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Amanda Jun 2019
Looking through the window
I am surging ahead, fast forward
Flying straight as a crow

Clickerty Clack, Clickerty

A rhythm like a heart beat
Takes me to a future not know
From a past I left incomplete

Clickerty, Clack

I am held, as the world turns below me
Frozen in time, I can stay
Where I can be hidden, No-one can see

Clickerty

Bags are heavy, but guilt is a weightier load
Left you, and your angry days
Sorry, I wont be there when your fists off-load

Clack
Pete King Dec 2018
Realisation can be a harsh pill;
One I've always struggled to swallow.
The dose, in this instance, was to be
That my happiness isn't a reward.

It's not earned through great achievements;
Contentedness isn't product of valour.
It's not found in deep breathing and spiritualism,
It's not created by anything external.

No.
My happiness will always be through
consistent fidelity and belief in a purpose.
A purpose that simply has to be weightier
than the small stuff we're sometimes thrown.

It's the consistent drive:
To love.
To laugh.
To make laughter..
To put pen to paper.
It's a thousand-melodies,
On twelve piano keys.
It's the gnawing hunger inside of me,
That says it would be simply unacceptable
For me to leave this world,
Until I have brought forth
Everything I feel I have within me.

Happiness is always going to be a fleeting thing for me.
And that's alright.
Because I'm only just getting started.
Fernando Pessoa Oct 2013
Sit still with me in the shade of these green trees, which have no weightier thought than the withering of their leaves when autumn arrives,
or the stretching of their many stiff fingers into the cold sky of the passing winter.
Sit still with me and meditate on how useless effort is,
how alien the will,
and on how our very meditation is no more useful than effort,
and no more our own than the will.
Meditate too on how a life that wants nothing can have no weight in the flux of things,
but a life the wants everything can likewise have no weight in the flux of things,
since it cannot obtain everything,
and to obtain less than everything is not worthy of souls that seek the truth.
I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,
Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,
For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,
Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;
Me, poor dove, that must not coo,--eagle, that must not soar.

All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow
Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow
That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.

All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace
Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,
Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,
Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne;
There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.

Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;
My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend--
O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?

As I am a lofty princess, so my father is
A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties,
Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.

He has quarrelled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes;
Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes,
Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,

On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state
To break the strength of armies and topple down the great:
Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.

My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen
So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;
These for slaughter, these for labor, with the how and when.

Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;
Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips;
Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.

Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood,
That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;
Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.

Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay;
On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray,
My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.

I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place,
My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais:
A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;

It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon,
Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known,
They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?

The singing men and women sang that night as usual,
The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall,
A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.

Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;
My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept
To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.

I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on,
They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon,
They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone.

A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said:
"Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed;
Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."

So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,
******, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;
Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.

But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:
"There are families out grazing like cattle in the park."
"A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark."

A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;
One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;
One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream in May.

Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier *****;
Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp
To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp."

"Howl and stamp?" one answered: "They made free to hurl a stone
At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown."
"There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown."

"One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,
Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:
Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead."

"After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh:
"If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff."
"While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff."

These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile:
"Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile,
She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait
(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate),
Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;

Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,
There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;
Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:
"Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand.
Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;
A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;
I heard a cry for *******, then I heard a yell for fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,
You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said:
"Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,
I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,
I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,
I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand
Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;
I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;
I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show
The lesson I have learned, which is death, is life, to know.
I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.
I was surprised it felt heavier
Uneasiness too pinched me
Haven’t carried a weightier ever
What could fill a family!

Did I see a red heart there
Did I see a silver line
Did I carry the weight of care
Sealed with the hands of valentine!

It was heavier but I felt so light
And free as my dreams set free
Scaled the hillocks reached mountain height
When remembered what she heard from me!

There’s no time I must haste
A load of work at office knocks
Would come home late it would be best
If you forget for today the lunchbox!


Now I’m smiling as I eat the meal
More than daily quota manifold
The lunchbox lends me the much needed fill
Sealed with a heart of gold!
beth winters Dec 2010
fulmination wraps tendrils around your spine,
draws you under, into the suffocating center
of a thunderstorm painted violet and amethyst.

jewelry dripping of fear, laced around a
pretty throat and bent into the perfect
circles of soot-blackened pupils.

the air smells crackling and thick, heavy
through a thumb and index loop that
traces a life driven by weather patterns.

when the river dries, the rocks are
left slick, soaked and maybe a small
bit weightier. fog-smoke circles dilute
laughter into a painting of you.
this was inspired by the relámpago del catatumbo. look it up if you have time; it's a wonderful phenomenon and this doesn't do it justice.
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

a mortal can no more free himself
than can from ravenous spider,
the frail and struggling fly;
nor from ferocious wolf,
can flee the helpless lamb.

a mortal sees his frailty,
feels his utter weaknesses,
in mind, in sprit, and in frame,
weighted ’gainst the task at hand
can raise his head no more again.

for to lift, to build, restore, forgive
these no mortal man has ever done.
but ask a man who knows his ilk,
the kin of whom he is,
the stuff with which he’s made
the cloth from which he’s cut...

he is no mortal man
who knows the dust
from which he’s plucked;
who’s hands have molded his;
who’s very chest has heaved,
with breath from giver,
this his gift.

tis his, the bugled call,
on longing ears that falls,
gives answer to the sound;
this the one when wisdom cries,
in streets she gathers round,
calling voice to one to all...

“let your weeping cease
and from the void,
the darkened corners creep.
no more you are
oh man, oh woman,
no mere mortal thee!
you breath the very wind,
with forward vision see,
graced with strength and
robed in immortality!"


immortal one, to him ordained,
to raise his voice above the fray,
beyond the strife, through the pain;
of mortal man the lot, the whole,
none can raise his mortal soul;
but gift him immortality,
a mortal man is he no more,
immortality has set him free!

~

*post script.

in believing himself wise enough to know all,  mankind settles for only shreds of truth and dismisses his immortality as impossible fairied tales and *******; embracing mortality, he dooms himself to an endless spiral of hopelessness, closing his mind to the hopefulness that lies so closely nearby.

believe me when i say, earth’s gravitational pull became no weightier after Newton explained it to us;  DaVinci’s sails filled no more fluidly after we knew how wind was formed.  long before her forces were understood, mankind built towers and harnessed nature’s forces for good; understanding where it came from was not only secondary... it was  unnecessary to its function and its employment.  (any who might suggest i am dismissing knowledge as useless would be missing my point). we can act immortally long before understanding it origins or fullness.  the healing of our nation requires those who can act with immortality; not as mere mortals.

words from C.S. Lewis in his, ’The Weight of Glory’, “you’ve never met a mere mortal… nations, cultures, arts, civilizations are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. …it is immortals whom we… work with, marry, snub, and exploit.”
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
English Translations of Russian Poems by Vera Pavlova

Shattered

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seasons

Winter―a beast.
Spring―a bud.
Summer―a bug.
Autumn―a bird.
Otherwise I'm a woman.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pygmalion

Immortalize me!
With your bare, warm palm
please sculpt and mold my malleable snow.
Polish me until I glow.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scales

Scales:
on the one hand joy;
on the other sorrow.
Sorrow is weightier;
therefore joy
elevates.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Muse

A muse inspires when she arrives,
a wife when she departs,
a mistress when she’s absent.
Would you like me to manage all that simultaneously?
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stone Wall

You, my dear, are my shielding stone:
to sing behind, or bash my head on.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering

Remember me as I am this instant: abrupt and absent,
my words fluttering like moths trapped in a curtain.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flight

I have been dropped
and fell from such
immense heights
for so long that
perhaps I still
have enough
time to learn
how to
fly.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God saw
it was good.
Adam saw
it was impressive.
Eve saw
it was improvable.
—Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Three versions of Vera Pavlova's "tightrope" poem:

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

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

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

Vera Pavlova is a Russian poet. Born in Moscow, she is a graduate of the Schnittke College of Music and the Gnessin Academy of Music, where she specialized in music history. She is the author of twenty collections of poetry, four opera librettos, and the lyrics to two cantatas. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker and other major literary publications. Keywords/Tags: Pavlova, Russian, translations, epigrams, woman, female, shards, seasons, scales, tightrope, child, arm, sorrow, joy, shattered, heart, broken, glass, limp, limping, barefoot, snow, sculpt, mold, polish
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Vera Pavlova: English Translations of Russian Poems by Vera Pavlova

Shattered

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seasons

Winter―a beast.
Spring―a bud.
Summer―a bug.
Autumn―a bird.
The rest of the time I'm a woman.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pygmalion

Immortalize me!
With your bare, warm palm
please sculpt and mold my malleable snow.
Polish me until I glow.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scales

Scales:
on the one hand joy;
on the other sorrow.
Sorrow is the weightier;
therefore joy
elevates.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Muse

A muse inspires when she arrives,
a wife when she departs,
a mistress when she’s absent.
Would you like me to manage all that simultaneously?
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stone Wall

You, my dear, are my shielding stone:
to sing behind, or bash my head on.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering

Remember me as I am this instant: abrupt and absent,
my words fluttering like moths trapped in a curtain.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flight

I have been dropped
and fell from such
immense heights
for so long that
perhaps I still
have enough
time to learn
how to
fly.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Three versions of Vera Pavlova's "tightrope" poem:

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

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

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

God saw
it was good.
Adam saw
it was impressive.
Eve saw
it was improvable.
—Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Vera Pavlova is a Russian poet. Born in Moscow, she is a graduate of the Schnittke College of Music and the Gnessin Academy of Music, where she specialized in music history. She is the author of twenty collections of poetry, four opera librettos, and the lyrics to two cantatas. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker and other major literary publications. Keywords/Tags: Pavlova, Russian, translations, epigrams, woman, female, shards, seasons, scales, tightrope, child, arm, sorrow, joy, shattered, heart, broken, glass, limp, limping, barefoot, snow, sculpt, mold, polish
Kellin Jan 2019
my
mind.
no
doubt
the
good
if you do still care, Lord, please keep me safe.
had
weightier
things
to
worry
about
than
the
half-
hearted
apology
of
a
crashing
crankster.
Wk kortas Jan 2017
He will allow, if you press him on the point,
That it can be a hard go sometimes;
Holsteins have no concept of weekends, he will say,
Or Christmas, for that matter,
But all that being said
With a smile practically gushing contentment.
He has, for thirty-plus years now,
Worked some four hundred head, dairy and beef
In this cold, flat valley where low-pressure systems come to die,
Bringing the detritus of low clouds and snow flurries in tow,
Sometimes even into the middle of May.  
He is not unaware the outlook for his homestead is hazy, at best;
He has consciously blocked out how much he is into the bank
For feed, the re-built corn silos, the new Case tractor,
And both of his sons have long since fled south,
Preferring the comfort of powerpoint presentations and cubicles
To a cold, dark milking house in the middle of January,
But he has seen the future come and go,
Dwelling in the misbegotten debris of the recent past:
Huge, slightly Fifties-space-movie-flying-saucer satellite dishes
Pointing forlornly directly at the horizon
Outside shuttered and foreclosed upon houses
Which litter any number of the back roads,
The yellowing signs promoting cheap internet access
Taped to windows in small, half-empty strip malls in Gouvernuer,
All cause enough for him to opine at virtually every opportunity
I have seen the future, and I can confirm
That it clearly ain’t what it used to be.


He could have, if he had of a mind to do so, gone in another direction;
Unlike most of the farm kids,
Who were packaged as a unit into the General Ed track,
He’d tested himself into the College Prep classes,
Where several of his teachers made it a point to tell him
Virgil, you need to understand that you’re a bright kid.  
You can do other things, go other places
,
And one or two of his instructors were downright offended
That he chose to take over the farm immediately upon graduation,
But he knew at an early age—no, had always known
That he would remain in this place, on this patch of land,
Even though he could not even begin to explain
The whys and wherefores of his decision,
Language being the ungainly
And wholly inadequate instrument that it is
(This is why, he would say every Sunday morning
At breakfast with Gerald Glass and Earl Tiefenauer,
The both of them rolling their eyes in tandem,
Knowing exactly what came next,
The Akwesasnes went hundreds of years without a written language;
They were smart enough to know that all words do
Is just get in the **** way
)
But he knew that what was in the gentle, serene chugging,
The rhythmic pop of the ancient machinery
At the  Karsten place over on the Heuvelton Road
Flinging another squared-off hay bale into his jerry-built wagon,
Or in the blue sky which stretched, impossibly cloudless and glorious,
From the St. Lawrence up north down to Fort Drum
And onward for several forevers either way besides,
Was greater and weightier than anything in the cloth-bound red Bibles
Which sat in the pews at the Presbyterian church in Madrid
(Not his father’s church, but the blustering, cocksure Baptists,
Sure as death itself as to the absolute inambiguity of the Word
Were simply not his kind of people)
Which he had begun attending some half-dozen years ago,
Not because he was a particularly spiritual man by any means;
He had simply been unable to sufficiently convince himself
That all of this could happen strictly by accident.
Philip Lawrence May 2018
scales of desire tip,
time now weightier than fortune,
the more precious,
as it always has been,
gone unrecognized,
obscured by hale youth,
invaluable, ephemeral
allowing the echo of song,
the titter-laugh of loved ones,
banter of old friends,
hours with the hound turned gray
who clings to one’s hip,
silver windswept rainstorms,
ice-crested mountains,
frantic hummingbirds
suspended as still life,
the raw tickle of a running finger
along silken skin,
sin, regret, atonement,
recollections savored
of those who have left
as if brought back before one,
if only for the moment,
before recession into an ether world
and the miasma of memory and loss,
a gift for one to inhale the entirety,
and to expel it all with a ferocity
that says to those who will listen,
how I cherish thee
Davyd Adejoh Jun 2019
©PMcCoywrites

How can I not know;
she is agabagabious?
How can she sum up all my mistakes;
just to table them one day?

We argued about anything.
But I didn't see what was coming;
was way weightier than I thought.
Little did I know,
She busied herself piling my acts.
And she made up her mind to quit.

Just one last shot killed me.
I know there's no redemption;
when a woman wants to go.
Because her mind is made up long ago.
If you try to keep her in her state.
You will keep a ghost in a shell.
nyant Dec 2018
"could you keep your head up,  when you're losing ground?"

On this day he was feeling the plight of vision-less sight,
recalling α.ω. Tozer's the "result of rejected light",
like an assassin he claimed all the creeds,
till baseless words were exposed by his deeds,
sometimes apparent depth is hollow and deceptive,
one cannot give anything to one who is unreceptive.

Raised in block C and chalala bedrock,
it's time to go Holme,
what went wrong?
investigate like Sherlock,
perhaps it was when he decided there were weightier matters than his gran,
or when he distanced himself from his fam,
or he spent to much time on the gram,
whatever the case let's make it brief,
the young man simply succumbed to utter unbelief.

The wrestle is not a royal rumble,
oh that cornerstone can make a goliath stumble,
all the words he heard at youth camp,
Couldn't speak when folly gave him the sock,
He didn't listen to the people's champ,
Yes,
he made light of the Rock.

That's enough of lamentation,
it is time for a revelation,
creation groans for the manifestation,
tribes and tongues of every nation,
by the power of Christ find true liberation!
Years ago before one of my friends was married or had children we hung out a lot and were best friends. I visited her at her apartment one evening to socialize. She had her other best friend there too and the three of us ordered a pizza.

When they delivered the pizza they brought the wrong kind of pizza so we ended up getting an additional free pizza because they delivered another pizza free of charge. Now that is a good pizza place.

After eating lots of pizza we had some drinks and our conversation at one point shifted to the subject of Batman. Someone asked, "What is the name of the actor that played the Penguin in the original version of Batman?"

For some reason no one could remember the name. All three of us took turns trying to remember the actor's name but no one could remember the name . Several different names were suggested but none of the names were correct.

All three of us were laughing our butts off because we were blurting out all tbese different names of actors but none of them were the correct name. The name escaped all three of us and it seemed to be on the tip of my tongue but I couldn't get to it.

I remember at one point in desperation to spit it out and come to a conclusion I blurted out, "Cloris Leachman!?" which is actually a female actress.

We had fun that night and our conversation was on many different topics but several times during the evening it shifted back to the guessing of the actor's name that played the penguin in the original Batman. The night ended without anyone figuring out or remembering the actor's name.

I went home that night and went to bed. I woke up at 3 a.m. in the morning and sat up in bed for a moment and whispered "Burgess Meredith." Then I promptly went back to sleep.

It seems that even while sleeping , in the back of my mind I was working on the missing information that was causing such a dilemma.

Over the years I have done this type of thing again and again quietly to myself when trying to find an answer or solution to a problem often much weightier and more significant than the fun guessing of an actor's name.

I have always referred to the process that produces the answer to a question that is not immediately attainable as "The Burgess Syndrome."

— The End —