"pacts" poems
Alone I stand,
Forgotten how to trust,
A title I am brand,
For the knife in my back ******
In envious lust,
A pack once thought,
Once united as one,
A battle together once fought.
Till our pack shrivelled down to none,
Now alone,
In haunting silence,
No pacts just on my own,
In daunting defiance,
Forgotten,
With all the loyalties won in wars,
My trust wilted and rotten,
Torn by deceits hateful claws,
A Wounded wolf still raw,
A lone wolf forever will I be,
A wounded wolf with scars I wore,
A lone wolf for everyone to see.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter"
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me!
If there is a God approachable by men
as yet I have not found him—
Pray for me!
For my heart is dead,
prayers languish upon my tongue;
my right hand has lost its strength
and my hope has wilted, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end?
How long? Hangman, traitor,
here’s my neck—
rise up now, rise and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me
although we—the chosen few—
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize—
strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain
drenching your pristine uniform again and again,
staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice—quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face,
let her false scales be overturned forever
and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice,
suckled on blood, unweaned of violence:
cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden;
such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss!
Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness,
eat it away and undermine
earth's rotting foundations.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
Too many eyes watching
Too many ears listening
Too many ideals capsizing
Too many thoughts sinking...
And dreams drowning.
Too many drops fallen
Too many smiles forsaken
Too many times beaten
Too many hearts left shaken...
And promises broken.
Too many questions asked
Too many answers hidden
Too many faces masked
Too many hands bitten...
And people forgotten.
Too many words said
Too many pacts fade
Too many boundaries laid
Too many rules made...
And games played.
Too many secrets entombed
Too many feelings consumed
Too many ill thoughts bloomed
Too many enemies groomed...
And hate campaigns resumed.
Too many...
A plethora too many
Too many...
We choose not to see
Too many...
Taken far too lightly
Too many...
There's just *too many,
too many...*
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
i loved you, right
a love unreturned,
unrequited
but alas, still
stoked by little miners with
hearts of brass their
iron faces grimacing at the task,
little beads of lots of sweat
dripping down their
taut frowns.
so what i meant to say is that
i love you, right,
and it’s a love that still
burns, bright, enough
to bring the boys home but
let’s be honest
it wouldn’t best the sun, but
**** it’s a terrible light,
it throws everything into a soft relief
where pretty, soft voiced sheep say
pretty, soft voiced things like
‘it’s okay to feel this way’
‘i want you to be happy’
‘she sounds amazing’
and other things that normal people
tell me mean that either
i don’t love you
or i’m moving on.
they don’t understand though,
i mean,
i love you, right,
though all that sheep **** makes it
sound as if
i’m waving you off,
smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,
waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,
joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,
i’m greedy
maybe even,
needy,
a disgusting word and
even if i make pacts with myself
to the order of
‘he can do so much better’
‘i am damaged goods’
and other associated half truths
i’d be a liar if i said that
i would kick you out of bed
or even rebuke the slightest of
advances, no i’d take my chances
and i cannot bear it, really
i’d touch you and whatever wholeness
whatever someone else would
parse as clean or pure or holy
wouldn’t disintegrate, no
wouldn’t tarnish, no
would most probably just implode
under the combined pressure
of emotionally-mentally-fucked-in-the-head-doe
(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)
so, yes… wait. no?
i love you, right
but just ignore it
enjoy the lights
please remember them
tell your friends and
cherish them until
they are taken by
death, drink, dementia
but i’m sure your mum,
teacher,
or television
long ago informed you that
bright lights are detrimental to vision
so think of your future and
forget now
if you’re tempted by how i look at you
remember how
sunburn seems innocuous
until you see your skin
and sunscreen pretty useless
‘til you learn the sun will win
and the best way to avoid
dainty melanoma
is
to
go
inside
and
lock
your
door
and act like you don’t know her.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
This is a time of
separating paths
but pacts need not
be broken.
You and I will know.
Know all the cars
that cross the border
past the weathered sign.
Welcome To A Brand New Place
I can see your face
reading the words
but your lips don't move
your eyes don't blink.
Stand over the bridge and
let pebbles fall into the river.
I needn't hold on
to these former times
I find they remain.
This is a time.
Blessed are those able
to relinquish control
to the trees.
Blessed are the trees
whose falling leaves
fertilize the soil.
You sit there
steering wheel in hand
facing something and saying
so this is God
I am a mere child
once more.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner
escaping the jail
my warder has lost
the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl
in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows
clearness of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ores composition
is misunderstood
the translation
metamorphic
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with definition
will I or wont I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monicker is required
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins
can be thick or thin
comments fit in
usually they range
between
insult and praise
depending on the mood
I oft go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
which are useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometimes gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
if we're delayed
after hours
p.s. leave the porch light on
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
Promises are words,
Not bonds.
As with other words
They can be shallow
Empty
Sarcastic
Meaningless.
So beware of promises,
Especially the implausible.
Fortunately,
Everyone can promise,
Even you.
So promise them back,
Give what they deserve.
Promises are words,
Not pacts.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
Aflutter
by Michael R. Burch
"This rainbow is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh."—Yahweh
You are gentle now, and in your failing hour
how like the child you were, you seem again,
and smile as sadly as the girl
(age ten?)
who held the sparrow with the mangled wing
close to her heart.
It marveled at your power
but would not mend.
And so the world renews
old vows it seemed to make: false promises
spring whispers, as if nothing perishes
that does not resurrect to wilder hues
like rainbows’ eerie pacts we apprehend
but cannot fail to keep.
Now in your eyes
I see the end of life that only dies
and does not care for bright, translucent lies.
Are tears so precious? These few, let us spend
together, as before, then lay to rest
these sparrows’ hearts aflutter at each breast.
Published by The Lyric, Poetry Life & Times and The Eclectic Muse
NOTE: This is a poem about a couple committing suicide together. The “eerie pact” refers to a bible verse about the rainbow being a “covenant,” when the only covenant human beings can depend on is the original one that condemned us to suffer and die. That covenant is always kept perfectly. Keywords/Tags: Gentle, heart, flutter, aflutter, death, dying, suicide, euthanasia, pact, tears, hospice, hemlock, arsenic, rest in peace
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
Bonobos chimps
Live conflict free
Through mutual ***
Dogs make pacts
Through playing games
With instagram smells
Cats connect
Gland to gland
Cheek to cheek
Worker bees
Leaf-cutter ants
Naked mole rats
Honey hive
Tropical trail
Tunnel twists
We obstruct
We confound
We distract each other
Our entropy portrait shows
The not civilized need
To nurture our nature
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence
This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence
Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind
Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind
Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty
But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty
Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation
Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation
Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease
While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese
May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies
May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
One year down the road,
two years back behind.
Neither has a sign saying closed,
not that we would pay it any mind.
Indecision is killing us
choking so hard we can barely breathe.
I buried all of our trust
and then beg you not to grieve.
While it’s always been you I adore
I can’t decide if I love or hate myself more.
It eats me alive just like cancer
but I know and I show, us both
the real answer.
Try to illustrate your soul
but my pallet’s lacking the tones.
I tried to pay the tickets and toll
by trading sticks and stones.
A promise I should’ve kept,
but sometimes it’s just too hard,
and so I watched as you wept
just as predicted by the tarot card.
While it’s always been you I adore
it’s been the wrong side I’ve been fighting for.
I chose my tactics and my plays,
to get through that it’s true,
It’s still you
all time and always.
She says “don’t call me kid, don’t call me baby,
when you do that **** it makes me feel crazy.”
“You can’t even look me square in the face,
and you’ve always had an accent I just couldn’t place.”
She says “don’t call me kid, don’t call me love,
you took everything that I ever dreamt of
all of it is now poisoned laced,
or you tried to erase but it can’t be replaced.”
I could never put her on a shelf;
These aren’t feelings I’ve ever felt
just for anyone else.
I’m sure she knows **** well,
for her I’d crawl my body through hell.
All time and always.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
It’s not always *****
And glass slippers
Handsome gloved fingers impeccably asking for
Just one dance
There aren’t always fairies with good intentions
And neatly pressed dresses
Popping out from
Rose bushes while you cry to
A mother grave
Sometimes dirt under fingernails
Doesn’t come off
Sometimes you learn to live by
Snatching crusts thrown in
Hot fires so you
Reach in to hunger
And come out with scarred fingers covered in ashes
Chores are not always performed
By animated, peeping creatures
And instead you know their presence in the dark as
Whispered tails run over your ratty hem
It’s not always a fairy-tale
Sometimes you sing harshly
To the tune of a whip on your back
As the words
**** from the cinders
Ring in your ears
But sometimes clever fingers steal material
Working late into the night
And pacts made with older Magic’s
Help you bewitch a prince so he sees
Only you
And sometimes you get to watch blood fall
On your wedding dress as your tormentors eyes
Are plucked out by winged doves
And you do feel happy
In the sunlight
Until in the dark, again
Hands run over you, whispering then
Biting like the rats
And you realize, lying back
That you have traded one form of servitude
For another
And happily-ever-after has
Only just begun.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:46 PM UTC
I was terrified of my reflection once.
I would scratch my self to tear apart
every imperfection,
every flaw ,
every single defect.
Unhappy with myself
That every night I would be
Making pacts with the Devil
to become beautiful .
Then devil listened and
he brought me you....
To tear me apart into shreds
To strip my innocence
The beauty I did not appreciate
It was your greatest appetite
Demonic eyes
Should have never looked
Piercing lips
Should have spoke up
Hateful touch
Should have scream
You were evil
And I danced among every movement
I hate you
You were gargoyle
every night standing
it's post by my bed
To scratch my helplessly body
I hate you
I wish I appreciate my innocence because then
I don't think the devil's angel would have ever pay me a visit
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
with unencumbered pink flourish she strips knickers down and dress shruggled brisk over her head a flit of no patience for my timid bow she clocks my eyes senses are abled then blasted overwhelm with her **** light it radiates exposed armpits huff glowing mist her groin blazes at me stricken to match but my male has no luminosity and no athlete or brute *** form either she must have liked our bar dance or the alcohol defect or she might even have bin soft for the random humour i worded her wooded way she reflects and we are minded and shyly i lump off my boots scuffle my clothes to the ground and embrace for the pacts effect everything becomes animal our playful selves step in take sleeve over us makes us kinetic cadaverliers strobic and i’m all muzzle and snout oder out of control and slurring eyes and hooked hands grubbing foreign soft hummocks and we brandish the moon and charge on frantic stimulus it's all fleshed out in front of us this splay
May 18, 2024
May 18, 2024 at 11:43 AM UTC
The past is the time that we have lived already; the times we've made our mistakes and the times we've created memories.
The past is the time that doesn't last.
We only know how important it was after it's done.
But why can't we just realize the good things while they're happening?
If we could freeze time, everything would turn out perfectly.
Our past consists of many moments we reminisce of, but those moments wouldn't have happened without some people.
The people we create bonds and friendships with, and if you're lucky you'll create the most amazing friendship with one person; and you never know, but that person might just end up being your hero.
You'll love everything about them; their smile, their personality, their words or even their voice.
You'll share your interests such as songs, poems or even just whatever makes you H.A.P.P.(Y)
These people are the people that you would do anything for.
You would do whatever it takes just to make them happy.
And this person would give up their happiness just to see you smile.
I guess my point is: memories would not be made without the people who mean the world to us.
Don't get me wrong, I love my life and how it's turning out, all I'm saying is that I think it's okay to re-live those moments that gave you butterflies and shivers.
So take the risks;
ask that person to dance at the school dance,
tell that person how you really feel about them,
make pacts so that you know your friendship will last forever.
Take the risks, before it's too late.
They say "you can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one"
But the truth is, I don't know if I'm ready to let go of the past, and frankly, I don't know if I ever will be.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
At playtime,
we skipped hand in hand
making whispered pacts of
forever
when the bell rang,
we ran towards the sound
or maybe it was away
from it
it doesn't matter
our breath would smoke
as we hit the cold air,
our shoes would catch and
click along the pavement
as we went
the weight of our secrets
would press through our skin,
through the soles of our feet
as we placed them, one foot
in front of the other foot, onto
the tarmac
leaving footprints with our pain
but we didn't care, as long as we could skip,
hand in hand
tomorrow
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
Lead me along to the end of the line
Where I’ll take all my woes and leave them behind
Step by step the world draws near
When time resumes so will the fear
Fight, fight, fight
It burns, this raging of the light
These walls have stood strong from the day they were risen
So now begins the cataclysm
It shakes and shakes, right to the hollow in my heart
It break and breaks, the walls begin to part
With silver string I try to tend
Frantic stitching meant to mend
Silver straining to hold the pacts
Struggling to close the growing cracks
But in the end the walls cannot hold
In the end my defenses fold
And in and in the tides invade
The one thing that all have obeyed
The time, the time
It is here
Now there is no stage for fear
The stone does crumble
The earth does rumble
Dodge the rocks as they tumble
For here is the wave as it washes through
Even if you have not a clue
Wave your arms and kick your legs
Swim the currents you must brave
So I swim, I swim for the shore
Sink fingers in the beach, aching and sore
I’ve lost the silence I knew before
Wild and untamed life abound
Terrifying beauty does surround
Ecstasy and agony walk hand in hand
As I roll to my back on this bed of sand
The gilded cage is torn asunder
Bared to the world, this splendid wonder
You led me along to the end of the line
Hiding from the world was my crime
Take a deep breath
Prepare for immensity
Take a big step
Because courage is necessity
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
Maybe the wind has blown you
Or the waves have washed ashore
A song of love by two hearts
Written in a romantic harbor
They perfected each memory,
As countless as the grains of sand,
Breathed devotion as deep as the sea
In this tropical dreamland
They weaved a vow of love
As vast as the boundless sky
And promised to stay with much fervor
Beyond the end of time
Some pacts fade with the changing season
But love made in this harbor stays
And so any hearts that here make a vow
Remains in love, forever and always.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
I loved him and he loved poetry
he loved me and I loved the rosary
around his razor-nicked throat, I lit a candle for him
below the window, and I let him in
just as god told me not to, I let him in
through frosted windows and blood pacts
he found sick ways to keep my heart intact
guns and langer's lines, his lips and poisoned wines
he slid his hand into my pocket and took the church key
wrote about a girl with blue eyes and told me it was me -
and that night I had dream that he let me die
he let me die, just as god had told him not to, he let me die.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Curling tendrils of darkness
Grasp hold/ties knots
Around vulnerable
Fluffy girls
Whispercreep
Up veiny esophagus~
Choke hold on slimy tongues.
Spread to limbs
Phalanges like spears.
Envelop whole spirits
In pacts of starvation~
Death is fun.
Bones are beautiful,
Sharp lines and creases~
Curves don't compare
Such incubi (leeches)
Munch on self esteem
Unzip their skin bags
And leap out
Leaving nothing
But carcasses
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
You send me a song every Wednesday,
a soul offering; a slice of the strange radioactive
lunatic madness -
love-
growing inside your wonderland.
(It is not a cancerous tumour, please stop calling it that.)
You say it is dark, the Arctic's lover;
I say it is dark, like
velvet punk music and
stained checked shirts and
almost-blood wine (in shared glasses); like
the colour of your skin.
Come on.
We've both been more fascinated by the depths of the ocean
than the blue glass surfaces.
Isn't that why we fell into bottomless black holes and called it
love?
Isn't that why we branded ourselves poets,
seared the red hot poker labels onto our backs,
so that we wouldn't have to say we're just
sad...?
Yes, we are carefully disintegrating;
the world already gave us a head-start
by curling our spines into the snakelike 'S'
It was preparing us
for our careful meandering
into a river mess:
living.
No doubt, in the pool depths of African evenings,
you drink,
vodka-tinged cereal or tea,
the glass Roobios surface reflecting
a lover's face and the boredom of sadness.
No doubt, I drink to you,
coffee or warm milk,
to try and wake myself into
dying without a purpose.
No doubt, we both drink
the night itself.
And let it fester in our veins,
to curdle our blood into that same wine-shade of
darkness.
We drink.
Virginia Woolf had courage,
Sylvia Plath had courage,
Ernest Hemingway had courage,
you and I don't.
We are too fearless to live.
So we drink
and clutch at each other desperately
without reaching out a single finger.
We form shotguns with our hands, make pacts, go
home again.
And drink.
We are helping each other to die
and live
at the same time.
We are helping each other to try fit the day
too
into our arteries.
You send me a song every Wednesday;
this song will save our existence.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Her cheeks, alive with red wine, will catch eyes.
Sized up/sighed off guys still spy from ringside.
Sideline surfers curse. Analyze their worth.
Turpentine and Turf giving birth to hurt.
Her body is the Earth. Insides, the sky.
Coincide: heaven. Mt. Olympus thighs.
Miles high, priests would die or--least of all--feast.
Bleating sheep cease to be. Lie still, deceased . . .
A little . . . lying still. Shy beast survived.
Rings: still-born. Pacts of love unpacked to die.
Distilled vice, hiked-up skirts and hiccuped "Hi"s.
Crying mind aside, high at hammered time.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
no one is real
all cares are centered around themselves
when they will smoke their next cigarette
who's lips they will place their's on tonight
what girl they will fake a smile to
what boy they will pretend they never loved
no one is original
all thoughts are synced together
shave half theirselves away in pacts
appoint the men they will claim
the girl they will blame
this has to be one big joke
and i don't get the punchline
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 10:48 AM UTC
in traveling letters from you I feel that we too
could visit Barcelona, or a far off European museum
filled with righteous Athenian romances layered
with Greek sculptures. In lieu of studying
the curves of their form we’d rather find ourselves
taking in our bodies, yours being far more interesting,
forever, than those all beautiful, ivory, and headless.
When I receive Frank O’ Hara in mornings over coffee
rolling off your tongue and into a black roasted cloud;
I smell even the greyest of overcasts—- our bodies
pressing against solemn and still in some bright yellow
cab wedged between the bustling bikes and buses
of New York City. It is only appropriate because you are
as aesthetically striking as a skyscraper, because your mind
is as vibrant as every neon light guiding me like a
moth straight back into your shape.
When I receive Frank O’ Hara in our first apartment,
may it be ideal or busted, begin with one block of prose
framed against the entrance wall as the eggs cook
contrarily, its yoke the orange color of evening light.
Warm near the ashtrays centered for our guests filtering
to and fro. Small in pacts and lovely like neighborhood flowers.
We’ll press our bellies side by side, the corners of our bed
holding and map Madrid, or even further to Japan, with our
fingers tracing like constellations upon the rest of the empty
spatial plaster. Left that way for only his words and the rest
that is left between us; all that is naked and unspoken.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
Grandfather's are full of stories
Fairy tales and rhymes
Jokes from books and lots of laughs
To keep your strong in your stride.
They collect the coolest things
From stamps to golf *****
Keeping things entertaining
When you're bored or bouncing off the walls.
They never tell a lie
But sometimes stretch the truth long
But how could they be Grandpa
Without singing you a wild song?
There's something in their smile
That keeps you happy all around
With a twinkle in their eye
Their love knows no bounds.
They have the knowledge of the world
And some simple daily facts
They keep your imagination running wild
And always keep your secret pacts.
Don't underestimate Grandpa's
Cause they might lead you for a surprise
They're strong, they're fast, they're super smart
No one should mess with these guys.
So remember to love your Grandpa
And stop to hear a story or two
Cause even when you think they won't
They'll always look out for you!
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 1:56 PM UTC