"moult" poems
*see me fly close to the sun
watch my feathers trail and hopes plummet
all round the air
falling through the sky*
evening pond..
cranes' beaks probe
last of daylight melts in rosemary-blue
lunar-moult occurs once
fins have fill of lacrymal-oceans
pedestal left behind when raiment-sown
into the slow-weave tapestry of awakening
sweeping over this landscape with seminal-flow
changing forever its inside-face
hear the unsignalled-whispers of the moon-child
it all lies in that feathered-hope
squiggle.. squiggle.. this message portent
on the palm of your sentry-pod
rustic purple on wheat-coloured earth
green-eyes smite the clouds its freedom
moving.. ever-moving.. then dissipate
into brilliant air
temporarily changing the sky's face
as the sun's eyelashes slowly meet
crawling onward
on the surface
of never
edging slowly to the sides now..veering
wait to fall..
can't ignore the ever-giving spores
lithe stems in a trance-like dance
yes, there is beauty in this non-stop dispersing
of that which asks
nothing in return
*somewhere
there must still be
a massive glitch
in the time-score*
st - 9 oct
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch
Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...
What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
fall?
Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps
and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.
Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled
Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
—upon awaking—
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!
To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking
rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...
Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...
Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!
I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.
III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,
for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—
they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished
rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.
To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.
V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—
I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.
I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
The water-demon
is big with life again,
and the lily on quiet waters
is wet with blood.
The time is ripe
to shed horns,
cast skin,
moult,
and begin all over again.
And who knows,
the beast, the bird and the reptile
might even want me back
in the fold.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
I just feel like
an empty shell
those were
the only words I could find
when asked
to speak more
about how I've been
feeling
how can I describe
the way I
feel
when I don't even
feel
real?
an empty
egg shell
split in half
and lying in the trash
whose insides
were fried
to be devoured
by the devil
devil
or
lucifer
or
negativity
or
my own mind
all the same
thing
(being?)
the fragile
discarded
snake skin
leftover from it's owner's
moult-
the snake
is nowhere to be found-
just the shed
old skin
of who it used to be
the remnants
of the caccoon
after
the butterfly
takes it's leave
the box
that your Amazon order
arrived in
nothing left inside,
except packing peanuts
I no longer feel
like a human being
though that statement
implies
I've felt like one
before
(I haven't)
talking to others
makes me feel real
when I'm next to you
I pretend
there's something inside
of this empty
vessel
someone tell me-
what makes me
who I am?
as of right now
I feel like
all I am
is
a sack of flesh
a lump of meat
with the ability
to be aware of it's
self
unimportance
bad decisions
no soul
there's nothing inside
I have
never
felt whole
it's not just a
piece
of me
that is missing
it's the
entire
*******
thing
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
See
by Michael R. Burch
See how her hair has thinned: it doesn’t seem
like hair at all, but like the airy moult
of emus who outraced the wind and left
soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes
are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs,
and deepens on itself, as though mirth took
some comfort there, then burrowed deeply in,
outlasting winter. See how very thin
her features are—that time has made more spare,
so that each bone shows, elegant and rare.
For life remains undimmed in her grave eyes,
and courage in her still-delighted looks:
each face presented like a picture book’s.
Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes.
Keywords/Tags: Elderly, woman, grandmother, thin, thinning, hair, airy, emu, moult, soft, plumage, wrinkles, laugh lines, frail, gaunt, bones, winter, grave, eyes, courage, laughter, family, gathered, bedside, kisses, hugs, goodbyes, farewells, life, death, photo album, pictures, photos, photographs
Published by The Eclectic Muse, Love Me Knots (an anthology of the top 100 contemporary love poems), Nutty Stories (South Africa), Black Medina, The New Formalist, Better Than Starbucks, Potcake Chapbooks, Strange Roads, Sonnetto Poesia, Litera (UK), Poems About, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (in a Farsi translation by Dr. Mahnaz Badihian), Somewhere Along The Beaten Path (Anthology), Freshet, Life & Legends, Famous Poets & Poems, Short Quotes & Poems (listed in the top 10 short poems) and Victorian Violet Press. “See” won 3rd place in the 2003 Writer’s Digest Rhyming Poetry contest, out of over 18,000 overall entries, and was published in Writer’s Digest’s The Year’s Best Writing.
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 4:44 AM UTC
I am not the girl I once was
She rotted in my ribcage before I even Knew how to grieve her
What remains is a howl that
Outlived its throat
I drag her like a corpse
Tied to my ankle
Praying she’ll twitch
Praying she’ll open her eyes and Forgive me for surviving wrong
I liked her better
She was honey before the swarm
She was soft
Unscarred
Still stupid enough to
Believe in forever
Now she’s bones in a closet
I keep polishing
Hoping to see her smile
In the reflection
But she never stood a chance
And neither did I
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 7:39 AM UTC
I opened up the day and the first page read,
Once upon a time you've got to get up off your bed.
and the day spread out.
I got up, got out
looked about the kitchen for a coffee spoon.
The moon was on the wane and you never feel the same
as when you take that sip of coffee and you cough a bit
because it's hot but it feels so cool and then just like a fool you take another sip and burn your tongue once more.
Then the Sun comes up to take a look and decides to hang around and play some games
and you call your socks such nasty names 'cause you can't find a matching pair.
When you comb your hair and more comes out that stays upon your head
sometimes you wish you'd never opened up the day and read what was within.
Jingle
jingle
intermingle get mixed in with the crowd
never knew that silence
could be so very loud.
I'm glad I'm here
able to peer at what happens in a day
and very glad to say
as far as I can see it will always be this way.
Jangle
jangle
wind the mangle
hang your washing on the line.
Was there ever such a day so fine?
In time
in time
and tinned in brine this old salt will moult
and make off to a bolt hole
and be reborn each dawn
to start the page
again.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I laid down and looked at the stars in the sky
and wondered why they are up so high.
Seeking attention of the viewers eye
and can only be felt with a sensitive sigh.
But don't you think they are high and dry?
Unlike the clouds he can't shed tears.
He had many pains , but no one to hear .
His life to him was so precious and dear
But now he is going to face his worst fear
that , by dawn he would forever disappear.
But does he deserve the phase he bears?
Similarly , seemed the case of the clouds
They're on the verge of tears , I doubt .
The whole bunch seems to burst out loud
But can't determine the reason in the crowd.
But why are their ethereal face been moult ?
Her curly hair was dripping wet.
Her braws were lined with regret .
She got many reasons to fret ,
and many heartaches over which she had wept .
But does she deserve the fate she had met?
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 8:46 AM UTC
the people around me,
i’ve seen them shedding skin like it’s so natural, so human;
as if growing was as simple as breathing,
as if your reflection was never supposed to show you
struggling to stay inside your body
as if you didn’t belong inside of you.
as if you could grow with your body,
unlike the bones i wore on my exterior.
maybe that’s why, of late, i haven’t been feeling human at all.
maybe that’s why growing feels so much more
like breaking this exoskeleton that refuses to acquiesce,
refuses to let me get out of this unscathed.
it leaves me ravenous and pathetic.
my skin wanting to consume Your flesh was no act of romance,
but a denial of who i am.
this calling, this crepuscular craving of identity
caves its way into my conscience.
for i have words that come by every some time,
knocking, begging to be let in,
but there’s no keyhole in my door and the **** lost its will so long ago.
moments past the gloam,
a nocturnal sacrifice,
i moult until the shards of dawn cut away
at the failure of synthesizing a decorous skeleton,
at the loathing that follows the inadequacy of my individuality,
at the wounds of dissension,
and i am left
asphyxiated, bleeding, catatonic,
with the grief of old bones broken, just like the new will break again
tomorrow.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
in amphibians, the process
is called ecdysis
shedding, casting off, transforming
birds will moult several times a year
flourishing new plumage
orchids will regrow fallen blooms
the process is natural
but not any easier
especially when we grow apart
but everything changes
and everyone changes
there is no true sort by same
go through a metamorphosis
transmogrify and evolve
leave yourself behind and
recreate who you are
above all, never fear
the change of becoming
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
as i live and breathe
and
as i die and shed:
moult,
transform,
undulate,
flourish.
a line or two
for vitality,
for becoming:
a lake,
a chasm,
a riverbed.
a line or two
for mortality,
for becoming:
a library,
a prison,
a crossing.
bodhisattva,
i drank the sun that morning,
golden brew,
a potion upon
my face.
bathing in warm light
eyes closed,
lungs sky,
my blood is a river,
mountains for bones.
my resonance is vitality.
i am becoming;
through death and life
and
through death
and
through life
i alight.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 5:21 PM UTC
Palette is a mess, too little paint
why's everyone in a contest?
I'm using spit to mix mine, to make sense
it's a noisy place
who said ambition had to be part of this room?
Crime waves its flag ever higher and crisps break
inside the packet
they didn't say offspring would go on such a spree
of blindness hunger and misdemeanors
Did it have to be via the moon spilling stolen rays
like the broken words you took from my kisses
only to splash on your canvass?
Four wheels are split and a boy freewheels
in the dying sun
while we carry the spikes and hikes
freaking hell, why can't fantasies live?
I think the lies outgrow their skin
and it's time to moult.
There's a man, on a highway inside his head
he won't come out, he's adamant that he's right
but he won't see he's not alone
He fails to see
that not everyone is a monster.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Varied species of the kingdom
Across our earthly home
From sponges to the octopus
Without a backbone
Laying small eggs
Or a centimetre long
Astounding invertebrates
There outer skin is strong
Upon an organism
There they choose to lay
Eggs for a food source
Paralyse their prey
As the insect grows
So rapidly within
A time of which to moult
Remove their outer skin
The expanding colony
Survival of the team
Young bees evolving
From a single queen
Shed their exoskeleton
Insect crawling out
Expansion of their wings
Body drying out
Beginning as larvae
From the eggs they hatch
Dramatic transformation
Metamorphosis match
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC