Bending downward, hanging
Down like one having
A drinker's droop,
Is my head;
My soul is bent low
For harrowing sorrow.
Like lead
Have i been sinking into the sea
Of deep despair daily,
For this life doth down stoop.

i.

The sisters are, like their brethren everywhere,
An amalgamation of gentle touch
And soothing words delivered in sepia tones
(Comrade, you will be up
And out of here before you know it)
In such a manner as to convince you
That they believe it to be true as well,
But I have made something of a living
In the interpretation of the unsaid,
And what I have seen in a certain knitting of their eyebrows,
An occasional tightness around the throat,
The set of the jaw as the doctor studies my chart,
And I suspect that this may be
The final station on my excursion,
The last listing on the timetable;
Indeed, as I click off the inventory of my own person
(The fever, the unsightly and damning rash)
I have come to the conclusion
That I may find the denouement of this particular tale
To be highly unsatisfactory reading.

ii.

I am at considerable leisure to think, reminisce,
And even, though wholly without purpose, to dream.  
On more than one occasion
I have drifted back to a certain train ride
(I was headed to the Congress of the Peoples of the East,
Not without some trepidation, I might add)
Traversing almost all of Mother Russia, from Murmansk to Baku.  
Oh, there was any number of wonders
To be viewed through the windows:
The broad, seemingly endless steppes,
The grandeur of the Urals and Caucasus
The wide, sluggish Irtysh,
But there were other sights,
Unsettling, almost portentous views as well:
Villages, burnt and abandoned,
Cows and horses so thin
Their hides appeared almost threadbare,
Peasants of all ages whose eyes gave evidence
Of seeing such pain, hunger and death
That it was a wonder they could still stand upright,
Or, indeed, have the desire to do so.  
We, conversely, rode, if not in the lap of luxury,
Comfortably indeed—no shortage of coffee and *****,
Even caviar on a more or less daily basis.
Finally, no longer able to contain discontented thoughts
(I knew my outburst would be reported back to the Comintern)
I said to the Red Army captain sharing my compartment
That it seemed incongruous, if not counter-revolutionary,
To be overfed when the backbone of the proletariat
Was starving and dying before our eyes,
That, surely, there was something we could do.  
As he walked from his seat  toward the window,
He smiled and said as he pulled them downward
Sometimes, the best thing we can do is to pull the shades.


iii.


Again, having a certain gift of observation
Proves to be a mixed blessing:
There are certain signs (the adjacent beds
Being placed a touch farther away,
A certain distance, physical and otherwise
By the doctors and nurses)
And it is clear to me that my remaining sunrises and sunsets
May be counted on fingers and toes,
And my musings have turned to my placement
After I am discharged from further ministrations,
And I find it somewhat amusing if not entirely suitable
That the epitaph upon my tombstone
(If I am afforded such a luxury;
It is far from certain that the pig-eyed Zinoviev
May not just have me thrown into some dungheap,
There to sate the desperate hunger of the cur and the swine)
Will be likely written in Cyrillic,
An idiom I found wholly perplexing and inscrutable.

You appeared in the room
I noticed you, felt something bloom
you sat near me
we talked
my interest grew
you blushed
my heart flew
my brain turned to mush
insides flipped to goo
I fell so hard
yet what could I say to you
when there were so many pitfalls
so much that might go wrong
so hard to read your feelings
and what anyway
did I want to say
what was this that I felt
what had I glimpsed
the need in you?
the need in me?
recognition of something beyond?
Lust? Yes, that was there
and why should it not be
when so many boxes
were ticked for me?
When it's clear that I'm far from alone
in this attraction to which I'm prone
but then, with so long without
I had long grown to doubt
that I could ever state
my expressions of desire
or to say I'd like to play
with someone who lit my fire
and there's the catch
to make a match
there must be a connection
and yet that connection's the thing
that has the power to make me flinch
and in the past I may have drawn away
said nothing, not made my play
but I felt this so strong
that I had to go along
at first so tentatively
while I tried to probe
to find what you thought of me
then, somewhere along the way
my inner sadist awoke
I longed yet more to play
then all too briefly it seemed possible
that despite all the reasons I'd imagined
for why nothing could happen,
that something, after all, would develop
and I couldn't help but express
just how pleased that made me feel
yet I waxed too enthusiastic
gave the wrong impression
and a reason I had never imagined
arose to **** the mood
the wires, so carefully disentangled
crossed themselves once more
my new found pride lay mangled
broken, trampled on the floor
I sought for answers
but harvested anger
and to my shame
responded the same
yet I am responsible
I am to blame
you may have caught
the wrong end of the stick
but that was due
to how I presented it to you
and I offer my apologies
to admit that in part
your fears were justified
it's true I'd thought ahead
had dreamed that I
might help you fly
that I might take you to that place
where others would fear to try
yet that's not the whole story
it's also true that the trip to the edge
happens one step at a time
and that the very first one was
at the forefront of my mind
and had that turned out mediocre
so that we'd wanted no more
then that would have been all of it
at least we'd both have known
but had it been fantastic
had it been amazing
had it blown our minds
ready or not would be meaningless
and that's what terrifies
and what terrifies entices too
and therein lies the tension
so to disclose I have to mention
that though I shall not cross
the lines you draw
part of me wants to ignore
that they're there at all,
wants to take you and make you fall
at my feet and beg for more
and when I saw you'd cut your hair
I was torn between thinking
how handsome you looked
and feeling it was a cause for regret
that you no longer had enough
to wrap round my fist
and I wonder if your walls are there
to protect you, or to challenge me to dare
to plunge on through and break them down
and even though I've made other connections
have played, will play elsewhere
even though there's one
feels deep and special and true
this tension has me addicted
I feel the pull of you
please don't be alarmed
I mean you no harm
well, not of the lasting kind
I'm aware of the potential
for the tension to consume
to pull into a downward spin
but I won't allow that to happen
and I say these things
not to make demands
not to influence
or force your hand
but just so you know
if you didn't already
that you can break the tension
whenever you're ready
unless it dissipates before that point
of it's own accord
or through distraction
and however this turns out for us
my wish remains that you should fly
no matter whose hand that happens by

Cynthia Pauline Jones, April 2013

As my tears fall down,
I wonder
How many more will be shed?
How many more can I hold?
They’re endless.
I can’t stem their flow.
Freely they cascade
Gently falling downward
Not seeming to give in.
I’m wounded.
Yet feel ashamed.
For what reason have I to complain?
What reason have I to cry?
So I’ve been hurt
I’ve been broken
I’ve let myself collapse.
It happens.
I just can’t see the end.
I don’t know where it will stop.
And without an end it sight - it’s permanent.
I can’t give up and give in,
But I can’t fight on.
Without anyone to rescue me I’m stuck.
Balanced between my pain and delusions.
Blinded by the tears that escape.
For each one that I corner and hold back,
A thousand more creep out.
And I shame myself by such emotion.
Because I know that I will be seen as weak.
As bothersome.
Because I cannot hold onto myself.

Wind . . . blowing up baggy sleeves of my cardigan of ivory
Sky . . . grey and cloudy . . . perfect weather for me
Earth . . . I can see it right beneath me but nobody can see me
Fire . . . hottest of its kind within me can no longer hurt me
I am at peace

One would ask what I am doing.
I would answer . . . I'm going to Heaven, human.
One would ask how I can go.
I would answer . . . there are many ways but I'm just gonna let gravity catch me one last time.
. . . because it can't get me again anymore after this

Only one step forward . . . and I can feel it
The gasp, the heart drop . . . Yessss
Flying downward and . . .upside down
I am . . . weightless
It's everything that I've ever imagined
And more
Hear humans screaming down there
Don't you dare ruin my trip
A pause
My eyes sparkled with surprise
Is that . . . the Large world? . . . My Large world?
Pure and bright . . .
I can see it . . . I'm getting close to it . . .
Close my eyes . . .
Goodbye gravity

Family Poems: Poems about Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers and Grandfathers



Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena 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



Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love of my life,
light of my morning―
arise, brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.

Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven―
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.



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.



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



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 *****!



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.



Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves ...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Keywords/Tags: Nature, spring, birth, baby animals, angels



Limericks

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! "
—Michael R. Burch



Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)



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 for Older Children

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.



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.



Limericks

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride? "
"Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied.
—Michael R. Burch



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.



War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch

Trump’s war is on children and their mothers.
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi

War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.

But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night.)

For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light!―
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.

For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?

Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and ****** women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did.



Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

Dedicated to the memory of 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."



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.



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

When you were in my house
you were not free―
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina



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?



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?



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...



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the lost gold of vanished stars.

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



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 or 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?



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.



Resurrecting Passion
by Michael R. Burch

Last night, while dawn was far away
and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies,
as thunder boomed and lightning railed,
I conjured words, where passion failed ...

But, oh, that you were mine tonight,
sprawled in this bed, held in these arms,
your ******* pale baubles in my hands,
our bodies bent to old demands ...

Such passions we might resurrect,
if only time and distance waned
and brought us back together; now
I pray that this might be, somehow.

But time has left us twisted, torn,
and we are more apart than miles.
How have you come to be so far—
as distant as an unseen star?

So that, while dawn is far away,
my thoughts might not return to you,
I feed your portrait to the flames,
but as they feast, I burn for you.

Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse.



Currents
by Michael R. Burch

How can I write and not be true
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?

Originally published by The Lyric



Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



Haunted
by Michael R. Burch

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

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

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

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

Published by Romantics Quarterly



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

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

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



hey pete
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

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

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



First Dance
by Michael R. Burch

for Sykes and Mary Harris

Beautiful ballerina—
so pert, pretty, poised and petite,
how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau
on those beautiful, elegant feet!
How palely he now awaits you, although
he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet!



Keep the Body Well
by Michael R. Burch

for William Sykes Harris III

Is the soul connected to the brain
by a slender silver thread,
so that when the thread is severed
we call the body “dead”
while the soul ― released from fear and pain ―
is finally able to rise
beyond earth’s binding gravity
to heaven’s welcoming skies?

If so ― no need to quail at death,
but keep the body well,
for when the body suffers
the soul experiences hell.



Dearly Beloved
by Michael R. Burch

for Suzan Blacksmith

She was

Dearly Beloved by her children, who gather
to pay their respects; they remember her
as they clung together through frightful weather,
always learning that Love can persevere ...

She was

Dearly Beloved by family and friends
who saw her great worth, even as she grew frail;
for they saw with Love’s eyes how Love’s vision transcends,
how her heart never faltered, through cyclones and hail ...

She is

Dearly Beloved, well-loved, sadly missed ...
and, while we mourn the lost days of a life too-soon ended,
we also rejoice that her suffering is past ...
she now lives in the Light, by kind Angels befriended.

And if

others were greater in fortune and fame,
and if some had iron wills when life’s pathways grew dark ...
still, since Love’s the great goal, we now reaffirm her claim
to the highest of honors: a mother’s Heart.



Beyond the Tempest
by Michael R. Burch

for Martha Pilkington Johnson

Martha Johnson was a formidable woman,
like her namesake, Martha Washington—
a woman like the Rock of Gibraltar,
a sure and steadfast refuge for her children and grandchildren
against the surging storms of life.

But later in her life
I beheld her transformation:
her hair became like a corona of light,
as if she were intent on becoming an angel
and something in her visage
brightened and softened,
as if she were preparing to enter heaven
where love and compassion rule
and the troubles of earth are like a tempest in teapot.



Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!



Published as the collection "Family Poems"

Keywords/Tags: Family, Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers, Grandfathers, mrbch

I.
I turned the kettle on
by pressing a little button
on its metallic side
slightly downward.
The light went on,
a cold blue hue,
warming the water,
while I sat
while I looked out the window.
It wasn't raining
but I wished it was.
An idle hand took the kettle
and poured boiling water over my head.
It spilled on carpeted floors.
They were ****** but
hot water doesn't ruin carpet.
****.
It rained.

II.
I turned the kettle on
by pressing the contoured button
slightly downward.
I stared into the see-through opening
to watch it boil.
It didn't
because the power was out.
I should have known
because the refrigerator
smelled of dead fish.

III.
I turned the kettle on
by pressing the little button
slightly downward.
The light went on
so I knew it was working
and sat down to look out the window.
It was raining.
I wished to smell it
so I opened the window.
It smelled of rain.
I was not surprised.
The bubbling sound
was made by boiling water.
I was not surprised.
The ceylon tea
smelled of earth.
It was refreshing.
Vapor danced over the surface
of the hot water,
over the wet herbs infused in it.
I danced holding the cup.
The vapor danced with me.
I put the hot tea to my lips.
It warmed me while
I cooled it.
It spilled on the carpet
But I did not care,
for I had more water
and it was ****** carpet anyway.

sometimes it seems that
world peace will come faster
than *peace of mind

Once upon a time in spring
While red roses aroused in flowering
A seed was planted
A prime source for
A coming fount of love

What better time than now?
For Our roots to rise upward
As We become entangled
Twisting to break free from the ground
Hatching the stem to bring Us to light

We arise to the welcoming sun
Standing before the lake below
Our senses tingling in anticipation
Of the emotion before Us

To find love We must begin
To take the plunge
So take my hand
We'll jump the cliff and
Wake the water and
Submerse Ourselves in each other

Now lust has commenced and
We've birthed Our commitment
With each rejuvenating gesture
As companions We climb closer
To the surface of Our desire

Soon summer sighs
As We lock eyes laying in the grass
A vibrance of color surrounds
A resounding chorus of nature and laughter all around

The sun can hide behind the clouds
Because Your smile shines
Eventually the heat will break that shroud
But not now

We have saved the daylight
Sealing each moment with Our lips
We are the finest development
Of what it feels to find perfection

Or so We both thought
With Our bodies in a bind
Our future is what We had and fought for
We are beauty prior to decline

The breeze is blowing through Our sentiment
A crisp bite of a coming closing cold
We still held on tight to it

But we sank and resurfaced and
Burned Our adoration unknown
Of the fast fall

Autumn sets in
Bringing an aura that hangs
As the harvest yields nothing for Us

Our hearts remain aligned
But restlessness runs through the back of Our minds
We couldn't foresee Our experience would have consequence
We moved too quick while jumping to conclusions

When We're in need
The speed of living only happens at one pace
With a chance meeting
We are now reaping what We've sown

If We could have seen the repercussions
That would inevitably sprout from that seed
Would We return to our lonely buried discussions?
Be sure to never allow results like these again

Instead Our memories cling to the trees
With each leaf falling one by one
Every kiss and embrace suffocating the earth
The temperature spirals steadily downward

The first winter frost befalls Us
The flakes descending to
Freeze Our feelings in time

We follow fate
We decline

Drifting away
Drowning in Our decay
Of snow and ice that
Finally took the life and
Left Us alone again

Our dreary adversity was over
In cold inertia
We are still in the night

Spring showers fed budding love
Summer gave time to grow
But in autumn it seemed appropriate We'd fall and
Hit a weeping winter wall

These patterns repeat
Maybe We rushed and
Shouldn't have hurried

We dove so deep into We
It worked well periodically
But We were suffocating

Our eyes began wandering
Our questions and thoughts
Recurring

Was it worth it?
A yearlong parallel of the weather
We parted ways in frigid fashion
But there's always another new coming season

So as the sky now sprinkles it's mist
The scent of soil rises to replenish
I carve a bed into this ground once more and
Wait for the next shower
To bring me a mate with whom I can share this flower

Days pass
The ships that are relations, crash.
Years can disappear in a flash.

Too many problems we couldn't hash.
Too many currents, flowing towards the past.
I knew we couldn't make it, the gap between us was too vast.

Substance abuse and word misuse
The ugly side of passion roared til it got loose.
And resentment led me wondering where the fun went.

I wasn't happy, attitudes were pointed at me.
Backed into a corner I usually sting,
I needed to escape, fully aware of the actions it'd bring.

Already you've dropped more tears than I would wish on my own mortal enemy,
Myself.
I can no longer help you, for leaving is what was leading me back up
through what was my own downward spiral.
To be happy with what you are and all that you have is vital.

The vibrations passing through were infectious and sometimes toxic.
It was that way throughout the lion's den, and there was no way I could stop it.
I would leave for peace sitting next to trees over-looking the lake.
I'd usually do so alone, because if I had stayed in that home I knew my future was at stake.

3 different times, too few happy rhymes, and a fair share of crimes..
I knew eventually I'd have to show my spine and lay it all out on the line.
Never emotional enough for you, yet more emotional than you knew.
2 single tears were shed after our time was over, one for me, and one for you.
Cherish what was, but we needed to part.
The ending usually reveals itself as a new start.

I never wanted to break your heart, but we couldn't keep up smiles.
Sometimes you need to get away, which is why I'd be gone for miles.
The trials, I found were no longer worth the effort, for a balance was no longer there.
I may seem brash and distant now but don't you dare make it seem as though I don't and never cared.
The tears you drain over the phone hurt me, but I have to remind you it's too late.
Just don't look back with hate, it's just how it is, whether or not one calls it fate.

We weren't all that we could've been but hopefully we'll learn.
I'm going after what I want in life, now it's your turn - to switch lanes, and ride.
I'm sorry, and I know of your pain.  But as you progress, just brush me aside.

You're making yourself sick, but you'll get better, and I honestly hope that.
This is my attempt at self-healing; a new, loving habitat.  
Sounds cliche. but even though you may feel shattered like glass,
I've been there before, and this too shall pass.
I'm sorry


It's been awhile that I needed to get this off of my chest,
But I know from the deep-depths of my heart, that this is what's best.

The sun on the hills, lighting the golden leaves and green pines,
The golden leave rustling in the air as I drive by.
My window down, the soft breeze playing with my hair,
Slightly cold but nice this fine autumn morning.
The golden leaves and green pines rush by the window on both sides,
Like golden fire in spring green branches, the leaves and needles playing.
The car rushes around the turns like a bobsled down a shoot,
Or like a snake, weaving and winding, as I speed up into the mountians.
The breeze from the window becomes too much, the pressure in my ears too stong,
So I roll it up, locking myself in the car, separated from the nature rushing by.
But the sights are still so amazing, the colours, the beauty, the leaves, the needles,
Small lakes and rushing streams, making their way downward as I go up.
Up and up I got, further in and further up, leaving civilization and noise and man made things behind,
Each curve further from the concerns of life and and worries of every day.
The golden fire recedes, giving way to more evergreens, more grass, more flowers,
Autumn being marked not by golden leaves but by dry tan grass.
The mountains are visible ahead, great sleeping giants, waiting for release,
To rise up and walk the world once more, resounding echoes of their footsteps.
But for now they sleep, snow and glaciers in sharp relief against the creation granite,
Rock so old, so massive, so permanent, in a way the human world could never be.

Where contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav’nly music makes the arches ring,
Where virtue reigns unsully’d and divine,
Where wisdom thron’d, and all the graces shine,
There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
While praise eternal warbles from her tongue;
There choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
With perfect bliss, and peerless glory crown’d.
  While thy dear mate, to flesh no more confin’d,
Exults a blest, an heav n-ascended mind,
Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise?
Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?
Amid the seats of heav’n a place is free,
And angels open their bright ranks for thee;
For thee they wait, and with expectant eye
Thy spouse leans downward from th’ empyreal sky:
“O come away,” her longing spirit cries,
“And share with me the raptures of the skies.
“Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown;
“Immortal life and glory are our own.
“There too may the dear pledges of our love
“Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
“Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
“And join with us the tribute of their praise
“To him, who dy’d stern justice to stone,
“And make eternal glory all our own.
“He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
“He crush’d the dire dominion of our foes;
“Vain were their hopes to put the God to flight,
“Chain us to hell, and bar the gates of light.”
  She spoke, and turn’d from mortal scenes her eyes,
Which beam’d celestial radiance o’er the skies.
  Then thou dear man, no more with grief retire,
Let grief no longer damp devotion’s fire,
But rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire,
Thy sighs no more be wafted by the wind,
No more complain, but be to heav’n resign’d
’Twas thine t’ unfold the oracles divine,
To sooth our woes the task was also thine;
Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart,
Permit the muse a cordial to impart;
Who can to thee their tend’rest aid refuse?
To dry thy tears how longs the heav’nly muse!

She fears him, and will always ask
   What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask                  
   All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
   Of age, were she to lose him.

Between a blurred sagacity
   That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
   The seeker that she found him,
Her pride assuages her, almost,
As if it were alone the cost.
He sees that he will not be lost,
   And waits, and looks around him.

A sense of ocean and old trees
   Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees
   Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days,
Till even prejudice delays,
   And fades—and she secures him.

The falling leaf inaugurates
   The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
   The crash of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,—
While all the town and harbor side
   Vibrate with her seclusion.

We tell you, tapping on our brows,
   The story as it should be,—
As if the story of a house
   Were told, or ever could be;
We’ll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,—
As if we guessed what hers have been
   Or what they are, or would be.

Meanwhile, we do no harm; for they
   That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
   Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea,
   Where down the blind are driven.

Mrs Oldham
on the slow train
to the castle
held your hand

between her thigh
and yours
beneath her coat
although it was summer

and the day was hot
in case some one saw her
and told her husband
hey I saw your old lady

with some young guy
holding hands
but no one did
and as you walked

around the castle later
listening to the guide
looking at pictures
and furniture

and suits of armour
you couldn’t get out
of your mind
the picture of her

taking you home
while her husband
was working
and her dog barking

and her saying
shut up Napoleon
he’s here as a guest
and taking your jacket

and sitting you down
on the sofa
and offering you drinks
and talking of babies

and how her husband
didn’t want them
and all he wanted
was the *** side

and the *****
and cigarettes
and you sat there
thinking of how tight

together her **** were
under her pink top
and wondering
how she made love

and if she enjoyed it
as she brought you
coffee and sat beside you
her hand on your thigh

rubbing it upward
and downward
all the while talking
some music playing

some crooner
called Como
or some such guy
and her lips on your neck

******* and kissing  
you wondering
what her husband was doing  
and what he was missing.

i witnessed a yoga class
at south by
push ups
downward dog and happy baby
**** cheeks
whispers
watch me
watch me name things
this
that
and the other lover
oh
thats me too
im two terrible people at once
pages run
too thin
though i have enough
blood to supply
those that remain

who needs blood when
innards spew plentifully
who needs a pen
when a finger will suffice
why paper when a bar window
begs for my inscription

look

downward ******* dog man
easy in
vocal out
its really not that hard
you just need to work on your balance

I am here,
alone,
where the river diverges in six different paths,
and where the mountain turns into a cliff,
and from there, the water flows
downward
creating a waterfall.

You will find me here,
alone,
where the sun struggles to rise,
and where the rooster rarely crows,
and the eagles endeavor to fly
upward
spreading their wings and drifting through the air.

Come find me here,
for I am alone,
and the wind is howling
but the wolves are louder.

The beasts only come out at night,
when I am alone.
But,
dear friend,
sometimes the moon doesn’t even shine bright enough to see.

the thick september dusk is wrapped
in clouds of barbie pink, topped with a
royal crest of rich purple and swirls
of orange creamsicle, slowly fading
into a smoky gray slate.
the air is cooled, complemented by a
crisp breeze that loosens the dying leaves
from their precarious perches atop the
firm pennsylvania maples.
together, we walk through the thick of
the forest, guided only by the skeleton of
an old railroad track, bending and twisting.
our sense of adventure has led us away from
the tiny park, past the dilapidated basketball
courts, and onto the former highway of a
belching beast, forgotten and replaced by
its sleek and faster baby brother, SEPTA.
our rusty path is lined with dying weeds,
turned from ***** green to dull brown by
the creeping chill and the burning sun.

conversation passes between us, topics
that have since slipped my mind because
they are as unimportant as the napkins
we threw in the trash an hour beforehand.
at first, i am on autopilot; we discourse, but
my answers are not considered.
my eyes are glued upon the rise and fall
of my black sneakers, white laces turned
boring brown, and the dust they kick up
with each and every footstep.
moments pass as hours, when suddenly i am
compelled to stop.
when i first lift my eyeballs, the world
spins and bends and loses focus--
maybe those were not just mushrooms
on my pizza? but no, just an illusion.
when i regain my eyesight, i can view
a family of deer--the proud father on
guard and adorned with a crown of antlers,
a skittish mother watching with careful
observation, and three children, halfway
grown; when i realize how long i have
been staring and that you must be long
gone, i look up, but there you stand,
closely regarding the family as i was.
and when i follow your gaze, they
are gone, vanished.

without speaking, we both silently agree
that we must research the disappearing
deer, so we begin to climb downward.
the bank is steep, but lined with thick
branches, dying grips and stepping stones.
we make our way down and find
the river sprawling in front of us like
a lazy snake making its way home, to the
bright point slowly sinking into the horizon.
an impossibly big maple sits on the levee,
and giant roots make wonderful benches,
so we sit ourselves among the beautifully
colored ground of late fronds, and i light
a cigarette, my own slow death.
the delaware tributary gurgles around us,
and for those few minutes, we are totally
silent; i can taste the death in my mouth,
but i do not wash it away--i must remember.

after the moment has passed, we ascend the
***** and resume our trek along the pathway.
"what is that!?" you ask suddenly.
i follow your pointing finger and at first,
i only see the never-ending tail of power lines.
but i look further, and i see something odd--
a non-sequitor, a cluster of red in the trees.
"i can't tell," i reply. "it's too far."
"it's unnatural. we must investigate."
again, we let our feet carry us along, but
now we have a destination.
"i wonder what i could be," i say aloud.
"it must be a tic-tac," you answer.
my brow furrows and i question you with
amusement. "a tic-tac?"
"yes! doesn't it look like a tic-tac?"
i examine the clump, and see it is oblong.
"the shape is right," i say slowly. "maybe
it is a cinnamon tic-tac."
"exactly," you reply. "it is a giant red tic-
tac, just sitting here in the trees!"
"i wonder what it is waiting for?"
"another giant, a giant person," you
speculate. "yes," i continue, "it must
be waiting for somebody with a big enough
mouth to come along and slurp it up."
as our feet draw us closer, the clump gets larger
and larger, and its definition begins to wane.
"a giant tic-tac, right here under our noses,"
you say. "what are the odds?"

after what seems like an eternity, we are finally
close enough to examine it fully--surprise!
it is only a thicket turned red by its annual death.

I love you like the apple
that transgresses from a tree.
It is pulled downward
and away
from calm familiarity.
Into the abyss of earth it crashes,
and is bruised.

And as the skin of all my mirth, will then decay
it shall infuse
with the origin of its origin
the birth by which its birthed,
and thus the end of its beginning,
and there forever stay.

So I shall count my loss as winning,
and ne'er again the two confuse.

we are all in this together
aren't we all just the same
we should treat each other better
why do we play this hurtful game

words scorch, and so does rejection
burning heat of judging glares
eyes seek a downward direction
when it seems that no one cares

poison arrows aimed at destroying
hitting people in the heart
bullets fly from the fingers pointing
slowly tearing the victim apart

what we need is understanding
no one is perfect, none have the right
the bully only stands there laughing
thinking they have won a fight

but

power comes from the strangest places
a bully will only live in regret
we were made to grow in stages
they haven't seen the best of you yet

Time and drugs, the binding of our book.
How can I love when my heart beats
like the wings of a dying butterfly?
Hands shake
shake
shake hard enough that the leaves from surrounding trees
fall
and the salt and pepper shakers clang
China notes upon the table.

I spit on you, but I have no right
(nor left)
to do so.
Cut your hair, go for a run, leave yourself behind.
Dance with yourself or dance with the devil,
the two are one and one is zero.

Coffee, bass, thump, stomp,
coffee
coffee
coffee.
Ingest toxicity as the earth ingests the rain,
the rain that once was water-
wasn't it?

Bleeding eyes and tasteless lips and feet that touch,
soul to sole.
Who are you to dance, to drink, to forget,
while I stand stagnant
as a memory?

Come home to tearful cheeks and screams of pain,
come kiss my eyelids with your
punches,
or stay buried within your beautiful haze of smoke and
uppers
downers
all-arounders.

Capture a moment as a child captures an ant,
harmless at first
until the tweezers come out
and then-
oh,
there go my legs.

And in the other realms the time sweeps
through sands of soulless poison,
green and beautiful and stocked in slime enough to cover all of
Jerusalem.
Dance
dance
dance until you seize and your mind is a blank page of
uncried ****** tears.

And as my soul burns upward and the flames singe my
nostrils,
I reach toward the closest substance,
just push
push
push these flames back inside and downward,
before I combust into a ball of hellfire
right here on the grey tile floor.

Throat is closing
stomach churning
lips wet
mind is burning
shaky hands
scratch your nose
distract yourself
adjust your clothes
knee ****
small sigh
eye twitch
tongue tie
swallow hard
calming sound
taking over
downward drown

Looking for freedom
I think I’ve found it
Now where’s the courage?

Soft aching
Slowly ebbing
Ah sweet peace

But now my mind -
Tangle, warp, torture.
So I follow it
Into the downward
As it goes viral
Drop down
Blow up
Sigh through

Always
Will it ever stop?
I fear not.

What professions could you aspire,
with your sky-wide hands—a mountain for hire?

A stepper, a stomper, a mammoth barbarian?
Surely there’s something—must you be a librarian?

Look at your size! It doesn’t make sense!
You sat just now on the library fence!

The ‘brary doors open ‘low even your knees
The shelves at your toes! The people like fleas!

You could never succeed as a little librarian.
No less than a lion could eat vegetarian!

I told him all that. Fact, I told him twice!
But a dream is no more a gift than a vice.

For my giant had dreamt of a future so long
filled with books-upon-books, snug where they belong.

He’s clung too far n’ too fast to simply comprise,
‘for he’ll give up his dream, he’ll alter his size!

Thus he searches the land for the littlest books,
hoping each tiny page will change how he looks

One day, he imagines, he’ll fit through those doors.
He’ll walk through the stacks—how a dream can endure!

With thousands of little books scooped up in his arms,
the giant starts reading ‘til he’s learned every word.

But a thousand, a million, no number of verses
could shrink down that giant to the size of a person.

Closing the cover, his dreams ‘gan to fade
the shelves and the stacks—the future he’d made.

‘til a comforting voice squeaked all of a sudden
What a wonderful book! Could I check out this one?

The giant looked downward, right under his nose
at a thousand odd books shelved right in his toes

I warned and I cautioned, now I must carry-in,
no ‘brary keeps books like the giant librarian!

The wheat yellowed, the wind chipped and chipped
until the wheat lay cheapened in broken mass;
I steered my tanned corpse through the scattered wheat.
I came to the well.
Instead of dropping a coin,
I tore a stitch and threw it into the blackness.
Instead of making a wish,
I cleared my flattering secrets from my throat and yelled.
The yell echoed downward,
bouncing off grandmother stones,
until it richocheted upward
only to have the wind carry it away like a swarm of lies.
I watched my secrets yellow like an ancient photograph,
I felt nostalgia chip and chip away,
clearing the spillway for fresh pain.
I spread my arms, a self-crucifixion,
a savior of no use.
When cruel regret and cruel change
finished with me,
I stared at the bluebird flying overhead,
just beyond him a cloudless sky.
Joy is for the living,
myself I'm kidding,
I close my eyes,
and
I'm carried away.

by William A. Marshall

go ahead, it’s your story
it’s an extrapolation and
you’ve got the (tile) floor  
for certain genera who listen
throw it up -
all over the **** place
in a documented assembly
or novel ode
your feelings hurl from the past
from petite chestnut corners
of your skull
rinsing the snow-white clips
and pages once innocent and fresh
now blotched up
in your porcelain sink  
half digested commitments
mixed in a wicked soup
that flows downward, slowly
plunged in there - to the wrist
you did it to yourself,
doggedly unsettled  
because it’s exclusive to you
to you and your mirror that talks
chunks of desire floating
in your opinion
how the hell do I know?
well, I’ve seen your sketchy
inactive pipeline up close
I’ve been clogged there too
and recall your lips stirring
but now I observe your smoking
sewer grill from the path
while fumes burn and hurl
from your
****

‘A tribute to my lost friend, the wonderful artist Alex Pointer, who chose to illustrate one of my poems, and who has sadly left this realm last year.’

Lost to the secret valley…

Time now is vast, all over for you, leaving so fast
   Drifting, twirling, to find a home on the grass
Ground soft beneath your feet, sky above blue
   Standing quietly, focus , take in all of the view
This place, this beauty, it’s where your Pan lives
   Then a tiny touch from behind, now you draw breath

Not turning, but you can feel his warmth on your nape
   Clops, as he moves off jingling, his big toes scrape
A horn blows quiet at first, then strident as he passes
   Here now, you’re left far behind, feet in cool grasses
Just staring over this place of which you’ve just read
   Wonderful land, where now you lie, with all you need

Before and below, an amazing valley with small stream
   Gazing down, seeing this languid water, seems a dream
First step tentative, but you have confidence in this gorge
   Over the edge, slipping slightly, yet downward you forge
In grass underfoot, rustles abound, there tiny creatures run
   Further down, birds lift to the sky, all gone, one by one

Turn to look back, your face saddens, torn by lost faces  
   Tears ***** your eyes, remembering husband, heart races
In your mind, children, pictures, paintings, now sadly bygone
   A scant breeze kisses, cleaning your cheeks of love forlorn
Here in this valley, a halfway place, memories of your reading
  An intense desire to paint pictures of another’s life bleeding

Foot follows foot as you slowly descend into this other’s story
   Gazing in wonder at this real scene, know that this is Lordly
Awareness of toes firm in ground, experiencing grass growth
   Then near tiny river before you, waiting something you hate
Dark, black, bad, and evil, something affecting your life’s fate
   But as you approach, there before you in glory, bright Pan

Brown face, shows both love and sadness, looks to your eyes
   Then standing proudly, lifts arm, killing it, watching as it dies
Turns to you, tears on his face, quietly tells of his affection
   For you, for your spouse, your family, your life, its perfection
With hands he reaches, your fingers he grips, you feel love
   Then you know his warmth, and you stare into the sky above

Pan leads you slowly to the flowing water, there swim fish
   Flashing many magical colours, waters stirring, tails swish
Rustles from behind, tell of much life abounding, if unseen
   Pan then points downstream towards the sea, land between
You let go his hand, walk then beneath the overhanging trees
   Scented flowers assault your nostrils, plants you squeeze

Turn to gaze back, in the distance, you now hear Pan’s trill
   That pain, the loss you felt, now lost, river running, ears fill
Clutching branches, feel their roughness, experience their life
   Happiness fills your heart, all sadness trimmed by Pan’s knife
No more pain, no sense of loss, for you know all will join you
   Husband, family, friends, not lost, just delayed, this be true

Here now, you remember a story you read, one of this very land
   How you’d loved, drawn and painted, led by his writing hand
You’d wished for his wisdom to be real, and here you finally are
   Free at last to live amongst flowers, existing as if a bright star
This chapter in his story written for you to read, gives solace
   Moving forward along the river, you seek your now final place

Bees buzzing, birds flit, over the clear blue water insects fly
   Bright yellow daffodils on the grass, iris by water flowing by
Red wild roses climb the trees, rapidly rapping their branches
   Vividly coloured damsels whirring, hunting things dancing
All this, and much more, the further you progress towards sea
   Slowly, one sight to another, you know sea will set you free

Always pushing forwards, closer, looking to that shining sea
   Buds, flowers, fruits, together now appear here, all three
You pluck a fruit you’ve never seen before, of various colours
   Tastes so sweet, flavour unknown, stopping by wild flowers
Here momentarily you feel the need to take a long, long rest
   Yet suddenly feel that moving would best, as just a guest

Fruit juice drips from your chin, on hitting ground, grows on
   Here everything seems so alive, constant death then birth
Seemingly this is the Goddesses halfway house to reality
   By the green sea, you somehow know she awaits with vitality
Onward you press, to see a young woman who awaits you
   Dressed in silvery blue, stands out, yet is a beautiful view

Saying nothing, she lets you pass, closer you feel a freeze
   Temperature continues to drop, made worse by breeze
And then she’s far behind, winter now long far away and gone
   Through the still waving branches, there appears another
This woman dressed as spring, has come, wears bright greens
   Approaching, she smiles, waves arm, sends warmer scenes

Onwards past, now ahead by the trees, appearing, another
   This one dazzling like summer, you pass, she’s like a mother
Smells of love, hope, and forever after, reminds of happy days
   Here now the trees branches thin, into sight, red, brown blaze
Closer, another woman, stunning beauty, she now awaits, you
   Her arms outstretched, you grasp her hands, leads to sea

Impending final ending, you are led to the one true Goddess
   Here her daughter Autumn stops before her beloved mistress
You feel warm, loved, as your life before you, suddenly flashes
   This higher power, touches you, behind her the sea crashes
Home you feel, all painful essences revealed, but gone forever
   Brightest of purest hope, as here, now you finally surrender

Lift, fly far away, safe from all man’s wrath and harm, now hope
   Behind those you love so much, but know be with you soon
And as the sun fades on another day, shining bright you alight
   Travel distant stars, ride upon different skies, live with delight
Behind husband mourns and cry’s with family and friends near
   But know this, only the bright stars die young, this sadly clear

Sometimes it seems like the only emotion
I ever see 100% of the time
is nervousness.
I have become a master at finding
those little nervous ticks-
chewed fingernails
face scratching
the occasional repetition of one word or another
the occasional downward glance.
sometimes i wonder
if I'm making this girl
(whichever girl)
tick like a clock about ready to explode
and leave it's arms loosing lying upon me
it's innards lying there in front of me
the inner workings, the inner thoughts exposed.
Or if her mind is just wandering to others
and i'm just the one sitting here ,
hoping to find a clock,
never knowing if i have,
my heart beating violently in my chest,
my nails already bitten to nubs,
small holes on my face and neck
where I've scratched the hair off
my hair pushed and pulled
this way and that by nervous hands,
my head **** near exploding with the thought
"opposites attract, but i need a ******* clock
before i myself explode
leaving my arms hanging loose in the air
and my innards raw and exposed
for more than just a lovers eyes"




©Brandon Webb
2012

A Little Deep Thinking

Some lady wrote as seed of creeds:
“All it needs
                  is a little deep thinking”.
A little deep… cannot be little.
Deep is deep, and little little.
One or t’other.

Deep: profound, complex, discerning;
Weighty downward, inward, sound;
Rapt, absorbed, immersed, committed;
Wise, engaged, perceptive, learnéd;
The opposite of mediocre.
No light joker,
But deep thinker (and non-smoker).

Recommended by this poet.
If you really want to know it,
Do not sleep through life and day.
Go deep into the strife or play,
Wakefulness and nightly rest.
Deep will satisfy each, every quest.
Deep is the best of bests of best.
All you need is dee-eep thinking.

A Little Deep Thinking 3.27.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

Red and yellow marigolds planted by the roadside
Hide the fact that nothing grows nor ever will but
Trees, trees tall pines thick and fat like old monks with
Hoods thrown off gazing upwards at an unchanging sky and
Weather, weather oh-my-god the weather, so unchanging so unending:
Sunshine and blue skies and cold nights and always these
Pine trees.

Give me leaves thick and fat and broad like the hands of a giant with
Veins and rivers of life always flowing, ever-changing, and
Doomed to die and rot.

Give me the rustle: the sound that those orchestras make,
A tumultuous journey from heaven to earth.

Give me the apple, so fair and full of fall and
Reeking of the crisp, the downward spiral of life into
Decay, disease, and decadence. And the pumpkin with
Flesh so firm and taut, ready to be
Bought or stolen
Felt or broken
Carved or thrown

Give me December, nights of warning and longing and
Echoing silence
Bring me a snowfall, each perfect flake's descent
Destined to be marred in slush and salt and snowplows and sunshine.

Give me the end of the year, the short days, the long nights
The perpetual trudging through aching ages of decay and disease
and decadence and

.

With all we have we are but vagabonds our need is breathe life into us as at first you did with
Adam see it a lifeless fleshly body the stillness contended with nothing it was as fragile clay
But the almighty stepped forward bowed close and blew into his mouth the outward became
Animated but inwardly a temple was formed the selfsame spirit that gave life wanted to receive
Have a dwelling place imagination jumps into play this most ancient and unique center though
The outer rises only some six feet but a temple towers to the heavens it changes features there
Is the dark and brooding the underground of a colossal dark ever moving river and then with
Ascension to the heights of the steeps that draw and filters wonder His name is called
Wonderful the white winged wonders of doves in Island paradise of Hawaii and the coastal
Swallows of Capistrano play here and endear place by extravagant thought and shear visual
Transparent purist glass gleams and in the recesses an opaque turning reduces lights it
Surrenders its power willingly creating a hunger to search delve with intuitive suggestion and
Bending conscious thought downward and inward where the unconscious swells defines
Enriches one beyond compare the cry the longing of all that is human finds expression in
Unknown depths you truly are in this quandary you are out of your depth but you are finally
Completely alive you no longer feed on empty promises or the glitter that mesmerizes without
Content you are spirit and you are being wasted in natural purists exclusively it is told in the
Structure of your inner being erosion failed timbers the very timbers the cedars of Lebanon that
Sweet and most pleasurable scent that is so prized has died and been consumed by rot dead
Soft odor what a metaphor for living for other interest outside the most treasured promise
There is I will put my spirit in you I will make my dwelling place a living spring waters more
Appreciated than any oasis that is found in the sparse far flung wastelands that are found in
Boundless deserts but that’s how you exist burned by sun and wind your lips are cracked by
Want of water your clothes are tattered you loathe the word slave but you are imprisoned by
Acts you perpetrate against your higher selves you are my children prince and princes your
Dress is to be royal robes but the enemy the supplanter has cast a spell on you he built up
Worthless trinkets as something you should give your whole lives for you miss the mansions I
Have prepared for you is there any greater wrong than stealing a fathers children from him it
Was done but He came and by blood sacrifice paid the total price making you redeemed in
Agony and torture by love unfathomable this was achieved please stop your misguided steps
Return in stillness and awe stand in the courtyard of the temple utter the words of contrition
And the wilderness that has crept up and choked your very life of blessing will be uprooted and
New life will surge you will be bejeweled with humility joy unconditional love you will know a
Home coming that will only be second to your Heavenly home coming I bid you come my
Darling beloved children