"sty" poems
in high school
despite the last bit of it
being spent as overweight
and with major lack of confidence
i found myself indifferent
to everything.
maybe it was because of the depression
and the abuse
or it was everything combined
but i wasn't excited or upset
about graduating.
i didn't have anything
to look forward to,
the life i imagined for myself
after high school
was a coffin
and i couldn't see anything past that.
sometimes i found myself thinking that
if i failed my senior year
i could stay another year
and maybe that would mean
another year for me to live
before i met the end.
mostly,
in those last few months
i found myself growing fonder
of the people that spent their time
teaching me the things they knew
and i had begun
to entertain the idea of becoming a teacher
since i thought
that i would get nowhere
with art or writing.
after i graduated
and realized i wanted to live after all
i spent little to no time
looking into becoming a high school teacher
it all seems too much of everything
too much money, too much time
not having enough time
that's the thing holding me back
my excuses that keep me stuck
and flailing around
wallowing in self-pity
in the pig sty of my room.
maybe if i took a leap
took a chance,
grew a metaphorical pair of *****
(or just got a shot of testosterone)
i would man up
and do the **** that it takes
to get where i want to be.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Easily Tux
Laxity Use
Laxity Sue
Taxis Yule
Taxi Yules
Tau Sexily
Axe I *****
Yea Xi ****
Yea Xi Lust
Aye Xi ****
Aye Xi Lust
Ail Yes Tux
Sail Ye Tux
Ails Ye Tux
Italy Ex Us
Laity Ex Us
Taxi Lye Us
La Suety Xi
Talus Ye Xi
Lax Yeti Us
Lax Suety I
Lax Ye Suit
Lay Exit Us
Lay Suet Xi
Lay Tuxes I
Lay Ex Suit
Sat Yule Xi
Taus Lye Xi
Sax Yule Ti
Sax Yule It
Say Lie Tux
Say Lei Tux
Say Lute Xi
Say Exult I
At Yules Xi
At Yule Xis
At Yule Six
Tau Lyes Xi
Tau Lye Xis
Tau Lye Six
Tax Yules I
Tax Yule Is
Ax Lieu Sty
Ax Yules Ti
Ax Yules It
Ax Yule Tis
Ax Yule Its
Ax Yule Sit
Ax Lye Suit
Ya Isle Tux
Ya Lies Tux
Ya Leis Tux
Ya Lutes Xi
Ya Exults I
Ya Lute Xis
Ya Lute Six
Ya Exult Is
Ay Isle Tux
Ay Lies Tux
Ay Leis Tux
Ay Lutes Xi
Ay Exults I
Ay Lute Xis
Ay Lute Six
Ay Exult Is
A Lyes I Tux
A Lye Is Tux
A Ex I *****
A Ye Xi ****
A Ye Xi Lust
La Yes I Tux
La Yet Xi Us
La Ye Is Tux
Las Ye I Tux
Lax Yet I Us
Lax Ye Ti Us
Lax Ye It Us
Lay Ex Ti Us
Lay Ex It Us
As Lye I Tux
Say El I Tux
At Lye Xi Us
Tau Ex I Sly
Tax Lye I Us
Ax Lye Ti Us
Ax Lye It Us
Ax Ye I ****
Ax Ye I Lust
Ax Ye Lit Us
Ya El Is Tux
Ya Let Xi Us
Ya Ex I ****
Ya Ex I Lust
Ya Ex Lit Us
Ay El Is Tux
Ay Let Xi Us
Ay Ex I ****
Ay Ex I Lust
Ay Ex Lit Us
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those ******* are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'
'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in ****** lowliness
And in the heart's pride.
'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
3.7k
I ask my love on bended knee,
“Sweetheart will you marry me?”
To which I heard a quick reply..
“Yes, as soon as pigs can fly.”
So I looked high, and I looked low
for a real smart pig, and do you know.,
I found that pig sitting in a sty,
And in a week or two taught him to fly.
I showed the pig to my love, and then,
Asked her to marry me once again.
She said, “I’m sorry, but I lied..
When hell freezes over, I’ll be your bride.
Now, this next part Is sad to tell,
She got sick and died, and went to hell.
Her cold heart, turned hell to ice,
She’s waiting for me. Now ain’t that nice?
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:47 AM UTC
Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back -
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails -
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!"
And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty
Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!
Who preach of Justice - plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound -
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:
Who prate of Wisdom - nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak.
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other's little heads
With mutual Flattery's golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory's ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain -
So many hundred pounds a year -
Then let Fame's banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun -
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When YE have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!
3k
My questions go unanswered.
My words ignored.
My presence overlooked.
Myself invisible to the eyes of others.
In a sty of stench.
In her own ***** she is drenched.
The reason I crossed two states borders.
Pack rat hoarder.
Without organization of order.
Out lived my heart hesitated.
My life dictated.
By a **** "mom" who dominates.
Controlling with my child as leverage.
She holds us hostage.
In her cobwebbed hellhole of dust.
Mold, ***** stench, mildew, & rust.
She is no one to ever trust.
I have alot to complain about & fuss.
Neglected, unprotected,& disrespected.
Taken for granted & unappreciated.
Unknown but senselessly hated.
For love or friendship I waited.
No one ever asked me to be dated.
My life I lived & created.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
2.6k
in Scotland fair you must beware
the weathered moor at night
For it is said a thing of dread
hunts neath it's pale moon light
It's small and stout and loves to shout
and scare the tiny mice
It kicks the trees to wake the bees
because it is not nice
it runs amok through herd and flock
and makes the chickens fly
Then opens gates and shakes lose slates
and takes pigs from the sty
It up roots crops and spills the hops
and dances in the flour
Though rarely seen its really mean
and turns the fresh milk sour
It squashes flat each butter pat
and mixers wheat with grain
then ups and screams to spoil your dreams
and runs away again
The Haggis see is wild and free
and likes to cause such fun
Breaks traps and snares and frees the hares
and helps them to their run
The hunting hound that sniffs the ground
Will never find his scent
because he sweats sweet Vi-o-lets
to cover where he went
The Heathered moor and rains that pour
wash away his tracks
and he's not scared he is prepared
for haggis run in packs
With teeth and claws and snapping jaws
they are a sight to see
So think before you seek that moor
where they run wild and free
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
Hedgehogs with spines
have it very hard at times,
trying it on with female type
and finding the females have a gripe
with spines,
at times.
A hedgehog I know and have often seen
coats his spines
in poly..sty (a) rine
he finds this a boon
when finding the females swoon at his feet
which just goes to show that you cannot beat
innovation.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
HERE at right of the entrance this bronze head,
Human, superhuman, a bird's round eye,
Everything else withered and mummy-dead.
What great tomb-haunter sweeps the distant sky
(Something may linger there though all else die;)
And finds there nothing to make its tetror less
Hysterica passio of its own emptiness?
No dark tomb-haunter once; her form all full
As though with magnanimity of light,
Yet a most gentle woman; who can tell
Which of her forms has shown her substance right?
Or maybe substance can be composite,
profound McTaggart thought so, and in a breath
A mouthful held the extreme of life and death.
But even at the starting-post, all sleek and new,
I saw the wildness in her and I thought
A vision of terror that it must live through
Had shattered her soul. Propinquity had brought
Imagiation to that pitch where it casts out
All that is not itself: I had grown wild
And wandered murmuring everywhere, "My child, my
child! '
Or else I thought her supernatural;
As though a sterner eye looked through her eye
On this foul world in its decline and fall;
On gangling stocks grown great, great stocks run dry,
Ancestral pearls all pitched into a sty,
Heroic reverie mocked by clown and knave,
And wondered what was left for massacre to save.
2k
Circe
by Michael R. Burch
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Keywords/Tags: Circe, enigma, enigmatic, enchantress, siren, enchanted, witch, goddess, magic, Ulysses, pigs, sty
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:47 AM UTC
I like to say I live comfortably
in my own filth, but that's just lies.
My house is disgusting, at least in my eyes.
The ***** clothes mingle
with the clean, all stacked
on the floor, anxiously waiting
to be put away.
I avoid the dishes, like nobody's business,
trading the chore for ***
Is that considered prostitution?
a barter of sorts,
my husband's labors for my services?
Honestly, as long as the bed
is made, I can live
in this pig-sty at least
for another day.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 6:00 PM UTC
She was on a crowded Uptown "A",
with one hand holding on.
In her other hand, a paperback,
dog eared, its cover gone.
Hamlet and Polonius
were with the player King
Bed-Sty might well be Elsinore-
when the plays the thing.
There were plots and counter plots-
to do young Hamlet harm.
"My money is on Fortinbras-
I said, then I was gone.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
This is a torturous test
And I'm failing
In a state of unrest
So I'm flailing
And wailing
And bailing
On living
After constantly giving
And receiving nothing in return
Except extremely intense heartburn
To which there is no end I learn
So for peace my hopeless heart yearns
I want to sleep
In a streak
Of a week
For I'm meek
So I sink
Into drink
And drugs
Rolling on the rug
Looking for a plug
To stop my heart from leaking
And my eyes from peeking
At what I'm seeking
Because there lies only pain
That's a continuous rain
Growing like grain
Until I'm insane
Death is near
All my fears
What will happen before I die?
The question makes me cry
Will life be one big sigh?
I wonder why I even try
The waiting
Is grating
Equating
To deflating
So I become the nice guy
In the lonely night sky
Avoiding brutal daylight
For it's another day's fight
The most unsightly sight
Illuminated by the sun
Shooting rays like a gun
Until I see I'm the only one
I realize if I'm blind I can run
So I cut out my eyes
To ignore all the lies
And the carrion flies
In this giant pig sty
On an odyssey like Homer's
My mouth starts to foam over
Searching for a four-leaf clover
But only finding allergies
Which is this year's salary
In this dismal shooting gallery
Where I'll watch bullets fly
Until the day I die
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
Breaking down, through, and out,
Wings spread to the sky,
With no rescue enroute,
Fetterings left in a sty,
Where I once called home.
Scraping, stretching, yearning,
For worlds yet to roam,
I can feel my past burning,
As I pull myself through,
For a dream I once had,
In a vision that only I could view,
While others felt me lost, or possibly mad,
This false life will never be enough,
Living in the shadow of another’s dream,
I will cast myself out into the rough,
Out of the fire, and into the stream.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old **** with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes—
The little boy lets home-close nesting go,
And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow,
To look at the new number just laid down,
With lots of pictures, and good stories too,
And Jack the Giant-killer’s high renown.
1.4k
Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need a SWAT team to shoo
This house fly adieu.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
The happiest day of my life,
Began with a whisper,
My best friends and I,
Addmitting our innermost insecurity,
A body,
Or the thought of failing,
Or an imperfection with the eye.
She talked about it,
How embarassed she was,
That plain on her eye,
It was there,
"A horrible blotch."
"A sty"
We continued talking,
Moving on to senselss topics,
Ice cream,
Doctor who,
Our favourite jokes.
But I stole a glance at my two friends
He was whispering in her ear,
Just loud enough for her to hear.
"You are so beautiful"
He rejoined the conversation.
Just as a solitary tear ran down her round face. She was smiling.
I continued talking about Doctor Who.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Because some moments are meant to be stolen.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
APA hates American Typewriter,
14-point font,
and loves that double space,
But as a writer, I have permission to dismiss.
Topsy-Turvey,
Backwards motion.
I once, angry, ****** in ocean,
And drank seawater with mayonnaise.
I freaked dolphins and made crater waves.
X-ray
Baybay
Snuffleupagus
Pay to play
Win the day
Ruffle-up-opus
Eye-spy
Night by
Night by
Nigh by
The swiftest hand
Comes night by
Weirdly flowing blind sty.
Pierce my hands for understanding.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
Is there a reason
is there an aisle, for the pile, for just a while
a box, that holds rocks, and room for my socks
a clamp, to put on my cramp, hold my stamp
a day, when I can say, it's gone my way
an eye, made for a fly, without a sty
a flag, or a paper bag, to cover the drag queen
a goat, that you know will float, without a boat
a house, for my mouse, a lacy blouse
an imagination, for a nation, needing salvation
a jeepers, without a creepers, and no peepers
a kite, that flies alnight, until it's right
a lesson, learned from confesson, without guessin
a mole, in every hole, who likes rock and roll
a nerd, who looks like a bird, that's what I heard
an oil, our waters will boil, you've ruined the soil
a potion, or a lotion, that enhances the motion
a queen, whos really keen, on old James Dean
a reason, for commiting treason, in any season
a space, in this place, to put my face
a time, to do my rhyme, is it a crime
an Ull, unknown to Krull, whose blade is dull
a vacuum, in every room, or just a broom
a way, to ever say, you need not pray
a Xe, to strong for me, a trace I see
a yak, the color black, behind my back
a zama, in Alabama, Phi Slamma Jamma
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:07 AM UTC
Smelly piggies in their sty
pushing, shoving; squealing names-
preparations, celebrations
and for what? the same old
scene-
Crying, sighing, anguished faces
going nowhere in a hurry-
running, fearless, in a fury
through the streets of concrete
jungles-
Fearless meanies hunting prey
getting closer by the day-
who will be the next one busted
put in jail and left to
rot-
Hear the pounding of their feet
knocking gently on your door-
four o’clock and all is well
four-fifteen: a *****
cell-
Piggy, piggy standing straight
stalking me with inner hate,
standing, staring in a gaze-
eyes are open; does he
see?
Give a little peace or love
help the millions who are lost-
fly, my precious little dove
and spread your words for those in
need-
all…and then some-
I still love you piggy-
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 5:58 AM UTC
Smelly piggies in their sty
pushing, shoving; squealing names-
preparations, celebrations
and for what? the same old
scene-
Crying, sighing, anguished faces
going nowhere in a hurry-
running, fearless, in a fury
through the streets of concrete
jungles-
Fearless meanies hunting prey
getting closer by the day-
who will be the next one busted
put in jail and left to
rot-
Hear the pounding of their feet
knocking gently on your door-
four o’clock and all is well
four-fifteen: a *****
cell-
Piggy, piggy standing straight
stalking me with inner hate,
standing, staring in a gaze-
eyes are open; does he
see?
Give a little peace or love
help the millions who are lost-
fly, my precious little dove
and spread your words for those in
need-
all…and then some-
I still love you piggy-
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
under a new dispensation
G. O. D.
is now a conglomerate
corporate organization
L. O. V. E.
is "the price paid"
for another day
under the new dispensation
------------
AND TO THINK I THOUGHT
YOU'D MIGHT GET ANGRY!!!
-------------
survival
L. I. F. E.
slaves with a view
under the new dispensation
---------------
eating away all UNION
all human conversation
stealing all dignity
like pigs in a sty
eating the slops
thrown to us
genetically altered
inhuman beings
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Snow-day 1959
Monday, 6:00AM clock radio trips,
And WTRY Sounds off one of those top 40 hits.
I half hear the School Closings for Monday 12/12,
Sitting straight up in bed.....Was that Greenport Elementary do tell?
"Here are those school closings one more time kiddies"........
"Hudson HS Closed".... Oh Please God let me hear my city.
"Greenport Elementary...Closed" my Hands Raised Victorious..
I think I can hear Mrs Healy's entire 3rd grade class celebrating gloriously!
Just as I settle in for an uninterrupted, relaxing snow day in my room,
I hear my Mom yell, "young man come get this dust mop and broom"
"Oh snap"! "what shall I do with these dearest mother" I inquire
"Clean that pig sty you call a bedroom or your gonna feel some hellfire!"
Seeing that there we were only 10 days before Christmas
I decide Its to my advantage not to put up a fuss.
So clean I do.....pulling dust bunnies and underwear from beneath my bed
A miss matched sock and a couple bugs that were dead.
And to my surprise I find that fake dog **** I been looking for,
Time for a stealth mission to Mom's special bedroom behind that closed door.
Doing my best army crawl I make my way to Ma's special place
And put that rubbery dog **** on that bedspread made of lace.
"Hey Ma come quick the dog crapped on your lacy bedspread"!
I don't think Ma hit one step climbing those stairs she was seein' red!
And with a gasp she began to rub that dogs nose in the mess,
I'm like Mom it's just fake dog **** relax and don't stress"!
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC