I should shut up soon, zip up
My mouth and hack my pen
Maybe I can stay with orange
Ink and licit words spread
All over the place. You bet.
Get me some poison Iago!

Forest and its men; O-M-G-
‘Underdeveloped illiterate pigs’
"Fish! We need development
**** it all, one by one and make-
A main streamers committee"
Get me some poison Iago!

I should soon quit voting
If am ordered to ink my nail for
A caste, a religion or a loser
Maybe I should vote, but
There's a shoot at sight notice.Oops.
Get me some poison Iago!

DIG-IT-ALl? Total babe!
Let’s talk about empowerment
And a survey on farmer’s suicide
But no new-generation
“mushy mushy”, save our culture
Get me some poison Iago!

I should stop eating as well,
Cook books unavailable, animals
Went back to temples (****!)
I really have a bad taste for
Green-lush-healthy-vegetables
Get me some poison Iago!

“Get inside, get inside”
Set an alarm and get inside
“Cover up, cover up”
Never dream an opening up
“Rapists are rapping out there”
Get me some poison Iago!

We are DEMO-crazy! Hell yea!
Where is my salvation?
Killer idea sirji! Killer idea!
“***** tonight?”
“Hang up. Someone’s knocking”
Get me some poison Iago!

When are you going to discern what you are made of young Iago?
I'm waiting. I'm waiting for you to espy the fact your nature takes far more than you are ever willing to give.

You have a gluttonous stomach for acclaim and it is this that will govern how you negotiate your efforts of any friendship. It is this that will decipher if you will stay loyal to your promises, nothing else.

Have you not noticed that you have never had to apologise properly for anything?
You have grown an unhealthy amount of entitlement, it holds you in an odious position right at the centre of your cosmos.
I guess you find it safe there. I feel strongly there is more for you.
You will of course be honored in your insipid society.

Iago, the self-serving menace
Knew how to play people like tennis
Got inside a guy's head
Now everyone’s dead
Including the poor moor of Venice

when I was a little girl I dreamt
of a happy, adventurous life;
I once dreamt I would become someone
instead of someone's wife.
but adventure was not meant for me.
(for a woman, it's not right.)
so I settled for the daydreams
by my darling husband's side.
oh, but who knew that you, love,
would ask me to be a thief --
turned a man into a murderer
with that stolen handkerchief.
maybe I, too, am responsible
for this overwhelming grief;
she was good, and kind, a most perfect wife;
but betrayed by jealousy.
now she lies here, dead; all I loved is gone,
and this man, he took her life --
out of jealousy, and o'er a lie;
and he called it sacrifice.
now I, too, must die; and at your hands
but at least I'll die for truth.
my dear husband; they've reserved a special
place in hell for you.

Oh! How beautiful her fair hair–
that these pains now suffer
each groan of this wheel pair
stretch each sinew's spiny puffer

Swift and potent speak in tongue
charmed to have her eat the apple
then lay beside her having sprung
stung, and breach our lady's chapel

**** this manic searing ghost
leave these broken bones and loss
bleeding tears of fable boast
pleading for a nimble dōss


Now upon this lying rack
chains clink and crack this back
Alack, to be found in wormwood's hands
plans, impoverished, crushed by mice-men

Oh! How beautiful her hair
to find oneself in this despair
for having false toad tail
from darkest pits and blacken flair

-cec

Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

It was at the party that you would see,
the nonconformist spirit of Ernest Hokum was alive and well.
He would not strive for mademoiselles
Since that would be dishonest, and Ernest was a honest man.
Not Iago honest for his desires did not lay doggo.
However, Hokum was known to succumb to a glass of ***
resulting in Hokum to become squiffy.
And any iffy encounters, he would shake them of with his usual aplomb
remaining so calm they thought he was just bored. Or dead.
And then they would leave poor Hokum to his horde of  ***.
"Lord, old chum, thank you for this ***!" Hokum proclaimed.
And he drank til he was famed for his *** drinking.
Thinking they saw him and thought "That's Hokum for you!"
Hokum knew this to be wishful thinking,
and listen to some blues.
Full of innuendos and nonsense.
Hokum's favourite combinations.
He ignored his conscience and allowed the blues to occupy his mind
Dwelling on such twaddle until he finds another distraction.
Probable ***, if he was being honest, which, as previously stated he is.
Hokum didn't take life too serious
for that would be to make life into work
Any work is tedious at best, so why be so serious?
Hokum enjoyed the simple pleasures of strong alcohol and humorous inappropriate songs,
And such that was the hundum life of Ernest Hokum.
A man with a charming smile that spoke blarney with such conviction
turning fiction into facts you would believe it, just for a little while.
Why wouldn't you? That's Hokum for you, afterall.

Shall I open volley,
spike with clenched hand?
Acquiesce to athleticism,
or drop return?

Is there a score?
numbers imply a plan,
encumbered; ******* clad...
jockstraps and leather,
tube socks and man.

****** courts,
exotic terminology,
words of reduction,
redacted, redacted, redacted!
under spells of seduction...

What more?

Who the **** cares.

Piles can be chucked,
and strip smiles, 1 grain at a time,
throw a bone, throw another,
you'll build your own monster.

What more?

redacted, redacted, redacted!
join me down below...
I'll give you history,
it will set everything aglow.

What more?
**** more.

Questions?
redacted; for your own security.

Not Goliath,
not even Iago... wait, that may be whom you cast!
Laughter man, so much laughter,
I grow darker;
a product of your mind; that's just a reminder.

Had I plotted, had I connived,
had I been...
trolling gutters,
sexing the populace,
setting parties to war?
You gave me the part,
and the act was in pantomime...
improbable for paralysis
severed spine,
redacted, redacted, redacted.

You set loose scenarios,
and now I willingly oblige...
I'll take my bow,
and cunning smile.

I'm ****** that I once thought
maybe

you were, in my eyes
worth every
sun
moon
and star

In yours
non existent

invisible like radiation
indivisible from the magnitude of the void

I'm ****** that you use to shine
so brightly
causing my eyes to look your way

Siren song
was your voice to my ears

Ambrosia
was the thought of you
your image upon my mind

Moses
was your form to my lips

Now I am here

Othello
seeking not your death but my own

Knowing it was not a trick
it always was what it was

you were never liken to Desdemona
you were always my personal Iago

You remind me that I’ve never known you

That is the pain and comfort

The closest ive come to knowing you
Reminds me of the most pain
Summer clouds in the desert

some hope
ive come to question your existence

You and I know
you’ll yield no rain

You are a reminder of intangibility

There may come a day when it rains
hell even snows
in the desert

but until then
you are not hope

you are a mirage.

©Christopher f. Brown 2013

Unfoldings
by Michael R. Burch

for Vicki

Time unfolds ...
Your lips were roses.
... petals open, shyly clustering ...
I had dreams
of other seasons.
... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming.

Night and day ...
Dreams burned within me.
... flowers part themselves, and then they close ...
You were lovely;
I was lonely.
... a ****** yields herself, but no one knows.

Now time goes on ...
I have not seen you.
... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged ...
A fire rages;
no one sees it.
... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain.

Seasons flow ...
A dream is dying.
... within parched clusters, life is taking form ...
You were honest;
I was angry.
... petals fling themselves before the storm.

Time is slowing ...
I am older.
... blossoms wither, closing one last time ...
I'd love to see you
and to touch you.
... a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry.

Time contracts ...
I cannot touch you.
... a solitary flower cries for warmth ...
Life goes on as
dreams lose meaning.
... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm.

Keywords/Tagss: love, roses, petals, unfolding, lips, spring, ******, dreams, time, seasons, storms, summer, drought



More or Less
by Michael R. Burch

for Richard Moore

Less is more —
in a dress, I suppose,
and in intimate clothes
like crotchless hose.

But now Moore is less
due to death’s subtraction
and I must confess:
I hate such redaction!



Anna Akhmatova was a great Russian poet, and a personal favorite of mine...

The evening light is broad and yellow
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The evening light is broad and yellow;
it glides in on an April rain.
You arrived years late,
yet I’m glad you came.

Please sit down here, beside me,
receive me with welcoming eyes.
Here is my blue notebook
with my childhood poems inside.

Forgive me if I lived in sorrow,
spent too little time rejoicing in the sun.
Forgive, forgive, me, if I mistook
others for you, when you were the One.



Our Sweet Ecologist
by Michael R. Burch

Our sweet ecologist —
what will she do with the ants
and the cockroaches, bedbugs and lice
when they want to live in her pants?



bachelorhoodwinked
by michael r. burch

u
are
charming
& disarming,
but mostly alarming
since all my resolve
dissolved!

u
are
chic
as a sheikh’s
harem girl in the sheets
but my castle’s no longer my own
and my kingdom’s been overthrown!



The Bachelor Spectacular
by Michael R. Burch

One heart? Tossed aside.
The other? A bride’s.
In all his great wisdom, the bachelor decides.

Eeenie, mean-ie, mine-y, mo’,
one gal must stay and one must go.
If she hollers? That’s the show!

No heart can handle such despair!
But hearts get broken, hearts repair.
Next season? The treasoned will rule the air.

Originally published by Light



The Unspectacular Bachelor
by Michael R. Burch

The bachelor is back, he’s black,
and some fair-skinned gals sure want him in the sack!
And, yes, he’s a whole lot smarter
than the previous knights of that peculiar garter.

We can hear the white supremacists stewing:
What the hell are the screenwriters doing?
They know love requires a nice white spark,
and this apprentice is far too dark!



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



Cut Out the Bachelor Nonsense!
There's a bun in auntie's oven;
now soon you'll have a cousin!
―Michael R. Burch



Time Out
by Michael R. Burch

Time is running out,
no doubt.
Time is running out.

I don’t know what the LORD’s about,
since Time is running out, the Lout!,
and leaving me with gas and gout.

I don’t know what the LORD’s about;
still, it does no good to grouse or pout,
since Time is merely running out,
like quail before a native scout.

’Twill do no good to shout or flout:
Time’s running out,
I have no doubt,
though who knows what the LORD’s about?

No need for faith or even doubt,
since Time is merely running out,
like water from a rusty spout
or mucous from a leaky snout.

Yes, Time is merely running out,
and yet I feel inclined to pout
and truth be told, sometimes to doubt
just what the hell the LORD’s about.



Tr(end)y
by Michael R. Burch

Ain’t it funny how trendy
becomes so dead-endy?
Lava lamps and bell bottoms
soon became “never bought ‘ems.”
While that teenage tattoo
soon’ll have wrinkles too.



This was my first-ever dabble dactyl, my variation of the double dactyl.

Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump,
his least favorite clown:

"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs
claiming upside is down!"

Donald Dabble Dactyls must begin with "Piggledy-Wiggledy" in homage to The Donald's oinkerishness and his 'do. References to clowns, gold-plated toilets and/or diapers are a plus but not required.

Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”

“Why should I try to be
funny as Donnie? He
gets all the laughs
from marks who should frown!”

I see that I violated my prime directive, so "never mind."

Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



Cowpoke
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

Sleep, old man ...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.

You cannot know
just how the Change
will **** the windswept plains
that you so loved ...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now ...
before you see just how
the Change will come.

Sleep, old man ...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sand
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.

I believe this poem was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. That was probably sometime around 1974, at age 16 or thereabouts.



Blue Cowboy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.

He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the fiends of hell
would leap to feast upon your heart.

Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.

Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.



Chixiao (“The Owl”)
by Duke Zhou
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Owl!
You've stolen my offspring,
Don't shatter my nest!
When with labors of love
I nurtured my fledglings.

Before the skies darkened
And the dark rains fell,
I gathered mulberry twigs
To thatch my nest,
Yet scoundrels now dare
Impugn my enterprise.

With fingers chafed rough
By the reeds I plucked
And the straw I threshed,
I now write these words,
Too hoarse to speak:
I am homeless!

My wings are withered,
My tail torn away,
My home toppled
And tossed into the rain,
My cry a distressed peep.



The Song of Roland
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

"for spring in retreat"

Rain down,
strange murmurous water...
no, summer is not yet nigh.

Cease your complaining,
for May is,
calling December a lie,
still rocking the high white sky.

Sleep now,
summer hours...
too soon your time shall come.

Softly straining,
the raining
spring begs, "Let me run
one more hour beneath the sun,
for soon I shall be gone."

Lie down,
weary Roland,
for summer is not yet nigh.

Remember a pyre
of stars blazing higher
upon night’s immense dark sky
unsettling as her eyes,
twinkling, even as you died...

Lie down,
weary Roland,
for summer is not yet nigh.

I believe I wrote “The Song of Roland” around age 16.



That Not-So-Mellow Fellow, Othello
by Michael R. Burch

Not sure ’bout that fellow, Othello,
was he a “hero” or merely **** yellow?
He killed his poor wife
over a handkerchief!
Thus Iago proved his heart Jello.



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Untitled Epigrams

Teach me to love:
to fly beyond sterile Mars
to percolating Venus.
—Michael R. Burch

The LIV is LIVid:
livid with blood,
and full of egos larger
than continents.
—Michael R. Burch

Evil is as evil does.
Evil never needs a cause.
Evil loves amoral “laws,”
laughs and licks its blood-red claws
while kids are patched together with gauze.
— Michael R. Burch

Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

John Mella was the longtime editor of Light Quarterly.

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you did well,
he would sell ya.

Shakespeare had his patrons and publishers; John Mella was one of my favorites in the early going, along with Jean Mellichamp Milliken of The Lyric.



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.

Keywords/Tags: Shakespeare, poetry, drama, poet, light verse, humor, life, death, love, Mars, Venus, Othello, Iago, Duke Zhou, Owl, homeless, cowboy, bachelor, Richard Moore, Anna Akhmatova

Parce que, jargonnant vêpres, jeûne et vigile,
Exploitant Dieu qui rêve au fond du firmament,
Vous avez, au milieu du divin évangile,
Ouvert boutique effrontément ;

Parce que vous feriez prendre à Jésus la verge,
Cyniques brocanteurs sortis on ne sait d'où ;
Parce que vous allez vendant la sainte vierge
Dix sous avec miracle, et sans miracle un sou ;

Parce que vous contez d'effroyables sornettes
Qui font des temples saints trembler les vieux piliers ;
Parce que votre style éblouit les lunettes
Des duègnes et des marguilliers ;

Parce que la soutane est sous vos redingotes,
Parce que vous sentez la crasse et non l'œillet,
Parce que vous bâclez un journal de bigotes
Pensé par Escobar, écrit par Patouillet ;

Parce qu'en balayant leurs portes, les concierges
Poussent dans le ruisseau ce pamphlet méprisé ;
Parce que vous mêlez à la cire des cierges
Votre affreux suif vert-de-grisé ;

Parce qu'à vous tout seuls vous faites une espèce
Parce qu'enfin, blanchis dehors et noirs dedans,
Criant mea culpa, battant la grosse caisse,
La boue au cœur, la larme à l'œil, le fifre aux dents,

Pour attirer les sots qui donnent tête-bêche
Dans tous les vils panneaux du mensonge immortel,
Vous avez adossé le tréteau de Bobèche
Aux saintes pierres de l'autel,

Vous vous croyez le droit, trempant dans l'eau bénite
Cette griffe qui sort de votre abject pourpoint,
De dire : Je suis saint, ange, vierge et jésuite,
J'insulte les passants et je ne me bats point !

Ô pieds plats ! votre plume au fond de vos masures
Griffonne, va, vient, court, boit l'encre, rend du fiel,
Bave, égratigne et crache, et ses éclaboussures
Font des taches jusques au ciel !

Votre immonde journal est une charretée
De masques déguisés en prédicants camus,
Qui passent en prêchant la cohue ameutée
Et qui parlent argot entre deux oremus.

Vous insultez l'esprit, l'écrivain dans ses veilles,
Et le penseur rêvant sur les libres sommets ;
Et quand on va chez vous pour chercher vos oreilles,
Vos oreilles n'y sont jamais.

Après avoir lancé l'affront et le mensonge,
Vous fuyez, vous courez, vous échappez aux yeux.
Chacun a ses instincts, et s'enfonce et se plonge,
Le hibou dans les trous et l'aigle dans les cieux !

Vous, où vous cachez-vous ? dans quel hideux repaire ?
Ô Dieu ! l'ombre où l'on sent tous les crimes passer
S'y fait autour de vous plus noire, et la vipère
S'y glisse et vient vous y baiser.

Là vous pouvez, dragons qui rampez sous les presses,
Vous vautrer dans la fange où vous jettent vos goûts.
Le sort qui dans vos cœurs mit toutes les bassesses
Doit faire en vos taudis passer tous les égouts.

Bateleurs de l'autel, voilà quels sont vos rôles.
Et quand un galant homme à de tels compagnons
Fait cet immense honneur de leur dire : Mes drôles,
Je suis votre homme ; dégaînons !

- Un duel ! nous ! des chrétiens ! jamais ! - Et ces crapules
Font des signes de croix et jurent par les saints.
Lâches gueux, leur terreur se déguise en scrupules,
Et ces empoisonneurs ont peur d'être assassins.

Bien, écoutez : la trique est là, fraîche coupée.
On vous fera cogner le pavé du menton ;
Car sachez-le, coquins, on n'esquive l'épée
Que pour rencontrer le bâton.

Vous conquîtes la Seine et le Rhin et le Tage.
L'esprit humain rogné subit votre compas.
Sur les publicains juifs vous avez l'avantage,
Maudits ! Judas est mort, Tartuffe ne meurt pas.

Iago n'est qu'un fat près de votre Basile.
La bible en vos greniers pourrit mangée aux vers.
Le jour où le mensonge aurait besoin d'asile,
Vos cœurs sont là, tout grands ouverts.

Vous insultez le juste abreuvé d'amertumes.
Tous les vices, quittant veste, cape et manteau,
Vont se masquer chez vous et trouvent des costumes.
On entre Lacenaire, on sort Contrafatto.

Les âmes sont pour vous des bourses et des banques.
Quiconque vous accueille a d'affreux repentirs.
Vous vous faites chasser, et par vos saltimbanques
Vous parodiez les martyrs.

L'église du bon Dieu n'est que votre buvette.
Vous offrez l'alliance à tous les inhumains.
On trouvera du sang au fond de la cuvette
Si jamais, par hasard, vous vous lavez les mains.

Vous seriez des bourreaux si vous n'étiez des cuistres.
Pour vous le glaive est saint et le supplice est beau.
Ô monstres ! vous chantez dans vos hymnes sinistres
Le bûcher, votre seul flambeau !

Depuis dix-huit cents ans Jésus, le doux pontife,
Veut sortir du tombeau qui lentement se rompt,
Mais vous faites effort, ô valets de Caïphe,
Pour faire retomber la pierre sur son front !

Ô cafards ! votre échine appelle l'étrivière.
Le sort juste et railleur fait chasser Loyola
De France par le fouet d'un pape, et de Bavière
Par la cravache de Lola.

Allez, continuez, tournez la manivelle
De votre impur journal, vils grimauds dépravés ;
Avec vos ongles noirs grattez votre cervelle
Calomniez, hurlez, mordez, mentez, vivez !

Dieu prédestine aux dents des chevreaux les brins d'herbes
La mer aux coups de vent, les donjons aux boulets,
Aux rayons du soleil les parthénons superbes,
Vos faces aux larges soufflets.

Sus donc ! cherchez les trous, les recoins, les cavernes !
Cachez-vous, plats vendeurs d'un fade orviétan,
Pitres dévots, marchands d'infâmes balivernes,
Vierges comme l'eunuque, anges comme Satan !

Ô saints du ciel ! est-il, sous l'œil de Dieu qui règne,
Charlatans plus hideux et d'un plus lâche esprit,
Que ceux qui, sans frémir, accrochent leur enseigne
Aux clous saignants de Jésus-Christ !

Septembre 1850.

It's the separation
The distance
The indifference to one another's
Affairs
Some of the time
That gets to me

In wait
I stare at the screen
Out the window as
The rain
Smashes into my window
At high-velocity
No thoughts come
**** if I'm not numb
Most of the time

Prose and poetry
Sometimes
Aren't enough
Inspiration
Sometimes
Isn't enough
Life sometimes
Just doesn't cut it
But then I'm left
With a simple question:
What else
Is there?

She sneezes and I recall
The past;
Images against a hazy backdrop.
So much rain.
Lots of snow.
Not knowing where either of us -
The pair
The individual -
Are going to go.

Life comes down to choice,
Opportunity, and
Self-knowledge; knowing
What the hell
You want.

The road signs will
Appear then.
The magicians face will
Come forth then.
The words writ, spoke, sung, sold, built, molded, etc.
Will ring true for you
Then.

The only way
To know
If
You've got it,
Is to accepting
You'll never really
Know
If you do.

Accepting chaos
Staring into the moving flame
Hearing the wind rap at one's window
The tea kettle hisses
Like a snake trapped in a cage
Seeing the food has all gone bad
The stores have all been shut down
Their is a hopelessness in a baby's eye
So vast, so true, so knowing,
That no man
Can know its meaning
Past the age
Of
Five.

Campbell, in all his tall wisdom,
Resorts to refreshing the past spreading
Its happenings upon the present.

A tall order for many who do not read.

History is our skin
Our blood
The characters before us
We were once them
And they will be us tomorrow
The difference
Is in
The faces, but never
The character

Few move through the mold
Taking eccentricities past the Bible
Holding their time, culture, present
Like a whirling fireball
Inside of their gut.

A Romeo and Juliet kind of story line.
An Iago and Cassius kind of melody.
Macbeth and his ghosts play cards under
Dim candlelight, swords play by their knees.

The world
Is a monstrous stage.

Wind swept and grand,
Devouring any who
Miss a cue.

Though they are not devoured,
They are
Tossed aside by time,
Up to Heaven or down to
Dante's hell,
Remembered by few or all
(In the end, does it even matter?)
Their stories always twisted
Like the infamous pop
Of a cork ***** at a bad party.

Our liquid state
Clear as a puddle on the sidewalk
Reflects our
Own
Insecurities in daily life.

Spotted tombstone engravings
Of a life lived through and passed;
The oil drum leaks toward a church,
Creating the chaos
We are born from and
One day

Die back into.

where you filled
the silence of my
heart with your malice
and false benediction,
i hope another
fills it back with
kindness and
the enablement of
my tears.

i pray you get a taste
of your own venom,
choking on your own
words,
only so you can
learn your own lesson.

By: Cedric Mclester

The President must be hating
That Flynn’s cooperating
With the Special Prosecutor
Which could render him neuter
Although he now has *****
Watch him as each one falls
They’re coming for Don Junior too
What’s a President to do?

The President must be hatimg
That Mueller caught him waiting
Wondering what the **** to do
Pull the trigger? He has no clue
He’s frightened of the consequences
Cos the third cycle always rinses
And the fact remains
That he’s gone through great pains

The President must be hating
That Manafort is now debating
Whether to turn state’s evidence
He’s going bonkers from the suspense
It’s only now that he can see
That he might be in jeopardy
And he’s too old to do the time
If he has to pay for his crime

The President must be hating
That Pence is probably waiting
To assume the crown
As he watches him come down
“No more trips to Mar-A-Lago,”
Says his personal Iago.
“If he had thought or only known
That I was destined for the throne?”












Cedric McClester, Copyright ©2017.  All rights reserved.

Sunset lit crystal blue sky softens evening
sights, easing heat swirls along deep dug
channels and birdsong drifts,

a stretch of coiled black tarmac
runs beneath not visceral pitch as
dusk approaches granular strip
edges the road,

and a beetle black crawls along, oval
shaped, creased down its back hawling,
legs like a rowing eight seeming to
dip into the strip,

as I look down there is no sense in this
movement, no goal, no refreshment, but
carrying on whatever into the night.

Stretching my kneck upwards a jet ebony
black woman walks along wreathed by mountains,
Sierra Nevada perched on her head a rare
sight in these parts,

far off coal black hills sprout a tatty covering of
green flecked tweed, ribbons of meltwater
rush down to where I stand spring still
flushing,

in the fast approaching twilight seems like
a sleeved arm lyeing on the land a tanned
knuckle of dried rock stretches out - wrinkled,
sunburnt calluses around.

All creatures share this abundance
turned from semi-desert into an oasis
by Iago and his Moores.

I know how to quickly dissolve
in literary forms
But you must beware, be aware, because...
He didn't **** you - you don't know what really hurts
Life is wider than all of these thoughts

I'd rather have Lil' Kim than McKinnon
I'd rather feel ***** and filthy
That we women are still shamed
for feeling, behaving this way!

Not all men are enemies - you are a Iago, poisonous snake
whispering noisily on our ears
But I'm over it because with LOVE I am filled.

And this is the crux of it:
you can **** yourself. You can ****.
You can drive to your ruin. Who's to blame?
Not you, but not him.

I have a man. He's the one.
He's got me. I am his, whole.
Shame me for feeling in love!
Shut up, you fake feminist.
Stop your spell, your undersexed kiss.

Love and **** - then we'll talk

I am ***** a thousand times
but not in the ways you describe
I am ***** by men calling me a ****.
I am ***** by a system that doesn't understand.
I am ***** by women like you - ****** my brains

Girls keep blowing! they'll keep touching you ****
Men don't deceive us - we will not answer to this

You are my Iago
You feed on my fears
You are a snake
A snake to me
You show me the ugly side of things
when you barely understand them
Filling my mind with **** taking me nowhere

I am starting to get tired
of you whispering in my ear such crap
Take away my glee from me
I am starting to get tired
because dear life is not an app
that you can test and you can try

I am starting to get tired
of having a second father
found in you
I am starting to get tired
of your rational stuff
You fooled me once
won't fool me twice

The evidence from the tradition is clear.
Anyone who chooses a mystical way
Is bound to encounter
The Dark Night of the Soul.

Said Fr. David Tracy

Addends, minuend, subtrahends... all Greek
to poor student long haired pencil necked freak.

****** (internal) revenue stream
plus plugged egress
equals flood of woe
torturous suffocation
of biosphere quite slow
particularly concerning one
Norwegian bachelor farmer from Oslo
amidst the bajillions of people,
one common Joe
(cur) just biden his time

pleading to acquire
much needed dough,
attorney General assistant Lynne Costello
sought out to help yours truly
(to no avail)
hoof hound himself cloven
and rent asunder courtesy
ofttimes mentioned cyber outlaws
preying upon (long in the tooth) fellow
suddenly his entire body electric
being deceived synonymous

with the plot of Iago
in my version starring
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
as none other than Othello
punch drunk as Judy
falling down laughing,
roistering, yammering hysterically
and rolling with a ****** Rockafellow,
whose role as a convincing fall guy
convincingly contradicted himself
as an above board underfellow.

Yours truly voluntarily recruited himself,
cuz he haint been rather astute
therefore welcomes
a swift kick in the derrière
courtesy squared off steel tipped boot
knocking the living daylights
predicated on lovely bonehead moment
linkedin to poppycock that did compute
as sense and sensibility
even suspicious to a deaf-mute
leary toward one extortionist

pièce de résistance, he did execute
and pulled wool over my eyes
analogous to snake charmer
playing magic (Johnson) flute
transfixing yours truly
a dunderhead lunkhead punked galoot
who in hindset could not add up
fishy (worm I going)
oh yeah... virtually nabbed
courtesy cyber bandits,
who gane nary a hoot

prying skewed logistics I impute
to wanna hang myself
courtesy suitable length of jute
tied with Gordian knute
gofundme page welcomes pledging loot
to help me (if you can)
with desired great expectation moot,
hence these lovely bones
when cremated will be transformed
into fine powder
more inert than a newt.

A Poem: Greek Love*

A lifeline was given to me at the nick of death
I was grateful to God but curious
I wondered, who sacrificed this breath?
My curiosity led me to a hand that was vicious


Your reception at first was devilish
My gratitude to you was deep
You didn't want me to know you're stylish
We began to fall into Lovers Leap


I gradually began to fall for you
Your transparency made me fall the more
You finally took the keys to my heart to you
I never knew you were an Iago waiting for the downfall of the Moor

Oh! I poured out my heart to you
I was ready to do all you commanded
I really loved you
I never saw the circle of death that surrounded

Your smile was my happiness
My tears was your greatest delight
Oh! I never knew you were my source of sadness
You release wickedness in a speed of light

I fell into your arms thinking you loved me
Only to fall into the hands of Brutus
I've always thought, you love me
An Othello I am, an Iago were you in status

Love is transparent and without betrayal
Love is sincere and highly respected
But your hand of fellowship needs no appraisal
cause you never loved me as expected


Your sacrifice was designed to pull me down
The time we spent was for you to break me behind
Your aim was to empty my pocket and remove my crown
I never knew this, I thought I saw love in your mind


Through your Judas like terrible style
You've made me not to believe in love
I'm now resting in loneliness file
Instead of being in a pit called, Greek Love.

© Daniels Pen ™ 2020.

Sage Ridge School
Quietly in Reno

I teach Julius Caesar
Cinna the Poet we know

The Old Man and the Sea
Fight on, Santiago!

Lions on the beach
Othello not Iago.

laying in bed all day
my steps awkward slow

singin' with Chuck Berry
No particular place to go

imagining conversation
what I'd tell her, ya know?

Iago hates the Moor
But Staunton loves Othello

Mental telepathy
Science fiction now science fact

Shakespeare and Aeschylus
Did both write and act

Does Iago hate the Moor
Because he is black?

Bill Withers died today
But his music comes back!

The Republican party is ignorance
Mixed with violence and racism
Nixon destroyed Cambodia
George W. destroyed Iraq

Free, free, free Palestine
The time has come, it's now
Gaza is under
Genocidal attack

Jerusalem is brown
Tel Aviv is blue
New York City nights
Carolina blue

Basketball today
Thumbs up, Chicago
St. Catherine of Siena
The Moor not Iago

                Wait for it!

the incredible fragility
of the professorial ego

their books merely words
and they can’t let go

whose the smartest?
who cares, Iago?

in Dublin and troublin’
still falls soft snow

                  don’t ya know?

The presumably apocraphyl tale of the cowboy who shot Iago dead on stage during a 19th century production of Othello in the American West.

The presumably apocryphal story of the American cowboy who shot Iago dead when Othello was performed in the 19th century West.

The Shiva lingam in my son's room
He was working on a science project
Arthur Edens. Michael Clayton.
Wendy Doniger in Chicago

Near Lake Linganore
Not too far from Baltimore
2044
Othello tormented by Iago

A Mid Summer Night's Dream
That's what I'd take her to see
Exit 222
Dinner at the Depot

Talk into the night
Her parents. Her sisters.
Europe
Other Worlds

              3772

George Mason? Yes.
Thomas Jefferson? No.

Bill of Rights
Staunton snow

The Venetian Moor
Against Iago

Hablo Espanol?
Un pequito.

I've got the mystical madness
Tryin' to see to use it

Basketball fights sadness
I cannot refuse it

The kabbalists in Spain
Kabbalists in Chicago

Fold my hands and pray for rain
I will fight against Iago!

The problem in the U.S. today
Appears to be political.

But it is actually religious.

Gonna recruit my army
Tough sons of *******

Fight 'em on high
And fight 'em down low

Florida rain
Seattle snow

Isolation
But not Iago

Stand by me
I'll stand by yo!

Awake in the night again
Palindromic time

Stanley Yelnats and Zero
Cranberry juice with lime

Thinking, can't stop thinking
Will I see again Chicago?

Springsteen with Othello
Harold Bloom with Iago

I'm with Dr. Cohen
He taught me Julius Caesar

I'd like to be a just man
That is how to please her.