Madness~
wrought from the
inexplicability of
seeming separation~
and futile searching
for a fulfilling
explanation~
some set of words
rewarded from a
satisfying diligence
yielding at last~
Madness~~
As we glance at one another, peering over the edge. Do we hold hands or kill each-other, now in the madness as we descend?
Raise a flag and sing an anthem of colours stolen and selling slaves! Be proud of a history of bloody violence ruling the waves.
See a nation living in mourning for what was promised but never seen. Look at ‘leaders’ of political parties reforming hate and division for what WW2 had been.
See civility collapse into anarchy as a nation moves to a state of political unrest. Watch history unfold for gate to nail its quest.
This "March of Madness" men make,
Mostly meant to Minimize Momentum,
Must mean our "Maker" made...
"Molecular Miscalculations!".....(DNA + OCD) = SOS
"A Serious Matter" is a free-verse-ish or "loose" villanelle.
A Serious Matter
by Michael R. Burch
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter:
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Now even though you’re my chains’ begetter
and keep me your slave with that braless sweater,
I love you better despite the fetter.
You say you’re afraid that you’re getting “fatter,”
but your curves are my lust’s prime aider and abettor.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
When you come to bed in sheer lace, my thoughts scatter:
first to the firmer, then to the latter.
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter!
Keywords/Tags: villanelle, love, love hurts, mad, madness, slave, slavery, lust, passion, desire, curves, lace, bed, chain, chains, fetter, fetters, ties that bind, mad hatter, madder than a hatter
These walls are made of sedimentary stone,
it's a desolate house with glaring glass windows;
they emanate the reflection of distorted images,
gulls twirl around it, their shrills have a dark tone.
How quickly I have aged by noticing these deep lines
across this face that was as smooth as a child's skin;
doesn't time ravage everything, leaving a bitter grin?
Whoever envisions only joy is startled by surprises.
Do we restrain ourselves or live in utter madness
to reject the dreadful thought of each abstinence?
Does pleasure alleviate fears in hopeless moments?
Wouldn't it be a refuge from denial to seek resistance?
This rapid existence has a deadline for glory or demise,
being alive is virtuous thankfulness to implement reason
and choose the easiest temptation or the hardest choice;
the decision rests on either: become a saint or a demon.
We made our padded rooms,
Trampoline parks for a time,
For bouncing off the walls,
As we crash into the side.
Those clouds our leather breakers,
Eroding rolling rows,
Salty tongues to a gobstopper ball,
Cancelling the storm.
Strapped into a jacket,
A hopping biped fowl,
From pterosaur to Christmas baste
Skin golden crisped to taste.
Thrown off the pier a flip,
Does blind the inner ear,
To up or down, or sand or air,
Our skull: the barycentre sphere.
Clouds overhang again,
Dangled down on unseen strings
A sea of puppets bobbing,
On white lip crests of sea.
Thrown like a bottled ship,
Lab foetus in a jar,
My pickled skin, burned crisp like chicharrón,
A whole communion of my form.
There is sanity
In my madness,
If only it could be found,
For you’ll find
My ravings if unravelled,
Are actually quite profound.
swimming
like lobotomized fish
in a psychiatric pond.
following to follow—
not following to lead.
following the leader,
following like sheep.
the pied piper
always made
such a fine shepherd
for those
who don’t
think.
Black heart, red tie
Some live, some die
Not smart, not spry
Won't give, won't try
7/28/2025
The people of Israel, live under constant threat
of death.
When thinking of that, it steals away my very
breath!
And some writers’ joy, is only when a Jew,in fact,
in any land, for their life, cries!
Shameless be the writer, as the Jew sheds his very last
tears, and in horrid pain, dies!
Tell me, my Lord, there is something I simply cannot
comprehend.
The simple fact, that “their” Man on the Cross, was a
Jew, too?
…………………………………………
Beaming sculpture whittled by awning clouds over blue sea
Ethereal beauty tinged in brown, green and yellow shea
Aerial bliss, flaunting on leaves-sunkissed
Under and over my wings, I breathe your scented mist
Talons I sprawl, your branches I grip
Yonder sanctuary, your soothing shield I trip
Amongst beauties of nature, your heights majestic
Narwhals of blue seas, unicorns of Atlantic
Dying depths of roots underlying masses so cryptic
Marshes of hidden paradise, your abode of beauty
Attached is madness of ethnic humanity
Desecrating pristine ages of dreamt forest
Nesting on mantels, burning unrest
Eaves of succulent leaves, carved barks and branches
Streaming on saps and man's cold blood
Sweet and sour blend of beauty and madness
A day so fine, no ills on my mind,
then it's late and angst lays me down
those rude intrusive thoughts
those bruising, bad night thoughts
They come at night, enter my head,
when out the light and prone in bed.
Lay me down with my brain's views
and intrusive soon fiddles my pillow.
Nighty, my sane fights madness
that night covets as a faved toy.
My good is erased, my sleep chased
when in bed dread slaps my face.
those rude intrusive thoughts
those bruising, bad night thoughts
It's been an hour and ten days
The time since you went away
It's been a torture for me then
The feeling is like I'm a neglect
Everyday seems a dull moment
It's gloomy, I can't concentrate
I'm alone, I can't done my work
As if there's no life in all I see
The colors around me all dark
Every food I eat has no taste
All in my heart are foreboding
I drum my chest to say sorry
I cried a lot for my repentance
Each night is a sleepless night
It's a very long darkest silence
The day is short and no result
No friend to consult for shame
But comfort to my forceful self
My head bang for something
And wake me up from stupor
That's when I realize to myself
It's me alone can help myself
Sudden spark that live in me
I'm a self made man once again
It takes an hour and ten days
To heal myself and no one does
But me, myself and me alone.
Madness to the Method
It did not come from mode of method,
nor from the charted mind.
But sprung from a will-o'-the-wisp
spark in the blind spot shadow,
of the brain, disentangled and drifting.
The idea slipped in sideways,
from the periphery of focus,
when attention was distracted,
by the flit of eyes glancing,
in other ways on other days,
For the more you look,
the less likely you are to see,
the brilliant gems lying
invisible to naked eyes,
blinded by the wont-of-desire
for discovery, to stare intensely
at the target, and not look away.
But, it takes a touch of madness,
to notice strange occurrences,
in the clutter and debris of
random observations falling
like ticker-tape from
still-born mode-of-method showers,
of collected failures-to-disprove.
It takes the madness of
serendipity for one
to take potluck picks
in the box of tricks
smart minds often miss,
to pick winners
with happenstance.
Sometimes the things some humans do
when judged by reason’s point of view
appear as acts of insane fools
which defies logic’s rigid rules.
The virtues that sweet madness breeds
inspiring heroic deeds
are from a realm beyond earth’s clime
suffused with attributes sublime.
The martyrs dear of Christendom
faced their demise with buoyant bliss
their tormentors were baffled by
the peaceful way in which they died.
The joy that true love e’er evokes
the fire that its presence stokes
produce in hearts a madness sweet
that lovers like a treasure greet.
Oh, may God’s love, of heaven born,
cause us to love Him in return
so, with the martyrs we may know
the sweet madness that in them flowed.
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