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L M C Jan 2015
hedonic adaptation
living, breathing an
idealized state

transparent powers
an aesthete with an
affinity for anarchy

shamelessly insinuating
fatal errors in identification
extraterrestrial *******
at the core of our unity
probing at a molecular level
damning the will to connect

a creative protest against
the artificial
daydreams bleach
inferiority complexes
and insight breaks through

dark and damaging
sacrificial secrets
thrusting toward the deep end
forgoing progress through
flawed perception

the bright light shining through
your self inflicted wounds
cannot be ignored
SassyJ Mar 2016
My feet are so cold to lay on yours
Your hands busy chasing my curves
Paddled in cuddles, pebbles carved
Doodles dwindles all over my body

Tinkering hands as they reach a ******
Ripples twisting blossoming bosoms
Rage the sleeping animated power
Break your wings as the rod erects

Alas! The touch disappears in thin air
Feet warmed in the damning chamber
The perpendicular collapses in angle
Sailed to dally in uncensored snores
zhouli Aug 2013
Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.
But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after."
Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.
So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.
Michael Ryan Feb 2016
How can you not hate me
even if you don't know who I am
there is a chance that you should
since I am male and
we've been bred in a way
making people say "where the ****"
are my brother's decency.

Because when I speak to them
it's idolizing women
then damning those girls for
having the same ideas as my brothers--
they hurl insults
and call them compliments
telling girls to be objects
treating females as plastic
when they are humans made of blood.

She is not barbie
you do not get to change her clothes
and dress her down to
make yourself feel more like Ken--
her accessories and personality
are not defined by your hands
men can not force
themselves onto women
and tell them they dressed
as a ***-doll does.

I'll be ****** for your
lack of decency, people will treat me
as a "man", but in reality--
those are not men they are devils
trying to stay hidden in the dark
and one day feminism will bring equality
for humans, and then we'll have to
deal with the devils hiding
beneath our skin.
There is need for equality for everyone, and I mean true equality.  Not the pseudo equality most people are looking for.  Men and women are not evil, but some are corrupted by the system we have in place.  We need to revolutionize our ideals and come together.
Brandon Barnett Apr 2012
snowy skies dusk blue split in two by a sun and a moon
divided, I'm constantly chasing the light to the horizon line, looking for proof
to finally let go or to continue, hanging on, clinging onto
the thing I hold so dear, my small precious piece of you

my small precious piece so dear to me, the soft light from a warm flame I still stoke
my smallest, but cherished memento of perfect days
ephemeral but preserved, the time you were near to me before these sheets were cold
the candle lit rooms behind locked doors where our love met when even the walls would breathe hard and sweat
we were close like the edge of a day and the start of a night, close as threads stitched together tight
fingernails in backs like squeezing a first crush, eating up the deafening hush of saying nothing much
the coils of us two twisted up in ways lovers never forget, like a first touch meant
before the toils of dismemberment when even I could still remember what forever meant
but with every new sun and moon "ever" never arrives and tomorrow arises again too soon

I was trying to hang pictures of us, of kisses and smiles and of affection's glow
by tacking nails into the glass walls I built, I know
but before the "should've knowns", before I knew, there was pure, ethereal You
a truth in an innocence actually held true, unbroken and unabused, belief that two could be infused, that I still have to latch onto
so short those times, so dear, my precious small piece and so wasted the time since, without pursuit
trinkets of the mind but like treasures polished by going over them again and again with affection
thoughts never forgotten because they meant just the perfect connection, a protection not misused or askew
because of my love for my dear, small, precious, treasured piece of you

I want it back, I want you back, I want it back so badly more than I love or lust or envy
but it's damning every time I begin this again, it begins to be the ending of me
the dismantling of all sanity, the self fulfilling prophecy, the ending of an infinity
it comes running the haste of it, craving just a taste of it, moving backward through days never erasing it
never a hope for looking forward, no interest in a face in the crowd, no want for replacing it
too late or too soon split between a sun and a moon retracing it
yes
this endless chase the breadth of it stretches farther than me it's bigger than worlds and smaller than sands
wider than the sides of the dreamscapes inside of me and too small for grasping hands
it's smaller than subconscious whispers of confidence and bigger than screams of insecurities
it's deeper than black oceans, a void no light could fill
it's too small to keep, smaller than a second past by, and then smaller still
the size escapes me, unattainable it will always be painful in ways that deepen with age
now the chill of this winter is warmed only in how many blank white blankets I fill
writing it out to throw it away, feeling only that the next page is empty still
yes, yes
I feel so empty still and I do try to fill the silence between words and the lines between poems
and the loneliness between smiles on a face growing old
yes I feel so empty still because I know only you can give the missing feelings, gone missing for me
with the one thing I've kept unchanged inside of myself since it was inside of us two

my dear
small
precious
piece of you
Edgeless days are the hardest
to let pass you by
as you stare at all the pretty things
Just out of sight.

There sits, heavy in atmosphere,
On these days of no ends,
A timelessness
in the most tragic way.

All your toiling
begins to feel useless,
and errors make a mess of this.
Your anger - Instantly boiling

Futile barking.
Damning non-existent gods,,
And then a mocking laughing-
Since you are alone.

Because, of course,
You are alone,
Chained to the room
They're paying you to
|
When the crushing
Endlessness to your day
Could be so easily been remedied
with conversation or, some play

And now those gods
are laughing.
And you wish to be alone
                     From yourself.
Of long, hard days of work.
Sleepy Sigh Apr 2011
Oh, these women
In their heels and mini-skirts
With their painted youth dripping from their faces;

Oh, these fruits of the city,
These sumptuous, soft, plump, self-destroying
Women that need devouring -

God, can't you help them?
You made them this way,
Hung them in your garden
From Eve's forbidden tree,
Gave them sweet juice and lust to be consumed;
Only to plant the seeds of knowledge
In the dumb beast who eats them.

Oh these damning fruits of the city,
Who bring forth generations of saccharine poison
By nature of their trade,

Oh, these women
In their heels and skirts,
They were born to be condemned.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i used to be, what you might call husband material, and i stress that i used to be; i can count the number of girlfriends i had with one hand, no relationship lasting long enough to celebrate anniversaries.

i moved up in life, i'm still drinking
a £10.80 bottle of scot club whiskey,
but the mixer has been upgraded from
a £0.17 bottle of coca cola to a £0.55
bottle... and noticeable differences,
waking up with a hangover i used to
drink up the leftover mixer in the afternoon
(obviously the mix to get rid of insomnia
is really effective - naproxen is a more
effective version of paracetamol;
and in relation to the poem
*rock bottom england
, everyone's
abusing antibiotics these days,
people are making viruses cleverer,
all this darwinism against theology
has made us teach darwinism to viruses,
one cough, one sneeze and you're dead),
so yeah, conjunction usage like a comedian
on a stage, you never know what you're
going to say next, a bit like an r.e.m.
gimmick salute to nirvana, about
how many times you can say yeah in a song
(man on the moon, smells like teen spirit,
indeed i'm in that age bracket if you're asking,
i know more about steve tyler than swift tailor),
anyway... what was i saying?
oh yeah, the £0.17 bottle of coca cola is
over-fizzy, they jazzed things up with excess gas,
too much carbon dioxide,
it's too acidic,
i know because yesterday i bought
a bottle of pepsi, drank it today
and i didn't get heartburn... well, serves you
right for buying the cheap **** i thought,
so i upgraded to the £0.55 bottle
and guess what... no excess fizz!
but that's how it goes, the best albums
to listen to when walking in english suburbia
are burial's untrue album,
very experimental dub-step that's not really
about dabbling in a pigeon or chicken strut,
i.e. no "drop" that's a signature of drum & bass...
and susumu yokota's grinning cat,
both albums work perfectly with the illumination
on suburban streets of essex
(oh look, urbanity - consciousness -
suburbia - subconsciousness -
the countryside - the unconscious);
so the talk in the supermarket was
a guy stacking freezer products damning it
all with, quote: 'money is the vilest of evils
of this world',
true that i said out-loud walking back to
the automated cashiers with another £1.50
bottle of amstel beer...
england was playing the Netherlands
and was winning one nil,
a bad joke about the flatlands
and how the dutch were good when
johan cruyff played, getting to the final
in 1974 losing to west germany,
and how the germans cheated playing
in unplayable circumstances with poland
in a bog rather than a pitch, the rain man,
the swift polish players were no match
on a dry pitch, with the german heavy cavalry;
so then on the walk i peer into this one house,
a massive blue aquarium in it,
Poseidon's wallet... and i thought...
was i rich enough to own a house,
or if i were to be like a moralising Confucius,
teacher of humanity, i'd replace all
modern fireplaces that televisions are,
and install aquariums in every household.
Michael R Burch Oct 2020
Villanelle: The Divide
by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied―
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide...
but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing―forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.

The sea was not salt the first tide...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.

"The Divide" is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.



Villanelle: 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.

"Ordinary Love" was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB



Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.



Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.

Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.

Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.

Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!



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).



Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch

The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.

It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.

It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.

Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,

just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.

Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.



Villanelle Sequence: Clandestine But Gentle
by Michael R. Burch

Variations on the villanelle. A play in four acts. The heroine wears a trench coat and her every action drips nonchalance. The “hero” is pallid, nerdish and nervous. But more than anything, he is palpably desperate with longing. Props are optional, but a streetlamp, a glowing cigarette and lots of eerie shadows should suffice.

I.

Clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she eavesdropped on morose codes of my heart.
She was the secret agent of delight.

The blue spurt of her match, our signal light,
announced her presence in the shadowed court:
clandestine but gentle, cloaked in night.

Her cigarette was waved, a casual sleight,
to bid me “Come!” or tell me to depart.
She was the secret agent of delight,

like Ingrid Bergman in a trench coat, white
as death, and yet more fair and pale (but short
with me, whenever I grew wan with fright!).

II.

Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night,
she was the secret agent of delight;
she coaxed the tumblers in some cryptic rite

to make me spill my spirit.
Lovely ****!
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night

―she waited till my tongue, untied, sang bright
but damning strange confessions in the dark...

III.

She was the secret agent of delight;
so I became her paramour. Tonight
I await her in my exile, worlds apart...

IV.

For clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she is the secret agent of delight.



Villanelle: Hang Together, or Separately
by Michael R. Burch

“The first shall be last, and the last first.”

Be careful whom you don’t befriend
When hyenas mark their prey:
The odds will get even in the end.

Some “deplorables” may yet ascend
And since all dogs must have their day,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

When pallid elitists condescend
What does the Good Book say?
The odds will get even in the end.

Since the LORD advised us to attend
To each other along the way,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

But He was deserted. Friends, comprehend!
Though revilers mock and flay,
The odds will get even in the end.

Now infidels have loot to spend:
As ****** as Judas’s that day.
Be careful whom you don’t befriend:
The odds will get even in the end.

NOTE: This poem portrays a certain worldview. The poet does not share it and suspects from reading the gospels that the “real” Jesus would have sided with the infidel refugees, not Trump and his ilk.



Villanelle: The Sad Refrain
by Michael R. Burch

O, let us not repeat the sad refrain
that Christ is cruel because some innocent dies.
No, pain is good, for character comes from pain!

There’d be no growth without the hammering rain
that tests each petal’s worth. Omnipotent skies
peal, “Let us not repeat the sad refrain,

but separate burnt chaff from bountiful grain.
According to God’s plan, the weakling dies
and pain is good, for character comes from pain!

A God who’s perfect cannot bear the blame
of flawed creations, just because one dies!
So let us not repeat the sad refrain

or think to shame or stain His awesome name!
Let lightning strike the devious source of lies
that pain is bad, for character comes from pain!
Oh, let us not repeat the sad refrain!



Villanelles by Michael R. Burch

The modern formal villanelle is a poetic form with a double refrain, although in early incarnations it was simply a pastoral poem with a refrain. The villanelle is related other poetic forms with refrains, such as the rondel, the roundel and the rondeau.



Villanelle: The Divide
by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied―
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide...
but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing―forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.

The sea was not salt the first tide...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.


'The Divide' is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.



Villanelle: 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.

'Ordinary Love' was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB



Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: 'Never Forget, '
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: 'Never Forget, '
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: 'NEVER FORGET, '
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: 'NEVER FORGET'
because her heart is tender with regret.



Villanelle: Because Her Heart is Tender (II)    
by Michael R. Burch

Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.

Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.

Because her heart is tender
Jacob's Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.

Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!



Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch

a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.

Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.

And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.

That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.

And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.

No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering not to call.




Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I'm not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I'm not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil's my fave
because he has led me to you!
I'm not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I'm not looking for someone to save:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.



Villanelle: An Ode to the Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch

This is how the Universe works:
The rich must have their perks.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Did T-Rexes have souls?
The poor must live on doles.
This is how the Universe works.

The rich must have their dirks
to poke serfs full of holes.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

The despot laughs and lurks
while the Tyger slaughters foals.
This is how the Universe works.

What are the despots' goals?
The poor must mind, not shirk.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Trump and Putin praise the kirks
while the cowed mind ancient scrolls.
This is how the Universe works.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.



Ars Brevis
by Michael R. Burch

Better not to live, than live too long:
this is my theme, my purpose and desire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

My will to live was never all that strong.
Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!
Better not to live, than live too long.

Granny ******* or a flosslike thong?
The latter rock, the former feed the fire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,
since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.
Better not to live, than live too long.

A long recital gets a sudden gong.
Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

A wee bikini or a long sarong?
French Riviera or some dull old Shire?
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.



The vanilla-nelle
by Michael R. Burch

The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
In a chocolate world where purity is slight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

As sure as night is day and day is night,
And walruses write songs, such is my plight:
The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright
because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright
And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.”
Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I strive to seem aloof and recondite
while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte”
But every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.”
I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite!
For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!
I may have accidentally invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”



Why I Left the Right
by Michael R. Burch

I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages.

I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long:
I’m not one to march to a klanging gong.
“Right is wrong” became my song.

I’m not one to march to a klanging gong
with parrots all singing the same strange song.
I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long.

These parrots all singing the same strange song
with no discernment at all between right and wrong?
“Right is wrong” became my song.

With no discernment between right and wrong,
the **** marched on in a white-robed throng.
I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long.

The **** marched on in a white-robed throng,
enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs.
“Right is wrong” became my song.

Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs
and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs.
I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long.
“Right is wrong” became my song.



What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
by Michael R. Burch

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
Has prose become its height and depth and sum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum,
with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of ***,
write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum?
Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

How did a feast become this measly crumb,
such noble princess end up in a slum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum
and tell me if some Muse might spank my ***
for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?



Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.

Forget the ****** Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.



Rondels, Roundels and Rondeaux are poetic forms with refrains that are related to the Villanelle.



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



If
by Michael R. Burch

If I regret
fire in the sunset
exploding on the horizon,
then let me regret loving you.

If I forget
even for a moment
that you are the only one,
then let me forget that the sky is blue.

If I should yearn
in a season of discontentment
for the vagabond light of a companionless moon,
let dawn remind me that you are my sun.

If I should burn―one moment less brightly,
one instant less true―
then with wild scorching kisses,
inflame me, inflame me, inflame me anew.



Recursion
by Michael R. Burch

In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.

For I saw their sons essaying
into fields―gleeful, braying―
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!

From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.

In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.



I AM!
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.

I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"

I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!



This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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



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

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



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

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



Fowles in the Frith
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



I am of Ireland
anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



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

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

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


Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



Ich have y-don al myn youth
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



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

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



Regret
by Michael R. Burch

Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear...

once starlight
languished
in your hair...

a shining there
as brief
as rare.

Regret...
a pain
I chose to bear...

unleash
the torrent
of your hair...

and show me
once again―
how rare.



Enigma
by Michael R. Burch

O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light
and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night,
or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior...

Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?

Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love,
this, our reclamation;

fallen wren,
you must strive to fly
though your heart is shaken;

weary pilgrim,
you must not give up
though your feet are aching;

lonely child,
lie here still in my arms;
you must soon be waking.



The Effects of Memory
by Michael R. Burch

A black ringlet
curls to lie
at the nape of her neck,
glistening with sweat
in the evaporate moonlight...
This is what I remember

now that I cannot forget.

And tonight,
if I have forgotten her name,
I remember:
rigid wire and white lace
half-impressed in her flesh...

our soft cries, like regret,

... the enameled white clips
of her bra strap
still inscribe dimpled marks
that my kisses erase...

now that I have forgotten her face.



The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.

And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own:
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!



Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake

O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!



Published as the collection "Villanelles"

Keywords/Tags: villanelle, refrain, repetition, chorus, rhyme, sea, tide, moon, heart, love, rondel, roundel, rondeau, poetic form, poetics, poetic expression, Chaucer, Orleans, love, art, beauty, mercy, merciless, words, heart, hearts, pity, pride, prison, mrbvill, mrbrondel
GailForceWinds Dec 2014
She boards the ship with all her style
Wondering all the while,
What has happened to her smile…

She should be excited
Happy as well
But all she can think of
Is damning him to hell

How could he do it
Just leave her that way
To board this ship
Alone today

This should have been like a romance novel
Instead it’s a scene from a movie of horror

Alone she stands
As the ship leaves port
He’s really not coming
She has no lover, no escort

Holding her head high
Trying not to cry
She heads for the bar
Hiding the scars

*Is he thinking of her, like she’s thinking of him?
Of course not
I hope she can swim…
Cisiany Olivar Dec 2011
Wilt thou never more lay your eyes upon me?
Nights love ritual sadly remembered
only to awaken existing now.
In post ****** blissful dreams I linger.
Ethereal tears drop no fewer then forever
yet this savage mockery begins,
coming like kisses softly smothering.
Eternal rain is now on my parade.
I lost somewhere up in the terrible sky.
Sad force of habit this waiting for death
till I bleed this cavity heart pale blue.
Damning this short lived blind affair with love
while ending against this stab I lean upon me.
Figure in death at least this body will rest.
I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
     for your majick to paint into thin air
         from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
     expecting
          a fantastic creation
                with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
     dissolving
          almost as quickly
                as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
     kept it just long enough to smudge,
           a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
     I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are *****,
     the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
     Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.

How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
     It ain't locked.

I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
     and a lot of hate built up inside that you
          refuse to acknowledge,
              try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
     Facing a mirror,
          Worshipping and damning
               at the same time
That's when it boils over.
***** **** dog, frothing at the mouth...
Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
     but there's no one at the bar.
          Only a witch's cruel mirror
                    and all it says is...

"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"

So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
     to your face
          that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
     even as I know you're watching me right now,
         with all your wasted mental projections,
                 charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
     The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
     and as I sit here,
         naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
                of disappointed voyeurism
Graham L Martin Jan 2011
Mischief

I.

Inspiration,
The view of the screen is blurred,
The scenes blend into one another
You take every actor at action, or word
The world has taken new meaning with the veil lifted
Pages merge as Jack against Tyler
The Durden family united by gun smoke
But lies you tell yourself
They begin to show themselves
And your world falls apart
You stop seeing you
And how everyone else sees you
Can’t you see the color fading from the page?
The ink wells dry as you turn them
The stories you once loved are fading into the whiteness that destroyed you.

You are no longer the man you dreamed of being
An astronaut, a zoo keeper, psychologist,
All faded dreams, from a time when innocence reigned supreme.
What will you do with this new profound knowledge?

I walked to the same shop as I did everyday
Sipped the same coffee
Saw the same people, drank the same gin
Nothing changed, I was still dreaming.

II.

Impatience,
You walked away years ago,
Months, weeks, days, just now
But with two thousand years behind me
I will find a way to forget you!

I would say I’m Sisyphus,
But my boulder does not see peaks
An endless climb, to the stars
Does he know his efforts are fruitless?
Because I do

Smell-less smoke creeps under my door,
I will not wake for it, it is sightless as well
But if I do wake it is violent,
My juniper friend calms my hand,
I know this is wrong,
The window needs to be opened.
The gas needs to be let out.

I thought I cast you from my life
But your ******* portrait hangs above the mantel
Do I really want to forget you? Or is this the face everyone else wants?
I can’t get you to leave me alone, although you’re motionless.
You are some one else, I am still right here.

III.

Unprepared,
The news rooms only rehearsed one ending
All the papers printed victory for their man,
Everyone foresaw this victory.
Millions of papers printed,
Posters, statues, schools,
All made in his mad image.

But the papers were burned,
Statues torn down,
Printers were executed.
How dare they  


IV.

Surprise,
I see you sitting there with him.
At the café sipping tea, or coffee,
I don’t remember what you really preferred
But I take comfort knowing he doesn’t know at all

You’re both laughing and smiling
And I’m left breathless,
Upset,
Frustrated,
I know I could do it better
But you don’t know
You never will.

I was just walking to work,
And you’ve changed my entire day,
V.

Greed,
Do not be ruled by your possessions
If you spend all your time worrying about the bills
You’ll forget to use the utilities to live!
Try to own as little as possible.
It will be easier to move.
Try to die in the winter time,
Those who have to burry you,
Will remember you better.

Throw away half of your stuff,
Live without electricity or running water,
See the world.
Try new disgusting looking food.
Don’t be afraid of falling,
How will you be able to see the bottom?

IV.

Toska,
We have no word for it,
My professor warned me about that word.
Once you read it, you cannot forget
It rings in my ears a thousand times a day.
I’m sorry for damning you with it.
I meant no mischief by it.
William Knight Apr 2011
The laughter of the moment.
The sudden strange feeling of discontent.
Then...
Gone.

The essence of being.
The anxious thoughts of fear.
Then...
Gone.

The glory of truth.
The damning thought of doubt.
Then...
Gone.

The endearing compassion of love.
The searing fire of hate.
Then...
Gone.

The lasting impression of beauty.
The self-hate of vanity.
Then...
Gone.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
Well I like the taste of Whiskey, but today it was just a disguise.
The reason I’ve been drinking, Is because she said goodbye.
She turned away from me and she walked right straight to him.
So I called up my 3 amigos Johnny, Jack and Jim.

Chorus
Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink Bud, Miller or Coors light,
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

So I got in my truck and headed for the creek
Pulled out my pole and I started a streak
15 bass and a couple of brim
Then I started thinking about her and him

Her in his arms in the back of the truck
I started damning all of my luck
Walked to the yeti and popped open the top
Nothing in there that would make it stop
Drove to the house and opened the door
Those three bottles where there on the floor.

Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

Woke up in the morning with the light creeping in
Sitting in the chair right where I had been
Phone started ringing; my head was pitching a fit
Recognized the number, so I answered it

She said she was sorry and that she had been wrong
She started crying, saying she wasn’t strong
I’d heard enough, I was trying to mend
I told her no, goodbye, so I pressed end

Sat back down, phone ringing again
Decided to spend some more time with my men
Reached on down picked em up off the floor
One more time I wouldn’t need her no more

Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.
I originally wrote this song in 1998 with my buddy David Waters, and I dug it back out and added some lyrics and made it into a HickHop genre
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
those of us in the middle muddle,

do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters

irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,

I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,

good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing



undated
————————————————-


Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,
  so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.  The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury

(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
it keeps him awake
night after night
few hours of sleep
does he quietly receive
it interjects into his
mind most unexpected
rousing him from
the land of slumber

ever
he bears the weight
ever
the tonnage remains
ever
unsettling his thoughts

there's no escaping the past
it's a persistent thing
he wrestles with guilt
and the grip cannot be unshackled
nor be readily unlaced

it rises during the night
in provocative ****
this be his damning load
Tabitha Wind Feb 2014
Child
Do I want you to stuff it?
On the contrare
bring it up!
bring it out!
the light makes all things clear
are you sad?
do you have a corner
where indeed it has been tucked
                                         and tucked
                                               and tucked
                                                     and tucked
LET ME OUT!
BE FREE!
There is a world of wind
that longs to call your name
to break every damning cycle
that whispers
      "have-not's"
           "shame" - the despicable
Each longing
    Each sigh
         The deepness of your soul
MAY IT BE MAGNIFIED!
NOTHING IS TOO DARK!
Every trap is ludicrous
I find questions to the answers damning;
They quote the darkest volumes,
And speak in whispered tones
That haunt my mind with lemmings.
Thrilling chills reverberate
Throughout my spine, intoxicating
The superfluous influx of aeon.
In Elysium I await.
Forgotten songbirds’ melodies
Are ripe within their own stages,
However, the message behind their incantations,
Mocks the frigid winds of change.
Apologetic reverences deny the peaceful hum
Of every ***** and flute of desire
And of all the lyres to be strummed.
Stumbling upon a corpse of old,
Necrosis doth eat away,
Putridity and phobia have at last been lead astray,
Maggots upon maggots, an **** of disease,
Now struggle for control here,
In the epitome of our dying age.
The eyes that once saw hope,
And the heart that once felt love,
Our absentee in place of rot,
And are swapped with rustic carrion.
The dismal breeze that flow
Swiftly under the crest of raven-wing,
Solidify bones as well as the toxins that
Cryptically burn and sting.
A creation of mass panic, euphoria
Are bound to allow riot’s treason,
A repentance of nostalgia
For uncountable reasons.
Alas, we have but come close enough to success,
To amount in a drowning of failure,
To kiss the shores of dreams come true,
And to be denied of those dreams’ savior.
Kitt Jul 2017
The Wheel of Time continues on
the damning repetition of a spindling Journey
slaving away on the Wheel's unforgiving madness
caught on the Spokes of Eternity,
just a piece
an arc hardly arching in the grandness
hardly varying in the vastness of forever
your entire Existence contained in a Segment
of the Wheel that drives us
forward.
b for short Aug 2015
When I was a little girl, I occasionally loved to wear dresses. Not because they made me feel pretty, or because that’s what the damning norms of society taught me I should wear—I wore them because I loved how it felt when I would spin myself around. I’d scuff my Mary Janes, litter my tights with runs, and twirl around until my balance ran out and my little knees met the ground. No scrape or brush burn kept me from the thrill of that momentum, smiling wide as the material rose up to meet my fingers while I flew around in haphazard circles. I’d watch the colors of this huge, painted world blend and blur together, amused that, for a moment, I was out of my own control.

Eventually, much to my dismay, I grew up in nearly all of the ways a little girl can.

I realize, as an adult, that it’s important to harbor the mindset that we should regret nothing. After all, every experience typically gifts us with a little wisdom nugget, right? We collect them and look back fondly on the good and the bad, carrying our souvenirs with us as we move forward. Well, I have the nuggets (heh), but I can’t help but feel some regret as to how I came about retrieving them. Recently, there have been so many instances where I want to hop in the Doc’s Delorean, go back in time, grab the hands of little me, and spin ourselves into oblivion. We crash in the grass, eyes closed, world still spinning. In the midst of giggles and grins, we lay on our backs, watching the clouds come back into focus. I turn my head and look at her, fully prepared to tell her everything she needs to know to protect herself from all of the hurt and pain I know she’ll come to endure in the next couple of decades. I want so badly to save her from it all, but before I can speak, she does.

“Don’t worry, I can see it,” she looks at me, warmly.

“See what?” I ask, catching my breath.

“I can see all of the cracks in you.”

I don’t have the words for her, as she searches my face. She traces the outlines of my cheeks, somehow still as round and rosy as her own. Her eyes are my eyes; a bewildering gray green—unchanged, even after all of these years. In that moment, I realize that I’ve forgotten just how young I actually am.

“You don’t have to tell me about them. I know they’ll be mine someday.” She smiles and turns her eyes to the sky.

I’m in awe of this child—her understanding and intuitive nature. It left me perplexed.

“You already know what I’m going to tell you?” For a brief second, I relived the heartache, the fear, and the anger—and I wondered if she understood, I mean, truly understood what she was saying. “But if you know, then how can you be smiling?”

She turns back to me, lips curved sheepishly into a grin—an expression we had come to perfect. “Because where you’re cracked is the prettiest part of you. You fill them with gold and silver and all the rest of the glittery colors. They’re not empty—just spaces replaced with things that mean more to you than what was there before.”

I imagined this—a map of myself, sporadic damage branching out in all directions, repaired in technicolor brightness, more eye-catching than ever. I fell in love with the thought of my tattered soul, patchworked into something my heart could use to keep warm.

I kissed her, lightly, on her little forehead—a thank you for the words I still didn’t have, and hugged her tight.

“You should get back now,” she said, still grinning, “you don’t want to miss it.”

I don’t know what she meant by that exactly, but I had this unmistakably good feeling that she was on to something.
©Bitsy Sanders, August 2015

I realize this is not what we'd call a "poem" but rather poetic prose. Either way, it had to get out. Thanks for your understanding.
Monica Figueroa Sep 2015
Am I a siren?

Does the small harbor between my legs
Entice them so?
That sailors dash themselves along the rocky edges of my soul...
Damning themselves...
For a sip of it's frothy waves?
Copyright 2015 Monica Figueroa
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
<~>

~for Andrew Garfield~


how they march!

with studied
practiced
cadence

a riddle:

how many Angels,
in America,
can stand on the
head of a pin?


legions

dressed in wine
stained colored uniforms,
how they advance!

with studied
practiced
damning
randomness

how many?


lesions.


<•>

4/26/18
1:30am
this one woke me up,
fully formed,
asking only for a scribe to record it.  
saw Angels in America on 4/21/18.  
Neil Simon Theater , NYC

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angels_in_America
I'm so tired of walking this tightrope.
I'd rather fall than turn back
Only to be turned around again.
Turned around touched down long long ways from the ground.

I look out the door to a grey sky
Promising rain.
The color of my mood this afternoon.
The very same grey...
The very same rain...
Threatening.

Maybe I shouldn't be listening to this music,
Melancholic as I knew it was before I even queued it up,
Expecting or hoping,..well here I am.
You're a drug I scored this morning and I couldn't wait
To get you my blood.
You're a hard drug, relentless, and now I cannot wait
To get you out.

Who pushed me into this corner?
What made the difference, pulled the last straw?
Closed my eyes?  Opened my mind?
Opened my eyes. Closed my mind.
You're a hard God, teasing.
Blessing with confusion and the unknown.
Damning with certainty.
A game for the enlightened who know better
Than to believe it matters.
Anyway our animal souls won't realize
Until it's too late.
Makenzie Marie Jun 2015
Most of the time
it's a four letter word
that you want to avoid.
But this one is different
in so many ways.
It's longer--
in the pangs of pain it leaves...
That pain lasts longer than any butterflies.
Because butterflies come in the beginning,
and no sooner than this word is spoken
their wings are broken
leaving them unwilling and unable to fly.
And the pain you feel,
the pit in your stomach,
and the cloudy darkness in your eyes,
is how this word leaves them to die.
It's the "hell" in hello
(and there's no good part of it,
despite what you've heard.
What does that even mean, parting on "good terms"?).
I mean,
sometimes it's what you need--
this ***** word--
it's sometimes necessary.
But even fragile butterflies' wings
need provocation
to be broken
the glass won't shatter
with simple words unspoken,
or their beauty being forgotten.
Their crystalline glass has to crack
before it meets the breaking point.
But maybe it's best, sometimes, leaving things unsaid.
Maybe it's better
pretending that your heart hasn't bled
for the death
of those beautiful creations.
Maybe all can be well,
not tainting your hello
by dragging it through the muddy waters of hell.
But maybe attempting that
is diving straight into the deep end
damning yourself to all but drown
in that personal
pool of hell....
But maybe once this word is uttered,
you're damning some part of yourself as well
letting go of what once was so special.
And maybe that's why it's a ***** word.
maybe that's why it'd be better
if it were only four letters.
Because this word darkens skies,
and kills butterflies.
It breaks hearts
and diminishes the light
in Innocent's eyes.
This word ends hope
of new beginnings,
or anything close to extra innings.
This word reminds you you've lost the game.
This word finalizes the score,
no matter how much you might want more
time
or conversations,
or butterfly wings.
This word is a light switch,
but it only reads "off."

so say
g̶o̶o̶d̶bye                                              ­    
to the lights
the "maybe"s
the  "someday we might"s
and the butterflies.
Those butterflies died when we uttered goodbye.
I am tongueless
Voiceless
Made dumb.
Devastating
Silence prevails
Distressing
Damage is done
****
**** you
Damning me
To silence
eternally.
Gavin Paul Boehm Jul 2013
My days are spend with full sails, and a furnace full of fire
Others' desires pale next to mine, I'm like a Viking funeral pyre
Words meant to get you higher, to save dead men from the gallows
Now, shallow words can drown you, so I try to make mine deep
Sleep is not an option while navigating the concoction of tribulations that precede immortality!
This run is not a trial, I will wade through the mire
And I refuse to give an inch of what I've earned
To the lynch mob trying to burn me down
Not a frown will touch my face while a pen touches this hand
I have the power to shake this land, and I will not stand by and wait
While words of hate belittle and berate this great nation of LOVERS
We must rediscover our silver tongues with which we once flung words of hope from
Freedom and unity were shouted with vigilance and certainty
But, what's happened to the urgency in our voices?
All that's left is apathy in our choices
We're glad to be the ship at sea
At the mercy of the currents, tides and waves
Content to drift for days, and months and years
Ignoring the truth when it is spoken.
Are we truly to broken to listen?
Revolution glistens in the homes of parents reading to their children
It's time to get lost in those pages again
Words written with ink and with pen
Can sharpen the tongues, wits and minds of young women and men.
In a time desperate for thinkers and knowledge seekers
We must dig deeper and get these kids eager to be the change that will refuse that meager piece of pie!
They must be ready to cry, ready to fly, ready to DIE for the future they saw painted in the sky
Because the creation of solutions for the destruction of our nations Constitution
Will require those of a certain... constitution
With minds not moldable, but malleable
Able to be constantly changing
With each new thought they're rearranging their perception of the world
Each new direction holds a hidden collection of pearls
In each new book, genius acts of innovation reside just between the lines
Waiting for the right set of eyes to crack the code
But, foreboding trends tend to send children away from the etchings of a pen
Glass screens gloss teens faces as they slowly erase the taste of
Imagination
Ridding this world of its critical thinkers
Damning us to a sea of words with no anchors
Sadly, some will sink.
But those with a nose for poetry and prose will float away on their pregnant thoughts!
And when the time is right
Those whose minds are ripe
Will strike back against those who sell our prodigies to companies
Who keep them on their knees with mediocrity by means of sterilized dreams and marketing schemes
And...! And... we need to steal our dreams BACK!
Because dreaming is for dreamers
And I know that sounds repetitive
But in this crazy competitive world we must stake claim to what is ours!
And once the dreamers can dream again...
Just imagine what they could do once THEY imagine what they can do!
With hopes and dreams in our veins and imagination in our brains
We cannot be contained to mundane existences!
Extraordinary is the only way to live on your story!
These well storied and well versed persons will take their turn at tilting the world's axis
To gain access to the accessories needed
To stage and intervention
To change this distressing misconception that books are a dead means of mental transportation
They can
Teleport us to foreign shores
They can
Show us ways of thinking that we've never thought of before
They could
End these foreign wars
If we would just give them a shot
At stirring the melting ***
Getting this country swimming in the same direction again.

Our children deserve education through critical thought
So their minds will not be bought
Rather they will be sought out
To put and end to this critical thought drought
However, our children are still taught
With No. 2 Pencils
A Scantron
And bubbled sheets of paper.
SassyJ Apr 2016
Whispers questioning foreigners
Building tension from table across
Take a knife and dissect differences
The eyes light, oestrogen unequalises

Taunting demons flirting and damning
Why do you need to case in boxes?
Daunted, a downwards destruction
Demolitions makes the peace go away

Maps are just a physical division of space
A worth that float and boasts territories
How can we ever make this go away?
Barbaric conceptions, traumatic redemptions

The discernment pleading patriotism
Humanity claiming one consciouness
Nationality embodied in bordered lines
A  contradictory label leading to disunion
Fear is a dragon that slain and strains all.
Nicole Oct 2021
Overwhelmed.
Tiny screens hide big feelings.
Tell me you love me so I can breathe.
Sweet words wrap around my heart.
Constricting until I'm high
And can't feel the fear anymore.
I need to know what's real.
I know it isn't all lies,
But I can't find the line.
Blinded by electric energy,
Coursing through my limbs.
I love this and I hate this.
Convenient and damning.
The warmth of emotion permeates,
But it can't reach my core.
The anxiety and pain are rampant there.
I don't want to feel them.
I don't feel safe.
But I can't bring others down with me.
I need to face myself empty handed.
Let the emotions burn through me.
I know that I am fire proof.
So when the flames flicker to nothingness,
And I'm alone with the darkness,
I will be most simply
And most purely
Me.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The young poetess^ writes:

Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.

Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!


The old hoary replies:

Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.

We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.

Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!

Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!

Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.

You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.

We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.

You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!

We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!

Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
**today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
^The Young Poetess - Helen

— The End —