"contributor" poems
Sometimes he was like f+ck it
just went ahead and stuck em
let em fall where they stood
crack another bottle and brood
hysterically on the ridiculous
he had a meticulous knack for belittling the serious, berating feelings and imposing his will in a furious fashion. He liked knives and passion, and will cash in on your lashings. A vigilante, stealing antes to match the chips. The missing teeth of split lipped grinns bidding his amends to the dense. sent to cleanse, the fences on the perimeter. a distributor of disasters.
contributor to the laughter in the stoical spleens of nerdy teens, always cheering for the away team.
He was the benefactor of traction-less tractors rotting in the mud. He was a slacker, smothering the world in love. He was above all else, on drugs.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink
...
I remember when we were in sync
But things changed
We will act strange over change
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish
Are we hopeless?
Why can we polish our pinky rings
But leave rust on our linkage chains?
Our words don't bond anymore
Our words are shackles
Our words are like crooked spurs
And unbalanced saddles
Yeah It travels
But lies are to be told
Only to smear what we really withhold
I think that we're going extinct
I hate to blink
As my eye lids flicker
More and more existence spills from our mankind
Man-kind
We're turning into the kind of men
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities
Where's our rectitude?
I think we're going extinct
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch
More and more she accepts the word *****
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips
Where's our morality?
Are we going to expire
All because we create our entire empire with desires?
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt
We smile and we smirk
We loath from good work
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve
We absorb potion
Only to tranquil our motion
We indulge in copulation
With a stranger
But somehow for consolation
...
We are endangered
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation
Eradication
Liquidation
Obliteration
Cancellation
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient
We will need medication
I don't feel any radiation
To not become subject to our decimation
I think we're going extinct
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation
We are approaching ruination
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation
And if I blink one more time
And if we keep wasting time
We'll be wastage
We
You and I
We'll be ejected from the race
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement
Can we come together with cooperation
Resisting this operation
May we all stand up
Before they go through with this amputation !
Blink
Lets see
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
I've been told I'm cynical
by a hippie with dreadlocks.
No, I don't want to try molly with you.
I've been told that cuddling is better in the cold
by a boy with an enviable smile, wearing a striped sweater.
Let's make a book of comfortable sleeping positions for couples.
With the bed as the office, and the sheets for a desk.
I've been told that I'm too old for hugs
by the contributor of half my genes.
I love you too.
People tell me things
and usually I don't listen.
But sometimes I do.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
The master craftsman ,
Of this spectacular dusk,
Leaves no signature!
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
familial fractal
mitochondrial pieces of self-similarity
irregular patterns of DNA
each piece clearly resembling the whole
mirroring mirrors
an illness in the matriarchy
reflecting on each member
rippling and radiating
in family circular airwaves
time disrupted
suspended in hope
souls standing still
so quiet you can hear a heartbeat
thoughts, prayers and well wishes
pouring out to fill in the gaps
of uncertainty
pillars of strength in my weakness
as I drown myself in caloric comfort
I’m not too good with life and death
haven’t had much practice
we’ve been lucky
energy’s vibrations
the universe’s common thread
everything is part of everything
each person a contributor to the whole of society
each person contributing to the soul of the individual
psychologically, spiritually, physiologically
we affect each other in ways
not immediately apparent
truly, everyone is part of everyone
connected in oneness
your outpouring of kindness reminds me of that
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 12:29 PM UTC
As I redirect myself to a ebon place
A place where I can balance myself
Cuddle in the arms of silence so I can hear what needs to be said to bring me back to my normal equilibrium
Muddle each thought as they pass through my brain
Put them in a zip drive folder
Nice and neat
No slumps or goosebumps
Smooth surface
Cuz we all one day need to find a purpose
No more flapping in the wind
A contributor to society
Making people feel some variety about you
Jus like a variety pack of chocolate
You amaze them every time they pull something out of the bag
Cuz maybe you will drag some confidence within you
So sometimes you gotta redirect yourself to a ebon place
A place where you can balance yourself
Bring your emotion back to equality
Quality in your actions
We all lose our balance sometimes
You it's okay
Even the best of them went astray
I'll continue to go to my ebon place
Even tho it's dark here cuz that means there is room for some light to come in
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Hob nailed clogs and leather boots are what gives this man his homely roots
I puts them under me bed at night and in the morning I choose which pair is right and that depends on my mood.
Food is also a big contributor, I'd go a mile for hot *** or a pound of tripe and gripe if they were not up to scratch.
No, thee cannot match what we lads have and what we calls our own,born and raised we've grown in God own Land and if not God then someone even greater had a hand in this.
Lancashire the golden shire,not that them Yorkshiremen would agree with that sentiment but if God or whoever it was meant for that lot on t'other side o' pennines to be an agreeable sort,
he or she would never have invented such a sport as
cricket.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Your contradictions lead me to think,
That I'm the only contributor plugging the sink.
It's overflowing, something's stuck,
I peer down the drain, it's filled with muck.
What you don't understand is I'm not the whole cause,
You're not either, but we both carry flaws.
I like to watch the water drip down the drain,
So I don't have to go out and get wet from the rain.
You like the thought of where it goes,
As you hear the sweet symphony the drops compose.
But these faults alone don't hold the drops hostile,
It's a compilation of things that put them in exile.
Please don't blame just you or me,
One day it'll clear and the drops will drip free.
But until then, we have to stay sane,
As we listen to the water drip down the plugged drain.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
I am a contributor to a new Anthology called Out of the Depths: Poetry of Poverty, Courage and Resilience, which will be published on April 15th. You can find it on Amazon.
Alas, in my little bio it says I died in 2013.
What a surprise! I guess I died for Art.
Am I dead or aren’t I. Being dead would have benefits: cheap, no need for healthcare, food, housing, clothing or transportation. No taxes either.
But I think it might be too dull. Even at 63 I enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I think I’ll just hang around here and pretend to be alive.
~mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
contributor money will buy
a favourable outcome
this is the most favoured
beat of drum
drumming up money
in mountainous piles
brings favour's ideal
winning smiles
if favourable outcomes
are what you so seek
stack the wads of money
in heaps not so meek
drumming favours
favourably
drumming favours
liberally
the vendor of said
drum beat
will ensure favour's
so neat
to achieve this goodly
outcome
keep beating money's
opulent drum
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
It's hard to resist the urge to exercise arrogance when your self esteem hangs in the balance.
By the end of this month, I will have made 733 dollars, meaning I will have to borrow another 400 to pay for this month's student loan payment and keep my credit card from going over the max again.
My room mates covered my share of the rent this month until I could pay them back yesterday because I only work 20 hours a week.
On paper I am a tax on the community I am a part of. Not a contributor.
As far as I can see, the only thing I have of value these days are my words; so please forgive me if I over sell my ability to use them. In comparison to the rest of the world, the significance of my piece is very little.
Relative to me, however, my piece is my world.
And I am not alone in this mentality.
__
I am a poet.
And I really need you to know it.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.
A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.
Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.
I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.
The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.
To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.
Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.
To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.
Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.
I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
The man, Eubie Blake
Jazz Pianist and Composer filling the slate
Music having its own blend
Gifted talent because my Uncle Eubie can
Eubie Blake being my Great Uncle
Have listened to him play those ivory cords
Oh my Lord
Uncle Eubie played Jazz with direction in mine
The direction was rhythm in Jazz emotion
It didn’t matter if it was waters deep like an ocean
The Charleston blend being a thought in a notion
Step up but step back
My Uncle Eubie could play with the golden fingers
Every note being a creation
The rhythm is the formation
My Great Uncle is in the Smithsonian African Museum and Culture in Washington, DC
He was once a student at New York University
My Great Uncle’s Parent were once slaves and perished over the years
But Uncle Eubie was inspired in his own right to preserver
He was from Baltimore, Maryland
It’s music note after note as my Great Uncle made that music simply float
Uncle Eubie’s dignity met honor
The ivory keys of the piano that I will never forget
In fact, the piano keys and I have met
I was taught professionally on the Piano by two musicians, a Female Opera Singer and a Male Concert Pianist
But before that, I was concentrating on the *****
My Uncle Eubie was the influence and inspiration
It doesn’t matter what music as it is about culture and appreciation
Play that again Uncle Eubie
Legacy being the remembrance all the way
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 7:33 PM UTC
In the very same emotion that's broken my heart.
I have found smile in the replacement of grief.
Of all things pretty.
Your smile is still one that heals all pain.
As the moment currently stands.
To fully understand your opinion.
For the moment I am open & free.
Perhaps more than I have ever been.
Your smile being saving grace.
The wind against my face in a moment of stillness.
In the very same emotion. Your smile the most beautiful scar I'd ever remember.
Not at all ugly or painful reminder.
But a time I forgave.
Her smile the biggest contributor
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
His name was unknown
A historical artifact lost throughout time
His face was a mystery
For it was an encrypted file locked behind a titanium mask
His voice...if he had one
It was silenced cricket,
Whose purpose in life just seemed to be no more
This is the story of a teen, who became known as silver
Legends have spoke of untold tales that prove he wasn't always like this
That he was once a very passionate and outgoing being
That he believed the world wasn't just a waiting room for the afterlife
That the afterlife even existed to begin with
These tales told stories of him not crying tears of blood
In fact before no one knew what a tear looked like coming from his eyes
Now they can't remember a time he actually smiled
One tale blamed his sudden transformation on the death of his grandpa
Apparently he loved this man with all his heart
Grandpa was the only man who acted as a father figure to silver
When grandpa killed himself almost seven years ago
It was then silver began to crumble
He became weak, scared, terrified of what might happen next
After a while the silver everyone knew vanished from the naked eye
Another tale told of an event that occurred prior to his grandpa's death
An event that actually occurred throughout a single week
In this week silver was now homeless, his mother was jobless, and soon the car just gave in as well
Though then he did not cry,there was a certain look in his eyes that spoke depression
As if life to him was now pointless with him believing he was undeserving of this misery
Life and death were now the same to him
They both meant death and he was walking the path
There was one other tale that was said to be a major contributor to silver's pain
This is one being coming from within his own vessel
It was said that because silver was such a caring person he viewed the world's problems and became depressed because he couldn't do anything about them
It was said that it was just too much for him to handle
So he would secretly cut himself attempting to find a solution
Even after committing this taboo an answer never showed its rundown beaten face
So silver made a solution and that was to become emotionless
There are many other untold tales that lurnk in the shadows
Many in which will remain there for all eternity
But maybe if they all found the light the old silver
His name...
His face
His voice...
Maybe just maybe they would return
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
for you,
what do you see me as?
An asset to your company?
A deduction in your budget?
A contributor for your project?
Another player for your games?
A slave to do you errands?
A passerby on the corridors?
A giant pebble on your street?
A cute girl watching you from afar?
An actor for your plays?
An entry for your archives?
A fan out of your countless ones?
A calculator for your computations?
Bottomline of this list:
I don't even exist.
We've never even met.
It must be someone else.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC
is there a way to block having to see someone use this site as a personal blog???? I really want to read and share with people who are trying to explore their feelings and thoughts and laughs and tears and joys and losses by exploring all those things thru words their hearts and souls and minds pour into poetry...not be deluged by someone's constant brain farts. It is a place to share poetry, not a diary or a blog. So if anyone knows how to block an individual contributor, I would love to now how as well....
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
True hacks and phonies all around, speaking through their ivory horns of pure disgust and wallowing in incompetence, ******* and kissing and mishandling their newborn children which they name in propriety and for the pearls of God that allow them to **** and **** well. I will blast them all to the deepest of hell for there they belong with me and they will be outrightly ****** by the sojourning sheiks that give their sufferers a razor-tipped ******** that they know they deserve. Where is your relatable, so enjoyable, three or four piece family TV meal that you so deeply craved after a long day at work? It is gone gone gone and now you are subject to your deepest incongruities with yourself, how dare you be such a bother and how dare you believe in your ability to inspire. If you are not feeling this frustration of never ceaselessly being able to grasp at the story that lies within the easel of the juices of your soul, then you are not- and never will be- worth anything more than some broken throbbing piece of genitalia that seethes and suckles at the broken fallacies of pure love and distraught youth. You do not know and you will never know, and if you dare you will never truly make progress for you are a vacuous, insufferable, erratic dame that is not a good piece of skin so much as you are the perfect tool for everyone: a loudspeaker stripped naked and bare for all the world to **** a true contributor, unlike your deepest and most esteemed of peers. Aww, how does that feel? How does it feel to finally implode from your own vicarious and hollow attempts at wisdom and knowledge? What’s left to be learned has been learned, don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Don’t you think it’s time to stop digging your ***** ***** nails into that rusted cloud of old hope and forgiveness? Everyone has left, and that is what we must deal with. You must be some mongrel to sit down like an unrepentant dog. Cross-legged and all.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
My major contribution
Toward my life
Will be that I didn't end my life.
Everything else will be Gravy.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
I oft feel an angry kind of love
like that of a tender tempest.
I guess it's best described as
that moment before you start
to cry
when your tears swell
and press against your eyes
waiting
to let out their fiery fear.
Insecurities are, by and large,
the number one contributor
to this ******* feeling.
I could be talking to you
and you could be talking to me
expressing all manners of affection
and, sure, I'd take it.
But the little ******
in the background
will warn me of ulterior motives,
malignant and baleful
that will seriously **** with me
and keep me thinking
whether its true?
I hope its all a load of
********
absolute ******* ********
and when you do say
"I love you",
I'll say it too.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
Four by four walls.
Limited space.
Especially when you sharing with a cell mate.
Crying, griping, complaining.
Serving time.
For your personally committed crime.
Saying you being mistreated, as if, you're a model citizen.
When you a contributor to the problem you're facing.
Respect is gained.
When suspect is given.
Can't demand it.
It won't come.
But the biggest lesson to learn is not to become a prisoner.
But if you constantly going back.
You made another stupid choice to live around this mess.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
Overwhelmed by your
enormous response,
with thudding heart
and sense that once
again I've been
awarded
a demonstration
that virtue brings
more than its own reward,
please take my hand
in gratitude
for so much passion stored
and shared.
That is not a poem, just a piece of prose that I've written in poetic form as an introduction to an announcement that the next issue of my quarterly online magazine New Nurturing Potential (publication date end of December) is being prepared.
The Autumn issue, published in September 2014, included a poem from Hello Poetry contributor Amy Bells, which she kindly allowed me to publish therein. I intend to publish more Hello Poetry writers in the next issue and will in due course ask some of you for permission to include your work. Maybe, just two or three.
Meantime, if you wish to see the last issue (and archives!) you will find it at http://www.nurturingpotential.net/New-NP07.htm. I'm happy to accept also any prose articles you would like to contribute.
Thank you again for your validation of my efforts.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC