A child draws the outline of a body.
She draws what she can, but it is white all through,
she cannot fill in what she knows is there.
Within the unsupported line, she knows
that life is missing; she has cut
one background from another. Like a child,
she turns to her mother.

And you draw the heart
against the emptiness she has created.

Look, you have now broken your back bone
Because of climbing tall trees and high balconies
To spy on your wife as she roves the village,
You climbed a Tall baobab tree up to the apex
To play sentry and spy on your wife
When she went down the river to fetch some water
For you to bathe and wash your jealousy body
And when she met her brother-in –law;
The man from another village across the river
Who greeted her with a prolonged hug
Embracing your wife in his strong arms
They way a giant can do to a beauty model,
Feat of goofy jealous gripped you
And you forgot that you were perching in high danger
At the top of the baobab tree, you left yourself unsupported
As all selfish men can in feats of irrationality
Coming down like a sack of wet sand
Falling in a thud, breaking your poor backbone!
Dude; be warned from spying on your wife.

Then Ulysses tore off his rags, and sprang on to the broad
pavement with his bow and his quiver full of arrows. He shed the
arrows on to the ground at his feet and said, “The mighty contest is
at an end. I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to
hit another mark which no man has yet hit.”
  On this he aimed a deadly arrow at Antinous, who was about to take
up a two-handled gold cup to drink his wine and already had it in
his hands. He had no thought of death—who amongst all the revellers
would think that one man, however brave, would stand alone among so
many and **** him? The arrow struck Antinous in the throat, and the
point went clean through his neck, so that he fell over and the cup
dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his
nostrils. He kicked the table from him and upset the things on it,
so that the bread and roasted meats were all soiled as they fell
over on to the ground. The suitors were in an uproar when they saw
that a man had been hit; they sprang in dismay one and all of them
from their seats and looked everywhere towards the walls, but there
was neither shield nor spear, and they rebuked Ulysses very angrily.
“Stranger,” said they, “you shall pay for shooting people in this way:
om yi you shall see no other contest; you are a doomed man; he whom
you have slain was the foremost youth in Ithaca, and the vultures
shall devour you for having killed him.”
  Thus they spoke, for they thought that he had killed Antinous by
mistake, and did not perceive that death was hanging over the head
of every one of them. But Ulysses glared at them and said:
  “Dogs, did you think that I should not come back from Troy? You have
wasted my substance, have forced my women servants to lie with you,
and have wooed my wife while I was still living. You have feared
neither Cod nor man, and now you shall die.”
  They turned pale with fear as he spoke, and every man looked round
about to see whither he might fly for safety, but Eurymachus alone
spoke.
  “If you are Ulysses,” said he, “then what you have said is just.
We have done much wrong on your lands and in your house. But
Antinous who was the head and front of the offending lies low already.
It was all his doing. It was not that he wanted to marry Penelope;
he did not so much care about that; what he wanted was something quite
different, and Jove has not vouchsafed it to him; he wanted to ****
your son and to be chief man in Ithaca. Now, therefore, that he has
met the death which was his due, spare the lives of your people. We
will make everything good among ourselves, and pay you in full for all
that we have eaten and drunk. Each one of us shall pay you a fine
worth twenty oxen, and we will keep on giving you gold and bronze till
your heart is softened. Until we have done this no one can complain of
your being enraged against us.”
  Ulysses again glared at him and said, “Though you should give me all
that you have in the world both now and all that you ever shall
have, I will not stay my hand till I have paid all of you in full. You
must fight, or fly for your lives; and fly, not a man of you shall.”
  Their hearts sank as they heard him, but Eurymachus again spoke
saying:
  “My friends, this man will give us no quarter. He will stand where
he is and shoot us down till he has killed every man among us. Let
us then show fight; draw your swords, and hold up the tables to shield
you from his arrows. Let us have at him with a rush, to drive him from
the pavement and doorway: we can then get through into the town, and
raise such an alarm as shall soon stay his shooting.”
  As he spoke he drew his keen blade of bronze, sharpened on both
sides, and with a loud cry sprang towards Ulysses, but Ulysses
instantly shot an arrow into his breast that caught him by the
****** and fixed itself in his liver. He dropped his sword and fell
doubled up over his table. The cup and all the meats went over on to
the ground as he smote the earth with his forehead in the agonies of
death, and he kicked the stool with his feet until his eyes were
closed in darkness.
  Then Amphinomus drew his sword and made straight at Ulysses to try
and get him away from the door; but Telemachus was too quick for
him, and struck him from behind; the spear caught him between the
shoulders and went right through his chest, so that he fell heavily to
the ground and struck the earth with his forehead. Then Telemachus
sprang away from him, leaving his spear still in the body, for he
feared that if he stayed to draw it out, some one of the Achaeans
might come up and hack at him with his sword, or knock him down, so he
set off at a run, and immediately was at his father’s side. Then he
said:
  “Father, let me bring you a shield, two spears, and a brass helmet
for your temples. I will arm myself as well, and will bring other
armour for the swineherd and the stockman, for we had better be
armed.”
  “Run and fetch them,” answered Ulysses, “while my arrows hold out,
or when I am alone they may get me away from the door.”
  Telemachus did as his father said, and went off to the store room
where the armour was kept. He chose four shields, eight spears, and
four brass helmets with horse-hair plumes. He brought them with all
speed to his father, and armed himself first, while the stockman and
the swineherd also put on their armour, and took their places near
Ulysses. Meanwhile Ulysses, as long as his arrows lasted, had been
shooting the suitors one by one, and they fell thick on one another:
when his arrows gave out, he set the bow to stand against the end wall
of the house by the door post, and hung a shield four hides thick
about his shoulders; on his comely head he set his helmet, well
wrought with a crest of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it,
and he grasped two redoubtable bronze-shod spears.
  Now there was a trap door on the wall, while at one end of the
pavement there was an exit leading to a narrow passage, and this
exit was closed by a well-made door. Ulysses told Philoetius to
stand by this door and guard it, for only one person could attack it
at a time. But Agelaus shouted out, “Cannot some one go up to the trap
door and tell the people what is going on? Help would come at once,
and we should soon make an end of this man and his shooting.”
  “This may not be, Agelaus,” answered Melanthius, “the mouth of the
narrow passage is dangerously near the entrance to the outer court.
One brave man could prevent any number from getting in. But I know
what I will do, I will bring you arms from the store room, for I am
sure it is there that Ulysses and his son have put them.”
  On this the goatherd Melanthius went by back passages to the store
room of Ulysses, house. There he chose twelve shields, with as many
helmets and spears, and brought them back as fast as he could to
give them to the suitors. Ulysses’ heart began to fail him when he saw
the suitors putting on their armour and brandishing their spears. He
saw the greatness of the danger, and said to Telemachus, “Some one
of the women inside is helping the suitors against us, or it may be
Melanthius.”
  Telemachus answered, “The fault, father, is mine, and mine only; I
left the store room door open, and they have kept a sharper look out
than I have. Go, Eumaeus, put the door to, and see whether it is one
of the women who is doing this, or whether, as I suspect, it is
Melanthius the son of Dolius.”
  Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Melanthius was again going to
the store room to fetch more armour, but the swineherd saw him and
said to Ulysses who was beside him, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, it
is that scoundrel Melanthius, just as we suspected, who is going to
the store room. Say, shall I **** him, if I can get the better of him,
or shall I bring him here that you may take your own revenge for all
the many wrongs that he has done in your house?”
  Ulysses answered, “Telemachus and I will hold these suitors in
check, no matter what they do; go back both of you and bind
Melanthius’ hands and feet behind him. Throw him into the store room
and make the door fast behind you; then fasten a noose about his body,
and string him close up to the rafters from a high bearing-post,
that he may linger on in an agony.”
  Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said; they went to
the store room, which they entered before Melanthius saw them, for
he was busy searching for arms in the innermost part of the room, so
the two took their stand on either side of the door and waited. By and
by Melanthius came out with a helmet in one hand, and an old
dry-rotted shield in the other, which had been borne by Laertes when
he was young, but which had been long since thrown aside, and the
straps had become unsewn; on this the two seized him, dragged him back
by the hair, and threw him struggling to the ground. They bent his
hands and feet well behind his back, and bound them tight with a
painful bond as Ulysses had told them; then they fastened a noose
about his body and strung him up from a high pillar till he was
close up to the rafters, and over him did you then vaunt, O
swineherd Eumaeus, saying, “Melanthius, you will pass the night on a
soft bed as you deserve. You will know very well when morning comes
from the streams of Oceanus, and it is time for you to be driving in
your goats for the suitors to feast on.”
  There, then, they left him in very cruel *******, and having put
on their armour they closed the door behind them and went back to take
their places by the side of Ulysses; whereon the four men stood in the
cloister, fierce and full of fury; nevertheless, those who were in the
body of the court were still both brave and many. Then Jove’s daughter
Minerva came up to them, having assumed the voice and form of
Mentor. Ulysses was glad when he saw her and said, “Mentor, lend me
your help, and forget not your old comrade, nor the many good turns he
has done you. Besides, you are my age-mate.”
  But all the time he felt sure it was Minerva, and the suitors from
the other side raised an uproar when they saw her. Agelaus was the
first to reproach her. “Mentor,” he cried, “do not let Ulysses beguile
you into siding with him and fighting the suitors. This is what we
will do: when we have killed these people, father and son, we will
**** you too. You shall pay for it with your head, and when we have
killed you, we will take all you have, in doors or out, and bring it
into hotch-*** with Ulysses’ property; we will not let your sons
live in your house, nor your daughters, nor shall your widow
continue to live in the city of Ithaca.”
  This made Minerva still more furious, so she scolded Ulysses very
angrily. “Ulysses,” said she, “your strength and prowess are no longer
what they were when you fought for nine long years among the Trojans
about the noble lady Helen. You killed many a man in those days, and
it was through your stratagem that Priam’s city was taken. How comes
it that you are so lamentably less valiant now that you are on your
own ground, face to face with the suitors in your own house? Come
on, my good fellow, stand by my side and see how Mentor, son of
Alcinous shall fight your foes and requite your kindnesses conferred
upon him.”
  But she would not give him full victory as yet, for she wished still
further to prove his own prowess and that of his brave son, so she
flew up to one of the rafters in the roof of the cloister and sat upon
it in the form of a swallow.
  Meanwhile Agelaus son of Damastor, Eurynomus, Amphimedon,
Demoptolemus, Pisander, and Polybus son of Polyctor bore the brunt
of the fight upon the suitors’ side; of all those who were still
fighting for their lives they were by far the most valiant, for the
others had already fallen under the arrows of Ulysses. Agelaus shouted
to them and said, “My friends, he will soon have to leave off, for
Mentor has gone away after having done nothing for him but brag.
They are standing at the doors unsupported. Do not aim at him all at
once, but six of you throw your spears first, and see if you cannot
cover yourselves with glory by killing him. When he has fallen we need
not be uneasy about the others.”
  They threw their spears as he bade them, but Minerva made them all
of no effect. One hit the door post; another went against the door;
the pointed shaft of another struck the wall; and as soon as they
had avoided all the spears of the suitors Ulysses said to his own men,
“My friends, I should say we too had better let drive into the
middle of them, or they will crown all the harm they have done us by
us outright.”
  They therefore aimed straight in front of them and threw their
spears. Ulysses killed Demoptolemus, Telemachus Euryades, Eumaeus
Elatus, while the stockman killed Pisander. These all bit the dust,
and as the others drew back into a corner Ulysses and his men rushed
forward and regained their spears by drawing them from the bodies of
the dead.
  The suitors now aimed a second time, but again Minerva made their
weapons for the most part without effect. One hit a bearing-post of
the cloister; another went against the door; while the pointed shaft
of another struck the wall. Still, Amphimedon just took a piece of the
top skin from off Telemachus’s wrist, and Ctesippus managed to graze
Eumaeus’s shoulder above his shield; but the spear went on and fell to
the ground. Then Ulysses and his men let drive into the crowd of
suitors. Ulysses hit Eurydamas, Telemachus Amphimedon, and Eumaeus
Polybus. After this the stockman hit Ctesippus in the breast, and
taunted him saying, “Foul-mouthed son of Polytherses, do not be so
foolish as to talk wickedly another time, but let heaven direct your
speech, for the gods are far stronger than men. I make you a present
of this advice to repay you for the foot which you gave Ulysses when
he was begging about in his own house.”
  Thus spoke the stockman, and Ulysses struck the son of Damastor with
a spear in close fight, while Telemachus hit Leocritus son of Evenor
in the belly, and the dart went clean through him, so that he fell
forward full on his face upon the ground. Then Minerva from her seat
on the rafter held up her deadly aegis, and the hearts of the
suitors quailed. They fled to the other end of the court like a herd
of cattle maddened by the gadfly in early summer when the days are
at their longest. As eagle-beaked, crook-taloned vultures from the
mountains swoop down on the smaller birds that cower in flocks upon
the ground, and **** them, for they cannot either fight or fly, and
lookers on enjoy the sport—even so did Ulysses and his men fall
upon the suitors and smite them on every side. They made a horrible
groaning as their brains were being battered in, and the ground
seethed with their blood.
  Leiodes then caught the knees of Ulysses and said, “Ulysses I
beseech you have mercy upon me and spare me. I never wronged any of
the women in your house either in word or deed, and I tried to stop
the others. I saw them, but they would not listen, and now they are
paying for their folly. I was their sacrificing priest; if you ****
me, I shall die without having done anything to deserve it, and
shall have got no thanks for all the good that I did.”
  Ulysses looked sternly at him and answered, “If you were their
sacrificing priest, you must have prayed many a time that it might
be long before I got home again, and that you might marry my wife
and have children by her. Therefore you shall die.”
  With these words he picked up the sword that Agelaus had dropped
when he was being killed, and which was lying upon the ground. Then he
struck Leiodes on the back of his neck, so that his head fell
rolling in the dust while he was yet speaking.
  The minstrel Phemius son of Terpes—he who had been forced by the
suitors to sing to them—now tried to save his life. He was standing
near towards the trap door, and held his lyre in his hand. He did
not know whether to fly out of the cloister and sit down by the
altar of Jove that was in the outer court, and on which both Laertes

Creating
that fallacious intimacy
wrapped
arm around arm
with a nameless
body.
It's easy to get
temporary satisfaction
from it.

Even though
you're chilled
and hollow inside.

The want
of not being lonely
can be too strong.
Keeping up
the exhausting task
of costant contact.
Never really
developing
a bond deeper
than physical sedation
can tire out.

It will ash away
as soon as you move
an inch
in that position
which is holding
unstably present.
Distance
would be the ruiner
of that
shallow fantasy.

But...
to be hundreds
of miles and moments
away from someone.
To be
alone and removed
from the one
who you have
a real, unrelenting
connection with.
To know
you are singular
in that very moment
but not unsupported.

Having them
somewhere you're not,
holding onto your
spiritual thread.
To achieve real
intimate foundation
in knowing the body
doesn't have to tie you
together.
That's an ember that,
when set to breathe,
engulfs you both.

Understanding
and feeling comfort
that when surrounded
by faces
and being unknown to them
is alright.
Since
that person
who lingers in your mind
Is a whisper
off your lips
and is there
in that place you
left them.

They've penetrated inside
that fortress of caution
and self-preservation and
they get you.
They are there,
hidden
and carried with you.
With their hands
cradling and cherishing
your heart
like the treasure
it is.

The enormous responsibility.

To be
the keeper of
warmth and familiarity
and home.
Even though
being separated
from one another
you are reminded of what
exists between you.

By
concentrating and honing
in on the weight
which lives
there.
That love
and loyalty
and equal respected commitment
to take care of what
the other is given.
The total
vulnerable
surrender of
yourself.

That is something
worth wanting.
That is something
to daydream for.
That...
is what we all
crave.


*© NDHK

sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind
and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air,

suddenly i am eight years old years,
bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket
my legs unsupported

and there is still a chip on my shoulder
a mile wide.

sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out
when her parents accidentally forgot and were late
picking her up from preschool,

sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you
sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into,
sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.
  
i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself.
i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water

as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless,
my self-assurance a really good halloween costume.

i am a newborn at the same time
as i am frail ninety year old grandmother.

i am brave and i am terrified
and i am naive and i am jaded
and i am clean and i am ruined;

i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over,
my skin is smooth and untouched
my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks.

i am the creator and i am the destroyer,
i am everything and

nothing at all.

i am the ocean
and i am the desert.

my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine,
and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity.

sometimes i’m too old for my skin,
weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already

and sometimes i am four years old with
my knees hugged to my chest.

sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty,
sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety.

we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time
as we are old and wise and careful.

sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old
and my mother is still a tired old woman

with shaking hands,
and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut.

we are existing simultaneously
and growing up is just getting really good at pretending

that you’ve got your **** all figured out
when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler
without a date to the mixer,

alone in the middle to gymnasium floor.

but that’s the thing, isn’t it?
when you are cut open, when you are bleeding,
when you have gaping holes in your nervous system

your flesh heals over
it scars, brand new.

we are bleeding and we we are healed,
we are ******* up

and we are doing just fine.

Thus the Trojans in the city, scared like fawns, wiped the sweat
from off them and drank to quench their thirst, leaning against the
goodly battlements, while the Achaeans with their shields laid upon
their shoulders drew close up to the walls. But stern fate bade Hector
stay where he was before Ilius and the Scaean gates. Then Phoebus
Apollo spoke to the son of Peleus saying, “Why, son of Peleus, do you,
who are but man, give chase to me who am immortal? Have you not yet
found out that it is a god whom you pursue so furiously? You did not
harass the Trojans whom you had routed, and now they are within
their walls, while you have been decoyed hither away from them. Me you
cannot ****, for death can take no hold upon me.”
  Achilles was greatly angered and said, “You have baulked me,
Far-Darter, most malicious of all gods, and have drawn me away from
the wall, where many another man would have bitten the dust ere he got
within Ilius; you have robbed me of great glory and have saved the
Trojans at no risk to yourself, for you have nothing to fear, but I
would indeed have my revenge if it were in my power to do so.”
  On this, with fell intent he made towards the city, and as the
winning horse in a chariot race strains every nerve when he is
flying over the plain, even so fast and furiously did the limbs of
Achilles bear him onwards. King Priam was first to note him as he
scoured the plain, all radiant as the star which men call Orion’s
Hound, and whose beams blaze forth in time of harvest more brilliantly
than those of any other that shines by night; brightest of them all
though he be, he yet bodes ill for mortals, for he brings fire and
fever in his train—even so did Achilles’ armour gleam on his breast
as he sped onwards. Priam raised a cry and beat his head with his
hands as he lifted them up and shouted out to his dear son,
imploring him to return; but Hector still stayed before the gates, for
his heart was set upon doing battle with Achilles. The old man reached
out his arms towards him and bade him for pity’s sake come within
the walls. “Hector,” he cried, “my son, stay not to face this man
alone and unsupported, or you will meet death at the hands of the
son of Peleus, for he is mightier than you. Monster that he is;
would indeed that the gods loved him no better than I do, for so, dogs
and vultures would soon devour him as he lay stretched on earth, and a
load of grief would be lifted from my heart, for many a brave son
has he reft from me, either by killing them or selling them away in
the islands that are beyond the sea: even now I miss two sons from
among the Trojans who have thronged within the city, Lycaon and
Polydorus, whom Laothoe peeress among women bore me. Should they be
still alive and in the hands of the Achaeans, we will ransom them with
gold and bronze, of which we have store, for the old man Altes endowed
his daughter richly; but if they are already dead and in the house
of Hades, sorrow will it be to us two who were their parents; albeit
the grief of others will be more short-lived unless you too perish
at the hands of Achilles. Come, then, my son, within the city, to be
the guardian of Trojan men and Trojan women, or you will both lose
your own life and afford a mighty triumph to the son of Peleus. Have
pity also on your unhappy father while life yet remains to him—on me,
whom the son of Saturn will destroy by a terrible doom on the
threshold of old age, after I have seen my sons slain and my daughters
haled away as captives, my bridal chambers pillaged, little children
dashed to earth amid the rage of battle, and my sons’ wives dragged
away by the cruel hands of the Achaeans; in the end fierce hounds will
tear me in pieces at my own gates after some one has beaten the life
out of my body with sword or spear-hounds that I myself reared and fed
at my own table to guard my gates, but who will yet lap my blood and
then lie all distraught at my doors. When a young man falls by the
sword in battle, he may lie where he is and there is nothing unseemly;
let what will be seen, all is honourable in death, but when an old man
is slain there is nothing in this world more pitiable than that dogs
should defile his grey hair and beard and all that men hide for
shame.”
  The old man tore his grey hair as he spoke, but he moved not the
heart of Hector. His mother hard by wept and moaned aloud as she bared
her ***** and pointed to the breast which had suckled him. “Hector,”
she cried, weeping bitterly the while, “Hector, my son, spurn not this
breast, but have pity upon me too: if I have ever given you comfort
from my own *****, think on it now, dear son, and come within the wall
to protect us from this man; stand not without to meet him. Should the
wretch **** you, neither I nor your richly dowered wife shall ever
weep, dear offshoot of myself, over the bed on which you lie, for dogs
will devour you at the ships of the Achaeans.”
  Thus did the two with many tears implore their son, but they moved
not the heart of Hector, and he stood his ground awaiting huge
Achilles as he drew nearer towards him. As serpent in its den upon the
mountains, full fed with deadly poisons, waits for the approach of
man—he is filled with fury and his eyes glare terribly as he goes
writhing round his den—even so Hector leaned his shield against a
tower that jutted out from the wall and stood where he was, undaunted.
  “Alas,” said he to himself in the heaviness of his heart, “if I go
within the gates, Polydamas will be the first to heap reproach upon
me, for it was he that urged me to lead the Trojans back to the city
on that awful night when Achilles again came forth against us. I would
not listen, but it would have been indeed better if I had done so. Now
that my folly has destroyed the host, I dare not look Trojan men and
Trojan women in the face, lest a worse man should say, ‘Hector has
ruined us by his self-confidence.’ Surely it would be better for me to
return after having fought Achilles and slain him, or to die
gloriously here before the city. What, again, if were to lay down my
shield and helmet, lean my spear against the wall and go straight up
to noble Achilles? What if I were to promise to give up Helen, who was
the fountainhead of all this war, and all the treasure that Alexandrus
brought with him in his ships to Troy, aye, and to let the Achaeans
divide the half of everything that the city contains among themselves?
I might make the Trojans, by the mouths of their princes, take a
solemn oath that they would hide nothing, but would divide into two
shares all that is within the city—but why argue with myself in
this way? Were I to go up to him he would show me no kind of mercy; he
would **** me then and there as easily as though I were a woman,
when I had off my armour. There is no parleying with him from some
rock or oak tree as young men and maidens prattle with one another.
Better fight him at once, and learn to which of us Jove will vouchsafe
victory.”
  Thus did he stand and ponder, but Achilles came up to him as it were
Mars himself, plumed lord of battle. From his right shoulder he
brandished his terrible spear of Pelian ash, and the bronze gleamed
around him like flashing fire or the rays of the rising sun. Fear fell
upon Hector as he beheld him, and he dared not stay longer where he
was but fled in dismay from before the gates, while Achilles darted
after him at his utmost speed. As a mountain falcon, swiftest of all
birds, swoops down upon some cowering dove—the dove flies before
him but the falcon with a shrill scream follows close after,
resolved to have her—even so did Achilles make straight for Hector
with all his might, while Hector fled under the Trojan wall as fast as
his limbs could take him.
  On they flew along the waggon-road that ran hard by under the
wall, past the lookout station, and past the weather-beaten wild
fig-tree, till they came to two fair springs which feed the river
Scamander. One of these two springs is warm, and steam rises from it
as smoke from a burning fire, but the other even in summer is as
cold as hail or snow, or the ice that forms on water. Here, hard by
the springs, are the goodly washing-troughs of stone, where in the
time of peace before the coming of the Achaeans the wives and fair
daughters of the Trojans used to wash their clothes. Past these did
they fly, the one in front and the other giving ha. behind him: good
was the man that fled, but better far was he that followed after,
and swiftly indeed did they run, for the prize was no mere beast for
sacrifice or bullock’s hide, as it might be for a common foot-race,
but they ran for the life of Hector. As horses in a chariot race speed
round the turning-posts when they are running for some great prize-
a tripod or woman—at the games in honour of some dead hero, so did
these two run full speed three times round the city of Priam. All
the gods watched them, and the sire of gods and men was the first to
speak.
  “Alas,” said he, “my eyes behold a man who is dear to me being
pursued round the walls of Troy; my heart is full of pity for
Hector, who has burned the thigh-bones of many a heifer in my
honour, at one while on the of many-valleyed Ida, and again on the
citadel of Troy; and now I see noble Achilles in full pursuit of him
round the city of Priam. What say you? Consider among yourselves and
decide whether we shall now save him or let him fall, valiant though
he be, before Achilles, son of Peleus.”
  Then Minerva said, “Father, wielder of the lightning, lord of
cloud and storm, what mean you? Would you pluck this mortal whose doom
has long been decreed out of the jaws of death? Do as you will, but we
others shall not be of a mind with you.”
  And Jove answered, “My child, Trito-born, take heart. I did not
speak in full earnest, and I will let you have your way. Do without
let or hindrance as you are minded.”
  Thus did he urge Minerva who was already eager, and down she
darted from the topmost summits of Olympus.
  Achilles was still in full pursuit of Hector, as a hound chasing a
fawn which he has started from its covert on the mountains, and
hunts through glade and thicket. The fawn may try to elude him by
crouching under cover of a bush, but he will scent her out and
follow her up until he gets her—even so there was no escape for
Hector from the fleet son of Peleus. Whenever he made a set to get
near the Dardanian gates and under the walls, that his people might
help him by showering down weapons from above, Achilles would gain
on him and head him back towards the plain, keeping himself always
on the city side. As a man in a dream who fails to lay hands upon
another whom he is pursuing—the one cannot escape nor the other
overtake—even so neither could Achilles come up with Hector, nor
Hector break away from Achilles; nevertheless he might even yet have
escaped death had not the time come when Apollo, who thus far had
sustained his strength and nerved his running, was now no longer to
stay by him. Achilles made signs to the Achaean host, and shook his
head to show that no man was to aim a dart at Hector, lest another
might win the glory of having hit him and he might himself come in
second. Then, at last, as they were nearing the fountains for the
fourth time, the father of all balanced his golden scales and placed a
doom in each of them, one for Achilles and the other for Hector. As he
held the scales by the middle, the doom of Hector fell down deep
into the house of Hades—and then Phoebus Apollo left him. Thereon
Minerva went close up to the son of Peleus and said, “Noble
Achilles, favoured of heaven, we two shall surely take back to the
ships a triumph for the Achaeans by slaying Hector, for all his lust
of battle. Do what Apollo may as he lies grovelling before his father,
aegis-bearing Jove, Hector cannot escape us longer. Stay here and take
breath, while I go up to him and persuade him to make a stand and
fight you.”
  Thus spoke Minerva. Achilles obeyed her gladly, and stood still,
leaning on his bronze-pointed ashen spear, while Minerva left him
and went after Hector in the form and with the voice of Deiphobus. She
came close up to him and said, “Dear brother, I see you are hard
pressed by Achilles who is chasing you at full speed round the city of
Priam, let us await his onset and stand on our defence.”
  And Hector answered, “Deiphobus, you have always been dearest to
me of all my brothers, children of Hecuba and Priam, but henceforth
I shall rate you yet more highly, inasmuch as you have ventured
outside the wall for my sake when all the others remain inside.”
  Then Minerva said, “Dear brother, my father and mother went down
on their knees and implored me, as did all my comrades, to remain
inside, so great a fear has fallen upon them all; but I was in an
agony of grief when I beheld you; now, therefore, let us two make a
stand and fight, and let there be no keeping our spears in reserve,
that we may learn whether Achilles shall **** us and bear off our
spoils to the ships, or whether he shall fall before you.”
  Thus did Minerva inveigle him by her cunning, and when the two
were now close to one another great Hector was first to speak. “I
will-no longer fly you, son of Peleus,” said he, “as I have been doing
hitherto. Three times have I fled round the mighty city of Priam,
without daring to withstand you, but now, let me either slay or be
slain, for I am in the mind to face you. Let us, then, give pledges to
one another by our gods, who are the fittest witnesses and guardians
of all covenants; let it be agreed between us that if Jove
vouchsafes me the longer stay and I take your life, I am not to
treat your dead body in any unseemly fashion, but when I have stripped
you of your armour, I am to give up your body to the Achaeans. And
do you likewise.”
  Achilles glared at him and answered, “Fool, prate not to me about
covenants. There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and
lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out an
through. Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me,
nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall
fall and glut grim Mars with his life’s blood. Put forth all your
strength; you have need now to prove yourself indeed a bold soldier
and man of war. You have no more chance, and Pallas Minerva will
forthwith vanquish you by my spear: you shall now pay me in full for
the grief you have caused me on account of my comrades whom you have
killed in battle.”
  He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it. Hector saw it
coming and avoided it; he watched it and crouched down so that it flew
over his head and stuck in the ground beyond; Minerva then snatched it
up and gave it back to Achilles without Hector’s seeing her; Hector
thereon said to the son of Peleus, “You have missed your aim,
Achilles, peer of the gods, and Jove has not yet revealed to you the
hour of my doom, though you made sure that he had done so. You were
a false-tongued liar when you deemed that I should forget my valour
and quail before you. You shall not drive spear into the back of a
runaway—drive it, should heaven so grant you power, drive it into
me as I make straight towards you; and now for your own part avoid
my spear if you can—would that you might receive the whole of it into
your body; if you were once dead the Trojans would find the war an
easier matter, for it is you who have harmed them most.”
  He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it. His aim was true
for he hit the middle of Achilles’ shield, but the spear rebounded
from it, and did not pierce it. Hector was angry when he saw that
the weapon had sped from his hand in vain, and stood there in dismay
for he had no second spear. With a loud cry he called Diphobus and
asked him for one, but there was no man; then he saw the truth and
said to himself, “Alas! the gods have lured me on to my destruction. I
deemed that the hero Deiphobus was by my side, but he is within the
wall, and Minerva has inveigled me; death is now indeed exceedingly
near at hand and there is no way out of it—for so Jove and his son
Apollo the far-darter have willed it, though heretofore th

These are couplets written by Donald Trump and limericks and other Donald Trump poems "care of" Michael R. Burch (please note that these are parodies) ...

Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch

To outfox the pox:
off yourself first, with Clorox!

And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!

No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!

Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!

To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!

To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!

To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!

Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!

Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, humor, Clorox, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, mrbtrump, mrbcouplets



What REALLY Happened
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump lied and lied and lied.
Americans died and died and died.



Grime Wave
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is ******* crime ...
unless it's his own grime.



Trump Love
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump "love" is truly a curious thing ...
does he care for our kids half as much as his bling?



Tangled Webs
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Oh, what tangled webs they weave
when Trump and his toupée seek to deceive!



No Star
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

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 all be wearing lederhosen.



Raw Spewage (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a political sump pump!



Green Eggs and Spam
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I do not like your racist ways!
I do not like your hate for gays!

I do not like your gaseous ****!
I do not like you, Crotch-Grabber Trump!

I do not like you here or there!
I do not like you anywhere!

Your brain's been trapped in a lifelong slump
And I do not like you, Hate-Baiter Trump!



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.



The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!



Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow!
―Michael R. Burch



Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch



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



The Ex-Prez Sez

The prez should be above the law, he sez,
even though he’s no longer prez.
—Michael R. Burch



Quite Con-trary
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trumpy, Trumpy,
fat, balding and lumpy,
how does your Rose Garden grow?
“With venom and spleen
and everything mean,
and my gasket about to blow!”

Trumpy, Trumpy,
obese and dumpy,
why are your polls so low?
“I claimed I was Cyrus
at war with a virus
but lost every time to the minuscule foe!”



Piecemeal, a Coronavirus poem
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

And so it begins—the ending.
The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending.
Your final solution is pending.
(Soon a portly & pale Piggy-Wiggy
will discount your death as "no biggie.")



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

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



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

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!



Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic,
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.



The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?

And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, IN HIS SLEEP?



The Final Episode of Celebrity Apprentice President
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald
said to The Donald,
"Just between us clowns, your polls are too low!"
So The Donald thought hard
then said to his pard,
"It's because I'm a martyr. The world must know!"
Thus Eric Trump jumped
from his obese Trump ****
to declare the virus a "hoax." (End of show.)



modern Midas
by michael r. burch

they say nothing human's alive
yet the Hermit survived:

the last of His kind,
clean out of His mind.

they say He relentlessly washes His fingers,
as dainty as ever, yet the smell of death lingers.

they say it sets off His corona of hair
when He blanches with fear in his Mansion Faire.

they say He still spritzes each strand into place
though there’s no one to see in that hellish place.

they say there’s a moral in what He’s become
as He fondles gold trinkets and cradles His john.



Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her ****'s repulsive game.

"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"




Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?



Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”



Raw Spewage (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a garbage dump
in need of a sump pump!



we did not Dye in vain!
by Michael R. Burch

from “songs of the sea snails”

though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.

i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!

Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!



Twinkle Wrinkles
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Twinkle, twinkle, little "star" ...
Trump, how we wished you blazed                 afar!

Twinkle, twinkle, Groper-Cupid ...
How we've wished you weren't so stupid!

Twinkle, twinkle, Man-Baby "president" ...
In truth you're just the White House resident.



Americans have the opportunity
to greatly improve their community
with votes a-plenty
in 2020.
Dump
Trump!
—Michael R. Burch



Joe Biden, Joe Biden,
our future is ridin’
on you defeatin’
and hidin’
that cancerous lump
called Trump.
—Michael R. Burch



The Perfect Storm
by Michael R. Burch

Stormy Daniels
is Trump's worst nightmare—
a truthteller,
a woman without fear,
full of *****,
unimpressed by his junk,
that he can't debunk.



Aftermath
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Carmen Yulín Cruz is a hero.
Donald Trump is a zero.



15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!



March for Our Lives
by Michael R. Burch

It's not a moment,
it's a MOVEMENT
created to save
innocents from the grave.



Tweety and Pootie
sittin' in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
First comes love,
second comes marriage,
third barechested weasels in a White House carriage!
—Michael R. Burch



Three Trump Valentine's Day Poems

1.

If you're tall, blonde and pretty,
I'll grab your kitty.
If you're dark-skinned and short,
It's time to deport!

2.

I'll secure your southern border tonight,
as long as you're wearing white!

3.

If you're not
as hot
as my daughter,
beware;
prepare
for the slaughter!



Why did Trump endorse Roy "Score" Moore when Nostradumbass claimed he "knew" the Sludge Judge couldn't win? ...

Predators of a feather
flock together.
—Michael R. Burch



Kneeling Verboten
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Colin Kaepernick took a stand by kneeling;
now Donald Trump is reeling
as the NFL owners he implored
lock hands with the players he deplored.



How the Fourth ***** Ramped Up
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump prepped his pale Deplorables:
"You're easy marks and scorables!
Now when I bray
click your heels, obey,
and I'll soon promote you to Horribles!"



Trump Trumps "We The People"
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump fired Comey
to appoint a *****:
some pawn in his Kamp
with a big rubber stamp.

Out the window flew freedom!
Rights? You don't need 'em!
Like Attilâ the ***,
Trump answers to no one!

Do you think you have worth?
Trump makes you his serf.
He's your Lord and your Master:
you elected DISASTER.



Pass the Hat for the Fat Cat
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

If you're a Fat Cat,
vote for an Autocrat;
otherwise, stick with a Democrat ...
or get ready to pass the hat
for yourself,
doomed by that strange little pixie-fingered orange elf.



****** Assaulter-in-Chief
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald Trump Bozo
bopped Bill Clinton Clown on the nose: “Oh,
I’ll trump your cigar
with my groping, by far,
when I bounce interns on my Big Pogo!”



Trump's Donor Song
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

(lines written after it became apparent that Trump is not
"draining the swamp" but stocking it with his crocodilian
donors and political piranha)

christmas is coming, the Trumpster's purse is flat:
please put a Billion in the Fat Cat's hat!
if you haven't got a Billion, a Hundred Mil will do.
if you haven't got a Hundred Mil, the yoke's on you!



Alt-Right White Christmas
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump's dreaming of a White Christmas,
just like the ones he used to know
when black renters groveled
or lived in hovels
while he laughed and shouted **-**-**!



*******
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
Is a chump,
He’s an
Orange Heffalump.
His hair?
Made of batter.
His brain?
***** matter.
His “plans”?
A disaster.
His “position”?
Your Master!



Fool's Gold
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

THE DONALD has won (so we're told).
If it's true, worthless swampland's been sold!
But who were the buyers?
Poor folks who trust liars
and pay through the nose for fool's gold.



Bunko
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Agent Orange is full of bunk:
Tiny-fingered, he claims a big "trunk."
And his "platform"? Oh my,
I think we'd all die!
And he can't even claim he was drunk!

NOTE: Donald Trump claims that he doesn't drink alcohol, except when he partakes of Holy Communion. However, Trump insulted the body and blood of Jesus Christ when he spoke dismissively of his "little *******" and "little wine." He claims to be a Christian, but also said that he never asks God for forgiveness! Is he punch drunk or just pulling our legs about being a Christian?



De-Bunko
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There's something I'd like to debunk:
the GOP's not in a "funk."
The Donald, by choice,
is its unfiltered voice.
Vote for someone who's sane, or we're sunk!



Fooling Around
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald Trump-Bozo
cried, “Clinton Clown cheats with his yo-yo!
He plays fast and loose!
It’s clearly abuse!
Whereas broads love to bounce on my pogo!”

BTW, it's amusing that Rudy Giuliani is now Trump's surrogate, defending him from accusations of ****** assault and other improprieties by scores of women, when in a 2000 "Mayor's Inner Circle" video, Giuliani in drag had his "*******" schmoozed by The Donald, after which Giuliani slapped his face and called him a "***** boy." Obviously, Giuliani was well aware of Trump's reputation for grabbing and groping women without bothering to ask for their permission! Trump's outrageous behavior was a running joke among alpha males in his circle. In 1993, fellow bad boy Howard Stern asked Trump directly: “So you treat women with respect?” Trump answered honestly: “No, I can’t say that either.” And hundreds of chauvinistic public statements and tweets by Trump confirm that he doesn't treat women with respect, or minorities, or anyone that he considers "weak" or "overweight" or "unattractive."



Trumping Tots
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Things that go bump in the night
fill Herr Trump with irrational fright;
his brain hits the skids;
he shrieks, "Ban dark kids!"
Where's his self-lauded "courage" and "might"?
Is cowardice Trump's kryptonite?



Trump Explains Why His Hair Looks Like ****: It's Been Bleached By Drool
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

"Although my hands are quite tiny,
I have an enormous hiney;
so I stick my head in,
predicting I’ll win,
while everyone kisses it shiny!"



The Name and Blame Game
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

If you have a slightly offbeat name,
you'll be de-planed, detained, restrained, defamed.
Supremacists know pure white names are best,
so be prepared to prove you're among the Blessed.
(Woe unto those who fail Trump's Litmus Test!)



Trump the Game Plan
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There once was a huckster named Trump
who liked to be kissed on the ****.
He promised awed voters
if they'd be his promoters,
he'd magically fix up their dump.

Now the voters were dreaming of Ronald
and hoping they'd found him in Donald.
And so, lightly "thinking"
after much heavy drinking,
they put out, as if they'd been fondled.

But once he'd secured the election
Trump found his fans cause for dejection.
"I only love tens!"
he complained to his "friends,"
then deported them: black, white and Mexican.

Thus Donald fulfilled his sworn duties
by ridding the land of non-cuties.
Once the plain Janes were gone
he could smile on his throne
surrounded by imported beauties!



Egad,
what a cad;
the Orange Heffalump
scowls when he sees
a baby bump!
Like the Grinch who stole Christmas
(but every day of the year),
The Donald eyes happy
mothers with a leer!
―Michael R. Burch

NOTE: Donald Trump actually body-shamed Kim Kardashian for having a baby bump, saying that she was "large" and ought to watch the kind of clothes she wears in public!



Donald Trump Campaign Songs

Christmas is coming!
Tycoons are getting fat!
TRUMP says, "Take a ****
in some beggar's hat!
Beat him to a pulp
then run him out of town
if he dares object to
the MAN with the GOLDEN CROWN.
And if you're not a Christian,
nothing else will do!
But if you're just like TRUMP,
then may TRUMP bless you!
―Michael R. Burch



SANTA CLAWS is coming to town!
He sees Spics when they're sleeping
and Blacks when they're awake!
He knows that Whites are always good,
but dark skin is God's mistake.
So if you're some poor orphan
with slightly darker skin,
BIG BROTHER will be WATCHING
all blacks and Mexicans!
―Michael R. Burch



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



Dark Shroud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch

Trump cares so little for the silly pests
who rise to swarm his rallies that he jests:
“The silver lining of this dark corona
is that I’m not obliged to touch the fauna!”



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a cute 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.



Mini-Ode to a Quickly Shrinking American Icon
by Michael R. Burch

Rudy, Rudy,
strange and colludy,
how does your pardon grow?
“With demons like hell’s
and progress like snails’
and criminals all in a row!”



Christmas is Coming
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!

Keywords/Tags: Trump, Donald Trump, poems, epigrams, quotes, quotations, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Cancun, Christmas, evil, democracy, coup, treason, treasonous, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

"Manifest Destiny?"

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina

Keywords/Tags: Race, Racism, Black Lives Matter, Equality, Brotherhood, Fraternity, Sisterhood, Tolerance, Acceptance, Civil Rights



Instruction
by Michael R. Burch

Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.

Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset

of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs

and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.

The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,

are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.

Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly


Published as the collection "Not-So-Heroic Couplets"

I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadow-like, o'er hill and hollow,
And bend my fancy to your leading,
All too nimble for my treading.
When the pilgrimage is done,
And we've the landscape overrun,
I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,
And your heart is unsupported.
Vainly valiant, you have missed
The manhood that should yours resist,
Its complement; but if I could
In severe or cordial mood
Lead you rightly to my altar,
Where the wisest muses falter,
And worship that world-warning spark
Which dazzles me in midnight dark,
Equalizing small and large,
While the soul it doth surcharge,
That the poor is wealthy grown,
And the hermit never alone,
The traveller and the road seem one
With the errand to be done;—
That were a man's and lover's part,
That were Freedom's whitest chart.

This house is silent now, this new smart house
The storm has downed the power lines; wild rains
Against the windows beat like hungry wolves
And all house gadgetry is silent and still

And just as still: the Barnes & Noble Nook™®
The Ipod™® unsupported, the dead FitBit™®
That failed before its third Christmas day
The La Crosse(tm)® that failed before its second

And dead are all the promises that they gave:
Our silent gadgets in this cold, dark cave

Woman child, man child, Kidadults
I hear your voices, I feel your pain,
I was pushed on the tracks you walk
I see the sorrows of the known and unknown days
the hopelessness of feeling insignificant
the destitutes of needs unmet, wants unattainable
the searing pain of the unsupported, the pitiful cries unheard
the anger of mediocrity, the stupefying lull of mundanity
that shaming feeling of feeling disrespected and unworthy

I can appreciate your rages and outrages
the compulsion to lash out, to hate, to get back at them
the frustrations that begets violence, the creeping disillusionments
the insecurities, the fears, the paralyses, the absence of stability
that pervasive feeling of inadequacies of minds unfulfilled
the crazed tensions that always sits at the door and gnawed often
the need for escapisms, to drink and live recklessly atimes
the pain that bornes rejections of cooperation with those others
the sheer horrors that make you think the world is against you

But I've been one of you even before I was made one of you
I come from the capital of Suffering, paid fees at Adversity alley
I too know what it's like to go hungry, to do without
Know what it's like to yell in frustration and bemoan my lot
while the wealthy kids swarmed around with foreign goodies
I know the humiliation being barred from class and school lessons
because my school fees were late in coming and being laughed at
but I had parents who gave tough love and bred worthy sons
and values to work hard, stand tall and respect your name

Don't look at others, be positive, be the best you can be
be helpful, be polite, be kind and fear your God but nothing else
you are a man, go like a man and never ever take what's not yours
Be grateful for what you have anf thankful for the privilege
Yes, I had breaks, but I stand knowing I earned from my sweat
and nothing was expected or given or taken for nothing
so Yes, I know suffering and hardship ain't going to break me now
No woman, I was bred to care for, love and provide, *****, they are not for ****** release, or comforter to abate my pain or strifes
Loneliness is nothing, I have slept in dark forest and quiet beaches
I have faced darkness and fears that would traumatize older men

Destroying me achieves nothing other than glorify inhumanity
there will always be talented people who seem to have more
these days the're few elitists only does who took opportunities
If you want to change the palaces, do a Megan Mackle
Be good enough to marry inside and change lives from within
Hating privileged serves no purpose other than reinforce them
You can bring the walls down from the inside better than outside
Hate destroys the haters, why court cancer when love cures all

Woman child, man child, Kidadults
I hear your voices, I feel your pain,
I have walked the tracks you walk
I know well the sorrows of the known and unknown days
I can talk the talk and walk the walk
I have done it more than any of you born in the West.....

There is not much of me now, my Northern Light;
I hath been too torn to tell of my deeds,
I am a broken soul now, emerging from an invisible pit;
I hope the sun shall clear though, that I can but delight in belated rain again.
Rain, on thy forested land, that I hath begun to long to taste;
Coming to me like a five-year-old nymph: a succulent playmate,
Shadowing me but in cheerful grins and tireless haste,
What funny terms t’is little creature makes sense of!
Ah, a little one that brightens and salutes my days,
With lyrical giggles often stunning the entire forests of glee around me—
And taking my breaths away in dozens of waves of fierce smoke
That I often pause my breaths, feeling privilege and triumphant
Amidst its innocent odors, smudged with green hues and damp visions.
I feel comfortable then, as my pulse speeds and moans with delight
Spilling onto us from the brave storm above, as I always do.
Tasting rain, I shall twitch and sway around again with laughter, wisdom, and patience
That were undeniably stolen from me; leaving me in a deafening whine of tears.

They but told I did not belong, I was foreign, and so were my streaks of song;
My justice was but not their equal, I was a liar, I was wrong.
I was too humble to notice, I was too unarmed.
I was too innocent to be their companion—improvident and reckless beings!
No delicacy flashes across their eyes, neither do sympathy or softness.
All I could see was scorching hate and heat, shimmering in a blinding, officious smirk.
I was ample and blused oft’ with shyness—how come they came and stole my tranquil peace!
How ignominious and disgraced the whole nation is, who believes
that our own skin shall save us, unmerited and soulless!
How immature, timid, and vile; imbeciles that inherit only rainbows of sarcasm.
And what told they of my poetry, in such recursive envy and hate;
With disgust they said to me; ‘tis not my beloved, nor my fate.
They claimed I lived one life—and three souls too late, that I understood what life meant not;
They thought all was but a wealth of infamy around me, and I was rife with unseen disease.
I was a creature not to fall in love with, I was a disgrace;
I was ungodly, a shoddy strand of leaf to be killed unborn.
They figured I smelt like the withered summer weather;
Not a fit for their chilly smokeless air!

The air there smelt fondly like their absence of love;
And though it was silent, they were silent not,
It was a joy for them to ****, and to see my blood spill,
They said yet I knew not how to taste and feel.
It was as if I could not feel my own blood,
Nor that I could locate my gut’s instincts.
And what thought they of my ****** story;
For my presence was a nightmarish joke to all,
And I was a meaningless and too joyous of a little bud,
A small lavender which poorly knows its enemies and their fetal tongues,
That roses can sting and steal one or two of its crescent seeds!
Ah, and I was that degraded bland-smelling little bloom,
The mindless bloom t’ be plucked in their spring garden—harvested before my time;
That I shall cry and weep my blood out of me, in burning pain,
Destructing all my jutting illusions once again, without knowing why,
And finding my fierce heart, the next second, lying still!
That I think of my Immortal no more, and his face accusably so white and lean
For he has been forgetful of the love he once sustained;
His love, dimmed by the greed around his whole figure
Unsupported by the angered nature about him—which he barely sees.
Hungry for flesh, he is a snake of untold regret and hate;
Powdered with deadly lies only, in his season of love.
Bathed in austerity, and in his own madness running;
Running into the nowhere of my dreams, and dies finally, as I wake from my sleep.
I saw no compassion in his eyes, on those last old days, and after I left,
All that was dead not I deep buried,
I oft’ dream of him burning and rotting his own scattered life,
Melting his own flesh into a rogue wave of sins,
Questioning his divinity with rage that he himself be ragged before he knows it.
And so unseeingly he curses and is consumed by his own karma,
Gathering his own bulleted skins and fleshes by a knife,
But in doing so betraying his own domain of conscience,
Depriving him of ample wan pleasure, tumbling himself vehemently into death.
Scorching death that feeds but from our departing shades of life,
And shrieks in agony when no ferocious air growls at midnight.
Ah, at my dismantled nights in England but I once gave thought of thee;
Thou wert there in my perpetual mind, but not so inquisitive as my English journey was.
O, Northern Light, I was but all shivers upon their first mention of thee!
And so there was I, unknown to the English world but heard fairly of thy name;
That I, at times, thought of the Northern Light, aside from my streams of cries and desperation,
And the noble autumn on its land, when in my fluorescent night slumbers,
I’d love to dally on top of fall’s rebellious moors—and ah!
I can see my love, flapped with his native pride, storm down the maroon roads.
I can see his wait for me, encapped by forty feet of snow on a mountaintop,
ready for my warming fingertips and embrace whenever he thinks of me.
Ah! Though there is sun not on thy lofty linen land, my Northern Light;
I am grinning with joyous tears in sight of thy snowy night,
My dreams have finally drawn me to thy visible lines,
And soon, I shall have to renounce my weary sunshine.
I want to break free, enormous with youth and vibrancy;
With affluent rhymes and delightful vibes that come in time.
Poetry, for it has become one of my salient features;
A concise concoction of my soul, that I love in laugh and hate.
My daydreaming has not been too bad, for I have seen the fun once more;
I was too selfish to open my eyes and see its truth.

Come to me, my Northern Light, and shall I have to perish later along with age
into blue nothingness, I shall not die inside out;
For I know thou shalt come to help my toil
And relieve it of grease and oil;
filling my light up before it turns out.
I, who hath been consumed and decried within two sad springs;
I, who was made to survive an agitation and pain
Only by a jug of comforting cold,
Hath now left my past with a single shrug;
And so I hath dreamed of bouncing back into thy arms,
Thy arms that are too cold at first—to my fragile feet
And swim into thy hands that shall all but know me to well;
Blame me not for the fateful pairs of stories of mine, to tell.

And who are they anyway, to enjoy poetry whenst they see not?
They, whose shadow is to fall into death within the first three days—
But acknowledge the slim presence of death not, among us.
They, whose ******* glisten with envy, and a displeased countenance;
Haunting every guileless soul, dancing over their dismantled beings
Although they bear no trace of hate towards their very eyes.
All I see of ‘em is a beast, that encaps and murders decisively within a short breath;
None of them is eager to touch the deep,
Nor to be kind and set their hateful souls alight,
They are a boastful ally of the devil, far in their forest’s central gloom,
A hell by the deadly babbling brooks, sending water into every undying leaf
That all shall die within the unstable touch of their hands.
They are a bunch of strange apparitions that mock every treasured sight;
A rough incubus, waiting for every foreign man’s headlong fall,
They live only to scorn, ****** and fight,
Penetrating every fortune’s secrets, poignantly tearing their kind walls.

Not seldom that I began to wonder, in all my recursive roamings;
I wanted to see and listen to thee, ah, what a warming sound of thy Eolian lute there was!
All was in vast vain, for I was conceited to hear of my own vision;
Nor proceed my learnings, I was stupidly void of hearings, and rich with shortcomings!
My conscience was too thin, that I wrote when I heard not—and drew
when I saw not, ah, I was unable to hear thee, my love!
For everything I could see was but, in my red dreams, thy roads and their unspoken lines;
Telling me that I was dreaming and all wouldst be fine.
I failed to see though thou wert but very, very kind!
All was a parade around me and ah, yet I could see not,
Its loudly thumping winds but made me blind,
Squinting into the gust, all but myself I could not identify;
My whole soul was absorbed by its minutiae of unbearable pain.
Belligerent and poisonous, the circle was bitter as dread;
Sordid in life, uncivilised and mortified in death.
Aye, how I struggled hard to break free myself, from those violent thorns!
Finally all was clear, and I saw the vital path to light; ah, my Northern Light!
Now I can see again, I am grateful for having not capitulated to my desires.
My poisoned desires, that once retained me;
I am thankful that I hath wriggled free.
Ah, Northern Light, it seems that thou hast so much to tell;
I do not know, yet, how it all shall begin.
I shall dwell on thy grounds so well;
the grounds so beneficent and keen in the first place.
I have not heard of thy sweet voice;
I have known but thy cherry-red stories.
Stories as original as my love;
Willingly given to thee, should thou lift my heart away
and within one saturated breath, amaze and steal which from me.
Stories with red kisses plastered over its blushing pages;
Stories with a shy tint of love; that love of ours that demands recognition.
Stories with hugs and passion that are yet still unborn;
waiting for the frozen night to become known.
Oh, we all should seek the tremor our loving hands hath caused;
And a newly replenished joy, yet, that they hath so lovingly unleashed.
A new, formal joy, that delights both in giving and returning.
My Northern Light, I may love thee and seek delight within thee only;
The fire of thee has consumed the living of me violently,
and I have begun to see my other living side,
cheerful and jubilant may I be, on my front days.

Come to me, my Northern Light, lure me into thy sacred idle night;
When the time of our fate washes ashore, and all the wrongs shall turn right,
And all the fires grow into rain, multiplied by the benevolent immortal knight,
Who shalt fly as King of the Skies, whilst burning out the prejudiced sunlight.

Come to me, my Northern Dawn, moisten me with thy Victorian dew;
Draw me closer to thy sonatas, a realised romance written by bare hands
Bringing another vigorous pleasure to our reluctant bliss
And removing the worries of our juvenile present, marking it as the new Truth.

Come to me, my Northern Dusk, flirt with me like thou didst not with one;
Wish our hearts luck, and fight so our triumph be won,
Thou shalt **** hate with thy sword of victorious words,
Satisfactory to our chests, infallible to the sniggering worlds.

Come to me, my Northern Lamp, tempt me into the army of curling winds;
Rub my shoulders again the beguiling sweet rains, charm me away,
Far in the dark I shall be generous to thee, calming like wine,
I wouldst love to fall into the sky by thy wings again.

Come to me, my Northern Sky, envelop me in thy starlet dawn and blanket;
I want to embrace thy northern grass and tulips, and paint some rainbows,
To read some lullaby beneath the benign sky, and its amulets,
To write some poetic words, and sing them today and tomorrow.

Come to me, my Northern Sea, may thou enjoyest thy grounds’ cold clay;
That my wondrous script shall touch and place upon it a play,
Announcing my ragged arrival on the harmonious soil,
Adjusting myself to the convenient steep hills.

Come to me, my Northern Song, may thou be blessed without and in the unknown;
May thou remember the words of my late vow, o my attractive love,
May I in abundance love thee more, after my formative alone,
May this love grow strong, undeniable, and tough.

Come to me, my Northern Sun, bewitch me once more and entrap my mind;
That thou give birth but to a revitalised summer, young and free,
That this immortal joy shall last, like the oblivious moon,
Held hostage by thy beauty, whose half thou hath shared onto my soul.

Come to me, my Northern Rain, make me rejoice in the swirling autumns;
When the greens turn red and all shall die and wake again,
That we shall remain friends until tomorrow and delight,
Delight, that comes to us when we are united fellows.

Come to me, my Northern Grass, be dry and wet and tickle with pleasure and again;
Fulfill my heart with lithe atonement, for my graceful sins,
And by thee, I shall neither be dangerous nor unchaste,
I shall be a ******; my moonlit quest is just about to begin.

Come to me, my Northern Guide, heal my wounds and lingering past scars;
Scars that are immortal and once tormented my dreams,
I hath forgiven them with my tender cares,
Releasing them back prettily, into their domestic jubilees.

Come to me, my Northern Moon, in the merit of haste and run;
Nibbling thy water lilies as thou pass, and flying through the floating grass,
Thou shalt find me within the cheeks of Jakarta, in my cornered walk,
Moving around with unease, void of any candlelight spark.

Come to me, my Northern Star, thou art as warm as thou art cold;
My reason to keep on longing, and hold on to thy unmolested warmth,
That the cruel Coventry can thaw me no more;
Neither shall its herons fly over my untouched shore.

Come to me, my Northern Soul, so that I can be free;
Let me not be engulfed by the breathless dawn, and twilight,
Slide me free from the strain of tropical grief and sunlight,
I want to feel cold once more, all through the day and night.

Come to me, my Northern Tale, and hear me over the shrieking winds;
Let me steer my journey to thy mortal land, unite us as we have been;
Live inside me and feed my blood, make me known and beguiling;
Scoop me into thy arms, picture me asleep and welcoming.

Come to me, my Northern Poem, make me hear what thou couldst promise;
Make me twitch with delight, and shout pleasure within thy hands,
And sign that very night as my time of rebirth;
Pleasant and pure, free from the past sins and filth.

Come to me, my Northern Love, make my ****** soul glow green again;
Find thy way to me by my marked boughs of love,
My journey and love hath but not ended yet,
Thou shalt breed and unite with me—in our timeless breath.

Masking tapes covers cracks
yet you still broke into a  rave
it's the opposite of intentioned order
unsupported barricades buckle
the town sphere makes no sense.
Barbiturates bitters the night,
strangely forlorn as  inner suppression
gives no truth.

Glass has been shattered.
He's shattered.
On the floor and
I don't know who he
is anymore.
The light from the
exploding sky
has no clue which piece
of him is fit to shine
off of. Like all of him
is just so dark, no light
could ever escape to reflect.
    
There are always hidden
sights, you just have to
care enough to see. A Chinese
hut on the mountain with a
waterfall that turns into
the night sky.
There's a man in the sky
who's got tentacles for
half of his face. Northern
lights turning into vines
and flowers. A waif living
in acid with a cape of smoke.

The cracks in your lips
aren't just from the dry
weather. Your teeth are
rotten. I know it started in
your jaw. From clenching it
so hard. It started in the roots
of your molars. Was that just
the cigarettes? Has it spread?
Is that why the bags under
your eyes look like you're
leaving for good?
You carry it all on your
shoulders. Is that why
they always lean forward?
Guess you ran out of room,
wiped your eyes, set the
carry ons down there.
Your eyes droop already but
you'll be ****** in an hour.
Maybe you'll get so high you
can hang on to a plane,
find your destination
from the sky. It'd be easy right?
A place without clouds.
You want to see the skies so clearly
the angel's are practically
right next to your face. You could
stroke her wings with your eyelashes.
That is if you even blink. They wipe
away the poison spilled on your
tongue. They rub off your
bitterness like it's my eye shadow
on your shoulder. Pat your head,
erasing the memory of me. Because
I'm Alfalfa's out of place
cow lick that forgot how to stay
in its chains of hair gel and grease.
Forgot how to keep low,
forgot how to keep my neck
out of reach of all the razor
blades threatening me from the
walls. A conversation with you
is like putting on a ******...
Which we never do. How ironic right?
    
You're shattered. Been taken hostage
by the words in your head. Or maybe
I never knew you at all. Maybe you've
always been cracking, and I got to see
the tape give up and peel. I watched you
pick at the glue. I've seen you smile
as your entire being spilled through
the cracks. I missed the suspension of the
show getting a joint for your flowers.
I thought I'd get something to make you cough
instead of sneeze. I was thrown into
your big crowning glory. The huge
******. The insanely dramatic
denouement. When everything left, you
crumbled in. Your empty bones became
sand inside of you. I watched you in the
middle of the circus ring. All lights
focused on your skin. Your left knee
in the center of a couple cross wires.
The red dot sight focused on your chest
a ruse for us to expect firecrackers soon.
The dot shaking unsteadily having us on
the edge of our seats. The lights are
alternating, spinning, going faster than
the blood pumping past my ears. Somewhere
drums sped up and clowns slid out of
balloons like mercury. All shiny, their
eyes sliding up and down from fingertips,
to their right shoulder. They danced, spun,
Their bodies reflecting the light's lies to
our ears. The lies spin, transforming flying
at me faster than your fathers words cut your
strength. He slit your resilience's
jugular and already choked out your
light. We saw none of this. Eyes
focused on the red dot. You're swaying,
half way through the tight rope taking
a ****. The same star design circling
the ground becoming your pupils.
You never exhaled. But we see that last
cloud of THC seep out of your pores.
Liquid clowns suspended by your perspective,
start giggling at my shaking hands.
Their lies almost cover me like spiderwebs.
I feel them lick their lips like I'm
a meal they can't wait to pick out of
their teeth.
And I whisper "My bones will pierce your
lungs. I am made of razor blades, hollow
pipes, and my blood is infected with
plutonium. He is already glass, dust, you
find an annoyance to sweep off the
floor."

Cobwebs made of dead skin falling from my
ears, sliding off like an unsupported
pair of sunglasses. I hear no bullet.
But I see you get another puff out of
the roach. You smile, spread your arms.
******, tattered, wings rip from your
shoulders. The angels didn't give you the
beauty they promised. Lies are like enamel,
layered in everyone's mouth. Your last words
were shouted into a crowded circus tent,
but they echo only inside my pulse. Seconds
pass like minutes. Children giggle in
front of me. Intoxicated on the whiskey
they sipped from their dad's coca-cola.
Their father's looking at the pictures
he took of his secretary. The mom at the
house "working". Too busy riding the same
secretary's face to tag along. Everything
floating by me. Strings I could pluck, make
music out of dead lives for the bullet
fighting it's way towards my mosaic window.
He's shattered. His insides decayed. His
body condemned. The mortician said no
embalming was needed with this one.

I was too busy focusing on how your body
swallowed the light. You became a swirling
black cloud of battery acid. Sulfur
assaulting my airways. Arsenic unnoticeable
but my stomach covered in it, eating my
organs. Everything went into you.
There was no shadow, everything was
engulfed in your tornado. No silhouette
for my peripheral vision to catch while I
watched your magic trick. How long have
you been dead?

You tried to put on my gear, armour, if you
will, I burned it. Not wanting to give
you the satisfaction of helping me
while simultaneously snapping every bone
in my body. You couldn't prepare me for
this. No matter how much you tried
to explain, I wouldn't be able to grasp
the red dot disappearing, a bullet going
though your knee cap. The boney see through
wings tearing through your skin. Shouting
"I'm golden."
The wings tried to take your body with them,
but the rotted bones weighed your
cracked shell of a body down.
Your take off failed. Furthermore the angels
****** you up, they went back on their deal.
Your eyes shine like they've had halo's
stuck in them for years. You're 17, ******
up in the head, and your last words were
a reassurance.
    
Did you know I'd hear you?
Did you know your body would explode
into a cluster **** of gases? Toxic enough
to singe your eyebrows.
Everyone's cheering. I see the spiderweb
lies stuffed in their ears like cotton
I wasn't wearing safety goggles.
I wasn't ready for your skin
to fall like ashes. Bone shards stuck in
the ceiling. One jutting from the
moving eye ball of a clown.

I realize you've become a snake.
Shedding and leaving your skin by
my back door. Habit's changed.
I'm an old *** rag, that you're
probably never going to wash.
I want to glue you back together.
Lay in bed with you again, have the sun
shine brighter than your eyes.
When I was so deep in love fluff I
hadn't realized someone ****** on
the cotton candy you had just bought.
I want to go back. Everything used to
be so simple. School, work, hang out with
you, go home and sleep.
  
Just tell me one thing...
How'd you fake being alive like that.
You've been dead for months.
But you burned brighter than
The exploding sky that refused
to shine on you. Maybe you breathed
it all in, ****** the entire sun
into your bones.
Is that why you finally crumbled?
  
Why did you die?
Why did you crumble?
Why did I have to find out
at a ****** up carnival?

When life give you lemons
You make lemonade.
But at some point
Lemonade just won't do.

It doesn't sell well either.
So you get smart
And start making limoncello
And give those *******
What was coming at them.

A face that indicates
They took on more
Than they could handle
A gag reflex and sour taste in their mouths

A sweet twist that comes from
The smirk on your face
And if they keep messing with you
They won't be able to see straight
Let alone walk home unsupported.

Life started; my ear to your heart.
I heard life growing, but you grew up too fast.
Knowing so many things--
You decorated your parents in the sweet laughter you brought
and still bring.

I feel connected to you through the rhythm of your heart.
You fought to start -- sought your own part in life,
though you couldn't do it unsupported.
Your requited love has grown, and plays on our souls in the happiness we've known.

You dance. You sing.
You've arrived. Alive and kicking.

My everything.  

My reward: little socks, conversations with playful teddy bears, square blocks, and good food eaten in highchairs. Knocks on the head each day.
Your love of monsters and animals, and the funny things you have said
and still say.

Kisses. Hugs. Pokes in the ribs. Tears and giggles.
The fear of closed doors, but a big fan of pigs!  

Little hands. Curly hair.
I think about you everywhere.

Your first walk. The shock of unknowing.
Our open arms and your gradual growth into them,
and growth into knowing.

Now, safe and warm, blankets and toys -- I watch you sleep flawlessly unspoiled.  

I watch and need this growing piece of me; my future seed. This all-seeing, bright eyed and innocent being -- I see so many parts of me in him.

Little socks -- and lots and lots of tickles and curly golden locks and you're the best thing I've ever seen.

It is you, dear boy, I understand.
I love to hold your little hands.
And make you laugh, and hear you talk;
That way you can't say ''box''.
But most of all I just love you.
You and your little socks.

Farewell my bike blue
I know the day would come to say goodbye
as it goes with any loved one
My eyes still searching like a hungry creature
every point on the street every blue is you
a hope of light but I know you are gone

I mourn today and share it with the world I live in
the blues that my heart sadly sings is for the departure
of the synesthetic joy we exchanged
during the star-years of change

I received the learning of each and every moment
by seeing you again amongst many others
standing there humbly
waiting for me
as if one of the others

We always knew a secret to shine for each other
You as the blue of the morning sky to release
the heaviness coming from the mind to deliver
a shine of hope in less than a moment of recognition

so way I convert to a light to alight light
and fully become one with you again

we come from a world of soul
you and I
not different in the essence of awareness
definitions separate us just
In our world all things are alive

I knew this would happen soon
three days long I received signs from the universe
that you will be gone
could not /did not want to believe
I did my best to keep the key in my heart
and until today
when a moment of courage was lost
when you were out of sight
and I lost

learning my new body unsupported
collecting  my new mind like
laundry spread on a field
a field where I wish to  kick a ball only
they say you become normal finally
like us you can cry
like us you can feel tired
like our period wish for chocolate
and halt and stop and accept that you cannot swing from a star
why not add a bag of chips to it and a TV screen
I politely refuse each time
I say then I have my bike blue waitin for me sorry I gotta go now

They try  and I try
to understand what they say
Do they mean they can learn things without becoming things?
but do they -those who assign normal -
not know that I have not enough intelligence to do that?
they also see I fail each time I try
as I failed today and also yesterday and also the day before
I don’t believe in normality definitions
no  we cannot be normalized as such or domesticated
but love
because love

Today when I got blurred he showed up
as predicted
at the side of a shadowy street
he gave me a slight sight look just
In the suit of Mr. Passerby
one of the innocent silhouettes doing as if he is not meant to be a silhouette  i said
not suspecting the angel of separation
they always take an appearance of someone
it is for a reason I know and I shall not cry
but I even cried

the reason let me prepare you well at least
for your go last night
It was a sign of a bird
so I cleaned your seat
changed your cover
emptied your bag
tidied your reserves
adjusted your saddle
on my return you were gone
with the key

I sang My Bike Blue written for you all night
still feel you under that star
and I know
I will never see you again
but the song brings us back
to salute us on your moves forward
let they be blessed on their journey
then I am happy - peaceful
each time a joy felt
I am touching your spirit again

Donald Trump Limericks IV



The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?



Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”



Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.



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

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



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

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!



No Star
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

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 all be wearing lederhosen.



How the Fourth ***** Ramped Up
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump prepped his pale Deplorables:
"You're such easy marks and scorables!
So now when I bray
click your heels and obey,
and I'll soon promote you to Horribles!"



The Ex-Prez Sez

The prez should be above the law, he sez,
even though he’s no longer prez.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump Dump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a con man named Trump
who just loved to take dumps at the stump.
“What use is the truth?”
he cried, with real ruth,
“Just come kiss my fat orange ****!”



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

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

Interpretation: In this alleged "ode" a southern member of the Trump cult complains that Trump's a$$ produces so much ***** matter that his legions of a$$-kissers can't hope to drain it and need mechanical a$$-istance!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Raw Spewage (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a political sump pump!



Raw Spewage (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a garbage dump
in need of a sump pump!


Keywords/Tags: Trump limerick, Trump limericks, limerick, nonsense, light, verse, humor, humorous, donald, trump, president, ignoramus, *****, imbecile, conman, fraud, liar, shill, criminal, huckster, snake oil salesman, Twitter, tweet, tweety



OTHER TRUMP LIMERICKS, POEMS AND EPIGRAMS



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



Dark Shroud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch

Trump cares so little for the silly pests
who rise to swarm his rallies that he jests:
“The silver lining of this dark corona
is that I’m not obliged to touch the fauna!”



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a cute 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.



There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancun cruise.
—Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”



Mini-Ode to a Quickly Shrinking American Icon
by Michael R. Burch

Rudy, Rudy,
strange and colludy,
how does your pardon grow?
“With demons like hell’s
and progress like snails’
and criminals all in a row!”



Christmas is Coming
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!



Fake News, Probably
by Michael R. Burch

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

Keywords/Tags: Trump, Donald Trump, poems, epigrams, quotes, quotations, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Cancun, Christmas



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Mercedes Benz
by Michael R. Burch

I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this:

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?

Oh Donnie, won't you rent me your **** import?
You need to pay your lawyers: a **** for a tort!
I’ll await her delivery each day until three.
And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free!

Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you, Don, so don't let me down!
Oh, prove you're a ******* and bring them around.
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?


Ode to a Pismire
by Michael R. Burch

Drumpf is a *****:
his hair’s in a Fritz.
Drumpf is a missy:
he won’t drink Schlitz.
Drumpf’s cobra-hissy
though he lives in the Ritz.
Drumpf is so pissy
his diaper’s the Shitz.



The Ballade of Large Marge Greene
by Michael R. Burch

Marge
is large
and in charge,
like a barge.

Yes, our Marge
is quite large,
like a hefty surcharge.

Like a sarge,
say LaFarge,
apt to over-enlarge
creating dissent before the final discharge.


Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch

Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



My Sin-cere Endorsement of a Trump Cultist
by Michael R. Burch

If you choose to be an idiot, who can prevent you?
If you love to do evil, why then, by all means,
go serve the con who sent you!



Bird’s Eye View
Michael R. Burch

So many fantasical inventions,
but what are man’s intentions?
I don’t trust their scooty cars.
And what about their plans for Mars?

Their landfills’ high retentions?
The dodos they fail to mention?
I don’t trust Trump’s “clean coal” cars,
and what the hell are his plans for Mars?



Untitled

Don't disturb him in his inner sanctum
Or he’ll have another Trumper Tantrum.
—Michael R. Burch

It turns out the term was prophetic, since "conservatives" now serve a con. — Michael R. Burch

To live among you — ah! — as among vipers, coldblooded creatures not knowing right from wrong, adoring Trump, hissing and spitting venom.

Trump rhymes with chump
grump
frump
lifelong slump
illogical jump
garbage dump
sewage clump
sump pump
*******
cancerous lump
malignant bump
unpleasingly plump
slovenly schlump
yuge enormous diaper-clad ****
and someone we voters are going to thump and whump
—Michael R. Burch



Putin's Lootin's
by Michael R. Burch

They’re dropping like flies:
Putin’s “allies.”

Ah, but who gets their funny
money?

Two birds with one stone:
no dissent, buy a drone.

For tyrants the darkest day’s sunny!



Preempted
by Michael R. Burch

Friends, I admit that I’m often tempted
to say what I think about Trump,
but all such thought’s been preempted
by the sight of that Yuge Orange ****!



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

The editorial board of the Washington Post is “very worried that American women don’t want to marry Trump supporters.”

Supporting Trump puts a crimp in dating
(not to mention mating).

So, ***** dudes, if you’d like to bed
intelligent gals, and possibly wed,

it’s time to jettison that red MAGA cap
and tweet “farewell” to an orange sap.



Squid on the Skids
by Michael R. Burch

Sidney Powell howled in 2020:
“The Kraken will roar through the land of plenty!”

But she recalled the Terror in 2023
with a slippery, slimy, squid-like plea.



The Kraken Cracked
by Michael R. Burch

She’s singing like a canary.
Who says krakens are scary?

Squidney said the election was hacked,
but when all her lies were unpacked,
the crackpot kraken cracked.

Now, with a shrill, high-pitched squeal,
The kraken has cut a deal.

Oh, tell it with jubilation:
the kraken is on probation!



Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.

Forget the ****** Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.



Two Trump Truisms
by Michael R. Burch
When Trump’s the culprit everyone’s a “snitch.”
It ain’t a “witch hunt” when the perp’s a witch.



Horrid Porridge
by Michael R. Burch

My apologies to porridge for this unfortunate association with an unwholesome human being.

Why is Trump orange,
like porridge
(though not some we’re likely to forage)?
The gods of yore
knew long before
Trump was born, to a life of deplorage,
that his face must conform
to the uniform
he’d wear for his prison decorage!


Dictionary Definition of Trump
by Michael R. Burch

Trump is a chump;
he’s the freep of a frump;
he’s an orange-skinned Grinch and, much worse, he’s a Grump!;
he’s a creep; he’s a Sheik (sans harem); a skunk!;
“**** the veep!” he’s a murderous coup d’tot-er in a slump;
“Drain the swamps, then refill them with my crocodilian donors!”;
Trump is a ****** with insufficient ******;
Trump is, as he predicted, a constitutional crisis;
Trump is our non-so-sweet American vanilla ISIS;
Trump is a thief who will bring the world to grief;
Trump is a whiner and our Pleader-in-Chief.



Triple Trump
by Michael R. Burch

No one ever ******* a Trump like Trump.
He turned Mar-a-Lago into a dump
and spewed filth at the stump
like a sump pump
while looking like a moulting Orange Hefalump!
Trump made the Grinch seem like just another Grump
by giving darker Whos a “get lost” lump.
No colored child was spared from his Neanderthalic thump.
Trump gave fascists a fist-bump,
consulted **** servers for an info-dump
and invited Russian agents for a late-night ****.
Don the Con con-sidered laws a speed bump,
fired anyone who ever tried to be an ump,
and gave every evil known to man a quantum jump.
You may think he’s just plump
and a chump,
with the style of a frump,
the posture of a shlump,
his brain in a slump,
and perhaps too inclined for a ****-star ****,
while being deprived by his parents of a necessary whump ...
but when it comes to political *****, Trump is the ****!

#TRUMP #DONTHECON #MRBTRUMP #MRBDONTHECON #MRBPOEMS

Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, salacious, ribald, risque, naughty, ****, spicy, adult, nature, politics, religion, science, relationships


Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical


OTHER LIMERICKS AND POEMS



Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic,
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.



The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?

And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, IN HIS SLEEP?



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
Limericks 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 again I enquired 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!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, nonsense verse, humor, humorous, light verse, mating calls, *****, prudish, lonely, loneliness, longing, America



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! "



Honeymoon Not-So-Sweet, or, 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 Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!



The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man
by 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!



"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
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.

Thread through the needle head
She out the door without a word
I am so hungry I cannot stand up right
Someone's on to me
They've got a hold of my sight

One too many secrets in this place
One too many divinities here
I swear the hare stole my pocket watch
One of these days this madness
Has to got to cease and stop

Ideas place themselves on the shelves
Where all that's left is all there is
When I listen I try to keep my mouth shut
Like a worm in the ground
Or a squirrel holding on to sacred nut

The wind makes her promises
And the mountains continue to tell their lies
The guitar lays down weary
Where the saxophone wails loud n' free
This sound is starting to turn into a fury

I tell no lies unless the barrel is a gun
Your graveyard smile has got me on the run
And all my friends tell me to stay put
But I'd rather ramble with the sun on my boot
Just listen to yourself and
There'll be nothing left to be said

A crack of the bat and I'm back where I started
Laughs of uncertainty show faces all unsupported
I can't get too close to the sun or I'll burn
But there is something in myself that yearns
For a better life filled with this and a little bit of that
Where I ask myself, "Who am I when I wear this hat?"

Choosing to die rather than watch.
Matthew rose to feet unsupported by vigor.
Wielding a simple woodcutter's axe.
Turned butcher's cleaver.
His foe turned, pivoted and let go of lever.
That wood exploded.
Its head fell into the marsh.
He fished for it but found instead.
A blade by his head.

Staring right in to this
paper for days. I thought I had
lost my ability to write.
My ability to express.
A gift that I took for granted.
My feelings were just trapped
inside the cage and needed
to escape and soar high.
I couldn't bring myself to write
and the thoughts wouldn't
find words to breathe.
There was a thirst. An
aeonian ache. Heavy pounding
of my heart and an uneasy feeling
like my lungs had bronchitis.
My body unsupported the idea
of writing as I could only
write tragedies and the perpetual
pain of my once upon a time
virtuous heart. How could
I cheat on words? They had
always been there for me.
Most importantly there when
I had slit my malevolent heart
and given up.

The creature touched my temple
I felt my brain melt and bubble
I felt it dribble out of my ears and down my neck
burning down my spine
The creature made seven neat slits on the sides my upper chest
it had a habit of reopening wounds and slicing up old scars
With long fingers, the creature cut my ribs and picked them off my sternum
it slid out each spilt bone one at a time
it did it slowly, to make sure I could feel my unsupported flesh slap against my defenceless organs, enveloping them, suffocating them
seconds seemed to break down into a million fractions
the creature would only slide my ribs back and rejoin them once it sensed my heart stutter near to a stop.

As the creature retreated, my liquid brain solidified
what was left in my skull, ached and felt toxic
my legs shook and wobbled a few steps
my chest heaved, reopening my lungs, greedily taking in air as I lent against the cold wall
"Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."

NURSE KRACHET                                                    
I’m scared to speak too loud
So I’ll whisper, just in case
That nasty nurse Miss Krachet
Comes in and shows her face

She’s quite a nasty woman
And looks just like a witch
Her face and nose both posses
This long and gnarly stitch

She walks around limping
Unsupported by a broom
She has this air about her
Must think she’s Heidi Klum

I asked her for my *****
When I once had to ***
She said, get it yourself
You won’t get it from me

But I’m confined to bed, I said
So I can’t go nowhere
She said, ******* old man
And that’s no lie, I swear

When she left, I asked my roomy
To get me that pissy ***
I had waited for so long
I had to **** a lot

I filled it up, right to the top
The next move quite the chore
Since I couldn’t bend or stretch too far
I barely made the floor

As time went by, I forgot
Where that ***, now rested
So when nurse Krachet, walked right in
Her anger, soon was tested

Up to my bed, she sauntered
Thus did not see the spot
Where I had put that silly thing
Until she kicked that ***

It all splashed out, on her foot
The floor, her socks and shoes
And then her face, turned bright red
Which did, just me amuse

I marveled at how nicely
Things sometimes turn out
She got herself, all ****** on
But didn’t even shout

Since then I’m keeping quiet
My mouth closed really tight
I don’t want her to come around
And get into a fight

So I’m holding, everything I have
Remembering what she said
And hoping that her shift will end
Before I **** my bed

My bowels will soon let loose
So I’m praying to high heaven
Now that it’s, six fifty nine
Her shift will end, at seven
BOEMS BY JA 280        
Written in hospital 2014

Thread through the needle head
She out the door without a word
I am so hungry I cannot stand up right
Someone's on to me
They've got a hold of my sight

One too many secrets in this place
One too many divinities here
I swear the hare stole my pocket watch
One of these days this madness
Has to got to cease and stop

Ideas place themselves on the shelves
Where all that's left is all there is
When I listen I try to keep my mouth shut
Like a worm in the ground
Or a squirrel holding on to sacred nut

The wind makes her promises
And the mountains continue to tell their lies
The guitar lays down weary
Where the saxophone wails loud n' free
This sound is starting to turn into a fury

I tell no lies unless the barrel is a gun
Your graveyard smile has got me on the run
And all my friends tell me to stay put
But I'd rather ramble with the sun on my boot
Just listen to yourself and
There'll be nothing left to be said

A crack of the bat and I'm back where I started
Laughs of uncertainty show faces all unsupported
I can't get too close to the sun or I'll burn
But there is something in myself that yearns
For a better life filled with this and a little bit of that
Where I ask myself, "Who am I when I wear this hat?"

A groove
Cut too
Shallow
A shoulder
Too high
Unsupported
Raw layers
Veneers
Exposed
Rocking
Back
And forth
Till something
Splinters
And cracks
No amount
Of glue
Will hold this
Together
Rabbet
Rout
Remove even
More of
The material
Myself
Repeat until
The pieces
Hold fast

I’ve been unsupported lately.
Not a leg to stand on.
Some would call it untethered.

Floating.

A kinder soul might liken it to flying,
But they would be wrong.

Flying starts and ends with both feet on the ground.

I drank mostly coffee grounds this morning
Nestling and sighing next to the man in the seat next to me
I just really, really *******
Wanted to have my own space
For once.

Release, open it to the public
But I feel so unsupported at times
The closest ones to me saying so very
Little.

Romance.
You aren’t looking for anything committed
You just revealed
As I surround myself with 24 year old little boys
Hoping, thinking
Its gotta be different.
But I run and flee, from the ones who
Cling and need too much
Out of me.

The gloom and coming darkness outside the megabus windows
Perfectly sums up
The beauty and hardships of this past weekend.

Kinda wish I hadn’t said you were special now.

A clean fresh bed awaits me.

Its been like 9 years, Brooklyn Boy wants to bring some joints
Blowing up my phone at 2 in the morning
I walk away and leave my old life behind
Knowing there are very, very few things for me there now.

Its becomes easier as each day progresses
To have let you go, Peter Pan
Just like I said,
You were the wrong man—claiming you wanted the right things
I take time to get my head on straight.

Dipping my fingertips in multicolored ink
I hope and pray for it to be different
Running the show, a swarm of questions
My girlfriends encouraged me to work with no end result
I free myself into oblivion but know theres less to work with
Then
Romance.
But you reveal, you reveal
Ain’t nothin’ bad here
But when will the time come
For someone to truly nestle, neck
And adore
Just me?

I keep myself from backtracking.

I hate sharing my seat.
I wanted the row to myself
I prepare only two eggs and have to put extra thought
Into having anyone else’s back
Cuz I spent a life time
Trying to make you
And you
And you
You
You, you
You
You
You, you
You
you.
The right one.

But I see images of wedding dresses
Disappearing into dust
And I know I would be much more creative
Making big plans, traveling alone
I get my head on straight
As expectation, pitches, and commands from
All of the faces
I dance and strive to be my kindest
Revealing my fatigue and fear
In singular moments
No one else gets to really see.

Sea.
I attend the past
Nodding and keeping from
Relapse
Its all so just done
I stop trying to force, hunt

10 months of salvaging
So its really truly, although it did hit me with some pain
Disappointment
I get my head on straight.

In a nation torn with racial strife
where killing seems a way of life
where rappers hold the people’s court
and looting is a favorite sport
where drugs and thugs, both black and white,
govern day and rule the night
seems Superman is fast asleep
as shadows o’er the addicts creep
no soap will wash away the smell
of stories we’re afraid to tell.

Truth isn’t always as it seems
judges judge, the lawyer screams
there are two sides in every fight
yet everybody “knows” what’s right
for the FacebookYouTube miracle
sends evidence empirical
across the globe at speeds of light
while the real truth stays out of sight
oft hidden by grey overcoats
of politicians gathering votes.

Words conveniently disguise
weakness clothed in pompous lies,
historical infirmities,
unsupported generalities,
privileged complicity,
intentional duplicity,
centuries of grief and pain
suffered for another’s gain
twenty score and one year more
pounding at the tiger’s door.

Unjustifiably we cringe
when the door bursts open, rent from hinge
an angry mob spills from the dark
pent-up powder keg; a spark
ignites a nation, blacks and whites
protest filled and anxious nights
sweep our nation shore to shore
conscience values cut to core
Will the bell of freedom ever ring?
“The Voice of the Unheard,” said King

As always, angry mobs subside
rise and fall just like the tide
perhaps will leave a water mark
remembrance of the now cold spark
buildings, broken glass repaired
protesters home their grievance aired
reporters and the camera crews
move on and search for other news
We, silent privileged, sit in chairs
and watch the news with vacant stares.

“The Voice of the Unheard,” said King
will the rest of us learn anything?
will any of us hear, and change?
examine values, rearrange
priorities and constitution
sincerely seek a just solution
go marching forward hand in hand
endeavoring to understand
can centuries of wrong turn right?
and win the war with peaceful might.

Will 2020 be the year that starts the revelation?
Do we have the strength and skill to cure the ill
  which permeates our nation?
Will we ever hear our anthem play
and look around and see
all men, all women standing proud
not compelled to take a knee
if hand on heart we do our part, it cannot be too late
to gather strength together
and make our nation great.

Phil Lindsey 6/10/2020

Alone I've always been
Their true souls I've always seen
Casted out for my sight
Unsupported with few rights

I am the moon overhead
Shining on what's left unsaid
For this comes a heavy price
Knowledge of what's wrong and right

I am a song unheard
Always forgotten and never learnt
They do not wish to hear the words
That escape from their caged bird

I am the lone wolf of the tribe
No one's ever at my side
I am them and never me
Yet from my heart they always flee

Alone I always will be
Truth I always will see
Accept my solitude in this role
Expect nothing, embrace all in my soul

I’ve seen trees in white dust covered in red barks so to lean asking the dark-skinned civilian soldier to dance, to ****
as cranes stood awfully still in the night vigil of unsupported rhythmic rant, as mosque songs flew in cacophony with her
mental amber, whose face drips off at semi-covered sick puddle with dissolved soft tissues in magnificent soccer performance
and entering an expensive trance to answer foster homes or metro-stop problems selling large and loud fried mechanisms
of lively things, of trendy modes of being, as borrowed bikes lie unruly besides the rock, not locked but saddled down
not the saddened frown of foreigners, British consuls, forced English speakers or almost bald kindly smiling losers
that protests this portrayal, oh-so-heavily in cynicism’s eye, in the proud rooster display of really bad water quality
as I choose to not holler my soul out nakedly there, but over here where the prettiest girl in a hijab does smile
at her pious children playing wild, such bliss, that I would never know from the white thick films of her grandfather
that is mean to say, “someone down that ancestral seam must have done something.” implying folly, nothingness
in our libertarian mistletoe waltzing in suits and formal wear all andante in terminating station’s bugle’s sheer force
at its permissive admittance of goodbyes, in wispy accents that bothers your courageous boss’s college graduate daughter
at the cruel light-blue decoration bulbs draped across coconut trees that never fruit and hence is safe for the street
at the murals and skateboarding sites overfilled with graffitied mathematical equations in proud display of young idealism
at freshly brought cheap soy sauce smells rising high over no chimneys and new energy
for those without another home to smile wistfully
before bumping into the traffic lights, running amok, declaring themselves chickens.

Tiny bit of rock
Hung
Unsupported,
Caressed by
Morning star

Small light given free

O how i love the early pre-dawn

And you
Reading
Nothing else

How your reading has
Helped this two year
Bad dream
Pass.

You do not know
How you
Kept this old soul
Alive.

Thank you
And from this
Miraculous sliver
Of moon

Accept the silver spoon of love