"lentil" poems
i am a woman with pain built in.
lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.
removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.
washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.
warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––
i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 8:34 PM UTC
Lost in
lunar waves,
Tossed by
your embrace…
A celestial
twinkle
of memory
lives on
indefinitely…
I’ve had you
in passing glances
and in soul-holding
stares…
I’ve had you with
ice cream
with three stuffed bears…
I’ve had you in
sweltering summer,
in lentil soup fall…
I’ve had you without
ever having had you
at all.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 4:41 PM UTC
Working all alone today
I cannot help but smile
No distractions
No disturbance
My thoughts can range for backstreet miles
The hay is cut, the weather fine
Work is going well
Drifting over ripening wheat
The sound of village bells
A bucket dipped into the pond
Brings glitter lentil soup
No traffic noise, no people here
Just insect buzz and pigeon bill and coo
Today a day of solitary
Today a day for poetry
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
we need only rocks and butternut squash
daylight mellowtime
cold wind change snap brisk
fog mouth.
The cities ******* cling to the shoreline
lake of ontario.
share tea , share kiss
peace yum day break activity
meditation on stillness
stones stacked seamless .
Before a powerful night , of music sung with joy in note,
friend snuggles -
smoke lips - crying - mercy
vision ascension.
Body pulsating in your hand.
Pancake quinoa breakfast , maple syrup hotchocolate .
Later to lentil soup with french bread and brie cheese , grapes
Reading park time medicine cards
Shaman training , initiating 46 yr old lady to her first joint under the swell of almost full moon gleam.
i dance the whirling dervish round the baseball pitch , extend my legs in ballet-tai-chi whirl. Find my footing in
the lightning flash sky
nestle and snuggle more with friends.
To midnight snack of orange , ginger zest cookies with sunshine and peace printed on , peppermint tea and
a slight fondling shower.
New music runabout
talkin bout american deeds ,our own self , our progression and human dissociation from animal instinct
Be love.
POWER in HEARTBEATS.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
I also have a disco ball.
It lies to me and i'm afraid that one day,
Apprentice will overpower master.
I'll die peacefully in my sleep.
It tells me i am lame
And that it will **** me with a mustard packet.
Yellow
Yellow
Yellow
All the sunshine is gone.
There is only mustard.
And everything i eat tastes like malice.
One day, i will conquer it.
I expect it to bleed.
Shattered glass,
Sparkling in the dark.
You shall glow no more, silly inanimate object.
Revenge is comfort.
Soft, lovely comfort.
Fuzzy blankets and lentil soup.
Now i can sleep.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
some may think me a pessimist
even i begin to think so some days
but then there are things like lentil soup
tastes like mama's dinner bell laughs
and yesterdays that have lost their prowl
and it's also healthy?
a thing with no flaws
seems too good to be true
but it is true, it is.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
You may take offense,
were I to compare thee
to a common vetch,
but if you knew your history,
that Rome's legions were lentil fed,
I would be speaking in your defense,
my little Piscum.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 3:22 PM UTC
how much longer will I wait for butterflies bursting red at the wings, fiery orange curling their tips into flames
today is long and heavy like the space before a goodbye
i watch a moss-backed turtle float on clouds above the water and I think of you,
of coiled garter snakes and soft pink sunsets, of warm lentil soup and white zinfadel and fern forests and I know,
I would not be enough for you
settled in the space between sun and moon I am two parts water, one part fire,
I am boiling hot springs set on a river deep, bubbling and breaking and gasping for air,
I am summer thunderstorm, hot rain and violent life and love without control,
I am ocean fissure, the space between, red hot lava shifting slowly like a lover beneath the sheets
I am self-contradiction, all crab-shell and shape-shifter and the answerer of my own questions,
I am crystal cave heart and loose leaf mind, waterfall eyes and moonshine smile, you cannot tame me but you cannot let me go
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
Tomorrow is you, you, you day, doomsday, Tuesday, too-soon day,
But for now, we have headlight heartthumps and stars in your eyes.
We have oceans of asphalt where we sail in shopping cart man o’ wars.
We have frizzy hair where moonlight hides and kisses on our magenta lips.
Tomorrow is for you, by you, with a special guest appearance by you.
Teleprompter notebook clutched in non-regional fingers
as your throat flies over the early morning traffic for the eight am report.
Tomorrow is to die for, lie for, try for, because you need it, seed it, want to be it.
We have place, we have lace, fingers traced over the skin between the lines.
Tomorrow is lentil spectacles, vision impaired, nightmares in mirrors that are closer than they appear.
We have scarves, secret sensuality, subconsciousness, sovereign sometimes and their armies of selfish senses.
Tomorrow is springtime revolution, noodle-nooses and ready, aim, fire reanimated dreams.
We have the means, the torn seams along the moments when we know what we want.
We have what seems to be the day, the day, the holiday, the you-day.
Tomorrow is every day.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Your voice
Your smile
Your touch
Perfect
like a sunrise
Like croissants and coffee
Like standing naked in a high rise window
Perfect
Like hot evening air
Tense but happy conversation
Your hand holding mine
Perfect
Like secret kisses
Like wine poured onto feet
Like lentil soup
Perfect
My favorite word
And the most painful word
Because it reminds me of you
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
There is the woman
with reddened lips
her eyes are
little-black-dress-worthy
but the sequins on her jacket say
hello,
a beautiful, inebriated,
cherry-wine scented hello.
That folky
stone faced kid
makes potato-lentil soup
and he could
blow your mind
not because of the soup though,
that part tastes like dirt.
That girl wearing
a collared shirt
and thick dark glasses,
she is the human manifestation
of the other side of your pillow,
and she has no idea.
The ginger kid
understands more about
people than you
ever will,
which is how he was able
to make you shoot wine
out of your nose
that one time.
And the guy with the
scruffy beard
and the microphone
-well, he breaths funny
but the stagnation
in his voice makes
his poetry sound like
really
gentle ***
every syllable
nibbling
at your inner thighs.
And while you'r being whispered
into this false sense of security
theres a grumble
seeping
through the floor boards
from the guy in the shadow
with warm honey
in his voice,
and he doesn't pretend
to be free,
like the rest of us.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
Cleansings
by Michael R. Burch
Walk here among the walking specters. Learn
inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave
to bone this tightly if their hearts believe
that God is good, and never mind the Urn.
A lentil and a bean might plump their skin
with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat
(and call it “health”), might quickly build again
the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,
and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived,
and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure.
One’s prayer is answered,
“god” thus unbelieved.
No holy pyre this—death’s hissing chamber.
Two thousand years ago—a starlit manger,
weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek,
the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,
the prophesies of man.
Do what you "can,"
not what you must, or should.
They call you “good,”
dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak
except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.
Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep
away in shame to retch and flush away
your ***** from their ashes. Learn to pray.
Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, ashes, crematorium, chimney, smoke, gas, chamber, Auschwitz, starvation, walking dead, mass graves, genocide, ethnic cleansing, racism, antisemitism, fascism, cruelty, brutality, inhumanity, horror
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
Ladybug lovesongs, shorts, longs, Genghis Khans
It's raining outside, warm and gentle
Fresh lentil soup, rearrange, regroup the thinking piece
Find peace part in parcel, gray zone embargo, let's go
Swing the *** down the row, break your back for it
No **** take a hit and pass it along, left or wrong
The Khan is coming out now, stomping through the mud
A cow chews her cud, the sky turns ice eyeball blue, Bailey
Hate me, I deserve it, tell me, I've probably heard it
Spit, throw your salt over your shoulder, shift that boulder
Mold over the wet bread slice, kimchi and rice
Sugar, spice, and everything spicy, like me, jalapeno tattoo'd on my arm
Does good, some harm, sound the alarm
Break the strong arm and be free
Self conscious in me, oh say can you see
By the setting of the sun, ants, plants, trails
Quails in flight, saying poison out of spite
Change your thoughts and change your life
Ladybug love songs, sing to me in your silence
Try this, I want your voice lifted to it
A note to hit, high point, max ordinate, advocates
Words of hate, washed clean with bar soap
Some hope, at this point, concise and contradictory
Dissect the diction, resurrect the dialect
Stand ***** in the face of flooding flashes
To make it in this country you need cash, kid.
Smoke a **** Winston down to the filter
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 5:08 AM UTC
I am from books.
From stain remover and paper towels.
From the “golf course lawn.”
(Perfectly manicured,
not a blade out of place.)
I am from forget-me-nots.
From the olive trees and oleander bushes.
The poisonous green leaves,
And the fruit ripe for painting.
I am from themed Christmas trees and chilli on Halloween.
From Nina and Dulce.
I am from eating dinner in the living room,
Making nicknames for television characters,
And waking up to shower and go back to sleep for a while.
I am from “one bite, one bite” and “Yellow Submarine.”
From a new color for Lamba on Easter.
From Walnut Creek and Europe.
I am from lentil loaf and sausage casserole.
From mango juice on the hallway carpet,
poured out thick and pulpy with a wet “thump”.
A box of great grandma’s jewelry,
Sitting atop my dresser,
Waiting to be worn out on the town once again.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
that certain decorum the chug of
progress down tracks leading
far off growing together perspectives
as if horizons have personality
persona decorative mustaches
on poster board canvases in chalk
scribbled concrete bridge abutments
how the man on the hill chants come here
a cloudy guru like quality you
want need to believe fall for
because the tobacco-stained sidewalks
no longer describe your path
so you take refuge in homeless shelters
eat sup in soup kitchens in torn jeans
long unkempt hair and a bath
might be nice
the lentil soup may smell better
how you know constantly there up high
behind the glass in the steel sky eye
a man sits knowingly
pulling strings
yanking the tongues
out of your independence
just playing
like god
you huff
puff
and stare
completely...
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 10:46 PM UTC
There was a time that I was unfilled
searched and dropped in an ocean
in the deep water the last hope lost
bombs exploded and shells bursted
the whole of me was decanted
a remnant that seems muted
but one that's alive and lasting
There was a time that I was waiting
to be seen, loved, deserved and adored
like the lentil sat in the water to sprout
and the state withered, lowly swallowed
the brokenness of it ached, stakes gone
the bets were a loss drained on the grounds
as the escalator crept it's way up
There is moment in the present day
where the awoken me is a desire
a goal to believe within my depths
touching the instincts and procures
not hurt and not wanting to believe
neither relying on the adoration to sate
as the state of lone licked all the tears
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
noting notions as a *** boils over
I'm standing dead still
still in the jig, just clinking
plodding soil as expectants fold in
popped then flicked it
pleasant patina of the mechanism
ceramic pulses in useless scripture
miracle unclipping of a dorsal fin
spectators stack irrelevances in several heaps
haphazard riptides in shared seas of subjection pull dully
slipping through and about subtle reactants
bridling a flood, lock sabotage
nil for a filter, sending catalysts roaring into battle
eating wartime victories and empty advice to be immersed in humility
gifted in living the suffering of the freedom of bearing suffrage
warring wingtips against space edges with abruptness
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 11:05 PM UTC
A little Mady bird caught the sun ,
having forsaken her nest then revelled in the-
new morn
Dreams of sunflower fields and wisteria ,
bumble bees and sweet corn ...
Oak arbors sprinkled with tinsel
Pungent , turned earth laden with -
sweetgrass , kernel and lentil ...
Sing a song of powder blue ventures
Proud announcments from the tip of -
fragrant magnolias
Scolding her contemporaries draped in water oak-
sanctity
Nestled in mistletoe
Pious morning adventures ...
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC
Where behavior is deemed detrimental
The impact appears incremental
But anger infuses
As loathing reduces
Your soul to the size of a lentil
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 1:27 PM UTC