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Meena Menon Sep 2021
Flicker Shimmer Glow

The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.  
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.  
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard.  
She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.    
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.  
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992,
I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony  
while my family celebrated my birthday inside.  
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground but it burned something in the time it was here.  
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.  
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.  
I saw the beauty of the light within.  
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.  
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.  
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.  
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy
written over ten years then.  
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.  
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.  
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.  
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.  
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings.  
In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done
made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercises since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .  
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off
And then I escaped in July.  
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.  
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.  
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.  
I thought I was manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.  
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution.
I started teaching myself German.  
I stayed healthy.  
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.  
I knew I wasn’t manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I told my parents when they came home.  
They thought I was manic.  
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.  
They thought I was manic.  
I was outside of my comfort zone.  
I moved to California. I found light.  
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.  
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red
but amber and blue.  
The light turned the car signals left and right.  
The light reflected off of salt crystals, light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light,
electroluminescence.  
The electrical currents flowed through,
illuminating.  
Alone in the world, I moved to California in July 2005
but in August  I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.  
He didn’t think I was manic but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.  
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.  
He threatened me.  
I called the authorities.  
They left me there.
He laughed.  
Then the violence came.  
****:  stabbed and punched, my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.  
The light barely reflected from the glass ball wIth cracks through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.  
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.  
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.  
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.  
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February
with Mercury in the morning sky.  
I worked through ****.  
I worked to overcome trauma.  
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury
to light the discharge lamps, streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.  
Like lead glass breaks up the light,
lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium,
glass cut clearly, refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.  





















Lava

I think that someone wrote into some palm leaf a manuscript, a gift, a contract.  
After my parents wedding, while they were still in India,
they found out that my dad’s father and my mom’s grandfather worked for kings administering temples and collecting money for their king from the farmers that worked the rice paddies each king owned.  They both left their homes before they left for college.  
My dad, a son of a brahmin’s son,
grew up in his grandmother’s house.  
His mother was not a Brahmin.  
My mother grew up in Malaysia where she saw the children from the rubber plantation
when she walked to school.  
She doesn’t say what caste she is.  
He went to his father’s house, then college.  
He worked, then went to England, then Canada.  
She went to India then Canada.  
They moved to the United States around Christmas 1978
with my brother while she was pregnant with me.  
My father signed a contract with my mother.  
My parents took ashes and formed rock,
the residue left in brass pots in India,
the rocks, so hot, they turned back to lava miles away before turning back to ash again,
then back to rock,
the lava from a super volcano,
the ash purple and red.  


















Circles on a Moss Covered Volcano

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.  





Warm Light Shatters

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My dad was born on a large flat rock on the edge of the top
of a hill,
Molasses, sweet and dark, the potent flavor dominates,
His father, the son of a Brahmin,
His mother from a lower caste.
His father’s family wouldn’t touch him,
He grew up in his mother’s mother’s house on a farm.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation spot on my right hand that he has.

In 1901, D’Arcy bought a 60 year concession for oil exploration In Iran.
The Iranian government extended it for another 32 years in 1933.
At that time oil was Iran’s “main source of income.”
In 1917’s Balfour Declaration, the British government proclaimed that they favored a national home for the Jews in Palestine and their “best endeavors to facilitate the achievement” of that.

The British police were in charge of policing in the mandate of Palestine.  A lot of the policemen they hired were people who had served in the British army before, during the Irish War for Independence.  
The army tried to stop how violent the police were, police used torture and brutality, some that had been used during the Irish War for Independence, like having prisoners tied to armored cars and locomotives and razing the homes of people in prison or people they thought were related to people thought to be rebels.
The police hired Arab police and Jewish police for lower level policing,
Making local people part of the management.
“Let Arab police beat up Arabs and Jewish police beat up Jews.”

The lava blocks and reroutes streams, melts snow and ice, flooding.
In 1922, there were 83,000 Jews, 71,000 Christians, and 589,000 Muslims.
The League If Nations endorsed the British Mandate.
During an emergency, in the 1930s, British regulations allowed collective punishment, punishing villages for incidents.
Local officers in riots often deserted and also shared intelligence with their own people.
The police often stole, destroyed property, tortured and killed people.  
Arab revolts sapped the police power over Palestinians by 1939.

My father’s mother was from a matrilineal family.
My dad remembers tall men lining up on pay day to respectfully wait for her, 5 feet tall.  
She married again after her husband died.
A manager from a tile factory,
He spoke English so he supervised finances and correspondence.
My dad, a sunflower, loved her: she scared all the workers but exuded warmth to the people she loved.

Obsidian shields people from negative energy.
David Cargill founded the Burmah Oil Co. in 1886.
If there were problems with oil exploration in Burma and Indian government licenses, Persian oil would protect the company.  
In July 1906, many European oil companies, BP, Royal Dutch Shell and others, allied to protect against the American oil company, Standard Oil.
D’Arcy needed money because “Persian oil took three times as long to come on stream as anticipated.”
Burmah Oil Co. began the Anglo-Persian Oil Co. as a subsidiary.
Ninety-seven percent of British Petroleum was owned by Burmah Oil Co.
By 1914, the British government owned 51% of the Anglo-Persian Oil Co.  
Anglo-Persian acquired independence from Burmah Oil and Royal Dutch Shell with two million pounds from the British government.

The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.
In 1942, after the Japanese took Burma,
the British destroyed their refineries before leaving.
The United Nations had to find other sources of oil.
In 1943, Japan built the Burma-Thailand Railroad with forced labor from the Malay peninsula who were mostly from the rubber plantations.

The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.
In 1945. Japan destroyed their refineries before leaving Burma.
Cargill, Watson and Whigham were on the Burmah Oil Co. Board and then the Anglo Iranian Oil Co. Board.  

In 1936 Palestine, boycotts, work stoppages, and violence against British police officials and soldiers compelled the government to appoint an investigatory commission.  
Leaders of Egypt, Trans Jordan, Syria and Iraq helped end the work stoppages.
The British government had the Peel Commission read letters, memoranda, and petitions and speak with British officials, Jews and Arabs.  
The Commission didn’t believe that Arabs and Jews could live together in a single Jewish state.
Because of administrative and financial difficulties the Colonial Secretary stated that to split Palestine into Arab and Jewish states was impracticable.  
The Commission recommended transitioning 250,000 Arabs and 1500 Jews with British control over their oil pipeline, their naval base and Jerusalem.  
The League of Nations approved.
“It will not remove the grievance nor prevent the recurrence,” Lord Peel stated after.
The Arab uprising was much more militant after Peel.  Thousands of Arabs were wounded, ten thousand were detained.  
In Sykes-Picot and the Husain McMahon agreements, the British promised the Arabs an independent state but they did not keep that promise.  
Representatives from the Arab states rejected the Peel recommendations.
United Nations General Assembly Resolution181 partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states with an international regime for the city of Jerusalem backed by the United States and the Soviet Union.  

The Israeli Yishuv had strong military and intelligence organization —-  
the British recognized that their interest was with the Arabs and abstained from the vote.  
In 1948, Israel declared the establishment of its state.  
Ground rock, minerals, and gas covered the ground from the ash plume.
The Palestinian police force was disbanded and the British gave officers the option of serving in Malaya.

Though Truman, Eisenhower and Kennedy supported snd tried to get Israel to offer the Arabs concessions, it wasn’t a major priority and didn’t always approve of Israel’s plans.
Arabs that had supported the British to end Turkish rule stopped supporting the West.  
Many Palestinians joined left wing groups and violent third world movements.  
Seventy-eight percent of the territory of former Palestine was under Israel’s control.  

My dad left for college in 1957 and lived in an apartment above the United States Information services office.
Because he graduated at the top of his class, he was given a job with the public works department of the government on the electricity board.  
“Once in, you’ll never leave.”
When he wanted a job where he could do real work, his father was upset.
He broke the chains with bells for vespers.
He got a job in Calcutta at Kusum Products and left the government, though it was prestigious to work there.
In the chemical engineering division, one of the projects he worked on was to design a *** distillery, bells controlled by hammers, hammers controlled by a keyboard.
His boss worked in the United Kingdom for. 20 years before the company he worked at, part of Power Gas Corporation, asked him to open a branch in Calcutta.
He opened the branch and convinced an Industrialist to open a company doing the same work with him.  The branch he opened closed after that.  
My dad applied for labor certification to work abroad and was selected.  
His boss wrote a reference letter for my him to the company he left in the UK.  My dad sent it telling the company when he was leaving for the UK.  
The day he left for London, he got the letter they sent in the mail telling him to take the train to Sheffield the next day and someone from the firm would meet him at the station.  
His dad didn’t know he left, he didn’t tell him.
He broke the chains with chimes for schisms.


Anglo-Persian Oil became Anglo-Iranian Oil in 1935.
The British government used oil and Anglo-Persian oil to fight communism, have a stronger relationship with the United States and make the United Kingdom more powerful.  
The National Secularists, the Tudeh, and the Communists wanted to nationalize Iran’s oil and mobilized the Iranian people.
The British feared nationalization in Iran would incite political parties like the Secular Nationalists all over the world.  
In 1947, the Iranian government passed the Single Article Law that “[increased] investment In welfare benefits, health, housing, education, and implementation of Iranianization through substitution of foreigners” at Anglo-Iranian Oil Co.
“Anglo-Iranian Oil Company made more profit in 1950 than it paid to the Iranian government in royalties over the previous half century.”
The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company tried to negotiate a new concession and claimed they’d hire more Iranian people into jobs held by British and people from other nationalities at the company.
Their hospitals had segregated wards.  
On May 1, 1951, the Iranian government passed a bill that nationalized Anglo- Iranian Oil Co.’s holdings.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.
In August 1953, the Iranian people elected Mossadegh from the Secular Nationalist Party as prime minister.
The British government with the CIA overthrew Mossadegh using the Iranian military after inducing protests and violent demonstrations.  
Anglo-Iranian Oil changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954.
Iranians believe that America destroyed Iran’s “last chance for democracy” and blamed America for Iran’s autocracy, its human rights abuses, and secret police.

The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
In 1946, Executive Yuan wanted control over 4 groups of Islands in the South China Sea to have a stronger presence there:  the Paracels, the Spratlys, Macclesfield Bank, and the Pratas.
The French forces in the South China Sea would have been stronger than the Chinese Navy then.
French Naval forces were in the Gulf of Tonkin, U.S. forces were in the Taiwan Strait, the British were in Hong Kong, and the Portuguese were in Macao.
In the 1950s, British snd U.S. oil companies thought there might be oil in the Spratlys.  
By 1957, French presence in the South China Sea was hardly there.  

When the volcano erupted, the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.
By 1954, the Tudeh Party’s communist movement and  intelligence organization had been destroyed.  
Because of the Shah and his government’s westernization policies and disrespectful treatment of the Ulama, Iranians began identifying with the Ulama and Khomeini rather than their government.  
Those people joined with secular movements to overthrow the Shah.  

In 1966, Ne Win seized power from U Nu in Burma.
“Soldiers ruled Burma as soldiers.”
Ne Win thought that western political
Institutions “encouraged divisions.”
Minority groups found foreign support for their separatist goals.
The Karens and the Mons supported U Nu in Bangkok.  


Rare copper, a heavy metal, no alloys,
a rock in groundwater,
conducts electricity and heat.
In 1965, my Dad’s cousin met him at Heathrow, gave him a coat and £10 and brought him to a bed and breakfast across from Charing Cross Station where he’d get the train to Sheffield the next morning.
He took the train and someone met him at the train station.  
At the interview they asked him to design a grandry girder, the main weight bearing steel girder as a test.
Iron in the inner and outer core of the earth,
He’d designed many of those.  
He was hired and lived at the YMCA for 2 1/2 years.  
He took his mother’s family name, Menon, instead of his father’s, Varma.
In 1967, he left for Canada and interviewed at Bechtel before getting hired at Seagrams.  
Iron enables blood to carry oxygen.
His boss recommended him for Dale Carnegie’s leadership training classes and my dad joined the National Instrument Society and became President.
He designed a still In Jamaica,
Ordered all the parts, nuts and bolts,
Had all the parts shipped to Jamaica and made sure they got there.
His boss supervised the construction, installation and commission in Jamaica.
Quartz, heat and fade resistant, though he was an engineer and did the work of an engineer, my dad only had the title, technician so my dad’s boss thought he wasn’t getting paid enough but couldn’t get his boss to offer more than an extra $100/week or the title of engineer; he told my dad he thought he should leave.
In 1969, he got a job at Celanese, which made rayon.
He quit Celanese to work at McGill University and they allowed him to take classes to earn his MBA while working.  

The United States and Israel’s alliance was strong by 1967.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 at the end of the Third Arab Israeli War didn’t mention the Palestinians but mentioned the refugee problem.
After 1967, the Palestinians weren’t often mentioned and when mentioned only as terrorists.  
Palestinians’ faith in the “American sponsored peace process” diminished, they felt the world community ignored and neglected them also.
Groups like MAN that stopped expecting anything from Arab regimes began hijacking airplanes.
By 1972, the Palestine Liberation Organization had enough international support to get by the United States’ veto in the United Nations Security Council and Arab League recognition as representative of the Palestinian people.
The Palestinians knew the United States stated its support, as the British had, but they weren’t able to accomplish anything.  
The force Israel exerted in Johnson’s United States policy delivered no equilibrium for the Palestinians.  

In 1969, all political parties submitted to the BSPP, Burma Socialist Programme Party.
Ne Win nationalized banks and oil and deprived minorities of opportunities.
Ne Win became U Nu Win, civilian leader of Burma in 1972 and stopped the active role that U Nu defined for Burma internationally
He put military people in power even when they didn’t have experience which triggered “maldistribution of goods and chronic shortages.”  
Resources were located in areas where separatist minorities had control.

The British presence in the South China Sea ended in 1968.  
The United States left Vietnam in 1974 and China went into the Western Paracels.
The U.S. didn’t intervene and Vietnam took the Spratlys.
China wanted to claim the continental shelf In the central part of the South China Sea and needed the Spratlys.
The United States mostly disregarded the Ulama In Iran and bewildered the Iranian people by not supporting their revolution.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.


Edelweiss

I laid out in my backyard in my bikini.  
I love the feeling of my body in the sun.  
I’d be dark from the end of spring until winter.
The snow froze my bare feet through winter ,
my skin pale.
American towns in 1984,
Free, below glaciers the sunlight melted the snow,
a sea of green and the edelweiss on the edge of the  limestone,
frosted but still strong.    
When the spring warmed the grass,
the grass warmed my feet. 
The whole field looked cold and white from the glacier but in the meadow,
the bright yellow centers of those flowers float free in the center of the white petals.
The bright yellow center of those edelweiss scared the people my parents ran to America from India to get away from.  
On a sidewalk in Queens, New York in 1991, the men stared and yelled comments at me in short shorts and a fitted top in the summer.  
I grabbed my dad’s arm.

























The Bread and Coconut Butter of Aparigraha

Twelve year old flowerhead,
Marigold, yarrow and nettle,
I’d be all emotion
If not for all my work
From the time I was a teenager.
I got depressed a lot.
I related to people I read about
In my weather balloon,
Grasping, ignorant, and desperate,
But couldn’t relate to other twelve year olds.
After school I read Dali’s autobiography,
Young ****** Autosodomized by Her Own Chastity.
Fresh, green nettle with fresh and dried yarrow for purity.
Dead souls enticed to the altar by orange marigolds,
passion and creativity,
Coax sleep and rouse dreams.
Satellites measure indirectly with wave lengths of light.
My weather balloon measures the lower and middle levels of the atmosphere directly,
Fifty thousand feet high,
Metal rod thermometer,
Slide humidity sensor,
Canister for air pressure.

I enjoy rye bread and cold coconut butter in my weather balloon,
But I want Dali, and all the artists and writers.
Rye grows at high altitudes
But papyrus grows in soil and shallow water,
Strips of papyrus pith shucked from their stems.
When an anchor’s weighed, a ship sails,
But when grounded we sail.
Marigolds, yarrow and nettle,
Flowerhead,
I use the marigold for sleep,
The yarrow for endurance and intensity,
toiling for love and truth,
And the nettle for healing.
Strong rye bread needs equally strong flavors.
By the beginning of high school,
I read a lot of Beat literature
And found Buddhism.
I loved what I read
But I didn’t like some things.
I liked attachment.  
I got to the ground.
Mushrooms grow in dry soil.
Attachment to beauty is Buddha activity.
Not being attached to things I don’t find beautiful is Buddha activity.  
I fried mushrooms in a single layer in oil, fleshy.
I roasted mushrooms at high temperatures in the oven, crisp.
I simmered mushrooms in stock with kombu.
Rye bread with cold coconut butter and cremini mushrooms,
raw, soft and firm.  
Life continues, life changes,
Attachments, losses, mourning and suffering,
But change lures growth.
I find stream beds and wet soil.
I lay the strips of papyrus next to each other.
I cross papyrus strips over the first,
Then wet the crossed papyrus strips,
Press and cement them into a sheet.
I hammer it and dry it in the sun,
With no thought of achievement or self,
Flowerhead,
Hands filled with my past,
Head filled with the future,
Dali, artists poets,
Wishes and desires aligned with nature,
Abundance,
Cocoa, caraway, and molasses.

If I ever really like someone,
I’ll be wearing the dress he chooses,
Fresh green nettle and yarrow, the seeds take two years to grow strong,
Lasting love.
Marigolds steer dead souls from the altar to the afterlife,
Antiseptic, healing wounds,
Soothing sore throats and headaches.
Imperturbable, stable flowerhead,
I empty my mind.
When desires are aligned with nature, desire flows.
Papyrus makes paper and cloth.
Papyrus makes sails.
Charcoal from the ash of pulverized papyrus heals wounds.
Without attachment to the fruit of action
There is continuation of life,
Rye bread and melted coconut butter,
The coconut tree in the coconut butter,
The seed comes from the ground out of nothing,
Naturalness.
It has form.
As the seed grows the seed expresses the tree,
The seed expresses the coconut,
The seed expresses the coconut butter.
Rye bread, large open hollows, chambers,
Immersed in melted coconut butter,
Desire for expansion and creation,
No grasping, not desperate.
When the mind is compassion, the mind is boundless.
Every moment,
only that,
Every moment,
a scythe to the papyrus in the stream bed of the past.  

































Sound on Powdery Blue

Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose,
my source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand,
The glass ball of my life cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, *****, ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.

Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.

In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.

Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.

Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.  

















Pink Graphite

Camellias, winter shrubs,
Their shallow roots grow beneath the spongy caribou moss,
Robins egg blue.
After writing a play with my gifted students program in 1991,
I stopped spending all my free time writing short stories,
But the caribou moss was still soft.

In the cold Arctic of that town,
The evergreen protected the camellias from the afternoon sun and storms.
They branded hardy camellias with a brass molded embossing iron;
I had paper and graphite for my pencils.

After my ninth grade honors English teacher asked us to write poems in 1994,
It began raining.
We lived on an overhang.
A vertical rise to the top of the rock.
The rainstorm caused a metamorphic change in the snowpack,
A wet snow avalanche drifted slowly down the moss covered rock,
The snow already destabilized by exposure to the sunlight.

The avalanche formed lakes,
rock basins washed away with rainwater and melted snow,
Streams dammed by the rocks.  
My pencils washed away in the avalanche,
My clothes heavy and cold.
I wove one side of each warp fiber through the eye of the needle and one side through each slot,
Salves, ointments, serums and tinctures.
I was mining for graphite.
They were mining me,
The only winch, the sound through the water.

A steep staircase to the red Torii gates,
I broke the chains with bells for vespers
And chimes for schisms,
And wove the weft across at right angles to the warp.  

On a rocky ledge at the end of winter,
The pink moon, bitters and body butter,
They tried to get  me to want absinthe,
Wormwood for bitterness and regret.
Heat and pressure formed carbon for flakes of graphite.
Heat and pressure,
I made bitters,
Brandy, grapefruit, chocolate, mandarin rind, tamarind and sugar.
I grounded my feet in the pink moss,
paper dried in one hand,
and graphite for my pencils in the other.  



































Flakes

I don’t let people that put me down be part of my life.  
Gardens and trees,
My shadow sunk in the grass in my yard
As I ate bread, turmeric and lemon.
Carbon crystallizes into graphite flakes.
I write to see well,
Graphite on paper.  
A shadow on rock tiles with a shield, a diamond and a bell
Had me ***** to humiliate me.
Though I don’t let people that put me down near me,
A lot of people putting me down seemed like they were following me,
A platform to jump from
While she had her temple.  

There was a pink door to the platform.
I ate bread with caramelized crusts and
Drank turmeric lemonade
Before I opened that door,
Jumped and
Descended into blankets and feathers.
I found matches and rosin
For turpentine to clean,
Dried plums and licorice.  

In the temple,
In diamonds, leather, wool and silk,
She had her shield and bells,
Drugs and technology,
Thermovision 210 and Minox,
And an offering box where people believed
That if their coins went in
Their wishes would come true.

Hollyhock and smudging charcoal for work,  
Belled,
I ground grain in the mill for the bread I baked for breakfast.
The bells are now communal bells
With a watchtower and a prison,
Her shield, a blowtorch and flux,
Her ex rays, my makeshift records
Because Stalin didn’t like people dancing,
He liked them divebombing.
Impurities in the carbon prevent diamonds from forming,
Measured,
The most hard, the most expensive,
But graphite’s soft delocalized electrons move.  






































OCEAN BED

The loneliness of going to sleep by myself.  
I want a bed that’s high off the ground,
a mattress, an ocean.
I want a crush and that  person in my bed.  
Only that,
a crush in my bed,
an ocean in my bed.  
Just love.  
But I sleep with my thumbs sealed.  
I sleep with my hands, palms up.  
I sleep with my hands at my heart.  
They sear my compassion with their noise.  
They hold their iron over their fire and try to carve their noise into my love,
scored by the violence of voices, dark and lurid,  
but not burned.  
I want a man in my bed.  
When I wake up in an earthquake
I want to be held through the aftershocks.  
I like men,
the waves come in and go out
but the ocean was part of my every day.  
I don’t mind being fetishized in the ocean.  
I ran by the ocean every morning.  
I surfed in the ocean.  
I should’ve gone into the ocean that afternoon at Trestles,
holding my water jugs, kneeling at the edge.  














Morning

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  

Morning—the molten lava in the outer core of the earth embeds the iron from the inner core into the earth’s magnetic field.  
The magnetic field flips.  
The sun, so strong, where it gets through the trees it burns everything but the pine.  
The winds change direction.  
Storms cast lightening and rain.  
Iron conducts solar flares and the heavy wind.  
In that pine forest, I shudder every time I see a speck of light for fear of neon and fluorescents.  The eucalyptus cleanses congestion.  
And Kerouac’s stream ululates, crystal bowl sound baths.  
I follow the sound to the water.  
The stream ends at a bluff with a thin rocky beach below.  
The green water turns black not far from the shore.  
Before diving into the ocean, I eat globe mallow from the trees, stems and leaves, the viscous flesh, red, soft and nutty.  
I distill the pine from one of the tree’s bark and smudge the charcoal over my skin.  

Death, the palo santo’s lit, cleansing negative energy.  
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a man, woodsmoke, citrus and tobacco.  
Jasmine, plum, lime and tuberose oil on the base of my neck comforts.  
Parabolic chambers heal, sound waves through water travel four times faster.  
The sound of the open sea recalibrates.  
I dissolve into the midnight blue of the ocean.  

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  
I want hot water with coconut oil when I get up.  
We’d lay out on the lawn, surrounded by high trees that block the wind.  
Embers flying through the air won’t land in my yard, on my grass, or near my trees.  





Blue Paper

Haze scatters blue light on a planet.  
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.  
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates, belayed, branded and belled, a plangent sound.  
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor, punctures and ruin burnished with paper, making burnt lime from lime mortar.  
Glass ***** on the ceiling, she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.  
She bends light to make shadows against  thin wooden slats curbed along the wall, and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she makes tinctures, juniper berries and cotton *****.
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
A hawthorn tree stands alone,
A gateway for fairies.
large stones at the base protecting,
It’s branches a barrier.  
It’s leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
It’s berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals.
And lime in the soil.  
She adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
Unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth,
The tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk.  
She adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.  
The lime converts to paper,
Trauma victims speak,
Light through butterfly wings.  
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water
This is what I have written of my book.  I’ll be changing where the poems with the historical research go.  There are four more of those and nine of the other poems.
Àŧùl Mar 2015
So aged he is, but still so zealous for his job.
It feels like he has only known his rickshaw.
The ancient bard in him tells Punjabi poems.
He belies his wrinkles as he pedals his ride.
Just putting to shame his fellow rickshaw pullers.
None remembers or even cares to know his name.
He just pedals and remembers his deceased wife.

He told me a Punjabi tale of partition...

"We were really happy when it happened,
I was 16 and married to my beautiful wife,
But then he pressed for a separate Pakistan,
Just so much wicked was this demand of his,
Punjab was alight due to some people's doing,
We were to cross river Ravi en route to Amritsar,
In Lahore my childhood home was burnt to ashes,
My beautiful wife was still so young at that time,
She was ***** on the banks of river Ravi & killed,
In no cloth was she draped as they burnt her body,
After pouring whiskey all over her lifeless body."


His voice broke and a stream of tears escaped,
Down his eyes they flowed like the river Ravi,
"In front of my two eyes the men had ***** her,
Her mistake? Looking at them once & smiling,
Sin as great to be punished by such brutal drab?
What God, Ishwar or Allah did they follow?
I have known all & none advocates ****,
To which parents could they born?
Must be the devil & the witch."


By now his nose was red and his sobs audible.
He said, "She was not just *****, she was also killed,"
The ancient rickshaw puller gasped for breath as he said,
"Would the high heavens thank them for killing my wife,
She was a Hindu and an idolater with my mangalsootra,
Why they spared my life I have no idea but just remorse,
Will their Allah or God spare them on Doomsday?"

==============
And Google knows who pressed for a separate Pakistan in the name of communal majority.

My HP Poem #813
©Atul Kaushal
sabushanmughom Apr 2014
India is a bird
In the map
Ready to soar.

Bengal and Assam
A wing.
Gujarat and Rajasthan
Another.

The pinnacle
Jammu Kashmir
Gazes.

Delhi and Punjab
Stirs the body.

Kerala
Hangs on tail
A stylet.

LOOK

A vulture feeds corses ?

A myena that sings ?
Àŧùl Apr 2013
Transliteration:

Jana-gaṇa-mana adhināyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhātā
Pañjāba Sindhu Gujarāṭa Marāṭhā
Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga
Vindhya Himāchala Yamunā Gaṅgā
Uchhala jaladhi taraṅga
Tava śubha nāme jāge
Tava śubha āśhiṣa māge
Gāhe tava jaya gāthā
Jana gaṇa maṅgala dhāyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhāta
Jaya he, jaya he, jaya he
Jaya jaya jaya, jaya he.


Translation:

Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,
Dispenser of India's destiny.
Thy name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sindhu,
Gujarat and Maratha,
Of the Dravida and Odisha and Bengal;
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganges and is
chanted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.
They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.
The saving of all people waits in thy hand,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, victory, victory to thee.
This is Jan Gana Mana - The Indian National Anthem as composed by Rabindranath Tagore and as translated in English by Tagore along with the Irish poet James H. Cousins' wife, Margaret who was an expert at English language.
It is addressed to the Bharat Bhagya Vidhata (India's Destiny Dispenser God) contrary to the popular belief that it is addressed to a person particular.
It is known that the Sanskritized Bengali version of the same, called Jana Gana Mana has been hugely popular worldwide. Listen to it on YouTube now and feel something in your heart for India.
© Rabindranath Tagore 27th December, 1911 originally in Bengali
© Rabindranath Tagore, Margaret H. Cousins who together translated it in 1919 at Besant Theosophical College, Madanapalle where Margaret's husband James H. Cousins was the principal who invited Rabindranath Tagore to sing the anthem in front of an assembly of people.
Michael R Burch Oct 2020
Poems about Flight, Flying, Flights of Fancy, Kites, Leaves, Butterflies, Birds and Bees



Flight
by Michael R. Burch

It is the nature of loveliness to vanish
as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness
seek transcendence...

Originally published by Hibiscus (India)



Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace,
you climb, skittish kite...

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast... solitariness... there,
so that all that remains is to
fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you
stall,
spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps
and *****
its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.



The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch

(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)

The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true...

but came almost as static—background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.

They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope...

You will not find them here; they blew away—
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,

their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.

Originally published by The Lyric



American Eagle, Grounded
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 as “Tremble” 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 (Canada)



Album
by Michael R. Burch

I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane—
and I see how young they were, and how unwise;
and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane,
their blissful arc through alien blue skies...

And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed—
are also wings, but wings that never flew:
like insects’ wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed,
their features never merged, remaining two...

And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens
or in shadows where It crept on furtive claws
as It scritched Its way into their hearts, depends
on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws...

and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise,
who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see
how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies,
clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be.



Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Originally published by The HyperTexts



Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch

We are learning to fly
every day...

learning to fly—
away, away...

O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination—

graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Let us bear one another up in our vast migration.



In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean
and laugh as they vanish, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy.



For a Palestinian 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?

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab



Earthbound, a Vision of Crazy Horse
by Michael R. Burch

Tashunka Witko, a Lakota Sioux better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.

Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.

Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.

Published by American Indian Pride and Boston Poetry Magazine



Sioux Vision Quest
by Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A man must pursue his Vision
as the eagle explores
the sky's deepest blues.

Published by Better Than Starbucks and A Hundred Voices



in-flight convergence
by Michael R. Burch

serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city ——— extend ———
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command

here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
descend,
they abruptly
part ———— ways,
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience

and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.

Originally published by The Aurorean and subsequently nominated for the Pushcart Prize



Flight 93
by Michael R. Burch

I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked
why existence felt so small, so purposeless,
like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp...

vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms
as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch
to OFF... I heard the klaxon's shrill alarms

like vultures’ shriekings... earthward, in a stall...
we floated... earthward... wings outstretched, aghast
like Icarus... as through the void we fell...

till nothing was so beautiful, so blue...
so vivid as that moment... and I held
an image of your face, and dreamed I flew

into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.



Flight
by Michael R. Burch

Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow...
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sunlit sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.

Robin, hawk or whippoorwill...
Should men care that you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.

Sparrow, lark or chickadee...
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.

This is a poem I wrote in high school. I seem to remember the original poem being influenced by William Cullen Bryant's "To a Waterfowl."



Flying
by Michael R. Burch

I shall rise
and try the ****** wings of thought
ten thousand times
before I fly...

and then I'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before I dream;

but when at last...
I soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as I laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas...
if I'm not told
I’m just a man,
then I shall know
just what I am.

This is one of my early poems, written around age 16-17.



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7.



Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Delicacy
by Michael R. Burch

for all good mothers

Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate
the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring—
“Fly! Fly! Fly!”
Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.



Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries querulously for his companions.
Who feels kinship for that strange wraith
as he vanishes eerily into the heavens?
You watch it as it disappears;
its plaintive calls cut through you.
The indignant crows ignore you both:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.



The Red Cockatoo
by Po Chu-I (772-846)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A marvelous gift from Annam—
a red cockatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.

So they did what they always do
to the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred cage
and shut it up.



The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The migrant songbird on the nearby yew
brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills:
another spring gone, and still no word from you...



Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring breeze knows partings are bitter;
The willow twig knows it will never be green again.



The Day after the Rain
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the day after the rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart endlessly rises with wind,
gusts with wind...
away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves...
away the clouds like smoke...
vanishing like smoke...



Untitled Translations

Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché!
For like you she has wings and can fly away!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
—Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
—Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

a soaring kite flits
into the heart of the sun?
Butterfly & Chrysanthemum
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild ducks:
my mysterious companions!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
shatters the darkness—
the night heron's shriek
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
—O no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gull
in his high, lonely circuits, may tell.
—Glaucus, translation by Michael R. Burch

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height—
our ancestors’ wisdom
—Michael R. Burch, original haiku

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Descent
by Michael R. Burch

I have listened to the rain all this morning
and it has a certain gravity,
as if it knows its destination,
perhaps even its particular destiny.
I do not believe mine is to be uplifted,
although I, too, may be flung precipitously
and from a great height.



Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly...



Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to...



Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea



The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Kin
by Michael R. Burch

for Richard Moore

1.
Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss—
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here...

2.
You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back—
one long, descending glide...

3.
Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts...
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts—
this way and that...
Contentious, shrewd, you scan—
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.



Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.

A poet like Nadia Anjuman can be likened to a caged bird, deprived of flight, who somehow finds it within herself to sing of love and beauty.



Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.



Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.

Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle



My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch

My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.

My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.

My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly as “My Twenty-Ninth Year”



Myth
by Michael R. Burch

Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.

Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the mown grain—
golden and humble in all its weary worth.



What Works
by Michael R. Burch

for David Gosselin

What works—
hewn stone;
the blush the iris shows the sun;
the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.

The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds tick his time away,
his sentence—one brief day in May,
a period. And then decay.

A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s languid as the sea,
seek, striving—immortality.

When gloss peels off, what works will shine.
When polish fades, what works will gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the dying buzzing in the hive
of tedious incessant bees,
what works will soar and wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,
and teach the pallid poem to seethe.



Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who
was born on September 11, 2001 and who
died at age nine, shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the evil things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bring them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

Originally published by The Flea



Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch

Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.

Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and—spent of flame—
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.

You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies—
imprisonment your sense denies.

You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare—
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.

But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew—
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.

Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times



Transplant
by Michael R. Burch

You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh
as strange to us who briefly knew your flame
as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh.
Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim
to earth, and floats forever now the same—
light captured at its moment of least height.
You laugh here always, welcoming the night,
and, just a photograph, still you can claim
bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh—
but something more, made less. Your humanness
this moment of release becomes a name
and something else—a radiance, a strange
brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand
and chain you here to this nocturnal land
of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone.
I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim
to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night
that crushes all the laughter from us. Light
in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease
some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees
to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these
are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight,
I welcome darkness, overcome with light.



Reading between the lines
by Michael R. Burch

Who could have read so much, as we?
Having the time, but not the inclination,
TV has become our philosophy,
sheer boredom, our recreation.



Rilke Translations

Archaic Torso of Apollo
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot know the beheaded god
nor his eyes' forfeited visions. But still
the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality
of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will
emanates dynamism. Otherwise
the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us,
nor the centering ***** make us smile
at the thought of their generative animus.
Otherwise the stone might seem deficient,
unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin
projecting procreation's triangular spearhead upwards,
unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within
like an inchoate star—demanding our belief.
You must change your life.



Herbsttag ("Autumn Day")
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go.
Lay your long shadows over the sundials
and over the meadows, let the free winds blow.
Command the late fruits to fatten and shine;
O, grant them another Mediterranean hour!
Urge them to completion, and with power
convey final sweetness to the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, never will build one.
Who's alone now, shall continue alone;
he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends,
and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down,
restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend.

Originally published by Measure



The Panther
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His weary vision's so overwhelmed by iron bars,
his exhausted eyes see only blank Oblivion.
His world is not our world. It has no stars.
No light. Ten thousand bars. Nothing beyond.
Lithe, swinging with a rhythmic easy stride,
he circles, his small orbit tightening,
an electron losing power. Paralyzed,
soon regal Will stands stunned, an abject thing.
Only at times the pupils' curtains rise
silently, and then an image enters,
descends through arrested shoulders, plunges, centers
somewhere within his empty heart, and dies.



Come, You
by Ranier Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This was Rilke's last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive.

Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return—
incurable pain searing this physical mesh.
As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn
with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh.
This wood that long resisted your embrace
now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury
as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage—
uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré.
Completely free, no longer future's pawn,
I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain,
certain I'd never return—my heart's reserves gone—
to become death's nameless victim, purged by flame.
Now all I ever was must be denied.
I left my memories of my past elsewhere.
That life—my former life—remains outside.
Inside, I'm lost. Nobody knows me here.



Love Song
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn't touch yours?
How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone?
Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark
in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate.
There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow
enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice.
Whose instrument are we becoming together?
Whose, the hands that excite us?
Ah, sweet song!



The Beggar's Song
by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I live outside your gates,
exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun;
sometimes I'll cradle my right ear
in my right palm;
then when I speak my voice sounds strange,
alien...
I'm unsure whose voice I'm hearing:
mine or yours.
I implore a trifle;
the poets cry for more.
Sometimes I cover both eyes
and my face disappears;
there it lies heavy in my hands
looking peaceful, instead,
so that no one would ever think
I have no place to lay my head.



Ivy
by Michael R. Burch

“Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” — Pablo Neruda
“They climb on my old suffering like ivy.”

Ivy winds around these sagging structures
from the flagstones
to the eave heights,
and, clinging, holds intact
what cannot be saved of their loose entrails.
Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation,
cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers,
waxy, unguent,
palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs,
pausing at last to see
the alien sparkle of dew
beading delicate sparrowgrass.
Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse
grow all around, and here remorse, things past,
watch ivy climb and bend,
and, in the end, we ask
if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend.



Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt 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.



Prodigal
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998.

You have graduated now,
to a higher plane
and your heart’s tenacity
teaches us not to go gently
though death intrudes.

For eighteen days
—jarring interludes
of respite and pain—
with life only faintly clinging,
like a cashmere snow,
testing the capacity
of the blood banks
with the unstaunched flow
of your severed veins,
in the collapsing declivity,
in the sanguine haze
where Death broods,
you struggled defiantly.

A city mourns its adopted son,
flown to the highest ranks
while each heart complains
at the harsh validity
of God’s ways.

On ponderous wings
the white clouds move
with your captured breath,
though just days before
they spawned the maelstrom’s
hellish rift.

Throw off this mortal coil,
this envelope of flesh,
this brief sheath
of inarticulate grief
and transient joy.

Forget the winds
which test belief,
which bear the parchment leaf
down life’s last sun-lit path.

We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal,
O Valiant One,
in its percussive flight into the sun,
winging on the heart’s last madrigal.



Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch

I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.

And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own—
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!



It's Halloween!
by Michael R. Burch

If evening falls
on graveyard walls
far softer than a sigh;
if shadows fly
moon-sickled skies,
while children toss their heads
uneasy in their beds,
beware the witch's eye!

If goblins loom
within the gloom
till playful pups grow terse;
if birds give up their verse
to comfort chicks they nurse,
while children dream weird dreams
of ugly, wiggly things,
beware the serpent's curse!

If spirits scream
in haunted dreams
while ancient sibyls rise
to plague black nightmare skies
one night without disguise,
while children toss about
uneasy, full of doubt,
beware the devil's eyes...
it's Halloween!



An Illusion
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.
She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed
into oblivion...

This is one of my early poems, written around age 16 and published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern.



Describing You
by Michael R. Burch

How can I describe you?
The fragrance of morning rain
mingled with dew
reminds me of you;
the warmth of sunlight
stealing through a windowpane
brings you back to me again.

This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager.



www.firesermon.com
by Michael R. Burch

your gods have become e-vegetation;
your saints—pale thumbnail icons; to enlarge
their images, right-click; it isn’t hard
to populate your web-site; not to mention
cool sound effects are nice; Sound Blaster cards
can liven up dull sermons, zing some fire;
your drives need added Zip; you must discard
your balky paternosters: ***!!! Desire!!!
these are the watchwords, catholic; you must
as Yahoo! did, employ a little lust
if you want great e-commerce; hire a bard
to spruce up ancient language, shed the dust
of centuries of sameness;
lameness *****;
your gods grew blurred; go 3D; scale; adjust.

Published by: Ironwood, Triplopia and Nisqually Delta Review



Her Grace Flows Freely
by Michael R. Burch

July 7, 2007

Her love is always chaste, and pure.
This I vow. This I aver.
If she shows me her grace, I will honor her.
This I vow. This I aver.
Her grace flows freely, like her hair.
This I vow. This I aver.
For her generousness, I would worship her.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not **** her for what I bear
This I vow. This I aver.
like a most precious incense–desire for her,
This I vow. This I aver.
nor call her “*****” where I seek to repair.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare
This I vow. This I aver.
like a foolish child at the foot of a stair
This I vow. This I aver.
where I long to go, should another be there.
This I vow. This I aver.
I’ll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare
This I vow. This I aver.
the chance that she’ll flee me–my starling rare.
This I vow. This I aver.
And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear
This I vow. This I aver.
that I will joy in her grace beyond compare.
This I vow. This I aver.



Second Sight (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.
Wiser than we know, the newborn screams,
red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means
this close to death, amid the arctic glare
of warmthless lights above.
Beware! Beware!—
encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts?
Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts—
the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist.
Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist—
this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense.
Why can he not float on, in dark suspense,
and dream of life? Why did they rip him out?
He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt—
and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!,
re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null
ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful.



Incommunicado
by Michael R. Burch

All I need to know of life I learned
in the slap of a moment,
as my outward eye turned
toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights
which coldly burned, hissing—
"There is no way back!..."
As the ironic bright blood
trickled down my face,
I watched strange albino creatures twisting
my flesh into tight knots of separation
all the while tediously insisting—
“He's doing just fine!"



Letdown
by Michael R. Burch

Life has not lived up to its first bright vision—
the light overhead fluorescing, revealing
no blessing—bestowing its glaring assessments
impersonally (and no doubt carefully metered).
That first hard

SLAP

demanded my attention. Defiantly rigid,
I screamed at their backs as they, laughingly,

ripped

my mother’s pale flesh from my unripened shell,
snapped it in two like a pea pod, then dropped
it somewhere—in a dustbin or a furnace, perhaps.

And that was my clue

that some deadly, perplexing, unknowable task
lay, inexplicable, ahead in the white arctic maze
of unopenable doors, in the antiseptic gloom...



Recursion
by Michael R. Burch

In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.

For I saw their sons essaying
into fields—gleeful, braying—
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!

From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.

In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.



Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

I have a dream
pebbles in a sparkling sand
of wondrous things.
I see children
variations of the same man
playing together.
Black and yellow, red and white,
stone and flesh, a host of colors
together at last.
I see a time
each small child another's cousin
when freedom shall ring.
I hear a song
sweeter than the sea sings
of many voices.
I hear a jubilation
respect and love are the gifts we must bring
shaking the land.
I have a message,
sea shells echo, the melody rings
the message of God.
I have a dream
all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone
of many things.
I live in hope
all children are merely small fragments of One
that this dream shall come true.
I have a dream...
but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!
Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
i can feel it begin
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
poets are lovers and dreamers too



Life Sentence
by Michael R. Burch

... I swim, my Daddy’s princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down
to **** me up?... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers “precious son”...

... the Plunger worked; i’m two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...

... i’m three; yay! whee! oh good! it’s time to play!
(oh no, I think there’s Others on the way;
i’d better pray)...

... i’m four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there’s Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More...

... it’s great to be alive if you are five (unless you’re me);
my Mommy says: “you’re WRONG! don’t disagree!
don’t make this HURT ME!”...

... i’m six; They say i’m tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort!;
a tadpole’s ripping Mommy’s Room apart...

... i’m seven; i’m in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;
... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...
is that She feels Weird.



Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch

“... what rough beast... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats

Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.

Brutality is shocking—
tiny orifices torn,
impaled with hard lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.

Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition...
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.



America's Riches
by Michael R. Burch

Balboa's dream
was bitter folly—
no El Dorado near, nor far,
though seas beguiled
and rivers smiled
from beds of gold and silver ore.

Drake retreated
rich with plunder
as Incan fled Conquistador.
Aztecs died
when Spaniards lied,
then slew them for an ingot more.

The pilgrims came
and died or lived
in fealty to an oath they swore,
and bought with pain
the precious grain
that made them rich though they were poor.

Apache blood,
Comanche tears
were shed, and still they went to war;
they fought to be
unbowed and free—
such were Her riches, and still are.

Published by Poetic Reflections and Tucumcari Literary Review



Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch

Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner,
paddled again and again?
How long must we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Will we ever learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
still failing the golden rule?



Photographs
by Michael R. Burch

Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.

Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory...
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?

We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness...
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her lustrous hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?

We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near...
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair
of copper, or her eyes' soft hue.

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review



Numbered
by Michael R. Burch

He desired an object to crave;
she came, and she altared his affection.
He asked her for something to save:
a memento for his collection.
But all that she had was her need;
what she needed, he knew not to give.
They compromised on a thing gone to seed
to complete the half lives they would live.
One in two, they were less than complete.
Two plus one, in their huge fractious home
left them two, the new one in the street,
then he, by himself, one, alone.
He awoke past his prime to new dawn
with superfluous dew all around,
in ten thousands bright beads on his lawn,
and he knew that, at last, he had found
a number of things he had missed:
things shining and bright, unencumbered
by their price, or their place on a list.
Then with joy and despair he remembered
and longed for the lips he had kissed
when his days were still evenly numbered.



Nucleotidings
by Michael R. Burch

“We will walk taller!” said Gupta,
sorta abrupta,
hand-in-hand with his mom,
eyeing the A-bomb.

“Who needs a mahatma
in the aftermath of NAFTA?
Now, that was a disaster,”
cried glib Punjab.

“After Y2k,
time will spin out of control anyway,”
flamed Vijay.

“My family is relatively heavy,
too big even for a pig-barn Chevy;
we need more space,”
spat What’s His Face.

“What does it matter,
dirge or mantra,”
sighed Serge.

“The world will wobble
in Hubble’s lens
till the tempest ends,”
wailed Mercedes.

“The world is going to hell in a bucket.
So **** it and get outta my face!
We own this place!
Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS,
so what’s the crisis?”
cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett.



All My Children
by Michael R. Burch

It is May now, gentle May,
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the blousy flowers
of this backyard cemet'ry,
upon my children as they sleep.

Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,
with a mound of earth for a pillow;
his face as hard as his monument,
but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.

And there is Meg beside the spring
that sings her endless sleep.
Though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.

And there is Frankie, little Frankie,
tucked in safe at last,
a child who weakened and died too soon,
but whose heart was always steadfast.

And there is Mary by the bushes
where she hid so well,
her face as dark as their berries,
yet her eyes far darker still.

And Andy... there is Andy,
sleeping in the clover,
a child who never saw the sun
so soon his life was over.

And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly...
the prettiest of all...
now she's put aside her dreams
of lovers dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.

It is May now, merry May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the green gardens,
on the graves of all my children...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.

I wrote this poem around age 15-16.



Kingdom Freedom
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness.
Let me have none of the lividness
of religious outrage.

LORD, let me not be over-worried
about the lack of “morality” around me.
Surround me,
not with law’s restrictive cage,
but with Your spirit, freer than the wind,
so that to breathe is to have freest life,
and not to fly to You, my only sin.



Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men—
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger’s cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright—
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope’s long-departed star!



Litany
by Michael R. Burch

Will you take me with all my blemishes?
I will take you with all your blemishes, and show you mine. We’ll **** wine from cardboard boxes till our teeth and lips shine red like greedily gorging foxes’. We’ll swill our fill, then have *** for hours till our neglected guts at last rebel. At two in the morning, we’ll eat cold Krystals as our blood detoxes, and we will be in love.

And that’s it?
That’s it.

And can I go out with my friends and drink until dawn?
You can go out with your friends and drink until dawn, come home lipstick-collared, pass out by the pool, or stay at the bar till the new moon sets, because we'll be in love, and in love there's no room for remorse or regret. There is no right, no wrong, and no mistrust, only limb-numbing ***, hot-pistoning lust.

And that’s all?
That’s all.

That’s great!
But wait...

Wait? Why? What’s wrong?
I want to have your children.

Children?
Well, perhaps just one.

And what will happen when we have children?
The most incredible things will happen—you’ll change, stop acting so strangely, start paying more attention to me, start paying your bills on time, grow up and get rid of your horrible friends, and never come home at a-quarter-to-three drunk from a night of swilling, smelling like a lovesick skunk, stop acting so lewdly, start working incessantly so that we can afford a new house which I will decorate lavishly and then grow tired of in a year or two or three, start growing a paunch so that no other woman would ever have you, stop acting so boorishly, start growing a beard because you’re too tired to shave, or too afraid, thinking you might slit your worthless wrinkled throat...



Mending Glass
by Michael R. Burch

In the cobwebbed house—
lost in shadows
by the jagged mirror,
in the intricate silver face
cracked ten thousand times,
silently he watches,
and in the twisted light
sometimes he catches there
a familiar glimpse of revealing lace,
white stockings and garters,
a pale face pressed indiscreetly near
with a predatory leer,
the sheer flash of nylon,
an embrace, or a sharp slap,
... a sudden lurch of terror.

He finds bright slivers
—the hard sharp brittle shards,
the silver jags of memory
starkly impressed there—
and mends his error.



Shadowselves
by Michael R. Burch

In our hearts, knowing
fewer days—and milder—beckon,
how are we, now, to measure
that flame by which we reckon
the time we have remaining?

We are shadows
spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight.
Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker.

Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright?
When chill night steals our vigor?

Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows.

Where is the fire of youth? We grow cold.

Why does our future loom dark? We are old.

Why do we shiver?

In our hearts, seeing
fewer days—and briefer—breaking,
now, even more, we treasure
the brittle leaf-like aching
that tells us we are living.



Pressure
by Michael R. Burch

Pressure is the plug of ice in the frozen hose,
the hiss of water within vinyl rigidly green and shining,
straining to writhe.

Pressure is the kettle’s lid ceaselessly tapping its tired dance,
the hot eye staring, its frantic issuance
unavailing.

Pressure is the bellow’s surge, the hard forged
metal shedding white heat, the beat of the clawed hammer
on cold anvil.

Pressure is a day’s work compressed into minutes,
frantic minute vessels constricted, straining and hissing,
unable to writhe,

the fingers drumming and tapping their tired dance,
eyes staring, cold and reptilian,
hooded and blind.

Pressure is the spirit sighing—reflective,
restrictive compression—an endless drumming—
the bellows’ echo before dying.

The cold eye—unblinking, staring.
The hot eye—sinking, uncaring.



Open Portal
by Michael R. Burch

“You already have zero privacy—get over it.”
Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems

While you’re at it—
don’t bother to wear clothes:
We all know what you’re concealing underneath.

Let the bathroom door swing open.
Let, O let Us peer in!
What you’re doing, We’ve determined, may be a sin!

When you visit your mother
and it’s time to brush your teeth,
it’s okay to openly spit.

And, while you’re at it,
go ahead—
take a long, noisy ****.

What the he|ll is your objection?
What on earth is all this fuss?
Just what is it, exactly, you would hide from US?



beMused
by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps at three
you'll come to tea,
to sip a cuppa here?

You'll just stop in
to drink dry gin?
I only have a beer.

To name the greats:
Pope, Dryden, mates?
The whole world knows their names.

Discuss the songs
of Emerson?
But these are children's games.

Give me rhythm
wild as Dylan!
Give me Bobbie Burns!

Give me Psalms,
or Hopkins’ poems,
Hart Crane’s, if he returns!

Or Langston railing!
Blake assailing!
Few others I desire.

Or go away,
yes, leave today:
your tepid poets tire.



The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

lines written at the close of the 20th century

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.

And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,
hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
How can this be?

A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.

I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.



Salve
by Michael R. Burch

for the victims and survivors of 9-11

The world is unsalvageable...
but as we lie here
in bed
stricken to the heart by love
despite war’s
flickering images,
sometimes we still touch,
laughing, amazed,
that our flesh
does not despair
of love
as we do,
that our bodies are wise
in ways we refuse
to comprehend,
still insisting we eat,
drink...
even multiply.

And so we touch...
touch, and only imagine
ourselves immune:
two among billions
in this night of wished-on stars,
caresses,
kisses,
and condolences.

We are not lovers of irony,
we
who imagine ourselves
beyond the redemption
of tears
because we have salvaged
so few
for ourselves...

and so we laugh
at our predicament,
fumbling for the ointment.



Stump
by Michael R. Burch

This used to be a poplar, oak or elm...
we forget the names of trees, but still its helm,
green-plumed, like some Greek warrior’s, nobly fringed,
with blossoms almond-white, but verdant-tinged,
this massive helm... this massive, nodding head
here contemplated life, and now is dead...

Perhaps it saw its future, furrow-browed,
and flung its limbs about, dejectedly.
Perhaps it only dreamed as, cloud by cloud,
the sun plod through the sky. Heroically,
perhaps it stood against the mindless plots
of concrete that replaced each flowered bed.
Perhaps it heard thick loggers draw odd lots
and could not flee, and so could only dread...

The last of all its kind? They left its stump
with timeworn strange inscriptions no one reads
(because a language lost is just a bump
impeding someone’s progress at mall speeds).

We leveled all such “speed bumps” long ago
just as our quainter cousins leveled trees.
Shall we, too, be consumed by what we know?
Once gods were merely warriors; august trees
were merely twigs, and man the least divine...
mere fables now, dust, compost, turpentine.



First Dance
by Michael R. Burch

for Sykes and Mary Harris

Beautiful ballerina—
so pert, pretty, poised and petite,
how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau
on those beautiful, elegant feet!

How palely he now awaits you, although
he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet!



Keep the Body Well
by Michael R. Burch

for William Sykes Harris III

Is the soul connected to the brain
by a slender silver thread,
so that when the thread is severed
we call the body “dead”
while the soul — released from fear and pain —
is finally able to rise
beyond earth’s binding gravity
to heaven’s welcoming skies?

If so — no need to quail at death,
but keep the body well,
for when the body suffers
the soul experiences hell.



On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.

Amen



Maya’s Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon

With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed...
My, that last step’s a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!

Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.



Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!

NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.



Whose Woods
by Michael R. Burch

Whose woods these are, I think I know.
**** Cheney’s in the White House, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his chip mills overflow.

My sterile horse must think it queer
To stop without a ’skeeter near
Beside this softly glowing “lake”
Of six-limbed frogs gone nuclear.

He gives his hairless tail a shake;
I fear he’s made his last mistake—
He took a sip of water blue
(Blue-slicked with oil and HazMat waste).

Get out your wallets; ****’s not through—
Enron’s defunct, the bill comes due...
Which he will send to me, and you.
Which he will send to me, and you.



1-800-HOT-LINE
by Michael R. Burch

“I don’t believe in psychics,” he said, “so convince me.”

When you were a child, the earth was a joy,
the sun a bright plaything, the moon a lit toy.
Now life’s minor distractions irk, frazzle, annoy.
When the crooked finger beckons, scythe-talons destroy.

“You’ll have to do better than that, to convince me.”

As you grew older, bright things lost their meaning.
You invested your hours in commodities, leaning
to things easily fleeced, to the convenient gleaning.
I see a pittance of dirt—untended, demeaning.

“Everyone knows that!” he said, “so convince me.”

Your first and last wives traded in golden bands
for vacations from the abuses of your cruel hands.
Where unwatered blooms line an arid plot of land,
the two come together, waving fans.

“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”

As your father left you, you left those you brought
to the doorstep of life as an afterthought.
Two sons and a daughter tap shoes, undistraught.
Their tears are contrived, their condolences bought.

“Everyone knows that. CONVINCE me.”

A moment, an instant... a life flashes by,
a tunnel appears, but not to the sky.
There is brightness, such brightness it sears the eye.
When a life grows too dull, it seems better to die.

“I could have told you that!” he shrieked, “I think I’ll **** myself!”

Originally published by Penny Dreadful



Lines for My Ascension
by Michael R. Burch

I.
If I should die,
there will come a Doom,
and the sky will darken
to the deepest Gloom.

But if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

II.
If I should die,
let no mortal say,
“Here was a man,
with feet of clay,

or a timid sparrow
God’s hand let fall.”
But watch the sky darken
to an eerie pall

and know that my Spirit,
unvanquished, broods,
and cares naught for graves,
prayers, coffins, or roods.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

III.
If I should die,
let no man adore
his incompetent Maker:
Zeus, Jehovah, or Thor.

Think of Me as One
who never died—
the unvanquished Immortal
with the unriven side.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

IV.
And if I should “die,”
though the clouds grow dark
as fierce lightnings rend
this bleak asteroid, stark...

If you look above,
you will see a bright Sign—
the sun with the moon
in its arms, Divine.

So divine, if you can,
my bright meaning, and know—
my Spirit is mine.
I will go where I go.

And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.

Keywords/Tags: flight, flying, fancy, kites, leaves, birds, bees, butterflies, wings, heights, fall, falling
SassyJ Jan 2016
I am like a baby in your bay
You hum as I play the tirkit
Based in your basic base
I heat as your beats explode
I’ll hold you as a hungry lover
An angered one waiting in line
I’ll suckle your filled bosoms
Caress your hide in ecstasy
I’ll put you in my mouth to ****
My idea of a realistic performance
A subtle pitch, altered frequencies
Among my dozen of reigned rhythms
A 15th century Persian marvel
Now musing Punjab, Assam,Goa
Maharashtra,Karnataka and Pashtun
Amuse me in another foreign soil
Trance and ****** me to an addiction
I bought a Bhangra Dhol and learning the basic tirkit rhythm.

History of Dhol Drum
The Dhol is most commonly associated with Punjabi music and dance. It was used in war by the Sikhs and later to celebrate successful harvests by the landowners. This drum became the ground roots for modern Bhangra music. The Dhol drum is a very common instrument in the regions of Punjab in India and Pakistan. From north India the Dhol spread to other parts of the Indian subcontinent as well.

The Dhol is a double-sided barrel drum (straight barrels also exist) played mostly as an accompanying instrument to the traditional Punjabi dance of Bhangra and the religious music of Sufism, Qawwali.

The drum is played using two wooden sticks, usually made from bamboo and cane wood. The most common rhythm played on the Dhol is the Chaal, which consists of 8 beats in a bar.

Though primarily it was meant to be played in festive occasions of - Lohri and Baisakhi and family get together's like weddings etc, today it has gained remarkable acceptance and popularity. A typical Punjabi song cannot be without Dhol beats.
Meena Menon Apr 2021
The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh.

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.
This is the next part of Lava.
Àŧùl Sep 2014
Please read till the end please or do not **** your time reading this.

The online poetry community is invited to read the eBook which also has some English poems apart from few Hindi poems (translated in brackets to English too).

I had had met with a really serious accident on the 7th of May in the year 2010. It had put me into a 23-day long comatose state. Of that I couldn't breathe by myself for around 17 days because of which I had to be put on artificial respiratory system. I came out of the comatose state after 23 days only for waking up to the real pain of physiotherapy.

I was prescribed rest at home, break from college for one complete year. Lonely afternoons started to get the better of me. My mother suggested me to recount sincerely whatever wrongs, or rights I was ashamed of, or proud of in my life.

Paying heed to my mother's suggestion and to keep myself occupied, I started writing (typing on my laptop) a self-account of whatever I had had experienced in my life as an Indian teenager with a global outlook. I then transformed it into a fiction titled '7 Seconds: Typical Guy, Not So Typical Life'.

First 10 copies of my novel's eBook have been sold in India and the United States put together.

You never actually grow up, and there is a youthful cringe always hidden inside you.
This story prods on the same youthful cringe in your mind which never actually died out even if you are no longer a young adult.

This novel contains poetry both in English & Hindi (in Roman script). It also has decorative inputs in languages other than English, namely Hindi (again in Roman Script), German, French, Punjabi (the language of Punjab in India again in Roman Script), Kannada (a South Indian language, also put in Roman script) with English translations of all such non-English inputs mentioned in the following dialogues.

The story follows Akshant in first person for most of the part as a mysterious female narrator named Satyaa recounts most of it all just as he had told her on e-mails.

The story takes him to the Old Fort at Delhi where he encounters a Franco-German tourist party and acts as a friendly guide for them.

Later, he is involved in a fight against the terrorist hijackers in a flight to Hamburg where he is off to a biodiesel convention by the fictional Deutsch Biodiesel.

This eBook is available on Amazon and is up for the taking on the internet.

It's absolute reading pleasure at an economical price.

The links from where you can buy this eBook from are given below:

USA:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

India:
http://www.amazon.in/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

German:
http://www.amazon.de/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

French:
http://www.amazon.fr/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Spain:
http://www.amazon.es/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Italy:
http://www.amazon.it/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Japan:
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Brazil:
http://www.amazon.com.br/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Canada:
http://www.amazon.ca/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Mexico:
http://www.amazon.com.mx/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

Australia:
http://www.amazon.com.au/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA/

A request: Don't just heart this poem. Get the ebook from relevant link and write a review as well please.
Please forgive me that I am not posting many poems lately.
I've been busy in promoting my novel's eBook available on Amazon.
I hope that this story gets many readers.

Please spread the message far and wide even if you are not intending to buy it for it might be helpful to me.

A promotional post.
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Apr 2017
I hoped that she will improve now,
Instead she's on a downward curve.

She got out of one LDR back at that time,
Only to fall into a longer one with him.

Haryana is closer to Punjab if compared,
Mauritius is so distant for another LDR.
My HP Poem #1498
©Atul Kaushal
Julian Aug 2022
‘Abá Cloak or mantle; a rough, coarse shirt.[1][2]
Ábádih
‘Abbás AR: عباس lion
‘Abdu’l-Bahá AR: عباس افندی Servant of Glory Title of ‘Abbás Effendi, the eldest son and successor of Bahá'u'lláh, meaning Servant of Bahá (Glory), i.e., Servant of Bahá'u'lláh. He preferred this title over others because it emphasized His servitude to Bahá'u'lláh.
‘Abdu’l-Hamid AR:  عبد الحميد servant of the All-Laudable
‘Abdu’l-Husayn AR:  عبد الحسين servant of Husayn
‘Abdu’lláh AR: عبد الله servant of God
Abhá AR: أبهى Most Glorious, All-Glorious A superlative form of the word Bahá’, "glory", or "glorious"; a form of the Greatest Name of God.
Abhá Beauty AR: جمال ابها A title of Bahá'u'lláh. See also Blessed Beauty.
Abhá Kingdom Most Glorious Kingdom The next stage of existence, or "the next world", i.e. the world of the afterlife.
Abjad system A numerological system, i.e. a system assigning a numerical value to letters, which creates a new layer of meaning in Scripture. For instance, the value of the word Bahá’ in the Abjad system is nine, lending that number a special significance.
Abu’l-Faḍl AR:  ابوالفضل father of virtue
‘Adasíyyih A village near the Jordan River where some early Baha'is lived, working as farmers at ‘Abdu’l-Bahá's request.
Adhan AR: أَذَان announcement[3] Also Azán. Muslim call to prayer.[2]
Ádhirbáyján FA: آذربایجان Also Azerbaijan. A region in northwestern Iran.[4]
Afnán AR: ﺍﻓﻨﺎﻥ twigs The maternal relatives of the Báb; used as a surname by their descendants.
Aghsán AR: ﺍﻏﺼﺎﻥ branches The male descendants of Bahá'u'lláh; has particular implications not only for the disposition of endowments but also for the succession of authority following the passing of Bahá’u’lláh and of his son ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
A.H. After Hijirah. Date of Muḥammad’s migration from Mecca to Medina, and basis of Islamic chronology.[2]
‘Ahd
Aḥmad AR: أحمد to thank, to praise An Arabic given name from the same root as the name Muhammad.
Aḥsá’í AR: أحسائي from Ahsáʼ An Arabic demonym referring to a native of the Ahsáʼ region in eastern Saudi Arabia.
Ahváz FA: اهواز the Khuzi people A region in southwestern Iran.
‘Akká AR: عكّا A penal colony of the Ottoman Empire (now part of northern Israel) to which Bahá'u'lláh was banished by Sultan 'Abdu'l-'Aziz.
Akbar AR: اكبر great Great, or greater. See Alláh-u-Akbar, Ghusn-i-Akbar.[2]
‘Alá’ AR: علاء loftiness The nineteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar; the month of fasting.
Alí
Alláh-u-Abhá AR: الله أبهى God is Most Glorious A form of the Greatest Name of God. Commonly used as a greeting by Bahá'ís. Repeating Alláh-u-Abhá 95 times a day is a law binding on all Bahá'ís, as written by Bahá'u'lláh in the Kitáb-i-Aqdas.
Alláh-u-Akbar AR: ٱللَّٰهُ أَكْبَرُ God is Most Great
Alváh
Alváḥ-i-Saláṭín
Amatu'l-Bahá AR: امةالبهاء Maidservant of Glory Title of Rúhíyyih Khanum, the wife of Shoghi Effendi, meaning Maidservant of Bahá (Glory), i.e., Maidservant of Bahá'u'lláh.
Amín
Amír lord, prince, commander, governor[2] Also Ameer, Emir. The word originally signified a military commander, but very early came to be extended to anyone bearing rule.[5]
Amru’lláh
Anzalí
Áqá FA: آقا Sir, mister, master Also Aga, Agha. A dignitary or lord; used generally as a term of respect.[6] Title given by Bahá’u’lláh to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (translated as "Master").[2]
Aqdas FA: اقدس‎ most holy Most Holy. Used in the title of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas.
‘Arabistán A former Arab Emirate that now forms part of the Iranian province of Khuzestan.
Aṣl-i-Kullu'l-Khayr AR: أﺻﻞ ﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺮ words of wisdom A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Asmá’ AR: اسماء names The ninth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
‘Avájiq FA: آواجیق The westernmost city in Iran, located in the province of West Ádhirbáyján.
Ayádí
Áyah AR: آية verse, sign, miracle Also Ayat. A verse, esp. of the Qur'án.
Ayyám-i-Há AR:  ايام الهاء days of Há A period of four or five intercalary days in the Bahá’í calendar, celebrated by Bahá'ís as a Festival marked by charity, hospitality and rejoicing.
Azal
‘Aẓam AR: اعظم greatest[2] See Ghusn-i-‘Aẓam.
‘Aẓamat AR: عظمة grandeur The fourth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
‘Azíz
B
Term Source Meaning Definition
Báb, The AR: باب door, gate Title assumed by Mírzá ‘Alí-Muḥammad after the declaration of His Mission as the promised Qá'im (or Mihdí/Mahdi) in Shíráz in May 1844.[2] A Manifestation of God whose dispensation preceded that of Bahá'u'lláh, and who foretold His coming. Founder of the Bábí religion.
Bábí AR: بابی of the gate A follower of the Báb, or an adjective used in relating something or someone to the Bábí religion.
Bábí religion The religion established by the Báb.
Bábu'l-Báb AR: باب الباب gate of the gate Title of Mullá Ḥusayn-i-Bushru'i, the first person to profess belief in the Báb.
Baghdád AR: مدينة بغداد bestowed by God[7] Also Bagdad.[8] The capital city of Iraq, to which Bahá’u’lláh was exiled in 1853. He took up residence and lived there for the greater part of a decade. His House in the Karkh sector of the city is a site of pilgrimage, although it was destroyed in 2013; a garden in the city's Rusafa sector was the site of the events celebrated during Riḍván.
Bahá’ AR: أبهى glory, splendour The Greatest Name of God, meaning "glory", or "glorious". The first month of the Bahá’í calendar. Title by which Bahá’u’lláh (Mírzá Ḥusayn-‘Alí) is designated.[2]
Bahá’í AR: بهائی of glory A follower of Bahá'u'lláh, or an adjective used in relating something or someone to the Bahá’í Faith. It is important to note that "Bahá’í" is not a noun meaning the religion as a whole; i.e. "She is a member of the Bahá'í Faith" rather than "She is a member of Bahá'í".
Bahá’í Faith The religion established by Bahá'u'lláh.
Bahá'u'lláh AR: بهاء الله Glory of God The Founder of the Bahá'í Faith, the Manifestation of God for this age.
Bahíyyih Bahíyyih Khánum, “Greatest Holy Leaf” (born Fáṭimih Sulṭán, 1846–15 July 1932)
Bahjí AR: البهجة delight A site outside the city of ‘Akká where Bahá'u'lláh spent His final years, in the Mansion of Bahjí.
Bait al-Adl AR: بيت العدل House of Justice Also Baytu’l-’Adl. The House of Justice, an elected legislative institution ordained by Bahá'u'lláh.
Bait al-Adl al-Azam AR: بيت العدل الأعظم House of Justice Also Baytu’l-’Adl-i-A’ẓam. The Universal House of Justice, also referred to as the Supreme House of Justice, the elected institution that currently serves as the head of the Bahá'í Faith.
Balúchistán FA: بلوچستان Southwestern province of Pakistan
Bandar-‘Abbás FA: بندرعباس A port city and capital of Hurmúzgán Province on the southern Persian Gulf coast of Írán
Baqíyyatu’lláh Remnant of God Title applied both to the Báb and to Bahá’u’lláh.[2]
Bárfurúsh FA: بارفروش a town in Mázindarán, now known as Bábul (Babol)
Bayán AR: بیان‎ exposition, utterance, explanation Title given by the Báb to His Revelation, particularly to His Books, and especially to two of His major works: The Persian Bayán and the Arabic Bayán.[2]
Bayt AR: بيت house, building
Big Honorary title; lower title than Khán.[2]
Bírjand FA: بیرجند city in eastern Írán
Bishárát AR: ﺍﻟﻄﺮﺍﺯﺍﺕ good news, glad-tidings A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Bukhárá FA: بخارا city in Uzbekistan
Burújird FA: بروجرد Capital city of the province of Luristán, place of the governorship of Mírzá Buzurg
Búshihr FA: بوشهر Iranian city (once the primary port of Írán) and province on the Persian Gulf.
Búshrúyih FA: بشرويه a town in Khurásán, 55 km NE of Ṭabas and 70 km WSW of Tún. It is the birthplace of Mullá Ḥusayn, first disciple of the Báb.
C
Term Source Meaning Definition
Caravanserai FA: کاروانسرای caravan palace An inn for caravans, i.e. groups of traders, pilgrims or other travellers, engaged in long-distance travel.[2][9]
Chihár-Vádí FA: چهار وادی four valleys “Four Valleys” by Bahá’u’lláh. Addressed to Shaykh ‘Abdu’r-Raḥmán-i-Karkútí.
Chihríq FA: چهریق Fortress in Kurdish Ádhirbáyján, designated by the Báb as Jabal-i-Shadíd (the Grievous Mountain)
D
Term Source Meaning Definition
Dárúghih FA: داروغه high constable[2]
Darvísh FA: درویش seeking doors; beggar Also Dervish. A Muslim mystic, often a hermit or ascetic who wanders the land carrying a begging bowl (kashkúl). Equivalent to the Arabic faqír.[10]
Dawlih state, government[2] See Vakilu'd-Dawlih.
E
Term Source Meaning Definition
Effendi FA: افندي master A title of nobility.
F
Term Source Meaning Definition
Fárán Pers. small village in Ardistán
Farmán FA: فرمان order, command, royal decree[2] Also Firmán. An edict given by a sovereign, particularly for decrees, grants, passports, etc.[11]
Farrásh FA: فرش footman, lictor, attendant[2]
Farrásh-Báshí FA: فراش باشی The head farrásh.[2]
Fárs FA: فارس a southern province of Írán, from which the name Persia derives.
Farsakh FA: فرسخ Unit of measurement. Its length differs in different parts of the country according to the nature of the ground, the local interpretation of the term being the distance which a laden mule will walk in the hour, which varies from three to four miles. Arabicised from the old Persian “parsang,” and supposed to be derived from pieces of stone (sang) placed on the roadside.[2][12]
Fiḍál AR: فضال grace The fourth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Tuesday.
G
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ganjih FA: گنجه (Ganjeh) city (2nd largest) in Ádharbayján. It was named Elisabethpol in the Russian Empire period.
Ghuṣn-i-A‘ẓám FA: غصن اعظم Most Great or Greatest Branch, i.e. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Ghuṣn-i-Akbar FA: غصن اکبر Greater Branch, i.e. Mírzá Muḥammad-‘Ali. Also The Chosen Branch, i.e. Shoghi Effendi.
Gílán FA: گیلان a northern province of Írán on the Caspian Sea.
H
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ḥadíth AR: حديث occurring, happening, taking place
Ḥájí AR: حاج Also Hajji, Hadji. A Muslim who has made the Hajj, i.e. pilgrimage.[2][13]
Ḥajj AR: حج setting out Also Hadj. The Muslim rite of pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca.[13]
Hamadán FA: همدان Hamadán city in Írán, 144 km NE Kirmánsháh. Originally Ecbatana of the ancient Medes.
Ḥaydar-‘Alí AR: حيدر علي noted early Bahá’í, born into Shaykhí family of Iṣfahán. Known as the “Angel of Carmel”.
Haykal AR: هيكل temple; large building, edifice
Himmat-Ábád FA: همت اباد city in Raḍawí Khurásán Ústán Province, Írán
Howdah AR: هودج A litter carried by a camel, mule, horse, or elephant for travelling purposes.[2]
Ḥusayn AR: الحسين (diminutive form of Haṣan “Good”) Name of the third Imám, Ḥusayn.
Huvaydar village north of the city Ba‘qúba, which is 60 km NE of Baghdád
I
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ibráhím AR: إِبْرَاهِيْمُ A given name referring to Abraham, Patriarch of the people of Israel.
‘Idál AR: عدال justice The fifth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Wednesday.
Íl clan[2]
‘Ilm AR: علم knowledge The twelfth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Imám AR: إمام leader A Muslim religious leader; specifically, the title of the twelve shí’ah successors of Muḥammad.[2]
Imám-Jum’ih FA: امام جمعه Friday leader The leading imám in a town or city; chief of the mullás, who recites the Friday prayer for the sovereign.[2]
Imám-Zádih FA: امامزاده The tomb or shrine of an imám; or, a descendant of an imám.[2]
Iqán AR: الإيقان certitude being sure, knowing for certain; certitude. Also refers to the book, the Kitáb-i-Íqán.
Irán FA: ایران Írán, the kingdom of Persia proper. Derives from the name Aryán ("of the Iranians"), the self-identifier used by ancient Iranian peoples.
‘Iráq-i-‘Ajam FA: عراقِ عجم Persian ‘Iráq. ‘Iráq between the 11th to 19th centuries consisted of two neighbouring regions: Arabic Iraq (‘Iráq-i ‘Arab) and Persian Iraq (‘Iráq-i ‘Ajam). Arabic Iraq = ancient Babylonia (now central-southern Iraq), and Persian Iraq = ancient Media (now central-western Iran). The two regions were separated by the Zagros Mountains.
Iṣfahán FA: اصفهان Persian city 340 km south of Ṭihrán.
‘Ishqábád FA: عشق آباد Ashkhabad/Ashgabat; capital of Turkmenistan, known as the “City of Love”. A strong Bahá'í community developed there in the time of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Ishráqát AR: ﺍﻻﺷﺮﺍﻗﺎﺕ radiance; radiation, eradiation, emanation; illumination A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Ishtihárd a village 69 km SE of Qazvín and 54 km SW of Karaj
Islám AR: الاسلام submission, resignation, reconciliation (to the will of God in every age)
Ismá‘ílíyyih AR: الإسماعيلية Isma’ilism (Ismá‘ílí sect)—branch of Shí‘a Islám that followed the Imám succession through the eldest son.
Istarábád FA: أستاراباد See Astarábád: “City of Mules”, on south eastern Caspian Sea border of Írán. Since 1937 called Gúrgán (Gorgán).
Istijlál AR: استجلال majesty The sixth day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Thursday.
Istiqlál AR: استقلال independence The seventh day of the week in the Bahá’í calendar, corresponding to Friday.
‘Izzat AR: عزة might The tenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
J
Term Source Meaning Definition
Jalál AR: جلال glory The second month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the first day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Saturday.
Jamál AR: جمال beauty The third month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the second day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Sunday.
Jamál-i-Mubárak FA: جمال مبارک “The Blessed Beauty” Title used by some Bahá’ís for Bahá’u’lláh.
Jásb FA: جاسب rural district, Markazí Province, Írán
Jubbih AR: جبيه Also Jubba. A cloth cloak or upper coat.[2][12]
K
Term Source Meaning Definition
Ka‘bih AR: كَعْبَة cube Also Kaaba, Ka'ba, Kaabeh. An ancient shrine at Mecca; the most holy shrine of Islam, located at the center of Islam's most important mosque, the Masjid al-Haram.[2][14]
Kad-Khudá FA: کدخدا Chief of a ward or parish in a town; headman of a village.[2]
Kalantar FA: کلانتر mayor[2]
Kalím FA: کلیم one who discourses[2]
Kalimát AR: كلمات words The eighth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Kalímát-i-Firdawsíyyih AR: ﺍﻟﻜﻠﻤﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺩﻭﺳﻴﺔ words of paradise A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Kamál AR: كمال perfection The ninth month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also the third day of the Bahá'í week, corresponding to Monday.
Karand FA: کارند A village about 100 km SE of Ṭihrán.
Karbilá AR: كربلاء Also Karbala, Kerbela. A ****’ite holy city in ‘Iráq where the Imám Ḥusayn was murdered and buried, and where His Shrine is located.[15]
Karbilá’í AR: کربلایی A Muslim who has performed the pilgrimage to Karbilá.
Káshán FA: کاشان One of the oldest cities of Írán, located in north central Persia.[16]
Kawthar AR: ٱلكَوْثَر abundant, plentiful Name of a lake or river in Paradise that Muḥammad saw on his mystic night journey (Qur’án, surah 108).
Kázim AR: ٱلْكَاظِم “One who suppresses his passion or anger”. The title of the seventh Imám of the Shí‘ih.
Kirmán FA: کرمان capital city of Kirmán province, Írán
Kirmánsháh FA: کرمانشاه Province and city in western Írán.
Khán AR: خان caravanserai A roadside inn where travelers (caravaners) could rest and recover from their day's journey.[9]
Khán-i-'Avámid FA: خان آوامید The caravanserai in ‘Akká where Bahá'u'lláh used to receive guests, and later the site for a Bahá'í school.
Khanúm FA:  خانم lady, Madame, Mrs. An honorific title given to women of high social status.
Khurásán FA: خراسان sunrise; orient Province in the north-eastern part of Írán until 2004—replaced by North Khurásán, South Khurásán and Razavi (Raḍawí) Khurásán Provinces.
Khuy FA: خوی (Khoy) city in and the capital of Khoy County, West Azerbaijan Province, Írán
Kitáb AR: الكتاب book A book.
Kitáb-i-‘Ahd FA: کتاب عهدی Book of the Covenant Testament of Bahá’u’lláh, designated by Him as His “Most Great Tablet”
Kitáb-i-Aqdas FA: کتاب اقدس The Most Holy Book by Bahá’u’lláh, written in Arabic
Kitáb-i-Íqán FA: کتاب ایقان Book of Certitude by Bahá’u’lláh
Kull-i-Shay’ AR: كل شىء all things The 361-year supercycle of the Bahá’í calendar, which consists of 19 Váḥids.
Kurdistán FA: کوردستان Greater Kurdistan, a roughly defined geo-cultural historical region wherein the Kurdish people form a prominent majority population and Kurdish culture, languages and national identity have historically been based.
L
Term Source Meaning Definition
Láhíján FA: لاهیجان Caspian sea resort in and the capital of Láhíján County
Lár FA: لار city in province of Fárs
Lawḥ AR: ﻟﻮﺡ board, blackboard
Luristán FA: لرستان a province and an area in western Írán in the Zagros Mountains
M
Term Source Meaning Definition
Maḥbúbu’sh-Shuhadá’ AR­: محبوب الشهداء Beloved of Martyrs Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥusayn. Brother of Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥasan, both from Iṣfahán.
Maḥmúd AR: محمود praised, commendable, laudable, praiseworthy A common Arabic name; a form of the name Muḥammad.
Mákú FA: ماکو a city in the West Azerbaijan Province, Írán
Maláyir FA: ملایر city SSE of Ḥamdán, Írán
Maqám FA: مقام site, location
Marághih FA: مراغه city 75 km south of Tabriz, Ádhirbáyján
Marḥabá AR: مرحبا welcome, well done A customary expression of greeting or welcome.
Masá’il AR: مسائل questions The fifteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mashhad FA: مشهد‎ place of assembly place where a martyr or hero died; religious shrine venerated by the people, especially the tomb of a saint
Mashíyyat AR: مشية will The eleventh month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mashriqu’l-Adhkár AR: مشرق اﻻذكار Dawning-place of the praises, prayers, remembrances or mentions of God Title for a purpose-built Bahá’í House of Worship.
Mázindarán FA: مازندران A province in northern Írán, on the Caspian Sea. Ancient stronghold of the Parthian and Sassanian Empires, and the ancestral home of Bahá’u’lláh.
Merv FA: مرو‎ Also: Marv. Ancient city located on the Silk Road near the modern-day city of Mary, Turkmenistan.
Mihdí AR: ٱلْمَهْدِيّ‎ One who guides aright, the Guided One. A title of the Twelfth (expected) Imám or Qá’im. Mírzá Mihdí (“The Purest Branch”)
Mílán FA: میلان A village 23 km SW Tabríz, in Ádhirbáyján.
Mírzá FA: میرزا of noble lineage Derived from amírzádeh, meaning child of the Amír or child of the ruler. A term of respect which generally indicates a literate person. When used at the end of a name, it denotes a prince.[17]
Mishkín-Qalam FA: مشكین قلم One of the nineteen Apostles of Bahá'u'lláh, and famous calligrapher of 19th century Persia.
Mithqal AR: مثقال‎ Also Miskal. A unit of weight commonly used in Persia.[12]
Muḥammad AR: مُحَمَّد praised, commendable, laudable Also Mohammed. A common Arabic name, referring to the Prophet of Islam.
Muḥammarih Former name of Persian city Khurramshahr
Mujtahid AR: مُجْتَهِد‎ one who strives or one who exerts himself A mujtahid in contemporary Írán is now called an áyatu’lláh.
Mulk AR: ملك dominion The eighteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Mullá FA: ملا A member of the Muslim clergy.
Munírih FA: منیره luminous, radiant Munírih Khánum, wife of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (mid 1848–28 April 1938)
Mustagháth AR: مستغث the one called upon for help Used as the name of God by the Báb.
N
Term Source Meaning Definition
Nabíl
Najaf
Najaf-Ábá­d FA: نجف‌آباد A city in Iran's Isfahan Province.
Náqiḍín opposers, violators Covenant-breakers.
Násiri'd-Dín FA: ناصرالدین شاه Protector/Defender of the Faith
Naw-Rúz FA: نوروز new day The new year of the Bahá’í calendar, falling on the day of the spring equinox, i.e. the day on which the sun enters the constellation of Aries as viewed from Tehran.
Nayríz FA: نی‌ریز‎ A city in Iran's Fars Province, southeast of Shíráz, and the site of a major struggle between Bábís and authorities under the Qajar dynasty.
Níshábúr FA: نیشابور A city in northeastern Iran's Razavi Khorasan province, and former capital of Khorasan Province.
Núr AR: نور light The fifth month of the Bahá’í calendar. Also
P
Term Source Meaning Definition
Pahlaví, Pahlawí belonging to a city; a citizen
Q
Term Source Meaning Definition
Qádí AR: قادی judge A civil, criminal, or ecclesiastical judge.[2]
Qádíyán AR: قادیان City in Punjab, India. The birthplace of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, founder of the Ahmadiyya sect of Islam.
Qá’im FA: قائم He Who shall arise Title designating the Promised One of Islám.[2]
Qalyán FA: قالیان hookah A pipe for smoking through water.[2]
Qamṣar village 25 km south of Káshán, Írán
Qawl AR: قول speech The fourteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Qayyúm permanent, lasting, stable Superlative of Qá’im [the Báb], the Most Great One Who will arise [Bahá’u’lláh]
Qayyúmu'l-Asmá The Báb's commentary on the Qur'an's Surih of Joseph, characterized by Bahá'u'lláh as "the first, the greatest, and mightiest of all books" in the Bábí Dispensation.
Qazvín a city 140 km NW of Ṭihrán.
Qiblih AR: قبلة Also Qibla, Qiblah. The direction to which people turn in prayer; especially Mecca, the Qiblih of all Muslims.[2][18]
Qúchán city and capital of Qúchán County
Quddús The Most Holy
Qudrat AR: قدرة power The thirteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Qum holy city 130 km SSW of Ṭihrán, location of the Shrine of Ma’ṣúmih, the sister of Imám Riṣá, the eighth Imám
Qur’án AR: الۡقُرۡآنۡ recitation, reading, the word
Qurbán AR: قربان sacrifice[2]
Qurratu'l-ʿAyn A title of Táhirih, meaning Solace of the Eyes.
R
Term Source Meaning Definition
Rafsinján city and council in Kirmán province, Írán
Rahím merciful, compassionate one of the names (ar-Raḥím) of God
Raḥmán merciful, compassionate (God)
Raḥmat AR: رحمة mercy The sixth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Rasht city in province of Gílán
Rawḥání good, agreeable, clean and pure (place)
Riḍván AR: رضوان paradise The "King of Festivals" of the Bahá’í Faith, commemorating Bahá'u'lláh's 1863 declaration that He was a Manifestation of God, in the Garden of Ridván outside Baghdad. Also used literally in other contexts, to mean "paradise".
Rúḥu’lláh Spirit of God A designation Muslims use for Jesus. Son of Mírzá ‘Alí-Muḥammad-i-Varqá
S
Term Source Meaning Definition
Sabzivár F­A: سبزوار city in Khurásán Province
Sadratu’l-Muntahá AR: سِدْرَة ٱلْمُنْتَهَىٰ‎ Lote Tree of the Farthest Boundary Symbolically, the Lote tree in the Seventh Heaven; the utmost extremity, a boundary which no one can pass.
Ṣáḥibu’z-Zamán FA: صاحب زمان Lord of the Age One of the titles of the promised Qá’im.[2]
Sárí FA: ساری A town in eastern Mázindarán province. (GPB p. 40)
Sháh FA: شاه king, emperor, sovereign, monarch, prince A title given to the emperors and kings of Persia and other societies under Persian influence.
Sháhansháh FA: شاهنشاه‎ king of kings The full title of Persian emperors since the Achaemenid dynasty.
Shahíd AR: شهيد martyr Singular form.[2]
Shahmirzád FA: شهميرزاد‎ A town in the province of Semnan, 170 km east of Ṭihrán, Írán.
Sháhrúd FA: شاهرود a mighty river; name of a river Name of a crossroad city 330 km NE of Teheran. Also: a type of lute (musical instrument); the thickest cord of a musical instrument.
Sharaf AR: شرف honour The sixteenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Shaykh AR: شیخ A learned man; generally used for elders, chiefs, professors, or heads of dervish orders.
Shaykhu’l-Islám AR: شيخ الإسلام Head of a religious court, appointed to every large city by the king or ruler.[2]
Shí’ih AR: شِيعَة‎ followers, i.e. of Ali Of or relating to Shia/****'ih Islam, the second largest branch of Islam.
Shíráz FA: شیراز‎ The capital of Fars province, Iran; birthplace of the Báb, and the site of His Declaration.
Shuhada AR: الشهداء martyrs Plural form.[2]
Shushtar
Simnán FA: سمنان‎ A province in northern Iran.
Sísán FA: سیسان Seysan, Sisan-e Qadim. A village in Eastern Ádhirbáyján province, Iran.
Sístán FA: سیستان‎ land of the Saka A historical and geographical region in eastern Iran and Southern Afghanistan; known in ancient times as Sakastan.
Síyáh-Chál FA: سیاه چال‎ black pit The dungeon south east of the palace of the Sháh and near the Sabzih-Maydán in Tehran in which Bahá'u'lláh was incarcerated for some months in 1852. It was originally built as a reservoir, storing water for the public baths nearby. In the Persian language, "Síyáh-chál" (Persian: سیاه چال, literally "black pit") is the common name for a dungeon.
Siyyid AR: سيد‎ A descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.[2]
Súfí AR: ٱلصُّوفِيَّة‎ one who wears wool Of, or relating to the mystical practice of Islam.
Sulaymán AR: سُليمان Solomon An Arabic given name referring to Solomon, King of Israel and son of King David.
Sulaymániyyih AR: السليمانية‎ A town in Kurdish Iraq. Bahá’u’lláh resided as a dervish in the mountains surrounding the town from 1854 to 1856.
Sulṭán AR: سلطان sovereignty The seventeenth month of the Bahá’í calendar.
Sulṭán-Ábád
Sulṭánu’sh-Shuhadá’ AR: سلطان الشهداء King of Martyrs A title given to Mírzá Muḥammad-Ḥasan of Isfahan.
Sunní AR: أهل السنة people of the sunnah, i.e. majority tradition Of or relating to Sunni Islam, the largest branch of Islam.
Súrih AR: سورة tablet, chapter Also: Surah, Súriy. A tablet, or letter. The chapters of the Qur'an are known as súrihs or surahs.[2]
Súriy-i-Ghuṣn AR: سورة الهيكل Tablet of the Branch Also: Súratu’l-Ghuṣn. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh in which He confirms a high station for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
Súriy-i-Haykal AR: سورة الهيكل Tablet of the Temple Also: Súratu’l-Haykal. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, which includes his messages addressed to five world leaders: Pope Pius IX, Napoleon III, Czar Alexander II, Queen Victoria, and Násiri'd-Dín Sháh.
Súriy-i-Mulúk AR: سورة الملوك Tablet of the Kings Also: Súratu’l-Mulúk. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, addressed collectively to the monarchs of the East and the West.
Súriy-i-Ra'ís AR: سورة الرئيس Tablet of the Chief Also: Súratu’l-Ra'ís. A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Summons of the Lord of Hosts, addressed to ‘Alí Páshá, the Ottoman Prime Minister.
T
Term Source Meaning Definition
Tabríz FA: تبریز flowing hot capital of Ádharbayján Province, Írán.
Ṭáhirih FA: طاهره‎ clean, pure; chaste, modest, virtuous The pure one
Tajallíyát AR: ﺍﻟﺘﺠﻠﻴﺎﺕ lustre, brightness, brilliancy, effulgence A tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Tákur FA: تاكور village 40 km south of Núr and 47.5 km NE of Afjihin. It is Bahá’u’lláh’s ancestral home.
Ṭarázát AR: ﺍﻟﻄﺮﺍﺯﺍﺕ ornaments A royal robe, or rich dress ornamented with embroidery. Name of a tablet of Bahá’u’lláh published in Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh.
Tarbíyat FA: تربيت education, upbringing, teaching, instruction, pedagogy The name of a group of Bahá’í schools established in Ṭihrán around the turn of the 20th century.
Ṭashkand FA: تاشکند city of stones; place on a hill Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan
Tawhid AR: توحيد‎ unification, union, combination, fusion Oneness of God, the most important article of faith in Islam.
Thurayyá AR: الثريا The Pleiades; a star cluster once seen and described by the Prophet Muhammad. Used as a female given name (Soraya).
Ṭihrán FA: تهران‎ a warm place; Tir's abode; bottom of the mountain Tehran/Teheran, capital of Írán, birthplace of Bahá’u’lláh.
Túman A sum of money equivalent to a dollar.[2][12]
U
Term Source Meaning Definition
‘Ulamá AR: أولاما knowers Also Ulema. Learned men of Islam, i.e. theologians, canon lawyers, professors, muftis, etc; a council of the learned, especially in a Muslim state.[19]
Urúmíyyih FA: ارومیه water town Also Urmia, Orumiyeh. City in West Ádharbáyján Province, Írán, located near the lake of the same name.[4]
Ustád FA: اوستاد master A master craftsman.
V
Term Source Meaning Definition
Vaḥíd FA: وحید alone, solitary Superlative form of ‘waḥada’, to be alone. Numerical value of 28.
Váḥid FA: واحد unity The 19-year cycle of the Bahá’í calendar.
Valí-‘Ahd FA: ولیعهد heir to the throne[2] A crown prince, or chosen successor.
Varqá FA: ورقا Dove
Vazír FA: وزیر burden-bearer, helper[20] Also Vizier, Vizir, Wazír. The chief minister and representative of the caliph, and later, of the head of state of the Persian and Ottoman Empires.[20]
W
Y
Term Source Meaning Definition
Yá ‘Alíyyu’l-‘Alá “O Thou the Exalted of the Exalted” or “O Thou the Exalted, the Most Exalted”. A form of the name of the Báb, used as an invocation.
Yá Alláhu'l-Mustagháth AR: يا الله المستغث “O God, He Who is invoked” or “O Thou God Who art invoked”
Yá Bahá’u’l-Abhá AR: يا بهاء الأبهى “O Glory of the All-Glorious” or “O Thou the Glory of the Most Glorious”. A form of the name of Bahá’u’lláh, used as an invocation.
Yaḥyá AR: يحيى John A common Arabic given name, referring to John the Baptist.
Yazd A province and city in central Írán, notable as the primary centre of the Persian Zoroastrian population.
Z
Term Source Meaning Definition
Zádih son of;[2] descendant of Also Zadeh, Zada. A common patronymic suffix.
Zanján Also Zenján.[21] City between Qazvín and Tabríz, home of Ḥujjat; site of a major battle in which Bábís were massacred.
Zaynu’l-Muqarrabín “the Ornament of the Near Ones” or “the Ornament of the favoured”
Sand Aug 2013
When my Dadi blinks,
She becomes nostalgic for,
Visions of Punjab.
Immigration issues because sometimes, Skype isn't enough, or even often enough.
Michael R Burch Apr 2021
Prose Poems and Experimental Poems
by Michael R. Burch

These are prose poems (is that an oxymoron?)  and experimental poems that begin with the first non-rhyming poem I wrote as a teenager...



Something
―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost―lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone―gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past―blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which finality swept into a corner, where it lies... in dust and cobwebs and silence.

This was my first poem that didn't rhyme, written in my late teens. The poem came to me 'from blue nothing' (to borrow a phrase from my friend the Maltese poet Joe Ruggier) . Years later, I dedicated the poem to the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba.


briefling
by Michael R. Burch

manishatched, hopsintotheMix, cavorts, hassex (quick! , spawnanewBrood!) ; then, likeamayfly, he's suddenly gone: plantfood.



It's Hard Not To Be Optimistic: An Updated Sonnet to Science
by Michael R. Burch

"DNA has cured deadly diseases and allowed labs to create animals with fantastic new features." ― U.S. News & World Report

It's hard not to be optimistic when things are so wondrously futuristic: when DNA, our new Louie Pasteur, can effect an autonomous, miraculous cure, while labs churn out fluorescent monkeys who, with infinite typewriters, might soon outdo USN&WR's flunkeys. Yes, it's hard not to be optimistic when the world is so delightfully pluralistic: when Schrödinger's cat is both dead and alive, and Hawking says time can run backwards. We thrive, befuddled drones, on someone else's regurgitated nectar, while our cheers drown out poet-alarmists who might Hector the Achilles heel of pure science (common sense)  and reporters who tap out supersillyous nonsense. [Dear U.S. News & World Report Editors: I am a fan of both real science and science fiction, and I like to think I can tell the difference, at least between the two extremes. I feel confident that Schrödinger didn't think the cat in his famous experiment was both dead and alive. Rather, he was pointing out that we can't know until we open the box, scratchings and smell aside. While traveling backwards in time is great for science fiction, it seems extremely doubtful as a practical application. And as for DNA curing deadly diseases... well, it must have created them, so perhaps don't give it too much credit! While I'm usually a fan of your magazine, as a writer I must take to task the Frankensteinian logic of the excerpt I cited, and I challenge you to publish my "letter" as proof that poets do have a function in the third millennium, even if it is only to suggest that paid writers should not create such outlandish, freakish horrors of the English language.―Somewhat irked, but still a fan, Michael R. Burch]



bachelorhoodwinked
by Michael R. Burch

u are charming & disarming, but mostly! ! ! ALARMING! ! ! since all my resolve dissolved! u are chic as a sheikh's harem girl in the sheets, but now my bed's not my own and my kingdom's been overthrown!



Starting from Scratch with Ol' Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh went to the ovens. Please don't bother to cry. You could have saved her, but you were all *******: complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp. Scratch that. You were born after World War II. You had something more important to do: while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a religious tract against homosexual marriage and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)  Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I'm quite sure that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure. After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians? Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians. Scratch that. You're one of the Devil's minions.



Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets
by Michael R. Burch

This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl was out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely.

Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because she decided it might "hurt" them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling them!

Now she's lost all interest in nature, which she finds "appalling." She dresses in black "like Rilke" and says she prefers the "roses of the imagination"! She mumbles constantly about being "pricked in conscience" and being "pricked to death." What on earth can she mean? Does she plan to have *** until she dies?

For chrissake, now she's locked herself in her room and refuses to come out until she has "conjured" the "perfect rose of the imagination"! We haven't seen her for days. Her only communications are texts punctuated liberally with dashes. They appear to be badly-rhymed poems. She signs them "starving artist" in lower-case. What on earth can she mean? Is she anorexic, or bulimic, or is this just a phase she'll outgrow?



escape!
by michael r. burch

to live among the daffodil folk... slip down the rainslickened drainpipe... suddenly pop out the GARGANTUAN SPOUT... minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee! in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE.

escape! !

u are too beautiful, too innocent, too inherently lovely to merely reflect the sun's splendor... too full of irresistible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent... come, my beautiful bambi and i will protect you... but of course u have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses...



Children's Prose Poem: The Three Sisters and the Mysteries of the Magical Pond
by Michael R. Burch

Every child has a secret name, which only their guardian angel knows. Fortunately, I am able to talk to angels, so I know the secret names of the Three Sisters who are the heroines of the story I am about to tell...

The secret names of the Three Sisters are Etheria, Sunflower and Bright Eyes. Etheria, because the eldest sister's hair shines like an ethereal blonde halo. Sunflower, because the middle sister loves to plait bright flowers into her hair. Bright Eyes, because the youngest sister has flashing dark eyes that are sometimes full of mischief! This is the story of how the Three Sisters solved the Three Mysteries of the Magical Pond...

The first mystery of the Magical Pond was the mystery of the Great Heron. Why did the Great Heron seem so distant and aloof, never letting human beings or even other animals come close to it? This great mystery was solved by Etheria, who noticed that the Great Heron was so large it couldn't fly away from danger quickly. So the Heron was not being aloof at all... it was simply being cautious and protecting itself by keeping its distance from faster creatures. Things are not always as they appear!

The second mystery was the mystery of the River Monster. What was the dreaded River Monster, and did it pose a danger to the three sisters and their loved ones? This great mystery was solved by Sunflower, who found the River Monster's footprints in the mud after a spring rain. Sunflower bravely followed the footprints to a bank of the pond, looked down, and to her surprise found a giant snapping turtle gazing back at her! Thus the mystery was solved, and the River Monster was not dangerous to little girls or their family and friends, because it was far too slow to catch them. But it could be dangerous if anyone was foolish enough to try to pet it. Sometimes it is best to leave nature's larger creatures alone, and not tempt fate, even when things are not always as they appear!

The third mystery was the most perplexing of all. How was it possible that tiny little starlings kept chasing away much larger crows, hawks and eagles? What a conundrum! (A conundrum is a perplexing problem that is very difficult to solve, such as the riddle: "What walks on four legs in the morning, on two legs during the day, then on three legs at night? " Can you solve it? ... The answer is a human being, who crawls on four legs as a baby, then walks on two legs most of its life, but needs a walking cane in old age. This is the famous Riddle of the Sphinx.)  Yes, what a conundrum! But fortunately Bright Eyes was able to solve the Riddle of the Starlings, because she noticed that the tiny birds were much more agile in the air, while the much larger hawks and eagles couldn't change direction as easily. So, while it seemed the starlings were risking their lives to defend their nests, in reality they had the advantage! Once again, things are not always as they appear!

Now, these are just three adventures of the Three Sisters, and there are many others. In fact, they will have a whole lifetime of adventures, and perhaps we can share in them from time to time. But if their mother reads them this story at bedtime, by the end of the story their eyes may be getting very sleepy, and they may soon have dreams of Giant Herons, and Giant Turtles, and Tiny Starlings chasing away Crows, Hawks and Eagles! Sweet dreams, Etheria, Sunflower and Bright Eyes!



Fake News, Probably
by Michael R. Burch

The elusive Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon is the rarest of creatures―rarer by far than Sasquatch and the Abominable Snowman (although they are very similar in temperament and destructive capabilities) . While the common gibbon is not all that uncommon, the orange-tufted genus has been found less frequently in the fossil record than hobbits and unicorns. The Fitz-Gibbon sub-genus is all the more remarkable because it apparently believes itself to be human, and royalty, no less! Now there are rumors―admittedly hard to believe―that an Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon resides in the White House and has been spotted playing with the nuclear codes while chattering incessantly about attacking China, Mexico, Iran and North Korea. We find it very hard to credit such reports. Surely American voters would not elect an oddly-colored ape with self-destructive tendencies president!



Writing Verse for Free, Versus Programs for a Fee
by Michael R. Burch

How is writing a program like writing a poem? You start with an idea, something fresh. Almost a wish. Something effervescent, like foam flailing itself against the rocks of a lost tropical coast...

After the idea, of course, there are complications and trepidations, as with the poem or even the foam. Who will see it, appreciate it, understand it? What will it do? Is it worth the effort, all the mad dashing and crashing about, the vortex―all that? And to what effect?

Next comes the real labor, the travail, the scouring hail of things that simply don't fit or make sense. Of course, with programming you have the density of users to fix, which is never a problem with poetry, since the users have already had their fix (this we know because they are still reading and think everything makes sense) ; but this is the only difference.

Anyway, what's left is the debugging, or, if you're a poet, the hugging yourself and crying, hoping someone will hear you, so that you can shame them into reading your poem, which they will refuse, but which your mother will do if you phone, perhaps with only the tiniest little mother-of-the-poet, harried, self-righteous moan.

The biggest difference between writing a program and writing a poem is simply this: if your program works, or seems to work, or almost works, or doesn't work at all, you're set and hugely overpaid. Made-in-the-shade-have-a-pink-lemonade-and-ticker-tape-parade OVERPAID.

If your poem is about your lover and ***** up quite nicely, perhaps you'll get laid. Perhaps. Regardless, you'll probably see someone repossessing your furniture and TV to bring them posthaste to someone like me. The moral is this: write programs first, then whatever passes for poetry. DO YOUR SHARE; HELP END POVERTY TODAY!



Prose Poem: Litany
by Michael R. Burch

Will you take me with all my blemishes? I will take you with all your blemishes, and show you mine. We'll **** wine out of cardboard boxes till our teeth and lips shine red like greedily gorging foxes'. We'll swill our fill, then have *** for hours till our neglected guts at last rebel. At two in the morning, we'll eat cold Krystals out of greasy cardboard boxes, and we will be in love. And that's it? That's it! And can I go out with my friends and drink until dawn? You can go out with your friends and drink until dawn, come home lipstick-collared, pass out by the pool, or stay at the bar till the new moon sets, because we will be in love, and in love there is no room for remorse or regret. There is no right, no wrong, and no mistrust, only limb-numbing ***, hot-pistoning lust. And that's all? That's all. That's great! But wait... Wait? Why? What's wrong? I want to have your children. Children? Well, perhaps just one. And what will happen when we have children? The most incredible things will happen―you'll change, stop acting so strangely, start paying more attention to me, start paying your bills on time, grow up and get rid of your horrible friends, and never come home at a-quarter-to-three drunk from a night of swilling, smelling like a lovesick skunk, stop acting so lewdly, start working incessantly so that we can afford a new house which I will decorate lavishly and then grow tired of in a year or two or three, start growing a paunch so that no other woman would ever have you, stop acting so boorishly, start growing a beard because you're too tired to shave, or too afraid, thinking you might slit your worthless wrinkled throat...



Sweet Nothings
by Michael R. Burch

Tonight, will you whisper me a sweet enchantment? We'll take my motorcycle, blaze a trail of metallic exhaust and scorched-black sulphuric fumes to a ****** diner where I'll slip my fingers under your yellow sun dress, inside the elastic waist band of your thin white cotton *******, till your pinkling lips moisten obligingly and the corpulent pink hot dog with tangy brown mustard and sweet pickle relish comes. Tonight, can we talk about something other than ***, perhaps things we both love? What I love is to go to the beach, where the hot oil smells like baking coconuts, and lie in the sun's humidor thinking of you, while the sand worms its way inside your **** little pink bikini, your compressed ******* squishy with warm sweet milk like coconuts, the hair between your legs sleek as a wet mink's... Tonight, can we make love instead of just talking *****? Sorry, honey, I'm just not in the mood.



Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch

Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes―the pale dead. After they have fled the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise. Once they have become a cloud's mist, sometimes like the rain they descend; ... they appear, sometimes silver, like laughter, to gladden the hearts of men. Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift unencumbered, yet lumbrously, as if over the sea there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift. Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies only half-remembered. Though they lie dismembered in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies, yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust, blood-engorged, but never sated since Cain slew Abel. But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must...



Fascination with Light
by Michael R. Burch

Desire glides in on calico wings, a breath of a moth seeking a companionable light... where it hovers, unsure, sullen, shy or demure, in the margins of night, a soft blur. With a frantic dry rattle of alien wings, it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato... and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight. And yet it returns to the flame, its delight, as long as it burns.



Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch

"Burn Ovid"―Austin Clarke

Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist,1973: I sat imaging watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit *** was the day's "hot" topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers)  as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, as she rolled implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, *******, ******. Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her ******* rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction?

"Come unto me,
(unto me) , "
together, we sang,

cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,

my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:

all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.



*** 101
by Michael R. Burch

That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina... Where we sat exhausted from the day's skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections... The most unlikely coupling―Lambert,18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning... Beside him, Wanda,13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it.



Veiled
by Michael R. Burch

She has belief without comprehension, and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us... Tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief... Ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered... Aand if you were to ask her, she might say―sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders' sins... And we might agree: seeing her mutilations.



Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch

Go then, and give them my meaning, so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower―a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom, if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made, or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall―in all its pale forms sublime, still, Death will never be holy again.



The Evolution of Love
by Michael R. Burch

Love among the infinitesimal flotillas of amoebas is a dance of transient appendages, wild sails that gather in warm brine and then express one headstream as two small, divergent wakes. Minuscule voyage―love! Upon false feet, the pseudopods of uprightness, we creep toward self-immolation: two nee one. We cannot photosynthesize the sun, and so we love in darkness, till we come at last to understand: man's spineless heart is alien to any land. We part to single cells; we rise on buoyant tears, amoeba-light, to breathe new atmospheres... and still we sink. The night is full of stars we cannot grasp, though all the World is ours. Have we such cells within us, bent on love to ever-changingness, so that to part is not to be the same, or even one? Is love our evolution, or a scream against the thought of separateness―a cry of strangled recognition? Love, or die, or love and die a little. Hopeful death! Come scale these cliffs, lie changing, share this breath.



Longing
by Michael R. Burch

We stare out at the cold gray sea, overcome with such sudden and intense longing... our eyes meet, inviolate... and we are not of this earth, this strange, inert mass. Before we crept out of the shoals of the inchoate sea... before we grew the quaint appendages and orifices of love... before our jellylike nuclei, struggling to be hearts, leapt at the sight of that first bright, oracular sun, then watched it plummet, the birth and death of our illumination... before we wept... before we knew... before our unformed hearts grew numb, again, in the depths of the sea's indecipherable darkness... when we were only a swirling profusion of recombinant things wafting loose silt from the sea's soft floor, writhing and ******* in convulsive beds of mucousy foliage,

flowering,
flowering,
flowering...

what jolted us to life?



Memento Mori
by Michael R. Burch

I found among the elms
something like the sound of your voice,
something like the aftermath of love itself
after the lightning strikes,
when the startled wind shrieks...

a gored-out wound in wood,
love's pale memento mori―
that white scar
in that first heart,
forever unhealed...

and a burled, thick knot incised
with six initials pledged
against all possible futures,
and penknife-notched below,
six edged, chipped words
that once cut deep and said...

WILL U B MINE
4 EVER?

... which now, so disconsolately answer...

----------------N
-- EVER.



Nucleotidings
by Michael R. Burch

"We will walk taller! " said Gupta,
sorta abrupta,
hand-in-hand with his mom,
eyeing the A-bomb.

"Who needs a mahatma
in the aftermath of NAFTA?
Now, that was a disaster, "
cried glib Punjab.

"After Y2k,
time will spin out of control anyway, "
flamed Vijay.

"My family is relatively heavy,
too big even for a pig-barn Chevy;
we need more space, "
spat What's His Face.

"What does it matter,
dirge or mantra, "
sighed Serge.

"The world will wobble
in Hubble's lens
till the tempest ends, "
wailed Mercedes.

"The world is going to hell in a bucket.
So **** it and get outta my face!
We own this place!
Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS,
so what's the crisis? "
cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett.



They Take Their Shape
by Michael R. Burch

"We will not forget moments of silence and days of mourning..."―George W. Bush

We will not forget...
the moments of silence and the days of mourning,
the bells that swung from leaden-shadowed vents
to copper bursts above "hush! "-chastened children
who saw the sun break free (abandonment
to run and laugh forsaken for the moment) ,
still flashing grins they could not quite repent...
Nor should they―anguish triumphs just an instant;

this every child accepts; the nymphet weaves;
transformed, the grotesque adult-thing emerges:
damp-winged, huge-eyed, to find the sun deceives...
But children know; they spin limpwinged in darkness
cocooned in hope―the shriveled chrysalis

that paralyzes time. Suspended, dreaming,
they do not fall, but grow toward what is,
then ***** about to find which transformation
might best endure the light or dark. "Survive"
becomes the whispered mantra of a pupa's
awakening... till What takes shape and flies
shrieks, parroting Our own shrill, restive cries.



chrysalis
by Michael R. Burch

these are the days of doom
u seldom leave ur room
u live in perpetual gloom

yet also the days of hope
how to cope?
u pray and u *****

toward self illumination...
becoming an angel
(pure love)

and yet You must love Your Self

If you know someone who is very caring and loving, but struggles with self worth, this may be a poem to consider.

Keywords/Tags: prose poem, experimental, free verse, freedom, expression, silence, void, modern, modern psalm, Holocaust


To Have Loved
by Michael R. Burch

"The face that launched a thousand ships ..."

Helen, bright accompaniment,
accouterment of war as sure as all
the polished swords of princes groomed to lie
in mausoleums all eternity ...

The price of love is not so high
as never to have loved once in the dark
beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale
upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ...

now all that war entails becomes as small,
as though receding. Paris in your arms
was never yours, nor were you his at all.
And should gods call

in numberless strange voices, should you hear,
still what would be the difference? Men must die
to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry,
leaves all the world dismembered.

Hold him, lie,
tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs;
enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall
and ash lie cold upon him.

Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim
with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry,
becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn
of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care

because you have this moment, and no man
can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone
there will be other men to look upon
your beauty, and have done.

Smile―woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales
paint this―your final portrait? Can the stars
find any strange alignments, Zodiacs,
to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks?

Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse, The Chained Muse, The Pennsylvania Review, and in a YouTube recital by David B. Gosselin. This is, of course, a poem about the famous Helen of Troy, whose face "launched a thousand ships."
Keywords/Tags: Helen, Troy, Paris, love, war, gods, fate, destiny, portrait, fame, famous, stars, Zodiac, Zodiacs, star-crossed, spell, charm, potion, enchantment, Greece, Greek, mythology, legend, Homer, Odyssey, accompaniment, accouterment, eternal, eternity, immortal



EPIGRAM TRANSLATIONS BY MICHAEL R. BURCH



NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.



Nod to the Master
by Michael R. Burch

for the Divine Oscar Wilde

If every witty thing that’s said were true,
Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You!



A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?
—Albert Einstein, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



This is love: to fly toward a mysterious sky,
to cause ten thousand veils to fall.
First, to stop clinging to life,
then to step out, without feet ...
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



To live without philosophizing is to close one's eyes and never attempt to open them. – Rene Descartes, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Stage Fright
by Michael R. Burch

To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.



I test the tightrope
balancing a child
in each arm.
—Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Brief Fling
by Michael R. Burch

“Epigram”
means cram,
then scram!



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

You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once.
But joys are wan illusions to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.



Love is either wholly folly,
or fully holy.
—Michael R. Burch



Intimations
by Michael R. Burch

Let mercy surround us
with a sweet persistence.

Let love propound to us
that life is infinitely more than existence.



Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch

Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.



Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.



She is brighter than dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

There’s a light about her
like the moon through a mist:
a bright incandescence
with which she is blessed

and my heart to her light
like the tide now is pulled . . .
she is fair, O, and bright
like the moon silver-veiled.

There’s a fire within her
like the sun’s leaping forth
to lap up the darkness
of night from earth's hearth

and my eyes to her flame
like twin moths now are drawn
till my heart is consumed.
She is brighter than dawn.




Teddy Roosevelt spoke softly and carried a big stick; Donald Trump speaks loudly and carries a big shtick.—Michael R. Burch



Viral Donald (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
His pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.



Viral Donald (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!
Neha agrawal Mar 2018
Yaha Maa beti behan patni parivaar ki Shaan h...
Ha ye Mera ni hamara hindustan h..
Yaha Har muskilo ka Hal nhii...
Par Har javaab Geeta, Bibal, aur kuraan h...
Yaha beta aur beti dono parivaar ki Shaan h..
Ha ye Mera nhii hamara hindustan h..
Jahan Har muskilo mein apno ka saath h..
Bacho k sir par Maa baap ka haath h..
Yaha beta Maa ki aur beti Papa ki jaan h..
Ha ye Mera nii hamara hindustan h..
Jahan alag alag bhashao ka Mel h hockey yaha ka priy khel h
.
Jhagde bahot h par usse jyada pyaar h...
Daat padne se jo bachae vo yaaro ka yaar h....
Yahan alag alag desho ki mithas aur sanskaar h...
Yahan alag alag desho ka rang punjab kashmir aur rajasthan h...
Ha hme garv h is desh par qki ye Mera nhii hamara hindustan h....
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Àŧùl Mar 2014
Neither Romeo not on Juliet either,
Their love was centered on itself.

Neither Heer nor Raanjha in Punjab,
Their love too was centered on love.

Neither on yourself nor on myself,
Our love is centered on love as well.
My HP Poem #600
©Atul Kaushal
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Happy Face Variety
Has new owners,
From Punjab.

They are way friendly.

I was renting,
Far From the Madding Crowd,
Ben said:
Many people were renting movies tonight.

Yeah, the dog day's of summer.

Explanations and examples ensued.
The change in season.
Replace old anxieties with new.
The surety of autumn expectations.
The heat swirling in the ceiling fans.
The setting sun on Lake Huron.
All the dog days.

And Ashna said:
Like the dog curling up to sleep.*

They are way welcome.
While my gut is large with its ***-bellied potness
It detracts not from my ****, red-blooded hotness
My beam is broad and my ***** is flabby
My dog's name is Fido and my kitty is Tabby
I once had a wife who turned tricks as a *****
She has completely hagged over and turns tricks no more
From the gutter you acknowledge her enormous heft and thickness
It's as if she's never known hunger, disease or chronic sickness
I saw her recently and I couldn't help but to snigger
As she chose to shack up with an enormous, filthy *****
Climbing her *** was like scouring an iron pan
Like buying peanut butter in Punjab, Pakistan
Like sprucing up in prison
Like denying Jesus has risen
Like poking with a stick your sister's gynecologist
Like winning a scholarship to become a cosmetologist
Yevette Lee Feb 2014
Her eyes were big & round  
the light within them shone like yellow sunflowers

Her body framed with skin soft as clay

of an array of colors  

Fair like the sands of Punjab

Burning red as baked earth with brown undertones

Sienna , caramel , dark chocolate

Short & scrawny arms encircled  by gold, blue, silver bangles

  based upon her class in the caste system

  A portrait of peacock linen

   Hair flowing as night blackest sky roped licorice



Born in a world ruled by ironfist

An unoticed lily growing beneath the swampy waters of traditional thoughts

Takes a innocent breath from swirling field winds

Rushed to the other side of eternity without giving a chance to deliver the gift God put inside her.



Mother & daughter were thrown in the yard

for everyone to see

as if they were no better than trash

Splashed with gasoline & set on fire

For being a girl .



Priyanka:

I wonder where you are

I wonder are you safe

My first baby I carried in my heart

I pray that you are loved

I pray that you are safe

I pray that you overcome the dark shadows of India .
While my gut is large with its ***-bellied potness
It detracts not from my ****, red-blooded hotness
My beam is broad and my ***** is flabby
My dog's name is Fido and my kitty is Tabby
I once had a wife who turned tricks as a *****
She has completely hagged over and turns tricks no more
From the gutter you acknowledge her enormous heft and thickness
It's as if she's never known hunger, disease or chronic sickness
I saw her recently and I couldn't help but to snigger
As she chose to shack up with an enormous, filthy *****
Climbing her *** was like scouring an iron pan
Like buying peanut butter in Punjab, Pakistan
Like sprucing up in prison
Like denying Jesus has risen
Like poking with a stick your sister's gynecologist
Like winning a scholarship to become a cosmetologist
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i could eat a bun of bread,
with green fills of veg.,
and a blue indian curry
sauce:
and... no ****** in sight...
and i thouhgt:
how did their cuisine
and their theology kept
them... intact?!

                the prominent
argument against the colonizing,
in post-scriptum
white man...
oh, hell,
i'm just a drunk...
you fiddle it out!

  but when i ate the sauce i cooked
myself,
and didn't eat any meat...
i started to realize...
YOU BECOM VEGGIE...
BUT NO VEGGIE
SPICIES...
SALT... & PEPPER!
TRASH!
YOU EAT VEGGIE
WITH SIBERIAN
TOOLS OF CULINARY...
STUPENDOUR!

no... i could become vegetarian...
once your burn my tongue...
once you burn WHITE
into your...
             lazy sorry ***** of
being...
  how come
the west indies...
the caribbean blacks
didn't entertain being
moved back to the west coast
of africa?!

subjective... what?!
******?!
i thought i was the magic
disappearing jew
of the europeans for a while?
no?

listen... i don't care...
the english are still the people
who care to play cricket
among their former
colonial subjects,
and send, eddie the eagle types
to ski jump among germans
and the japanese!

oh... but you are...
  "welcome"!
high-pitched: he he he he he he!
so i read yiou reading me
as ******?
yes?
         we're fine with that!
"we" yeah...
did that imply the pronoun
utility of "you",
or "one"...
                           or "i"?
see... thing with these english
people:
i... never know!
i bind myselfto finding
the intelligent "one"...
i never find anything other than
the irish, or alien-speculation...
then i drink enough,
take the pills...
fall asleep...
  sleep...
and...
          tomorrow is no better
than today...
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD
MORNING
NON-MIRRORING
VIETNAM!

it's a fetish for a ******...
like... revival of the degenerate
nature of the Polish-Commonwealth
nobles... albeit in England...
grammar... grammar was involved?!
****!
normans?! no... swedes?!
i'm pwetty suwe the fwench
didn't awwive...
         the Spanish Armada!

no...
        what?!
just me?
                honest to god...
you can be a god honest
polytheist...
and a vegetarian...
once you have the spices...
no spices: no go go slaughtering
the pig...    

            all the spices of
the Punjab, the Bengal...
honest to god,
you keep your deities...
have them,
if only the part of me
that was a slav that
also wasn't a Russian...

blue Indian! superior cooking!
superior theology!
no cricket!
no stupid rock game
and no no socks game!
you win!
i will become vegetarian!
just send us the spices!
i will not eat the meat
once you send us the spices
to accompany the veg.
to sub. the meat!

that one sauce of y'er...
poppy seeds...
kashmiri chillies...
dry coconut...
         no PORK...
i promise you...
no PORK...
no Russians in Afghanistan...
but none of your
MADE IN CHINA
toothpicks around 'ere
either...
deal?

p.s. this was always
going to be a failure...
but it was always worth
the blockage game of
stalling...
the inevitable script
of: tsunami anti unus...

          i don't even like
"my tribe"...
                  but i was almost
convinced to turning
vegetarian
via all the indian spices
being employed...
    you can only become
veggie with the right sort
of spices...
the spices i was given
to enlist me in reverting
to a... alternative "gnosis"?
salt... pepper...
now...
            can i nibble
       on a ***** from Beirut?!
no... literally,
with the language
i use...
you will not have
to will or want
to address me
with a dear x,
and a sincerely y...
        
          but given that
you are all for formality...
hell...
   you pet the puppy; savvy?
no...
        in a world
where you both need
Jesus Christ and
Pontius Pilate...
you... need... neither.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
Lozenge
by Michael R. Burch

When I was closest to love, it did not seem
real at all, but a thing of such tenuous sweetness
it might dissolve in my mouth
like a lozenge of sugar.

When I held you in my arms, I did not feel
our lack of completeness,
knowing how easy it was
for us to cling to each other.

And there were nights when the clouds
sped across the moon’s face,
exposing such rarified brightness
we did not witness

so much as embrace
love’s human appearance.



East Devon Beacon
by Michael R. Burch

Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness—a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.

Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?

Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?

Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?



Kindred (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Rise, pale disastrous moon!
What is love, but a heightened effect
of time, light and distance?

Did you burn once,
before you became
so remote, so detached,

so coldly, inhumanly lustrous,
before you were able to assume
the very pallor of love itself?

What is the dawn now, to you or to me?
We are as one,
out of favor with the sun.

We would exhume
the white corpse of love
for a last dance,

and yet we will not.
We will let her be,
let her abide,

for she is nothing now,
to you
or to me.



i o u
by Michael R. Burch

i might have said it
but i didn’t

u might have noticed
but u wouldn’t

we might have been us
but we couldn’t

u might respond
but probably shouldn’t



chrysalis
by Michael R. Burch

these are the days of doom
u seldom leave ur room
u live in perpetual gloom

yet also the days of hope
how to cope?
u pray and u *****

toward self illumination ...
becoming an angel
(pure love)

and yet You must love Your Self

If you know someone who is very caring and loving, but struggles with self worth, this may be a poem to consider.


Dancer
by Michael R. Burch

You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,

waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.

Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.

They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled

of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,

of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.

They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh

for ages,
stages
slipping by.

You pause;
applause
is all you hear.

You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.



The Evolution of Love
by Michael R. Burch

Love among the infinitesimal
flotillas of amoebas is a dance
of transient appendages, wild sails
that gather in warm brine and then express
one headstream as two small, divergent wakes.

Minuscule voyage—love! Upon false feet,
the pseudopods of uprightness, we creep
toward self-immolation: two nee one.

We cannot photosynthesize the sun,
and so we love in darkness, till we come
at last to understand: man’s spineless heart
is alien to any land.
We part
to single cells; we rise on buoyant tears,
amoeba-light, to breathe new atmospheres ...
and still we sink.
The night is full of stars
we cannot grasp, though all the World is ours.

Have we such cells within us, bent on love
to ever-changingness, so that to part
is not to be the same, or even one?
Is love our evolution, or a scream
against the thought of separateness—a cry
of strangled recognition? Love, or die,
or love and die a little. Hopeful death!
Come scale these cliffs, lie changing, share this breath.



Longing
by Michael R. Burch

We stare out at the cold gray sea,
overcome
with such sudden and intense longing . . .
our eyes meet,
inviolate,
and we are not of this earth,
this strange, inert mass.

Before we crept
out of the shoals of the inchoate sea,
before we grew
the quaint appendages
and orifices of love . . .

before our jellylike nuclei,
struggling to be hearts,
leapt
at the sight of that first bright, oracular sun,
then watched it plummet,
the birth and death of our illumination . . .

before we wept . . .
before we knew . . .
before our unformed hearts grew numb,
again,
in the depths of the sea’s indecipherable darkness . . .

When we were only
a swirling profusion of recombinant things
wafting loose silt from the sea’s soft floor,
writhing and ******* in convulsive beds
of mucousy foliage,

flowering,
flowering,
flowering . . .

what jolted us to life?



Memento Mori
by Michael R. Burch

I found among the elms
something like the sound of your voice,
something like the aftermath of love itself
after the lightning strikes,
when the startled wind shrieks . . .

a gored-out wound in wood,
love’s pale memento mori—
that white scar
in that first heart,
forever unhealed . . .

and a burled, thick knot incised
with six initials pledged
against all possible futures,
and penknife-notched below,
six edged, chipped words
that once cut deep and said . . .

WILL U B MINE
4 EVER?

. . . which now, so disconsolately answer . . .

—————-N-
—EVER.



Annual
by Michael R. Burch

Silence
steals upon a house
where one sits alone
in the shadow of the itinerant letterbox,
watching the disconnected telephone
collecting dust...

hearing the desiccate whispers of voices'
dry flutters, —
moths' wings
brittle as cellophane...

Curled here,
reading the yellowing volumes of loss
by the front porch light
in the groaning swing...

through thin adhesive gloss
I caress your face.



Nucleotidings
by Michael R. Burch

“We will walk taller!” said Gupta,
sorta abrupta,
hand-in-hand with his mom,
eyeing the A-bomb.

“Who needs a mahatma
in the aftermath of NAFTA?
Now, that was a disaster,”
cried glib Punjab.

“After Y2k,
time will spin out of control anyway,”
flamed Vijay.

“My family is relatively heavy,
too big even for a pig-barn Chevy;
we need more space,”
spat What’s His Face.

“What does it matter,
dirge or mantra,”
sighed Serge.

“The world will wobble
in Hubble’s lens
till the tempest ends,”
wailed Mercedes.

“The world is going to hell in a bucket.
So **** it and get outta my face!
We own this place!
Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS,
so what’s the crisis?”
cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett.



The Octopi Jars
by Michael R. Burch

Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels'...

you are beyond all hope
of salvage now...
and yet I would pause,
no fear!,
to once touch
your arcane beaks...

I, more alien than you
to this imprismed world,
notice, most of all,
the scratches on the inside surfaces
of your hermetic cells ...

and I remember documentaries
of albino Houdinis
slipping like wraiths
over the walls of shipboard aquariums,
slipping down decks'
brine-lubricated planks,
spilling jubilantly into the dark sea,
parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia...

and I know now in life you were unlike me:
your imprisonment was never voluntary.



Consequence
by Michael R. Burch

They are fresh-faced,
not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded,
oblivious to time and death,
of each counted breath
in the pendulum’s sway
falling unheeded.

They are bright, undissuaded
by foreign tongues,
by sepulchers empty and waiting,
by sarcophagi of ancient kings,
by proclamations,
by rituals of scalpels and rings.

They are sworn, they are fated
to misadventure and grief;
but they revel in life
till the sun falls, receding
into silent halls
to torrents of inconsequential tears . . .

. . . to brief tragedies of tears
when they consider this: No one else sees.
But I know.
We all know.
We all know the consequence
of being so young.



Cycles
by Michael R. Burch

I see his eyes caress my daughter’s *******
through her thin cotton dress,
and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra
holds his bald fingers
in fumbling mammalian awe . . .

And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk
of a distant park,
hot blushes,
wild, disembodied rushes of blood,
portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers . . .

and now in him the memory of me lingers
like something thought rancid,
proved rotten.
I see Another again—hard, staring, and silent—
though long-ago forgotten . . .

And I remember conjectures of ***** lines,
brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs,
coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors,
all the odd, questioning stares . . .

Yes, I remember it all now,
and I shoo them away,
willing them not to play too long or too hard
in the back yard—
with a long, ineffectual stare

that years from now, he may suddenly remember.



Confession
by Michael R. Burch

What shall I say to you, to confess,
words? Words that can never express
anything close to what I feel?

For words that seem tangible, real,
when I think them
become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them.

And words that I thought that I knew,
like "love" and "devotion"
never ring true.

While "passion"
sounds strangely like the latest fashion
or a perfume.

NOTE: At the time I wrote this poem, a perfume called Passion was in fashion.



Incommunicado
by Michael R. Burch

All I need to know of life I learned
in the slap of a moment,
as my outward eye turned
toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights
which coldly burned, hissing—
"There is no way back!"

As the ironic bright blood
trickled down my face,
I watched strange albino creatures twisting
my flesh into tight knots of separation
while tediously insisting—

“He's doing just fine!"



An Ecstasy of Fumbling
by Michael R. Burch

The poets believe
everything resolves to metaphor—
a distillation,
a vapor
beyond filtration,
though perhaps not quite as volatile as before.

The poets conceive
of death in the trenches
as the price of art,
not war,
fumbling with their masque-like
dissertations
to describe the Hollywood-like gore

as something beyond belief,
abstracting concrete bunkers to Achaemenid bas-relief.



Litany
by Michael R. Burch

Will you take me with all my blemishes?
I will take you with all your blemishes, and show you mine. We’ll **** wine out of cardboard boxes till our teeth and lips shine red like greedily gorging foxes’. We’ll swill our fill, then have *** for hours till our neglected guts at last rebel. At two in the morning, we’ll eat cold Krystals out of greasy cardboard boxes, and we will be in love.

And that’s it?
That’s it.

And can I go out with my friends and drink until dawn?
You can go out with your friends and drink until dawn, come home lipstick-collared, pass out by the pool, or stay at the bar till the new moon sets, because we will be in love, and in love there is no room for remorse or regret. There is no right, no wrong, and no mistrust, only limb-numbing ***, hot-pistoning lust.

And that’s all?
That’s all.

That’s great!
But wait . . .

Wait? Why? What’s wrong?
I want to have your children.

Children?
Well, perhaps just one.

And what will happen when we have children?

The most incredible things will happen—you’ll change, stop acting so strangely, start paying more attention to me, start paying your bills on time, grow up and get rid of your horrible friends, and never come home at a-quarter-to-three drunk from a night of swilling, smelling like a lovesick skunk, stop acting so lewdly, start working incessantly so that we can afford a new house which I will decorate lavishly and then grow tired of in a year or two or three, start growing a paunch so that no other woman would ever have you, stop acting so boorishly, start growing a beard because you’re too tired to shave, or too afraid, thinking you might slit your worthless wrinkled throat . . .



Salve
by Michael R. Burch

for the victims and survivors of 9-11

The world is unsalvageable ...
but as we lie here
in bed
stricken to the heart by love
despite war’s
flickering images,

sometimes we still touch,

laughing, amazed,
that our flesh
does not despair
of love
as we do,

that our bodies are wise

in ways we refuse
to comprehend,
still insisting we eat,
drink ...
even multiply.

And so we touch ...

touch, and only imagine
ourselves immune:
two among billions

in this night of wished-on stars,

caresses,
kisses,
and condolences.

We are not lovers of irony,

we
who imagine ourselves
beyond the redemption
of tears
because we have salvaged
so few
for ourselves ...

and so we laugh
at our predicament,
fumbling for the ointment.



The Secret of Her Clothes
by Michael R. Burch

The secret of her clothes
is that they whisper a little mysteriously
of things unseen

in the language of nylon and cotton,
so that when she walks
to her amorous drawers

to rummage among the embroidered hearts
and rumors of pastel slips
for a white wisp of Victorian lace,

the delicate rustle of fabric on fabric,
the slightest whisper of telltale static,
electrifies me.



Retro
by Michael R. Burch

Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your *******’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...

Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...

When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...

But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like *******—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.



****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch

This is not what I need . . .
analysis,
paralysis,
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
supported
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****.



East End, 1888
by Michael R. Burch

He slouched East
through a steady downpour,
a slovenly beast
befouling each puddle
with bright footprints of blood.

Outlined in a pub door,
lewdly, wantonly, she stood . . .
mocked and brazenly offered.
He took what he could
till she afforded no more.

Now a single bright copper
glints becrimsoned by the door
of the pub where he met her.
He holds to his breast the one part
of her body she was unable to *****,

grips her heart to his wildly stammering heart . . .
unable to forgive or forget her.



Open Portal
by Michael R. Burch

“You already have zero privacy—get over it.”—Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems

While you’re at it—
don’t bother to wear clothes:
We all know what you’re concealing underneath.

Let the bathroom door swing open.
Let, O let Us peer in!
What you’re doing, We’ve determined, may be a sin!

When you visit your mother
and it’s time to brush your teeth,
it’s okay to openly spit.

And, while you’re at it,
go ahead—
take a long, noisy ****.

What the he|ll is your objection?
What on earth is all this fuss?
Just what is it, exactly, you would hide from US?



Artificial Smile
by Michael R. Burch

I’m waiting for my artificial teeth
to stretch belief, to hollow out the cob
of zealous righteousness, to grasp life’s stub
between clenched molars, and yank out the grief.

Mine must be art-official—zenlike Art—
a disembodied, white-enameled grin
of Cheshire manufacture. Part by part,
the human smile becomes mock porcelain.

Till in the end, the smile alone remains:
titanium-based alloys undestroyed
with graves’ worm-eaten contents, all the pains
of bridgework unrecalled, and what annoyed

us most about the corpses rectified
to quaintest dust. The Smile winks, deified.



Revision
by Michael R. Burch

I found a stone
ablaze in a streambed,
honed to a flickering jewel
by all the clear,
swiftly-flowing
millennia of water...

and as I kneeled
to do it obeisance,
the homage of retrieval,
it occurred to me
that perhaps its muddied
underbelly

rooted precariously
in the muck
and excrescence
of its slow loosening
upward...

might not be finished,
like a poem
brilliantly faceted
but only half revised,
which sparkles
seductively
but is not yet worth

ecstatic digging.



They Take Their Shape
by Michael R. Burch

“We will not forget moments of silence and days of mourning ...”—George W. Bush

We will not forget ...
the moments of silence and the days of mourning,
the bells that swung from leaden-shadowed vents
to copper bursts above “hush!”-chastened children
who saw the sun break free (abandonment
to run and laugh forsaken for the moment),
still flashing grins they could not quite repent ...
Nor should they—anguish triumphs just an instant;
this every child accepts; the nymphet weaves;
transformed, the grotesque adult-thing emerges:
damp-winged, huge-eyed, to find the sun deceives ...
But children know; they spin limpwinged in darkness
cocooned in hope—the shriveled chrysalis
that paralyzes time. Suspended, dreaming,
they do not fall, but grow toward what is,
then ***** about to find which transformation
might best endure the light or dark. “Survive”
becomes the whispered mantra of a pupa’s
awakening ... till What takes shape and flies
shrieks, parroting Our own shrill, restive cries.

Keywords/Tags: free verse, human, humanity, love, hearts, forgiveness, relationships, solitude, distance, strangers, kin, kindred
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2018
It is a Sikh innuendo
devised by Rajiit Singh,
"A Pakistani High Five"
circa 15th Century.
Julian May 2023
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

BALMORALITY OF GEOCARPY WEBBED FEET ANOINT AT THE TRIDENT OF POSEIDON SEES THE OLIVASTER MOULIN VEES OF  VARSAL GESTALT SALVATION AS CORNERSTONE CAPSTONES OF ARCHAIC ANTIQUITY BLEATING IN ANTEBELLUM FORESIGHT THE BLARING AMPHIGORY OF A THOUSAND TASTES OF LEPIDINE RAGMATICAL RANCOR DISSOLUTE ONLY IN ITS FORMULAIC WELKINS BY WALLFISH FREEBOOTERS CONSTELLATED BY THE STELLION STANCHION WHELVES ARMADA THAT SPARTANISM OF RENEWED POST-MODERN ****** CAN NEVER USE THERMOLYSIS IN THE SECRET ESOTERIC ARTS OF NIDAMENTAL NANOTECHNOLOGY THE FUTURE WIREWOVEN BELLETRIST OF ENCEPHALIZATION QUOTIENTS WIREDRAWN OVER HYPERBOLES OF MASCON GEOCARPY BECAUSE OF GEROSCOPY AND SENICIDE AMONG MANY A SPATHODEA ENLIGHTENED BY GHOST DANCE PERIBLEBSIS IN WILD WEST BILL CODY’S DAYDREAMS OF PRANCING NORDIC FLUMINOUS STREAMS OF DIVULGENCE OF RIVULATION FOR RUDENTURE IN JASPERATED JESUITICAL JARVEYS OF RECONAISSANCE OF THE TIGHT-LIPPED ALWAYS PHILANDERING WITH FIDELITY TO THE CLEPSAMMIA OF THE DEEPEST VEESES FOR THE MEHARIS OF MELLIFEROUS SPRITES OF OREAD DEMIURGES IN ZENKIDU BECAUSE OF DREDGED BEACHES AT THE EDGE OF TOMORROW BEATIFYING THE PRIMIPARAS OF INGENUITY LOLLOPED UPON THE QUEEN OF OSIRIS AND THE LAVADERO OF SET BECAUSE IN THE INTERRAMIFICATIONS OF SKELDER AMONG THE SKERRY THAT EXISTS BORDERING AN ATLANTIAN TRAVESTY BEMOANED BY BECHIC BEBLUBBERED INCONTINENCE OF LABORIOUS BEINGS OF SUFFRAGE AND TEETOTALER PREROGATIVES OF THE OCTAGON BENEATH THE VERY STREETS OF PALTRIPOLITAN SCHOENABATIC BARCAROLES AND CREMATION OF CARE BOHEMIAS THAT SPAWNED THE MYSTICISM OF PSEPHITIC PSEPHOLOGY BASED PRIMARILY ON BLESBOK CONTINUITY AGAINST TERMINAL TERMINUS THAT SHEATHES THE APPARATUS OF DIDDICOYS SPRAUNCY AND SPRUNG FROM EVERY GALVANIC TEMPLE INTO THE VOLTAIC PILES OF THE  ARENAIDAN SECRECY OF SUMPTER NOW DISTRAUGHT ABOUT THE NUCLEOTIDES OF SUNBITTERN OILERS WHOSE CARAPACE ANNIHILATES THE IONIZATION OF IATRALIPTIC MALFEASANCE REGISTERED AS YOUTHQUAKES OF YESTERTEMPEST BECAUSE OF YENTAS OF YUAN DENYING THE LACQUER AND EXCHEQUER OF JAPAN MIGHT WE CONVENE A BETHEL AGAINST EXORCISM AND MIGHT WE FIND THE FOSSORS OF A GUARDED TRUST OF FRATERNAL LAMBENT LIGHT OF THE NINE MUSES TRAPPED IN AEGEAN DRYGULCH BECAUSE OF THE LABYRINTHIAN PROWESS OF THOSE THAT BURROLED THE CONTRAPLEX TAMARAWS OF ALL DESTINY UPON THE SIPHON OF LATRIA BECOMING THE BANNER OF AGGIORNAMENTO BEYOND APARTHEID IN KNIGHTED SECRECY BECAUSE OF BROCKFACED ZUGZWANGS OF SCHWERPUNKT AND THE DEEPEST SALINE RESERVES OF AN INTERNATIONAL ORDER FOUNDERING IN ANTIQUITY OF EXACT SYCOMANCY BUT PARADED IN THE MARATHON CEREMONIES OF HALICARNASSUS AND ITS COAST GUARD YOUTH AUXILIARY FIGHTING THE PUNJABS TO STALEMATE AND FINDING THE MAINOUR THE CULMINATION OF ALL ACUMINATED WARS OF ATTEMPERED ASTRINGENT ATTINGENT PLEROMORPHY IN THE ENCEPHALIZATION OF ANTIQUITY TO THE DIVINE WILL OF ALEXANDER’S KOWTOW AND THE DEMISE OF ANCIENT CATAMITES BY THE FLEECED SWORDS OF CREATION RATHER THAN CREATIONISM IN THE SHALLOP OF SWASHBUCKLERS STALLED IN STALWART TIMES AGAINST INSUPERABLE ODDS BUT BY THE POWER OF CRYPTODYNAMISM IN THE ERA BEFORE PHILOTECHNICAL REVOLUTION AND THE MONOCULUS OF THE SEPHIROTH MIGHT THE BARNSTORM THESE DAYS BE BRAZEN AS A SERPENT PATROLLING THE PROMENADE OF LUXOR AND THE QUAKY REAL MADRID BRADYSEISM OF GUARDED DELTAS AND THE JERBOAS THAT FLAUNT AGAINST THIGMOTAXIS AN ABILITY TO CONGEAL AND COAGULATE COMMUNITIES THROUGH TAPESTRY AND TALENT MET SQUARE WITH “MARS VOLTA” LEXICOGRAPHY THAT EAVESDROPS LIKE A VANGERMYTE VAMPIRE ASSOCIATING WITH A JAPANESE ARMADA’S SYMBOLIC EMBLEM TO A MEJII RESTORATION WORTH DISCUSSING IN A CASEMATE STOKEHOLD BRITSKA DOOMSTER ECONOMY POISED FOR REVALORIZATION OF ALL ELEMENTS OF THE CRAFT SUBLIMINAL IN OBSCURE HINTS ABOUT THE SPELEOTHEM OF NEOTTIOUS SECRETS MOST EXCELLENT MASTERS WOULD NEVER DISCLOSE AT THE PERIL OF THEIR AVIZANDUM OF SENNET AND THEIR GUARDED THEATRICS OF RIGMAROLE AROUND THE GALLOPING HORSEMEN OF PROVENANCE AND PROVIDENCE FOR MANIFEST DESTINY AND THE FREER REPUBLICS TO EXCAVATE OVER AND OVER AGAIN THE SAME APOTHEGMS THAT BLACKGUARD THE SOCKDOLAGERS OF OBSCURE REVELATION SUCH THAT THE HYPERBOREAN CATALFALQUES WHO WITH DISMISSIVE LOUR AND FEALTY DESIGN AND DESIGNATE ABRAXAS ABOVE MATRIOTISM AND HONOR BEFORE VALOR THE GRAVE MISTAKE OF THOSE WHO DIG THE VERY GRAVES THEMSELVES IN OSSIFICATION OF BRONZED BEASTS OF SERPENTINE MYTHOLOGY OF AURIFEROUS JOLLYBOATS FROM TURPENTINE TIMES OF SMARDAGINE REGARDS FOR THE CODEX AND TESTUDO BRACKISH IN INTEMERATION OF A EUHEMERIST CHRISTIANITY THAT RECOGNIZES THE PLIGHT OF THE GODS OF OLD AND THE HISTORICITY OF STRUGGLE SEPTIFEROUS IN DEGREES OF SEPARATION FROM DIVINE LIGHT AND THE ANGLE OF THE SACRED FIRES OF “THE PLEASUREDOME” WHERE MEMPHIS RITES ARE DEALT LIKE DRUGS AND RAMPANT SKULLDUGGERY FOMENTS THE CAFE AND THE SALON INTO A FRENZY ABOUT FUTURITION IN THE NEGOTIOSITY OF NEGOCIANTS OF SUBLIME MASTERWORKS YET WRITTEN BY THE ADEPT HANDS OF BELLETRIST FOR THE RUPESTRIAN ACCORDION ZEAL OF THE FEWER PIONEERS OF HYPOGEIODY WITH THE GALL TO STAND PROMINENT AGAINST SVEDBERG TO LIBERATE THE NOSEBAG NOSTRUM OF SCARAMOUCHES OF AGGIORNAMENTO DERIVED FROM THE TRIBESMAN OF THE DISAGIO REGULA AND REGULATION BECAUSE OF SWARTHY ENMITY AMONG SPRINGHARE NOILS OF CRYPTODYNAMISM UNSPOKEN AND INEFFABLE TO A WIDER AUDIENCE OF ASPIRING APPRENTICES OF THE CRAFT OF A KRAFT CHEESE BOONDOGGLE SO DARING IN ITS PSITTACISTS OF GENERATIVE PRE-PROGRAMMED NETWORKS THAT THE APOGEE OF OUR CIVILIZATION IS ALWAYS CURTAILED BY THE CURGLAFF OF PRODIGAL SONS ENSNARED BY PEDERASTY RATHER THAN DOCILE IN HETERONORMATIVE DIRECTIVES OF RESCRIPT FOR THE VARIOUS PRESBYTERIES DISTANCING THEMSELVES FROM THE EQUIPOISE OF CRIME TO PUNISHMENT BUT ALSO TO LASSO A ZEAL FOR PRIMIGENIAL VARDLES OF SOVENANCE AND THEIR ENCOUNTER WITH STELLAR SPECTRUM DERIVED FROM PHASMOPHOBIA BECAUSE OF THE LURCHING TYRANTS OF FAMIGERATION EVEN IN THEIR CABOTAGE MIGHT THEY SAIL LAVEERING AGAINST HEADWINDS OF CATASTROPHISM AND MAXIMALISM BOTH CONVENTICLES OF A QUACKERY OF CHARLATAN ORDERS WHO DEBATE ENDLESSLY OVER SYCOMANCY ONLY TO FIND THEIR FAFFLE INCONSEQUENTIAL IN THE SIGHT OF THE ABRAXAS OF ABAXIAL ANACHORIC TREASURES OF THE EXODUS THAT PARENTS THE FIRSTBORN RATHER THAN TURNS THEIR NIDOR INTO NEPIONIC ENSLAVEMENT BECAUSE NEITHER AN ENNOMIC DEGREE OR DECREE NOR A CAESARAPROPISM UPON THE EARTH FORMIDABLE IN NOMOGENY BECAUSE OF THE SLIPSLOP OF SLICKENSLIDE CLOTURE AND CLOUT OF THE GENEROSITY OF MIKE BOSSY BOSE PRIOR TO THE INVENTION OF BASS ITSELF AND BEFORE ACID HAD ITS PROMENADE HEYDAY ON THE STREETS OF INTERNATIONAL ACCORD RECUPERATING FROM DEVASTATING CONFLAGRATION A RECUMBENTIBUS FOR THE SHANGHAIED RIVERS THAT FLOW FROM COAST TO COAST AND THE MOUNTAINS THAT TOWER ABOVE SPHACELATED ARTIFICE TO DISCOVER SPIRACULATED WISDOM IS SOPHROSYNE AND MODEST IN TEMPERAMENT LIKE THE READY PLAYER ONE ACQUEST FOR PALATABLE CONTROL OF CEPHALIGATION YET INVENTED BUT ALWAYS DISCLOSED AGAINST THE SUMPTER OF FETED AND FATED TRAPEZES OF THE LOST ARTS OF THE LOST COVENANTS AMONG MEN AND AMONG THEIR FRONT-RANK REAR-GUARD TUMESCENT TONGUE TONGUE-TIED BY MATHEMATICISM TOO LENIENT TO EXPOSE THE TRICKERY OF THE RETINA NOR THE RETINACULUM OF THE GARDENS POISONED BY CHINA WHITE RATHER THAN CHINA AS WE SASHAY INDIRECTLY FROM LONGINIQUITY OF INSULAR BASTIONS OF FORTIFIED ROORBACKS OF PREHISTORIC MERIT AND ABDERVINE MOVEMENTS CONVERGENT UPON THE OMPHALISM OF SOCRATIC PROMACHOS LIVING IN THE CLIFFS OF DOVER (A MISNOMER THAT FEW MASONS WILL UNDERSTAND) BECAUSE WHEN WE FLOUT THE SPANISH ARMADA AND  DISCOVER THE TRIBULOID LIES OF BERLINE SYNCOPATION OF HETEROCHRONY WE FREE OURSELVES TO SEE A FORDED RIVER NEVER BOLDER AND A MAGICAL RECIPE ALWAYS PROSCRIBED. LET THE MYSTICISM OF OUR AGE HEARKEN THE PARAGONS OF ANCIENT GREECE AND THEIR COUNTERPARTS IN ROME WHO OVERSAW A WORLD IGNORANT TO THE ISRAELI COVENANT AND WORLDS APART FROM “THE GIRL IS MINE” JOCKEYING JOCKOS OF JESUITICAL JANIZARY AFFILIATION THAT PREFER TO BURY THEIR SECRETS TO SUCH  A GREAT DEPTH OF BAROMETRIC PRESSURE THAT FEW FORCES ARE HERCULEAN ENOUGH TO DISCOVER THE LITURGY OF THE SECRET RITES AND THE VAULTED PRESERVATION OF THE OLIVASTERS OF FORMER DAYS THAT STILL SURVIVE UNALTERED IN A WORLD GOVERNED BY A RESOURCEFULNESS IN BOTH REPUBLICS AND AUTOCRACIES BECAUSE THE SYBOTIC SONDAGE OF THE TURTLEBACK IS THE SIGNATORY SLAVERY OF CHAVISH AMONG THOSE THAT CAROM PROFOUND TRUTHS IN TWADDLED DISMAY FOR MAYDAY CONFLAGRATIONS OF RAPID EMERGENCE AND IMMERGENCE INTO AN ORDER OF SOCIETY OF ISONOMY AND IXIODIC RESIDUE OF THE CORTEGES THAT ARE ENUMERATED ONLY AT THE BEHEST OF THE VERY FEW THAT THE PROPER NAMES AT ANY MASONIC LODGE ARE NEVER PUBLICLY SPOKEN AMONG THE FELLOWCRAFT BECAUSE ONLY THE TRUEST MASTER MASONS DESERVE TO KNOW HOW OUR PAST IS AN EISOPTROPHOBIA AND OUR FUTURE IS AN EISOPTROMANIA BUT DON’T BELONG TO THE PHASMOPHOBES AGAINST THE GHOST DANCE NOR PARALYZED BY THE PRIVILEGE OF VENOSTASIS AND NEVER ACCUSE ANOTHER MASON OF RHEOTAXIS IF HIS UPRIGHT APRON AND HIS WAMPUM BRACELET STARRING THANKSGIVING MEGACERINE MELEAGRINE STERQUILINIAN ARTIFICE THAT HAS CORRUPTED THE ROT OF PENTAPOLISES DEFEATED ONLY BY THE INGENUITY OF THE RURAL SATELLITES TO ORBIT IN SECRECY AND VALOR TO SUSTAIN THE REPUBLIC AND SCAVENGE LIKE NEOPHRONS IN MEMPHIS TENNESSEE JUST AS MUCH AS MEMPHIS EGYPT THE TRUE NECKLACES THAT COMPORT SOLEMN GIFTS IN GRAFT TO THE HARANGUE OF DISTANT PRESIDENTS BEFORE OUR TIME HANDICAPPED NEVER BY FORESIGHT BUT BY CULPABLE NOMOGRAPHY CREATING A DIESTRUS OF THE SACRED FIRES AND THE SACRILEGE OF ALEXANDRIA BESET BY THE ASPS BITE AND THE DESTRUCTIVE ALLEGIANCE OF CHUCKY AGAINST THE WISDOM OF THE WIDEST POSSIBLE VARSAL PERSPECTIVE OF HUMAN GEOSELENIC AFFAIRS IMAGINED BY THE SCRIVELLOS OF MEN OR THE ONOLATRY OF PALM SUNDAY COLTS RIDING DONKEYS TO PISCIFAUNA AGAINST NEW JERSEY DEVILED EDISONS WHO IN DISHONOR BUT ELITE GRAFT BECAME A FORMIDABLE LOCOMOTIVE OF INDUSTRIALIZED GALVINIZATION BECAUSE OF THE NAUCLATIC PACTS OF PEACE UNDERGIRDING THE GRANNARY GRAVAMEN IN THE BIG DIG BARTONS SWASHBUCKLING WITH RANCOR IN RANCID TRUCULENCE AMONG THE HISTORICITY OF A NEW ENGLAND TROLLOP OF DESICCATION IN A MAIDAN LAND OF ESBATS PERSECUTED BECAUSE OF FRENCH EMIGRATION THE EXODUS OF FORMER WARS MIGHT THEIR CRUCIBLE BE THE LITMUS TEST OF THE LIMITS OF OUR NEWFOUND CHRISTIAN EUHEMERISM AS WE LEARN THE CONVERGENCE OF THE CUNEIFORM CODEX AND THE LEVERAGE OF AUTOMATION FOR AUTOMATONS SILKALINE IN PRESTIGE AND GUZZLED BY THE GLAMOUR OF REPARTEE IN STAGED DOWNFALL AND STARLET MUSES OF ATHENAEUM AGAINST THE HEBENONS OF WAYSPAYED MULIEBRITY FIGHTING A WEGOTIST WAR AGAINST THE SOVENANCE OF TURNVEREINS OF TRUTH THAT ARE THE TORCHIERS OF THE AGES SUNKEN IN HARBORS AND ELEVATED IN INTREPID COURAGE AMONG THE HIGHEST PEAKS AND THE MOST PROFOUND DEPTHS OF HUMAN IMAGINATION FOR CAGOULES TO WHIMPER IN THEIR WHIFFETS OF BORTS THAT BECOME THE SATINETS PRIMARY OBSESSION WITH REGAL MATTERS PERTAINING TO EL PASO COUNTY INVITATIONS TO A BRIGHTER MORE PROSPEROUS FUTURE OF FORESIGHT AND GENIUS GILDED BY THE MATRIOTISM OF ALL CONVEX TIMES ANGLED DOWN IN AAONMS GRADGRINDS WHO PARSE THE PARSECS THAT SEPARATE US FROM THE COMMODORES BECAUSE THE SLEEK HINTS OF INTIMATION ESCAPE REVIEW BECAUSE THE BRONTEUM OF ALL SINECURES OF SYNCLASTIC TRUTH FAVOR THE UNDEFEATED STREAKS OF SPRAWLING ARCADES AND GLORIFIED STATUETTES SPIRALLING IN VERTIGINOUS DANCES AROUND THE TEMPLES OF PARIS TELEGRAPHED BY THE NOBILITY OF BUTCHERED LUKEWARM TAUNTS AGAINST THE BELLETRIST OF PROVINCIAL FOREIGNERS GIFTED WITH TURQUOIS VIOLENCE AND PURPLE REIGN THAT  ANOINTS EVERY GENERATION ABOVE ITS PEDIGREE AND FINDS THE 17 HORNS BLOWING TO BE LESS OF A KNELLED NUISANCE AND MORE OF A GRAVID DISCOVERY OF INCUBATIONS AND WEATHERBOARDS OF METEORIC SHAMBLES SPIRACULATED IN SAUNA DEPTHS OF BRACKISH CATADROMOUS GOLDMINERS WHO PARLAY THE BEST OF TWO BETS UPON THE PAXILLOSE TRAVESTY OF WOODED COCARDENS WHICH WALLOP EVERY JALEO OF STEVEDORES BECAUSE OF THEIR HANDSPIKE JARABES OF BAISEMAN AND COMPASS AIMING TRUE NORTH AWAY FROM THE LUNACY OF SOUTH PARK TURGID TURMOIL OF TELAESTHESIA IN THE FORMATIVE DURESS OF THE CONATION OF THE GREATEST OF PEAKS ESTABLISHED BY THE SPIKENARDS AND IRENARCHS OF THE GREATEST OF SUBTLETIES BECAUSE THE GILD OF SIRIUS RADIO AND THE SUBTERRANEAN MASKIROVKA OF WHIGGARCHY FIGHTING WITH SEMPERVIRENT TIMBERLASK GLOCHIDATE PUNITIVE RAISONNEURS MIGHT THEY ALL DEVISE WAYS TO SEE THE SYRINX OF THE EMBEDDED GALLANTRY OF DISASTERS THAT TURNED ICE INTO WATER AND THE CHEMISTRY THAT TURNS WATER INTO THE MOST RAREFIED WINE. SOME MIGHT ACCUSE THE ***** OF SABOTAGE IN HIS DEFECTED RECORDS SPREE OF  CEREAL KILLER DEMIURGES FOR THE FREEBOOTERS OF MANY A PRISON YET LIBERATED BY THE ELEUTHEROPOMANIA OF CACOETHES OF KANTIKOY IN THE MEGALOGRAPHY OF MANY GENERATIONS. WE ENTERTAIN A DIVERSE ARCADE IN ARCADIA BECAUSE THE BEHEST OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE ANCIENTS IS A QUIBBLE OF EPHESIANS TRYING THEIR BEST TO GAMBOL THEIR WAY INTO NUMBATS OF THE GREATEST VIRTUOSITY BEAMING AND BEAMISH OF FATIDICAL RESIGNATION OF THE MOFUSSIL TRIAD TRIAGE OF SUMPTERS OF SCURFY SCRAP METAL EMBEDDED IN THE RICHES OF THE CALUMET MOUNTAINS MOUNTED BY MOUNTEBANK QUARTERBACKS OF SIMPATICO RATHER THAN REVANCHE REGELATION PRIMARY TO THE COLOR-CODED SMARDAGINE PROVENANCE OF ALL PROVIDENTIAL MEN SERVING THE GLORY OF GRAND ARCHITECTS OF THE LOST SERENADE AGAINST JIMSWINGERS OF URBACIOUS AND ULMACEOUS POVERTY AGAINST TEXAS (VERY OBSCURE HINT YOU WON’T FIGURE IT OUT) BECAUSE THE GOLDEN BADGE OF THE HONOR OF A NEWFOUND WAPENTAKE DECIDED DECISIVELY BY A NETHERLANDS SPRITE FINESSING MORAL FIBER AND RECOILING IN TRAMONTANE GILDS THAT ANTICIPATE WITH ARCEATE OCREATED FASHIONS KNEADED TOWARDS A SELF-FULFILLING BELL MIGHT THE APPROPRIATION OF THE TACO BY THE CRACKLING THUNDER OF CACOMISTLES AND CREAKY CREANCERS OF CLITTER RATHER THAN CETACEAN CLOTURE BECAUSE THE RUNAGATE PERSECUTIONS OF PURITAN PILGRIMMAGE ARE DESOLATE WASTELANDS OF IMPROPER DECORUM FOR WARBLING TILTS OF RUMOR AND ROORBACK TO ZEPHYR THEIR WAY FROM THE VERSAILLES TO THE WALDOLF ASTORIA (OBSCURE HINT) BECAUSE OF THE SAD SPATTEES OF THE REAL-LIFE HINDENBURG WHICH SAILED TOWARDS AN UNFORESEEN CONVALESCENCE RATHER THAN A QUAGMIRE OF QUAHOG INFAMY RETICULATED VERY DEFTLY AND WITH ABARTICULAR VENGEANCE THE NEWER VENDETTAS OF EBBERMAN TRYING TO SECURE THE OBELIZATION OF OBELISKS ONLY TO TITANISM RATHER THAN TO SELF-REALIZATION OF A CELLULAR WORLD BUILT ON SILKALINE SATINETS TO PERUSE THE SALON AND CRAVENLY RIVET EVERY SUBSIDIARY ECONOMY TO THE LEVERAGE OF NEW WORLD CONQUEST MEETING OLD WORLD ASTROLOGY BECAUSE MYTHS OF DWARVES AND TITANS MARK THE ESCHATOLOGY OF “24K MAGIC” BECAUSE WE WANDER AGAINST WASMS OF WOODSHEDDING TO THE PARVENUS OF THE ARRIVISTE IVORY RATHER THAN THE COUNTERFEITER IVORRIDE OF BRAWNY RASP AND SIDEREAL ACCORD TO THE ZITHER AND FLUTE OF THE NINE SISTERS LOUD ENOUGH IN THEIR BLATTERNOPHONES THAT THEY AWAKENED THE ENLIGHTENED AGE THAT ONCE ONLY SKIRMISHED LIKE TIGERS ROARING IN TUBIFACIENT DELIRIUM MIGHT THEY CHANCE UPON THE BORTS EMBEDDED DEEP WITHIN THE SUBTEXT OF ARTEMIS AND THE CONQUEST OF THE PUNJAB BY THE ABEYANCE OF ROERICH BECAUSE OF THE REVOLUTIONARY ZEAL OF ALL-SEEING-EYE PREROGATIVES SWAMPY AND SCAPPLED AROUND RECIPIANGLES OF RECTANGULAR OBLATION AND NUTATION IN IMMATERIAL METEMPERICAL PHILOSOPHY OF UNNATURAL LAWS OF SARANGOUSTY AGAINST THE SCHMEGGEGY OF THE AGGRY AND AGRARIAN PERSIAN KNIGHTS WHO USED THE BRITSKA MAGI AND THE WISE SERVANTS OF THE KINGDOM OF THE NORTH AGAINST THE KINGDOM OF THE SOUTH TO AVENGE THEIR SEPARATE PEDIGREES BECAUSE THEY SOUGHT THE IMMORTAL WORD OF AMARANTHINE TRUTH AND THE ANACAMPSEROTE OF VIVID REVETS MIGHT THEY INCUR FEWER WINDS OF DAMAGE IN THE CARCASS OF POMPEII THAT CAESARS REJOICED ABOUT EVEN AT THE CUSP OF CATACLYSM BECAUSE THE SPRINGHARE NOOSES AND NOILS OF NAVES OF NAVARCHY BELONG TO THE SUNDOG JEREMIADS AND TALES OF THE GREATER BULK OF RESIGNATION. WE FIND OURSELVES FLUMMOXED AT THE DEMARCHE OF THE IDES BECAUSE OF THE JALOUSIES AND JEALOUSIES OF THE SCHISM THAT OCCURRED IN VENDETTA FOR QUAKY GROUND AGAINST THEOSOPHIES HOISTING STANLEY CUPS AND STANNARY COPIES OF THE ORIGINAL ARTIFACTS OF GREED AND OPPORTUNISM WHICH FORTIFY ALL MAINLINED  ECONOMIES AGAINST GILVARINGE HEDONISM WHICH SPURTLES ON CATALLACTIC CORDWAINERS WHO SERVE ON THE COUNCIL OF ATHENA BRONZED LIKE ZEUS UPON OLYMPUS MIGHT THESE VERY OBSCURE DETAILS LEAD TO THE WILDEST GOOSE CHASE UNLESS THE REAL GRAVITY OF SLAPSTICK CONFUSION THAT BELIES THE STEPNEY OF STEMSON BY THE STULMS THAT STOPE THE PERIPHERY OF ALL STARS AND THE PENULTIMATE DEGREES OF ALL CARREY ROYALTY TO THE SOCIETY OF THE SCIENCES OF WHITTAWERS THAT PAVED THE WAY FOR MIRACLE ABOVE JUSTICE RATHER THAN TRUMPETED DIKEPHOBIA SWARMING AN OCEAN OF HOLOBENTHIC THINKERS INFORMED OF THIS ZEITGEIST BEYOND THE PURBLIND UMBRILS OF THE PETULANT TEENS WARRING AROUND BEEHIVES OF FLAMBOYANCE BECAUSE OF A MISINTERPRETATION OF THE ALLEGORIES OF PRODIGAL SUNS AND SONS SET FREE BY GREEN-EYED LADY KNOWLEDGE THE GATEWAY TO THE MASTER VARDLE AND THE ACCESSIBILITY OF MOHAWKS WITH FURRY EVAPORATIONS AND THE FEATS OF ANTIQUITY WE CELEBRITIES CELEBRATE WITH ZANYISM AND ZEAL AGAINST THE ZEKS OF PARVANIMITY IN A WORLD STULTIFIED BY ARTICLES OF PRESS AND IMPRIMATUR ABOUT STILTED MECHANISMS OF COVERT VITRAILS OF THE VARSAL PROBABILITIES OF CATACLYSM AGAINST THE ATROCITIES OF ABAXIAL VOLTINISM OF CATASTROPHISM FOR NAGORS AND NACREOUS SECRETS THAT ONLY THE TRIBUNES OF LIGHT AND THE DAWNING ACCORD OF ADVENT AND PARCEL TO THE CONVENIENCE OF ROYALTY IN APANAGE MIGHT WE FAFFLE THROUGH SERVITUDE AND BECOME FEWTERERS OF A MIGHTIER HUMANITY THAT OVERCOMES THE QUIDLIBERTARIANS BECAUSE OF THE BROCKFACED BRONCHOS THAT EXISTS BECAUSE OF BRADYSEISM AND VANDYKES OF WALDFLUTE INDEMNIFICATION OF THE CODED VERSE OF A NEWER NOSTRADAMUS ISSUED WITH HINDSIGHT BETTER THAN A 1001 ARABIAN KNIGHTS BECAUSE THE MAGI OF FRANKINCENSE AND MYRRH KNEW THE HUMILITY OF THEIR STATURE BECAUSE OF THE DIVINITY AND GENTILITY OF EPHESIAN VECTIGALS OF EXTRAVAGANCE AND WONDER BECAUSE OF PETRIFIED THUGS LEARNING THE WAYS OF MODERNIZATION THAT THEIR DEAD TEMPLES AROUSE IN THE KNAVERY OF MEN BOTH DEAD AND LIVING. WE MUST ALL UPHOLD THE SINUOUS PEDIGREE OF AARON BURR BECAUSE THE FRIGOLABILE ELEMENTS OF WANCHANCY HAVE A NASTY HABIT OF RECRUDESCENCE AND RECIDIVISM BECAUSE IN SOME CONTRAPLEX RATIOCINATION WE FIND THE CELTIC BRIBE INSUFFICIENT FOR ILASTICAL CREDENDA BECAUSE THE METAGNOMY OF BARAGNOSIS AFFLICTING THE SOPITERS OF REGAL LORE AND LEGEND AND THE MAGNA CARTA REVOLUTION THAT USHERS US TO BIG BENJAMINS AND THE HEAVIEST OF QUANDARIES BRITTLE AT REDSHORT RESONANCE BECAUSE OF NEUTROSOPHY AT NEUTERED DISTANCES OF REGARDANT ARTIFACTS THAT THE PATIENT LIONIZATION OF THE TRUE CONOSSIEURS OF THE THOMAS CROWNE AFFAIR MIGHT FIND THEMSELVES STRANDED BY SUBSIDIARY DETAILS BECAUSE OF THE REGIONAL FANFARE OF LURID TRIUMPH AGAINST LAVISH PROMONTORIES OF CRAGGY  PEDIGREE GROWING INTO LICKERISH LICENSE THAT SPAWNS THE ANACHORIC RHEOTAXIS BECAUSE OF THE VULPECULAR MACROPICIDE OF THE ENTOMBED LOVE AND MOTION OF CINEMATIC TRIAGE AND TRIUMPH OF TRUE MESSIANIC VISION BOLTROPED TO BOLAR CONTINGENCIES OF THE CALVOUS MANY UPSETTING THE MERIT OF THE CHIVALRY OF THE FEW EXCLUDED FROM PRESBYTERY AND SANCTUARY BECAUSE OF INSUFFICIENT MEANS RATHER THAN INSUFFICIENT ENDS TO ACHIEVE ENTELECHY THROUGH AUTOGNOSIS. AMEN
KV Srikanth Jan 2021
Headmaster’s son
Skipped class
Entered theater
Life to Alter
Matinee show Shaheed
Worshipped Dilip Kumar
Like many before
Dreamt about Movies
Like a few followed up
Won Filmfare talent Contest
Frontier Mail to Bombay
Promised film stalled after start
Struggled even for a bit part
Anonymous in stature
Mononymous in Name
Debut in 1960
Finally part of filmdom
Small role
Mentor Arjun Hingorani
For a princely sum of fifty and a cup of tea
Still a novice
Women centric movies
Romantic lead in the Sixties
Meena Mala and Nutan
Supporting role with passion
Step by step rise
Salary raise
Accepted every role
Occupied was his goal
Villain to Jubilee Star
Filmfare Nomination
Sunil Dutt first choice
Destiny's voice
Phool Aur Patthar
Set on fire
Box office Register
Superstardom attained
Humility retained
First Action Star
Christened He Man
Shirt removed on Screen
Greek God looks
Women Swooned
Top ten lists
Most beautiful men
Ranked seven
Romance and Melodrama
Bollywood formula
Action film as chosen path
Rode the Lone road Superstardom under grasp
Looks Delivery and Fights
Made fans of Men &Women alike
Blockbusters galore
India's Superhero
Hit after hit
Audience explode
Cinemas full
Entry to Dress Circle
Needed a Miracle
Action and Drama
Tragedy and Comedy
Range of talent and skill
For one ticket fans would ****
All performed with ease
Endearing fans with range
Complete Superstar India’s Gain
Rajesh Khanna with Aradhana
Took the Nation by Storm
Adulation never seen
Sensation by definition
Costume Mannerism
Copied by every Indian
Every Star took a fall
Rajesh the magician
Stars faded into oblivion
Mass hysteria
Across India
First Superstar
Next 5 years none on par
Giants’ wayside
Stood his ground
Equal number hits
Second to none
Dedicated Fans
Built over a decade
Common man
Still wanted the He Man
Action and Adventure
Helped endure
Glorious career
Storm passed
Many faded
He never dated
He was fated
Test of time
Passed with Jubilees
No obstacle for water
Flows through all
Fridays proved
He’d never fall.
August 15 1975
Saw the release of Sholay
The greatest Indian film ever made
Said the Great Master Satyajit Ray
Top billed in the cast
One film showcased talent all
Action, Comedy, Drama
Cannot tell the Character and Actor apart
True quality of a genuine movie star
Many giants in the cast
He did help some get the part
Ensemble film
Even though the biggest star
Did not want to stand apart
Final product always in his heart.
70 mm Surround Sound
Entire country Theater bound
Never seen action sequence
Racing high the crowds pulse
Music Score by Burman
Records sold by the Million
Every dialogue known by heart
Salim Javed knew their craft
Ramesh Sippy knew to bring them all
Extremely well acted by the cast
Never will be another Sholay
Present future or past
Not to be seen but experienced
Its not a film but a phenomenon
Greatest Story ever told
Greatest cast ever assembled
Was the Tag Line
Global Indian Population
Viewership the film got
Not surpassed till now
Never will be
Every city town or village
Across the entire Country
Full house boards were not a mystery
Number of years it had its run
Till today box-office records undone
Yeh Dosti with Manna Dey and Kishore Kumar
Greatest  film Song picturised
Sizzling chemistry and male bonding
Friendship the central theme
Bullet with side car
Everyman’s. dream
Zanjeer with Amitabh Bachchan
Birth of the Angry young man
Indian Cinema never the same
Reached Pinnacle
Rode like a Colossus
One Man Industry
Steamrolled into one
Every Aspirant pushed
Donning Supporting Role
Every Reputed Writer, Banner and Director behind
Thirteen years
None had a career
Superstars became former
Stars to Supporting actors
Newcomers extinct
Old timers jaded
Galvanized Nation
Every release
Celebrations for fans
Faded festivals
Another Superstar
Bigger and Better
More popular than god
Elevated to one
Neither shaken or stirred
Matched Bachchan
With box-office Gangbusters
Hits became a habit
Fans and public
Yearning for more
Whatever the competition
Stood his ground
Megastar or Superstar
No dent to this Farmer
Paired with Hema Malini
Record Successive strikes
Result was Box office gold
Many a Phoenix
Flashed and Vanished
Shorter reign at the top
Never could topple him
From the moviegoers heart
Superstars became Supernovas
Younger generations
Had come to stay
Still stood in the fray
Never one to give way
Always had the final say
Held cash registers still in sway
Replaced Relegated
Never to be
Another name for longevity
Turn of the century
Completed 4 decades in the industry
60s 70s 80s 90s
Times changed
Many faded
Some retired
Contemporaries eased into character roles
Later lot fared similar
Star Sons made their mark
His sons did their part
Dawned the new century
Multiplex and wide releases
He never ceased to be a draw.
Man with a very big heart
Gave breaks to many a director and star
Never bitter Never insecure
Thanks people for making him a Superstar
Gratitude and love
His trump card
Became the Symbol of friendship
His Chemistry with Amitabh
Deep from the heart
Reciprocal in nature
Their oneness
Greatest gift of God
For the entire Country
Will be celebrated
For generations to come
Amitabh and his name
Always mentioned together
For every moviegoer
Till kingdom come
Till the universe remains
Etched in the hearts
Is his name forever
Can never be erased
That's true loves power
Men want to be him
Women want to be with him
Oldest cliché used for a star
Suits none better than this man from Punjab
60 years completed
From Meena to Mallika acted.
Done films with his son
Now with Grandson
There’s no one on par
Who's lasted so far
What can you say
About an Actor and Star
Captured a billion hearts
Transcended generations
In this delicate world of films
Who cannot be confined to any era
This timeless living legend
Is called Dharmendra.

While giving away the Cecil B Demille Lifetime Achievement Award to Martin Scorsese Robert De Niro famously said that Mr. Demille will be equally honored if he were to receive the Martin Scorsese award
Likewise Mr. Phalke would be equally delighted to receive the Dharmendra Award
This my final destination
Twisted ending illustration
Because i feel so forsaken
I denied your sensation
Like a awkward kiss on a first date
But now my fate is late with
No chance to wait
When did I get on my knees? Please?
I know how to sneeze
But not how to say... cheese
I joke but clasp my hands
Hope he will understand
Why the only master plan
Is to feel his front man
I have always know your their
Like saying my prayers
But I didn’t get anywhere
So I decided my neck stay bare
My life has turned grim
So why should I bother him?
I got a brother or two
That can help me through
See you already know that
So what’s really true ?
Cause you have let me down
When my mother died
I cried and asked why
When I lost my job
I had to sob while you were in Punjab
When the bottle didn’t work
Nor a girl that twerk
Your voice was short
My head is low and my life is in hell
I ask
No
I demand
No
I submit to your request
If it will help me be blessed
Or at least less stress
Then please give me a test
I can’t see you but know your eyes
I can’t touch you but know your wise
I can’t hear you yet I know we have ties
So just shoot me past Haley
Cause I’m coming thru
Flying straight to
Wherever you lead me too
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2020
Indian man volunteers
to be Covid vaccinated.

— The End —