Stiletto heels and a push-up bra,
Hair piled high, bleached and toned and all…
That’s the way you used to shuffle around,
But you ain’t been much since your man went to town.

Who’s that a’ worrin’ bout them wrinkles and lines?
Is that the same broad who fell for all his lines?
Well, since he left you all you do is frown.
No, you ain’t done much since your man went to town.

You could’a picked a man who would’a cherished you
Once upon a time when love was fresh and new,
But you picked the one who was known all around.
Now,  you ain’t known much since your man went to town.

(Interlude)

You could’a picked a man who would’a cherished you
Once upon a time when love was fresh and new,
But you picked the one who was known all around.
Now, you ain’t been much since your man went to town.

What’cha gotta to do to make it right
Is take your piece out of your purse, it’s a Saturday night.
What’cha gotta do is shoot him down,
‘Cause you cry too much since your man went to town.

(I'm still tweaking the arrangement. It should have an upbeat Little Richard or Ray Charles rock-n-roll mid-upbeat tempo with possibly hand claps on the downbeat like a spiritual chorus... since most early rock and r&b; musicians got their starts in small black southern Baptist churches. Let me know what you think. If it *****, tell me.

i don't have much to give, but i don't care for gold
what use is money, when you need someone to hold?
don't have direction, just rolling down this road
waiting for you to bring me in from out the cold....

you'll never know the rainy nights, the rhyming of the rain,
or how it feels to fall behind and watch him call his name

pack up and leave everything, don't you see what i can bring
cant keep this heart beating hard at bay
set my mid night sorrow free
i will give you all of me
just leave your lover, leave him for me
leave you lover, leave him for me.

we sit in bar and raise our drinks to growing old
oh, i'm in love with you and you will never know,
but if i can't have you i want this world alone
spare you the rising storms and the rivers flow
you never know the endless nights, the rhyming of the rain
or how it feels to fall behind and watch you call his name

pack up and eave everything, don't you see what i can bring
can't keep this beating heart at bay,
set my midnight sorrow free
i will give you all of me
just leave your lover, leave him for me
leave your lover, leave him for me.
leave you lover,  leave him for me.

like everything else,
you never see the collision
until you’re already crashing;
all the coins in your cup holders raining down
to be suspended like copper stars,
our hair floating around us like we’re underwater;
we are drowning in mid-air, we are just a car upside down,
headlong towards the water
rushing to a date with destiny we had wanted to cancel.
we are just an airplane shot out of the sunset,
blazing down like a comet.
and if you have only seconds left,  
have you lived a life you’re proud of?
would you change your regrets?
who are you thinking of as it all goes dark?  
who would you call to tell that you love them
two minutes from the carcass of a plane crash?
why don’t you call them now?
but see the thing is, most people don’t start living
until they’re afraid of dying.
we are creatures of comfort and comfort is in habit,
and until the car crashes
until the plane falls from the sky
until the bank is held up
until death’s staring us down,
just trying to see who blinks first,
most of us aren’t going change anything.  
we all know that the sun is going to expand
and swallow us whole,
but we won’t care until it’s singeing our eyebrows.
we like to talk about death
as if it’s not inevitable,
and we like to ignore the last page
until we’re on it.    
we are all the in between, we are all in transit,
we’re all nomads and lonely hearts and wanderers.
we’re all bandits, we’re all thieves in the night
illuminated by our emergency flashlights.
we’re all stars destined to be either
black holes or supernovas, imploding or exploding.
so maybe we’re all destined for destruction,
but i don’t care, it doesn’t matter.
not to me
because it’s all about the drive not the destination,
it’s all about the story not the ending.
and i don’t know if i believe in any god,
if i think he’d be the clockmaker or the caretaker,
and i don’t know if destiny damns us
or if we ***** our own selves over.
perhaps life, perhaps the end is predetermined
and we’re all stuck in our circuits,
we’re all mice in our own mazes.
but there’s something to be said for the middle, isn’t there?
the story doesn’t stop meaning anything
just because you know the ending.
and perhaps each of us is the director of our own existence,
and perhaps we are the chorus member of somebody else’s
and perhaps we’re just caught up in the details of it all.
what i’m trying say is,
we’re all a little ******* up
and we’re all a little messier than we let on
and we’re all just trying to figure it out.
because i have at least two existential crises a weekend,
i’m just trying to beat the world to the punch
i’m just trying to unravel the universe
before it unravels me.
i’m trying to unravel the universe with
my tongue like a cherry stem.
the hand we are dealt is not a choice
but the way we play it is
and i don’t know much about fate
but if you’d tell me, i’d being willing to listen.
i think too much about the past,  
and i can’t tell you about the future,
but on the off chance the fault is in ourselves
and not our stars, i just want you to know i love you.
if i don’t say it i’ll have no one
to blame but myself.

Of higher learning

We place a loose leash of knowing about slender throats
Caught hard in hollows, a not knowing breath
whose taste slipped into my words learned by rote
I wrote them all down then disregarded the terms
to a rattling gasp of old honour under contract
to self interest; a mid-career master of the dead
passing zombie bus stops still chasing the wind
past car parks come too late to a recording of record
bare baited notations pass status updates into the wind
Faith hung from some devils bargain by the late fee
What value has learning when you can’t find a teacher
Willing to work for the purpose of knowledge alone
Better choke it for the economics of high yield returned
To the word caught in this throat, it churns like cinders, last smoking
weft from the building we built just to watch it burn

warm sun sweet liquid
dark moist hole bristles soft sand
wonder exquisite
                            
                         *      
                                  *
                        SUN    
                             \/
                          sweet
                             ||
                       D  ARK        Q  QQ ||| b r i St  Les                      
                    s
                           o
                                f
                                    t
                                         sand ::::::sandcastles:::::::::holes OOO:::birth
                                                                 ing
ALICE

She basked in warm mid-morning sun drinking rooibos tea with almond biscuits. Her dollies speaking dolly lingo to marching ants. An indigo beam of sunlight rayed into her forehead, delivering jolts to her ladybird reverie.

Instantly Alice saw it. A tiny dark gasping hole in the flaking courtyard wall through which a caterpillar was  c r a w l i n g, beckoning her to
f o l l o w.
“Come,” he said, “with me, through MY intricate hole. I want to show YOU wonders beyond wOnders.”
eyes to eyes magnetised
a curious movement                             SSSSSSS
body lost legs, arms, neck                       SSSSS
brain smoking shrinking                              SSS
ears disappearing                                          S                
ribs increasing                                              

                      she felt an ***** growing
                      on the roof of her mouth
                      transmutation into worm or
                      serpent
                      how was she to know ?
        
                                                          
Her dollies started whimpering, ants stopped in their tracks, wall flaked some more
shedding skin
ALICE with two silky plaits, red ribboned tied
GONE to the
                     BE
                          YOND •••>>>  where no pond rip
                                                                       pled

black moist silently inward
sumptuous costume velvet
lime glitter embellished
crawling  s l o w l y, sleekly
spine tingling steel pins
rapidly acquiring density
            s e r p en t i n e  sword
            struck swiftly
            penetratingly  

Alice feared losing her
squirm worm
already her mind was
  L
           O
                S
                    T    

w i t h o u t  thistle  f i e l d s
or jellybeans or colour-in books
lego nowhere = ego shat
                                         te red

“Feel,” he said. “You can’t talk here, only feel.” She felt liquid through her veins, diluted warm honey, sensing bronzed bristles along the wormhole wall. Justice or Judgement eyes watched intently, though nobody touched.

             Her forked tongue grew longer
                  licked sides of damp musky hole
                      elongated, she was whole  

dead     alive     SAFE  opened  merging
slithering deep into belly of volcanic Earth
                  YET….slashed  slimy
s a i l i n g  sand  muddy   SACRED
worms and serpents crawling beside
behind, ahead ~
all heading in  O N E
direction________where to ?

“This is a pilgrimage,” her new friend remarked.  
Where     t   o   x2x2 ?
thoughts quietly rattled wormy counterpart  ~
“To Lord of Light, awaiting in a leather armchair.”
What must I do there, her thoughts slid along.
“Nothing.”
Then why are you taking me there ?
“To see what NO THING  is.”
How can I see nothing ?     DNA    j     m
                                                          U
                                                                p s
recalibration of
strings and strands ...
                            “Because  NO  T H   IN G  O
      D            is           Everything...”

They slid  a l o n g  > > ~ ~
slightly more haste
pace becoming faster
warm breezes flushed her
trunk. Her intestines becoming
                       an
          
               ~~ !!\\/\/\/\/!!! ~~~!!

EXPLOSIve  ORANGE RIVER
GOLD dust tinged ~   flame-purified
                                   no pebbles no grit no grime

“Feel,” her friend whispered, “we are nearing His g  RAY  sheepskin slippers sprouting WHITE lotuses. He is Nothingness, so don’t be afraid.”
                tingling sensations swept
                   upwards
                       from tail end through heart
                           to centre of her new skull.
Alice panted hot ice
I want to cry, but have no tears, she thought.
“HUSH hush hush ….don’t be afraid.”
Her body stiffened
neck area arched
scales curled   f  a  l  l
                                          i
                                             n
                                                   g            

webby rose petals faded
through floorless floor

NOTHINGNESS  and  EVERYTHING
flashed   L U M I N O S I T Y   n  a  k  e  d

A   Li  ce     died   * ¥ ¥¥**  an   e c s t a t i c
                                     D
                                          E
                                             A
                                                 T
                                                    H _


Alice Wanda Adam  ~  1.1.202O  — 1.8.2025


@never.never.land
                  she frolicked with
                  Rip van Winkle
                     who fed her TIME and leechies
                        skipped alongside Goldilocks
who offered hot cinnamon porridge and
a silver spoon engraved ~ AWA ~


What is her name ? asked the midwife
                       “A  L  I  C  E”   replied her Mom              
“Oooo, Sweets, she’s a  WONDERLAND ” a baritone voice chimed, stroking vernix ears.

mohair crochet bootied
Alice ****** HOT
mother’s milk
                       d
                          r
                            i
                              p
                                p
                                   i
                                      n
                                          g



©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song2025

Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap ****'s eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******* lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton ****-flesh.

Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-******.

Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****,
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.

~ following “A Simple Poem”~ (1)

But of course, we reference revelations,
for our brief self-description are guises,
meant to hide, meant to impress, reveal
little, enhance our mystery, preserve our
secrecy. expose and hide simultaneously
within our mid-of-night aura mystiques

Safe behind the curtain, we wizards speak
in voices and tongues, giving up our innermost everything in verse, write of our blessings and our curses, holding  little back while we give ourselves away, hint by hinting, writ by writing, a series of
+++++++’s

I choose, I chose, to dress my chess pieces
in a clear varnish, **** the consequences,
sail towards the torpedoes, heading direct
to meet your eyes, giving up my forest
tree by tree, poem by poem, a leaf and
a branch, only tinkering and fussing like a new parent over each new virtual birthing,

and then once tidied,
once spent,
my secrets unconcealed,
we wonder quick if each
puzzle when connected
to its predecessor is 
understood
as a tiny pointilisme dot,
a speck
and that you are wise enough to
comprehend how each speck,  
lives only unique in its
conjunction,
only tandem-with both the one
nearest and the ones dabbed a decade
long ago, and when you connect  
my dots, I stand before you completely
a full and a naked folio,
one book of a single reveal,
the sum of my totality,
an addition of many integers,  
summing up to 1

So,

should we pass by each other,
our eyes will pierce, each wrinkle,
solving the equation of who we are…
a single human, readily identifiable,
total recognition, via the reconnaissance
of our letterered footsteps

Screen Crack

Jesus,
what the fck,
wait,
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

your hands glued to the,
latest PDA advice,
seems like you cling to your PDA,
like it’s as important as a TAH,

that’s a Total Artificial Heart,
you are the “art” in artificial,
since when did Personal Displays of Affection,
get replaced with Personal Digital Assistant,

would rather ******* in silence,
than talk to someone that could potentially like you,
in the narcissistic network of a sociopathic society,
on thing is certain this cycle of denial is ******,


what the fck,
totally stuck,
mind fckt and ******,
into that little cancer causing PDA that you hold in your hot little hand,

Steve Jobs got cancer,
you think that’s a coincidence,
people that work with electronic devices their whole live’s,
get sick and this is not an isolated incident,

just look at at Stevie Jobs no Wonder he got sick,
died in his mid 50’s alone and in bed thin as a stick,
all those billions couldn’t save him,
so what makes you think you’ll survive,
what makes you think I care if you live,
when it doesn’t seem like you care if I die,

you think you’re saving time on that portable electronic device,
but really you’re not saving time you’re just wasting your life,
because no one ever regrets not spending more time playing video games,
it’s not spending more time with those they love that they regret when they die,

and I’m going to do you a favor and save you the trouble,
of spending your whole life chasing money on a tiny screen,
I’m going to quote Steve Jobs’s last words here,
so that you can start making changes right now before it’s too late…

“I have come to the pinnacle of success in business.
In the eyes of others, my life has been the symbol of success.
However, apart from work, I have little joy. Finally, my wealth is simply a fact to which I am accustomed.
At this time, lying on the hospital bed and remembering all my life, I realize that all the accolades and riches of which I was once so proud, have become insignificant with my imminent death.
In the dark, when I look at green lights, of the equipment for artificial respiration and feel the buzz of their mechanical sounds, I can feel the breath of my approaching death looming over me.
Only now do I understand that once you accumulate enough money for the rest of your life, you have to pursue objectives that are not related to wealth.
It should be something more important:
For example, stories of love, art, dreams of my childhood.
No, stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me.”…

See,
there you go,
don’t say I didn’t tell you so,
still you hear the final words of a billionaire and you say “Who cares?”,

and that is actually a serious question,
who cares?

Too busy trying to find fake treasure on Pokemon Go or read the latest news,
it seems all those apples and androids have made you apathetic,
in the Garden of Electronic Eden the internet has replaced intense ***,
no open markets on weekdays just items on eBay our  sympathy is synthetic,

so we don’t feel the vibration of our brothers we just feel the vibration of our phones,

see the more connected we get to the virtual world the less connected we get to the actual world,

and I’m having a melt down witnessing everyone on their cell phones,
and I want to find a reason to believe in but I feel we’re all lost without a home,

maybe I need Jesus,
what the fck,
wait,
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

new addiction to screens phones are the new crack,
cracked screens from dropping your phone gives you a minor heart attack,
oh how attractive cancer seems when it’s attractively wrapped,
in the form of an impersonal personalized phone case crass is the new black,

what the fck,
totally stuck,
mind fckt and ******,
into that little cancer causing PDA that you hold in your hot little hand,

look up look up!

You are alive in a body on this beautiful land.

There’s a whole world out there,
please find someone to get to know and love,
because there’s probably someone right next to you right now,
that’s willing to give you their all you just have to set the phone down and look up!

If you’d only just look up!

But,
you’re don’t see them because you’re too busy playing Pokemon Go,

I know,
we’re part of a 1st World society,
and we play our part by being passively compliant,
in order to be an accessory to our country’s atrocities,

as we get dressed up with the latest techno accessories,

I know,
you don’t want to think about it too much,
because then you might feel guilty,
so you keep your head down like you’re mourning,

you stay on your phone,
because it’s easier to simply not feel,
won’t even make eye contact,
because you’ve been conditioned to fear anything that’s actually real,

insecure and scared of the unknown,
even though it’s the things that we’re most comfortable that usually **** us,
cars cigarettes alcohol cell phones,
I’m telling you addiction to technology is a serious illness,

as we all begin to decay into a mediated mental illness….

Do you even remember what you did on your phone yesterday,
do you even remember what the last time you felt real emotions,
do you even remember the last time you did anything to help the world,
what is there left to believe in when nothing feels right?

Feels like,
we are losing touch with everything that makes us human,
emotions experienced in artistic expressions are leaving,
we have no attention span and cyborg robots do the thinking,

as we steadily slip into an android abyss please remember this,

I Love You,

and that scares you when I tell you like all real emotions scare you,
and then I tell you I want to take that phone you hold and throw it into the ocean,
and you finally look up from your phone stare me in the eyes and say, “I dare you.”,

like you’re defending your phone as if it’s a part of you,
like you’d hate a fellow human for destroying an inanimate object,
because when we’ve lost all emotions only hatred will be lingering,
but I’ll take hatred if that’s all that’s left,

Jesus,
what the fck,
wait, ∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

and I’m the biggest hypocrite,
because I say all this about technology,
but I’m writing these words here on this laptop,
and offering no apologies,

maybe I’ll really realize,
when I’m about to be gone,
alone on that death bed with my millions,
quoting the last words of Mr. Steve Jobs,

“Stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me…”
“Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow…”,

can you here me now?

No you probably still don’t hear me,
because you’re likely on your phone even right now…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Twelve Kings
Twelve Queens
Twelve Lords of the Sea
Twelve Ladies of the Earth

Forty-eight hands linked
Each palm dry and smooth
Resembling the leafs of a
Spring maple
Slender strong arms
Elbows slightly bent
Linked hands
Forming a sphere
Of perfect measures

Forty-eight violet eyes
Unblinking
Twinkle like stars just born
Every pair staring within
The sphere’s center
Slowly
Unraveling the prophesy
Of the dancing pebbles

Twelve sunless days
Twelve moonless nights
The ancient guardians
Read the puzzle of the future
Their violet eyes
Unblinking

As the hour of the
Nightingale’s song
Breaks the silence
The pebbles of prophesy
Freeze their dance in mid-air
And between the watching eyes
Of the guardians
And the nightingale’s song
The pebbles shatter
In unison
Into fragments of
Broken glass

Each face bordering the sphere
Turns an ashen white
Each expression soon
One of hollowness
Forty-eight
Pale hands
Tremble
Forty-eight
Violet eyes
Overflow with tears

Each shattered glass
Liquefies into a
Deathly freezing ice
Extending outwards
To the helpless world
Surrounding

Each guardian
Raises his and her
Face up to the moonless night sky
Their tears freezing
On their cheeks

As the liquid ice
Sweeps of their toes
Rushes up to engulf
The rest of their bodies
Screams that opened holes to other worlds
Shrieks that shattered every stone and breathing lung
Manifest in terrible echoes
Reaching every corner of the
Atmosphere

In the empty space
Where once planet Earth revolved
Around the sun
Now countless numbers of
Ice shards
Dance…

Unseen and unknown eyes
Watch the
Dancing ice shards
Lost in the blackness
With deep sadness

Earth
A planet with so much…
Fire
Water
Soil
Stone
Air
Nature

Everything….

Man lost the connection
It once had with nature
Blinded by
Manipulation and greed
War and hate
Control and corruption
Power and destruction

In twenty-four hundred years
Those whose souls
Remained pure
Whose eyes
Remained open
And all elements
Will embrace
As lovers

Opening a new
Window
In the fabric of worlds

I try not to get my hopes up
Because they have a habit of turning into ropes
That wrap around my throat
And leave burns that never go away
But when it strangely starts to look good
I get caught up in the moment
And I lose myself down a narrow narrow pathway
I get lost among the certain few positive events that occur
That my mind's focus fails to see the whole picture
And when reality swarms in
I am never ready
Caught with my guard down
I drown in all the facts and dreadful truths
Laying at the bottom
Immobilized
Lungs filled with bricks
Deflated
Shrunken
Heart
Shriveled
Pressured
Beaten
Broken
To keep from narrowing my mind
How will I ever learn
When will I ever recognize
That moment where I am about to make a mistake
So I can attack at mid stride
Turn it around
And not **** up
Shake my own shoulders
To loosen some sense
Hold onto those wide open thoughts
Never let them leave your brain
Tie them down
Keep them on their toes
And most importantly
Keep them on your side
A narrow mind
Doesn't see clearly
It tricks itself
Traps itself
And sometimes you can't get away
Trapped forever
In a place lead by the blind

He kicked the can before any of us had even been frozen,
but it was full of his in-law's dip spit,
and so in his mid-sprint he slipped on the tobacco slick and accidentally slid straight into Elizabeth, who felt sick from the sudden hit to her stomach, so then vomitted all over Kent's apologetically bent head.

I was the bridge at the front of your life
You held my railings
I guided you back and fourth
Until you learned the way yourself
You walked all over me
Some days you fell to your knees
And I cradled you
Lose wood planks swaying in the wind
You bathed in my sun
You drank my rain
And you stayed
For years you stayed
The stream was cool
And gray in the spring
When you first tip toed in
I was there for you to escape the chill
When your heels began to quiver
But the seasons changed and changed again
And here we sat- mid summer
Luke warm water
You'd wander in and
When your toes began to shrivel
You'd dance back into me
In and out
You'd move with the seasons
Until that day in the Fall
You reached the deepest end
You learned to swim
And you've been out there ever since
While I rest where I've always been
In this calm & quite misery
Aching for the light tickle of your skin
Or the crisp Autumn scent that you dragged in
I know there are new legs, somewhere, waiting
To lay over mine but I'd still do anything
For the legs I taught to walk at the front of my life

and i've noticed that
every receipt
from every place
we went to together
has a poem scribbled
on the back of it

i guess you just
made me feel
like writing

it’s ok not to live UP to ALL the weighty labels forcefully pinned to you - heck maybe you should just cruise at mid altitude level until you decide you wanna take a dive in the self created oceans....

DON'T STICK YOUR NOSE INTO PEOPLES BUSINESS, JUST KEEP referencing The Matrix. While simultaneously revealing it - more Dharma , less drama is my motto.

Whoever told you , you just had 2 eyes , 2 ears , 2 mouths , 2 noses ? They were lacking vision. Look for yourself.

Ask yourself this also...

have you seen the chambers of your darkest thoughts?
If you have not, why not.

And if you have , how was it?

Expect better than the daily thoughts of dissections and ******

try going beyond to see how evil you really can be....
then ,

try seeing how heavenly you can think...

it's a fine line between tragedy and comedy.

Don't lose your heads now , lovelies ...

no ying without yang as the old'uns would say.

no ying , without yang....

Sai Krishna
what magic have you wrought
the sideshows and acrobatics
of the world no longer entice
robotically I go through the motions
of daily living
my mind totally absorbed in You

Captivating Lord
You have performed a sleight of heart
and I am hopelessly smitten
fatally attracted I stalk Your
charming footsteps
planning my sweet ambush

Alluring  Giridhari
the mid-night air is
dulcet
and heady aroma of
jasmine enchants the Soul
on the soft earth
I have drawn a sacred white circle
a magical mandala
under a pyramid of stars
I wait

It was 1972 and my dad was sick.  Well maybe not sick in the usual sense of the word, but his hip was.  He was in Boston, it was mid-winter, and he was an orthopedic patient in the Robert Bent Brigham Hospital.

He had been selected as an early recipient of what was called back then a ‘partial hip replacement.’  It was called partial, because they only replaced the arthritic hip ball, leaving the original (and degenerative) socket in place.  Needless to say these procedures didn’t work long term, but for those unable to walk and in pain, they were all that was available at the time.

I was in State College Pennsylvania when the call came in from my mother, telling me my dad was in the hospital. He was in so much pain they had to rush him to Boston by ambulance and schedule surgery just two days from now. I was living in the small rural town of Houserville Pa. about five miles West of State College and there was at least eight inches of fresh snow on the ground outside. It was 439 miles from State College to Boston. Based on my mothers phone call, if I wanted to see my Dad before his surgery, I had less than a full day to get there.

It was now 5:30 p.m. on Monday night and my father’s operation was scheduled for first thing (7:00 a.m.) Wednesday morning.  That meant that if I wanted to see him before he went to the O.R., I really needed to get there sometime before visiting hours were over Tuesday night.  My mother had said they were going to take him to pre-op at 6:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, and we wouldn’t have a chance to see him before he went down.

My only mode of transportation sat covered outside in the snow on my small front porch.  It was a six-month old 1971 750 Honda Motorcycle that I had bought new the previous September.  Because of the snowy winter conditions in the Nittany Mountains, I hadn’t ridden it since late November.  I hadn’t even tried to start it since the day before Christmas Eve when I moved it off the stone driveway and rode it up under our semi-enclosed front porch.

My roommate Steve and I lived in a converted garage that was owned by a Penn State University professor and his wife.  They lived in the big house next door and had built this garage when they were graduate students over twenty years ago. They had lived upstairs where our bedrooms now were, while storing their old 1947 Studebaker Sedan in the garage below.  It wasn’t until 1963 that they built the big house and moved out of the garage before putting it up for rent.

The ‘garage’ had no insulation, leaked like a sieve, and was heated with a cast iron stove that we kept running with anything we could find to throw in it.  We had run out of our winter ‘allotment’ of coal last week, and neither of us could afford to buy more.  We had spent the last two days scavenging down by the creek and bringing back old dead (and wet) wood to try and keep from freezing, and to keep the pipes inside from freezing too.

After hanging up the phone, I explained to Steve what my mother had just told me. He said: You need to get to Boston, and you need to leave now.  Steve had a 1965 Dodge Dart with a slant six motor that was sitting outside on the left side of the stone drive.  He said “you’re welcome to take it, but I think the alternator is shot.  Even if we get it jump-started, I don’t think it will make it more than ten or fifteen miles.”

It was then that we weighed my other options.  I could hitchhike, but with the distance and weather, it was very ‘iffy’ that I would get there on time.  I could take the Greyhound (Bus), but the next one didn’t leave until 3:00 tomorrow afternoon.  It wouldn’t arrive in Boston until 11:20 at night.  Too late to see my dad!

We both stared for a long time at the Motorcycle. It looked so peaceful sitting there under its grey and black cover.  Without saying a word to each other we grabbed both ends of the cover and lifted it off the bike.  I then walked down the drive to the road to check the surface for ice and snow.  It had snow on both sides but had been recently plowed. There was a small **** of snow still down the middle, but the surface to both sides looked clear and almost snow free.

      I Knew That Almost Was Never Quite Good Enough

I walked back inside the house and saw Steve sitting there with an empty ‘Maxwell House Tin’ in his hands. This is where Steve kept his cash hidden, and he took out what was in there and handed it all to me. “ You can pay me back next week when you get paid by Paul Bunyan.”  Paul Bunyan was the Pizza Shop on ****** Avenue that I delivered for at night, and I was due to be paid again in just four more days. I thanked Steve and walked up the ten old wooden and rickety stairs to our bedrooms.  

The walls were still finished in rough plywood sheathing that had never been painted or otherwise finished.  I packed the one leather bag that my Mother had given me for Christmas last year, put on my Sears long underwear, threw in my Dopp Kit and headed back downstairs. I also said a silent prayer for having friends … really good friends.

                 When I Got Downstairs, Steve Was Gone

Sensing I might need a ‘moment’ to finally decide, Steve had
started to walk down to highway # 64 and then hitchhike into town.  He was the photo-editor of the Penn State Yearbook, and Monday nights were when they had their meetings to get the book out.  The staff had only ninety more days to finish what looked to me to be an almost ‘impossible’ task.

As tough as his project was, tonight I was facing a likely impossible assignment of my own. Interstate #80 had just opened, and it offered an alternative to the old local road, Rt # 322.  The entrance to Rt. # 80 was ten miles away in Bellefonte Pennsylvania, and I knew those first ten miles could possibly be the worst of the trip.  I called my sister at home, and she said the weather forecast had said snow in the mountains (where I was), and then cold temperatures throughout the rest of the Northeast corridor.  Cold temperatures would mean a high of no more than 38 degrees all through the Pocono’s and across the Delaware Water Gap into New Jersey. Then low forty-degree temperatures the rest of the way.

I put two pairs of Levi’s Jeans on over my long-johns. I then put on my Frye boots with three pairs of socks, pulled my warmest fisherman’s knit wool sweater over my head and finished with my vintage World War Two leather bomber jacket to brace against the cold.  I had an early version of a full coverage helmet, a Bell Star, to protect my head and ears.  Without that helmet to keep out the cold, I knew I wouldn’t have had any chance of making the seven and a half hour ride.  To finish, I had a lightly tanned pair of deerskin leather gloves with gauntlets that went half way up my forearms. Normally this would have been ‘overkill’ for a ride to school or into town,

                                   But Not Tonight

I strapped my leather bag on the chrome luggage rack on the rear, threw my leg over the seat, and put the key into the ignition.  This was the first ‘electric start’ motorcycle I had ever owned, and I said a quick prayer to St Christopher that it would start. As I turned the key I couldn’t help but think about my father lying there in that hospital bed over four hundred miles away.  As I turned the key to the right, I heard the bike crank over four times and then fire to life as if I had just ridden it the day before.  As much as I wanted to be with my dad, I would be less than truthful if I didn’t confess that somewhere deep inside me, I was secretly hoping that the bike wouldn’t start.

I was an experienced motorcyclist and now 23 years old. I had ridden since I was sixteen and knew that there were a few ‘inviolable’ rules that all riders shared.  Rule number one was never ride after drinking.  Rule number two was never ride on a night like tonight — a night when visibility was awful and the road surface in many places might be worse. I again thought of my father as I backed the bike off the porch, turned it around to face the side street we lived on, dropped it into first gear, and left.  I could hear Jethro Tull’s ‘Aqualung’ playing from the house across the street.  It was rented to students too, and the window over the kitchen was open wide — even on a night like this.

                  Oh, Those Carefree Days Of College Bliss

As I traveled down the mile long side street that we lived on, I saw the sign for state road #64 on my right.  It was less than 100 feet away and just visible in the cloudy mountain air.  I was now praying not for things to get better, but please God, don’t let them get any worse.  As I made the left turn onto #64 I saw the sign ‘Interstate 80 – Ten Miles,’ and by now I was in third gear and going about twenty five miles an hour.  In the conditions I was riding in on this Monday night, it felt like at least double that.

I had only ever been East on Rt #80 once before, always preferring the scenery and twisty curves of Rt #322.  Tonight, challenging roads and distracting scenery were the last thing that I wanted.  I was hoping for only one thing, and that was that PennDot, (The Pennsylvania Department Of Transportation), had done their job plowing the Interstate and that the 150 mile stretch of road from Bellefonte to the Delaware Water Gap was open and clear.  

As I approached the entrance ramp to Rt #80 East in Bellefonte, it was so far; so good.  If God does protect both drunks and fools, I was willing to be considered worse than both tonight, if he would get me safely to Boston without a crash.

The first twenty miles east on Interstate #80 were like a blur wrapped inside a time warp.  It was the worst combination
of deteriorating road conditions, glare from oncoming headlights, and spray and salt that was being kicked up from the vehicles in front of me.  Then it got worse — It started to snow again!

                                             More Snow!

What else could happen now I wondered to myself as I passed the exit for Milton on Rt #80.  It had been two hours since leaving the State College area, and at this pace I wouldn’t get to Boston until five or six in the morning. I was tucked in behind a large ‘Jones Motor Freight Peterbilt,’ and we were making steady but slow progress at about thirty miles per hour.  I stayed just far enough behind the truck so that the spray from his back tires wouldn’t hit me straight on.  It did however keep the road directly in front of me covered with a fresh and newly deposited sheet of snow, compliments of his eight rear wheels which were throwing snow in every direction, but mostly straight back at me.

I didn’t have to use the brakes in this situation, which was a real plus as far as stability and traction were concerned.  We made it almost to the Berwick exit when I noticed something strange.  Motorists coming from the other direction were rolling their windows down and shouting something at the drivers going my way.  With my helmet on, and the noise from the truck in front of me drowning everything else out, I couldn’t make out what they were trying to say.  I could tell they were serious though, by the way they leaned out their windows and shouted up at the driver in the truck I was following.

Then I saw it.  Up ahead in the distance it looked like a parade was happening in the middle of the highway. There were multi-colored flashing lights everywhere.  Traffic started to slow down until it was at a crawl, and then finally stopped.  A state police car came up the apron going the wrong way on our side and told everyone in our long line that a semi-truck had ‘jack-knifed’, and flipped over on its side, and it was now totally blocking the East bound lanes.  

The exit for Berwick was only two hundred yards ahead, and if you got over onto the apron you could make it off the highway.  Off the highway to what I wondered, but I knew I couldn’t sit out here in the cold and snow with my engine idling. It would eventually overheat (being air-cooled) even at these low temperatures which could cause mechanical problems that I’d never get fixed in time to see my dad.

I pulled over onto the apron and rode slowly up the high ramp to the right, and followed the sign at the top to Berwick.  The access road off the ramp was much worse than the highway had been, and I slipped and slid all the way into town.  I took one last look back at the menagerie of lights from the medivac ambulances and tow trucks that were now all over the scene below.  The lights were all red and blue and gold, and in a strange twisted and beautiful way, it reminded me of the ride to church for midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

                  Christmas Eve With My Mom And My Dad

In Berwick, the only thing I saw that was open was the Bulldog Lounge.  It was on the same side of the street that I was on and had a big VFW sign hanging under its front window.  I could see warm lights glowing inside and music was drifting through the brick façade and out onto the sidewalk. I stopped in front of the rural Pennsylvania tavern and parked the bike on its kickstand, unhooked my leather bag from the luggage carrier and walked in the front door.

Once inside, there was a bar directly ahead of me with a tall, sandy haired woman serving drinks.  “What can I get you,” she said as I approached the bar, but she couldn’t understand my answer.  My mouth and face were so frozen from the cold and the wind that my speech was slurred, and I’m sure it seemed like I was already drunk when I hadn’t even had a drink.  She asked again, and I was able to get the word ‘coffee’ out so she could understand it. She turned around behind her to where the remnants from what was served earlier that day were still overcooking in the ***. She put the cup in front of me, and I took it with both hands and held it close against my face.

After ten minutes of thawing out I finally took my first swallow.  It  tasted even worse than it looked, but I was glad to get it, and I then asked the bar lady where the restrooms were.  “Down that corridor to the right” she said, and I asked her if she would watch my bag until I got back.  Without saying a word, she just nodded her head. As I got to the end of the corridor, I noticed a big man in a blue coat with epaulets standing outside the men’s room door.  He had a menacing no-nonsense look on his face, and didn’t smile or nod as I walked by.  His large coat was open and as I looked at him again, I saw it – he was wearing a gun.
            
                                   He Was Wearing A Gun

As I went into the men’s room, I noticed it was dark, but there was a lot of noise and commotion coming from the far end.  I looked for the light switch and when I found it, I couldn’t believe what I saw next.  Someone was stuck in the window at the far end of the men’s room, with the lower half of their body sticking out on my side and the upper half dangling outside in the cold and the dark.  It looked like a man from where I stood, and he was making large struggling sounds as he either tried to push his way out or pull his way back in.  I wasn’t sure at this point which way he was trying to go. Something else was also strange, he had something tied or wrapped around the bottom of his legs.

It was at this point that I opened up the men’s room door again and yelled outside for help.  In an instant, the big man with the blue coat and gun ran almost right over me to the window and grabbed the mans two legs, and in one strong movement pulled him back in the window and halfway across the floor.  It was then that I could see that the man’s legs were shackled, and handcuffs were holding his arms tightly together in front of his body.  He had apparently asked to use the facility and then tried to escape once inside and alone.

The large guard said “Jimmy, I warned you about trying something like this.  I have half a mind now to make you hold it all the way back to New Hampshire.” He stood the young man up and went over and closed the window. He locked it with the hasp.  He then let the man use the toilet in the one stall, but stood right there with him until he was done.  By this time I was back inside and finishing my coffee.  The guard came in, seated his prisoner at a table by the wall, and then walked over and sat down next to me at the bar.

“You really saved me a lot of trouble tonight, son” he said, “If he had gotten out that window, I doubt I’d have found him in the dark and the snow.  I’d have been here all night, and that’s ‘if’ I caught him again.  My *** would have been in a sling back at headquarters and I owe you a debt of thanks.”  You don’t owe me anything I said, I was just trying to help, and honestly didn’t know he was a prisoner when I first saw him suspended in the window. “Well just the same, you did me a big favor, and I’d like to try and return it if I could.”

He then asked me if I lived in Berwick, and I told him no, that I was traveling to Boston to see my father in the hospital and had to get off the highway on my motorcycle because of the wreck on Interstate #80.  “You’re on a what,” he asked me!  “A motorcycle” I said again, as his eyes got even wider than the epaulets on his shoulders.  “You’re either crazy or desperate, but I guess it’s none of my business.  How are you planning on getting to Boston tonight in all this snow?”  When I told him I wasn’t sure, he told me to wait at the bar.  He went to the pay phone and made a short phone call and was back in less than three minutes.  The prisoner sat at the table by the wall and just watched.

The large man came back over to the bar and said “my names Bob and I work for the U.S. Marshals Office.  I’m escorting this fugitive back to New Hampshire where he stole a car and was picked up in West Virginia at a large truck stop on Interstate #79.  Something about going to see his father whom he had never met who was dying on some Indian reservation in Oklahoma.  He’d have made it too, except he parked next to an unmarked state trooper who was having coffee, thought he looked suspicious, and then ran his plates.”

“I’m driving that big flatbed truck outside and transporting both him and the car he stole back to New Hampshire for processing and trial.  I’ve got enough room behind the car to put your bike on the trailer too.  If you’d like, I can get you as far as the Mass. Pike, and then you’ll only be about ninety minutes from Boston and should be there for breakfast. If you don’t mind ridin with ‘ole Jimmy’ here, I can get you most of the way to where you’re going. I don’t think you’ll make it all the way on that two-wheeler alone out on that highway tonight.

The Good Lord takes many forms and usually arrives when least expected.  Tonight he looked just like a U.S. Marshal, and he was even helping me push my bike up the ramp and onto the back of his flatbed.  He then even had the right straps to help me winch it down so it wouldn’t move as we then headed North through the blinding snow in the dark.  Bob knew a back way around the accident, and after a short detour on Pa. Routes #11 and #93, we were back on the Interstate and New England bound.

The three of us, Bob, Jimmy and I, spent the first hour of the ride in almost total silence.  Bob needed to stop for gas in Stroudsburg and asked me if I would accompany Jimmy to the men’s room inside.  His hands and feet were still ‘shackled,’ and I can still see the looks on the faces of the restaurant’s patrons as we walked past the register to the rest rooms off to the left.  Jimmy still never spoke a word, and we were back outside in less than five minutes.

Once back in the truck Bob said “Jesus, it’s cold out here tonight. You warm enough kid,” as he directed his comment to Jimmy.  I still had on my heavy leather bomber jacket, but Jimmy was wearing a light ‘Members Only’ cotton jacket that looked like it had seen much better days.  Jimmy didn’t respond.  I said: “Are you warm enough kid,” and Bob nudged Jimmy slightly with his right elbow.  Jimmy looked back at Bob and said, ‘Yeah, I’m fine.”

Then Bob started to speak again.  “You know it’s a **** shame you got yourself into this mess.  In looking at your record, it’s clean, and this is your first offense.  What in God’s name possessed you to steal a car and try to make it all the way to Oklahoma in weather like this?”  Jimmy looked down at the floor for the longest time and then raised his head, looked at me first, and then over at Bob …

“My Mom got a letter last week saying that the man who is supposed to be my father was in the Choctaw Nation Indian Hospital in Talihina Oklahoma.  They also told her that he was dying of lung cancer and they didn’t expect him to last long.  His only wish before he died was to see the son that he abandoned right before he was shipped off to Seoul during the Korean War. I tried to borrow my uncle’s car, but he needed it for work.  We have neighbors down the street who have a car that just sits. They have a trailer in Florida for the winter, and I planned to have it back before anyone missed it.  The problem was that their son came over to check on the place, saw the car was missing, and reported it to the cops. I never meant to keep it, I just wanted to get down and back before anyone noticed.”

“Dumb, Dumb, Dumb, Bob said!  Don’t you know they make buses for that.”  Jimmy says he never thought that far, and given the choice again that’s what he’d do.  Bob took one more long look at Jimmy and just slowly shook his head.  Then he said to both of us, “how old are you boys?”  I said 23, as Jimmy nodded his head acknowledging that he was the same age.  Bob then said, “I got bookends here, both goin in different directions,”

Jimmy then went on to say, “My mom my little sister and I live in a public housing project in Laconia.  I never knew my dad, but my grandma, when she was alive, said that he was a pretty good guy.  My mother would never talk about why he left, and I felt like this was my last chance to not only meet him but to find all that out before he passed.”  I glanced over at Bob and it looked like his eyes were welling up behind the thick glasses he wore.  Jimmy then said: “If I got to rethink this thing, I would have stayed in New Hampshire.  It just ‘seemed’ like the right thing to do at the time.

We rode for the next hour in silence.  Bob already knew my story, and I guess he didn’t think sharing it with Jimmy would make him feel any better.  The story of an upper middle class college kid on the way to see his dad in Boston would probably only serve to make what he was feeling now even worse.  The sign up ahead said ‘Hartford, 23 miles’. Bob said, “Kurt, this is where we drop you off.  If you cut northeast on Rt # 84, it will take you to the Mass.Pike.  From where you pick up the pike, you should then be no more than an hour or so from downtown Boston.

During those last 23 miles Bob spoke to Jimmy again.  I think he wanted me to hear it too. “Jimmy,” Bob said, “I’m gonna try and help you outta this mess.  I believe you’re basically a good kid and deserve a second chance.  Somebody helped me once a long time ago and it made all the difference in my life.”  Bob looked over at me and said. “Kurt, whatta you think?”  I said I agreed, and that I was sure that if given another chance, Jimmy would never do anything like this again.  Jimmy said nothing, as his head was again pointed down toward the floor.

“I’ll testify for you at your hearing,” Bob said, “and although I don’t know who the judge will be, in most cases they listen when a federal marshal speaks up on behalf of the suspect.  It doesn’t happen real often, and that’s why they listen when it does.

    More Than Geographical Borders Had Now Been Crossed,
             Human Borders Were Being Expanded Too!

We arrived in Hartford and Bob pulled the truck over. He slid down the ramp and attached it to the back of the flat wooden bed. Jimmy even tried to help as we backed the Honda down the ramp. They both stood there as I turned the key and the bike fired up on the first try.  Bob then said, “You got enough money to make it the rest of the way, kid,” I said that I did, and as I stuck out my hand to thank him he was already on his way back to the truck with his arm around Jimmy’s shoulder.

The ride up #84 and then #90 East into Boston was cold but at least it was dry.  No snow had made it this far North.  My father’s operation would be successful, and I had been able to spend most of the night before the surgery with him in his hospital room.  He couldn’t believe that I had come so far, and through so much, just to be with him at that time. I told him about meeting Jimmy and Bob, and he said: “Son, that boys gonna do just fine.  Getting caught, and then being transferred by Bob, is the best thing that ever happened to him.”  

“I had something like that happen to me in Nebraska back in 1940, and without help my life may have taken an entirely different turn.  My options were, either go away for awhile, or join the United States Marine Corps — Thank God for the ‘Corps.”  My dad had run away from home during the depression at 13 and was headed down a very uncertain path until given that choice by someone who cared so very long ago.

“It only takes one person to make all the difference,” my dad said, and I’m so happy and grateful that you’re here with me tonight.

As they wheeled my dad into surgery the next morning, I couldn’t help but think about Jimmy, the kid who was my age and never got to see his dad before it was too late.

On that fated night, two young men ‘seemingly’ going in opposite directions had met in the driving snow. One was looking for a father he had only heard about but never knew.  The other trying to get to a father he knew so well and didn’t think he could live without.

          

      Jimmy Was Adopted That Night Through The Purity
                        Of His Misguided Intention …
                       As So Few Times In Life We Are!

Hello. Although just prior to this time 1 year ago, I had stepped into cyber world-it was on a flipphone so......yeah!
   Anyway exactly 12 months ago i got my first portal key( smart phone) and was immediately overwhelmed like a kid walking through the gates of a Disney park or a teenager walking into the first concert venue or anyone (okay me) walking into my first Colorado "green " grocer.

Anyways something happened and I'm having to redo this my apologies.

     It was on the day before Thanksgiving that I found hello poetry and posted my first poem here. What has ensued in that time has been the best year of my life and the worst year of 28 years I've lived here on this secluded 10 acres in central Oklahoma.
  It is been a great year because of the boost in my spirit and confidencie you have provided,  and the worst year due to the fact that as a remodel carpenter in oil field America, I was left with no work through all of winter January February and beyond. In order to keep my 40 + Wolf Cross dogs alive and myself , I was forced to pawn most all of my tools of trade to get through  that terrible winter with  oil prices so low. (it hurts my hippie soul to say that)  As for the 40+ wolf dogs.... they're a service breed  I created over almost forty years.
   Not a pat on back thing here.  I train and provide them to people who are in need.
   They're also the thing (responsibility ...since I have no other )that has kept me alive all these years
.
They are my personal responsibility and anchor !   Contact me for more info. .PTSD, Autism ,Severe Depression,  Parkinsons etc.

     Don't get  me wrong.  I'm not whining or crying ; in fact, I would not have traded this hard fought year for any amount of money. Truly!!
    So as to the Thank you part.
  I was made boyant by the welcome and appreciation of my work as December sloshed on , so much so that I ;with some trepidation, posted 3 pages of a novel that.had all but abandoned (once again) due to lack of self confidence.
   The feedback was amazing, so in january i posted the first chapter
( prolog) and grew a set ( of standards) haha !!
   Now I'm almost 100,000 words into the rough draft.

  So my HEARTFELT THANKS AND APPRECIATION TO ALL.
  
Those who have read me and commented, those who have read my work and gave it  a like and all you have just read my work.  
  A special thanks  to all of those who have no clue ;at all, as to who I am but post here on hello poetry or come to support by reading  for you are  keeping it a lively and vibrant place for all those who post here!
Thank you.
  The apology part of this comes with a slight deviation for explanation purposes.
   I do hope there are some; if not many ,who will understand when I say - that very often -I put pen-to-paper , write a poem, then I will have to read it to see what I wrote and /or do a self interpretation of.
    Therefore I must say.  "Due to a constant fear of plagiarism ( any form shape or reason)  I refrain from reading other people's works ;while on a writing Jag, such as I have been on since January this year
    Inspiration is a wonderful thing, but - for me- there's a very fine line between that and plagiarism -so I must be sure!

       Simple as that!

  Since that mid-January day when I became convinced that I had viability beyond poetry( due to the comments on my novel pages) I grew in proportion and in that nine months I have not missed a single day of writing- at least one decent poem. 
  Alas, all good things must end and  I was thrown from the saddle two weeks ago.  
    All good,  because now it gives me the opportunity  to read the wonderful works of  others here; who, due to  the manipulation of 26 simple letters are able to  create worlds,  grow Gardens of wonderment,  Forest of enchantment or frightful wickedness and of course ' those who write down the painful or personal words from their heart their souls and sometimes just their reason for being.  
  So to all those here : I apologize for not reading you and commenting as I now wil,, with all sincerity each feedback I give.  (Until the next  writing Jag happens of course),  I am 60 years old soon and I must write while I still can.
 Though I will try to find a balance  now.

   If you have read this to this point ....thank you very much and I will be reading you.

With Peace Love and deep appreciation

                                 .   Keith w Fletcher

Always the flow of water-across muddy banks and
Passages into lakes filled with the essence of nature,
Pulling tides and the smell of alpine, hickory wood and
firn. Always the flow of water-ever passive, trance state,
Picking up speed it rushes, like the sound of blood rushing
Through the earths veins, towards endless vinyards and orchards,
Cascading over cliffs like sparkling mist, into ravines and it continues
On. Into the forest, into the pines and the sage brush-not thinking,
Quick to find solace in this mid-morning dew, this canopy, deer hide.
Continue to be cloaked by the grass and thistle, branches and vines,
Not stopping, ever hiding in it-never looking back until reaching that
One point where it is certain that the past concrete, cement and steel,
Are but a thing of memories of tragic times to be kept so forever, never
Looking back, never to return or see them again until the very world ends.*

Always the tide of stream water, endless in the universe, it's strength,
And it's endless source, that source, from which all life flows...

It is the tipping point
the harvest well begun
its end in sight
an early morning
retreated to past
five on the clock

mist lay on
the meadowed fields
observed the pond
held tight to the trees

walking the empty road
camera in hand
to catch the chill earliness
in the far fields then back
through the uncared-for orchard
past the forked-fingered ash
still quite still -
the night air collapsing
as the sun rose

Darjeeling
in the white bone-china cup
a kiss of milk
comforting this delicate tea

and light everywhere
between three windows
our table her gifts
from the shoreline
shadowed hard-edged
whilst the back-lit screen
blinks and waits for words

my story blended from fact
pestled into fiction
itself a background
to a further fiction
from a past in ancient time
where each image described
takes aim at the resonant heart
of every exquisite moment


Eight Sketches in a Notebook

I

into a western sky
the sun finds cloudspace
to enter and set
well above the sea’s horizon
and for a while its rays
glimmer upward onto shards
holding remnants of the day’s
unreflected light


II

not a hut of straw and rushes
on a far mountain fastness
this a walled stockade all but moated
gardened inside its bounds
a miniature railway said to surround
a six-cornered house facing seaward
and towards a lagoon on whose banks
little terns nest from April to June
a mirror of light upon which
the solitary soul might dwell


III

rock guardian
standing
mid-beach

its debris
spilled
to water’s edge

still as still as
no wind or wave
pools dark depths

further out
the sea shimmers
ablaze with reflections


IV

hiding an anxiety of hair
a headscarf blue
and spotted white
reveals an ear
and below a sturdy neck
on round shoulders
her bare arms fall to quiet hands
next to thighs trousered  
knee-length to gentle calves
falling further onto bare feet
stood standing on course sand
at the sea’s murmuring edge


V

here the rock opens
its lips to a kiss of light
but deep inside remains
a dark sheltering secret
blackness impenetrable
wide enough for a storm’s
intrusion of water and wind
but beyond such darkness
possibly nothing
- a closed door
of rock?


VI

from my canvas chair
on the flags outside
the white French doors
this drawing – from where
the garden gate once was
a gap between
the honey-suckled hedge
and the long low cottage
above an ash tree waving
its fingered branches
in the afternoon breeze
fresh over the hill
from the sea’s shore
hardly a mile away


VII

the land points seaward
to an island light
a mile off-shore

on a shingled beach
sliced by the sea’s knife
cattle wandered yesterday

in the mist-driven rain we
sleeked wet as dogs approached
on the headland’s path


VIII

littered the land lies
with interruptions
interventions of the built

past beside present
ends amongst beginnings

complex histories
to delve deeper into
on this northern shore

I danced with worlds, mid clouds of dreams
When I was young and you were sage
Imagination weaved in streams
Painted paeans for freedom's age
Cross jungles, waterfalls of joy
We skipped with wanton, childish glee
Dreaming, rocking to a fro
Loving seismically
Till the man shot me

My mortal carapace decayed
Became nature again
Back in the soul's truest abade
Where minds are one and zen
And how did you go on and cope
Me dear, gone from your den
Offensive they rank rude intrude
Upon the Peace we found my friend
Because the man shot me

I can't explain well but in time
My energy gestate
Became presence celestial
All light and love, no weight
The center of my heart lived on
In a bonny babe anew
Born in 1991
When Berlin's freedom grew
No shots can stop me

She a lover drift in dream
A playmate of cherubs
Who drift in streams upon a beam
Aura arrests and grabs
Year to year she grew afraid
Doth yet perceive the cynic's trade
And will for Love insatiate
No shot stopped her living like me

She grew a heart comely and plump
Like the marrow Thoreau craved
As through the wilds of life she tramps
Not wont to behave
Bears Love aloft, cherubic lamp
Through her the passion rave
Hearts for heroes; guns for knaves

I’m learning a lot, dating Peter. For instance, I have a whole new awareness of how clueless older Americans, like people in their mid-twenties, are about things in the modern world.

I think Peter’s learning things too. Like the other night, I was 30 minutes late because I was gluing little, glittering rhinestones to my eyebrows. Was he mad? Yes, we had a little drama, but that’s just because he hasn’t learned to respect my lifestyle choices.

“Don’t be mawkish Peter,” I softly advised him, while fixing the caller of his shirt, “look, let's just pretend that we squabbled over this, and I won?” I suggested, helpfully. “It’ll save us time and WOW, we’re running late, OK? Seeing some small, lingering irritation, I promised, “We can still makeup later.”

The rhinestones looked spectacular, I got a LOT of compliments and in the end, I think he liked them. You know, sometimes I’ll catch him looking at me, like the moon or something, like I’m out of reach.

Guys are so.. (searching for a word).

Walked out on it all, mid-life crisis taken hold,
Done nothing but work, pay tax, time to be bold.
Dyed hair, had an affair, went clubbing once more,
Tried *** in a Maserati but got it caught in the door.
Didn’t think it through.

Did all but one thing on my bucket list,
Travelled, explored and got endlessly ******.
No happier, alone, one half of a whole,
Ruined it all by having no self-control.
Didn’t think it through.

Revenge on her mind she accepted me back,
Wife threatened me with “back, sack and crack”,
Totally livid, intent on harmful litigation,
In the end made me pay for her breast augmentation.
She didn’t think it through.

The garden is filled with gods
and beggars and dull, fat cubes
that gather rain.
A bronzed angelic family nods,
weighted neck-joints, tubes
of browning flames.
Arrested drama, perpetual frown,
wrestlers mid-lock,
eyes into the sky.
I can relate, my luck's down,
girlfriend's gone, I'm stuck
to my skin, lonely.
Easy to imagine the appeal
of the museum garden life,
to be appreciated and secure,
with a fat cube friend's repeal
of flat love, a new bronze knife
to cut into the meat, to cure.

1)
my wife came out of the shower
last month
still unwashed and dry as a bone
You’ve forgotten, she snarled, haven’t you,
to pay the water bill?

Ooops! I’d done it again!

2)
last Monday
she came waving her hairdryer at me
and she screamed;
You’ve forgotten, haven’t you -
to pay the power bill?

Ooops! I’d done it again!

3)
last winter
she was trembling
and she said, shivering:
You’ve forgotten
to pay the bill for the gas heating ,
haven’t you?

Ooops! I’d done it again!


4)
and yesterday
when I returned home from work
I found everything in the house floating -
the chairs and the sofa
and the oven and the dog
and my wife too, upside down
up there in mid air
And she hollered:
You’ve forgotten, haven’t you
to pay the gravity bill?
And she reached out for my neck
as I levitated too

*Help! Somebody
Help! Anybody
Help us get back
down to earth!

It was 3 A.M. in the heart of the metro,
although by the crossroads of Katipunan,
Aurora Blvd and CP Garcia,
the music of time seems to sigh to a stop.
And there by the corner, an orchestra.
Our hearts, on the other hand,
were out in the open
but the cold weather got the best of us.
Our sleepy eyes were giving us away.
You had to pull me closer
and I had to warm up your hands.
Have I told you before?
You have the hands that could unsettle
but your eyes tells a whole different story.
A tale I was too terrified to start reading, perhaps.
But a favorite of mine it has become in time.
Moments with you are as raw and surreal
as moments can be;
they were just once imaginations and inspirations for
those bad poems I used to write years ago.
Not that my poems now are good but the ideas I can now grasp,
they're inside my realm, within my reach.
Your far-fetched dreams are statement patches
on my denim jacket while my craziest of hopes
are tucked safely inside every pocket of your dad's
hand-me-down vintage jeans.
"He got this from Vietnam in the 80's",
you uttered between a puff of smoke
and before I could start talking about the war yet again,
just like in the movies,
you started asking me about my dad, his whereabouts,
'just anything' about him;
something a lover has never done before,
something a friend wouldn't even bother hearing about.
You were waiting intently yet so patiently
for my response as you threw away the **** of your cigarette.
Right then and there,
I swear I was in rock bottom in love with you.
Should I reach for your lips first then proceed to tell you?
Or should I tell you first and then stop to stare at your lips longingly before finally reaching
out to kiss you, like in the movies, too?
For the very first time, I was in rendezvous with the story
and the abiding pain that comes with its telling.
I almost liked the melancholy lying in its very idea.
I was at peace talking about it,
almost as if it wasn't my own story to tell.
You made everything so easy, like throwing up acid
after about twelve celebratory shots of Stolichnaya.
You listened, you didn't just hear me out but you listened
like no one did before
and right then and there,
I swear I could give you the world.
And I started doing so by giving you the bricks
from the ruins of the walls around my heart.
The same bricks that I shattered
and played my own heart with.
I even had the faint chance to understand myself,
but not as much as you did.
I saw some things I've never seen before
but not as clearly as you did.
I stopped mid-sentence, first to catch my breath,
second to recollect myself
and I wasn't very sure about the third
if I wanted to break down
or if I wanted to reach for your lips,
finally pull you in for a kiss but to hell, you knew
what I needed better.
You took my hand, kissed it tenderly before pulling me in.
You let my head rest on your lap like I would have with my dad, should he stayed.
And I told myself "there's no turning back".
You found me by the crossroads
and you made me tiptoe happily through
the speeding vehicles that once killed me
and destroyed parts of me that I could never take back
but I would do it all over again.
I would live only to die again.
For half the time, you were waiting for me on the
other side of the road but for the latter,
you impatiently crossed the other half of the road
to meet me in the middle,
so we could cross back to safety together.
I could double whatever price I had to pay
when I saw your face getting closer
and when you finally touched me,
I was willing to embrace the glory of bankruptcy.
Right then and there I swear I could do everything for you
and I started doing so by forcing my heart
with all its might to try beating once more
and it did, to my surprise, the loudest it ever has.
I didn't have to hold the shards for too long
with my already bleeding and wary hands
because you held them with me.
You held me.
And just like that, I am whole again.
We were singing along to Strawberry Fields Forever,
exchanging soft, contented sighs while wishing
Walrus didn't have to close so soon as 2 A.M.

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