"ponderings" poems
Strong winds may uproot you
Unsettle your stoic resignation
You will be shaken and stirred
Lot of ponderings and doubts
In the middle of nowhere
When gravity does not give hope
Become a fearless traveler
Encounter the strong winds
No matter where you settle
Continue to spread your roots, deeper
Your soul is still with you
Nothing can stop you from reliving
Every unsettling episode
Will teach you to be more resilient
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...
Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...
Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.
My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!
Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!
Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!
Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, *** orchid, mrburdu
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
I used to seek answers,
to unsaid questions,
to incessant ponderings,
of the world in which we live in.
I used to fill the world with my voice,
never stopping,
hesitating,
for my greatest fear
was something far bigger than heights;
it was the silence.
The illusion was unmasked,
and at once,
I understood
why those questions were left
unanswered.
And now,
I find myself basking in the silence,
breathing it in,
trapping the words inside;
leaving them to roam within the confines
of my intricate road map.
The silence assures me,
that underneath the tangle of human complication,
of man-made solidarity,
the world is still a simple
silent
place.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
I want my poetry to collect dust on the shelves until the pain is covered in layers of felt and can't be felt anymore
Wouldn't that be wonderful
And you-
When I'm gone-
You could take your elbow and polish the covers with your sleeve, wondering why it's hard to breathe when the mushroom clouds explode prematurely into your eyes, making you blind for a moment and unable to peek through the blinds of my ribcage to see if my heart still beats between the pages
Would you want to know if my soul could breathe between all of those layers of letters and lint from your sweaters that clung to me like meat hooks when we parted
Perhaps I write about those things
Perhaps these are premature ponderings, these thoughts of my heart
For I am not one to go unheard
I will write this poetry and it will sit
Fresh and cured and seasoned
Waiting in a meat house for a season
Until either you or I have the sense to eat these words
And come to terms with the fact that we missed our chance to be savored and loved-
Darling, I'm waiting.
For you.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
The king of the castle sits,
His back paw scratching his head,
Ruminating.
The aging cat wonders if he'll ever lose
the itch.
Then, apparently having reached a satisfactory conclusion
The furry statesmen curls up by the fire
Drifting....
...off
to...
sleep...
he purrs softly to himself:
The rumble of unfathomable ponderings.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
We're just a bunch of 90s babies, sniffing coke like it's the 1980s
In the night we're popping Molly like we're the ones that made it
Calling it a new summer of love, like this time was always fated
Making fun of everyone that isn't turnt, because we never waited
Leave the club with ratchet girls when the sun goes down much later
I'm just having my fun, why do you have to be a player hater?
The greatest generation has gone, do we have what it takes to be greater?
When the weekend romance ends, return to love thy mater and thy pater
xoxo, imagine being strung out on dank bud with the grand creator
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
superstar of the lowest level of the food chain
they marvel at my wondrous acts
i am enticing, raucous, too loud
the prima donna of the freakshow ballet
they would pay
to be seen with me
the perpetrator of chaos
hoodies with spikes on them
batman tshirts
and too tight
skinny jeans
tired pink sneaks
from my wandering days
i am the queen of misfits
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
~
*Springtime sings of wondrous things
Of warmer days and robin’s wings
Of daffodils and playground swings
Of sunny morning wanderings
Of fishing poles and wedding rings
Of family picnic gatherings
Of arbors blooming jasmine clings
Of sweetly scented offerings
Of firefly meanderings
Of stardust moonlit ponderings
Of all the happiness it brings
Yes springtime sings of wondrous things*
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
Why is the primal
question.
*This was written one
week primary
to the real
encounter*:
Language difference
enables my poignant
ponderings to
hide among
pink puffy tonality
of your beloved
mother's tongue. To
dwelve smooth and
constructively
conducted within
your howlin'
domesticated
vowels. I so
become wonder
writer smitten
softly,
touched
by pleasant words
of other writers.
Not suffering.
As I do
in my
original
vaccinity
of no
distance.
Clouds and thunder
collapse into my
deepest core. Tearing
me there at non
acceptance. I tear my
poems. And throw them
into the abyss. Of no re
turnin'.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Why does it have to be this way?
Why do I have to spend years of my life in fear?
There is so much hate for something so natural.
Is it the misogyny?
That I, a woman, dare defy males the pleasure of having me?
Is it religious hate?
That I, a lesbian, dare defy God's image of mankind?
Is it the fetishization?
That who I love is more akin to a **** category than a real relationship?
It could be, or it could be other causes.
The fact is, it shouldn't matter.
We've all heard it, I'm born this way.
After a while, the same argument doesn't mean anything though.
I don't know how else to convey to these idiots I didn't choose this.
I didn't choose to lose my childhood best friends,
Or to be outed to my high school because I trusted the wrong person.
To live in fear that my parents would not accept me for who I am.
To have such a fear of myself, I sabotage any relationship I begin.
I know I should have pride,
and I do.
I just don't know if the good outweighs the bad yet.
All of the good are hypotheticals.
Thinking about my future wife, and house, and relationship dynamics.
I fantasize about a shapeless form that will one day be someone I love.
But for now, that is all it is, a fantasy.
I want it to be a reality,
I want my parents supporting and loving me to be a reality too.
I want to find the person I am brave enough to hold hands with,
in spite of the rage that it causes.
I just want to be happy.
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 9:16 PM UTC
Ever had an inkling, yet nowhere to begin?
Ever lay awake thinking things, ponderings in your head?
Ever fiddle and fidget and wonder and wain?
Ever feel the need to abound, not to behave?
Ever see a sight so wondrous and rare?
Ever want something you just couldn't place there?
Ever know the unknown?
Ever drove just to drove?
Ever ran down a street even though it a cove?
These are some things not ever so ratchet,
There is the itch, now go forth and scratch it.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Streaming sunlight and horse tails lightly swaying in the breeze, flicked lazily at gadflies.
Hoarse dove cries echo hauntingly as I wander across lush grass, towards the murky pond.
Dry, splintery boards of the rickety grey dock creak under my feet. Stone still, opaque brown-green water lies beneath. I close my eyes, resting my hands on the railing, letting the euphonious melody of rasping doves, cheeky robins, and other chirping birds blend with the bubbling sound of running water in the distance, and wash over me. The water bubbles and froths, it has a foamy sound, not as clear and ringing as streams and fountains back home.
Carefree.
Bullfrogs splish and dart into the silty pondweed.
It’s all as if this little world requires no purpose, it’s enough that it simply... is.
If only I could find peace in simply existing. Freedom to just be.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
Arctic Seasoned Disguise
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snow capped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
February reigns brutal, sub zero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Maybe she needs to stop dreaming about what could happen
Because-really-what good did that do before
Late night ponderings of a different love
Leave her crying on the bathroom floor
Maybe she should stop trying to be heard
Because no one really listens
When they do they punish the wrongs
And all her freedom goes missing
Maybe she needs to stop being responsible
Because everyone treats her like she's insane
She might as well be failing school
And sneaking out because it's all the same
I'm so sick of trying to be perfect
And never getting a glance
Maybe I should stop vying for attention
And just fade into the background.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
I have always contemplated the purposes
of Mother Nature during nights
I couldn’t sleep due to her tears and screams
escaping the blooming clouds. I cannot grasp
how such a series of complex events could be summed up
all under a single name
and a single purpose,
but I have never had much faith in anything extraterrestrial.
I don’t mean to be cruel or depressing,
but truth is, I have always wanted to understand
how anything could have color when it was destined
to decay into the gray ground
with the unrealized hope of benefiting
future generations. Evolution is such an amazing thing,
but I believe Mother has
made mistakes in the goal towards an everlasting planet,
one that could or could not be alone
in its livelihood among the ever expanding space
of filling emptiness. Simple animalistic characteristics
could have been enough for the world to sustain itself,
and she could have flourished beyond every imaginable garden,
meadow, and dune we dream about, but as we know well,
sustaining only satisfies sadness. I think, for the first time in the universes,
this unattainable event under a single existing name
craved for something more than the “same thing”.
Somehow, and in some crippling way,
she changed the predictable process of change
to create something that would demonize the
innocence of this planet. Scientists always electrify the fact that
Darwin said natural selection is supposed to
allow beneficial characteristics in a species
to take precedent over others,
but has anyone considered the
evolution of self-awareness? I contemplate
this question often long into the nights and
sometimes until the weary sun cleans the black sky of its worries.
I try to ask the monsters under my bed,
the insecurities biting at the edges of my head,
the anxieties pounding at my torso,
and the disorders plaguing my lungs into peril for
suggestive phrases and clicks,
but I cannot get a straight answer because they themselves are
creations of this awareness. I wonder about this
evolutionary characteristic, and I wonder if maybe someday the future generations
will ever be able to escape the horrific results of this
survival technique. I pray that the planet turns in our favor
and allows Mother to be happy again.
I’m not sure this will ever happen, however,
because maybe even the single
most powerful existence we will ever be able to prove is real,
has its demons too.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
I question how they took the trail here
How many men it took
And did many die trying
I question their strength
Are they a breed of superhuman?
To build such weight at this height
I would question why here
If the views did not speak the answer already
And for knowing their mountainous belief
But how is my biggest question
Just really how did they make it possible
For this path should fall to its' death
I give the Incas questions
But moreover I give them my greatest respect
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
I fell in love with him
I fell in love with you
fell in love with words
Why am I such a fool?
I fell in love with his arms
I fell in love with the strength
fell in love with the feeling
but never sure what it meant
I fell in love with reactions
I fell in love with his passion for words
fell in love with a presence
and a gentle sigh I heard
I fell in love with thoughts
I fell in love with given time
fell in love with the ponderings
that wander through my mind
I fell in love with romance
I fell in love with a heart in a whirl
fell in love with imagined caresses
Could you fall in love with this girl?
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
My consumption is somehow sinful but in a fabricated way that makes honey seem like cyanide, or perhaps just the opposite (, I'm not sure in truth). Delight is suppressed by my self-skepticism working to root out my faithful and trusting naivete. Somehow skepticism gets lost in my incessant wanderings and wonderings and surely in my pensive ponderings. I debate what your truth is and if you have seen the same paintings that hang in my walls and in my memories. It must be acknowledged, the chance that you have forgotten and remembered the entire Nothing. My only prayer is that you might have insomnia.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
People plan to partake in
pondering this painful piece
of the Ponderer's ponderings.
These pathetic pain filled people
presume that
pondering the Ponderer's ponderings
is perfectly practical in practically every peaceful way.
But presently,
the Ponderer's particularly pondering ponderings
are perniciously precarious in every perilous way.
Thus, to ponder the Ponderer's pondering ponderings
is not particularly practical,
but instead pertain
to perniciously painful parts of precarious nature
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Tremble
by Michael R. Burch
Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.
Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******
juts.
Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.
Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.
Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse
Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening
Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch
Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way
and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the concealing snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
For, as a young boy I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite spots.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Keywords/Tags: reflections, loss, vision, childhood, eyesight, perceptiveness, acuity, age, aging, cataracts, blindness, days, years, decades, near-sighted, far-sighted
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 12:59 AM UTC
I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic
flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act
II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of
poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some
entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but
hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously
wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?
No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a
parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He
was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I
had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into
the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing
argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked
holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC