she would this day
be married happily
My sister Gail died of unknown causes six months before she was to marry.
SassyJ Feb 2016
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion

Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency

Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams

Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions

Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled

In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
******* with the intangible essence

To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance

Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Pain can be inflicted with suffering so great
By Cruelty’s powerful hand
When she heartlessly touches upon your fate
Taking your life, in her command

Now Terror, is Cruelty’s sister in pain
Jealous and filled with hate
She takes great pleasure in helping her reign
Extreme fear, is their helpmate

Compassionate motions of kindness are extended
When generous Mercy steps into view
One can see a graceful clemency offered, unsaid
In his forgiving eyes, of blue

A state of serenity will begin washing you clean
When sweet Peace enters the case
Holding his vision of Mercy steady and keen
A look of tranquility on his face

Let us not ever forget Pity, the one in the fold
Feeling sorrow over your pain
He will always gently extend his hand to hold
As long, as your suffering remains

However, everything changes when Love steps in
More powerful than all the rest
Overcoming the rampage of Cruelty’s reign
I would say, she is the best
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
Lightning playful through a poisoned bloodstream,
Veins on torturous, burning fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of the faux trauma and unresolved crucifix standing ready to bear.
Left unfulfilled by the crushing unrefusable statement of self sabotage.
The flaming star of the avatar, the nomadic extreme of the eternal hellscape that resides in my hunted stomach.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
No Elysium, I denounce Gehenna,
I crave nothing but the sweet, serene, comatose clemency of unending hibernation.
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, adrenalitic pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest its self.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******* rest of departure.
Pretty hot. Haha get it .a ha ha
Sara L Russell May 2013
306 British & Commonwealth soldiers were shot at dawn for desertion in WW1.
Inspired by this fact and by BBC1's drama The Village*


Good-hearted soldier marched away to war,
Sad-eyed mother and father watched him leave
To help a noble cause worth fighting for;
Or so the government had us believe.

Bereavements swiftly followed. He returned
For time on leave, a changed, embittered soul;
Troubled by death where distant fires burned
As month on month the shelling took its toll.

Mentor and loving brother, man of peace,
Such was this force of nature we once knew;
Now weighed down with all war's catastrpohes
So guilty to be of the living few.

Oh bitter hindsight, cruel hand of fate,
That says what we must do when it's too late!


I saw him walking back along the path
That headed to the seaport, bound for France;
So full of care, lost in the aftermath
Of ****** conflict, as if in a trance.

Then suddenly he stumbled to his knees
And crawled, down on his belly, cautiously
As though bullets were coming through the trees
As though to shelter from the enemy.

He raked the grass with darting, trembling hands,
His staring eyes were wide with urgency
His legs would not obey his brain's commands
His lips whispered a plea for clemency

I saw my love, he didn't see me there
Longing to save his broken soul with prayer.


Never was a more terrifying sight
Than naked terror, screaming from his eyes;
I still recall him staring, every night;
It haunts my dreams from dusk into sunrise.

I wanted to embrace him, stroke his hair,
To whisper words of solace from the Lord;
But sometimes prayer hangs on the empty air,
Sometimes we cannot rescue the adored.

Later I visited his lonely room
To find him on his bed, facing the wall.
He turned to meet my gaze, eyes full of gloom
As if no soul resided there at all.

I made him pray with me, for love Divine;
Heedless of God, he pressed his lips to mine.


I blush, I burn with shame, when I recall
I gave in to his kisses willingly;
He wanted heaven's solace not at all
But took his earthly comfort all from me.

So long I'd waited, through his years away,
Wishing to win his love through some kind deed
Now in his trembling grasp, too lost to pray,
I lay entranced by passion's burning greed.

When it was over, I looked at his face
He seemed to see some bright epiphany
Perhaps at last he knew our Saviour's grace
At last his breath came slowly; evenly.

He murmured something as I rose to go
I knew I loved him, but never said so.


I never said I loved him. With the dawn,
His doomsday clock was ticking down his hours.
I never said I loved him, I was torn;
For what love sanctifies, wartime deflowers.

Hindsight has pierced my heart with bitter thorns,
Trampled my dreams, stolen all future joy;
For in that worst of cataclysmic dawns,
I never said I love you to that boy.

I never even said a last farewell
Though warm kisses still echoed on my skin;
My silence tortures me, I am in hell
I burn in silent wars I cannot win.

The Redcaps came and took away my Joe.
I loved him; and now he will never know.
Michael Caio Mar 2015
I am the Grotesque
Marques de Sade
I am the Notorious
Giacomo Casanova

I lurk in the Dark Street
Impatiently for the Week
Enthralling and Charming
I smile (vile) with a dimple on my cheek

I see they are vulnerable
Seeking for a God
And that God I become
I am the fruit that will make them succumb

I destroy any trace of humanity left
It’s the Body that I want and Soul I shall bet

As I possess the Boy, *******, the Rich Lady or the Monarch
I cannot impede the images in my mind
Crossing this Arch
Unique Treasures I will find

In my sheets of satin  
The playground of Satan
Tortures of Pleasure
Take place as I make pressure
****** Ropes with humans Cries
Bites of Pain while the Soul fries

To my Chandelier I tie my Slave
I whisper in sinister voice: Be Brave  
My Hand goes where it wants
It has a Will of its own
Unlike its Subject
I shall make it my Object

My Tongue travels the nervous skin
Salt and fear sheen
Sustaining the Evil in me
And the Evil rises vigorously
The Tongue seeks it Moist or Hard
Something of Putrid smell and flavour

Spiking the rib cage with an Object of ******* nature
The Slave inhales Pain
And exhales Lust
I feel it in between the spiting in my Face
And the cries for clemency

I cannot understand why It doesn’t see the Artistry
Of the way I subdue IT to my Supremacy
Are the candles not too hot?
Is the ***** too cold?
Are the Faeces dry and old?
Maybe the splintery wooden **** Pug is slipping out.
Or the Rusty Chain around Its neck too loose

(It is impossible to please
So have this in mind when you fall in Love
You fall alone, you see
Like a Dead Dove from a Dead Tree)

And having that Epiphany
Altruistic acts shall be only for me

Do not close your Eyes
Do not pretend Death in Disguise
My Dagger is now sharp
Spread your legs
Let us see you Drip

Drop by drop
In my mouth ‘til full
White and Red viscous Miracle
Swallow Seeds and Swallow Beads

Now that Gratitude is paid
And the Ritual complete
It’s time to get Laid
Fornication until Testicular function is Obsolete

I use Pig’ Intestines for protection of my Hook
As ridicule to the Book
It’s funny and punning
The Pork really IS Possessed

The friction stinks
And Burns to my delight
The Pain that it brings
Shows It no Light

Is this the End?
The Nirvana my friend!!!
Can you feel it?
While you chase the Last Breath?

I Erupt and Explode
It Implodes – the Explosion is within.

Oh Glorious Dissatisfaction
Oh Dead Body that dangles

I wish IT could see what IT & I created
Superb Creation
No words can explain
Its Life was not in Vain
It was Art
For me to Manipulate

The Rush in my Veins
Quickly vanishes
Leaving me with this uncomfortable

Another Day another Dime
Another Day another Dame
Another Day another Dammed

I am the Ultimate Pleasure seeker

I am the Grotesque Artist
Definitely not for the week hearted.
This is probably one of the most horrible Poems I have ever written.
I just felt like writing something horrendous.
A little trip into a sick person’s mind that has some sort of meaning to what it does.

I hope you can read it and appreciate it for the Art behind it

Take a little trip into my mind.
Kelvin May 2015
my rhymes, they're supremacy, while they need consistency, yours the are unwanted clemency, mine requires ability;tremendously, you rhymes, low volume low density, D=m/v, ***** that, im all about chemistry, chemistry between the bonds of my melody, while yours are useless discrepancy, perform reverse polarity, while you're searching for popularity and keeping your rhymes up breathlessly. hey, i'll give you a break; temporarily. i'll come back later; sequentially.
:O sick rhymes
Joseph Mar 2019
I am in this prison, no escape can I find.
I have been convicted – punished, for another man’s crime

There are many things which I am guilty of – in denying, I would be remiss
For those I should be charged – another man’s crime, absolutely not— not this!

I didn’t break your heart – why should I do the time?
I didn’t  make you cry – why should I pay the fine?
I didn’t cause you misery – why should I go to jail?
I didn’t leave you lonely – why should I be in this cell?

For the many wrongs I’ve done, I would gladly pay for them all.
But for another man’s crime – I walk this justice hall

I stand; -- boldly proclaim –not guilty! – My innocence plea!
I was not at the scene of the crime – mistaken identity.
What heinous thing has he done – what unforgivable act?
What was the crime – I am charged with accessory after the fact.

Tell me what I have done and I will gladly make amends
Don’t make me pay, forever pay, for another man’s sins

I was not there when he did you wrong – wasted words that I say
I was not there when he rejected your affection – your trust he did betray
I was not there when he turned your world misty blue- it was him and him alone
I was not there when he left you broken– that deed is his to own

Why am I impaled for an unknown deed – ignorance is no defense
I throw myself on the mercy of the court – may I approach the bench
He committed the prefect crime – walks away scot-free
Enjoys all the benefit of his wrongdoing –I get the third degree.

Debtor Prison, is my sentence – yet it should not be.
I am an innocent man – yet, you grant him clemency
He forsook your love, took what he wanted, and walked away
But I am the one sentenced-- his debt I’m forced to pay.

When I am holding you -does it remind you of his embrace?
When I am kissing you- do you still see his face?
When I am loving you- is it him you that you miss?
When I am caressing you- for him do you reminisce?

You were a victim – now you victimize.
Creating more damage than you realize.
Because of one man’s wrong, you create wounded of your own.
Perpetually they pay for a crime, for which they can never atone.

It is easy to hurt other when you can’t feel any pain
Yet I pay the price, the one led away in chains.

How can I fix – what you refuse to say?
You want let me close, I’m always keep at bay.
The time may have come for me to throw in the towel.
The jury has been fixed – it’s an unwinnable trial.

Before my leg irons are put on and I am forced to go…
Let me speak now, let my record show,
I gave you my all –it wasn’t good enough
I gave you my best –never gained your trust

I only wanted to hold you and never make you cry
I only wanted to make you smile, girl that’s no lie
I only wanted to please you, but it was not to be
I only wanted to make your happy, the laugh’s on me.

Time is running out, there’s not much left to say
You shut me out, you push me away.
I hope you come around before too long.
Or you’ll wake up-- old – lonely- -all alone.

What I’ve been through- just not right.
I surrender - wave the white flag– no strength left to fight.

Hurt—pain – broken trust – you’re not the only one
Don't end your faith in love because of what he's done

He still controls – your heart – your soul – your mind!
My heart grows heavy –lost hope of your being mine.

Yesterday –gone – present - wasted – future - there’s time
Don’t make every man pay for another man’s crime!
What is born of this land?
Nothing is born,
Nothing grows
In this desolate land.

I want to wake up the neighborhood
To hear my screams at dawn
But they do not hear anything,
Do not listen to anything that happens in the morning.
I play my music in the streets,
All my poetry and clichés
But they do not understand anything,
No one understands what happens at dawn.
I walk the streets looking windows,
***** children in their rotten rags
And I cry with those who are hungry,
I do not know who cry or love…
I embrace the poor in spirit
And hear all your stories poor,
These poor and pathetic poor souls
It is my right meeting this cold morning.
I go through the streets and alleys damp and dark
And I hear a child crying…
A repetitive and child crying wretched
What is the worst of all choruses?
I see people and their hurried footsteps
Everywhere, everywhere…
I'm afraid to follow my tracks
And I hasten my steps through this city.
I hear the sirens screaming in the streets
Mixing the sound of nightclubs crowded
And the sound of twisted metal
Creating a new contrast, another type of cry.
I sing with you almost every night
And sometimes I wonder: where are you
He left so early and left me here...
Now I’m alone! I’m alone!
God, I try and cannot understand
Reason to justify this life.
I am a pawn in the game you do not see
Every dawn until dawn.
Something touched my whole being,
Something I do not understand and do not try to understand,
Something that comes up every day when I wake up
And after me until nightfall.
Something happens,
Something moved,
Something incomprehensible,
A new friend?
They say that being is almost live
And living is the limit of what you can want.
In fact, something happens that one wants to be here,
However, not all this desire craves.
Nothing is enough
When no longer feels the aroma of flowers,
When the color no longer thrill
And they cannot be sold to look.
Gave me such rare moments
Feeding the future although at present,
But waking I do in all my steps
Get me the taste of things even in thought.
In my noble and poor land I wander
And I feed the memories of liars,
Get drunk me with joy and gladness
And insistent way in the land of lepers.
In my humble vacant land,
Time is proud, ignorant time.
Hunger is rampant around me,
The flesh is weak and soul idem.
I ask as much as the worst of sinners,
Wasting a time that no longer have,
Not differentiate right from wrong,
Share supper with my detractors.
I do not feel the taste of wine,
I do not recognize a smile,
I do not remember the hugs,
I'm finally alone!
I weigh my conscience in the balance of a butcher
And the butcher tape me with ravenous eyes,
There is no any agreement on the price of the meat,
Nor is the first or second.
God, you who are owner of the ages,
Give me the hours its final minute
And cause the whole world to know
That left miserable after all.
Grant then that desire
And finish time with this work,
Free cities this unfortunate
Who insists on knowing what nobody knows.
When there is fever, it makes no difference,
There are times the blood is poison.
Red is the color of anger and sin:
The poet knows when he is sentenced.
If there is even poetry these avenues
As equal in different cities,
To be recognized
For the sake of pursuing life.
Burial in the deepest memory
The giant concrete towers,
The grotesque glass structures
That mimics a new artery.
A new artery,
A new lifestyle,
A new company
And an early cardiac arrest.
As the cars kissing the avenues
Meeting the perfect companion
That tells me in the ear:
"Accept me as the only one"
Finally, fear runs through my veins
And feeding a forgotten feeling,
An absurd desire to see the next day
And try another outlet.
All the streets are congested.
A whole shantytown has just been set on fire
While some locals try to save
What remains of an entirely bankrupt life?
There is a twist
Around this humble heart,
A carnival,
Almost a provocation.
All veins are old and weak,
There is melancholy at all.
Even without poetry,
Without free will, there is life at all.
This city is just brick,
Metal, sweat, concrete and glass,
Cement stuck to feeling
Often beautiful and often ugly.
This city is sand,
Concrete and feeling,
Sorrows and joys,
Poetry thrown to the wind.
Some people learn early, some not -
Live life day in and day out.
Some dance to the song,
Others are lost before the chorus.
Some are always right, some not -
Many are lost in illusion.
While some running, others sleep
And all seek some direction.
Some dream rock bottom,
Others dream of the river bottom.
Some seek independence,
Others are the exception.
Some people win,
There are people who are lost,
Some people becomes the problem
And others think is the solution.
Digress weather
What about the "types" that encounters in this life.
I lose a second in this lost time
And even with so little sense, how rare is the time!
If you have no idea, nor do I know.
Maybe the hunger that consumes me consumes you too.
Perhaps the addiction that affects equal
Is something that arises only between abnormal?
I addiction with its tapas
And in each sip of his cup,
Each exaggerated affection offered
In exchange for a few bucks.
I ***** me with your lies
And assimilate water from your gutters,
I learn new shortcuts in every way
And erase the traces of my own steps.
I chase you in every church and every home
I swallow my irony,
Visit each elderly
And make friends with the hospice house.
Far reaches thy wickedness
And how many hugs another's grief?
Can evil be so inspired?
The point of the very surprised to be expected?
Life bleeds leaving the left chest
The children of the world that the world does not want,
Spread the news that sadness has hair
And more brown eyes than mine.
I notice refinements of cruelty
In this urban masochism
Where poverty has older
And the lie became just a vanity.
I transform
In all more abhor,
I emerge in the mirror
As my own killer.
I suffocate and tie in the dark of my room
Little souls endangered
And throw in the trash the dreams of those who
He believed devoutly one day be part of reality.
I still feel the skin marked by fire
The brand that hurts the brand of truth
And I pray that one day cease searches
And everything becomes futile.
The happiness of fuel
Corrode and fades away slowly
Gradually me satisfaction
With the balance that sustains me.
When I look at my own face, it hurts.
I exhale the body the rest of fear
And I try not to see how strange the line of truth -
Seeking the path that leads to freedom.
Disguise my desires
And repress my absurd,
Hug each nightmare
And hide my darker side.
I try to see something beyond the abyss,
Find something else beyond the walls,
Transcribe all longings
Hidden behind every dream.
I am eternal,
Land and fraternal
While the world lasts.
There is this chest a divided heart
Created almost between two worlds,
The world is inside the abyss
And what one sees behind the walls.
My corner is stumped
As well as the small voice and uncertain
From the little that is hidden on the other side,
My other side of that wall.
What have other corners?
They also have these sides
But what counts in these corners
Also rhyme in other valleys.
Bright lights bother many people.
Darkness feeds inconsequential.
High walls with brass railings gleaming
Are contrasts in painting a colorless screen?
Urban flowers are so amazing
And this depression is so exciting.
Smiles are bitter and needy
And the pain married to vows of love.
These buildings are so interesting,
Where the wet streets at night shine like diamonds,
Where transiting the fair and honest
Munching vanity and rancor.
The cars pass and illuminate so many people,
Whites, blacks and children without color.
Poets are so tucked the irreverent
Assimilating the pain and all that is.
I see lives that trace the same plane,
joy of generations by mistake ,
Marks of time that are pure desperation
Charting together a colorless future.
I see faces full of hope
Burning in public because of their color,
Those who live without even realizing it,
A cold paint drips without why.
Bodies dancing high parapets
Almost always go so early
Challenging theories and concepts
And ignoring all kinds of love.
My steps are so slow
And so intense movements,
The faces are always the same
And I hope again the sunset.
Justice who is in charge of giving clemency
The presumed innocent
Transiting the streets
Spreading hope and love.
I want to have a chance to see the birth of Venus
And the annunciation in the middle of spring,
I want to be like St. Augustine
And read the scriptures by candlelight.
I want to be like Van Gogh and paint sunflowers
Even in December the ink is red.
I want to have new flower garden in the backyard
And the kiss out of my lips is never accidental.
Just want something passionately
Even being so blind and alone?
That goodbye is worthy
And everything to return finally to dust.
The idea comes suddenly
To celebrate as an illiterate,
Prepare a table and invite
Only those who are hungry.
All this turmoil,
All this protest,
All thefts
This legion inside me...
Melancholy has always had its place,
Love, sadness and bitter returns,
Feeling alone and be like shadow in the crowd
And embrace the darkness itself.
Find it romantic suffer
For pain that recognizes pain that always sees
It is more than a disease, it is a love affair
For all that hurts and causes pain.
I let them think I was defeated
With the unexpected attacks
Of those who cry shouts of victory
And they forgot to be buried.
I leave them to play in my back
The guilt of all blame,
Let it burn my entire story,
It does not matter that much.
My lips run on search words
And my eyes run in search of beauty,
Drawing liar’s feelings
That shut all the bells around.
Words come out like blades
In hoarse voice coming out of my mouth
This other me who hates me so much
And all challenges at first.
In the spring mornings leaves dance
Rehearsing his ballets from the rising of the day,
Is this life?
It’s this they call life?
I want to find the lost word
Among the tasks of the day to day
What is so profane?
The prohibited!
I want to meet a new season
Bring me a sense of relief,
Find what they call happiness
And maybe learn what it is.
An epidemic,
Rimes illustrating
An eternal melodrama.
You cannot have everything!
Not always beautiful are our days
And we keep waking up.
Roses do not speak, but are also alive.
There is hunger for love!
There is hunger and what will?
There is hunger in this home?
If there is hunger, then there.
There is time for everything!
There is time to smile,
No time to cry,
There is time to leave.
I want to run away from home without a warning,
Running between the wheat fields
And let all afflicted
Trying to understand what had happened.
I want to cause confusion,
The same kind that I bring in my heart.
I want water all around
With the storm inside me.
I want to wake up the sleeping
And those who never agreed,
I want to find out who they are
And spread about us.
Lovers of this pain,
Thirsty without knowing
Where else to enjoy,
Where else to call "home".
I shift my gaze
With all the hatred of this world
Of all the ragamuffins and vagabonds
Who recognize me in a second?
I want to break these chains,
Scratching walls,
Promote anarchy
And imprison noon.
I want rain penknives
While tear my clothes,
I cut my wrists
And count all the drops.
A day can be
Something happens
And make to cease this endless grief
And everything changes, anyway.
So lose the naivety
What remains this morning?
I envision the absurdity that all I see
Is still something to be remembered?
Maybe one day
Poetry is done singing
And the light breeze the corner
I want to get a perfect world,
I want to love what is defective,
I want to explore my own room,
Make another deal.
I want to shake you violently that coffin
And show where all the mice,
Ignite old blankets
Which now they were pretty.
I want to show you I love you
And I hate you,
I can live alone,
But also not live without you.
My madness is productive
At the same time, destructive:
It satisfies the crowd inside.
I refuse to be part of the pack
Strolling in supermarkets,
Feigning patience as immoderate
The suffered.
I like debris,
I collect dust,
Make enemies,
Cultivation dreams.
I constantly change identity
And lose track of reality,
My state is ill
And I'm terminal and disposable.
I participate in this game,
This novel in decline
This disgusting theater of horrors
Where only the blind are honest.
I am thoroughly enslaved
While deprive me of the privilege of choice,
Burying our will
In the deepest pit.
The wall that separates us is low
And we walked jumping from one side to the other,
Often both exist
And others, only I exist.
We are a nun and a *****
Plotting an eternal dispute
Between the two sides of the coin
To decide who runs and who fight.

As simple as saying your name
Spell out the pieces of your body.
I want to understand what God's grace
If your body will never be only yours.
Your body exudes the morning sweat,
Clouds hid the principle of pain,
Pain discovers a new form of pleasure
And the pleasure is expensive to you.
Your blood runs nearly everywhere
And a new world opens up suddenly,
Frighten the fleeting pain
And wait with his only love the sunrise.
I wipe the sweat oozes from you,
You wipe the tears falling from me,
If you can be in the world some endless love
The only certainty is that there was never before such love.

I want to wake you up
To hear my screams at dawn,
Show you what genuine despondency is
And not left me anymore.
I want to recognize me
And take me to your bed,
Not left with nothing
In addition to beating in his chest.
I want to be part of its history
And I want to be a constant presence in my,
The world spit their prejudices
And the fire that also burns in the heat.
I want to break the mirrors
And heal our sickness,
Assaulting what kills us
Every day, forever.
Serene and calm give you what remains
With my last breath,
What's best in me now rests
And rest my mind.
My sweat is true
It is also all the pain.
Blood is final
And it goes to the last vows of love.
The entire storm inside me
Now relax my heart,
Soothes My Soul
And feeds the reason.
I walk by this peaceful land
And growing a new crop of wheat,
I do a incognita a new partner
And the fear is not definitive.
I harvest hope
Where before there was only bitterness.
I am ashamed
And regret.
I accept the entire cross
And fight against the serpent.
I heal my wounds.
And my success is violent.
Time is short
And I want to scream that entire plan,
There is still a flame inside
And only her surrender.
What was misery,
What was despair,
What was hungry,
What was fear…
What was pain,
What was love,
What it had value
And when there was time…
What is born of this land?
Nothing is born,
Nothing grows
In this desolate land.

What is born on this land?
What grows in this land?
Nothing is born on this land,
My private wasteland.
MY LAND OUR LAND is the result of years of work. Written at different times, eventually leading nineteen years in reaching the outcome that now lies in your hands.
Numerous times this poetry was abandoned and then resumed, forgotten at the bottom of a trunk or discarded due to the complexity. Not ready and may never be. The comforting passages are rare. Virtually none, to be more specific. There is no time to be afraid. We mask our feelings and weave remarks about everything.
This is just a work of poetry. Do not be afraid to consume it. Not to care be consumed by it.
My land cannot be invaded. It can be understood, compared, discussed, studied, trivialized, ridiculed or criticized by anyone. But this is my land!
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.

We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.

The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel

The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Olivia Kent Aug 2013
Arrival final destination,
Welcome to Huntsville you see,
Enter by the back door,
Then you go to eat,
Traditional fare, if you like,
Burger wrapped in blood,
The blood red of ketchup, matches the blood on your hands,
You are young, dressed in virtual innocence,
Do the crime, you do the time,
Is it worthy of eternity,
Since break of day you wait,
Waiting for impending death,

6 P.M
It is the evening of your darkest day,
For vile sin, with life you pay,
What thoughts traverse through your young head,
As tears trickle and pleas long gone,
For clemency calls rolled onto deaf ears,
You were the big man so they said,
A victim of cruel circumstance,
Collared by forensic drift,
Evidence grabbed,
Poor boy,

At a cost of $86.08,
more than you made on that fateful day,
Led to the gurney in shackles and chain,
Chains weighed heavier than conscience,
Conscience ****** your frightened brain,
Are you moved for your final confession,
Ideal for the papers for in a press release,
The last words he did say,
'Thank God for giving me life, see you soon,
Sir, For it's my final day,
Of course, I forgot you know that anyway',
I'm Sorry, so sorry, Father forgive me,

Waited almost a lifetime for this his final day,
The row of death so welcoming,
The great escape maybe,
Visage of executioner,
Looks deep into your soul,
While you stare vacantly into his eyes,
The ultimate sensation of pain as the needle quickly enters your vein,
As nerve endings and your body die,
Reflection of immaturity,
Bad life, sad life, consequence of situation,
No life had, no love lost!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
The rigor morgasm
last bus to spasmville
will you rise to the occasion,take a ride,go on vacation or will you fail,sails up,head down,sink or swim,win out or drown?
These thoughts are what occur to me,when thinking somewhat morbidly about what age may do to me,and when or if it happens, will I see, or feel the loss of my virility,it really bothers me,it never did before,but then I'm almost at three score,(I'm talking years)
when fears of that impotency may be more important than what I think of as my potency,and I ask the lord libido to show me some high rise clemency and let me be the man I think I am.

Fevers of the mind when the motions of the body blind, slow,
you know,
but you don't say,
you love me anyway
I love you
sometimes and sometimes at times I come through,making love with you,counting calendars,dates and we are the best of mates,lovers too.sometimes you love me sometimes coming through,but always love me making love with you.

We may be old and often told that all is past,
and then we smile and kiss,
cast off our wrinkled skin and dive in to swim in each others winning ways,making it,sometimes at odd times of the days or nights and lights off or on,
and if this goes the way we think it should
I would not complain.

There comes a time sometimes when we have to read between the lines and tell the Doctor on prescription about the failures of *******.
I ***** a monument, to this my plea,
let the lord libido be kind to me.
Men can be such babies and so shy when it comes to talking about their own bodies and yet have no such qualms talking  about the female form and their bodies..I don't care,we get old and things drop off,when they do..See the Doctor.
Jerry Bradford Apr 2015
We were the equivalency of
Teenage angst
and hormonal alchemy
From our relationships infancy
We were the local misfits
The well rounded rejects
Pubescent prefects
Rounded up and remanded
Into custody
Then offered executive clemency
When we graduated
Your parents said they'd had enough
and with you emancipated
I retrograded to a five finger
affair and a cold bottle of beer
drumhound Oct 2013
(regarding the death of my son)

I fear very little
but the one thing I DO fear
is forgetting the sound of his voice.  

It was 70 year-old husky
by the age of 14.
The manifestation was a quartet bass
tucked neatly in the body
of a fray-headed sparrow.
If you closed your eyes
the lumberjack you imagined
would be tickled to see
the tiny powder keg
that actually stood before you.
Inside the resonance was a warm huckster laugh,
half good ole boy,
half saint,
half comforter.
He was fifty percent more real
than anyone I knew.
On the good days his chuckling possessed him
to the point of breathlessness.
His joy-tears are the Rembrandts of our memories
never to be tarnished by any pity demons.
But on the bad days his laughter trailed away
into a pugilistic cough.
It's the one thing I fear I will always remember.
Yet when he spoke the sincerity was so ominous
that any inaccuracies seemed irrelevant.
Love was the spine of his vocabulary.
There were no meaningless words.
Regardless of the lettering
they all had the root meaning
of clemency.
He spouted new beginnings
and hope
regardless of past mistakes of failures.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
for I fear that I have already forgotten my own.  

Today it speaks only of him being gone.
Reliquishing are the days
that were full of him.  
I submit to songs that were his
and find myself tethered to unmerited heaviness.
No matter how loud I scream
the present rains on me
and my voice is lost
in the sickness of the storm.
I cannot turn it off.
I press my radio presets
to chase away the Rascal Flatt residue in my head
and land on a Christian station.
**** it.
The only thing he loved more than Rascal Flatts
was Jesus.
Me too. But not today.
I just want to stop crying.  

It's the magician's multi-colored scarves
tied corner to corner
in a endless tug of futility and frustration.
The more I want the prank to stop
the more irritating the infinite parade of colors becomes.
I pull again and again hoping the next scarf,
the next involuntary sorrow,
will be the last one.
I open my mouth in concious agenda
to change directions
and speak of the blessings I have
in my other children
only to find his name tied to the last name
which was his as well
just in another color.
I cannot stop speaking of him
no matter how hard I try.
And I wonder if my kids know
that I know
they're suffering in his shadow
and I can't fix it.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
as I am forgetting mine
and terrified that I may be muting theirs as well.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
you will not like what
you will soon imbibe...

long has a single moot court team
infernal internal debated,
the if's and of's, among itself:

"To Read, Or Not To Read?"

in solitary confinement,
place one's self,
undisturbed but for stale bread,
but unpolluted water

letting only visions sprung internal
guide thy words and world,
from tongue to paper,
creating as pure as one can,
unperturbed by the
rocket's glare of another's poetry

risking all but certain knowing,
it is my fawlty fault alone,
no compare, all laid bare,
no infection of inflection,
no reflection of yours,
in mine mirrored image

my issued seed, entire genetic,
it's only inked environment what is
pre-seeded by blood and *****,
my eyes filter all sight by this light,
this lonely light alone

for the moment, when,
I bend my head to thy stream
to partake when inspiry is parched,
the knowledge that what you
write and wrought,
so much better
than my small portions,
I am condemned in perpetuity
not to the agony mot of defeat,
for I could not
cease to write,
any more than I could
cease to breathe,
or despair of all hope
for messianic better days

but, if to be burdened
by the too real title of
second best,
then my poems,
all sadness to be.

this I cannot have,
so let my pieces,
mediocre or even trash,
live peacefully unencumbered
by the site lines of the living
and the dead

thy finery exceeds my plain grasp,
when I read yours,
my self-pity self-suffocates,
and I ask,
nay, I beg of myself:

let my voice be still
but not stilled,
let my thoughts be boundless,
but not in thine clasped,
let my heart speak my truth,
even unto admitting my yellow courage,
let it not be disparaged by,
for my rank of commonality,
it's low caste author's curse

"for who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time"

I have read the best

once, I wrote
to laugh,
reminded and reminding,
they too feared,
the compare to those who
wrote before their own hour

now I know better,
my only solution,
let my additive, be uncomplicated
my images, uncompromised,
by that, my eyes have n'ere seen,
in languages unspoken, but yet believed,
that were given birth only
for a poet's needs

you may dispense
with my droppings,
as you please, but when
I read you and yours,
I am,
so dangerously pleasured,
my creativity,
my one true god and deity,
oft no longer speaks to me,
it's silence a death sentence
that no court, not in any land,
on earth or unheaven,
may e'er grant clemency,
that of course,
unkindest cut of all

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry"

"The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of"

You see, already cursed and contaminated,
All my sins italicized, except for my original one,
The imposition of mine own hand,
To dare to write and dream in line and meter, verse


*To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
11:13 this Saturday morning, composed to Pavarotti singing
Nessus Dorma!

as noon approaches, the day divided, I will here pause as long as my eyes, permission me to stop seeing...
Poetoftheway Nov 2017
“My poems are often wiser than me, lean into a more keen universe of understanding.” Joy Harjo


instant recognition moment, Joy, your words,
(despite the kitchen cooking clanging chatter next door),
spilling into the quiet space of my thanksgiving brain

my wiser poems are insights inscribed inside,
exposed and released all in their own good time,
they, always blogging, leaning out to escape,
asking the Governor for clemency, early release

poems that are my self-defensive explicit explanations,
excuses, convoluted ratinocations, prosecutorial accusations, leveled by my disbelieving, revealing, sworn to silence
not-to-be-trusted-confessor-me against the indefensible

nobody likes a wise guy,  
but out they come, under the covers, dem poems  
of nighttime darkness, spilling beans and silent screams,
asking you if we remember that time when we...

yes, we.

but writ in the first person personal,
in words summoned from his own ****** deep darkness?

better in plain english when sharing shadings of universal,
and you leaning in on me from within,
presence of pressure, a plaintive palliative wailing,
ejecting an ******* of joy

when “please release us” is honored with our
collective wisdom

S E L Jan 2014
Brimming with black steeds, green bowls overflow with walls of raining lava in ****** mode
Pinning down paradise beneath your brown thumb, see it wriggle away in mockery of your arty drivel
Only you can thrash on, as magically as a thought which pops in rude bursts
- - - then away it flies

In a silent harbour of study, all the imperfections of my breathing that the mirror glances back at me
I try hard not to swallow failure wholemeal, in the course of a day  - - -  I choke so many times
And angel wings brush by in shy embrace, but I shove its clemency flat on its face

And in vehement denial of anything beautiful - - -  it is not present, save through you
I can submerge so easily, if only to succumb to the silence and the peace
The muted bubbling around my head and throbbing against my ears and pressing on my arms
So comforting

Instead, there’s too regular clicking to the detriment of supple joints
And licking of lips and silent brooding in steeped corners
Any effort to siphon the stillness in the air is severed by intrusions

And the lake beckons me - - - my broken feet follow
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
it was really only about writing a haiku's worth of words.

a bit like listening to an atheist on the internet,
after spending 2 years reading kant's critique,
to find 3 arguments:
- ontological,
- cosmological argument
-  teleogical-physics...
and they're all refuted by the author as actually
leading to a "proof"...
and then to later find in his work that he simply
believes... or as i will state in my *******-esque
jargon... that he had the same emotional capacity
to comply with a woman in the grand adventure
of life, as i did, or do...
        there's a cheaper word to use to just say
for per se reason other than *****...
        atheism is just that...
                           that thing... really has the emotional
capacity of a gnat... oh look... no silent g...
               so three argument by kant,
all seemingly pointless: because we like kings to
exist and be "delusional" by the concept...
         of a god/s...
                               as to say: when did we stop
in being unable to relate? oh right... when we "got together"...
    fixed sayings, fixed meanings,
          i wish i could have stomached a relationship
with a woman... but then again: i wasn't too bright
to catch-up on being ambiguous...
       well... a woman explained it to me thus,
given the ******* profession...
       man has to be promiscous type
       so a woman can play her role as *amibuity
no wonder man got bored and started to philosophise /
love of love - you really want to say loaf to loathe
and then see a V pop up...
           or at least that's what he said, when he got
bored of living within the capacity of a refrigerator
and being prompted by some hunt for affection...
spices... teasing, sniffing ashes...
            you never realise that the woman is an
ambiguity, and that man the promiscuity...
take that poetry... rhyme debukt... words that could
be echo... lying side by side.
   too late, doing the elvis aha or ahum or
ahahahum and then having a shower -
so he really did debunk the french theory of
the english stiff upper-lip?          

alternatively, some Pollockesque *******.

from kant giving his three arguments
for even trying to prove god to exist:
- ontological, for, but rather from
the basis of how you behave...
- the cosmological argument ...
- physico-teleogical (fizyko-teologicznego)
   / teleogical-physics...
oh look... a θ particle... must be sub-atomic
physics... since why wouldn't i
make the spelling mistake of writing teological?
   must be θeology... it's that crux
of digested syllables: tele- -ogical / te- -leo -g...
            te- -le- -ology?
tell a leo he's an aquarius?

and he thus concludes in his mini-novel
of easy reading session in
transcendental methodology
that all the three tiers of arguments are
without a scientific argument to be even
    it's not that the result might be unproven,
or left like a barren desert
that asks for as much rain, as it does for hope...
he just argues that the three categories of
the mode of question attempted are deviod of
   any final overcoming sigh or sight to marvel at,
and states that the questions prefigure
a complete negation of asking them, in the first place,
what heidegger later calls: a throwing
into, or: a happening - that's trully necessary,
with any arguments as derelict houses;

or is that just in english, the germanic prefix
self-, that later ends up nothing but a cartwheel?
that's how they put it: self-help,
self-employment... self-confidence...
      what's that? motivation for a cyborg?

those are hefty things to consider,
given they are structured a bit like itemising
an atom: electrons (ontology) i.e.
in high-school they tell you electrons have
orbits, at university they tell you they are
clouds... then you sorta lose the plot
when they tell you that they don't behave
like clear units, but like quanta...
like life and death: now you see me, now you don't
type of "trick"...


cruxing on 1, or working from 1...
of what can be said of the unison...
clearly i am not speaking unison, given that i'm working from
a bias of solitude... is it all conforming to a togetherness,
or is it just moving in the many diadem directions
looking awkward when dancing?

it doesn't matter: the language written when drinking
and fasting...

         atheism, having reached the end of kant's
critique, simply tells me of the emotional content of a person,
it's nothing too complicated,
                  it's an emotive construct,
   you have different emotional labyrinths for atheists
as you have for theists...
            some do things openly, lend themselves to
submission... others protest against such
juxtaposition of the body... since they are not gratifying
the "sacrifice" of women, who make themselves
prostate before the ritual...
   sound about right?
                       it must sound much much simpler:
if there was no phallus for a woman to prostate herself
there would be no god for man to do likewise...
          well... wouldn't you think that? esp. these
days with the pronoun war, the unearthing of the nag
hammadi library and it's obvious silent insolence
to be spread and firmly established...
the fact that some people actually own libraries
in their own personal space... and feminism?
let's call it a symbiosis...
   the difference between an atheist and a theist / deist
(by now, the close proximity of saying the two
words makes no sense, given the thesaurus and synonyms) -
at best, i can only see an atheist as someone
with an emotional construct that cannot accommodate a woman,
paradoxal: given kant...
who had the emotional capacity to be a theist,
but then able to translate it into having a spouse...

if it really is a case of / for atheism
the person will not speak plain sprechen...
    he will provide "looking behind the scenes"
of something akin to autism, the posh word is actually
all theory based: solipsism...

i really don't think actual atheists have the emotional
capacity to inscribe into their heart a word from a woman,
to have a heart capable for a woman's bloated
over-burdening O and A in biography.

atheism (a-      -the              and no ism)
   is like living with the left eye being unable to synchronise
with your right eye... it's not a case of being without
god... it's being without a woman...
                   a woman is like gravity,
it orientates a man, makes him do things...
            a woman is but gravity,
                           you fall into place as a man,

i don't know how much kant too pleasure from the feelings
he had with that she-devil he invented up there,
in the celestial library of licking out anuses...
   there really isn't a better way to probe the matter...
not after i spent such a long time

reading his three-tier argument, to only be rewarded with
the fact that he still said, at the end of it:
i believe.
                 who does that to a man?
           someone who will later laugh and say:
better you invested your time in some darling Clemency,
or June, or something that might be of use...
something that might make you sing akin to eric
clapton: wonderful tonight...
      it would actually help doing what i do if
i didn't have an artistic transcendentalism to back the argument
up with... testing the nerve and the part of me that
likes going to the toilet gym for a bit of sitting yoga...
alas... it's not there...

  the bane of living in england in the 21st century
compared to living in poland in the 20th century...
men went to the army for 3 compulsory years
  after graduating from school aged 21... or 19...
anyway... later than in current england, when you can
******* aged 16...
                 what a mistake to have entered university...
i'll never stop slapping myself for having
made such a mistake...
as of those who believe in gods, we also believe
     in being titans: basically at war with ourselves;
having written that, i'm going to dread having
to reread the rest i wrote, for typos in the excess of being
drunk.... and actually listening to eric clapton...
ugh! what's that word? that americanism?!
it's so nasal i don't even know how to spell it:
poodle / coo d and the plural e? sounds like ease,
or thereabouts.
No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.

No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.

They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.

Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****.

so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.
Debra A Baugh Jan 2013
there is never an afterthought looking
at society as a whole but, in times of
discontent; we look disdain in the eyes
as it dulls humanities open-mindedness,

yet, we find clemency to overlook abominate
behavior in our fellow humans fore... the storm
will pass in the face of sullen words that may
darken our path; it behooves ethically to consider
their trials and tribulations in life as they unmask;
revealing their torment to mind and soul, giving
thought to their utterances and actions seeking
forgiveness, falling to their knees in repentance

dare we ask of their dilemma or do they shutter
in the wake of humanities wrath; shall we re-consider,
silently ingesting; fact or fiction in a society of closed
minds, refusing to shed their armor, their protection
from the few in the masses with no afterthought,
no understanding as a mind clashes with thoughts
of self-destruction; finding no justification

thinking God has abandoned them to face irrational
minds and behavior; not realizing He's right by their
side walking in their shoes; carrying them through
their burdens, trying to open up their eyes mind and
soul to see hope at salvations door , fore, they have
not been forsaken...the minds a terrible thing to waste
on societies triviality
Carla Marie Jan 2012
How disconcerting…

Brace for a fight

Lace up the gloves

Vaseline the soft spots

Turn corners on two wheels

Arrive and

Kick in the doors

To find that

The Enemy

Is no longer in existence

Already vanquished

By an even greater enemy

Leaving in its wake

A pitiable thing

Arousing in a decent soul



For one’s self--


And for the other--


Nothing honorably left to do

BUT pray

For one ’s self---

Only that God notices

This quiet sacrifice

Cuz there will be no

Forgive-me’s… or


I-love-you’s… or even


When one unlaces the gloves

Washes the face

Rolls up the sleeves

And returns

For cruelty


For ill will


For Indifference


And for Unkindness


And pray

For the other---



Have Mercy…

Have Mercy Lord…
martin challis Jan 2015
take rain from sky
take the way tall men straighten your stance
take the students of dance
see the little ballerina stretch her toes
see her mother warm with the floodlight

take your plea to the judiciary
take your eye to the statue of David
smear on the dust of Somalia
rub raw the frost of Croatia
refresh your aim in the heights of Angola
but do not stop only at this

breathe every impediment
trust every promise of clemency
stumble if you will
fall under cease-fire
take it all

take the watchmaker
bent over time
with fine tools
clasp each second

take the sculptor who
chisels and scalpels for the grandiose

later in your armchair
fold creases in your newspaper with care

be with every nourishment
be with the cloth of your nakedness
make sail for your harbour of origin

remember the milk of your mothe?r
warm or cold or sweet if it is so
appease hunger
with the ambidextrous mouth
of a soldier
fed with death in his jungle

be the bystander, be the bi-partisan,
the *******, the timeless,
the dancer
be it all

breathe each increment
do it now
measure the infinite
the possible

MChallis © 2015
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
Such suffering I have sown,
But I accept my portion,
What then is there to do.
All the blame cannot be my own
If in the flaming depths of Tartarus there is a searing pool
It is there I shall dive, for I have fallen beneath the zenith,
I dip beneath the clouds, soon to shatter on the earth.
Likely that my plea for clemency will fail,
I cannot be held accountable for so blindly fumbling into the deceptions,
When no lens has been provided for me,
I was greeted first with insult,
Then recognized for my wit, and patience,
But low, I never parted the veil.
Justifications are for the guilty,
I cannot justify my nature.
Nor can I say why a scale tips back and forth
With equal weights, on each side,
Only to settle askew,
Again and again.
If there is enough love in this shallow heart,
This cheap vessel of hollow virtue.
I will burn it in the embers of my failing passion,
So as maybe, to brighten the eyes of another,
Whose gaze is less grey than mine.
Mahima Gupta Feb 2014
She stood
In the middle of a storm
The ocean floor slipped from
Beneath her feet
The waves let out a howl of anguish
She stood there
Helplessly begging for clemency  
The water touched the rocks
And moved away
Tides were high
Moon was involved in a surreptitious affair
The passerby ignored her
With uttermost ingenuity
He knew
she was the bone of contention
Of the evil
She was an illusion
She spun the web and caught her prey
He knew the tales of the people
Who had
developed an infatuation with her
Together she commemorated the
Death of all those imbecile beings
Every minute
Gravity pulled towards her
A different kind of person
A different soul
Every minute destructed itself
Whatever was left  
was summoned to her with a grin.
Swanswart Aug 2016

inside the house of the lording
a frenzied pumping play.

the colander
pouring the mold—
an altar of fetid sacrifice
and perfumed devotion.
My personal Pentecost (conversion
out of form)
My feats are handed to me far
ahead of my own devices.
Filling it up
Faster! Filling Faster!
Draining filling faster filling!
faster faster!

Violet lids are locked open in a rose
colored stare of thorns.
Puddles form opaque
and uneasy across the floor.
Ripples flex and bend-
a taste of lavender sweat and kisses
washes across my tongue
the flavors coagulate obscenely
stirring thirsty petitions
for more


The sunlight slits its way through the shutter
to rest upon the floor.
It strolls languidly across the breadth of the room
defying perception with a cadence
that patiently consumes the afternoon
the anxious minutes struggle to keep pace

Speaking with the tongues
of omens and devils
Love is nothing
and I am less
Charity is the anchor
and compassion the straight-jacket
Lies! Lies!
Memory is privy to the cure.
I am up to my ankles in defeat
Wading through my room in shackles
a supine sense of clemency
bends my knees in prayer
Mercy! Mercy!
for the barbarians and schemers
and those who long for sleep
for the bleeders and the healers
and the **** crowd that pays to watch
for the hidden and the hiding
the blind,  the short-sighted, and the bell gatherer on a leash
for those who have never seen their own spectacle
and for those who have yet couldn’t laugh
Mercy! Mercy!
Mercy to all


the pool rises
In genuflection I supplicate my position
Surrounded by the baptismal abyss
I contemplate immersion
into the excrement
I have poured about myself
A frivolous query of destruction complete
It’s a sprite idea
a fairy thought
flirting with my insensibilities
teasing my degrees with magic and trance
with spells that bind the curious
to moonless night visits
and the breaching
of hoary sepulchers alone
Filling! Faster! Faster!
Draining! Faster! Faster!
Filling Draining Filling
Faster! Faster! Faster!
The colander is engulfed


Afloat in the mire
of ponderous subversion
excess has risen heavy upon my heart
swelling about my neck
with rigorous aplomb
licking my lips with tar and suffrage
To my feet
I must stand!
I must keep my head above
and chin up

Gut-check drench and saturate
seeping into my passions
seething out of my skin
and into my dreams
sealing me inside myself
It is an epiphany of osmosis
Sangfroid boiled to satiety.

An emancipation?
Is this contentment I feel?
Could this be...
if but for this fleeting
whim of a moment
I’ll take the burden as luxury
my soul rings with ******
my body shudders with dissolve
I am without—
A Home

I catch the last shards
of sunlight lingering
upon the far wall
So alive in those last few moments
bright as language
etching vivid accomplishment


Ecstasy is swallowed in desperation
a flotsam and jetsam exchange
Grasp-breath beg and flurry
for space
wallowing head-full pleading
swimming in vibrant exhaustion
I writhe back into my skin
like a womb worm foraging
for original flesh

The casket ceiling offers me
Othello’s kiss
I see the cacography on the wall
and it’s my eulogy
blind as a battering ram I am
the walls before me
the colander cloys
the cullion claws
the cauldron is full

Boiling drown the barricade
the gallowed decision
is no simmering reaction
to the pangs of entropy
The filling has ended
my effluence has trickled to a halt
A maelstrom opens
draining Draining DRAINING


The vortex rages
a frenzied drowning dirge
my eyes scour the darkness
scrubbing the void for light
The nothingness gawks back
shadows swirl in the pit
of my stare
I close my eyes in defiance
turning my gaze to the visions
My thoughts are black
my dreams are black
my mind is an obsidian landscape
of residue and remnants
purged in the strain
of the colander
Raphael Cheong Jun 2014
I knew you were different
Right from the moment you wondered
Why the Sun had to come up
And sacrilegiously
When darkness had such beauty

As the world looked on in amusement
At how you went against the grain
I knew all of the reasons
Every fibre of your brain

Everytime you stopped to admire
The things that went unseen
Like the bubbles in the river
As they smashed to smithereens

As you spoke in tongues so similar
To the ones I didn't give
I knew you were building barriers
From the people who couldn't read

The people you knew
Would never see your world
And still love you the same
Would shut their windows from you
And leave the way they came

A different one to call love
A different way to sin
So crude and void of self-worth
A king and not a queen
Arrest the fallen angel
You almost heard them say
The baby in the manger
Shall not atone such sin

But heed not what their mouths say
They're not the one who made
You full of imperfections
The potter without clay
Made gardens without rangers
Raised demons from the dead
No soul without a soldier
Shall come between this faith
This rock across all ages
For bloodshed has been laid

So child when you next quiver
How shall I comfort thee
Shall I sing unto you a theme
Of calming clemency
As clemency shall not be given
For none there needs to be
Now speak these words of wisdom
From bare to arid lands
And spread these words you've listened
To each and every man

The next time you go thinking
That all of hope is lost
Just bear in mind the promise
Borne for you at the cross
Silver Wolf Jan 2014
You wake up to the sounds of foreign beeps and buzzes
Pounding their way through your eardrums
Invading your head
Manipulating your thoughts
You find yourself strapped down by some invisible force
You can’t quite make out
Opening your eyes is too hard
Drenched in layers of sweat
Built up from last night’s visions
Clearer than the sunlight
Faintly glowing outside
Is it even daylight?
You don’t even know
Or remember
There are no windows in this place
White walls drowning out your thoughts
Your ideas
And replace it with sterile censored
This phony face you stole from the inmate who
Sometimes invades your privacy
Feigning clemency
All doctored up in a silver platter in the form of
Syrupy voices laden with empty promises
Emptiness screams louder than parties and bars packed with people
It seems as if no one is here
Yet everyone’s watching
Spirits haunt this prison while i sleep
They are always here
They never leave
Whispering my mistakes
Constantly reminding what I could have been
And never will
Make them go away
It finally dawns on you
This is the place of nightmares
And there is no escape
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits...

in the Turkish shop buying my beers -
politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir -
talk of politics - deciphered a word:
Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan,
what was it - macabre radish to taste -
niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem  raz!
i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk
szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels
and the pigeons, and the swans,
and the migratory storks, and the seagulls -
for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise.
fluff of the wings -
                                   the Mongol stench
reinterpreted - i rather be picking
ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka -
and koniewki - łopieniek & canary -
grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks -
or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz -
kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby.
the deviating *kurka
- or chickpea foetal
variant of fungus - or alias chick.
each time they pithy my assertion to claim the
ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for
the noble families - each time they undermine
the worker testifying the ****-worthy ****
prior sleep - pride settles in -
and a long forgotten assertive builds up
to architectural proportions -
it just ends up being a game of throwing
copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland...
and dinosaur bones into Wales...
and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily
packed with the labels **** and Hindu;
Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never
supposed to come to this; shame that it did;
the safety option was exacted.
emily Sep 2015
the pinnacle of childhood
comes with the symphony of adolescence.
the realization that life is evanescent,
the breaking of cyclical routine,
catalyzing the bittersweet epiphany
of long-awaited nirvana.
no longer blithe and naïve,
quaff from the chalice of clemency
until intoxicated with the notion
of no longer being in limbo.
the mendacious oblivion of childhood evaporates,
lifting the veil of soporific innocence,
all traces of puerility gone.
enter the province of adulthood,
and live as a free soul,
no longer required to conform
to the standards of ascetics.
a lost boy no more.
Cee Valenso Jul 2014
From two fiery souls, a being was yielded
With their ambitious love, it must be guided
Whose young soul, at birth, pranced at the brink of death
God heard his wish, granting the infant another breath

As the time went on and went by
The same star was the brightest in his sky
Riches do not kiss her feet
But his arms, more comfortable than the finest sheets

He was her protector, her shield, her warrior
She was his princess; To no one, she was inferior
On his shoulders, she stood on top of the world
All was perfect 'til the petals unfurled

She fell off from a bicycle and bruised her knees
He treated her wounds but ignored her pleas
The once loving embraces felt like a cage
Under his gaze, she was a prey on center stage

Goodnight kisses were no longer pure
His warm embrace, no longer secure
What used to be affectionate, now shaky and warm
Eyes that shone with love, now projects harm

Harm to the corporal being, to the efflorescing soul
To sleep at ease, she cannot be cajoled
At days, perturbed; at nights, in fear
She trembles and frets, her fright is sheer

Hands that swept hair away from her face
Left imprints on her skin one can never erase
Lips that pressed kisses on her forehead
Became the source of her every day dread

A princess' skin felt like filthy rugs
Her responses to concern were countless shrugs
Now every time she sees her warrior
Relief vanishes, she is filled with terror

She remained silent, hoped for a change
All done in vain, the protector is deranged
Indulged himself, appeasing carnal hunger
Drowning her in nightmares that will forever linger

No more time for beautiful dreams
For she's awakened by lascivious schemes
The following morning, his lips are stretched to a smile
Forgetting the night, the flower that was defiled

With much courage, the straight road became curved
She took the wheel and hastily swerved
The voice has been found and it finally speaks
A stoppage on his abhorred streak

Knees on the ground, he recites a contrition
The usual alibis, but his own rendition
For so many years, she lived in misery
Mere apologies cannot suffice for clemency

From this point, she can never get far
Why dress her with fabrics of adulterated scars?
I was your princess, your brightest star, remember?
Why did you forget, my dear father?
This is the longest that I've written so far. I've never been this emotional while writing a poem.

The Heaven vests for Each
In that small Deity
It craved the grace to worship
Some bashful Summer’s Day—

Half shrinking from the Glory
It importuned to see
Till these faint Tabernacles drop
In full Eternity—

How imminent the Venture—
As one should sue a Star—
For His mean sake to leave the Row
And entertain Despair—

A Clemency so common—
We almost cease to fear—
Enabling the minutest—
And furthest—to adore—
May Asher Dec 2015
Through strings and wires I've walked
Never lacking courage or hope

But now I'm utterly empty,
Just an infinite space with thousand black holes,

digging through my screaming soul
Only hollows within me that fail to contain echoes,

though I've felt my tears scream,
on every track they course down my cheeks

Slowly, I sink into the oceans of wide holes,
into the betrayal, misery that makes my home

It's not honey, flowers, and butterflies
and not care and a love on high

It's built of bleeding thoughts,
pricking my heart with needles scalding hot

Puncturing through my wounded existence,
and lost clemency tumbling through dark shadows

My sky is red and clementine
because all my hues bleed

They bleed a deep red of melancholy
Seeping through the clouds of despair, slowly

I watch as I sit numb on shadows
Just wishing to fill these hollows

And smile because I have courage to still believe
in those fairy tales I could never defeat.

Someday maybe I could stop,
weaving threads of darkness into hope.

Until then I'm a doll with no features
Wearing another facade, just a cheater.

Because I've cheated so much
One every breath and every dream I've touched

Now I'm just waiting for truth to rend me apart
from this tired body, and bleeding heart


Elizabeth told Essex
That she could not forgive
The clemency of Deity
However—might survive—
That secondary succor
We trust that she partook
When suing—like her Essex
For a reprieving Look—
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Poems about Leaves and Leave Taking (i.e., leaving friends and family, loss, death, parting, separation, divorce, etc.)

Leave Taking
by Michael R. Burch

Brilliant leaves abandon
battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.

But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak
November sky.

Now, as I watch the leaves'
high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may

have learned what it means to say

Published by The Lyric, Mindful of Poetry, There is Something in the Autumn (anthology). Keywords/Tags: autumn, leaves, fall, falling, wind, barren, trees, goodbye, leaving, farewell, separation, age, aging, mortality, death, mrbepi, mrbleave

This poem started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," which dates to around age 14 or 15, or perhaps a bit later. But I worked on the poem several times over the years until it was largely finished in 1978. I am sure of the completion date because that year the poem was included in my first large poetry submission manuscript for a chapbook contest.

Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch

It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, this poem has since been translated into Russian, Macedonian, Turkish, Arabic and Romanian.


for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality swept into a corner... where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

Published by There is Something in the Autumn, The Eclectic Muse, Setu, FreeXpression, Life and Legends, Poetry Super Highway, Poet's Corner, Promosaik, Better Than Starbucks and The Chained Muse. Also translated into Romanian by Petru Dimofte, into Turkish by Nurgül Yayman, turned into a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong, and used by the Windsor Jewish Community Centre during a candle-lighting ceremony

Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron―
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.

And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful―
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea

Herbsttag ("Autumn Day")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go.
Lay your long shadows over the sundials
and over the meadows, let the free winds blow.
Command the late fruits to fatten and shine;
O, grant them another Mediterranean hour!
Urge them to completion, and with power
convey final sweetness to the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, never will build one.
Who's alone now, shall continue alone;
he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends,
and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down,
restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend.

Originally published by Measure

by Michael R. Burch

It is the nature of loveliness to vanish
as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness
seek transcendence...

Originally published by Hibiscus (India)

Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

"****** most foul! "
cried the mouse to the owl.

"Friend, I'm no sinner;
you're merely my dinner! "
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Published by Lighten Upand in Potcake Chapbook #7


for anaïs vionet

to live among the daffodil folk...
slip down the rainslickened drainpipe...
suddenly pop out
minuscule as alice, shout
in wee exultant glee
to be leaving behind the

Published by Andwerve and Bewildering Stories

Love Has a Southern Flavor

Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle's spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume...

Love's Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines...

Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations' dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree's
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight...

Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.

Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India) , Victorian Violet Press and Trinacria

by Michael R. Burch

There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were cannon shots’ soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise . . .
and then . . . annihilation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were nights our hearts conceived
dawns’ indiscriminate sighs.
To dream was our consolation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were acrobatic leaves
that tumbled down to lie
at our feet, bright trepidations.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were hearts carved into trees—
tall stakes where you and I
left childhood’s salt libations . . .

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

I liked the first passage
of her poem―where it led
(though not nearly enough
to retract what I said.)
Now the book propped up here
flutters, scarcely half read.
It will keep.
Before sleep,
let me read yours instead.

There's something like love
in the rhythms of night
―in the throb of streets
where the late workers drone,
in the sounds that attend
each day’s sad, squalid end―
that reminds us: till death
we are never alone.

So we write from the hearts
that will fail us anon,
words in red
truly bled
though they cannot reveal
whence they came,
who they're for.
And the tap at the door
goes unanswered. We write,
for there is nothing more
than a verse,
than a song,
than this chant of the blessed:
"If these words
be my sins,
let me die unconfessed!
Unconfessed, unrepentant;
I rescind all my vows!"
Write till sleep:
it’s the leap
only Talent allows.

Davenport Tomorrow
by Michael R. Burch

Davenport tomorrow ...
all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.

Now it is always summer
and the bees buzz in cesspools,
adapted to a new life.

There are no flowers,
but the weeds, being hardier,
have survived.

The small town has become
a city of millions;
there is no longer a sea,
only a huge sewer,
but the children don't mind.

They still study
rocks and stars,
but biology is a forgotten science ...
after all, what is life?

Davenport tomorrow ...
all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills
whispered wonders of long-ago.

by Michael R. Burch

Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.

Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and―spent of flame―
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.

You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies―
imprisonment your sense denies.

You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None―winsome, bright or rare―
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.

But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew―
each moonless night the nettles grew

and strangled hope, where love dies too.

Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times

Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times

Are You the Thief
by Michael R. Burch

When I touch you now,
O sweet lover,
full of fire,
melting like ice
in my embrace,

when I part the delicate white lace,
baring pale flesh,
and your face
is so close
that I breathe your breath
and your hair surrounds me like a wreath...

tell me now,
O sweet, sweet lover,
in good faith:
are you the thief
who has stolen my heart?

Originally published as “Baring Pale Flesh” by Poetic License/Monumental Moments

At Tintagel
by Michael R. Burch

That night,
at Tintagel,
there was darkness such as man had never seen...
darkness and treachery,
and the unholy thundering of the sea...

In his arms,
who is to say how much she knew?
And if he whispered her name...
could she tell above the howling wind and rain?

Could she tell, or did she care,
by the length of his hair
or the heat of his flesh,...
that her faceless companion
was Uther, the dragon,

and Gorlois lay dead?

Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then subsequently by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times

Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.

To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.

At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch

Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:

Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels' tales.

They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.

They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.

Originally published by Celtic Twilight, then by Celtic Lifestyles and Auldwicce

Morgause's Song
by Michael R. Burch

Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.

I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.

Why him? Why him?
The years grow dim.
Now it's harder and harder to say...

Perhaps girls and boys
are the god's toys
when the skies are gray.

Originally published by Celtic Twilight as "The First Time"

Pellinore's Fancy
by Michael R. Burch

What do you do when your wife is a nag
and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag?
When the land is at peace, but at home you have none,
Is that, perchance, when... the Questing Beasts run?

The Last Enchantment
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend,
how time has thinned your ragged mane
and pinched your features; still you seem
though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged.

Your sword hand is, as ever, ready,
although the time for swords has passed.
Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady
meeting mine... you must not ask.

The time is not, nor ever shall be.
Merlyn's words were only words;
and now his last enchantment wanes,
and we must put aside our swords...

Northern Flight: Lancelot's Last Love Letter to Guinevere
by Michael R. Burch

"Get thee to a nunnery..."

Now that the days have lengthened, I assume
the shadows also lengthen where you pause
to watch the sun and comprehend its laws,
or just to shiver in the deepening gloom.

But nothing in your antiquarian eyes
nor anything beyond your failing vision
repeals the night. Religion's circumcision
has left us worlds apart, but who's more wise?

I think I know you better now than then—
and love you all the more, because you are
... so distant. I can love you from afar,
forgiving your flight north, far from brute men,
because your fear's well-founded: God, forbid,
was bound to fail you here, as mortals did.

Originally published by Rotary Dial

by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

by Michael R. Burch

We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur's hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, quite possibly the son of Wayland Smith. The legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan...

Artur took Cabal, his hound,
and Carwennan, his knife,
    and his sword forged by Wayland
    and Merlyn, his falcon,
and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,
he strode to the Table Rounde.

"Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,
and here is Wygar that I wear,
    and ready for war,
    an oath I foreswore
to fight for all that is righteous and fair
from Wales to the towers of Gilead."

But none could be found to contest him,
for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,
so he hastened back home, for to rest him,
till his wife bade him, "Thatch up the roof! "

Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Celtic Twilight

by Michael R. Burch

What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term "banshee") and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts.

In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;

when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;

when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven

we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil's

if nevermore again.

Originally published by Penny Dreadful

The Pictish Faeries
by Michael R. Burch

Smaller and darker
than their closest kin,
the faeries learned only too well
never to dwell
close to the villages of larger men.

Only to dance in the starlight
when the moon was full
and men were afraid.
Only to worship in the farthest glade,
ever heeding the raven and the gull.

The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch

The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
and the past and the future
have appeared, as though a vapor,
mingling with the here and now.

And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
to tell me that the gods, unsung,
will not last long
when the druids' harps grow dumb.

Merlyn, on His Birth
by Michael R. Burch

Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin was an albino, which might have led to claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name ("Artos" or "Artur") means "bear." Morydd is another possible ancestor of Merlin's. In Welsh names "dd" is pronounced "th."

I was born in Gwynedd,
or not born, as some men claim,
and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin
gave me my name.

My father was Madog Morfeyn
but our eyes were never the same,
nor our skin, nor our hair;
for his were dark, dark
—as our people's are—
and mine were fairer than fair.

The night of my birth, the Zephyr
carved of white stone a rune;
and the ringed stars of Ursa Major
outshone the cool pale moon;
and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer
saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky,
a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes
when falcons never fly.

Merlyn's First Prophecy
by Michael R. Burch

Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden,
but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in.

Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son,
recently shed, would ever hold the foundation.

"There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father;
his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower."

So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon,
and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden.

"To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears."
Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn's jeers.

"Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool.
At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool! "

When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red,
and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said:

"Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed."
Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed.

Published by Celtic Twilight

It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch

This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur's fame (and hyperbole)grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.

"It is not the sword,
but the man, "
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the "lightning-shard."

"It is not the sword,
but the words men follow."
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.

But none could budge it from the stone.

"It is not the sword
or the strength, "
said Merlyn,
"that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word."

"It is NOT the sword! "
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,

and so became their king.

Uther's Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch

When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
"Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age."

All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
"Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb."

Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
"Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done."

Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
"Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.

And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be."
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.

Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector's court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere)might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or "lost" homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. ("Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too! ")Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as "small tales, " little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend most of their free time drinking and puking...

When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
till thems wasn't so shore which'un's tails wus true.

And these have been passed down to me, and to you.

The Song of Amergin
by Michael R. Burch

Amergin is, in the words of Morgan Llywelyn, "the oldest known western European poet." Robert Graves said: "English poetic education should, really, begin not with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Amergin was one of the Milesians, or sons of Mil: Gaels who invaded Ireland and defeated the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, thereby establishing a Celtic beachhead, not only on the shores of the Emerald Isle, but also in the annals of Time and Poetry.

He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs...

and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears,

while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
... and Time here also spumes, careers...

while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.

by Michael R. Burch

Here where the wind imbues life within stone,
I once stood
and watched as the tempest made monuments groan
as though blood
boiled within them.

Here where the Druids stood charting the stars
I can tell
they longed for the heavens... perhaps because
boiled beneath them?

The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

"I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves of 30, 000 Irish men, women and children, and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese...

There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.

These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!

At Cædmon's Grave
by Michael R. Burch

"Cædmon's Hymn, " composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon's ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.

Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.

Originally published by The Lyric

faith(less), a coronavirus poem
by Michael R. Burch

Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed

and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.

Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch

from “Songs of the Antinatalist”

I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.

Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-******.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-******,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-******,
we first proved we had lives of our own).

Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch

He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.

by Michael R. Burch

Now I am here
and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren.
I am withering
and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.

Go, if you will,
for the ache in my heart is its hollowness
and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness;
there is nothing to fill.

Take what you can;
I have nothing left.
And when you are gone, I will be bereft,
the husk of a man.

Or stay here awhile.
My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams.
Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems
when you smile.

Published by Romantics Quarterly

Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch

Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?

This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 14-15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again.

by Michael R. Burch

She has become as the night—listening
for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening,
reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling,
lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening.

She has become as the lights—flickering
in the distance—till memories old and troubling
rise up again and demand remembering ...
like peasants rebelling against a mad king.

Originally published by The Chained Muse

by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;

there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette

to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.

A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us―the first great success they achieve.

Sappho's Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call,
while the pale calla lilies lie
glistening . . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.

Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.

Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.

NOTE: The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies.

The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch

We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to *****.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.

by Michael R. Burch

Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ...
we stand in the doorway and watch as they go—
each stranger, each acquaintance, each unembraceable lover.

They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go,
though we know their forced laughter’s the wine ...
then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows
endlessly on toward Zion ...

and they kiss one another as though they were friends,
and they promise to meet again “soon” ...
but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end,
and the mockingbird calls to the moon ...

and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines,
and the crickets chirp on out of tune ...
and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight,
seem spirits torn loose from their tombs.

And I know their brief lives are just eddies in time,
that their hearts are unreadable runes
to be wiped clean, like slate, by the Eraser, Fate,
when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ...

You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss
as though it were something you loved,
and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light
of the stars winking sagely above ...

Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside;
if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while."
And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie
and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile.

I vividly remember writing this poem after an office party the year I co-oped with AT&T (at that time the largest company in the world, with presumably a lot of office parties). This would have been after my sophomore year in college, making me around 20 years old. The poem is “true” except that I was not the host because the party was at the house of one of the upper-level managers. Nor was I dating anyone seriously at the time. Keywords/Tags: premonition, office, party, parting, eve, evening, stranger, strangers, wine, laughter, moon, shadows

by Michael R. Burch

for the victims and survivors of 9/11 and their families

In truth, we do not feel the horror
of the survivors,
but what passes for horror:

a shiver of “empathy.”

We too are “survivors,”
if to survive is to snap back
from the sight of death

like a turtle retracting its neck.

Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who
was born on September 11, 2001 and who
died at age nine, shot to death ...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring ― I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the evil things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bring them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,

adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,

Day, and Night
by Michael R. Burch

The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters;
her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms.
And we who rise each day to grind a living,
dream each scented night of such perfumes
as drew us to the window, to the moonlight,
when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue―
an eerie vase of achromatic flowers
bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue.

The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise―
adagio, the music she now hears;
and we who in the sunlight slave for succor,
dreaming, seek communion with the spheres.
And all around the night is in crescendo,
and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form,
and here we hear the sweet incriminations
of lovers we had once to keep us warm.

And also here we find, like bled carnations,
red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies,
that touched us once with fierce incantations
and taught us love was prettier than wise.

To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
translation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.

Komm, Du ("Come, You")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This was Rilke’s last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive.

Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return—
incurable pain searing this physical mesh.
As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn
with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh.

This wood that long resisted your embrace
now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury
as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage—
uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré.

Completely free, no longer future’s pawn,
I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain,
certain I’d never return—my heart’s reserves gone—
to become death’s nameless victim, purged by flame.

Now all I ever was must be denied.
I left my memories of my past elsewhere.
That life—my former life—remains outside.
Inside, I’m lost. Nobody knows me here.

This is my translation of the first of Rilke’s Duino Elegies. Rilke began the first Duino Elegy in 1912, as a guest of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis, at Duino Castle, near Trieste on the Adriatic Sea.

First Elegy
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Who, if I objected, would hear me among the angelic orders?
For if the least One pressed me intimately against its breast,
I would be lost in its infinite Immensity!
Because beauty, which we mortals can barely endure, is the beginning of terror;
we stand awed when it benignly declines to annihilate us.
Every Angel is terrifying!

And so I restrain myself, swallowing the sound of my pitiful sobbing.
For whom may we turn to, in our desire?
Not to Angels, nor to men, and already the sentient animals are aware
that we are all aliens in this metaphorical existence.
Perhaps some tree still stands on a hillside, which we can study with our ordinary vision.
Perhaps the commonplace street still remains amid man’s fealty to materiality—
the concrete items that never destabilize.
Oh, and of course there is the night: her dark currents caress our faces ...

But whom, then, do we live for?
That longed-for but mildly disappointing presence the lonely heart so desperately desires?
Is life any less difficult for lovers?
They only use each other to avoid their appointed fates!
How can you fail to comprehend?
Fling your arms’ emptiness into this space we occupy and inhale:
may birds fill the expanded air with more intimate flying!

Yes, the springtime still requires you.
Perpetually a star waits for you to recognize it.
A wave recedes toward you from the distant past,
or as you walk beneath an open window, a violin yields virginally to your ears.
All this was preordained. But how can you incorporate it? ...
Weren't you always distracted by expectations, as if every event presaged some new beloved?
(Where can you harbor, when all these enormous strange thoughts surging within you keep
you up all night, restlessly rising and falling?)

When you are full of yearning, sing of loving women, because their passions are finite;
sing of forsaken women (and how you almost envy them)
because they could love you more purely than the ones you left gratified.

Resume the unattainable exaltation; remember: the hero survives;
even his demise was merely a stepping stone toward his latest rebirth.

But spent and exhausted Nature withdraws lovers back into herself,
as if lacking the energy to recreate them.
Have you remembered Gaspara Stampa with sufficient focus—
how any abandoned girl might be inspired by her fierce example
and might ask herself, "How can I be like her?"

Shouldn't these ancient sufferings become fruitful for us?

Shouldn’t we free ourselves from the beloved,
quivering, as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension,
so that in the snap of release it soars beyond itself?
For there is nowhere else where we can remain.

Voices! Voices!

Listen, heart, as levitating saints once listened,
until the elevating call soared them heavenward;
and yet they continued kneeling, unaware, so complete was their concentration.

Not that you could endure God's voice—far from it!

But heed the wind’s voice and the ceaseless formless message of silence:
It murmurs now of the martyred young.

Whenever you attended a church in Naples or Rome,
didn't they come quietly to address you?
And didn’t an exalted inscription impress its mission upon you
recently, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa?
What they require of me is that I gently remove any appearance of injustice—
which at times slightly hinders their souls from advancing.

Of course, it is endlessly strange to no longer inhabit the earth;
to relinquish customs one barely had the time to acquire;
not to see in roses and other tokens a hopeful human future;
no longer to be oneself, cradled in infinitely caring hands;
to set aside even one's own name,
forgotten as easily as a child’s broken plaything.

How strange to no longer desire one's desires!
How strange to see meanings no longer cohere, drifting off into space.
Dying is difficult and requires retrieval before one can gradually decipher eternity.

The living all err in believing the too-sharp distinctions they create themselves.

Angels (men say) don't know whether they move among the living or the dead.
The eternal current merges all ages in its maelstrom
until the voices of both realms are drowned out in its thunderous roar.

In the end, the early-departed no longer need us:
they are weaned gently from earth's agonies and ecstasies,
as children outgrow their mothers’ *******.

But we, who need such immense mysteries,
and for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's progress—
how can we exist without them?

Is the legend of the lament for Linos meaningless—
the daring first notes of the song pierce our apathy;
then, in the interlude, when the youth, lovely as a god, has suddenly departed forever,
we experience the emptiness of the Void for the first time—
that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and aids us?

Keywords/Tags: Rilke, elegy, elegies, angels, beauty, terror, terrifying, desire, vision, reality, heart, love, lovers, beloved, rose, saints, spirits, souls, ghosts, voices, torso, Apollo, Rodin, panther, autumn, beggar

Published as the collection "Leave Taking"

— The End —