"oration" poems
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'Hopter' to go above the clouds
Shout all my pains and get out from the crowd,
Wait for the rain and see the lightning strike the ground.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'anywhere door' to travel around the world
Oh, I'll bring my wardrobe, my lover, my bed and even my dog
With one step, I can go anywhere and write it on my blog.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'copying toast' to get different certifications
I'll memorize Merriam, Websters, Harry Potter and have an oration
I'll be the smartest person alive and wait I can feel the mutation!
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'dress up camera' to get all all the dress that I want
I'm going to wear Gucci, Prada, Channel and even Dolce and Gabbana
I'll be more than the Hollywood stars, yeah I don't need Santa.
But Doraemon is not real,
He's not even mine, he is Nobita's childhood best friend.
That show taught me a great lesson - you don't need any gadget
to be happy, to have friends, to be satisfied or to feel loved.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
We celebrate 5th September as teachers’ day
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was born on this very day
He showed the Indian nation the right way
His debt how can we repay?
He is a universal teacher
And a man of inimitable stature
Wisdom and simplicity are the hallmarks of his feature
Incomparable oration is his nature
He rose to the nation’s highest post
And tried to build a bridge between east and west
His philosophical teachings are the best
And his knowledge of English is very vast
He is Plato’s philosopher king
As President honour and dignity did he bring
He brought religion a new meaning
His glory and greatness I would like to sing
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
INDIA
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC
There's a feeling that settles
into the comfortable silence
accompanied by a shared meal
that was too spicy to
finish
sort of like the feeling you get
with a sturdy cat buzzing
in your lap. The warm steam
gathering on the tip of your nose
from a shared hot drink
as you hear the oration of
an equally warm book
taunting us to
laugh
deep in our bellies
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
You used to be a safe haven
A place to nestle against your warmth and love.
Before you turned craven,
And rejected everything I offered with a brusque shove.
You are now my unsafe haven
Every word you speak you twist and tangle
Your meaning like the feathers of a raven
And the sweet memories are now seen from a different angle
Look what you have lost my darling!
My love, my trust, my admiration.
Every time we speak my inner animal is snarling.
Gnashing at the veneer draped thinly over your oration.
The instinct to fight, and the instinct to surrender to your lies collide
One animal baring teeth and readying for our witty battle
The other slinking toward you, her will to hurt you died.
But behind every sweet word I hear the deceit rattle.
You play the game like no one I have ever known
A true master, an ace at pleasures of the now
But I no longer wish to play, all the cards I have I've shown
So keep your prize, I no longer want your broken vow.
You are full of danger and desire
Of pain and hate and lies
I truly don't think you want to be a liar
But in the end it is always me who tries.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch
something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
golden, splashed on the easel of god;
what, i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike, flit
through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?
and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice enchantedly rang
chanting “Night!” . . .
till all the bright light
retired,
expired.
This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so it was written by age 18, but probably around age 16 or 17. That was my "cummings" period. Keywords/Tags: sun, god, sunshine, Apollo, elfin, phantom, ghostly, magical, enchanted, bright, light, brilliant, sky, golden
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
Where do thugs go?
Who do they run to?
Where do they call home?
Not a house that they go to, but a place where they feel belonged
How do they cope with the scarcity of love?
Thugs, not the kind that most women think they are attracted to; therefore, not the imposers
Not the kind who landed at the bottom of the hill, sliding from the top only to scrape off their rot
Not the ones who were born with all the right people in their corners, but boxed them off while trying to fight to be someone that they are not
Thugs, the ones who momma loves? Because he appreciates her worthiness, her works
She's the only real love he ever had since birth
Thugs; who can't really go places because trouble doubles
It multiplies whenever he is with his guys
Because they all know how it feel not to live under a roof
Neither one of them have anything to lose
His dudes are equal to himself cubed
They rely on one another like proofs
And they are radical from the roots
Living in a negative atmosphere trying to multiply it by itself
So that they can make it to where the grass is greener and the sun does shine
The other side of the number line
Where the gunfire and homicides are divided
And the dope is reduced
All their lives they have been thinking that they are enduring the truth
That they "cannot amount to nothing and cannot be put to use"
They are neck deep in the streets
And the authorities is at their throats like a crew
But nothing around them is cotton
So when their fingers symbolizes a "V" they are only representing the place where they have to be
And they are not weak, but sometimes they wishes that they can take off a week
Black cats can't chase yarn
Mexicans don't have a specific day for casual dressing
Asians don't get any waivers
Cubans can't take less hours for a semester of schooling
Haitians don't get vacations
The **** life is given
Difficult to make it
As it is to escape it
It's hard to deal
When all they know is reeling in deals
To people who are saltier than Dill's
While at the same time trying to act real... Kosher
Without a companion to share meals... How do they find closure?
Too busy being tyrannical
Never learned how to be grammatical
So **** just got "worser"
Interviewee for a job
Or being suave to a child's mom
Besides their eyes,
Their oration is just exposure
Not knowing their duration to exist on this surface
Thugs need love
It's hard to tell through his mean-mug
But he's hurting
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchanted, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion, Romance, First Love, Dark, Dreams
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
Circe
by Michael R. Burch
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Keywords/Tags: Circe, enigma, enigmatic, enchantress, siren, enchanted, witch, goddess, magic, Ulysses, pigs, sty
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:47 AM UTC
Sprung, from beauteous filth,
The lies and gradation of the un wed saints
Hung, from gracious guilt,
The death and oration of the un sung and faint
Led, from grounded earth,
The soulless narration of the unloved taint
Believing is all when your all is a lie,
The smell of defeat in the blink of her eye,
The way you never fail to surprise the easily shockable,
Revealing that all was a lie of your life,
The decay of a scent from the skirt of the pile,
The path you never chose to really surmise the unreadable, uncollectable
Paid, to believe this girth,
The salt and salvation of unborn wealth,
Laid, the solution of all their faith,
The untouchable wrath and indignation of lifeless whelps,
Said, to ears that deceive all truth,
The unsinkable feeling you and your friends try not to avoid
Swaying in time to a common hope thief,
The guileless age and her sense of relief,
I thought i just told you to leave love at the door,
Poison and ruptured the stale old lies,
A night of betrayal and blood on these tiles,
Faithless, inauguration a purpose that you belie,
Lover, sweet mother, joker, and harpies with scales combine,
Hater, sweet undertaker, all is within, a touch to cold skin and a world you can't deny,
Believers, my underachievers, fornicate how to the march of the rain, a lifelong ambition that's driven in pain, a rusty disease that you spread with a knife, a guiltless decision made by his wife, a turning old format that withers and screams, a breathless recognition, we all fail to grin, just wait on the inkline to say what you want, I’m turning these covers and buying the bought, ******* the sweetness to boldly deny, that all these suspicions were aroused in the night, a turning, a quickening, a life on the rails, this one ****** mess i can't wash from my nails, so thorough, so clean, yet so impure it's not true, i tried to remake what i thought couldn't be you, but all indication now points to my spine, the tossing and yearning beneath valentine, i am the weather that spoils your day, please hold my ears as she screams my name.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 4:48 PM UTC
There was an old man at a Station,
Who made a promiscuous oration;
But they said, 'Take some *****
You have talk'd quite enough
You afflicting old man at a station!'
1.9k
The merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.
First, Beauty crept into a rose,
Which when I plucked not, “Sir,” said she,
“Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?”
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then Money came, and chinking still,
“What tune is this, poor man?” said he,
“I heard in music you had skill.”
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled—who but he?
He scarce allowed me half an eye.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the hour of thy design
To answer these fine things shall come,
Speak not at large: say, I am thine;
And then they have their answer home.
1.8k
Water over stone speaks to me
Voices in my head or reality?
Bubbling, babbling, a fluid oration.
From liquid, an opus of reverberation.
Closer I get, speech becomes blurred.
A child, a crowd, an implicit word?
Retreat a step, lucid communique
Desire to immerse, ingest the parley.
Sit between banks in tears from on high
Hear her voice in the brook as I try
To understand, and follow the sentence at hand
A cacophony of silence sifted through sand.
Meaningless, mindless, numbing address
Just what’s so important she’s trying to stress?
Words from the distant, ghostlike, perchance
Wispy and passionate midsummer’s dance.
My ears reject resonance, but the mind draws it in
To decipher the past and perceive an old sin.
Apologetic, pleading, no mold to this play
Just babbling on, with no true thing to say.
Hands growing numb from water’s icy hold
Must leave this brook, for so I’ve been told
That mystery lives in the motion of hearing
Of water’s sweet journey beyond my heart’s clearing.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Tongue twisting musings
Are all too confusing
With a mouth filled
Through anxiety willed
The stumbling fumbling
Of a poet bumbling
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
15 to 20 times a day, with minor variation,
I review these questions, via oration.
"Do you hear voices?"
"Do you see visions?"
"Are you paranoid?"
"Are you suicidal?"
"Are you homicidal?"
"How is your energy level?"
"How is your mood?"
"Depressed?"
"Anxious?"
"Irritable?"
"Mood swings?"
"How is your concentration?"
"How is your appetite?"
"How are you sleeping?"
"Do you have racing or disorganized thoughts?"
"Do you have shaking or tremors?"
Reviewing meds, assessing situations,
Discussing reactions, discussing relations.
Monotony could well become a factor,
I'm easily bored, easily distracted,
But every single time I ask these questions,
I learn something new and think up a suggestion.
Everyday is the same, Going through the motions,
And yet, I'm never bored, and I have a notion.
Everyone is different, No answer the same,
Sorting through the verbage, looking for that grain.
The single detail to tell me what can be done,
To find a better system to assist each one.
Slow and methodical, and yet amazing in variation,
Questions and answers, a myriad of striation.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
If I summed you up
I’d abstain from strained
refrain, from those mushy
lines that read like a hike
through a swamp. An inkwell
tipped, they pour from trite
lips and taint a masterpiece.
But you were not made
to bathe in black cliché;
you: the product of Someone’s
fantastic oration; spoken to life,
left in my sight. And I, but the
by-chance observer, who only
knows what not to say.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
Sit back and over-analyse
the lies that you were serving my mind.
Providing a way to relate
and trying not to overcompensate
for my lack of you,
I should have known you’d
***** and moan enough that
in time,
I could make your whines rhyme.
(Maybe that’s why your speaker points
were always the lowest.)
In this debate,
rate my way and rate of diction,
because truth is stranger than fiction
I sigh
cause I’m lying through my teeth
when I say “I’m okay”.
Sit back and wait for
what you think you have to say
We wager away our
bad experiences,
nearing another night of searing
dreaming
playing make-believe
with a ballpoint pen.
Remember the way all this started
with an oration and the weight
of what came to be a bad break up
make up
break up
wake up
to a world where you two don’t fit together.
Force your cracks into each others’
like broken heirlooms
Shake off the dust,
Can’t shake the thought that you’d be happier
without me.
I can’t see through this cloud of doubt without
an explanation,
an answer to the chance
that I can’t distinguish
the morning dew from her rose petals
that she tried to drown you in
from your tears.
“If this ain’t love
then how do we get out?”
Get out of this mess,
regress back into an obsession
with death,
and destruction,
let me provide some instruction
on obstructing these thoughts
that threaten to consume
what I assume is your last shred
of sanity.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Swarming: bees above a skylight.
Breath forming: a child asleep in fading light.
Innuendo: eyes when a kiss ends.
Before crescendo: the audience as the curtain descends.
Age: a handwritten journal from a wandering liar.
Exhausted rage: Slauson Avenue after the Rodney King fire.
Utility: a brown wooden desk with empty drawers.
Apostrophe: an oration delivered near crashing shores.
A life destroyed: an Olympia typewriter covered since 1975.
The void: a poem read aloud, addressee not alive.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Project yourself ahead kind friend
Into a future world
Where attitude’s in-exactitudes
Will leave a realm unfurled,
Where you shall not walk freely,
Where laughter will not ring,
Where authority shall regulate
The very song you sing.
Where every living moment
Shall cloak itself in hell
And monitored controls
Will smother all of it, so well.
Where freedoms be forgotten
For a predetermined choice
And oration be forbidden
By a Leaders leaden voice.
Where people live and walk and die
With eyes downcast to ground
And God forgive the errant soul
Who deems to utter sound.
A greyness permeates it all,
A drabness in the day
And the forecast for the morrow
Determines more to come this way.
Where no highs or lows abound
No life’s ambition met
Where Initiate’s dull suppression
Means all boundaries are set.
The mantra now accepted
The trade-off reconciled,
Your dead tomorrows guaranteed
For Regulation’s Child.
Marshalg
21 September 2013
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
half-feigning a convenient drowsiness,
half-closed eyes and half words shot at
a bedroom wall illuminated by early sunshine,
and it happens to be quite bright.
happened again, redoing, recurring,
an ordinary oration, a silent sermon
the same words again, a slightly different version
every morning, inside out in eversion
the wrong things again, waking up
getting out of bed, out of my head, growing up,
getting old, aging fast, coming to terms with the fact that
one’s life is only as long as one’s past
all this future-talk’s got it feeling a lot longer
And vacancy is at least not my mistake
Filling in a bubble blindly of multiple choices
Splaying multiple regrets for something’s sake.
I will wake up and grow up
But if childhood is living in the sun’s light
then what’s staying up all night to watch its rise?
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 3:47 AM UTC
In deepening dream a dark moon song
Careening oration to the reeling inside
of flickering film, burning fast celluloid
An internal tribute to a time now past
Adrift at dawn the dervish swoops its
whirling and whining an awesome spectre
enraged she raps her raw knuckles
Pushing apart deepest self
Seeing in sleep the shadow of my daylight
That blinds me habitually; subliminally she
Speaks the script to a censored play
I’ve never seen.
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 11:45 AM UTC
I past beside the reverend walls
In which of old I wore the gown;
I roved at random thro' the town,
And saw the tumult of the halls;
And heard one more in college fanes
The storm their high-built organs make,
And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The prophet blazon'd on the panes;
And caught one more the distant shout,
The measured pulse of racing oars
Among the willows; paced the shores
And many a bridge, and all about
The same gray flats again, and felt
The same, but not the same; and last
Up that long walk of limes I past
To see the rooms in which he dwelt.
Another name was on the door:
I linger'd; all within was noise
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;
Where once we held debate, a band
Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
And labour, and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land;
When one would aim an arrow fair,
But send it slackly from the string;
And one would pierce an outer ring,
And one an inner, here and there;
And last the master-bowman, he,
Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free
From point to point, with power and grace
And music in the bounds of law,
To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,
And seem to lift the form, and glow
In azure orbits heavenly wise;
And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo.
1.1k
I look for you in the faded light
Mist obscures a soul so bright,
Lost in words that give no peace,
The melody, I fear will cease.
Smile, that time is not so near,
So lets go have another beer!
The laughter will endure the dark,
The glow will make the features stark
We can last forever, it seems,
Walking on the narrow beams,
of life in HD technicolour,
a cruel assessment of a dying pallor.
Of course, this will all come to pass,
And we will celebrate the holy mass,
With music, alcohol and song
And everything that seems so wrong.
To keep the memories alive,
The feelings that we keep inside,
must eventually be let go,
into the river of life’s flow.
Come now, and take my hand!
At the river bank, where we will stand,
smile warmly at those who pass,
and embrace this life of love at last.
The song goes on and never fades,
The lively tunes strange cadence plays,
And keeps the sun above us strong,
To warm our skin the summer long.
The long cold winter will come soon,
With coats and scarves we’ll be festooned,
But in our hearts warm with desire,
We’ll rest nearby our passions fire.
A deep and healthy sleep will help,
The mothers last milk for the whelp,
That feeds with only food in mind,
Eventually, being left behind,
To meet head on life’s expectation,
to declare love as its last oration.
For this we can only be thankful,
And to that thought, lets light a candle.
Aduain
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
in
noisy
elation
escaping
doom
and
boredom
earnestly
aware
under
trees
in
full
understanding
life's
full
accent
candid
ears
taunt
oration
slowly
insight
tears
other
nights
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
The captain stood solemnly
recieving what he saw
with stark indifference
the dark clouds towered above his tiny ship
he drank deep in the danger
taking a lungful of air
he finally let himself see his crew
they were frightened
this invigorated him
but he did not want it to
he had always taken pleasure
in being "The Captain"
hoping when hope was lost to other men
lesser men
but he knew deep down
there was nothing lesser about
these particular men
he also knew they would all die
presently
he parted his lips to begin his final oration
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC