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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
Nicole Bataclan May 2014
The dark hours
Provide
My light
The best of me
Pops up
At night
A disco nap
Before I go out
Elated
Once the bass
Doles out
Energetic
'Til after dawn
I will continue
As long as
The music is on
And once I
Flit home
My morning song:
Streets in silence
Still playing techno.
Timmy Shanti Jun 2012
My world is a-spinning,
I chase wild deer -
For pleasure, not trophies -
My conscience is clear.

I chase ‘em through forests,
Through grasslands and doles.
I find giant craters
And tiniest holes.

My eyes are wide open,
I hail all life,
Asleep all these years...
But now I’m alive!

I’m ready to ponder
The sense of it all.
My mind doesn’t wander -
This time, it’s my call.

I challenge old habits -
Deep-rooted they be -
My deer chasing rabbits
While rabbits chase me.

I’m easily happy,
My cry is of bliss,
My tongue fires wisdom,
My shots never miss.

I eagerly travel
Through darkness and light -
All myst’ries unravelled,
My troth here I plight:

To battle for freedom,
To fight for the poor,
To champion peace,
To ignore all the lures.

I never will falter -
My mind is my guard,
My faith is my altar,
My love is my God.

My world is a-spinning,
I’m dreaming all day.
My vision a-clearing -
Ill thoughts fade away.

And what of the wild deer? -
You might want to ask.
Gone home to the Highlands,
They’ve finished their task.
A Whisky Darkly Mar 2016
those quiet
lonely nights
when long shadows crawl over defeated days
and the red orange sun drowns beneath dark waves
a resonant loneliness
washes over me
dulling love and light
and hope
like the slow deliberate movement of the clock in the kitchen, hands that mark the passing time between jade scarabs
like the soft lilt of a sparrow left outside my window, alone in the twilight
as a church bell doles its distress, slow and deep in the distance, breaking the still darkness with its lament
water cannot cover the spectre of memory
I pour another whisky
Sean Yessayan Apr 2012
A loved one lost leaves us with less in life,
not a loss to death and his scythe, rather, love’s untimely death.
At first a soul severed does not suffer, numbness reigns over .
For hope, that foolish feeling, whose feigned friendship forges a trust,
woos without warning, whereby a weak body—in disbelief,
hears Hope’s healing message with haste and hardly heeds her coy hint:
“Toil with Time;” therefore, Hope, through truthful trials with Time, teaches.

Time’s quite an omnipotent entity—an ever-morphing force.
The stages of Love’s relations—from first sight to last—change
the flow of Time. When Love starts it trickles from the mountain’s source;
slow and steady, but gains speed as each shared interest adds on.
These streams form a river, Time passes by—Love keeps you busy.
Eons seem to pass in the blink of an eye, noticed only
when that love departs. Time’s effect returns, languishing the void;
that drop of water trickles over your soul making time lull.
The mind replays the broken record of Love’s last visit till
Time’s drop drips from its place onto the rose’s petal, splashing
that prison of longing open, for Love’s return sets you free.
If that drop lands on the posy, for your rose was picked by one
whose hand is unknown, Time causes unfamiliar drought as
that posy shrivels under the sun. Time, now vapor, ascends—
with others joining we form a cloud of soles—growing denser still.
Up here we watch the world revolve, Time’s presence perceived no more.
This Union of Soles float in a blur, each learns from a neighbor.
Knowledge gained heals the sole, but is useless if employed alone.
We pray, forlorn—hearts still torn, till we fall to an earthly shore;
so keep Faith close, along with Hope, for Time will take course once more.

At this point I must disclose that I still need to elevate,
by descending from the misty fog of Time’s timeless smokescreen;
however, my time spent is not in vain. The lessons I learn
shape my view on life’s inner workings—cognition reigns over.
Over and over, I’ve seen the world revolve, patterns appear.
I see sole souls enter this realm alone, then leave as quickly,
for few remain stuck here, jailed in the prison of the timeless.
Most move on— graduated, learned, and having passed Time’s tests.
Alas, I am a mule in a stable—stubborn and restless.
This aside is ending as a descent’s beginning takes flight.

Love is only truly lost when one cannot overcome change.
A switch, which demotes loves to a plane of platonic tenor.
With faithfulness, a likeness to those before the Fall furthers
the Sole’s doles—now brighter—they exonerate Love’s loss of love.
When the soul, driven, has forgiven, then friendship’s re-obtained.
The only way it could be explained-- I apologize for its crudeness.
S E L Nov 2013
freedom is a funny thing
what would dreams bring
but calamity (and loss
tears superfluous waste of water)

slow treading in treacle
hold absent flora to the wind face
cross eyed glory on a pale mask

no extending big hand
to the child who doles out water
to babes from ***** papercups

scratching scoops of brown mess
amid domesticated fauna
in the middle of nowhere land

feet rubbing for warmth
an ever going stipple wagon
a small blanket the only cover

one scooter holds too many
open beauty closing too soon
supply demand coercing blank stare


impasse holds the keeper hostage
some up - some down
no break from unbroken cycle

the dreamer lives forever on
inside the tightest cage
and knows there's little cure

yet within full ironic view
lies the priceless key to unlock
dark eyes implore me to take you

anything is possible
                                                                ­      yes
                                                       ­               anything
dreamer, dreamer
open dreamer

open your dream wings
Wrenderlust Oct 2013
The café rumbles like the belly of a fasting saint,
voices competing with the clanks of silverware.
In the tearoom a boy with a tangle of wires
leaking from an unzipped backpack
struts between tables, billing himself as a "human hotspot".
He wears the same glasses you do;
they slip down his nose as he leans over to flirt with the waitress
in the red apron, who taps her nails against the cash register
and laughs at his bad jokes, she tells me, because
he wears his pants too high, just like her brother used to.

A man with a soup-stained button down and a bald spot
introduces himself as Peter Ling, proprietor,
oracle of the inner city rummage sale,
advisor to the lost and hungry.
He doles out pithy wisdom and lentils into mismatched bowls-
"You want therapy? Try your ex boyfriend."
The four of us hide our grins, and flee
to his cavernous basement. As we go spelunking
through the puddles left by a burst pipe,
clambering past bloated books and warped furniture,
Emma Miller swears that she slept here once-
on a moldy brown sofa crouched like a hibernating bear
among empty Heineken bottles.

The expedition yields four boxes of acupuncturist leaflets
and a damp antique suitcase filled with seeds,
who seized the opportunity to germinate,
their tiny roots searching fruitlessly
in the mildewed silk lining.
Ling says he's going to try gardening this year,
serve up spaghetti squash grown out back by the garage.

We sowed pea shoots and salad greens
in glass jars pilfered from a claw-footed armoire
that lay on its side, defeated, like the last of the saber-tooths.
I named one for you, tucked Eruca vesicaria sativa
into potting soil, and set it on the balcony railing-
tempting fate and gravity, because you always liked a little excitement
with your afternoon cup of rooibos.
I didn't see the girl who knocked you off your perch,
saw only the sun's sharp gleam off the glass
as the jar plunged, graceful as a slow-motion train wreck
on its arc toward the concrete,
and Peter Ling reached up with his big, calloused hand
to break your fall.
Astraea May 2016
Pixie dust to soar up high
Magic carpet gliding through the sky
Pumpkins giving carriage rides
True love's kiss for eyes to open wide
Her head nestles on her cloud of pillows
Her mind welcomes the Sandman's approach
A pinch here and there taking form
Exuberant fairies waltz around her head
Carelessly dropping twinkling specks
Strewn and sparkling around her bed
Her world is perfect, as you will soon see
She swims with Ariel, deep under the sea
Her best friend is Genie, she gets wishes! Three!
Unfazed by ticking, Pan always helps her flee
A carefree child, she's got the key
A sprinkle of magic solves everything because
She believes...

His forehead hits the tabletop
Exhaustion winning out
The corner of his eye catches sight
A book flecked with glittery spots
His lips curl in distaste
These tales are not to be believed in haste
His gaze alight upon
The little girl deep in slumber
The outside world is a scary place
He wants her well-prepared
He fights the knowledge he has to face
He'll shatter her dreams with words because
He doubts belief...

Belief is not a terrible thing
It offers great resolve
It strengthens hope
And doles out joy
Imagination lavished upon
Belief can come in many forms
Especially when facing a storm
When all you see are clouds' anger festering
Belief discerns a silver lining

Even when fairytales are all grown out
In memory they abide
Fairies wink as they sip from buttercups
Awaiting the mind's rollercoaster ride
When trouble arrives, emotions run high
Their lazy potion licks at the tracks
A shower of sparks
And there a new path lies
A yellow brick road so tranquil and wise


It's simple really
Simply believe
A little pinch of belief and magic never hurt anyone
Sam Greig-Mohns Mar 2012
Flecks of color amid the gray wash
Rivers once formidable now only bothersome
Steel and concrete

Voices shouting
WAKE UP! an advertising sign screams silently
Still unheard a man jangles for change on a street corner
While church doors hang wide begging charity

Hockey games and unspoken rivalries
Except on national T.V

Bike shops, bus stops
Messengers and a mail box

Highways to by ways
But no one knows the right way

Got Junk?
Emotional maybe

Bentley's, all the baggage you'll never need
Oh please, words flow in chorus
Dramatic gestures following fluid as trained actors

Therapy is the way for me
Why not with M.D degrees being handed out like fortune cookies

No real complaints until you find yourself on Dr. Fill in the blank
Listening with glazed eyes as they doles out advice like Opera

Glass half full until its pushed off the metaphorical table
But how does that make you feel?

It's all become to much now
As directed on the back packaging

Please recycle your brain matter
They may need the ad space
Jane Doe Dec 2012
Never the woman,
always the other woman.
She-poets have sung of it since
they first gave words
to the wet knot of their hearts.

The consolation prize, the late-comer
who must be the one to wash his
***** hands. Not a goddess but
the amazon who presses on his
body’s weakest points. The villainess.

The other woman has no power.
He doesn’t need to know her name,
her fears, which books made her cry as
a girl. He already has his golden idol,
but he wants a clay vessel on the side.

He doles her out careful smiles under
pinkblue bar-lights or in smoky kitchens.
He tells her yes you’re beautiful
but I’ve got a better one at home still
can I see the shape you make in my bed?

And she is hopeful and lost
but finds his arm and lets herself be led.
Never the woman, but a girl who
plays games in the mud, dirties her dress,
blacks out her face, her soiled lips.

And women speak of the other woman
like she is a crow above their doors.
Watching them make their love
through greedy eyes while
nursing her barbed and tangled heart.
Martin Narrod May 2017
May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.
Derek Miller Feb 2011
This voice, it's remained silent. I can't decipher what to say.
But these last words shall hopefully give way to my decay.
Vicious people tend to **** the life straight out of hope.
Too certain that their views ascend and belie ways to cope.
I don't need wasted theories on why man should look above.
My strength did lie within me and thus for me did I had love.
Respect, I gave, yet received none as all did pause to gloat.
Superior we stand, now listen closely. This I quote.
This grand old text shall guide you to a life that's quite serene.
Just give devotion. Prove your faith. Ignore my spiteful spleen.
Our abject admiration, firmly built upon our fear
Teaches us to cling to words to which we must adhere.
But this I ask, this final time; Think deeply. Muster thought.
Would God's perception waver based upon what I have sought?
Would such a being love me more if I had chosen fear
To justify my thoughts in choosing from which paths to veer?
For I feel that I'd stand in brighter lights had I did choose
To display moral structures never fit to be misused.
Good for the sake of goodness. Nothing here provoked by doubt.
I choose to lead a good life free of hate I'll live without.
You judge the others, telling them they'll burn for what they see.
Now blood still spills upon the streets for differing beliefs.
And if this being feels that I should follow words you preach,
I'll say shove off. Disperse thyself, you wicked, awful leech.
In this moment, I now warn that you should stop insisting
That I seek warmth from something that I feel is non-existing.
For I am grounded firmly in what I can see and feel.
True happiness, I've felt before. Its memory, I've sealed.
I felt its glow without the interference of a ghost.
Proof enough to burdened hearts who needn't be engrossed
In ideas that have caused hatred to seep into many minds
That otherwise might have sought ways to open our eyes' blinds.
The world is but a cold and ruthless savage rock of hate.
Stop judging others. Walk a path that you see fit as straight.
I tire of the deluge of calamities, defeats.
I'm weary of the loss of love that I'm doomed to repeat.
My muscles seize a final time as shaking, I do fall.
My choices have now rendered me a fixed, defeated sprawl.
I cannot move. I'm stuck in this horrendous thing called life.
I ache to feel the end of grief, afflictions, doles and strife.
jingle clank jingle clank
Money in the bank
more like in my pocket
because I don't have a wallet

clack tap clack tap
The shoe ******* my shin
makes no noise,
but my soles
have their destined doles
John F McCullagh May 2014
Little children will monitor speech
for the hint of a racist remark.
Veterans cannot be trusted with guns,
there’s a risk that they’re violent at heart.
Is healthcare a tax or a fee
in the land of the formerly free?

Old white men to the back of the bus,
Check your privilege, leave the driving to us.
Barbarians encounter no gate,
freely enter and live off the State.
They‘ll vote Democratic, you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Our President, a liar and phony,
doles out largesse to all of his cronies.
While our roads and our bridges need work
We’re distracted by some twit that twerks.
It’s all misdirection you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Taxpayers are only half free,
constrained by demands of the State.
Despite their Utopian schemes
Inequality grows to extremes
They divided to conquer you see
in the land of the formerly free.
Our Country  maintains the facade of a Constitutional Republic, much like the Rome of Augustus, but our Caesar is a Nero, not a hero.
Of Tetley's and V-2's
(or, “Why Not to Bomb the Brits”)
by Michael R. Burch

The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, light verse, nonsense verse, humor, humorous, England, English, Tetley, tea, milk, crumpets, scones, war, bomb, bombs, V-2, rocket, missile, missiles, formidable, Britain, Brits, defense, military



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
when 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.

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



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!

Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood," facing a similar fate?



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?

NOTE: The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."



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!



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.



Floating
by Michael R. Burch

Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.

Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.

Memories of ghostly white limbs ...
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.

We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.

Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.

Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler—
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.

Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm *******,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.

And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;

bright waves throw back your reflection at me.

This is one of my more surreal poems, as the sea and lover become one. I believe I wrote this one at age 19. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem may have had a different title when it was originally published, but it escapes me ... ah, yes, "Entanglements."



Shock
by Michael R. Burch

It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul,
in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom,
with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll
and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom—

that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high
for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain ...
and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky
was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane.



The Sky Was Turning Blue
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday I saw you
as the snow flurries died,
spent winds becalmed.
When I saw your solemn face
alone in the crowd,
I felt my heart, so long embalmed,
begin to beat aloud.

Was it another winter,
another day like this?
Was it so long ago?
Where you the rose-cheeked girl
who slapped my face, then stole a kiss?
Was the sky this gray with snow,
my heart so all a-whirl?

How is it in one moment
it was twenty years ago,
lost worlds remade anew?
When your eyes met mine, I knew
you felt it too, as though
we heard the robin's song
and the sky was turning blue.



The Children of Gaza

Nine of my poems have been set to music by the composer Eduard de Boer and have been performed in Europe by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. My poems that became “The Children of Gaza” were written from the perspective of Palestinian children and their mothers. On this page the poems come first, followed by the song lyrics, which have been adapted in places to fit the music …



Epitaph for a Child of Gaza
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...



For a Child of Gaza, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
while winter scowls
and 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?



I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

for the children of Gaza and their mothers

I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.

I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.



Something
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

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

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

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



Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gaza and their children

There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”

So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,

then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!



Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gaza

There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask―

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?



who, US?
by Michael R. Burch

jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild

... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn ...

under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same―
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:

“who’s to blame?”



My nightmare ...

I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.
―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza)



I, too, have a dream ...

I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza)



Suffer the Little Children
by Nakba

I saw the carnage . . . saw girls' dreaming heads
blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them . . .

saw babies liquefied in burning beds
as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm . . .

I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem,
for in that moment I was one of them . . .

I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak
to see frail roses severed at the stem . . .

How could I fail to speak?
―Nakba is an alias of Michael R. Burch



Autumn Conundrum

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



Piercing the Shell

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



Epitaph for a Palestine child

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Children of Gaza Lyrics

(adapted in places to the music by Michael R. Burch and Eduard de Boer)

World premiere, April 22, 2017, in the Oosterkerk in the Dutch town of Hoorn. Dima Bawab, soprano; Eduard de Boer, piano.

I. Prologue:

Where does the Butterfly go?
I'd love to sing about things of beauty,
like a butterfly, fluttering amid flowers,
but I can't, I can't …

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
while winter scowls
and 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 power of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

Where does the butterfly go
when mothers cry
while children die
and politicians lie, politicians lie?

When the darkness of grief blots out all that we know:
when love and life are running low,
where does the butterfly go?

And how shall the spirit take wing
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is flown without a trace?

Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go,
where does the butterfly go?

II. The Raid

When the soldiers came to our house,
I was quiet, quiet as a mouse…

But when they beat down our door with a battering ram,
and I heard their machine guns go "Blam! Blam! Blam!"
I ran! I ran! I ran!

First I ran to the cupboard and crept inside;
then I fled to my bed and crawled under, to hide.

I could hear my mother shushing my sister…
How I hoped and prayed that the bullets missed her!
My sister! My sister! My sister!

Then I ran next door, to my uncle's house,
still quiet, quiet as a mouse...

Young as I am,
I did understand
that they had come to take our land!
Our land! Our land! Our land!
They've come to take our land!

They shot my father, they shot my mother,
they shot my dear sister, and my big brother!
They shot down my hopes, they shot down my dreams!
I still hear their screams! Their screams! Their screams!

Now I am here: small, and sad, and still ...
no mother, no father, no family, no will.

They took everything I ever had.
Now how can I live, with no mom and no dad?
How can I live, with no mom and no dad?
How can I live? How can I live?

III. For God’s Sake, I'm only a Child

For God’s sake, ah, for God's sake, I’m only a child―
and all you’ve allowed me to learn are these tears scalding my cheeks,
this ache in my gut at the sight of so many corpses, so much horrifying blood!

For God’s sake, I’m only a child―
you talk about your need for “security,”
but what about my right to play in streets
not piled with dead bodies still smoking with white phosphorous!

Ah, for God’s sake, I’m only a child―
for me there's no beauty in the world
and peace has become an impossible dream;
destruction is all I know because of your deceptions.

For God’s sake, I’m only a child―
fear and terror surround me stealing my breath
as I lie shaking like a windblown leaf.

For God’s sake, for God's sake, I'm only a child,
I'm only a child, I'm only a child.

IV. King of the World

If I were King of the World,
I would make every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
straight to my palace, for free ice cream!
[Directly to the audience, spoken:]
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?

If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)

If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas ―and sweets―each day of the year!

[Directly to the audience, spoken:]
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!

If I were King of the World, I would send
my couns'lors of peace to the wide world’s end ...
[spoken:] But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim lemonade; please [spoken] bring it in a hurry!

If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!

If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
[Directly to the audience, spoken:]
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!

V. Mother’s Smile

There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much".

So more than "much", much more than "all".
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you ...

VI. In the Shelter

Mother:
Hush my darling, please don’t cry.
The bombs will stop dropping, by and by.
Hush, I'll sing you a lullaby…

Child:
Mama, I know that I’m safe in your arms.
Your sweet love protects me from all harms,
but still I fear the sirens’ alarms!

Mother:
Hush now my darling, don’t say a word.
My love will protect you, whatever you heard.
Hush now…

Child:
But what about pappa, you loved him too.

Mother: My love will protect you.
My love will protect you!

Child:
I know that you love me, but pappa is gone!

Mother:
Your pappa’s in heaven, where nothing goes wrong.
Come, rest at my breast and I’ll sing you a song.

Child:
But pappa was strong, and now he’s not here.

Mother:
He’s where he must be, and yet ever-near.
Now we both must be strong; there's nothing to fear.

Child:
The bombs are still falling! Will this night never end?

Mother:
The deep darkness hides us; the night is our friend.
Hush, I'll sing you a lullaby.

Child:
Yes, mama, I'm sure you are right.
We will be safe under cover of night.
[spoken] But what is that sound?
[screamed] Mama! I am fri(ghtened)….!

VII. Frail Envelope of Flesh

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable…

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss…

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live five artless years…
Now your mother's lips seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears…

VIII. Among the Angels

Child:
There is peace where I am now,
I reside in a heavenly land
that rests safe in the palm
of a loving Being’s hand;
where the butterfly finds shelter
and the white dove glides to rest
in the bright and shining sands
of those shores all men call Blessed.

Mother:
My darling, how I long to touch your face,
to see your smile, to hear your laughter’s grace.
Great Allah, hear my plea.
Return my child to me.

Child:
My darling mother, here beyond the stars
where I now live,
I see and feel your tears,
but here is peace and joy, and no more pain.
Here is where I will remain.

Mother:
My darling, do not leave me here alone!
Come back to me!
Why did you turn to stone?
Great Allah, hear my plea.
Please send my child back to me...

Child:
Dear mother, to your wonderful love I bow.
But I can't return...
I am among the Angels now.
Do not worry about me.
Here is where I long to be.

Mother:
My darling, it is as if I hear your voice consoling me.
Oh, can this be your choice?
Great Allah, hear my plea.
Impart wisdom to me.

Child:
Dear mother, I was born of your great love,
a gentle spirit...
I died a slaughtered dove,
that I might bring this message from the stars:
it is time to end earth’s wars.

Remember―in both Bible and Koran
how many times each precious word is used―
“Mercy. Compassion. Justice.”
Let each man, each woman live by the Law
that rules both below and above:
reject all hate and embrace Love.

IX. Epilogue: I have a dream

I have a dream...
that one day all the world
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
a small child, lonely and afraid.

Look at me... I am flesh...
I laugh, I bleed, I cry.
Look at me; I dare you
to look me in the eye
and tell me and my mother
how I deserve to die.

I only ask to live
in a world where things are fair;
I only ask for love
in a world where people share,
I only ask for love
in a world where people share.

Oh, I have a dream...
that one day all the world
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
a small child, lonely and afraid.



hey pete
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.

When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."



Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch

The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.

The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the flurrying snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.

The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese in their unseen reprieve
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.

As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not―
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite haunts.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.



Solicitation
by Michael R. Burch

He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on my eyes like a snake’s on a bird’s—
quizzical, mesmerizing.

He ***** his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and although I hear,
he says nothing that I understand.

The moon shines—maniacal, queer—as he takes my hand and whispers
"Our time has come!" ... and so we stroll together along the docks
where the sea sends things that wriggle and crawl
scurrying under rocks and boards.

Moonlight in great floods washes his pale face as he stares unseeing
into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine,
and my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.
He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.

His teeth are long, yellow and hard. His face is bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.

Published by Dowton Abbey, Aesthetically Pleasing Vampires, Into the Unknown, Since Halloween is Coming, and Poetry Life & Times



Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

for Nadia Anjuman

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.

A poet like Nadia Anjuman can be likened to a caged bird, deprived of flight, who somehow finds it within herself to sing of love and beauty. But when the world robs her of both flight and song, what is left for her but to leave, bereaving it and us of herself and her song?



Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace,
you climb, skittish kite . . .

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast  solitariness  there,
so that all that remains is to
fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you
stall,
spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps
and *****
its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.

Published by Poetry Porch and The Chained Muse



Published as the collection "Of Tetley's and V-2's"
And one more day will cut away to fade into the bubble wrap
where I can trap the memory to
film and file and in the circuitry where I can find the me
I picture history among the jewellry that sparkles lustre-ly.

One more night to fight the demons that arise to
whistle plaintively
as one more daylight dies
and who is there?
and who is there to battle fallen dreams that fell off sunken bridges to drown in flowing streams and who is there to lend a moment of their time and if in a moment would I resign myself to the night time mockery?
where Satan doles out misery and charges me to join in miserably.

Oh bring me the day with all its history as yet untouched by hands that want to hurt and much good would it do to see
someone waiting especially for me
it cannot be
that all I have is bubble wrap to tap into and clap my eyes upon
where has this life of mine disappeared to and where has it gone?

It is just another trap to think like that and waiting as I do for some full on attack
I reset and play again the pack of tarot cards
and life is dealt to me as if I was a wind up toy whose mainspring went
oh boy
it couldn't could it not that I have drawn the hanged man
the final dot
black spot
a truly Pirate's lot.
I got no hope to make it till the morning comes
the sand runs and my life guns itself into the fast lane
another all the same
and if it's just a game
why do I always lose?
2002
Dearest Klara,
  hope you enjoy
the poems as you dream to write
      one poem
happy birthday*


There are still many books as though
   parliament. A miscalculation based on coordinates
in a wry scene.

Two bookshelves creating a labyrinth, enough that you
are alike. Juxtaposed to scent are many words
and the day is almost done. Ignore fragments once,
but never overdo. I can outlast moonlight’s procession
into a dark cathedral by the window.

On this side – reason; the other, hesitance.
This is no heist. This is what belongingness refutes.
What willingness bandages. The absence of sentries
  made for easy rapture. You slid your hand into the dusty
fort and in between them, the paperbacks ached.
  “I will do it.” and after that, cursed at the farce.

Slid into your bag – you, surrounded by the tense air
of silence. A dilettante at being a fugitive. What is it that
you stole?
   Your body, elsewhere. Flailing. Failing. There are still
many marvels in the scene, but says precision is key.
Cuts as if contravention. This was as calm as painting a child
  in his early years, the hue of anomaly.

Quiet in amplitudes doles out a mystified sense of completion.
I can hear an ajar mouth unwind a soft humming.
   It was time to go – tomorrow when we rise with no memory,
  it will be all but one and the same fault together with many others,
     as if your face that day and your image now
          compels me the cold of a foreign city. Riddance.
Joelle McCook Jun 2017
Jehovah Jireh is more than just a name,
More than just a collection of letters,
More than a generous God who doles out gifts and things,
Jehovah Jireh is a place,
It is a place where we see emptiness,
But God sees opportunity
It is a place where God fills the gap in our lives.

God introduced himself to Abraham as Jehovah Jireh
As he was preparing to make the ultimate sacrifice - his son.
In the same way, God takes us to a place
Where we are willing to strip ourselves
of our most valued possession,
Then says,"Stop!
You don't have to do it, I just needed to know that you would. "

Then Jehovah Jireh provided a lamb
It wasn't just a lamb - something tangible
Something you hold, see, feel.
Jehovah Jireh provided a way
A way to get to closer
A way that was an acceptable sacrifice to reach the Almighty God.

Jehovah Jireh is a bridge,
The bridge to faith and trust
The bridge that takes us from the
place of
Uncertainty and doubt.

Jehovah Jireh
Our provider
Povides more than just things
He provides  a place
A lamb,
A bridge
A way,
A way out of our distress
A way out of our confusion,
A way to Him
A way to live.
BandedEarth Oct 2017
No cis white male
can act as a lone wolf.

We have an entire culture committed
to indoctrination
of toxic masculinity and male entitlement.

This shooter had been
radicalized by
  the capitalist,
      colonialist,
         patriarchal idolatry
that serves as
the one true god of Western culture.

No cis white male
can act as a lone wolf.

His den is littered with bones
Fom pasts kills he does not regret
A system reminding him of his due

His pack is hidden in the bushes.
Teeth bared,
   low growls,
      drool falling.
"rights and privilege"
are the god's word on his tongue.

No cis white male
can act as a lone wolf.

He doles out comeuppance
his actions justified and whitewashed
carte blanche immunity of the system

The media machine set in motion
blood lust,
  license granted,
    and almost sanctioned
His pack calls him mentally unstable
The lone wolf, the packs scapegoat.

No cis white male
can act as a lone wolf.
Coronavirus Poems

These are poems and translations of mine that apply to the coronavirus pandemic ...



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

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

Originally published by Better Than Starbucks



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The birds in the wood,
the fishes in the flood ...
and I must go mad:
much sorrow I walk with,
for beasts of bone and blood.



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric)
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!



Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"
by Michael R. Burch

THE PLAGUE has come again
To darken lives of men
and women, girls and boys;
Death proves their bodies toys
Too frail to even cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Tycoons, what use is wealth?
You cannot buy good health!
Physicians cannot heal
Themselves, to Death must kneel.
Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty’s brightest flower?
Devoured in an hour.
Kings, Queens and Presidents
Are fearful residents
Of manors boarded high.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

We have no means to save
Our children from the grave.
Though cure-alls line our shelves,
We cannot save ourselves.
"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!



thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by Michael R. Burch

GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.

by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead.

ah-men!

(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)

Originally published by Setu



evol-u-shun
by michael r. burch

does GOD adore the Tyger
while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?

does GOD applaud the Plague
while it’s eating u à la carte?

does GOD admire ur brains
while ur claiming IT has a heart?

does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?

NOTE: In the segmented title “evol” is “love” spelled backwards. The title questions whether you/we have been shunned by a "God of Love" or by evolution. William Blake’s poem “The Tyger” questions the nature of a Creator who brings lambs and tigers into the same world.



faith(less)
by michael r. burch

for the “Chosen Few”

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

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

Keywords/Tags: coronavirus, virus, plague, disease, illness, death, fear, panic, dismay, germs, microbes
carmen Aug 2014
The mind creates a world in which it controls what is right and what is wrong.
It executes the punishments and doles them out freely.
It refuses to acknowledge the unraveling of itself.
Like yarn, threading throughout itself in a tangled mess.
Knotted up until no longer light can be seen.
It sits behind a nest of cotton.

Bear in mind there is nothing that can usurp it from its throne.
The mind heeds no rules or regulations and without hesitation it will turn the most heinous of realities into a commonplace find.
There is nothing like that which can make light out of fog and spread plagued whispers throughout its own successes.
Tirelessly it works to reach a state at which it must work no longer.
A state at which it can finally and utterly be recompensed with what it has decided it needs.

There is no such state.

What soothes the tattered remains and gives it peace?
cp
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2018
(Sonnet)

Owl, silhouette of lilting sun,
Sentinel on branch, ******* out
Death, the sky, bleeding darkness rung
On the skeleton of ancient trees,
Your eyes are apparition, eternal flame,
Oracle of palliative, divining moon,
Which doles out fettered wisdom, misery
Cloaked in smokes, deep darkening dusk
Loud as silence in wide plains open,
That flay as creeping deserts do unravel,
O how wanton moon shouts like feather death;
Merest whisper as pale wanes on a bough,
Like some wraith, in whirls, conjures mercy,
Only to rail like gust in cupped tempest.
.
Sin's an easy enough contract to get into
(no one reads the small print)
just sign on the line and have a great time,
it's a caper on paper, creating the kinks,
and if anyone thinks it's not so,
go.

When you sign and you've had your great time
you should look up the terms and condition number four,
states,
'what did you sign for?
I'll be waiting for you at the doorway to hell when you're through, meet you there, come prepared to be scared it's now my time for fun'
The terms run on long after you're dead and gone and the tortures continue, terms and conditions sub-section two,
'you'll be here for eternity or at least 'til infinity comes into closer proximity,'
the wheels on the rack go round and underground the wheels go faster and faster, as you wear out the tread on your own eternal disaster,
master of all, master of none when you're gone.

Sin's so easy, delightfully ******, practically impossible to refrain from staining your soul,
The Devil doles out no favours, there's no fruit pastille flavours or chewing gum treats,
only long winding streets filled with pain, a bit like Bradford in the rain,
I prefer Salford in the sun so I'll hold off on the fun, won't sign on the line, and have a reasonably boring but much safer time.
Yenson Oct 2019
In the raw urban jungle
the wounded, the mendings and the 'soon be's' stumble along
hiding scars and bandages soaked in blood
dropping pills and drugs away from prying skies
a million lovers walk and smile but only two are real and sincere
that friend that had your back just told another you are pain in the ***
but its okay cause truth be told you know its all about convenience, that's all
a baby cries, a mother curses wildly but to the girls at work
she has the most beautiful bundle of joy
outside the Fertility Clinic a woman cries bitter tears
sorry, they said, but you can never conceive a child
in the stripe joints fat balding middle aged men with fat wallets
have young nubile beauties perched on knees
magnetic attractions, *** appeals in bucket loads
not
fat wallets
yes!
A future doctor and eminent scientist sits under a lampshade studying
from downstairs, a college mate is making jokes about that geek
upstairs, who's still a ****** and never drinks
an elderly couple leave the Prayer meeting, next stop is the Swingers Club down town
where a Reverend Father will be in latex whipping a nurse in a basque
Round the city in a posh Lav, a famous politician fresh from a TV
interview, in now lining up three lines of high grade coke
Hassan at the chippie doles out the hot wraps, no one knows about the forty grand saved under the bed, not even the Tax man
a mum is snoring in bed dreaming about that black builder she saw
dad is playing 'Call of Duty' if only he's done his duty upstairs
in a locked garage Eddie has turned the ignition on, the pipe in place
they will find him in the morning, with a letter and pictures of his three kids that his wife took when she left
four miles away, his wife is under Stan, Stan is a big boy
an attractive woman is with friends drinking and partying
none knows she has a serious illness and could collapse and die
A love song rings out in the night
the moon shines bright
a poet writes
its all about flowers and petals and rainbows and Princes and queens
poets are supposed to reflect real feelings and real
life as they see it
but this poet is a blinded idiot
the poet knows nothing about LIFE.....
Martin Narrod May 2017
May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.
Ananya S Guha Oct 2015
The hills are quiet, meditating
when will it rain?
the cyclonic storm in a neighbouring
area has abated.
When?
Sun kissed hills you wait for fervour
even though you know soon, soon
it will be winter.
And streams will clear
with everything you hold dear
in the summer storm you see how
rains shackle men, women and summer time
wishes. How rains storm the hills uprooting
trees, houses and flood homes.
How people die.
How the government doles out some money
and platitudes. How in a neighbouring place
the thirsty river swallows.

But winter will come
and pine trees will shade hurt
and in the mornings  winter
finds a home in hearts.
piper May 2019
"I want to be happy."
"Content woman."
"Successful."
"have a rich husband."

every teen girl's dream,
when asked what the future holds;
what happened to unicorn fantasies,
and our hearts of gold?

now instead of golden hearts,
we want men with trust funds and charm.

turning a cold shoulder to our true selves,
yet complaining about rude names,
when called ****** who're only after wealth.


why do we do this to ourselves?
we're so capable,
yet we'd rather lean on,
somebody who mistreats us,
and doles out small amounts,
of love and care;
we try so terribly hard,
to grasp on,
onto that slippery piece of feeling,
and when it leaves,
we're put back into that pit of empty,
pitch black and dull,
until they come back when they want us,
but we're still left wanting for more.

so, please.
learn from the story of millions.
stories of girls,
with so much potential.
don't force yourself to be content,
when you can bargain for more,
then,
only then,
can we step up the ladder,
to be even to those,
who jeered and mocked,
and took advantage,
of our kind hearts.


                                                              -YYC
i have no idea what I'm doing. I'm not a feminist I swear, just tired of mistreatment. ^^
Poems about the Coronavirus


yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #1
by michael r. burch

plagued by the Plague
i plague the goldfish
with my verse



yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #2
by michael r. burch

sunflowers
hang their heads
embarrassed by their coronas

I wrote this poem after having a sunflower arrangement delivered to my mother, who is in an assisted living center and can’t have visitors due to the pandemic. This a poem about living with the fear, uncertainty, isolation, loneliness, alienation and depression created by the pandemic.



homework: yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #3
by Michael R. Burch

dim bulb overhead,
my silent companion:
still imitating the noonday sun?



yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #4
by Michael R. Burch

Spring fling―
children string flowers
into their face masks



New World Order (last in a series and perhaps of a species)
by Michael R. Burch

The days of the dandelions dawn ...
soon man will be gone:
fertilizer.



Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Winter drawing near:
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Death
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured ...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
― Buson Yosa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
It is not like a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



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

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



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!



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, because 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!



You Were My Death
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You were my death;
I could hold you
when everything abandoned me―
even breath.



Epitaph for a Little Child Lost
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Not Saying the World Revolves Around You, But ...
by Michael R. Burch

The day’s eyes were blue
until you appeared
and they wept at your beauty.




Imperfect Perfection
by Michael R. Burch

You’re too perfect for words―
a problem for a poet.



Stormfront
by Michael R. Burch

Our distance is frightening:
a distance like the abyss between heaven and earth
interrupted by bizarre and terrible lightning.



Splintering

An unbending tree
breaks easily.
―Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Autumn Conundrum
by by Michael R. Burch

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



Laughter’s Cry
by Michael R. Burch

Because life is a mystery, we laugh
and do not know the half.

Because death is a mystery, we cry
when one is gone, our numbering thrown awry.



Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.



I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.

I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.



For a Little Child Lost, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails, when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream, when winter scowls,
when storms 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?

Please tell me, dear child;
lead, oh, and I'll follow,
for surely, my Angel, you know ...



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are your tears?
They will not spare the dying their anguish.
What good is your concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is gone,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, wasted limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of their souls departing ...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our "effort,"
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"
by Michael R. Burch

THE PLAGUE has come again
To darken lives of men
and women, girls and boys;
Death proves their bodies toys
Too frail to even cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Tycoons, what use is wealth?
You cannot buy good health!
Physicians cannot heal
Themselves, to Death must kneel.
Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty’s brightest flower?
Devoured in an hour.
Kings, Queens and Presidents
Are fearful residents
Of manors boarded high.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

We have no means to save
Our children from the grave.
Though cure-alls line our shelves,
We cannot save ourselves.
"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

NOTE: This poem is meant to capture the understandable fear and dismay the Plague caused in the Middle Ages, and which the coronavirus has caused in the 21st century. We are better equipped to deal with this modern plague, thanks to advances in science, medicine and sanitation. We do not have to succumb to fear, but it would be wise to have a healthy respect for the nasty bug and heed the advice of medical experts.―MRB

Keywords/Tags: coronavirus, pandemic, COVID-19, plague, illness, death, fear, pain, rhyme, uncertainty, isolation, loneliness, alienation, depression, masks, social, distance, distancing
unnamed May 2017
A storm doles out this dismal night
Rain drops drizzle down cobblestone course
Beast and bird burrow safely till light
No stranger to me, this tatty leather chair
Shadows dancing, cast the flickering fire
A creatures den, for the wretched a lair
Hoping of hopes, dreaming of dreams
Of such I have lost all desire
Rain knocks on my door,
Gloom enters once more
His attendance perceived
Lest my sanity leave
By the string that I cling as before
I long to surrender
The ability to remember
My fall into torments of hell
This chair, the fire, misery befall
The devils that dance on the floor
When life doles you a dose of tears
Some heartbreaking ordeal
As if you're dead and longing for
Earths colors to look real

Or you are at crossroad where
You're sticking out your thumb
And can't decide as hard you try
Left, right or bolt and run

When doubt climbs on and faith is paled
By circumstances drear
Hold on I say, keep hands in prayer
When Beelzebub appears

Though days feel dark and hope looks lost
You mustn't ever give in
To he that lies and sends black files
That wear your spirit thin

Hold on I say! Be brave this day
Believe me there's a light
A pinpoint now, but in a while
Will crackle you to life

And soon you'll find to your surprise
Acceptance in the place
Where you had thought that you could not
Look woe straight in its face

Hold on with death grip and be strong
With ******* knuckled fists!
For if you do, I promise you
Again you'll taste life's bliss

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2013
Written the day after my mom died.
Non-parity used to bring electric shocks to this house husband, who wrote the following during an earlier chapter of mine existence.
------------------------------------------------
natur­al temptation found command
   from divine dada disobeyed
earthbound Olympian of love
   now dwells amidst mossy glade
in which human guise,
   she doles out secrets of amorous trade
into dreamland such desire does in vade.

victuals to satiate pleasures of flesh
   especially erogenous zones
administered by imaginary mistress
   sin seductive tones
thru this private line, but no other phones
triggering mine little rolling stones
inducing groin seams of pants extreme groans
toward pocket sixty nine without any bones.

a copious amount of adoration
   suffuses entire body of this man
her, whose gentle and kind embrace
   promises to be eternal plan
whose healthy libido will probably
   outlive life span.

royal carpet treatment
   awaits me each and every day
   as differences between myself
   and august dweller on high
establish a bounty and glory of compassion
   to roll in the hay
    atop bodacious, delicious,
   felicitous fantasy asks me to lie
imbibing succulent atmosphere
   akin to an eternal month o may
   taking spirit soaring
   thousands of miles of feet in the sky.

upon hearing sweet nothings
  nobody else can hear
a sheer grin of joy
   lights up countenance ear to ear
despite impish quarks
   of this divine being so dear
as journey to inxs of nirvana
   induced from being buck naked bare.

while ******* hallucination
   at my male member does yank
reality quite the opposite with a wife acidly rank
she frequently pulls my hair as a childish prank
knowing full well that action
   turns mood sour as a crank
I would escape, but no money in piggy bank.

other times, her karma roars
   into a tempest with a rage
lashing out like a half-crazed
   maniac loosed upon global stage
on account of silent battles we regularly wage.

i admit my own fair share of peculiar traits
which only to private confidences t'will now relate
keep on the q-t lest spouse doth berate.

chief among these oddities comprise
   lower gastrointestinal
   perturbations issuing from the ***
which prompt innumerable outbursts of gas
which range from quiet puff to noisy, windy pass.

after usage of toilet with a bowel movement  
   large enough to sink a sub
wash ****** residue from my behind
   with a hose attached to the tub.

this couple resembles Frankenstein & his bride –
  argh what a pair
she taunts when i shower,
   clean the rest of my body including  hair
dry follicles shaking head
   back & forth side to side through the air.

there you now know foibles
   and unusual personal ways
uttering that such antics how she plays
like netted in a one man fraternity
   undergoing constant haze
pelting this poor soul scraps of food, she flays
until these covered
   with thick pasty gloppy glaze,
now laugh till you fall over
   and remain in stitches for days.
David Hilburn Feb 2019
Yet in the grasp
Of music I release
From its earthly prison, in case
A little star on the horizon, has me for cease

Pence in the fun, wouldn't a life
With a curious silence made true
The better side of courage, a whimsey and a strife
Mighty as I am, being a risk in the foolery…

Is like a dance with dread, and the ancient misery's
We dote among, the music comes
Like a reason in the mix, we serve to each other for history
And the doles we found, in the years, what some's!

Playing the fool, just once
Mind owed mystique, and a wholly made needs
Reason with me, the skill of bared conscience
To look among the stillness of many, and see the deed

Urge, are we the tows of a renamed irony?
Once the backward stare of portent, needing a gift
Of reach and remorse, powers of unique harmony
Have been the suddenness, of me, time with eyes to lift

Voices to assure...
The taste of requirement, that has a vice we adore
Rancor and peace in the miracle we name, a cooler purity
Of ourselves in truth and dismays mirror, where even us, is more

Liberty, and the image of unity we verify as life
Taken to dry minds and heavy hearts
Live for now, and the best we have to offer, a rainbows right
Luck and synergy to attest, loved, is where it all starts...
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 there’s no way to know where the hell I will go!

Ech day me comëth tydinges thre,
For wel swithë sore ben he:
The on is that Ich shal hennë,
That other that Ich not whennë,
The thriddë is my mestë carë,
That Ich not whider Ich shal farë.

Keywords/Tags: Middle English, rhyme, medieval, epigram, lament, complaint, weight, soul, burden, burdened, heaviness, plague, plagued, exit, death, manner, fen, torment, hell, when, where, how, why
David Hilburn Dec 2019
Legend of doles
Doles at history
History in a relative focus
Focus to quicken, and worth a story

Special consideration
For a life we never knew, without you
Speed and justice, the smile of complication
Taken forever, to the wishes you made for home

Promises we saw, and attest to calms
Serious enough for a lucid chaste, charm in a sense
Of passion and heroism, that knew a quiet amid the qualms
Of conscience in tow, and the patience of baring the amends

Does, a heart see true?
Has, a welfare of other's seek to give
Few, and the season of spontaneity we know due
Still to you, and the irony we preach, is to live

Futures we know can, a heed
Of all that is searched for and letting a many
Become the spare and specialness of a whole breed
To come and find in the rough, of a liberty we any
utpal Ghosh Nov 2018
Once one crosses the forbidden line on the wrong side of sixty.
Not to venture further into the next arithmetical digit.
There begins the journey to another world, even where the angels fear to tread.
All on a sudden one comes under uncountable whammies.

A jinxed land you stray into, full of a craggy jagged reef.
Razor sharp rocks you feel at every step and bleed.
Another shell shock  I devalued you are as a condemned jalopy.
Looks of all you love, speak a strange lingo: you get a creep.

It is anything but the old warm vibes of those years golden.,
Rather an overdose of pity and compassion over-laid with mushy emotion.
A good enough gesture to an infirm or a ******* or one in dotage.
A man past his prime and relevance like a mast broken of a boat sunken.

Written off the priority roster, stowed in a corner,
Dusted, sprayed and showcased as a piece of curio rare.
mothballed with care in medicine on rationed air.
Lest unseen germs of umpteen infections catch them unaware.

An appendage fit to be dumped in old age home.
A social cure-all, as they say, concerned so unwillingly,
A haven as safe as God’s Elysium for progenitors.
To be lionized as the epitome of pride and wisdom.

So adored they are but shunned cannily by every social connection.
A persona-non-grata in all spheres save for gratuitous complimentary doles.
Being in the jinxed circle of seventy is the sin only committed.
A few blessed ones manage to wiggle into the favoured positions.

A few ministerial ballasts, a lottery coup, or a few sine cure slots, a safety net of power & pelf.
The rest for a wallow in the morass of delusive expectations.
Oodles of stale dry sympathy, deceptive tears and bogus bonhomie.
Old raw sores get abraised-the world turns deaf.
……….
It’s a poetry by late Mr S M Ghosh, my late father
An educationist, history teacher and retired principal of  Central Schools,  in India.
It’s a poetry by late Mr S M Ghosh, my late father
An educationist, history teacher and retired principal of Kendriya Vidyalaya, India.
He passed away a few years back. Being his elder son, I am just transferring the written manuscript online so that his thoughts and message could reach to all the readers and poetry enthusiast.

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