Step into the sunshine my friend,
let it kiss your face and refine your spirit into a golden bar.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
come out of the shadows of your past,
emerge as a saintly being clothed in angelic white.

Step into the sunshine my friend;
let the great sun inflame your soul
with magnificent grace and transformative power.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
wipe the darkness from your eyes
see what miracles the new day brings.
Believe in all the light you see.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
let radiant beams of love ignite your passions;
your heart will bust forth like an exploding star
washing the galaxy with positive energy.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
receive the fantastic glories the day brings to you
and revel in them all.

Step into the sunshine my friend;
bathe yourself in the warm river of humanity.
Recognize yourself for the first time in its watery mirror.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
witness the delicate flower break through the hard crust of earth,
marvel as its fragrant bud blooms.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
experience the wonder in a child’s face,
let them lead you to the next 10,000 sunrises.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
feel the soft rays touch your wounds;
know how the daylight can heal.

Step into the sunshine my friend,
smell the ocean heave against the climbing sun
listen to the wisps of the meadowland's verdant fragrance.

Step into the sunshine my friend;
see the sparrow take flight toward the light,
watch its tireless wings glide on a blanket of rising thermal air.

Step into the sunshine my friend.

Music Selection: Ramsey Lewis
Sun Goddess

Oakland
122698
jbm

Well now,
I seen you got that look in your eyes
I know you saw right through my disguise
This front, this mask I wear
Trying to tell everyone
"Beware"

Yeah sweet,
I see your hidden side,
That you've been trying to hide,
But please, just be fair,
I'm different I really do
Care

So...  
You've seen what's been hidden
Underneath the paint on my face
I guess I'll have to apply a layer again
Can't let anyone touch my grace
I like being a mystery
Trapped in a
Haze

And...
There you are, out of my view
After I had a glimpse of the real you
Now I won't be put off
Or easy to faze
My life's complex
So I love a
Maze

It's true,
I do enjoy a chase
Sometimes, getting caught
Just ruins the game
So, as I look over my shoulder
I begin to
Wonder

I see...  
I'll  show you respect, admiration and grace,
I'll  continue to follow  but slow up my pace.
I still have my wits, but that's a wonder,
Considering it's your spell that I'm
Under

Do you now...
You know that I run for a reason?
I hide my inner light,
Cause I'm someone no one believes in
This life has been hard
And I'm the one dealing the cards
But I know now, I'm not the
Queen

Ah,
Unbelieved in is what you say?
I see it from another way,
You deal me the cards, and I pocket the hearts,
And you had it planned from the start,
You outplayed me, my trickster queen,
As we exit arm in arm as our final
**Scene

Tedious
Half-Baked
Egotistical
Erreneous

Assin­ine
Ridiculius
Troll
Inarticulate
SUBPAR
Tast­eless
Execrable

Laughable
Obnoxious
Grotesque
­Hopeless
Amateurish
Incompetent
Narcissistic

C­ounterfeit
Abominable
Reprehensible
Vainglorious
O­dious

No one to lay with while I dream,
The road to take us alone,
Paved from our memories,
They become me,
Light runs off,
Eyes shut,
Gone,

Under the floor I jump into,
Their faces wonder above,
Their shouting is quiet,
My words finish here,
Nothing can join,
None will leave,
Fires shut,
Spring,

Their graffiti mars the bone bridge,
This dark passage holds me here,
The rain rusts my being,
Your luggage in mine,
Clutching my soul,
My anger,
Our aim,
Clean,

At only 18 years old;
He was a Jack of all trades

Had the passion of blazing flames.
The free-spirited heart of a dove.
Debating skills that reached high above.
Athletic gifts that even the most talented could adore.
A witty personality that was hard to ignore.
Smatter than most I've ever known.
Reckless with a charm that was hard to condone.
Courage that surpassed the bravest.
Achieved the highest, and came back the greatest.
Friendly as if he had all the love to give.
Always smiling,
leaving everyone breathless.

Conner binded a small community together before and after his departure.  

He may not be here with us to pray, but he can be here to guide us along the way.
No doubt in my mind is Conner going to give up so easilly.  
If his legacy stays, so will he.

(after a watercolour by Mary Fedden OBE RA)
 
It is early morning, a Tuesday in June. It is May’s birthday. She likes to get up early on her birthday and join her husband on the beach. He has been up since five, fiddling about, making tea, reading a little, avoiding his desk. May thinks, when she watches him dress with a half an eye open feigning sleep, he looks so distinguished with his silver, nearly white hair and that beard (her suggestion). And today I am forty-five and he is . . . old enough to be my father. But he is my companion, my love, my watcher who stalks me still with his gaze of admiration, which I never tire of when we are alone, but I am sometimes embarrassed by when we are in company. He knows this, but he can’t help himself. He says he loves to watch me cross a room, stand still against a window, reach for a vase on a shelf, sit at my work table, intent.
 
May sees him far down the beach as she walks with purpose through the dunes that separate their cottage from the beach. Her short boots glisten with the heavy dew. She has pulled on her work dress over her striped nightshirt, a dress she wove in a grey Jura their first long winter. There he is in his stupid cap his grandson gave him when he acquired the boat. He’s carrying a fishing net to collect creatures from the rock pools further down the beach. She remembers when this ‘interest’ began. He had read to her one night a long extract from *Father and Son by Edmund Gosse. It was a kind of threnody to a state that once existed, a veritable Garden of Eden, destroyed in two generations by a mid-Victorian passion for sea-shore collecting. ‘These rock-basins’ Gosse had written, ’fringed by corallines, filled with still water almost as pellucid as the upper air itself, thronged with beautiful sensitive forms of life, - they exist no longer, they are all profaned, and emptied and vulgarized. The fairy paradise has been violated, the exquisite product of the centuries of natural selection has been crushed under the rough paw of well-meaning curiosity.'
 
She loved to hear him read, knowing that he loved to read to her. The joy on his face sometimes; it was worth enduring all the strange things he found to read (she fell asleep so often as he read) just for those occasions when she felt pinned to her seat, grappled to her bed like Gulliver, wishing it would never stop, such words, his dear voice. How long had it been now?
 
He didn’t walk to meet her. He let her walk to him. He stood there waiting. When she drew close he stretched out his arms and arranged her body in front of him, walked back a little and smiled his admiring smile. There were almost tears in his eyes, as there so often were when he had no words. She knew on his desk there would be a poem, and like the poet Ted Hughes (who neither of them could deal with), a birthday letter waiting to be given to her at breakfast, with gifts she knew he had worried over.
 
She stood quite still and let the fresh September wind gather her now quite long hair and turning away from him, let it stream behind her. He had turned too, realising in saying nothing he had said too much. He remembered another birthday on a different shore, a day when she had surrounded him, captured him, loved him with a passion that had now tempered, was the stuff of his writing that now had found its way into a 100 Love Poems to Read before you Die. He had long since refused to speak these out loud, refused to be visible anymore, would not be interviewed; it was now the novel, the long, long journey of a novel, the months, years even (In Praise of Rust took three agonising years).
 
And now, standing in this sun-glinting bay, ignoring the lighthouse, May thought of Mrs Ramsey and that summer party on Skye, those earnest young men, those artistic young women, and her commanding husband who would not look at the lighthouse, who would not countenance a visit.
 
Her husband, strange to think this because she never felt herself his wife, never commanded anything. He made decisions, and then laid things gently aside. It was enough for him to have been decisive. What she did with that was up to her. He wanted her to be free, always free from any command. When they married, to him it was like the silent grace they ‘said’ at each meal. She knew it had meant so much to him: the silence of that moment. He had read to her the morning of their marriage a text from William Penn – she had remembered one phrase  ‘Between a man and his wife nothing ought to rule but love . . .’ And he yet had never commanded her. He seemed to admire her being her own self. She was not his. They were the dearest friends, weren’t they? He expected nothing from her (he had said this so often), no commitment, no promise; just gentleness, a peaceful nature, an understanding that he loved her with a passion she would never understand because she knew he did not understand it himself.

Gardening.
4.
Years old.
Gardening.
24.
Years old.
20.
Year Annuity.

I knew somethin' was wrong when a little pretty white girl ran into a black man's arms. Somethin' is WRONG here. Dead giveaway!  She's got problems. That's the only reason she's running to a black man!

Doggerel

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:


There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller


I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:

***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Originally published by Light



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
​


Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.



tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



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.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7

NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."



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.



The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!



Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.

Originally published by Grand Little Things



Other Animal Poems

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting



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.



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.



Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick 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.
― Michael R. Burch



Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch



The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch



Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch


　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch



Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch



A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　


There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch



There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



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

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!



Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.



The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”



Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”


Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?


Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!

My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!



A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch

Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.

A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.

Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!

A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”

No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.

Exeunt stage left.



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.


tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.



Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.



Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.



Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!



The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!



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.



Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch

I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?



Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch



Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch



Ireland’s Ire has Landed

The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.

Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”

The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.

The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten ***
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest *** (et) wus his ****.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!

The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.



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

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

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



Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch

Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.

Love, but don’t fall.



Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch

I’m low on ****,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.

Flabby and *****,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.

Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!



Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a ****** need a beard?

Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?

And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?

Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?



This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.

An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had *** one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!

There was a young **** star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for ***,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch

Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!

There once was a camel who loved to ****.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch

I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch



Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!

My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!

I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"

But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!



Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.

I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.



The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch

It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.



WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch

When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?

Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?

Will the porpoises
lack purpose,

the marigolds
fold?

Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?

Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.

But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.



One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch

Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:

“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”

“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”

“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”

But Robert Horry’s not impressed.

Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.

Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.

Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.

Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.

Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.



Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch

Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.

Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your *** cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.



New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch

The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?

I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!

They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!

And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...

So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!



Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch

for Tallulah Bankhead

“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a ****.”

“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”

Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi

Had a stellar time last night at the Rhymesayers 20 year anniversary show.  
A lotta these cats have done so much for my soul, that I finally remember the me in the dream that I forget to know. With inspiration so deep we can tap into this eternal flow.  I now see into the water clearly, all ripples calmed and all 3 eyes are no longer dreary.  This goes to anyone that can hear me, you must let the walls fall to notice all of life's endearing.  I have a collection of blurry pictures of mindful Mic wizards, that I have so much respect for - just to shake their hands I would walk through a blizzard.  My lover Meg and I drove 12 hours altogether on very little sleep.  The amount of appreciation I have for her only grows more and more deep.  Even when we're cold she'll still fan my flames.  On the path we're on, we still have so much to gain.  The amount of love that surrounds us, an overly-rational mind would deem insane..  But you can never see the big picture when you're staring at the frame.  Ty Kraus and Mr. Nick Ramsey joined our adventure.  Through beautiful December weather, to have a great time and witness magic was our only endeavor.  We did what we set out to, mission accomplished.  Sat astonished and basked in Brother Ali's dropping of knowledge.  All act's crafts were so polished, and I feel like Micheal Larsen, was right there among all of this.  I don't think anyone said R.EYE.P once, probably because you weren't resting.  Inside the good vibes of the alive family you were nesting.  Eyedeas never die, which is why rhymesayers came to life.
They paved the way for many artists' lives to walk in to the light.  Building a metaphysical castle one intent at a time.  I may not be on the label, but I've been recreated through my own saying of rhymes.
Got to tell Slug once he inadvertently saved my life.  This groundbreaking moment ended with, a photo, and a signed tee I wore for the first time last night.  For me, there really is no end in sight.  We've got the Blueprint and Abilities to know all is and will be alright.  I just wanna thank you all, for helping me see my stripes.  I hope I can do the same without being a stain on your might.  Thanks for helping me believe in me, and please keep painting with your divine insight.
One love~

The setting was between Oconee and Ramsey my uncle Oroville Denton is an ordained minister
With the United Pentecostal Church he was putting on a brush arbor reenactment our church
Has what is called a testimony service where anyone can stand a tell of anything special that
God has done for you they have someone to lead the service and this was what I was doing but
The PA system was acting up while I was talking my voice was being bounced back where I
Could hear it that was where I was wonder struck I was talking normal but that wasn’t what I
Was Hearing there was spirit covering my words they make a lot of the Holy Grail as they
Should As a Relic of antiquity and it connection with Christ but it is still just a lifeless object but
Hear the Living God was speaking I felt this utter sensation of vibrant electrifying tenderness
Bathed in Unfathomable love a richness of texture that was profound the very distillation of the
Sublime mixed with human thought and expression it was warm endearing and it entered the
Soul as food ultimately different than what I experienced before except when I listened to the
Pastor in Monterey California he spoke and this sensation occurred within the spirit the same as
When you consume natural food this in the simple act of talking about the goodness of God the
World was set at a variance what was simple was astonishing the world of the unseen was
Becoming visible at least in speech anyway it was charged with supernatural renowned
Offerings that took you to levels not otherwise found inexplicable taste unbound knowing was
Fixed you were truly speaking God speak a well filled with knowing fulfillment thrilling
Spell bounding gifts sought and found by the ancients provided to common man illustrious
Clean and gleaming secrets the foretelling of dreams that begin in Heaven and then stream into
Human life truly before banners unfurled Holy and grand fortune awaits he who listens bends
His will to the flourishing uncommon vistas the predates earth and all that it is or ever will be
You are tied to immortal strands the quests of earths wisest who fail because they depend on
Only self as the one who holds the only possible answers when towers of attributable power
Stand without perplexity to the lowest searcher all is revealed it is all at the desecration of the
Giver not by might or power but by humility of need this world is bridged to the next we are
Endowed with all that is needed to secure Heaven for those that will obey truth and it just
Cause in the earth

~*~

Rising from the earth,
like the native Comanche.
He’s really quite dandy.
Introducing...
President Chimpanzee.

So fierce and strong,
like a banshee—
but brave and cute,
Like little orphan Annie.
No, his name’s not Randy,
or Sandy, or Fannie, or Mandy—
get it right!
The name’s,
Chimpanzee.

You may find him with Andy,
eatin’ nanners in the pantry,
but no need to get antsy—
He’s not getting handy with granny!
I mean, come on—
he’s a chimpanzee!

Oh, that fuzzy man candy.
His ideas—so fancy dancy.
Building a democratic jungle of equality.
A born leader like King Ramsey!
Did you forget him already?
You know the dude...
Chimpanzee.

So, get up, America!
Stop playing with your testies.
Pull up your pantsies.
Go gather all that you can see,
and put them in a frenzy—
with definite intensity,
For the
              grandly,
                swanky,
                  vigilante,
                    Yankee,
                       of Miami.

Give us liberty.
Give us...
President Chimpanzee.

“Should we wrap it up?”



“No… **** them.”



And so she held it open and I shoved the contents in, a navy blue national geographic mug with a gold globe and majestic lettering, suggesting prestige and class, and a worn paper copy of ‘Ender’s Game’. My stomach churned for a moment as I feared that I perhaps forgot to remove the bookmark, but the pages held nothing but themselves, and the words of Orson Scott Card, not me.
“You’re not going to write him anything, are you?”



Why did she ask that? She had a right, but didn’t she trust me? I did write him something. I used the bookmark, in reality a half-piece of paper folded twice, and wrote



“Thank you for letting me

read this

it took a while to

get back to you but

I see why you like it.”



I suspected he wasn’t as dense as his misogyny and drug use suggested, and in my form he could find an alternative meaning, the kind I provided him with, the kind when he said he wondered what I meant sometimes.



I reread my penciled note, my last farewell, and considered writing “good luck with everything”. What would he think if he read it, if they read it? They already laughed so it’d be nothing new. I decided against it. It would be a response to his arrogant, empty text, where he triumphantly, probably drunk, sent a blank text. Did you have to tell me you had nothing tell me? She was furious. I never did respond, and handwriting was too personal.



“I have nothing to say to him. I just want to give their **** back and get it out of my life.”



I didn’t check the price of the over-sized, padded envelope I was about to purchase, but I appreciated the convenience of the post office for making my task an easy one. There was something freeing about being passive and sending mail, rather than making the three hour drive for no reason other than to experience another awkward situation, and perhaps worse, another yelling altercation.



I was worried the glass would break in transit, for the fear they would open the package and see it as deliberate, and I imagined their conversation: mocking our relationship, calling us *******, suggested we did it on purpose, saying anything malicious to assert their manliness and inflate their egos.



“Should we send them separately?”

“Don’t waste your money on those ******.”



So I sealed it. The small, bulky package contained things to return seemed heavier than needed. I imagined their faces when they saw who sent it, their outward responses to one another, and their immediate reactions once opening it.



“This will shut him the **** up. I can’t believe he thought I stole it.. I thought it was yours when I packed it.”



“You don’t need to say anything,” she demanded. “He’ll get it back, you don’t need to explain.”



She was obviously more annoyed at the two than I, although I was immensely annoyed. He thought I stole his mug. Well, I am so kindly sending it back. Perhaps this would be enough to get a response regarding subleasing.



“I really don’t want to pay $300 a month for a place I’m not living,” I pleaded.



“If they don’t respond then we’ll put locks on our doors. I don’t want them using our rooms and letting their friends sleep there.. they’d probably let people live there and pocket the money for themselves.”



The line in front of us gave us enough time to contemplate the situation, the whole situation, and it reminded me to check if he said anything. Message read, Tuesday 10:10 p.m. No response. I didn’t dare write the other. Neither would she.



“Six-thousand one, Autumn Avenue,” I said out loud as I wrote the address. A strangeness filled me, as I looked at the names I’d just written and the address of my former college residence. We don’t live here anymore. I was glad of it. I was glad to be standing there with her, running a necessary errand of alleviating ourselves of the burden of owing them anything. No longer would we need to endure video games, constant presence of the boy who slept on the couch every single night, despite his room, rewatching Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ over and over until he memorized them, nor did we need to deal with hearing the door slam at 3:00 a.m. and an alarming “I’m home, *******!” from a drunkard. No more cleaning up beer bottles and bowls with cigarette ashes, no more listening to hockey or male-dominated conversations lacking substance. No longer would I feel trapped, as if Giovanni’s room, in the upstairs loft, tension rising up the stairs and filling up the whole house, the way burnt Ramen would smell when he forget to monitor it. The “he”’s would be out of our lives, as soon as they signed the lease. We stood there at the table before the checkout, patiently, thinking of the same thing probably, except I imagined her wondering if I liked when he ****** me.



She took the pen from me and hovered it over the package, pretending to inscribe “Love, the girls” with a heart next to it. She laughed, and I did too. I could imagine them opening the package, the one retrieving his mug, undoubtedly making a snarky comment, and the other ******* about the bottom left corner of the cover of his book being bent. I wondered if he’d wonder whether I read the whole thing through.



I hoped the cup wasn’t broken. There was a crack on the bottom of the handle, and I imagined him sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having it snap and spill all over his lap.



“Next,” the woman called us and we stepped to send it off. “Would you be interested in the priority tracking shipping? It’ll cost— ”



“No thanks, we’re not in a real rush to get it there.”



“It’ll be the same price as without it, $5.79.”



“Then sure.”



I paid in quarters, retrieved my change and we left.



“Hopefully now that he has his ******* cup back he’ll sign the lease.” We were both worried.



“Do you want to get some wine?” And so we drove. Up the street, left turn, on the main road, right turn through the drive through.



“Hello,” I said to the man in the turban. She gave me her license and her card. “Could we have a double-bottle of Yellow Tail’s Cabernet Sauvignon?”



“Big bottle?”



“Yes sir.”



“I wonder how much those Backwoods cigars are.. sir, could you tell me how much for the 5-pack?” He reached for the pack on the left. “$7.49.”



“Oh no. Do you have Black and Mild’s?



“Apple, wood-tip, wine—”



“Could we have a wood-tipped wine one?”



“It’s better than cigarettes.”



“I haven’t smoked tobacco since Christmas Eve so I’m okay with it. I need it after today.”



He handed me the goods, I gave him her card, we waited, I smiled at her and she smiled back, her pale face and sweet, soft features, like a little pet, and he reached down to give me the clipboard to sign her name.



“Thanks, have a good night.” And I drove off.

It's
A pity
That I can
Stare down a drop
Of beaded water
Pace these same halls for hours
Chef Ramsey vids end to end
But that I can't focus
Any such efforts
So that I can
Do the things
I really
Want

Who is in charge of broadcasting who's in charge of the TV?
Is it an escaped mental patient or a convicted escapee?
Where sick of recycled programs where sick of reality
Your ripping of the public for your own personal payee
We're still paying for repeats these programs should be free
Why the **** are we still paying for the TV license fee?
Stop showing the same programs and hear the publics plea
It is just an insult to our arses sat on our settee
The people who are in charge their all just a wannabe
Commissioning old programs from all the left over debris
You may support your schedules I really don't agree
Cos all that we get are repeats from Dave to ITV

The stations are atrocious the programs are mundane
No more reality or repeats please would you refrain
Stop with all the same shows stop showing them again
A thousand times we've seen them its driving us insane
Consider scrapping most shows throw them down the drain
And spare the paying public from constant program strain
We don't want no more game shows I hope I'm being plain
Too much focussed on reality your making these the main
Stop conning all your viewers and causing so much pain
With in show competitions for your own financial gain
And ****** TV voting the contestants are too vain
All of the public phone calls are nothing but a stain

We don't want to turn to boredom with all of those Big Brothers
Not interested in One Born Every Minuet or expectant mothers
Kitchen Nightmares and Hell's Kitchen Gordon Ramsey's foul mouth smothers
The Great British Bake Off and Masterchef the same as all the others
Pawn Stars was misleading it had no *** or scrubbers
Don't want people on Love Island selecting different lovers

Who cares about the rounded lives of bearded Mountain Men?
No interest in crap inventions or rich Dragons in the Den
Wife Swap and ******* Pawn nothing to do with ***** hoes
Loose Women and 4 in a Bed I was expecting different shows?
The Wright Stuff with Mathew Wright well really its just wrong
The same as This Morning and Lorraine they've been on far too long
Apparently your a fat ******* if You Are What You Eat
If I want to see Nightmare Neighbours I'll look out on the street
Make your ******* mind up and Say Yes To The Dress
Stop buying so much food so you can Eat Well For Less
Hoarders houses are not wanted, don't show us the inside
Is it really such a secret if you Don't Tell The Bride?

How To Look Good Naked what kind of purv is Gok Wan?
Ogling middle aged naked ladies well. . . just because he can!
*** Pod may have been good but we never saw a thing
What's the point in a *** program without the ****** zing?
Lord Sugar fire's Apprentices he doesn't make much sense
When contestants are not hired yet there is no real suspense
People risking their own lives driving Ice Road Truckers
I've really got no sympathy for those stupid mother *******
Pierce Morgan talked Life Stories why is he such a *****?
Or is he just an arrogant ****** you can take your pick
The Crocodile Hunter Steve Erwin his fate was a stingray
If he'd been a bit more careful he'd still be here today
We where shown full frontal nakedness in Naked Attraction
It could have had more potential with it bit more interaction
The Only Way Is Essex well that simply is not true
If I don't want to go to Essex then what will they do?
There was never any Cash In The Attic if this was the case
There would be no need to sell their things in the first place
Who do You Think You Are I'm surprised there on this show
What kind of mindless people are they if they don't ******* know
I don't want crap singers on the X Factor or hear The Voice
Sod those ****** Pop Stars your not giving us much choice

If celebrities wanted to get out of the jungle then why even appear?
Is it because they are not main stream and its good for their career?
Its a boost for run down minor celebs, well what the heck
Instead of voting them off cant we vote off Ant and Dec?

Judge Judy and Judge Rinder are basically the same
Just a rehash of the Peoples Court isn't  that quite lame
Stop using the same format for shows that you can tame
I suppose that's all we'll ever get stop playing the same game

Top Gear and Fifth Gear are almost the Same Wheel
Say no to the House Doctor her designs are too unreal
get rid of The Hotel Inspector and Dickinson's Real Deal
We don't want Dancing On Ice there is no real appeal

Why Escape To The Country where they prisoners before?
The Kardashians and Osborne's we don't want them anymore
Strictly Come Dancing we're sick of that dance floor
Don't want to see Grand Designs there no good if your poor
Cant Pay Well Take It Away what are we paying for?
It's the same as paying the licence fee it's nothing to adore

Sixty Minuet Makeover it's enough to make you weep
Impossible to achieved do you think we're mindless sheep?
Homes Under The Hammer, it's not what I would keep
Antiques Trip and Road Show will send you right to sleep
A large percentage that are made are made on the cheep
But I've noticed that the licence fee is still so ******* steep

There are to many senseless channels with program limitations
What happened to the good shows the ones with good creations
Better programs years ago when we only had five stations
It's only my own opinion and own personal observations
Maybe it was a time when producers took their medications
When writers admired their work and had more dedications
More devotion for the programs, no love for abominations
So re-evaluate your programming and stop these infestations

No!
Shout their names
Let high winds carry them
to all corners of the world

Nicholas Dworet
Gina Montalto
Jamie Guttenberg
Alyssa Alhadeff
Joaquin Oliver
Meadow Pollack
Martin Duque
Luke Hoyer
Alex Schachter
Peter ****
Alaina Petty
Helena Ramsey
Cara Loughran
Carmen Schentrup

Scholars, athletes,
musicians,
community volunteers,

Chris Hixon
Aaron Feis
Scott Beigel

Teachers,
mentors,
leaders

All seventeen
caring, strong,
determined,
thoughtful

inspirations

Shout their names
Let high winds carry them
Honor their memory

Show their young vibrant faces
Look!
Really look!

Look in their eyes
Can you not see their hopes?
hopes that fell and
crumpled with their limp bodies,
destroyed in mere seconds

Can you not see their dreams?
dreams shattered,
turned to nightmares?
destroyed in mere seconds

Can you not see their plans?
Plans for their future,
a future wrenched from them
destroyed in mere seconds,

Mere seconds
of violence

That’s all it took

Congress persons,
Members of NRA,
Gun sellers
are your children,
grandchildren,
those you care about
shielded from this same fate?

Or
will it take their demise
before you can see?

Don’t you know that,
in truth, we are all
the same family?

The children who died
are your children!
The teachers who died
are your brothers!

Their blood courses
through your body, too

it courses through all of us.

New Year s Eve parties
We “dressed to the nines “
Fancy frilly Dresses
Hair updos, nails, lashes
Dress to impress.
but it’s all for fun.
Ready to ring in the new year
with those we hold Dear.
Remembering
those who are no longer here.

As we count down
the seconds until midnight
A sparkler for delight
Holding our loved one tight
Fireworks,Noice makers
popping streamers Watch them fly high into the sky.strategically position
In the middle of the dance floor,
Five, four, three, two, one…
“Happy NewYear” The crowd cheers
The bells begins to ring,
Well wishes, Cheek Kisses
Collectively, We all begin to Sing.  

Should old acquaintances be forgot
And never brought to mind

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and Auld Lang Syne

For Auld Lang Syne ,my dear
For Auld Lang Syne

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
For Auld Lang Syne…

There’s actually more lyrics to this, but nobody ever sings them?

Have you ever wondered
What this song means?
After a few drinks,
it doesn’t really matter
A hill of beans!

Auld Lang Syne means,
Old or long since, Old Times

It invokes feelings of nostalgia, especially to memories of good times spent.
Should old acquaintances, be forgot, and never brought to mind

Serves as a reminder to cherish those fond memories that We’ve already had,
Which makes the song
A perfect New Years Eve song.

This song was written centuries ago. A Scottish poem, updated by Robert Burns, in 1788, Who gave a new modern version from the original poem. by author Alan Ramsey.
Please share with me
How do you Ring  
in the new year.

NEVER FORGET  

the buildings gray stood grand and tall
the proudest prize of man's bright call
none dared to think that one might fall
thus glist'ning in the sun
the perfect morning sun

from cherished ground each tower rose
with strength and structure, grandiose
and steady through what nature blows
designer minds had wrought
their best, or so we thought

but some small men with missing parts
brought caliphates with fits and starts
their twisted aims from twisted hearts
would make examples, clear
the things we held, so dear

there wields no sharper blade or knife
than those which can't thus value life
oh deep that wound of careless strife
cut by an empty soul
an empty, barren soul

they flew that morn from foreign lands
these rotten souls, with hateful hands
with peopled planes at their commands
and hate their only cause
a beast with deadly claws

one at-a-time straight 'head they flew
'midst cloudless skies and vault of blue
they stabbed their evil arrows through
the hearts of all mankind
death's rattle left behind

those towers melted, crumpled ... fell
and brought a grief no one could quell
there on the news, straight out of hell
that horror lay unfurled
the weeping of a world

two decades gone, the wounds remain
those birthed from promise gone insane
lost catafalques, like tears through rain
that make no earthly sense
death smirks as God relents

please, teach our wee ones how it was
that heav'n did laud such twisted cause
and burned our bright and wondrous Oz
with fire's heinous flash
turned wonder into ash

how can it be that monsters, thus
now wear a mask that looks like us?
how can we learn, again, to trust?
still, from those ashes, then
the grandest dreams of men ...

through hope, can rise again.

Copyright © Patrick ramsey September 11, 2021

Terrible Scenes of Death and Misery in Minnesota. Five Hundred Whites Supposed to be Murdered. The Sioux Bands United Against the Whites. FORT RIDGELEY IN DANGER.
Published: August 24, 1862
ST. PAUL, Minn., Saturday, Aug. 23.
Parties from the Minnesota River reached here last sight. They state that scouts estimate the number of whites already killed by the Sioux at 500.
This opinion is based on the number of bodies discovered strewn along the road and by trails of blood.
It is believed that all the missionaries have been killed.
The civilized Indians exceeded their savage brethren in atrocities.
Mr. FRENIER, an interpreter who has spent most of his life among the Indians, volunteered to go alone among them, trusting to his knowledge of them and his disguise, to escape detection. He dressed himself to Indian costume and started on his journey. He arrived at the Upper Agency at night.
The place was literally the habitation of death.
He visited all the houses, and found their former occupants all lying dead, some on the door-steps and some inside their habitations. Others were scattered in the yards and in the roads.
He went to the house of Hon. J.R. BROWN, and recognized every member of the family. They numbered eighteen in all, and every one of them had been brutally murdered.
At ****** Creek he found that fifty families had been killed outright. At every house he went into he recognized the dead bodies of nearly all the former inhabitants of the place.
Among the dead bodies he recognized at the Agency were the following:
N. GOVERUS and family.
Dr. WAKEFIELD and family.
JOHN TODDENS and family.
JOHN MOYNER.
EDWARD MOYNER.
Rev. Dr. WILLIAMS.
Rev. Mr. BRIGGS, and two missionaries.
Ex-Gov. SIBLEY is now marching to the relief of Fort Ridgley.
He reports that the Sioux bands are united together to carry out a concentrated and desperate scheme, and says that he will be only too happy to find that the powerful upper bands of Yanktons and other tribes have not united with them.
Mr. FRENIER writes to Gov. RAMSEY, on the 21st inst., saying that he left Fort Ridgley at 2 o'clock on that morning. There were then over two thousand Indians at the fort, and all the wooden buildings there had been set on fire, and were burning.
Mr. FRENIER thinks that other tribes are joining the Sloux, and that they will present a very formidable array.
A reliable letter, dated Glencoe, 21st inst., says that the injury done by the stampede of the settlers is immense, and that such another scene of woe can hardly be found in the South as in McLeod, Meaker, and the northern part of Sibley and other counties to Minnesota.
In St. Paul and the adjoining country all the available horses are being gathered together, and all sorts of weapons will be used by willing hands for immediate and summary vengeance upon these blood-thirsty Indians.
CHICAGO, Saturday, Aug. 23.
The St. Paul (Minn.) Pioneer, of the 20th inst., says, it is thought that the Indians have been induced to commit these outrages by Indians from Missouri and secession traitors of that State, and that when Maj. GALBRAITH left the agency on Friday everything was quiet. The Indians had received their goods and had all disappeared apparently satisfied with the Major's promise to send for them as soon as the money arrived to pay them their annuities.
The first attack of the Indians was made on the house of Mr. BAKER, on Sunday last, near the town of Acton, and 30 miles from Forest City, in which three white men and one woman were killed.
On Monday morning an attack was made on Redwood, and at the time the messenger left there, a number of persons had been killed.
After the messenger had crossed the river, he saw the Indians firing into traders' stores and other buildings. He estimated the number of Indians engaged in this firing at 150. He also stated that messengers had arrived at Fort Ridgley with money to pay off the Indians the sums due them.
The St. Paul Press, of the 21st instant, says that several loads of panic-stricken people, from Currer and Sibley Counties, arrived in town last night, principally women and children. They were greatly excited, and give exaggerated accounts of the Indians, who were marching on Shasta County. They also say that the towns of St. Peter, Henderson and Glencoe have been burned.
A private letter received in this city, to-day, from St. Paul, dated the 20th instant, says, that it seems to be the general opinion among the best informed of our citizens that these Indian troubles originated with the cursed Secessionists of Missouri.
Major GALBRAITH was told by one of the Indians that there are now in arms ten thousand of the Sioux tribe, besides other tribes from Northern Missouri.
ST. PAUL, Minn., Saturday, Aug. 23 -- 9 P.M.
ANTOINE FRENIER, the disguised Indian scout, got through the Indian lines into Fort Ridgeley and brought back the following to Gov. RAMSEY:
FORT RIDGELEY, Thursday, Aug. 21 -- 2 P.M.
We can hold this position but little longer unless we are reinforced. We are being attacked almost every hour, and unless assistance is rendered us we cannot hold out much longer. Our little band is becoming exhausted and decimated. We had hoped to be reinforced to-day, but as yet can hear of no one coming.
T.G. SHEHAN, of Company C, Fifth Minnesota Volunteers, commands the post.
Gov. SIBLEY cannot reach here with his twelve hundred troops until to-morrow, when a day of reckoning for the Indians will be at hand.

faces..
⠀⠀by Patrick ramsey

"Your face looks different now",
an old friend said yesterday
"Yeah, been a long", i replied,
just to say something
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
doing hairs this morning i puzzled though
did i really change? do we, ever?
but why then i FEEL same about it, forever!
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
sure we do, like we change attires for different occasions, we change faces too
for different people, at different places
i am plenty of faces myself
an angry young man at home
a polite and nice outside
I'm a boss like rude face at restaurant
while calling waiter
an elegant courteous face asking for
a change to a big-shop owner
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I'm the old wrinkled face, wise having
denounced the worldly affairs
a little kid on days, innocent and curious
I'm the face of loneliness that often
roams on crowded streets
and the failed success for a family
who once took pride in
I'm the face oscillating between teary and
smiley, unable to catch the right emotion
I'm the face of body with
beautiful imperfect settings
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I'm thousand different faces and counting...
and I'm none of them really
they all protect the vulnerable, fearful,
unsure, childish face beneath
and I'm not that either
I'm none
for I'm just the one who wears them all
and that's it...

© April 2021
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
#writewhatyoufeel #poem #write #keepwriting #poetry #english

I'm on mental lock after my mentality turned into mortal kombat
I was scorpion til I changed to sub-zero so stop playing with my thermostat
Can't be so hot and blazing like Chef Ramsey cooking with hell's fire
Then colder than ice like a snow storm going haywire
I lost my appetite sitting in standby as part of your perfomance
I got fire and ice around my heart and a giant hole so I feel hella dormant
You know I might as well cut this pity act out because I'm getting nowhere with these words
On God I'm really tired of my voice going unheard
This is a mental note I want you to take physically from me to you
So take the ******* invisible glasses off your face so you can hear one word or two
I'm locked away on my own private island not to escape but because I'm a prisoner
Yeah we're all human and a creation of God's but we're still natural born sinners
All sin is weighed the same still doesn't mean you can commit whatever crime you want
You committed the crime yet my poor excuse for a life is what death wanted to haunt
I'm physically, emotionally and mentally tired of this bs going on and enough is enough
Should've known It was all like Texas, I couldn't hold em so I never called your bluff
I'm spitting the blackness you instilled in my heart or should I say you added more fire to a dark and bitter flame
Just read the words being poured before I decide to blow out my cerebral membrane
Forget it you wouldn't understand anyway, you're only trying to be  a convict playing victim
A pity story is what you brought to the table end you still expect to believe that this is your dictum
I never thought this would be of reckoning for this path, didn't roses could turn into infectious weeds
I listened to my heart and tried to keep it all together thinking I was placing my faith in a mustard seed
Guess the jokes on me the devil most definitely is a liar guess he pulled all the stops on this one
Straight down from the bottom of your rugged feet up to the top of of hair placed in a bun
I had so many dreams yet I'm under enslavement to this game we shall speak of because I can't stop tossing and turning around in my sleep
Too many emotional scars and wounds and you don't have to guess because you know **** well that this one cut real deep
Depression and anger from hot to cold like sapphire and ruby
Their an inseparable pair some could call em a beastly beauty
But I never referred that to me that was an added line to make you think was a turning point where you'd see cherry blossoms
I got all these lego blocks falling apart from my heart when I only wanted to be AWESOME
Cut the bs out I didn't I'd be fighting Edward scissor hands with a piece of paper
I got so much my presents ****** like my past, I feel like the next Hello Neighbor
I'm getting ready to conclude to you what I feel burning within in my body and its not a desire to return
I feel like a newly born 9/11 disaster and now its only become none of your concern
Just lost and broken no words to be spoken I'm at a suicidal arcade trying to spend all my tokens
Getting ready to walk down the streets so once I say Sesame the doors'll be opened
You brutally murdered what little sanity and I'm on my way to an insane asylum
I can't excuse the pain you left behind beating me humdrum
I'm on my last limbs trying to send you a direct quote
Because I won't be the only one who has to pay after writing this Mental Note

Obituary of a cook
A famous French cook has passed away
this is sad of course, but it shows how the world of catering
has changed character.
From an unshaven backroom man to a leader but only
a leader in his restaurant for cooks holds no other power.
I enjoyed that he once threw a plate of spaghetti
after Chef Ramsey for not making ravioli right, mind
with a master like that no wonder George Ramsey swears a lot.
But hang on a bit, if we elevate cooks to the status
of world leaders of great importance then we should stop
and think of the millions of women who cook for their
family and do so by being economical with their food so
it can be used the next day.
Of course, there are millions of women in our modern
society for whom the sight of a carrot or a potato leaves them flabbergasted,
but as the fairy tale says
need makes a naked woman knit a blouse.

The doorway to your thoughts is thought of to be your eyes
If you gaze into them in the just the right way you can see swirling emotions held back behind fragile glass
But mine?
A concrete blockade, unable to be opened
Even i had not visited the darkest parts of my mind in what seemed like centuries
So i’d never really worried about the tension of my emotions, how they pressed against the wrought-iron gates to my soul
Threatening to wrench it open to escape and wreak havoc throughout all aspects of my simple life

That’s before i started seeing Her
Dr. Ramsey
The first time those cold gray eyes locked with mine in the plain office i felt myself retract inside my brain without really intending to do so
“Tell me about your childhood”
A storm was picking up, not outside but inside my skull
I stammered, trying to grasp for really anything i could tell this stiff woman with the impeccable posture, anything she could possibly interpret for me
The wind was rough, i could guess around 40 miles per hour at the very least
Angry thunderclouds loomed in the distance, stifling me with their roar of hatred
My heart hammered, every thump creating microscopic cracks against the inside of my ribcage
Through the high-pitched cry of the wind and the cracks of lightning, i heard my own voice.
“It’s now or never”

And with that the concrete melted away into a disgusting blackened liquid
Flowing out of my chest
Years of pent up rage and anguish poured out from every orifice,
My mouth a terrible tsunami of hateful words and pained cries
And just like that
It ended
Finally over
I took a shaking breath, glancing over at the therapist
I’m not sure what i expected to see, maybe her cowering from my outburst or at the very least having some sort of expression on her face
Instead she nodded slowly, scrawling down a quick note on her clipboard
“I commend you for taking this first step by yourself. It’s certainly not easy to admit you need help and to actively search for it.”
My chest felt empty, but in a good way
To be completely frank, it felt nice to not have the heavy burden of my pain constantly on my shoulders anymore.

Screaming internally this isn’t who I was born to be.
Seems interfering with predisposed notions, is against fundamental policies.
But this all Stems from rudimentary phobias, that try to confine me.
Shame I can’t dare to be something that truly defines me.
Same anger, same danger, same stranger, same hatters.
Pointing their fingers in terror, how is this even fair?
Divided and ensnared!
But everything’s apparently fine, but really our system remains in fear.
So, people forget how to feel empathetic or aren’t willing to change this toxic atmosphere!
Telling parents they best beware, for next thing they now we turn their kids queer.
That some top tier *******, not to mention also bogus but that’s just how the lgbtq community appears!
This ain’t hocus pocus, man we ain’t Houdini, but yet society still treats us like we Mussolini.
Even gordon Ramsey could tell ya that **** is *******, just like Kanye’s weird admiration for fish sticks!
Man this generation is a symphony of-nit wits, and we need to fix it.
And I know people still may be hesitant, however this issue will never become irrelevant.

he counts the money
I count calories
he dresses up like he always has a board meeting to attend
you can usually find me in pastel coloured tees and black tights
he eats like he is on a diet
I eat like I just broke up
He leafs through big old dusty encyclopedia's
I have my nose in one of his mothers many cookbooks
he drinks spritzers and tonic
I have the weirdest craving for Smirnoff
he sits in his lazyboy and flips through the news and sports channel
all I have been watching a lot of is Gordon Ramsey
he lost a deal
I lost my recipe cards