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Marci Ace Oct 2015
****** fantasies can be quite
A desire.
Would it be best to do it with your
Secret admirer,
Or just a **** dude?
Would you call it rude
If you showed up at his house
****,
Having conversations about your
Tide tubes?
Is it true?
While time pushes by.
Is it real?
He sexing you and cutting you
Off like a deal
Will your heart heal?
Your fantasy desires coming
True,
With a man heart cold like
Steel.
Think about it,
Take a moment and think.
Not every man loves you.
Next min he’s there and the next
He’s gone like nair.
Babygirl it’s not love, its lust.



-Marci H.
Cné Apr 2018

The Muse of Whimsy has arrived.  
I really feel the need
To take a break from poignant
and my impish humor feed.

A silly prank's in order
so I'll leave some noggin bear
By filling up their shampoo bottle
with a cup of hair removal "Nair".

I'll put a rubber hot dog
in some hungry knot head's bun.
Watching his expression
should be worth a lot of fun.

Humiliation is a blast
when dignity is lost.
If someone's feelings are the price.
well then it's worth the cost.

Somebody always loses
if your heart is made of stone
Laughter is contagious
but leave well enough alone.

Compassion is the brakes you use
when things get out of hand.
Laugh, but pass the laughter on
then most people will understand.

As you can guess, I’m not much of a prankster. I had 2 olderbrothers and it never seemed fun to be the **** end of a prank. Lol
jennifer ann Jan 2015
"hey." kyle walked up and sat next to zoey on the front steps of the old house. the wind blowing through her long blonde hair. the sun shining on her face. her brown eyes shining. "hey" she grinned. "hows life as the butler treating you?" she smerked jokingly. "meh you know, it has its ups and downs... mostly downs. but i'm just glad i'm working for cordelia and not fiona. that way i can keep my tongue." kyle stuck his tongue out and licked zoeys face. "ew, you're so gross." zoey laughed, trying to get away from kyle. "pfft, whatever, you liked it." kyle rolled his eyes and nudged zoey. "hey." zoey nudged kyle back and smiled. "you know, i'm really happy i met you zoey. even if i did have to die and be sewn back together with parts that didn't belong to me. i would go through it all again just to be with you." kyle looked zoey in the eyes very seriously. zoey laughed "you're a *******." she blushed.
"no i'm serious, i love you." he smiled, blushing. "i love you too." zoey melted. "what was with all the drama in the dining room this morning?" Kyle asked. "oh just madison being madison." zoey laughed. "oh, i hate it when she does that." kyle smiled and joked. "yeah, me too." zoey agreed and smiled.  

"alright, lets do this." cassie walked into madisons room with a skie mask and gloves on. the ski mask had a creepy mouth on it, that resembled an evil clowns mouth. "really you're wearing a ski mask? this isn't mission impossible." Madison shook her head. "yeah, but i liked the creepy clown mouth. and, i havent gotten to wear this yet." cassie explained. "well i can't be seen with you wearing that weird ugly thing." Madison pulled the ski mask off, making her hair stand on the top of her head. "sorry madison, you're right." cassie quickly patted her hair down. "this is so ugly and weird, i don't know what i was thinking." cassie threw the ski mask down on madisons bed. "can i have a ciggarette?" cassie questioned. "you smoke ciggarettes?" madison asked. "pfft, ya. all the time. i'm a big smoker." Cassie replied as madison handed her a ciggarette and a lighter. cassie lit the ciggarette and as soon as she inhaled she began to cough. "there is nothing like." cassie coughed "a good cigarette." she coughed again. "alright, bleach ready.. pepper spray ready, itching powder ready, and nair ready." Madison smiled as she held up a bottle of nair. "you know she deserves much more than this, we're really doing her a favor. she should be thanking us for this" cassie replied with a ciggarette in one hand, and her hand on her hip, trying to mock madisons posture once again. "this is true, now go downstairs and see if the coast is clear." madison replied. "no problem." cassie put her thumb up and coughed once again, looking back sadly at the clown ski mask as she exited the room with a cigarette in hand.
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
When I rang in the morning, amma asked ‘who is it?’

‘who is it’
In the same voice that she used in the olden days
Worried that she would have to serve coffee and snacks
When Jinu, Pradeep, Riyaz came calling

Amma, it is not the nair boy nor Pradeep from pallippuram, nor the Muslim boy Riyaz,
It is your son

‘who is it’

Amma, this is me,
What else shall I say?
Your son.

What other title do I have

Your Youngest
Born in old age
One who is supposed to look after his amma
Who left home
Who lived as he pleased
Who married without consent from those at home
Who failed many exams
Who used to wander around with strangers
Who used to drink and shout obscenities at the clergy

The butcher knife in amma’s chest

When again the question ‘who is it’
Falls in my ears,
Amma, what should I say?

The dark one of yesteryears became fair
Because of not going in the sun, amma
I cannot become dark even if I pretend, amma

I drank and drank and got all swollen up, amma
I smoked and smoked and became tired, amma
I shouted and shouted and became hoarse, amma
I read and read poems and overflowed, amma..

When amma asks again ‘who is it’
As though she didn’t know anything

I felt like answering I have become Thadiyantavida Naseer, having read too much news
I felt like answering that I have become A P Abdullakkutti  having hankered after whatever I heard and saw
I felt like answering that I have become MA Yusuf Ali, tallying accounts again and again
I felt like answering I have become Kunjhalikkutty, having lusted after everyone I saw
Who is it, who is it, when the voice cracks asking, what more am I to say

Amma, who are you?

Why do you start as though you heard the question ‘who is the father?”

Do crows still visit the breadfruit tree on the northern side, amma?
Do you still scold, ‘hey breadfruit tree, you little minx, do not fall before you are grown enough!’, amma?

Is amma listening?
Do you understand?

What about Biran?
After his girl got married,
After his boy went to the gulf,
Biran doesn’t come
He is prosperous now,
Good fish are not available nowadays..



Was the tamarind tree fruitful this year, amma?
Did you dry the tamarind to make it into cakes to preserve it, amma?

Cannot down a morsel without buttermilk
In the morning, when I looked, all sourness was lost
moreover, the milk got curdled

Amma, wont you get up fast
Don’t we have to go to church?

There are lots of people there
There are lots of people there

I have taken the matchbox
Buy two candles (small, cheap ones)
Come, I will be here
It has been long since you lighted a candle for your father



I wrote my name
At the tip of a huge tree in our genealogy

It sways in a gentle wind

Brethren with whom I grew up
Say that it is because
Of  intoxication

People say it is acting the fool
Some say that all that is needed is a beating



On the roots of a huge tree in the genealogy, amma,
You sprout little greens of new awareness

Still even in heavy winds

Your children, fruits of your womb, who knew the labour you went through
say it is because  you are not in your right mind

People say it is acting the fool
Those who watch recommend tying up

Amma,
for me
and you,
what is consciousness,
trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma
Noel Billiter Sep 2018
I use to laugh at ironic things
No punishment for the bad deeds
The Bible says that good 10 fold
The universe returns to us in gold
That fairytales and nursery rhymes
Exist to scare and keep us in line
But on this day fate stepped in
And karma it seems is a comedian
A lesson weaved throughout every line
Carefully crafted as a warning sign
It was a day like any other
As usual jumped in the shower
Quickly washed and rinsed my hair
Noticed too late that it was NAIR!
Every luscious lock and strand
Fell out completely in my hand
What seems like a sick joke being played
Or demented parts a malicious prank
A plot unfolded my part the lead
The lines straight from a horror scene
Like laws of nature or earths gravity
The rules we bend to suit our need
Like a boomerang’s invisible path
It seems to follow when it comes back
Even the ocean and it’s changing tides
Needs the moon’s persuasive side
We are the keepers of what we seek
And what we sow we indeed will reap
The nightmare that we fear the most
Comes back to haunt us like a ghost
Like Peter Pan and Captain Hook
Just a good story in a children’s book
what if the earth gets bored of us
And decides that we are entertainment
those characters we read as kids
Like Pinocchio or the 3 little pigs
Sleeping beauty or the ogre Shrek
You thought was funny as a sketch
Brought to life would pose a threat
Although to you this seems far fetched
The truth Ive written has not been stretched
I hope you read this and know as fact
What you put out there will soon come back
One night, after she had one too many whiskey sours,
We sat on her beige couch, her legs sprawled over mine,
Swimming in a world of spins, beady eyes boasting sobriety,
Though her liver lasted five rounds with Boom Boom Mancini.
She pawed at my moustache, lathered thin with pomade,
And as her dainty lady fingers, delicious and thin, stretched outward,
Her nails, painted jack-o-lanterns, elongated into semi-sharp claws,
Her naked digits grew hairy, grey and tabby, somewhat shabby.
The arms stretched around my belly became legs of wobbly nature,
The breast that I had adored before, lost the curves,
Continuing down her back, alas to the ***, causing a prehensile shift,
To an archaic tail, one not nearly as inviting as the prior,
Trailing down her legs that used to be bare, neutered by Nair,
The follicles grew rigid, stagnant towers of black and white,
A coat of alley hardened fur now covered her whole self,
Matted with mud or something more foul, it carried down to her toes,
Now paws, unbeknownst to DNA, Scientists, God or whatever,
She was genetically manifesting her 6 year old, little girl aspirations.

But the face, O! The face, how it nestled deep in my nook,
The crook of my shoulder, burglarizing the warmth from my body for herself,
Swaddling in her makeshift womb, her face peeked up at me,
And like the least likely suspect in a line-up, I could not believe my eyes,
At a sight I did not recognize, one that could not, should not be feasible,
Her nose, once upturned with my drunken blather, was now wet, cold, and
Pink like her ******* scattered on the floor. Her whiskers
Mimicked those of my own, yet longer, stranger, like arithmetic to a baby.
Those supple lips disappeared completely, leaving behind a sand paper,
Rough grained tongue to lap at the bottom of my beard.
Her ears grew larger as if to hear a really big secret, or just
Big enough to hear the subtle purr of my heart.
The eyes, once splashed red with alcohol, now yellowed windows,
And the cries she emitted, from her little lungs bouncing around the box,
Emanated with more intensity than the most passionate bedroom theatrics,
Mewing and cooing her transition from female to feline.

I could do nothing but stare into my beer, for I knew what she was going through,
A twenty something woman, maternal clock ticking, finds refuge in
Little kittens, equating the cat to child, until it finally consumed her.
Her body changed, mind still the same, mouth smelling like Johnny Walker
And Chicken of the Sea.
women love cats.
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

It was silent. His body sunk into the earth.
His soul long gone from there. He had died
A gun upon his arms.

When they come a wull staun ma groon
Staun ma groon al nae be afraid

He had died with a home that his dream would
live on.

Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear
Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears

Later they had told us he had died with courage
and valor.

Ains a year say a prayer faur me
Close yir een an remember me

The shots continue he fell by the
tenth.

Nair mair shall a see the sun
For a fell tae a Germans gun

A ******* grasped in his stone
cold hand

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

He saw a line of faces, brown, black
and white. Some were smiling others,
crying

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

His body sunk into the cold, wet ground
As God opened his arms, for a boy
drenched in blood.

Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*

A group waited in the wings. Soldiers
from many places. Who fought to keep
their shores safe.
Thank You
g clair Mar 2014
Love is hairy, stubbly stuff
shave all week it's never enough
whether I shave it or slather on Nair
whack it or hack it will always be there.

Keeps coming back as much as you crop it
waxing and chemicals can’t even stop it
try to ignore it, the nubs comes in thick
even my eyebrows, a uni-brow chick.

Come Saturday I don’t really care
let it grow outta my underwear
Let it alone, that unruly mop
looks like I got me a nice bumper crop

This is my way, ain’t gonna change
my love and my hair are looking deranged
Sitting there pondering love and love's looks
flippin’ through Cosmo and metrosex books

Beauty is bare in my favorite rag
Nary a hairy or haggard old nag
Eyebrows are separate and carefully arched
Lips are injected and never seem parched.

Legs are **** smooth, and so are are the pits
Love is not given to hairy chick fits.
Speaking of nares, mine is exempt
The nose and the ears are extremely well kempt.

Sunday mornin’ rolls around
but his razor can’t be found....
I call out his name and wait for an answer
his ditty bag’s gone could It be that dancer?

The one that he watches the one he admires
could she be the one whose igniting his fires?
I’ve seen her there waiting the picture of grace
smooth, fair and agile not a hair out of place

I sit on the edge of the tub shocked and numb
look in the mirror then look at my thumb
I eye up the woman whose not spent a dime
on personal pleasures as though it’s a crime

My overgrown garden could not see the light
missed out on the sweetness, bare skin’s delight
Bought into myth and every girls hope
that she’d still be worth something without any soap.

Rummaged around in a drawer feeling sick
through my tears I lay hold of my old Lady Bic
Slipped into the shower convinced he despised me
lathered and cried, none of this has surprised me

He'd seemed a bit distant, preoccupied,
the more I persisted, the less satisfied
I should have considered my Love is not blind
his eyes are like sponges his vision will find

The best of the beauties the cream of the crop
as sweet sugar blossoms parade past his shop
I have an epiphany there in the suds
Time's never wasted on pruning the buds

Better to nip 'em if you're feelin manly
can't be mistaken for Charles or Stanley.
Lord knows the time I've put in at Curves
not that i see any good that it serves

So who really cares if he's after that minx
just between us we know how she stinks
Let him go sister try rising above
'cause if that's all he's after it ain't really love.

Making my plans to rip up his picture
wipe out his memory no longer a fixture
I can't say that I needed nor much that I cared
for the man or his ***** laundry I've aired

When into my steamy retreat disconcerted
the voice of the man I was sure had deserted.
I silence my heart and put down the Bic
ease back the curtain and see my St. Nick

The hairy faced heathen battered and worn
face kind of prickly needs to be shorn.
'What is THIS? 'he demands and holds out his hand
'Why, a worn out old mach 3, the triple edge brand! '

"I just CHANGED this blade and the thing's dull and rusted!"
"Heck if I know", but I know I’ve been busted.
Step out of the shower bare skin drippin' wet
'At this rate I think I’ll buy stock in Gillette.'

I hold out my Bic and smile at old Bones
"Would you like me to light your cigar, Mr. Jones?"
Leave him to his business, which won’t include the shave
Love is stubbly,love is soft and hairy to the grave.
Michael R Burch Jan 2022
Almost
by Michael R. Burch

We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might ****** you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

Keywords/Tags: Almost, love, lost love, loss, lost, relationship, relationships, hesitation, procrastination, hesitancy, vacillation, near, near miss, nearly, close call, miss you, missing you, missing, loneliness, lonely
jennifer ann Jan 2015
Madison and cassie snuck down the steps and into pypers room, quietly closing the door and locking it. "what happens if someone knocks?" cassie asked. "like anybody would even knock on her door"  Madison rolled her eyes as she opened Pypers closet. "this is cute." she grabbed a black hoodie with a lepard printed skull on the front. ill take this she grabed a white frilly vintage dress with a brown belt on it. "the rest of these clothes are more than likely from the free store." Madison poured bleach all over the clothes & pink bed spread while cassie poured pepper spray into her perfumes and face wash. Madison smiled as she lifted pypers matress. "syringes." Madison picked the two syringes up along with a black belt that had been hidden underneath pypers matress and smiled. "guess whos not getting high tonight *****." she placed them in a ******* bag she had across her shoulder. cassie then put itching powder in pypers bras and her pillow cases. then putting nair in her shampoo. "alright, lets get out of here." Madison whuspered and the too of them unlocked the door then locked it back and quickly snuck back to there rooms. 25 minutes laighter the too laughed as they heard a pounding coming from downstairs. "what the ****?" pyper screamed. "my door is locked." she slambed her fist into the door. "seriously." she turned the **** multiple times. "whats going on? did you lock yourself out pyper?" Cassie asked as if she had been confused. "no i didnt locked myself out you spastic ******." Pyper hissed. cordelia then rushed down the stairs in a panic. "it is 11 0clock at night what is going on?" she asked with concern and worry. "someone locked me out of my room thats whats going on. like an immature 12 year old MADISON!" Pyper shouted. which only made Madison laugh as she listened from upstairs in her bedroom. "i have an extra key, we'l talk about this is the morning. i had a dream that i had been having dinner with kurt cobain and ryan gossling and then ryan gossling opened his mouth and your screams came out pyper.... sorry, i'm half asleep." cordelia tried to  explain as she made her way up the steps and into her office . "what happened to your key pyper?" cordelia asked, sounding concerned and worried, and still in a bit of a fog. "it's locked in my room." pyper smiled sarcasticly.  "well don't lose this one." cordelia handed the key over to pyper and walked back to her room. "dumb *****" she sighed and yawned as she closed the door. "just pure dumb *****." pyper could still hear cordelia from outside of the door.
Matalie Niller May 2012
O sing in me muses
a tale of some beauty.
Beauty, meaning longing and sorrow
and love that leads to a ******, bitter demise.
Let me feel the cold sweats,
those breathy, exhaustive evenings
filled with the scent of sweet ripend fruits
and slowly drying paints.
I want to be an inspiration for a piece to hang forever
in limbo
in galleries
in Midwestern living rooms.
I want to hang from  branches in olive groves,
purely Greek
but with Nair and Netflix,
making sweet love to the ideals of ancient existence
while surviving the blackest of plagues
(modern immune systems are a Godsend).
Sing deeply into my rib cage, O muses,
so that my bone marrow may vibrate to the point of explosion
causes fragments of calcium to pierce skin
and make beautiful stained glass on the hill side chapels.
Christian Feb 2011
daylight drear is about to smear its shear vastness onto me out of fear causing me to  fancy that i seem a little queer when i cheer without a leer so sincere it could cause a tear so near to the new year with my fellow peers who bought their gifts at sears. 30% off.
we learned fast from all those days past how to make the little things last cause being chaste didn't stop him from raising a mast in those early morning shadows cast. even grown men have *** dreams.
now they rise at dawn like a poor little faun who could have gone to pawn a thumb of a *** instead of go and con a con man named stan who was too tan and without a fan who woke late to find a ***** pan and could longer say yes I can within such a short span. Franklin could have been right.
As I listened to cher i saw a bear with no hair but he didn't seem to mind so I didn't seem to care for i was going to the fair good thing i bought nair to handle all that should be bare when I share my pear stolen from the mare who would only stare at the **** hair who turned out to be too slow and failed his dare.I've heard of boys who want to look good too.
now I have a light for each new night I get a small sight of the handsome man within the mirror who was bright from many years aflight kind of like a kite just with a little more might and with out such fright as the blight where you have to put up some sort of fight which is no good at such a height where things get a little tight alright. so back off a bit.
She was a ten okay ben did you put the baby in the pen don't worry about the hen she'll be fine with all those men. One of their names is, bob, from accounting.
just having some fun
jennifer ann Jan 2015
"yeah... i know who took my money too. that ***** pyper, it doesnt take a rocket scientist to figure it out she jumped up to defend herself as soon as i said something." Madison replied tiredly, taking a ciggarette out and lighting it as she sat on the her black canopy bed. a picture of marilyn monroe and kurt cobain hanging on her bedroom wall. "so, what are your plans for revenge?" Cassie raised an eyebrow. "i'm debating on whether i should put raid in her perfume bottle, or nair in her shampoo." Madison replied casualy as she stared out of her bedroom window. "isnt raid poisonus?" cassie questioned.
"yep." Madison shook her head and grinned.
"she is a cockroach, seems pretty fitting to me..." she continued.
"hmmm... what about, pepper spray in her face wash?" Cassie replied with her hand upon her chin.
"i think i like the way you think cassandra motts." Madison smiled sadisticly, an evil twinkle in her eye.
Athira Nair Mar 2019
The trees still green, I wonder how ?
The plants and bushes that grow on the ground
The green fresh look they still seem to have
After all these humans, don’t give a d*mn

The dust in the air, taking away the charm
The fresh green leaves,
I still wonder how
But I see them grey-
In a few years from now
With all pollution
That will take over the world
Grey will  be the color
Of the leaves

Children will  learn the color grey as
The color of the leaves
The color of the sky
The color of the air we breathe
Nothing seems to be fresh
Nothing seems to be a beautiful sight

We now as individuals, must do our part
To help these plants stay fresh and green
For the years to come they should
Be a wonderful sight to see—
The color of these leaves
Must be Beauty Green

                                                     ~Athira Nair
Anamika Nair Sep 2016
America is an idea
that "all men are created equal,"
with working definitions of "human", "created", or "equal."
America is freedom for our grandchildren
in a manner we will never understand.

It is the founding fathers who died for liberty.
It is the darker brothers who fought for justice from kitchens and pulpits.
It is the poor, the huddled masses,
And their children who have forgotten this.

It is green cards that become blue passports.
It is unlearning the language of our grandparents.
It is knowing how to pronounce Arkansas and Illinois
It is enjoying barbecues on somber national holidays.

It is unbridled enthusiasm.
It is unbridled arrogance.
It is rugged individualism;
It is passionate paternalism.

It is hellfire that scorches deserts.
It is a gust that has fanned flames.
It is a cool rain that puts out fires.

From sea to shining sea--
It is Manifest Destiny
from Louis and Clark to Wounded Knee.
It is Topaz, and McCarthy,
and hundreds of things we would rather forget.
It is D-day, and Neil Armstrong,
and thousands of things we forget to celebrate.

America is a dream that rings from the red hills of Georgia
to the curvaceous slopes of California
to New York Island.

It is patriotism;
it is progress.
It is the blind worship of our past.

It is red. It is blue.
It is red, white, and blue.
It is what half of us say it isn't.
I say it evolves constantly;
others say it was created in His image.

It is everything I hold dear;
it is everything that infuriates me.
It is the warmth that makes my eyes tear
when I hear the Star Spangled Banner
at football games,
on July 4th,
or on September 11th.

It is hope.
It is the promise of a better tomorrow.
It is what ever I am.
I, too, am America.

*I have posted this to another website under the pen name Anamika Nair. I wasn't sure if this was okay. If it isn't, I can submit something else.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Righteous
by Michael R. Burch

Come to me tonight
in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,
spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.

Gather your hair
and pin it up, knowing
that I will release it a moment anon.

We are not one,
nor is there a scripture
to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,

but the swarms
of bright stars revolving above us
revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.

Published in Writer’s Gazette and Tucumcari Literary Review.
Keywords/Tags: love, lovers, night, stars, twilight, moon, spectral, ancient, scripture, arms, hair, revel, ardent, passion, passionate, desire, lust, ***, lovers



Only Let Me Love You
by Michael R. Burch

after Rabindranath Tagore

Only let me love you, and the pain
of living will be easier to bear.
Only let me love you. Nay, refrain
from pinning up your hair!

Only let me love you. Stay, remain.
A face so lovely never needs repair!
Only let me love you to the strains
of Rabindranath on a soft sitar.

Only let me love you, while the rain
makes music: gentle, eloquent, sincere.
Only let me love you. Don’t complain
you need more time to make yourself more fair!

Only let me love you. Stay, remain.
No need for rouge or lipstick! Only share
your tender body swiftly ...



Homeless Us
by Michael R. Burch

The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.

We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had lost your house, to rue
such bitter weather, being you.

Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged—hollow, empty. Carols (few)
were sung to me, for being you.

For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you.

Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities



Minor Key Duet
by Michael R. Burch

Without the drama of cymbals
or the fanfare and snares of drums,
I present my case
stripped of its fine veneer:
Behold, thy instrument.

Play, for the night is long.

Originally published by Brief Poems



****** Errata
by Michael R. Burch

I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-
den!



A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch

March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!

This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.



Cold Snap Coin Flip
by Michael R. Burch

Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!

Or ...

Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine.



Song Cycle
by Michael R. Burch

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!

Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!

Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!



If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch

If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.

If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.

If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.



Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch

“Keep it simple, stupid.”

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.

It only matters that she taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then . . .
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.



She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch

She was very pretty, in the usual way
for (perhaps) a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.

At sixteen, she had a daughter.

She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.

She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.

Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.

She was hardly pretty another day.

Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.

She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.

Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.



The Drawer of Mermaids
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.

Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.

A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)

It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss,
drawing the mermaids under the ledges.
(Observing, Papa will kiss me
in all his distracted joy;
but why does he cry?)

And there is a boy
who whispers my name.
Then I am not lame;
for I leap, and I follow.
(G’amma brings a wiseman who says

our infirmities are ours, not God’s,
that someday a beautiful Child
will return from the stars,
and then my new fingers will grow
if only I trust Him; and so

I am preparing to meet Him, to go,
should He care to receive me.)



Almost
by Michael R. Burch

We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might ****** you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.



Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch

               “Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”

1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.

2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.

3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic—I’ll take such nice long naps!
The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)

4.
I woke to find life teeming all around—
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.

5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online



The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists
by Michael R. Burch

I’m old,
no longer bold,
just cold,
and (truth be told),
been bought and sold,
rolled
by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.

Who’s to be told
by this worn-out scold?
The complaint department is always on hold.



These are poems written for my grandfathers and grandmothers.

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr., the day he departed this life

Between the prophesies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.



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 seek 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."

Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, greatness, courage, resolve, resourcefulness, hero, heroes, South, Deep South, southern, poke salad, poke salat, pokeweed, free verse



All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are
somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,

you taught me
wish
that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star

gleamed down

and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw
and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . .



Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.



Mother's Day Haiku
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness:
a mother’s compassion.

My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.

An emu feather ...
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height:
our mothers' wisdom.



The Rose
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmother, Lillian Lee, who used to grow the most beautiful roses

The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.

This poem above is my translation of a Sappho epigram.



Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for my wife, Beth, my mother and my grandmothers

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!



The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch

*for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and the grandmother of my son Jeremy

The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.

But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such infinite love
will still reach me, underground.



Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

This distance between us
—this vast sea
of remembrance—
is no hindrance,
no enemy.

I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.

I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.

I feel the sea's salt spray—light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.

Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.

Note: "Under the Sextant’s Stars" is a painting by Benini.



Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt

With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.

Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,

nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use—

to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.

Thou art the grass;
make them complete.



Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man—
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.

I wrote the poem above for my grandfather when I was around 18.



Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Christine Ena Hurt

There will be joy in the morning
for now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.

For fourteen years, he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.

Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.

He never lost her; she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.

Keywords/Tags: George Edwin Hurt Christine Ena Spouse reunited heaven joy together forever



Come Spring
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Come spring we return, innocent and hopeful, to the ******,
beseeching Her to bestow
Her blessings upon us.

Pitiable sinners, we bow before Her,
nay, grovel,
as She looms above us, aglow
in Her Purity.

We know
all will change in an instant; therefore
in the morning we will call her,
an untouched maiden no more,
“*****.”

The so-called Religious Right prizes virginity in women and damns them for doing what men do. I have long been a fan of women like Tallulah Bankhead, Marilyn Monroe and Mae West, who decided what’s good for the gander is equally good for the goose.



HOMELESS POETRY

These are poem about the homeless and poems for the homeless.



Epitaph for a Homeless Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Homeless Us
by Michael R. Burch

The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.

We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had lost your house, to rue
such bitter weather, being you.

Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged—hollow, empty. Carols (few)
were sung to me, for being you.

For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you.

Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for homeless mothers and their children

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 ...



For a Homeless 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?



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our 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 over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs 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.



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



What would Mother Teresa do?
Do it too!
—Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: homeless poetry, homeless poems, homelessness, street life, child, children, mom, mother, mothers, America, neglect, starving, dying, perishing, famine, illness, disease, tears, anguish, concern, prayers, inaction, death, charity, love, compassion, kindness, altruism
Body bagged sleep disorder
Picked up in a house out west
Lived out through a tape recorder
Moving on at the owner’s request

Dream deprived in a timely pit
Progeny separated at the request of the kids
Knife turned friend in the heat of a fit
Rectification sold to the first one who bids

Delusions through insomnia of potential bliss
Fractured into reality on a nightly affair
Putting too much worth behind more than a kiss
Cleaned up afterglow with a bit of Nair
wordvango Nov 2014
Thy beard
        thy hairy chest
whence once
         waxed I loved
thy forehead now
          one eyebrow dense.
Thy woven nest
          so thick a moss a forest
so numerous, I can not
          see the trees.
Thy scisssors and razor broke
          No Nair nor candle left,
I can no longer tend you.
      
I have weaved those armpits for
the last time,
you need
a riding mower.
Hayley Siebert Dec 2016
Wanderers a wandering
She cut off her hair
a beauty still pondering
“Who I dare to love me fair? but they love me nair, and I care, I care”
Is all her years, her youth wasted
for all the kisses she could’ve tasted
none are as bittersweet, as the love she can never have
Her worth is always half empty
the glass is smashed, against her carcass
the broken shard, to her wrist
You’ll find broken open bodies
scorched by the empty words
persona, persona, worship her like the holy Madonna
But you have killed her!
White garments adorn her loveless flesh
A beauty to be fed unto saints sufferings
the sacrament was never christ’s body!
Where art love, her love!
Lord grant her a love, give her a love
A beauty wandering, pondering, dying!
These mind takes a cancer of all its own
It is time for the pyre
They build her stake higher
They burn fires
Bound her to the stake
a heart so fit to break
within monsters are to awake
burn her alive or drown her in a lake!
She is silver chained, you possess the spark
she is the sacrifice
The god of fire commands it
The loveless beauty, of wine and bread
will dine in ashes this night
Biblical lilith for his lapping tongues
You light her! She screams!

Arch for my lover doth **** me!
My beauty is scorched, tis ashes!
My eyes now blackened, no more blues
No more beauty for my dearest has tied me to the wickerman
He hath taken the torch to my flesh
He watches on as the flames have my body
The body, the love never good enough for him
Is for the flames, for I am his Joan
Nandini Apr 2015
She wanted
12.01.15
Nandini Nair

She wanted to run
Run from the monster inside her
Who everyday
Told her
She was a failure
She was unloved
She wanted to go
Go away from the creature inside her
The one who told her
She was a burden
She was pathetic
She wanted freedom
From those bonds
That held her down to
The monster she had created
She wanted to run
Run away
Before the monster she knew
Pulled her back down .

— The End —