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That Girl Mar 2015
One second frozen in time.
Your life stopped on a dime.
If it was­ captured,
In a quick snapshot,
Would this be a photo you orded d­oubles of? 

Is it you staring at your bright screen?
Or with bri­ght smile one your face?
If every moment is significant,
It appau­ling home much of it we waste!

Are you passing the time?
Of fulf­illing your purpose?
Do you know it yet?

When the trumpet sounds,
On that mysterious day,
Will you ­be glad to be taken away?

Will you feel like you've done your jo­b?
Or maybe that your time was robbed?

Will you regret each ­lazy hour spent?
Or be ready to finally ascend?
Crandall Branch Nov 2017
i love you baby
when you are near me my soul doubles
just like 4*2=8

without you a huge part of my life would be subratred
like when 8-5=2

when we are divided i feel so sad
like when a million/100=100

and when you add our love into the mix
i become infinite
just like 1+ infinity = infinity +1
a little love peom and i love math :)
please leave feedback and comments below
T Andre Bostwick Apr 2012
Don steps outside.

The sight of the piercing blue sky stops him in his tracks.
Immediately his heartbeat doubles and he begins to sweat.

Just look at that thing;
all that nothing.

It's just too much.
Jim Gillespie Mar 2012
Stomp, stomp stomp.

All I hear through the wind,

Beneath the boot of regret.

And as my eyes begin to dance,

it doubles,

triples,

again,

and again,

and again,

until I am blind.

Stomp, stomp, stomp,

is all I hear,

all I feel,

beneath the boot of regret.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Beneath the boot of regret,

it never stops.

Stomp


Stomp



STOMP.
Oskar Erikson Jul 2022
remembering
the day after
a date in the grasslands
where our necks
ached on earthy blankets
and legs mottled by sweet kisses
delivered from flies.

my god the
jealousy
that they had known intimacy
of the softness in the calves i took to
sleep that afternoon we met
filled the short
but beautiful
sunset
with melancholy.

maybe here you found
i held codependency quite closely.

so
you took me to one of those superstores
that sell
beds.

                                   "i have a friend who's closing he always makes and double folds the quilt because it makes him feel like someone's mum."

you half shouted over
the motorway behind us- the demanding
yet
secondary conversation.

how
i wondered, did i end up here
                   - the boy i liked 6 months in -
laughing between
his downy hair and tap touchy fingers
now
so proudly leading the way
as his
friend, tired & mischievous
ushered us into the theatre
of infinite fractal bedspreads.

                                                 "hurry up so i can close to give you your privacy i'm going for a smoke."

spoken like any true
east London mum-
all ciggie ash
and true love.

i got to watch you work

which was flattering to say the least.
to stand beside
kings and queens
doubles and singles
being bent
dragged and persuaded
to your whimsy.
watching the curve of a bicep
seized up in delirious rearranging
                         - the muscles of the neck betray the youth of love-
until a masterpiece emerging
before us both
was realised.

                      "at least now we can cuddle without the bugs...or at the least these are bed ones?"

i remember
unwrapping the currently occupied smokers
carefully settled blankets like a first birthday
gift.
sliding under them,
with my shoes kicked away in eagerness.
your arms
not yet scarred with indecision
pull me closer till i forget to breathe....

this is it.
the mattresses connected sheets and sheets and sheets of feeling and this is it at once to cover and unravel against the texture of the cushions the springs the feathers locked away this is it like the words i whispered through the skin of the pillow your arm not so much pinned as smothered below the crook of my neck and this is it all there is is the smell of us in this beautiful moment that latches me to the frame in my mind against my back with the weight of the future this is it the pressing pressing pressing at the touch of our palms the touch of our lips the distances we'll learn to walk alone or together or side by side but not able to look at the path we tread perpendicular to our hearts this is it this is it this is it it it


....then i breathe.
Riley Nov 2021
1)

don't forget to keep breathing
cradle-rock your heart
soothe your ribs
don't forget to breathe

2)

the cold is natural
bundle up now
you can always shed
your skin
when the sky turns

3)

don't linger
in the places you once Were
keep moving else
your blood settle

4)

late night parking decks
hotel rooftops
yourSelf a whisper
honeysuckle blooms through
concrete wounds

5)

don't think about waking
ripping out of your body
clawing through the coffin and up
and up

your gravesite is spotless still

6)

dream
cool rich earth
lilies and lavender
whisper rustle of leaves
dream

7)

dream
heavy water
lake mud and rock ****
desperate silence
dream

8)

dream
hunger
Hunger
H u n g e r
dream

9)

dream
slow opening
granite doors and damp moss
spaces between absent heartbeats
wake

10)

the hollow is natural
the brain craves familiarity
the phantom mirrors the physical
the hunger will fade
for a time

11)

when eating cherries
don't forget to imagine a tongue

12)

remorse with me
may the living one day
bestow our graves with offerings
we starve in silence

13)

hollowing may beget holiness
but it doesn't denote such
divinity must be earned
few buildings have managed

14)

you can almost smell his skin
stomach rising and falling
best not to dwell
his life is no longer yours

15)

phantom petal flesh
teeth and thrush
rosethorn oleander s e e p ing black
curses and
sinking
  forest rot
    deep
       soil


16)

do not follow
when the wind asks your counsel
when the moon thorn buds
when the night screams bruiseblueblack
do not seek the woods alone

17)

don't dwell
it's natural to feel exposed
keeping space beside you
will only make missing them worse

18)

let the ceiling fall
it is beyond your power
stars make fairy lights
through the frame of branches
as it should be

19)

Death is a story keeper
an archivist
a library of everything
from the first atoms
to the last sparks

20)

don't worry
the house hasn't moved
since you last saw it
though the tree seems closer

21)

press yourself into
the size of a fist
wrap clockwise around
his heart
cherish the fleeting creature

22)

there is always
my s p a c e
left in the bed
when I come home to
haunt

23)

there is
My space
left in the house
when I come Home to
Haunt!!!a

Zombie

24)

missed exit
streetlights smeared by rain
vacant hotels
liminality made nostalgia

25)

tracing paper kisses
early spring thaw
did I melt away too

26)

isn't is strange
your shadow doubles
film printed over film
light runs through you
heat waves off pavement

27)

time will slip off you
don't cling to it
you'd have better luck
holding the sun
time is beyond you now

28)

the hunger doesn’t fade
it twists itself into sickness
an unfillable void

29)

let your heart fill
with paint and
dust
like the nail holes in plaster
last remains smoothed over

30)

there is no place
for you here
why do you insist on
lingering

31)

this house is a heart
you
are a phantom gunshot

32)

do you remember
a sharp pain where your lungs should be
the pressure of blood stagnant

33)

molars, incisors, canines
rigid and Real against
the memory of your tongue
a sharpness drawing blood
staining the sidewalk beneath your false feet

34)

your body is
wet rot and beetles
a collection of rooms
teeth and stomach and hollowing all disarticulated
a knife in a box

35)


sunlight breaking dust layers
the curtains wave lazily
someone has tracked mud through the halls
a splintered attic door hangs off
its hinges
the air tastes green

36)

when you finally become hollowed
the space between houses
the space between ribs
the space between teeth
the light that pours out
you will be made holy
in your Own image

37)

thick ozone at the back of your throat
rainless thunder rolls
the old piano shuffles untouched
a discordant funeral keen
the air ignites

38)

elevator doors close
open
close
stale cigarettes and cleaning chemicals
fluorescent buzzing
vacant sobs in an airy tomb
of concrete

39)

parking decks remain
a kind of home base
for those of us lacking liminality
every one is the same
and as such becomes intimately familiar
no matter how far it means you are
from home

40)

how many eyes are you supposed to have
what about teeth
count them in the mirror
again
again
Again

41)

beauty is in the eye
gnashing teeth
silent weeping
love lies not in the heart
nor head
but in the stomach

42)

skin peels back
muscles made of embroidery thread
birch bones bleeding
indigo
flesh transmuted

43)

you move through the world
as it moves through you
silently creeping
swirls of smoke and fog
filling up to your sternum

44)

wander
for a time
everything will be unfamiliar
on your journey and
return
to a stranger’s home

45)

dust to dust
and ashes to ashes
your headstone crumbles
your bones are meal
the world in which you haunt
will one day be far removed from
your own

46)

study the web
the winding and stretching of gossamer
collapsed in on itself
clustered with dew

47)

study the shell
the crests and smooths hard as bone
fragile against your fingers
an inner matrix of holes

48)

study the nest
the braiding weaves of branch and thread
fractured to one side
feathers slip asunder

49)

study the desk
the crags and slopes of precarious inkstaining
spilling frozen towards the floor
fine filtering of dust

50)

remember
what Precisely is a
Haunted
house

51)

Congratulations on Completing Part I of Your Introduction Handbook
Please Continue onto Part II

52)

fallow hearts sewn full of seed
bones with the crack and bend of trees
pressed petal flesh bruiseblack at the knees
when building a new body don't forget what it needs

53)

liminality is a current
riptide in some places
burble in others
watch for waterfalls
death doesn’t mean you're a strong swimmer

54)

builders write messages
on the innermost workings
of their buildings
behind the plaster disintegrating and
the wallpaper peeling
a belly button
a birthmark

55)

when the moon calls your name
listen
when the raven screeches warning
heed
when the voices of a house offer deals
Run

56)

kitten-footed fog
follow it through
the tall thin trees
until you see lights
then follow it
home

57)

tell me about humanity
does it hurt you
is it heavy to bear
or is it just breathing
one foot in front of the other
a faded photograph

58)

rivers slip blue
through the land like veins
cornflower and cobalt
cold tissue paper flesh

59)

missed connection
you left flowers
three graves down
I was in white
under the maple tree

60)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in blue
I'm right here
just turn around

61)

missed connection
every sunday
you walk
bakery library home florist cemetery
you talk to yourself
I always answer

62)

missed connection
you talk in your sleep
do you sense I'm there
deep in your bones
do you know you'll never
be alone again

63)

missed connection
I smashed a plate
and spent all night playing
in your wires
can you feel me now
in the light bulbs humming

64)

missed connection
you haven't spoken since
it's so silent I could be heard
I'm sleeping in the walls
singing for you

65)

missed connection
you were up all night
researching the supernatural
I'm right here
just see me

66)

missed connection
sunday you started talking
to me
we took a new walk
library shopping district cemetery home
notes and candles and blacksalt
a rubbing of my gravestone

67)

missed connection
nothing we tried worked
you still can't see me
you can just hear
my humming in the power sockets
my singing in the walls

68)

missed connection
I wrote you a letter
with leaves under your staircase
you swept them without noticing
singing one of my songs

69)

missed connection
you found a picture of me
framed it
sometimes you leave letters
my name on the front
hidden in the table drawer

70)

missed connection
I tried writing on glass panes
whispering in your ears
you tried spirit boards
seances and divination
I'll never stop
as long as you live

71)

missed connection
you stopped leaving letters
sunday walks abandoned
for living friends
I shorted out the tv
you don't come home much
anymore

72)

missed connection
you started driving
to nowhere
I tucked myself
between
the back seats
you locked eyes with me
through oncoming headlights

73

missed connection
I broke every mirror
ran screaming through the wires
the curtains are catching fire
can you still feel me
do you still know I'm here

74)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in black
just turn around
please turn around
I'm right here
always
a long-form poem about being a ghost
ryn Jan 2015
How much do you have to hate life,
to not be scared of death?
- ThePoet


I'd be lying if I said I wasn't
Because I really am afraid
But life has only sharp things
Wonder if death is willing to trade...

Longing
...a splinter
Embedded in the recesses of my core
Nestled deep, this tiny thorn
The source of my disconcerting sore

Need
...a shard
That stabs itself deep
Extract it I will not
Think it's worth the keep

Miss
...a knife
With never a dull blade
Stabs itself right through
Pain that will never fade

Want
...a syringe
Injecting the good and bad
Side effects loom
Driving me quite mad

Love
...a stake
Rammed into my heart
It doubles me over
It rips me apart

Life*
...a spike
Impaling without fail
Siphoning my soul
Through the holes in my mail


These are the few sharp things that I own
The only things I've learnt to savour
I've nurtured them large; now fully grown
Always wondered what death has got to offer...
Line taken off ThePoet's "How?", for Frank Ruland's "I Love Doing Lines!" challenge.

This line left me speechless when I first read it. It boasts of so few words but bears so much weight. It's smart, thought provoking and amazingly deep.
I started toying with it and came up with a response.

I am a big fan of ThePoet. I find that her entries exhibit uncanny wisdom, well laid thoughts and they're incredibly captivating.
Here's to you, ThePoet...
Thank you for the inspiration!
.
As you see
I hear you,


Millions racing over
Raindrops

Singles,
Doubles,

          "Ctrl z my dreams."

Demons praying for the
          "Golden Truth"


The hopeless will always triumph.
Mixed doubles
Game of ***** began
Love all, score all
One up one, one by one
In high eye catching speed
Hapless **** shuttling
Between rattling battling bats
Oh, behold charming Olympians  
Of insatiable thirst to win
In unflinching sweat in spin
Enticing game of *****
Enthralling audible audience
Exciting radiance of players
Unabated batting beats
Withered feather of floating shuttle-*****
Spectacle kept spectators at bay
With bated breath at sight
Hooray to matchless display of match
No matter who won n’ owned medal
David Adamson Apr 2019
A man in a field walks through a storm.
Snowflakes on his eyelashes blur his vision.
A man in a study believes in snow,
believes in the truth of snow.

A man leaves traces as he walks.
His tracks ornament the field’s blank.
He meanders, doubles back, evading,
leaves imprints that the snow erases.
A man walks. The snow falls.  

In a study, a man devotes himself to snow.
He reads from the book of snow.
He composes wintry axioms.
“Snow:  Atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals
that drop on a walking man’s eyelashes
or lie blank in an unwritten field.

“Snow is a conflict,
a confusion, a yearning.
Letters are desire.
Margins are melancholy.”

The storm disappears.
A man squints at blurred words,
Resumes writing,
Shaking snow from the page.
Derek Yohn Dec 2013
Hunting easter eggs in December,
and yet they seek me out instead.

i never find them at my pace;
standing, drunk, outside familiar
bars in the cold, randomly
dialing number combinations
to hear whispers or silences.

Radio wave transmigrations
they are, a look to the
past, a nod to the future,
a moment in stasis
where the keypad blurs,
doubles, focuses, blurs,
and i am lost one more time.

Crackling...

clearly static, the white noise
of separation, the
                    (hidden)
     message
             bro      ke  n
    a
        p
            a
                r
                    t,

perfectly human, but alone.
heidi Jun 2010
She  shuffles and scuttles quickly along
beating her way,
through the Christmas throng

The north wind cutting  her mottled face
But shes not part of the Christmas race
For things not needed, luxurious, unwise
Her mind fixed on the price and size
Of a winter coat in that Oxfam place,
she prays its still there, she quickens her pace.

The bell dings-a-ling as she opens the door
Not feeling her legs so tird and sore
Like a long lost friend it waits on the rail
she thanks her god its still for sale.

Her hurry finished, her purchase complete
She focuses now on something to eat

To the corner shop she makes to go
happier now  , her step is slow
bread and milk ,this and that
two tins of food for her little cat

Home at last her mission complete
She models her coat and warms her feet
She cuddles her cat and locks her door
She makes their tea and she cuddles him more

She dims the light her prayers are said
She thanks her god for her winter coat
that doubles as a duvet for her bed.
copyrite: Heidi 2008
Mikaila May 2015
I move through the world
And I want to give
Like a soft rain.
Quiet and gentle,
Never demanding, never harsh, never desperate.
Like breathing
I want to give
And it falls over everything like a shimmering veil.
It is unhurried and strangely detached,
A love that floats lazily down to alight wherever it may.
Most of the time
My need to give is like that.
I have made it so.
But
Every so often I turn and see someone.
I trip and fall and quite by accident I SEE.
And suddenly it courses through me like lightning.
Suddenly the earth cannot accept the light that roots me to it,
Reaching its crackling fingers outward for ANYTHING that will survive its touch.
Unsatisfied and violent with motion, it doubles back and sears through me
Filling my veins with molten silver.
Do you know what it is to love something so completely
That if you were to ever touch it it would powder to ash in seconds
And everything you saw to love
Would catch the wind like cinders?
When I read as a child
That at the smallest level we never TRULY touch-
Our atoms repelling one another by magnetism-
I wept.
And I could still weep
For I have always known the excruciating sensation of "so close",
I was born of it
And the sobering understanding that to touch
Destroys.
Oil paintings, butterfly wings, tearstained cheeks-
My fingertips are weapons.
I have been kissed and thought,
"Unmake me."
I have loved so hard that,
Desperate,
I held my smoldering hands against my stomach,
Willing to burn to keep my arms from seeking purchase.
Oh, all hands are weapons!
And I have held them,
Felt the heat.
I have kissed palms,
Clutched them to my chest and tried to burn away the space
The maddening space
Between my skin and theirs.
If I had my way
If I knew I wouldn't leave equal scars
I would cover myself with the handprints of people I love,
Let them change me.
Let them make me.
I am gentle
Because inside I am chaos.
I am soft
Because inside I burn.
And every time I
Don't
Brush my fingers along the cheek of someone I worship,
I count it as an act
Of unutterable love,
To hold back such tender violence.
Davinalion Apr 8
The Vision of Chess
"Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate"
The Vision of Judgment,
Lord Byron

1

Hail, sixty-four squared altar of my doom!
Where I, a washed-up husband, pale and stressed,  -
While dishes stack like skyscrapers in gloom,
and kids belt out some earworm they’ve obsessed, -
I click my bishop forth with trembling hand,
A modern Nero in a mouse command.

Oh, Chess! Brain-teasing, sweet time-sucking game,
Where men of leisure waste their waking hours,
While wives, in wrath, but whisper not our name,
Lest we should mock wife's frail domestic powers.
For what’s a husband’s duty? Mop the floors?
Or chase the black and white to victory’s shore?
It does not matter — wives shall weep the more,
And call you childish — nah - yet play we must,
Till death or stalemate stills our foolish lust.

Oh, Chess! Thou thief of kisses, sly and cold,
Who steals the fire that else might warm the bed —
What hands, which once did roam in passion bold,
Now idly push a pawn or knight instead?
What midnight sighs are lost to checkmate’s art,
When lips might meet, and trembling fingers twine?
Yet kings and queens command the foolish heart,
And love’s sweet gambit fades with each passed line.
So wives lie cold, betrayed by chess’s scheme,
While men kneel — not to love, but to a Queen.

2

“But chess is noble!” I shout to the void,
“Not like those sweaty Call of Duty crews!”
Wife doesn’t care—her wifely rage deployed,
My pawn’s sweet moves won’t calm her dishpan blues.
Same crime, same mess: the floor’s a wreck, the bed
Unmade — while pawns dance in my empty head.

So here I sit, a forty-something champ,
My mouse - my sword, the screen - my epic quest.
Pawns drop like flies before the coffee’s amped,
Bishops get smoked by tricks I’ve long professed.
“Brain rules!” I yell—but when the chores pile high,
My queen bolts fast, and I just wave bye-bye.

3

Check out the fate of dudes past forty years:
All fun shrinks down to kid-stuff we adore.
The couch-bound football fan drowns in his beers,
The LARPers clank around and ask for more.
But snowboard bros, once shredding peaks with flair,
Now flop like dads on hills of pure despair.

But wait! One trick can dodge the spousal shade:
Slap “job” on hobbies, watch the scorn retreat.
Bloggers spew hot takes, call it “getting paid,”
Priests dodge the grind with sermons oh-so-sweet.
You start a cult — and housework’s off your plate,
A pro-level flex to sidestep boring fate.

4

But me? I’m chess or bust—need no grandmaster fame,
Nor stuffy clubs with suits and fake applause.
Let “Go” nerds stew in never ending game -
I’ve got three kids – three terrors with no laws.
A quick blitz match, my caffeine-fueled retreat,
“Brain food!” I mutter, dodging chore defeat.

Yet sometimes, through the crumbs and coffee rings,
I glimpse the pros — chess gods who rake in cash.
They shrug off wife aggro with prize bling-bling,
Legends who play while dodging household trash.
But wait — what’s that? A glow through window cracks?
Not dawn — it’s Kovalyov’s canadian pantsless flack!

5

So, came this day—nay, mark the very hour!—
Chess world flipped out with fashion-fueled delight.
Young Kovalyov, Canada’s proud brain-power,
Stormed on Tbilisi, eager for a fight.
Not stalemate’s dread nor rival’s sneaky art—
His knee-length shorts - that was the thing that tore his game apart.

“GM” before his name — a shiny tag,
Which fools read Grandmaster (and so do I).
But real ones know it’s just a humble brag:
“Mom, I’m not a loser!” comes his cry.
And moms, since time began, just nod and say,
“Sure, kid, it’s fine — now go and win the day!”

6

What wrecked his vibe? No chess trap, no cruel twist—
Just Thomas Delega, say Polish-born.
He clocked those knees and threw a judgy hiss:
“Pants, man! The Code’s a rule you can’t unlearn!”
Kovalyov, half-dressed usual - but a mess,
Bare legs sparked scandal — chess’s wildest stress.

“Grzegorz! Three days have passed that I’ve rocked this fit!
Since when do knights need slacks to slay a king?
Did Morphy’s tie get checked? Did Lasker bring
A label saying ‘Dry Clean’? What a thing!
You’d think it’s Wimbledon, not boardgame lore—
Next, rooks in bowties? I’m out the door!”

7

And here - from Georgia’s hills, a titan strode,
Zurab Azmaiparashvili — GM triple-stack!
(At his age, it’s less skill, more “I’ve got the code—
Beat your granddad with dice, and that’s a fact!”)
His growl shook the hall like a thunderclap:
“Defy tradition? Kid, you’re in my trap!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I, who played Fischer 'neath the Iron Curtain,
Who saw Kasparov's cardigans for certain—
I say: No bare legs below the belt, you hear?
Chess ain’t a beach bash for a TikTok’s cheer!
Suit up, you punk, or taste eternal doom—
The board’s no catwalk for your Hollister gloom!
Shorts-wearing brat, You think rules don’t apply?
I’ve crushed kings since your mom was all knee-high!
Again - I've battled kings ere you were born,
I say: No shorts upon the sacred board!

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“Three days I’ve rocked this fit—so why flip now?
What’s with the sudden pants-policing vow?”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

“What’s wrong with you, boy, flashing knees like that?
This ain’t some surf shack—you’re on my mat!
Think you’re a rebel, some board-riding ape?
We guard the game’s soul, not your summer escape!
Get lost, you rogue—you Gypsy trash, I said—
No shorts-clad clown’s wrecking my chess spread!”

(Ah, mark the statesman's art! When tempers rise,
The wise man picks his slurs with enterprise:
Jews own the banks, and Russians stir the *
But Gypsies? Perfect scapegoats! They'll... er... not
Sue. Though Kovalyov—that "pantsless bitch"—
took deep offense with sudden gypsy stitch.)

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“What crusty, old-man venom’s stuff is this?
I’m out—but hear me, your insults won’t stick,
You fossilized relic, stuck in your strange bliss!
Your reign’s on fumes, you are Jurassic prick.
Enjoy your throne, you wrinkled crazy czar—
My loyal lawyers are drafting while you spar!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I built this game empire on checkered gold,
I funneled millions through my Georgian hold!
This runt dares mock the sacred code I wrote?
I’ll make him kneel — or slit his fukking* throat."

8

Then Capablanca’s ghost slid in, all chill,
“Zurab, you’d whine if God moved pawns downhill!”
Last Fischer came from nowhere, problematic,
"I told you - all those Russians love to cheat!
Now add some 'clotheshorse' to crooked shemes Asiatic—
Next they'll demand we kiss our king's corrupted feet!
Hey Boy! Your shorts are battle dress - me being enigmatic—
I have no clue what I am saying, dammn,
Let’s burn this *f
uckinng circus down, GM!"

9

But then — from frozen lands, a clapback bold!
The Maple Leaf Federation cleared its throat.
(A shock! Since sports bureaucrats, truth be told,
move slower than a dial-up modem’s note.)
"If 'gypsy' be thy slur of choice, Grandmaster,
Know this: Our knight may lack pants, but he's
No target for thy Cold War-era disaster
Of rhetoric. We stand — perplexed — by these
Exposed but principled Canadian knees!"

10

You think that Canada is just some hockey's hype?
They're blasting dingers and lacrosse a lot.
But chess up north's an unexpected type:
Each pawn with stick and fukked* while smoking pot.
The bishops blaze in a THC storm.
How was this Federation even born?

Two Jews from Odessa (then-Soviet) took their shot -
Two masters from Soborka chessboard's fray -
"In Canada, we'll score a noble lot:
Let's form a Federation - clean and grey!
Report the cash as gifts from gays and queer,
Then skim our three percent - and disappear."

Their paperwork was filed with lawyer's grace -
with a nonprofit shield and lots of honors.
Each tournament did fill their pockets' space,
While CRA got screwed by happy donors.
Oh Canada! Your tolerance is grand:
With logo shaped like puck - you are in demand.

11

FIDE flared up, its temper old and gray,
With twenty million stacked in vaults below,
Its voice  — a boom that made the chessboard sway —
Roared loud, a mix of rage and twisted glow:
"Dammn* Canada — get out, hey - you're dreaming!
Zurab’s cash will not move t'your fuukking* den!
“Gens una Sumus” says our motto - meaning -
your're stuck with three percent - while we have TEN!"

But soon that curse was drowned in wilder sound,
As chess broke free, like stars through Hubble’s lens,
New worlds on worlds flashed out, unbound, profound,
A sprawl of moves no rulebook comprehends —
Like rabbits hummpiing* under cosmic trends.

12

Then came a mob — no one could pin their source,
Some black-hole crack where asteroids vanish -  
The Chess Pros Fed, spitting a lot of words
In Russian, English, German, French and Spanish:
"Zurab, you Georgian mutt, your end’s a bet!
No FIDE ghost will shield you from our grip—
Tbilisi, two weeks — time to place your debt —
Bow now, or we will DOGE your sinking ship!"

Then head of Canada's Chess Federation shrieked,
A suit named Vlad Drukletch, some nervous jerrk.
(Croat or not, his roots were hard to leek).
He stepped up too, all pale, his words a perk.
And puzzle cleared itself like long awaited ace,
Unveiling why this war began in the first place.

13

Few years ago the wheel of power *jj
errked
Steve Harper crashed, that right-wing king of gloom,
Trudeau soared up, all snowboards, rights, and work
For climate, weeeedd, and every woke-asss* bloom.
The Right hoards cash till people’s patience frays,
Then Lefties swoop, with rights and pot to spare,
The finance system dies in liberal haze,
Plus NDP just doubles down on flair —
and splits the wreck, with ruins everywhere.

When funds dry up, the Right locks down the vault,
But when they bulge, the Left burns through the stack —
It's not just Russia stumbles in this fault,
The world’s a drunk who’s lost the sober track —
It's reeling blind from dawn down to pitch-black.
Still, here’s the catch: the whip lands when it’s due,
Each decade, business kneels to take its hit.
A messed-up game, sure, but it’s got a clue —
More fair than screws that tighten bit by bit,
A grind where no one ever calls for quit.

14

The leftward tide now sweeps both East and West,
While right-wing fools still cling to what they know.
"Let's work!" they cry. "No whining! Earn your bread!"
The left just wails "Oppression!" loud and low.
When pipelines thicken, Leftists ask their share,
Yet Rightists clutch the spigot, firm and cold —
Not just in dunes where camels tread with care,
But boardrooms where the new crusades are sold.
The maps they draw in ink of liquid gold
Still bleed like wounds that never learned to knit.
Each barrel priced, each treaty bought and signed,
Yet ancient grudges fester, unconfined.

The West once carved the feast with steady knives,
But now the plates are cracked, the guests revolt —
Some scream for walls, some beg for homeless hives,
While deep beneath, the drills still twist and bolt.
Here comes the Holy Land - a bleakest jot,
Where prophets weep at profits dearly bought.
And Christ is preaching not on love or grace,
But quotas, pipelines, and who gets what place.
But Son of God himself by strange decree
Stands homeless where he preached “Come unto Me.”

15

UNESCO, with its crooked left 'politess',
Declared the Temple Mount not Israel's right.
And Canada with Russia voted "Yes!"
While Europe coughed and shrank out of the sight.
It's strange when Russia's stance align with that
of maple-leaf moralists so pure and trite.
Perhaps they played some deeper game instead -
Fed fools the rope to hang themselves with pride.
Lavrov might smirk, "Who cares what's wrong or right?
Let's vote for chaos - watch the baassstarrds slide!"

Now Trudeau won't set foot on Jewish land,
While Hamas's praised, the IDF's condemned.
But what's this got to do with chess, you ask?
The threads connect - just trace them to the task!

16

So, Drukletch stormed in, fury in his eyes,
Two damning charges, sharp as battle cries:

"Zurab himself defiled our sacred rule!
Last time he flaunted shorts himself — so cruel!
Here is that photo - if you trust your eyes -
Those shameless knees expose their master's lies!"
The tournament hall, once prim, now gaped in shock,  
As chess tradition crumbled 'neath this frock.

"And second — mark this plot, so sly and dire —
He schemed with Max Rodshtein, that Israeli liar!
When Kovalyov received this reprimand,
Rodshtein did claim his win by Zurab's hand!"

17

The camera's lenze caught that very scene
Where Zurab clashed with Kovalyev Anton —
Behind his back, so real and serene,
The Jewish flag unfurled it's hexagon.
Was it pure chance or some malicious craft?
We may dispute for ages as we see
That irony is flawless in its art —
To stir the doubt, yet hide the guilty part.

And Maxim Rodshtein — what’s his voice to this?
Zip. Nada. None, or so the silence tells.
He’s mute as stone, no stance to curse nor hiss,
His thoughts lie hushed in deep, uncharted wells.
His statement might have cleared the foggy mess —
Perhaps a quip where wry amusement dwells:
“I, Maxim, swear, on all that’s been debated,
I’ve naught to say - and thus stay unberated.”

18

When Drukletch dropped his shit, unhinged and loud,
Maxim, perchance, just smirked beneath his breath —
And thought: “These crazy fools have lost their ground",
And mused, while dodging scandal’s creeping mess.
Was he, too, in shorts, blending with the crowd?
He slipped in early, missing Gzhegosh’s eye,
And whispered humbly to Zurab about
His sin and swore to make amends or die.
Or not. Perchance instead he bided time,
Till eyes turned blind, and then he fixed his crime.

Imagine this: when not observed by jury
He popped his belt, let shorts sag low and free—
Dashed to his quarters, swift as fleeting fury,
And slid into fresh pants for all to see.
Then sauntered back as if returned from jerry,
And calmly waited how the pantsless mess
Unfolds - True whizz of sneaky moves and shady chess.

19

Of course, he blew it — mute, he stands accused,
A silence thick with fault, a rookie’s sin —
No star up high turns random, unexcused,
When chess and junk from youtube fill their din.
We - slaves of FIDE, time’s obsessive kin, -
Find solace in the board’s eternal grind,
Yet heavens spill a truth no app can bind.

From stellar drift, our souls snag cosmic crumbs,
A science feast where fans like us abide —
Each orbit track unveils existence’s sums,
A rock from space could crush a species wide,
Or bare the Chess Union’s throne, once ruled
By old-school titan, grizzled, grand, and sly,
Since days when knights and kings refused to die.

The plot twists hard, two tangled farces join!
Two Europes clash — one freaks at Israel’s claims,
The next, per Zurab's hand, awards it points,
GM-OLD-TITAN gambits double game!
And that's a place where I have to proclaim -
(I hope, my friend, you safely sit on cushions) -
That Kovalyev and Rodshtain - both are Russians,
Like Zurab, Gzrghegozsh, Drukletch, you and me,
Whichever rugs you hoist on guilty knee.
But even if this chess is a complex game,
There is no cause to quit the hunt for who’s to blame.

20

I lift my eyes — cheap telescope in hand —
(Black Friday deal, now half in coffee rust ) -
To scan the heavens where the gods once lived
A clockwork sphere, both elegant and just.
But no! The sky’s a glitching simulation,
A cosmic joke beyond verification.

The 3-b problem laughs — its dance malign
Mocks supercomps and makes them crash outright.
While black holes, like some crypto-scheme divine,
Suckk matter in and vanish out of sight.
And every week, some space-tool’s revelation
Just adds more trash to scientists' frustration.

The theorists weep (their models are so neat),
Now watch dark energy their work erase.
The universe cares not for their conceit —
It shrinks, expands, and memes right in our face.
The flat-Earthers beliefs are nice to keep!
At least they never lose a wink of sleep.

I hope they don't. And so do I. Indeed,
The Brownian churn of facts will lead
to nowhere. For mind's sake I need some order,
I need to find myself on someone’s border
To get involved in real life's galore
Where shorts defend their truth, and trousers soar.

21

Look at the great and blind machine of life,
That's called 'the evolution'. With no plan,
No grand design, no meaning in the strife,
it's creatures fight. For what? - Because they can.
Yet from this carnage we, like plants, emerged —
through wars, and plagues, and famine neatly purged.

Life’s blind fists scrabble through time’s suckkkingggg* mire,
With no grand scheme or plan to light its way.
No goal, no guide — just chance’s old desire,  
Where cells just splice and rot in Darwin’s gear.
They split, they clash, they fight in endless roll,
And do not know why do they live at all.
  
Life’s vivid pulse is carved from pain’s harsh sting,  
Survival forged in shadows of despair.  
Each wound, each war, each plague’s unyielding spring  
Sharpens the blade of life’s relentless lair.  
Dare to erase the rot, the fang, the claw?
In vain. The fangs just sharpen, craving more.

We boast we’re not like beasts, blind to the fray,  
Our minds, we claim, can carve a flawless state.  
With logic’s torch, we’ll chase all vice away,  
And moral codes will banish every hate.  
Yet smug, we scorn the sludge where life’s begun,  
Convinced we’re gods, not fools who chase the sun.

We say - let the economists hold sway,  
While math whiiizzz minds make finances align.  
Philosophers, who swear they’ve found the way,  
Will purge all wrong with Marxist truth divine.  
But pride infects their hearts, a fatal flaw —  
Their zeal breeds ruin, shattering the law.

When brainiacs seize the power, chains arise,  
The world morphs fast into a prison’s gloom.  
Wars rage so fierce, the death toll blinds the skies,  
While taxes crush and cleave the social room.  
The more they plan, the more the world rebels,
And feeds the very hells they sought to quell.

Watching this circus of brain-power frays,
Where ivy-league bacilli sheit* their pants,
I won’t pose as some sage or cuantt who stays
Above the brawl. No coward’s sheitt, my friends.
Feeling myself a part of nature's law,
I always pick a side in every war.

22

I stand with Israel, Trump, Fide and Jesus -
that one of eastern Orthodox edition.
The void of saints and sinners sits between us,  
or "readers" - I should say - and this petition -
like modern Moses' tablets' audition -
is craving for your sacred recognition:

Go fuuckck yourself with any crap you own!
I do not care… or do I? Hard to tell.
My veins are Red Bull buzz, emotions blown,
A clown in life’s circus, yelling 'hell'!  
Like I’ve pants down and stand right here, felled,
Waiting for love — or Zurab's leather belt.

And so I wish you too, dear wasted reader,
(Gorged on the trash the internet excretes),
May life be tournament — be it FIDE or tweeter—
And bruise you hard, yet leave you weirdly freed.
A twisted prize from this digital bleeder,  
Served hot, with middle fingers as your leader.  

I'll go get scammed by crypto’s latest fad,
Or doomscroll news that fry my last brain cell.
Cry on no hill — all hills are good and bad.
But if you’re yelling at the void - yell well:
Let hope ignite where broken life still glows
And screams for love that vanished.

Smooches, bros!
Amanda Wagg Aug 2014
It seemed inviting so I sat on the stool.
It made me uncomfortable the way he started to drool.
This place was a hole in the wall, a run-down that had started to fade,
a place where lovers and drunk heroes were made.

So I called to the bar keep and ordered a drink.
I'd take anything if it helps me not to think.
I downed my first and took a sigh.
I'd rather be anywhere else I'm not gunna lie.

The guy behind the bar clearly wanted to know,
and the anger inside was starting to grow.
"How about another?" said the bar keep.
"I know something that'll help you sleep."

I said "sure," and he passed me a shot.
I felt the bullet slide down. It helped a lot.
I decided that maybe this guy could understand.
I could feel my brain fall through the cracks like sand.

"Pass me another," I said with a frown.
"give me the hard stuff, don't let me down."
He came over and set it on the bar,
I felt the poison settle at the bottom of my stomach like tar.

He simply asked "How are you feeling?"
I could feel my eyes peeling.
"Not to good. I feel like ****,"
"my family hats me." I could see a cigarette being lit.

"Why'd they hate a nice guy like you?" he said with a smirk.
"maybe its the way I let my feelings lurk,"
"they lurk in the shadows full of anger and sadness."
"Maybe its to hide away all of my madness."

"Thats to bad." said the guy mixing my drink.
he set another toxin down before i could think.
"I didn't order this drink," I said a little confused.
"or did I?" I asked. I'm starting to feel a bit defused.

"Yes you did sir," he said with a smile.
"should i put it on your tab? will you be staying a while?"
"you can tell me more about your troubles."
"but if i keep drinking i'll start seeing doubles."

"don't worry about it, Ill get you a ride,"
"thank you," I said. "you'd be saving my hide."
"Then I'll have one or two more and call it quits,"
"I wont have too much, I want to keep my wits."

"so tell me more about the kids and wife,"
"is that truly what you wanted from life?"
"If they hate you so much, why do you put up with them?"
"Where does their hatred for you stem?"

"Is it what I wanted from life? Maybe not."
"Before our son, we just fought."
"now we do it when he's put and away,"
I don't want to keep fighting until I'm old and grey."

"Where did our wife start to misbehave?" I was unaware he refilled my glass.
I saw a guy outside smoking his grass.
I took the shot and thought about what he said.
"what do you mean 'misbehave'?" I felt as heavy as led.

"Well you know what I mean," said the guy.
"when she starts to cheat and lie."
"she doesn't think that you'll find out,"
"and when you accuse her she'll starts to pout."

"my wife doesn't cheat," I said confidently.
"she wouldn't dare do that to me."
"and why is that?" asked the bartender.
"what would you do if she didn't tell you the truth and surrender?"

"Well i'd-" I paused and pondered what I was about to say.
I wouldn't ever do that, even if our relationship has started to fray.
"I know what you're thinking and man is the bold,"
"but you do have your pride to uphold."

"Some relationship aren't that sweet,"
"some women are just meat,"
"they sleep around here and there,"
"then cry about how life isn't fair."

He set a drink and i took it right away.
I couldn't believe what I was about to say.
"If my wife cheated i'd teach her real good,"
"I'd hit her so much she'd be trying o hide her face with a hood."

The bartender just stared at my for a second and handed me a shot.
I was thinking about what the bar-keep had brought.
I've had six hard drinks and this would make seven.
I could feel myself getting farther and farther away from heaven.

I can't believe what I had just confessed.
I said I would hit my wife. With too much ***** I'm not at my best.
I'm not thinking about what I'm saying.
In my head the thing I just said keeps replaying.

The bartender spoke for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Some women need to be taught a lesson. what ever."
"sometimes it needs to be done,"
"they need to learn that there isn't anywhere to run."

" yeah you're right." I said without thinking.
Im blurting out words without even blinking.
I need to slow down on the drinks.
The bartender then replied, "Maybe you should go to your wife and work out the kinks."

"If she doesn't listen to you then do what you said and teach her a lesson,"
"you need to do it now before she grows in aggression."
"Maybe you should teach your son a lesson too,"
"beat him as well and show him why his anger grew."

"You should go now before your wife cheats again,"
"and before your son steals, so until next time then."
He gave me one last shot and said it was all on him.
I looked around and saw nobody in the bar. It looked rather grim.

I got up and headed for the door.
I stumbled a little. I felt pretty sore.
I saw a girl walk in and sit on my chair.
She started talking to the bartender about how her husband beats her and that life isn't fair.

Like the bar-keep said, he had gotten me a ride.
I wasn't driving so being drunk I didn't have to hide.
He clearly knew that I had been drinking from the way I was slurring.
I was having some trouble seeing. my vision was blurring.

The driver took me home in a rush.
My insides started to feel like mush.
I paid the guy and walked up to the house front.
I unlocked to main door with a grunt.

The door swung open and I stumbled inside.
I slammed the door closed with the strength that I applied.
I will never allow any sort of defiance.
There was a woman's scream and then only silence.
Declan Quinn Dec 2015
There’s an ugly little pinch at the back of my ear,
What did I say exactly, she’s gone for good, I fear.
After the *****, the stagger, the cab,
I found myself on the couch, adding up the tab.

Flashbacks with nightmares of nasty words,
How could I say that to her! I’m no expert with girls.
The beer and the spirits owe me no favours
And when all’s said, they’re all the same flavour.

The flavour is bitterness, regret and despair,
Fuel for the morning after and pulling out hair,
Out of one’s own head for being so thoughtless
Am I pushing myself to a life that’s loveless?

So I’ll say “Never again” and push for the weekend.
But throughout the week, my resolve becomes weakened.
Until Thursday, I’ll give in and go for “a couple”.
Sick of pints by Friday, I’ll go on the doubles.

So again comes Sunday, she’s still with me.
Her pillow is wet and smudged, my throat is dry.
I can’t lose the memory of that pathetic cry.
I did it again, I let the drink win.

But it’s Sunday so I’ll say “Never Again”
Drinking used to be fun
Vidya Jul 2015
yes of course
i noticed you yes
you sitting on a park bench watching
the tail-wagging hunting dog you bought to charm
us into loving you

and if you really want one of us why
challenge me to this game of
mixed doubles badminton i can't possibly win
some lose some

how can i trust you if you
have to put my plants out in the rain to
catch a chirping cricket or if you
can’t make me cry with laughter when you
make fun of my religion

you are not
the kind of person who would
tell me the rugs make your body itch so much you have to
take a shower & steal my clothes while i let the
tetrahydrocannabinol go to my
mouth (and you think
god she's beautiful and
god i'm such a handsome *******) you are not
the kind of person who would
wish people took care of you as well as i
(do or die trying) and

i have severed the hand that fed me
with these flesh-sharpened canines
of mine
and i have not had seconds yet i have not
said grace i have not
eaten the porridge from your
outstretched hands cupped
as if to catch the hail that
stings my skin and
ricochets from yours as if it were
leather and the sheath of your knife
concentrated in the firelight and the
scent of burning cedar i am not
the one with a wrung-out neck and a
doll-eyed stare if you could
pluck the feathers one by one from my
frozen flesh i would not
bat an eyelid swing
low closed and animal finish
your story and in the dewy
morning the dead pine
will crawl with the beetles you brought in mason jars

how can you look me in the eyes when
dinner & wine always ends with a
checkmate
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
Poems about Fathers and Grandfathers

I translated the first six Native American poems for my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr., when he chose to enter hospice and end his life by not taking dialysis …


Cherokee Travelers' Blessing I
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will extract the thorns from your feet.
Yet a little longer we will walk life's sunlit paths together.
I will love you like my own brother, my own blood.
When you are disconsolate, I will wipe the tears from your eyes.
And when you are too sad to live, I will put your aching heart to rest.



Cherokee Travelers' Blessing II
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Happily may you walk
in the paths of the Rainbow.
Oh!,
and may it always be beautiful before you,
beautiful behind you,
beautiful below you,
beautiful above you,
and beautiful all around you
where in Perfection beauty is finished.



Cherokee Travelers' Blessing III
loose loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May Heaven’s warmest winds blow gently there,
where you reside,
and may the Great Spirit bless all those you love,
this side of the farthest tide.
And when you go,
whether the journey is fast or slow,
may your moccasins leave many cunning footprints in the snow.
And when you look over your shoulder, may you always find the Rainbow.



Sioux Vision Quest
by Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux, circa 1840-1877
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A man must pursue his Vision
as the eagle explores
the sky's deepest blues.



Native American Travelers' Blessing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us walk together here
with earth's creatures great and small,
remembering, our footsteps light,
that one wise God created all.



Native American Prayer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Help us learn the lessons you have left us
in every leaf and rock.



Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly ...



Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to ...



Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

I have walked these thirteen miles
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons ...
and now my tears
have all been washed away.

Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.

The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,
but not with rain or tears ...
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.

Now you stand outlined in the doorway
―a man as large as I left―
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.

Your eyes are grayer
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim―

"My father!"
"My son!"

This poem appeared in my 1978 poetry contest manuscript, so it was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. While 1976 is an educated guess, it was definitely written sometime between 1974 and 1978. At that time thirty seemed "old" to me and I used that age more than once to project my future adult self. For instance, in the poem "You."



Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.



Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch

for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

This distance between us
―this vast sea
of remembrance―
is no hindrance,
no enemy.

I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.

I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.

I feel the sea's salt spray―light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.

Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.

Note: Under the Sextant’s Stars is a painting by Benini.



Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat―
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard."

"Don't eat the berries. You see―the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."

"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.

Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name―"pokeweed"―while perusing a dictionary.

Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.
I still can hear his laconic reply...

"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."



All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are

somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me

wish

that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star
gleamed down
and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw

and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . .



Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt

With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.

Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,

nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use―

to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.
Thou art the grass;

make them complete.



Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man―
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.

I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18 in 1976. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken―destitute, really. Fortunately my father was later stationed at an Air Force base in Germany and we were able to spend four entire summer vacations with my grandparents. I was also able to visit them in England several times as an adult. But the years of separation were very difficult for me and I came to detest things that separated me from my family and friends: the departure platforms of train stations, airport runways, even the white dividing lines on lonely highways and interstates as they disappeared behind my car. My idea of heaven became a place where we are never again separated from our loved ones. And that puts hell here on earth.



Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch

Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...

Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.

Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.

Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.



Poems about Fathers and Grandfathers



Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they've become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly...



Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to...



Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

I have walked these thirteen miles
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons...
and now my tears
have all been washed away.

Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.

The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,
but not with rain or tears...
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.

Now you stand outlined in the doorway
―a man as large as I left―
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.

Your eyes are grayer
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim―

'My father! '
'My son! '



Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight's revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.



Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch

for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

This distance between us
―this vast sea
of remembrance―
is no hindrance,
no enemy.

I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.

I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.

I feel the sea's salt spray―light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.

Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.

Note: Under the Sextant's Stars is a painting by Benini.



Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat―
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

'Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard.'

'Don't eat the berries. You see―the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time.'

'I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.'

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.

Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name―'pokeweed'―while perusing a dictionary.

Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.
I still can hear his laconic reply...

'Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard.'



All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are

somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me

wish

that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star
gleamed down
and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw

and taught me heaven, omen, meteor...



Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt

With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.

Nor let men's feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,

nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use―

to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.
Thou art the grass;

make them complete.



Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man's impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
'Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid...'
as the angels sang.

And, O! , I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man―
a man... and yet Grandpa... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.



Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch

for Anais Vionet

Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house―
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
―one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...

Lacking the words to describe
ah! , those pearl-luminous estuaries―
strange omens, incoherent nights.

Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.

Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and 'civilization.'

Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.

Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.

Or so the people dreamed, in chains.



Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch

Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...

Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.

Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.

Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.



My Touchstone
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.

A man is known
by the life he lives
and those he leaves,

by each heart touched,
which, left behind,
forever grieves.



Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Christine Ena Hurt

There will be joy in the morning
for now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.

For fourteen years, he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.

Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.

He never lost her; she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.

Keywords/Tags: George Edwin Hurt Christine Ena Spouse reunited heaven joy together forever



Poems about Mothers and Grandmothers



Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.



Mother's Day Haiku
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness:
a mother’s compassion.

My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.

An emu feather ...
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height:
our mothers' wisdom.



The Rose
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmother, Lillian Lee, who used to grow the most beautiful roses

The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.

This poem above is my translation of a Sappho epigram.



The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and the grandmother of my son Jeremy

The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.

But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such infinite love
will still reach me, underground.



Arisen
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

Mother, I love you!
Mother, delightful,
articulate, insightful!

Angels in training,
watching over, would hover,
learning to love
from the Master: a Mother.

You learned all there was
for this planet to teach,
then extended your wings
to Love’s ultimate reach ...

And now you have soared
beyond eagles and condors
into distant elevations
only Phoenixes can conquer.

Amen






Reflex
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there...

I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.

Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.

But, O!,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.



Father’s Back, Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch

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!

Originally published by TALESetc



The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...

He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.

He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST."

His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall―
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.

One thing, though―

one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.

Originally published by TALESetc



A True Story
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)

Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor's yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty "THWACK! "
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.

Originally published by TALESetc



Success
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

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

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

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

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



Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.

Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.

His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion―

for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.

It's hard to be "wise"
when the years
career through our lives

and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief

while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.

The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages

is useless
unless
it encompasses this:

his kiss.



Boundless
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him,
and every day a new sharp feature emerges:
a feature we'll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining,

trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker...

And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated
in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils
in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples,
become unconscionable errors, become victories lost,

become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair...
if what he was becomes increasingly vague―like a white balloon careening
into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood,
hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders,
shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth,
then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing...

if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving *****;
to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores;
to sail away like a balloon
on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens,

till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see,

bursting into tears over us:
what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe,
cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision,
unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken...

cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself―flying beyond us?



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

―for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and 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...



Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.

It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.

Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I

Will wake together, by and by.

Life's not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.

The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.

Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I

Know nothing but this lullaby.



Sappho's Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

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

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

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

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



Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy (written from his mother’s perspective)

Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.

Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.

Oh, my dear son, how you’re growing up!
You’re taller than me, now I’m looking up!
You’re a long tall drink and I’m half a cup!
And so let me sing you this lullaby.

Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow,
there are so many things that I want you to know.
Most importantly this: that I love you so.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.

Soon a tender bud will ****** forth and grow
after the winter’s long ****** snow;
and because there are things that you have to know ...
Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.

Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom
and fill all the world with its wild perfume.
And though it’s hard for me, I must give it room.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.



On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.

Amen



Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed ...
My, that last step’s a leap! ―
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!

Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.



With a child's wonder
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

With a child's wonder,
pausing to ponder
a puddle of water,

for only a moment,
needing no comment

but bright eyes
and a wordless cry,
he launches himself to fly ...

then my two-year-old lands
on his feet and his hands
and water explodes all around.

(From the impact and sound
you'd have thought that he'd drowned,
but the puddle was two inches deep.)

Later that evening, as he lay fast asleep
in that dreamland where two-year-olds wander,
I watched him awhile and smilingly pondered
with a father's wonder.



Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!

NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.



Tall Tails
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Irony
is the base perception
alchemized by deeper reflection,
the paradox
of the wagging tails of dog-ma
torched by sly Reynard the Fox.

These are lines written as my son Jeremy was about to star as Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing at his ultra-conservative high school, Nashville Christian. Benedick is rather obvious wordplay but it apparently flew over the heads of the Puritan headmasters. Samson lit the tails of foxes and set them loose amid the Philistines. Reynard the Fox was a medieval trickster who bedeviled the less wily. “Irony lies / in a realm beyond the unseeing, / the unwise.”



The Watch
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

I have come to watch my young son,
his blonde ringlets damp with sleep . . .
and what I know is that he loves me
beyond all earthly understanding,
that his life is like clay in my unskilled hands.

And I marvel this bright ore does not keep—
unrestricted in form, more content than shape,
but seeking a form to become, to express
something of itself to this wilderness
of eyes watching and waiting.

What do I know of his wonder, his awe?
To his future I will matter less and less,
but in this moment, as he is my world, I am his,
and I stand, not understanding, but knowing—
in this vast pageant of stars, he is more than unique.

There will never be another moment like this.
Studiously quiet, I stroke his fine hair
which will darken and coarsen and straighten with time.
He is all I bequeath of myself to this earth.
His fingers curl around mine in his sleep . . .

I leave him to dreams—calm, untroubled and deep.



The Tapestry of Leaves
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Leaves unfold
as life is sold,
or bartered, for a moment in the sun.

The interchange
of lives is strange:
what reason—life—when death leaves all undone?

O, earthly son,
when rest is won
and wrested from this ground, then through my clay’s

soft mortal soot
****** forth your root
until your leaves embrace the sun's bright rays.



The Long Days Lengthening Into Darkness
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Today, I can be his happiness,
and if he delights
in hugs and smiles,
in baseball and long walks
talking about Rug Rats, Dinosaurs and Pokemon

(noticing how his face lights up
at my least word,
how tender his expression,
gazing up at me in wondering adoration)

. . . O, son,
these are the long days
lengthening into darkness.

Now over the earth
(how solemn and still their processions)
the clouds
gather to extinguish the sun.

And what I can give you is perhaps no more nor less
than this brief ray dazzling our faces,
seeing how soon the night becomes my consideration.



Renown
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Words fail us when, at last,
we lie unread amid night’s parchment leaves,
life’s chapter past.

Whatever I have gained of life, I lost,
except for this bright emblem
of your smile . . .

and I would grasp
its meaning closer for a longer while . . .
but I am glad

with all my heart to be unheard,
and smile,
bound here, still strangely mortal,

instructed by wise Love not to be sad,
when to be the lesser poet
meant to be “the world’s best dad.”

Every night, my son Jeremy tells me that I’m “the world’s best dad.” Now, that’s all poetry, all music and the meaning of life wrapped up in four neat monosyllables! The time I took away from work and poetry to spend with my son was time well spent.



Miracle
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

The contrails of galaxies mingle, and the dust of that first day still shines.
Before I conceived you, before your heart beat, you were mine,

and I see

infinity leap in your bright, fluent eyes.
And you are the best of all that I am. You became
and what will be left of me is the flesh you comprise,

and I see

whatever must be—leaves its mark, yet depends
on these indigo skies, on these bright trails of dust,
on a veiled, curtained past, on some dream beyond knowing,
on the mists of a future too uncertain to heed.

And I see

your eyes—dauntless, glowing—
glowing with the mystery of all they perceive,
with the glories of galaxies passed, yet bestowing,
though millennia dead, all this pale feathery light.

And I see

all your wonder—a wonder to me, for, unknowing,
of all this portends, still your gaze never wavers.
And love is unchallenged in all these vast skies,
or by distance, or time. The ghostly moon hovers;

I see; and I see

all that I am reflected in all that you have become to me.



Always
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Know in your heart that I love you as no other,
and that my love is eternal.
I keep the record of your hopes and dreams
in my heart like a journal,
and there are pages for you there that no one else can fill:
none one else, ever.
And there is a tie between us, more than blood,
that no one else can sever.

And if we’re ever parted,
please don’t be broken-hearted;
until we meet again on the far side of forever
and walk among those storied shining ways,
should we, for any reason, be apart,
still, I am with you ... always.



The Gift
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth and Jeremy

For you and our child, unborn, though named
(for we live in a strange, fantastic age,
and tomorrow, when he is a man,
perhaps this earth will be a cage

from which men fly like flocks of birds,
the distant stars their helpless prey),
for you, my love, and you, my child,
what can I give you, each, this day?

First, take my heart, it’s mine alone;
no ties upon it, mine to give,
more precious than a lifetime’s objects,
once possessed, more free to live.

Then take these poems, of little worth,
but to show you that which you receive
holds precious its two dear possessors,
and makes each lien a sweet reprieve.



This poem was written after a surprising comment from my son, Jeremy.

The Onslaught
by Michael R. Burch

“Daddy, I can’t give you a hug today
because my hair is wet.”

No wet-haired hugs for me today;
no lollipopped lips to kiss and say,
Daddy, I love you! with such regard
after baseball hijinks all over the yard.

The sun hails and climbs
over the heartbreak of puppies and daffodils
and days lost forever to windowsills,
over fortune and horror and starry climes;

and it seems to me that a child’s brief years
are springtimes and summers beyond regard
mingled with laughter and passionate tears
and autumns and winters now veiled and barred,
as elusive as snowflakes here white, bejeweled,
gaily whirling and sweeping across the yard.



To My Child, Unborn
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

How many were the nights, enchanted
with despair and longing, when dreams recanted
returned with a restless yearning,
and the pale stars, burning,
cried out at me to remember
one night ... long ere the September
night when you were conceived.

Oh, then, if only I might have believed
that the future held such mystery
as you, my child, come unbidden to me
and to your mother,
come to us out of a realm of wonder,
come to us out of a faery clime ...

If only then, in that distant time,
I had somehow known that this day were coming,
I might not have despaired at the raindrops drumming
sad anthems of loneliness against shuttered panes;
I might not have considered my doubts and my pains
so carefully, so cheerlessly, as though they were never-ending.
If only then, with the starlight mending
the shadows that formed
in the bowels of those nights, in the gussets of storms
that threatened till dawn as though never leaving,
I might not have spent those long nights grieving,
lamenting my loneliness, cursing the sun
for its late arrival. Now, a coming dawn
brings you unto us, and you shall be ours,
as welcome as ever the moon or the stars
or the glorious sun when the nighttime is through
and the earth is enchanted with skies turning blue.



Transition
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

With his cocklebur hugs
and his wet, clinging kisses
like a damp, trembling thistle
catching, thwarting my legs—

he reminds me that life begins with the possibility of rapture.

Was time this deceptive
when my own childhood begged
one last moment of frolic
before bedtime’s firm kisses—

when sleep was enforced, and the dark window ledge

waited, impatient, to lure
or to capture
the bright edge of morning
within a clear pane?

Was the sun then my ally—bright dawn’s greedy fledgling?

With his joy he reminds me
of joys long forgotten,
of play’s endless hours
till the haggard sun sagged

and everything changed. I gather him up and we trudge off to bed.



What does it mean?
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

His little hand, held fast in mine.
What does it mean? What does it mean?

If he were not here, the sun would not shine,
nor the grass grow half as green.

What does it mean?

His arms around my neck, his cheek
snuggling so warm against my own ...

What does it mean?

If life's a garden, he's the fairest
flower ever sown,
the sweetest ever seen.

What does it mean?

And when he whispers sweet and low,
"What does it mean?"
It means, my son, I love you so.
Sometimes that's all we need to know.



First Steps
by Michael R. Burch

for Caitlin Shea Murphy

To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
    She has no concept of time,
    but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.

I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day ...
    time to learn the Truth
    and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."

But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
    She is just certain
    that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!

Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
    through childhood to adolescence,
    and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, "Hey, it's great
to be alive!"

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch

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



Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

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



Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch

for Anais Vionet

Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house―
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
―one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...

Lacking the words to describe
ah!, those pearl-luminous estuaries―
strange omens, incoherent nights.

Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.

Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and "civilization."

Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.

Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.

Or so the people dreamed, in chains.



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.



Pan
by Michael R. Burch

... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves...

... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles...

... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss...

... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens' hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs...

... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees...

... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers...

... of voices of the wolves' tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams' soft, windy vowels...

Originally published by Sonnet Scroll



Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

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

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

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea



The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.

We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...

And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes―
I can almost remember―goes something like this:

the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.

She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker's knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me

rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We'd like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!, " only two.

We'd like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball's just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms



Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally published by The Flea



For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?



This is, I believe, the second poem I wrote. Or at least it's the second one that I can remember. I believe I was around 13-14 when I wrote it.

Playmates
by Michael R. Burch

WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended... far, far away...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.

Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.

Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden batter was our only lust!

Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure―what was good, what was bad.

And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to injustice, or fate.

Then we never thought about the next day,
for tomorrow seemed hidden―adventures away.

Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things didn't last.

Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.



Children
by Michael R. Burch

There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility...

when we might have made...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.

Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!

But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.

But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars, ...
and for a day,

what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.



Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch

Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow―
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?

Will we be children sat in the corner
over and over again?
How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Or will we learn, and when?

Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
never learning the golden rule?



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.



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

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



Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch

for Keira

We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!

With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira's a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!



The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch

for Keira

There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff―
the down of a thistle, butterflies' wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair...
I think she's just you when you're floating on air!



Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch

Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass *****!



Life Sentence or Fall Well
by Michael R. Burch

... I swim, my Daddy's princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down

to **** me up?... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers "precious son"...

... the Plunger worked; i'm two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...

... i'm three; yay! whee! oh good! it's time to play!
(oh no, I think there's Others on the way;
i'd better pray)...

... i'm four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there's Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More...

... it's great to be alive if you are five (unless you're me) :
my Mommy says: "you're WRONG! don't disagree!
don't make this HURT ME! "...

... i'm six; They say i'm tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort! ;
a tadpole's ripping Mommy's Room apart...

... i'm seven; i'm in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;

... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...

is that She feels Weird.



Keywords/Tags: father, fathers, grandfather, grandfathers, child, children, childhood, son, daughter, grandchild, grandson, granddaughter, family, families, mother
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
I have a friend, he's mostly made of pain
He wakes up, drives to work and straight back home again
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
Of color and composition so magnificent
And he said, "Thank you, please
But your flattery
It's truly not becoming me
Your eyes are poor, you're blind you see
No beauty could have come from me
I'm a waste
Of breath, of space, of time"

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true
Her love for her man was one of her many virtues
Until one day she found out that he had lied
And decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie
She was grateful for everything that had happened
And she was anxious for all that would come next
But then she wept, what did you expect?
In that big old house with the car she kept
And, "Such is life," she often said
With one day leading to the next
You get a little closer to your death
Which was fine with her, she never got upset
And with all the days she may have left
She would never clean another mess
Or fold his shirts or look her best
She was free
To waste away alone

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove
And this cop pig pulled him off to the side of the road
And he said, "Officer, officer, you've got the wrong man
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don't understand"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful
And your carelessness, it is something awful
And no, I can't just let you go
And though your father's name is known
Your decisions now are yours alone
You're nothing but a stepping stone
On a path
To debt, to loss, to shame"

The last few months I've been living with this couple
Yeah, you know the kind who buy everything in doubles
Yeah, they fit together like a puzzle
I love their love, and I am thankful
That someone actually receives the prize that was promised
By all those fairy tales that drugged us
And still do me, I'm sick, lonely
No laurel tree, just green envy
Will my number come up eventually?
Like love's some kind of lottery
Where you scratch and see what's underneath
It's sorry, just one cherry
I'll play again, get lucky

So now I hang out down by the train's depot
No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there
They remind me of windup cars in motion
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense
And their life's one track and can't they see it's pointless?
But just then my knees give under me
My head feels weak and suddenly
It's clear to see it's not them but me
Who's lost my self-identity
And I hide behind these books I read
While scribbling my poetry
Like art could save a wretch like me
With some ideal ideology
That no one could hope to achieve
And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me
And everything I've made is trite and cheap
And a waste
Of paint, of tape, of time

So I park my car down by the cathedral
Where the floodlights point up at the steeples
Choir practice is filling up with people
I hear the sound escaping as an echo
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle
When the voices blend they sound like angels
I hope there's some room still in the middle
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them
The range is too high way up in heaven
So I hold my tongue, forget the song
Tie my shoes, start walking off
And try to just keep moving on
With my broken heart and my absent God
And I have no faith but it's all I want
To be loved, and believe
In my soul, in my soul



(This is not mine, its from my favorite singer/song writer Conor Oberst/Bright Eyes)
My favorite song that has been with me as my motivation for quite some time now. Thought I would share it :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q77-ggkzWRI
Ashwin Kumar Feb 2024
You are a good friend of mine
If I am ever stuck in a mire
You are someone whom I can count on
Never will you pull a con
A wonderful colleague you were
For me, were you always there!

You are a good friend of mine
Those days, do I dearly miss
When we used to meet almost everyday
Swap tales over a piping hot cup of cutting chai
Share our respective work issues
Including the routine salary delay excuse
And the antics of our clients
For which, were we forced to bear the brunt
Have lunch together at the cafeteria
The perfect panacea
For all our work troubles
Which often came in doubles and triples
And last but not the least
Walk to the station together after work
Well, our being colleagues certainly came with a lot of perks!!

You are a good friend of mine
By nature, are you very kind
And have supported me always
Thanks to you, do I possess some sort of patience
Whenever things don't go my way
Friends, will we forever stay
And though we don't meet often
We do speak over the phone frequently
And these calls are usually lengthy
But yes, we should indeed meet soon
For me, is your company always a boon
I repeat, you are a good friend of mine
And If I ever feel alone
I know that I just need to give you a ring
Because you are a fantastic human being!!
Poem dedicated to Rishi, a good friend and former colleague of mine.
david badgerow Nov 2015
sunrise
i'm stumbling thru a salt fog
out on the coast in a campground
with two tiny squares of paper stained
on my tongue looking for a patch of dry yellow
withered grass in the tall dunes to lay down in for a while
until the pressure of tears subsides or overcomes the corners
of my eyes & temples

i'll spend the day tight-chested
under the sinewy arms of a magnolia
tree with teeth clenched against hiccups
& clear snot running freely out of my nose
down my chin as green tea waves lick my twinkling
toenails with an open-throated warble & beads of sweat
collect in the hollows of my skinny knees & race down to my
vulnerable achilles

i'll be eaten alive by bloodthirsty
beach fleas after the sun burns off the fog
& i'll ride the high salt wave with the melodies
of sunrise birds like a sikh on a psychedelic print
karastan rug with hair to my shoulders & dirt on my
knees while the beer-hall bellows of tree frogs echo over
my stretched earlobes

sure i'll watch the girl weaving
thru the shimmering florida heat wave with
hypnotic green eyes & long legs that disappear
briefly into thin white cotton shorts & then emerge
again at the endless curve of the hipbone peach creme
neck adorned by a single shining jewel riding a thin rose
gold coiled rope

while i'm listening to
willie nelson & struggling to hold
back tears she waves i wave back in
the reflexive naked itch to be a gentleman
she slips thru the dunes with fluid grace & sits
down with hair smelling like orange blossoms &
begins to hum-sing like a pink finch in champagne
& i finally give in to the impulse to cry

when i do she holds me
with about an hour before the sun sets
where the shoreline doubles back on itself
we watch as the dolphins catch rides through
the breakers on the last yellow shafts of sunlight
before the cool night air closes on us like a fist around
an azure plastic doorknob

the ocean bit the sun &
as her lips found my butterscotch
cheeks & the trees sizzled behind us
the stars swarmed like a bright cloud of
bees overhead we danced in swirls of wood
smoke whispering secrets to the campfire & her
******* stiffened when my tongue touched her belly
& the flying embers whistled

tonight
we'll sleep together in a blanket
tangle of sweat soaked beach towels
like two organic granola humans fighting
to stay children forever & when i press the plump
button of her ******* she sinks deep into my chest like
it's upholstered in expensive leather & twitches like a moth
seduced by the glow of a kerosene lamp

when we wake up
wet & stuck together before dawn
she kisses my tumid lips with her eyelashes
& pokes holes in my morning breath with her tongue
she dresses in a golden chrysanthemum gown & asks me
to zip it up over her powder pale shoulder-blades so she can
escape across the crunchy wildfire fodder & wet pavement to dance
& kick in the frothy white surf opposite the dunes as the first waves
of heat bounce like vectors in a microwave oven but i am much
more comfortable here folded up tight like a lawn chair in a
hurricane in an alternate world where my heart hasn't
been reduced to the floor pedal of your mother's
foot powered sewing machine in the
forgotten attic an alternate world
in which my name became
more than a delicate
vocabulary flicked
from your
tongue
Tiffany Jun 2010
Bright, happy
I hear their laughter,
At the same time she does.
She leans against the counter
As we listen
To the chipper laughter
A sun, washing over us
Warming us from the outside in.
To cover that sun
With this bleak cloud,
To see their broken faces
Would break her heart
So even as she doubles over in pain
Even as a tear slips down her cheek
She shakes her head
“One more day…
What could it hurt?”
I know it changes nothing
But I will her
To change her mind
I beg her to make
The other decision
But its no use, she can’t hear me.
This feeling inside me,
It makes me want to cry
But I can’t cry
Not since I made my last,
most fateful decision in the kitchen.
“One more day…
What could it hurt?”
The curtain on the
CPAC convocation rolls back,

as the revolution
in Tahrir Square boils.

America’s theater
of deadly political

absurdity commences;
to witness demagogues

recite holy scripture to
evangelize a religion of war.

A heavily invested
audience marvels

at the marionettes
pirouetting on strings

jigged along by hands
of invisible puppet-masters

donning dark masks of
clever 503C llcs

disguised in self serving
hues of red, white and blue.

This grand folly of masquers
conceals a fatal pantomime,

a cast of reactionary characters,
Neo-Conmen auditioning for

the leading role in a lurid play
of a deadly nation projecting
a dying imperial preeminence.

The martinets engage zero
sum games where the victor
belongs to the despoilers,

and the merchants of death
richly confer multimillion dollar
reasons for being, underwriting
the gilded egos of candidates

and their infatuation with the
vanity of feigned power.

These master rhetoricians
skillfully lather up the crowd

by pandering to basest
xenophobic nationalist
instincts and fantasies
of laissez-faire proclivities.  

Slathering on the partisan
pretense in layers so thick

a master chef, armed
with the sharpest Ginsu Knife

couldn't slice a hock tip
of blood red meat

hurled into the crowd of
gobbling Republicons

howling and yodeling
it’s derisive acclaim.

The rankled party line,
gibberish talking points

are hammer blows of
incessant propaganda,

so cocksure that any room for
doubt is crowded out by the

phantasmagorical McMansions
of hyperbole they ***** in

the pliant minds of their
gibbering minions.

The candidates preening for
president show off their

falangist affectations
in eager duels of oratorical

one upmanship; constantly
jockeying to outflank their

other Neo-Conmen opponents,
always concluding their brutish

diatribes with a solemn
denouement of a Republicon

psalm ending with a
Holy Hosanna Hallelujah

to the Ronald Reagan
Heavenly Buddha.

Punchline of the holy Amen
“what would Reagan do?”

to remind the faithful
to remain the faithful

bearers to the fiction
of dead Reaganism.

Evoking anything
Ron and Nancy

induces sanctioned
comportment of a

slow simmering
******* eubellence

providing a welcomed
relief of repressed
libidinal energy.

The mention of Goldwater
sends GOP acolytes to

pause in reverence,
envisioning Barry and

Ronnie looking down
from heaven upon the gathered,

inciting immediate ruminations
of falling dominos and

the viability of a
tactical nuke strike

against Ayatollah’s
underground
uranium factories.

The host of Neo-Conmen,
new age Falangist pitchmen

belch from the dais,
in ever increasing alacrity,

the stirring drum beats
and slick videos,

of glorious warriors
winning the battlefield

with the rippling glory
of the Stars and Stripes

flowing in a continual
loop behind them.

Romney,
Bachmann

Gingrich
take center stage,

goose stepping
to the roll of piercing timpanis.

Words slither
out of their mouths
like poisonous snakes.

Lies, hiss through
their teeth.

Open mouths
expose Black Mamba
fangs, dripping with venom.

Eyes squint
as their reptilian brains

implore the besieged
to flee from the
light of truth.

Seeking refuge in fear;
yet on the ready

to coil and strike;
while trembling

in ignorance,
exalting loathsomeness

worshiping violence;
they remain

poised to unleash
first strike armies;

boastfully evoking moral
platitudes of Bush Doctrine
prerogatives.

Trembling in ignorance
worshiping violence

exalting fear,
these dogs of war bay

to unleash armies
against the

Godless apostates
that threaten

to expose the
stasis of their

Capitalismo-Judeo-Christian
view of the world.

They have hijacked
the great faith traditions

to serve a narrow
political aim

and relish any
opportunity to

demonize Islam
in service to their lies.

Watch as they
they crouch down

on the dais to
open the nest

of vipers welling
deep within the
bowels of their souls.

They find relief
by excreting their

spawn of deadly asps
into the veins of

cable news networks;
scoring political points

with the terrorized
children of Faux News

capturing battalions
of straw men villains

to rise atop meaningless
straw polls.

They agitate for a second
American revolution

by injecting the venom
of fear and lies

into the body
politic.

Ron Paul
stands alone,

perplexed why
American's love

war as much as
they hate civil liberties?

Cheney and
Rumsfeld brood.

The people of
Iraq and Afghanistan

fail to embrace their armies
of liberation that run up

unfortunate collateral damage
body counts required to sustain
the American way of life.

Ever the defender of
democracy and liberty,

Gingrich slams Obama's
condemnation of Suleiman

"hes an able diplomat."
Gingrich  forgot to add

that Suleiman is a
skilled torturer and

an able tyrant any self
serving democracy would
be proud to call ally and friend.

Cheney and Rumsfeld
remain flummoxed.

Their armies of liberation bogged
down in the marshy Blackwaters

of intractability;  trying to solve
the conundrum of the diminished

equity returns of asymmetrical
warfare.  Spinning the math

to justify building aircraft carriers
to **** a gnat.

The families of dead soldiers
surround them and wave dime

store flags hoping the plastic
eagle remains fixed atop the pole.

Perpetually smiling
Michele Bachmann
raises the specter
of Muslim Brotherhoods
taking over Egypt.

The persecution of Christians
and the escalating war on

Christianity have the Crusaders
up on their seats waving Excalibur
once again.

Gingrich pink cheeks
flush with the cash

of a Zionist casino
entrepreneur

doubles down, stacks
his chips high.

“The Israeli Embassy
in Cairo was overrun
by angry mobs.”  

“Is this a precursor of
cancelling the peace treaty
signed with Sadat?”

“The pullout in Iraq hands the country to
radical Shiites effectively handing our
hard won victory to Iran.”

“Israel is threatened and will not
permit Iran to acquire nuclear

weapons. A nuclear empowered Iran
will not stand!”

“We mustn't let do nothing Obama
threaten the safety of our good ally
Israel.”

CPAC willingly holds the deadly asp
to the breast of a proud nation.

Urging, coaxing it to gently sink
its teeth into the sacred heart
of our dear republic...

John Lee ******
Crawlin King Snake

CPAC 2011

Matthew 23
Brood of Vipers


jbm
Oakland
2/10/11
Morgan Jul 2013
I started picking up doubles
So that I won't step outside the confines
of home & work because without that
***** uniform and these worn in walls,
I am a broken mess & I'm so sick of
lying drunk and high in random beds
at the edge of my life,
teetering back and fourth like everything
is balanced on the tip of my nose
and too often I drop it
While I simultaneously lose all
of my friends to an other bad decision
In an other sketchy bedroom
With an other broken body
And an other aching soul
Firefly Jan 2016
A forgotten poem by Henry Brooke ( Irish Dramatist/Novelist)

Taken from poetrynook.com http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/universal-beauty-book-3-lines-301%C3%B4%C3%A7%C3%B4400

Or cool recess of odoriferous shade,
And fan the peasant in the panting glade;
Or lace the coverture of painted bower,
While from the enamell'd roof the sweet profusions shower.
Here duplicate, the range divides beneath,
Above united in a mantling wreath;
With continuity protracts delight,
Imbrown'd in umbrage of ambiguous night;
Perspicuous the vista charms our eye,
And opens, Janus like, to either sky;
Or stills attention to the feather'd song,
While echo doubles from the warbling throng.

Here, winding to the sun's magnetic ray,
The solar plants adore the lord of day,
With Persian rites idolatrous incline,
And worship towards his consecrated shrine;
By south from east to west obsequious turn,
And moved with sympathetic ardours burn.
To these adverse, the lunar sects dissent,
With convolution of opposed bent;
From west to east by equal influence tend,
And towards the moon's attractive crescence bend;
There, nightly worship with Sidonian zeal,
And queen of heaven Astarte's idol hail.

" O Nature , whom the song aspires to scan!
" O B EAUTY , trod by proud insulting man,
" This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball,
" This mighty, haughty, little lord of all;
" This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense,
" Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense;
" Towards T HEE ! incurious, ignorant, profane,
" But of his own, dear, strange, productions vain!
" Then, with this champion let the field be fought,
" And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought:
" Let elegance and bounty here unite —
" There kings beneficent, and courts polite;
" Here nature's wealth — there chymist's golden dreams;
" Her texture here — and there the statesman's schemes;
" Conspicuous here let Sacred Truth appear —
" The courtier's word, and lordling's honour there;
" Here native sweets in boon profusion flow —
" There smells that scented nothing of a beau;
" Let justice here unequal combat wage —
" Nor poise the judgment of the law-learn'd sage;
" Tho' all-proportion'd with exactest skill,
" Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. "

O say, ye pitied, envied, wretched great,
Who veil pernicion with the mask of state!
Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies,
And vainly emulous of nature rise?
Behold the swain projected o'er the vale!
See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal;
Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head;
Beneath his limbs her broider'd garment's spread;
Aloft her elegant pavilion bends,
And living shade of vegetation lends,
With ever propagated bounty blest,
And hospitably spread for every guest:
No tinsel here adorns a taudry woof,
Nor lying wash besmears a varnish'd roof;
With native mode the vivid colours shine,
And heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine,
Where art veils art; and beauties beauties close,
While central grace diffused throughout the system flows.
The fibres, matchless by expressive line,
Arachne's cable, or aetherial twine,
Continuous, with direct ascension rise,
And lift the trunk, to prop the neighbouring skies.
Collateral tubes with respiration play,
And winding in aerial mazes stray.
These as the woof, while warping, and athwart
The exterior cortical insertions dart
Transverse, with cone of equidistant rays,
Whose geometric form the F ORMING H AND displays.
Recluse, the interior sap and vapour dwells
In nice transparence of minutest cells;
From whence, thro' pores or transmigrating veins
Sublimed the liquid correspondence drains,
Their pithy mansions quit, the neighbouring chuse,
And subtile thro' the adjacent pouches ooze;
Refined, expansive, or regressive pass,
Transmitted thro' the horizontal mass;
Compress'd the lignous fibres now assail,
And entering thence the essential sap exhale;
Or lively with effusive vigour spring,
And form the circle of the annual ring,
The branch implicit of embowering trees,
And foliage whispering to the vernal breeze;
While Zephyr tuned, with gentle cadence blows,
And lull'd to rest consenting eyelids close.
Ah! how unlike those sad imperial beds,
Which care within the gorgeous prison spreads;
Where tedious nights are sunk in sleepless down,
And pillows vainly soft, to ease the thorny crown!

Nor blush thou rose, tho' bashful thy array,
Transplanted chaste within the raptured lay;
Thro' every bush, and warbled spray we sing,
And with the linnet gratulate the spring;
Sweep o'er the lawn, or revel on the plain,
Or gaze the florid, or the fragrant scene;
I know its haughty, but please read!:) its one of my favorites!
I

Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-****** Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.

The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.

The broken halves are fellowed in a *******,
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.

The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.

What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.

II

My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.

My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******* their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.

My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.

The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.

Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
Derby Sep 2016
I remember not too long ago I was just a little boy playing ball in the park it was Little League in the heat and anyone in south Florida will tell you it’s normal and it’s true it really is normal.

Then it began to rain lightning struck the adjacent field and left a **** in right yet somehow for some reason the warning system never sounded its fifteen second alarm I wonder why.

Imagine this:

A crash as loud as if you were wearing a stainless steel stockpot and someone struck it so hard with a stainless steel spoon and soon you were knocked so silly so goofy so discombobulated that you felt like the Liberty Bell the day it rung and cracked during the funeral of Chief Justice John Marshall and you thought you were dead too.

I thought I was a goner so I bolted to safety quick like lightning no pun intended but I didn’t want to be tomorrow's toast.

As the team sat there each about eleven and twelve years old we counted seconds between lighting and thunder light and sound and what we felt were about to be the very last seconds of our young little lives how naïve we were.

One strike cracked so bright it flashed me to today and here I am at twenty-two not dead just yet and I’m not quite sure how or why maybe there’s a purpose maybe there’s a meaning to life it’s such a philosophical thing to sit and contemplate existentialism is such a weird wild thing I think.

I have come to believe that there are multiple reasons for life and one’s to die one’s to survive one’s to figure out every answer to every question and acquiesce all that which satisfies our wants and needs and one’s to love and give and take and share a life and one’s to see all there is to see like cityscapes and oceans and stars and countries one’s to see even more like frowns and births and smiles and deaths and one’s to eat all there is to eat and to drink all there is to drink until we finally figure out a way to accept the inevitable.

Or is the inevitable not inevitable?

What if there’s a way to live forever and there are no consequences extraneous to those of regular everyday life and you can choose to accept the inevitable when you choose to realize that it sure is inevitable?

Ooh! Aah! Ain’t that a concept?

This is not quite what I had in mind at birth I thought it would be smooth sailing between fits of crying and long hours of slumber and meals and short naps and diaper changes and seeing my parents’ faces and those of all others gazing about me in awe and wonder and amazement and pride and love

I was a deity!

Relative to twenty-two years one figures out that being a god is very short-lived and that twenty-two years ain’t very long hardly even a quarter of the way to the brink of a timely death.

Maybe when we’re babies we’re gods and idols?

Well think about this babies can rule the world if only they knew they command the highest of all expenses in the whole of humanity and families and friends willingly shell out money and goods and services for such a tiny little sack of fat and muscle and fastly-forming bones and brains.
Babies are ******* gods.

But gods no less.

My God I wish I could be a baby over again.

But I’m twenty-two and slowly but surely growing old living through each quickening day by day by day and so on and so forth it’s been a fun trip so far and I am sure not done so long as there isn’t another flash of lightning to send me straight to forty-four or eighty-eight—it doubles every time ain’t that a ****** shame?
Bardo Jul 2022
I hadn't been there in ages, hadn't visited, I had no reason to
But then the Covid virus struck and Dublin where I was working was put into quarantine
I wasn't allowed to go up there anymore to work,
And I had no computer at home and no broadband/ WiFi at the time
So they sent me down to the Old Town
It was nice driving down the motorway, it was Autumn and the leaves they were all changing colour
The different shades of red, brown green and yellow
With the sun shining on the mountains and on the bay
It felt almost like I was going on my holidays,
The Old Town it had changed so much, there were all these new buildings,
Retail parks on the outskirts, hotels, new schools, civic buildings... coffee shops
It was lovely and clean and tidy
Like those living there were really proud of it,
The old town I'd known it was there also, in the background, a bit dusty now
There was the big old gothic church my Dad used take us to, to Mass some Sundays
There was the Port and the big ships along the Quay
There was the secondary school I was meant to go to... had we stayed...it looked old, a bit dilapidated now
I wondered was it still being used as a school,
In the Main Street there were still old names of shops that I recognized
The shoe shop where my Mom used buy us shoes
The chemist where my brother got his glasses... the Bakery
The cinema where we seen our first movie "The Magnificent Seven", it was all done up now... all different...
In the office things were... well...weird! ghostly!
A big modern office and some days I was the only one there, just me all on my own
Was like something out of a Sci-fi movie
Other days maybe two or three might come in to join me
All the others of course, they were all working from home,
Often I'd find my mind just filling with old memories and nostalgia...
I could hear the old ghosts calling, calling me to go back
I knew... I knew I had to go back there
Back to where it had all begun for me
The little seaside village where I was born.

So going home I took the coastal road not the motorway
Just the sight of the headland and the blue mountains sloping down to the sea
With the lighthouse there at the end
Just seeing them again gave me an old feeling of my father, my Dad
And then the village itself, the seafront... all the colourfully painted shops,
Sweet shops & novelty shops, the amusement arcade, pubs and hotels and B&B's  (Bed and Breakfasts)
After being away for nearly fifty years, it still looked...it still looked pretty much the same, was hard to believe
I stopped my car and went into a little supermarket shop to get a sandwich for the next day
As I looked around, I seen these two mature ladies there, they were around my own age
I thought to myself 'I might have gone to school with you once many years ago, one of you might even have been my wife had we stayed here and not moved away
I might have lived a more normal, a different life'
But then I thought 'Life is never that simple, is it'.
Outside I decided to go for a walk, to look around and reminisce.

There was the path, the pavement I used go to school on with my brothers
It was like returning to the scene of a crime
How I used to dread going to school sometimes
There was a teacher, a lady teacher that used scare me a lot, she terrified me so
I remember I got sick in class on several occasions
She put me outside once sitting on an upturned bin
I can still remember sitting there on that bin in the sun, feeling so lost and that I was a really bad boy, wishing I was home
I remember I used to get hives, itches on my skin
My Mom used keep me at home
She was afraid, she thought I'd give them to the other kids
I missed the addition and subtraction tables at school because of this
To this day I still don't know what 7 + 5 is, instead I bring it to 10, I know 5 is 3 + 2, so I say 7 + 3 is 10 and 2 is 12
And I know all the doubles, 7 + 6 is 6 + 6 is 12 and 1 is 13, funny that
How I used to dread going to school
Until that was... until one day I did well at something and I received some praise
Then things seemed to change after that, I wasn't as bothered anymore, I think then I realized I was doing better than some of the others in my class and that seemed to make a difference
I remembered sitting beside pretty little girls who used have lovely pink pencil cases with lots of fancy colourful things
Whereas me I barely had a pencil, a rubber (eraser) and a ruler
They were strange lovely creatures, the Girls with their lovely long hair and their cute little faces...
I remembered walking home on my own, with my little schoolbag on my back with all my books in it
It was such a beautiful place, the view with the beach and the sea and the faraway blue mountains
And yet, I used to worry about so many things
It's like even then it was all about...all about survival...
There was the big Chapel on the hill
Once before the Summer holidays they were looking for altar boys and someone put my name forward
Then on the first morning back to school after the Summer holidays
The teacher said you better get down to the church right away, like fast!! you're on the altar this morning !!!
I was terrified, I didn't know what I had to do, no one told me anything
So there I was on my own kneeling on this cold hard marble altar and it was hurting my knees something terrible
And the priest he's talking about God and the Devil and Evil or Hell or whatever
And all these people, the whole congregation their all staring up at us
And I'm petrified, and I started to get faint and nauseas
The priest had to stop the Mass
I can't remember if I got sick or passed out
I was so embarrassed and thought afterwards I was such a terrible bad person, I knew it'd be all around the school the story.

I walked on...our house was gone, knocked down, where there used to be three houses together attached, now there was only the end house
Our house used to be the middle house
It didn't look right now, the symmetry looked all wrong
It was like there was two missing teeth
Why did they have to knock it down ? I wondered. It saddened me a bit...

At another house I stopped, this used to have a shop, a small shop,  the shop was no longer there
This was my Best Friend's house, all the days we used to play football together in the back garden
Kicking the ball to each other
With our jumpers/ sweaters as goalposts
The first to score ten would win the game
I...I usually won
I always found you easy to read, it's like you only ran in straight lines,
I think you were a bit in awe of me for some reason
Maybe you wouldn't have been my friend if you'd beaten me
How did we become friends anyway, I wondered
I suppose coming home from school
We lived on the same road and were in the same class, we'd have met each other
I had two older brothers whereas you were the oldest
So our families would have had a different dynamic
I remember you had a delightfully silly younger brother
I remember your Mom, she was very pretty, she was a lot younger than my Mom
You used bring me in and give me a meal sometimes, we'd all sit and watch TV
There was a different feeling when I was in your house...a different atmosphere
But when your Dad would come home, he was a bit scary
And I knew it was then time for me to go home
You'd wonder afterwards what the lovely Mom saw in the scary Dad, adults they were a bit peculiar.

We were inseparable in those days, many mornings you'd hear the knock on the door
And the familiar greeting
"Hello Mrs B---, Is G---- in, is he coming out to play?"
We were always playing soccer up the garden
Or down on the beach, going out for miles to meet the tide, catching *****, looking under  stones to see what we might find
I remember we were very entrepreneurial
In the Summer we used collect returnable glass mineral bottles, Orange and Lemonade and Coca Cola
And we'd bring them back to the shop and get money back for them
And then we'd have a royal feast, we'd buy bottles of Orange and bags of crisps and ice cream pops and chocolate bars,
Remember all the different Ice pops there used to be, Choc Ices and Brunches and Orange splits, 99's... Ice cream cones
Chocolate bars, Smarties and Malteasers, Milky Bars and Milky Ways, Dairy Milk chocolate bars, fruit gums and Love hearts with little love messages written on them
We used hang around the amusement arcade, play the slot machines, maybe help some old lady collect her winnings, she might give us a tip
There was the bumper cars and the swingboats and music playing all the time on the jukeboxes
It was the seventies (the 70's) and glam rock was all the rage
Marc Bolan and T-Rex, and Slade and The Sweet and a million others
So many great songs, we couldn't wait to grow up and become one of those amazing creatures we saw on the telly
I'd never lived since as intensely as I did back then,
We'd stay out till late
We were like young hustlers going around,
It seemed the days they were never long enough, all the things we got up to,
We'd Caddy in the local golf course
And retrieve lost ***** from the ditches...
Heh! Remember... remember that time... the Brennan sisters, we were up one day near the school
There was building work going on
And there was this big high mound of clay
So we climbed to the top to take in the view
And then the two Brennan sisters came over
They lived nearby
They were in our class at school, we knew them only to see
They were smiling and laughing and giggling
They beckoned for us to come and follow them
We went wondering what was going on here
They led us back to their house, I think their parents must have been out
One of them came up to us and smiled
And then she pulled down her pants and showed it to us in all its wonderful glorious splendour
It was amazing... incredible... such a sight
Her beautiful...her splendid... her lovely... bare Bottom!
I remember thinking it was like a lovely ripe pear
One of Life's great mysteries had just been unveiled
And her there with this huge impish grin,
When we were going home we promised each other we'd not tell anyone, our parents, not even the priest in confession
About that great vision we'd just witnessed
It was the height of naughtiness
Yea! Those were the days...

I wondered, 'Whatever became of you Old Friend ?
I looked you up online but couldn't find your name anywhere, couldn't find anything about you
Were you even still alive ?
50 years was a long time, I'd barely made it this far myself, and I had a lot of scars to show for it
I thought rather amusingly that I should knock on your door
Maybe you were still living there,
But what was I hoping to find ? I wondered...
"Whose at the door ?", a woman's Voice inside might say,
"Just... just some crazy guy talking about 50 years ago" her dutiful husband would reply
That's probably how it would go
I felt like I was Rip Van Winkle awakening after being asleep for 100 years or in my case 50 years
What did I hope to find
What did I hope to see, an old man now just like myself
And I bet you'd tell me your opinions on the government and the economy
And how the village had changed over the years and how other old schoolmates of ours had got on in life
But No! that's not what I wanted to hear or see
I wanted to see you there again just like you were as a little kid
Your lovely youthful face smiling back at me
And you'd say, "I'll get the ball and we'll have a game, the first to ten wins"
This was what I was looking for, this was what I wanted to hear.

We were very close, were going to grow up together, go to the same schools...college
We'd always be friends
We'd meet all the trials of life together....
I hope Life worked out well for you, my friend
In a way...in a way I almost didn't want to know
If I learned you did well in Life I'd probably only get jealous
I'd start to think I was better than you and that I should have had those things you had
Life, this world it makes enemies of us all... eventually
It divides, is all about competing and comparing... and beating (I suppose).

I still remember that last night before I left forever
We were down on the beach, it was twilight, the tide was coming in... the waves slowly advancing
Just like in life I had no power to stop it, to change things,
I had no say, I didn't want to go and leave you Old Friend
No! I didn't want to go....

Thank you...thank you for being my friend, for being there
For all the time you gave me, I hope I didn't hurt you in any way.

I have a photograph, one solitary old black and white photo of the two of us
We're sitting on a barrel in our back garden on either side of my Dad whose in the middle
You look a bit uncertain, unsure of yourself, probably lost in the dynamic of my family,
I look at you and I think
"Whatever happened to you.... Beautiful Friend, whatever became of you"
And then I look at myself as well, and I think, I whisper
"Whatever became of me as well".
We lived a few miles from the main town in a seaside village. This happened during the Covid in 2020.
Luca Jan 2011
He's whispering in her ear
The kind of things she wants to hear,
Of how he'll never leave her side.

But one day he falls to the floor
Those promises won't keep no more,
And those whispers, they turn, to lies.

So he sits there watching from above
As the earth takes back his broken heart,
And his love, she slowly slips away.

He follows her across the green,
And down into the blackened streets,
But nothing looks like it did before.

Though suddenly she doubles back
And jumps into a strangers arms,
There are tears but they're no tears for him.

The stranger holds her oh so close
Immediately the curtain falls,
And from behind he now can see her lies.

He can't believe she stopped his heart
Once through life, once through love
Finally he knows that she's to blame.

But still he follows where she goes
Knowing that her twisted words,
Never meant to her what they did to him.

But his discovery, its come to late
Now he's trapped by his hollow fate,
To follow the girl he thought he knew.

So he sits there gazing from above
Forced to watch his esoteric love,
But knowing love, and being loved are not the same.
Misnomer Dec 2011
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.

Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.

Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.

Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.

Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.

Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.

"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.

Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"

— The End —