And when light shines no more,
And laughter, merry crowds,
Bustling taverns and streets
No longer welcomes my songs
Goodbye, bye and bye
Good bard.
After the arrows flew
And the swords had clashed;
When the sunrise dew
Dilutes the blood of the bashed
Goodbye, I grant you rest
Good soldier.
When screaming has stopped
When talking died,
When hearts are questioned
And love wherefore
Goodbye, lovelorn man
Goodbye lover.
Alas, madness overrun
And heart torn apart,
I dare not say
Lest you call me insane
Goodbye, o farewell to thee
My sanity, goodbye.
Hannah bashed her dolls’s faces on concrete, ripping off Barbie dolls’ heads and cutting their hair so they looked ugly
She also killed little lizards on their yard. But nobody ever saw her doing those things and she always looked very calm and relaxed
Destructive emotions running in her head she was furious, very angry and mad
But having a perfect pretty face and blonde hair nobody could’ve ever imagined that she could do something so bad
Hanna had become very good at wearing her poker face to hide what was going on inside her head, turmoil and terror
She had practiced to smile for a long time in front of the mirror
Hanna had felt real rage starting to boil inside her when her abuser had found a girlfriend
How dare he replace her like that
My heart is bleeding and seething, bashed, broke, and battered
All confused because I can't discern what mattered
"You love me; you use me
Don't hate me; don't choose me"
We needed a break
From our repeated mistake
My stomach lurches butterflies aflow
Because doesn't his smile just glow
My glass heart screamed "he's looking over there"
Deep inside I felt something tear
My mind split in two
Not sure who is who
My mind's got all twisted
My heart's gone ballistic
Not sure how I missed it
But I swear something's different
Midnight Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
I.
A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.
To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.
But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.
II.
So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills'
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.
But I will not sleep this night, nor any …
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your tear-drenched pillowcase?
"Midnight Lullaby" has been set to music by the award-winning New Zealand composer David Hamilton.
Bashed by Basho
by Michael R. Burch
He came to me like an early birdie
and said, “My, my, you are REALLY wordy!”
Keywords/Tags: lullaby, lullabies, music, musical, song, child, children, childhood, baby, babies, midnight, night, rhythm, sleep
Some say he's a prophet
others swear he's the son of God
Some say he was just a man on a good mission
still others say he never existed at all.
I think he was the original hippie
a supreme giver -who taught takers
how to give without motive
how to love without condition
to ask for forgiveness after sin.
Jesus would have stowed away on slave ships
salving hope and snapping chains.
He'd have blocked the ovens of Auschwitz
volunteered at no-kill animal shelters
and food pantries.
He would've made manna out of bullet casings...
arrested again, again and again
bashed upside the head and bleeding.
Weaving a giant peace sign and rosary
draping them over the Pentagon, Kremlin
and the Forbidden City-
He may have shared a wineskin, a bowl of Mexican gold
then lie down under tie-dyed sky and dream in colors bold.
Or he would have been the only sober one
getting everyone safely back to home.
Who the heck you think you are?
You bashed my car, yet strut with flair—
Like a proud star,
Too smug to care.
Your brain's back door was left ajar;
Your wisdom vanished in thin air.
Puffed with pride that won't go far—
At best, you'll earn a mocking stare.
She placed her dreams in starshine's bright design
where she believed the galaxy would guard them
from incidents and accidents that might shard them.
She trusted stars to lifelong harmonize love's song.
Wearing confident styles, she traversed fickle miles
before finding a grand love that would surely thrive.
Now, she barely manages life or pajamas without strife.
Gone is her strong and else she wished meant to belong.
Her frantic emotions fast crashed in gray-bashed static
and just her sofa holds her in tear splotchy folds.
Wishing to be free of depressions dark torture spree,
she lives with heart bruises and painful mind debris.
Numbness blurs her pathetic in swirls of decrepit
that pick at her feel-fabric already shredded traumatic.
She cannot define when their end started its doomed sway
but recalls when he left with her 'besty' on a final, total away.
What thou shalt be wasted?
With the ship of sorrow harboured.
Like it gives thee an unexpected explosion,
And the heart of trauma and darkness is implanted.
It clouds into a season of bloodshed and pain,
But all thy life seems to be bludgeoned.
Tumbled into a canvas of time,
As thou shalt find a euphoric heart abused.
No description of fear was given,
With thy face bashed and muddied.
It shalt not be a publicized cry for help,
Nor shalt it be a dark horse murmured.
As a hard and stone-cold sadness torments thee,
And thy emotional feelings go unnoticed.
Memories would put thee in a chokehold,
And thy mutual senses are blurred.
Thou would find that thy pride is thy worst nightmare,
In thy skull is a slug that is slightly planted.
That, my friend, is a trauma that can drown in thy sorrows,
And it can get thee wasted.
Inspired by the Onomatopoeia Contest (2024), sponsored by Emile Pinet.
Mid-day invaded my spirits with blah.
I sauntered the path to the coffee shop
and heard my friends blabbing on endlessly,
astir with the recent barista flop.
I swallowed a mouthful of latte,
gagged and gargled with an unwanted flush
of caramel nut crème tickling my throat.
It made my gustatory senses gush.
After much gurgling, I gulped and groaned,
spilling the foamy froth with a loud plop.
My spirits sizzled and snapped
with the luscious last loud drop.
Having quenched my fraudulent thirst
I selfishly, yet successfully, bashed
the doleful doldrums that attended me.
I hiccupped along home and crashed.
Throughout the years, my kids had
A variety of hats,
Along with all the books and dolls
And games and baseball bats.
A few were parts of costumes
Or vacation souvenirs,
While others served as props
For princesses or buccaneers.
Though most have long been cast away,
Some managed to hang on –
The pirate and top hats are here;
The cowboy hats are gone.
Yet still, I felt a little pang
When throwing out the trash
And there, with all the magazines
Was something from the stash.
A plastic Viking headpiece
With, on either side, a horn.
I have a photo of my son
From when that hat was worn.
It served its purpose and is now
Bashed up and way too small.
Though I felt sad to throw it out,
My son won’t care at all.
News flash
Huge bash
Big fight
Last night
Clyde's Bar
Bizarre
War zone
Chairs thrown
Snouts poked
Gals choked
Eyes blacked
Ribs cracked
Hair snatched
Backs scratched
Throats slashed
Heads bashed
Tossed stools
Blood pools
Ears chewed
Tossed food
Knees kicked
Knives pricked
Low blows
Stomped toes
Dames sprawled
Cops called
Clyde's closed
Foreclosed
It's sad when a man's claim to fame
Is having more than just one dame
Like birds of a feather
They all got together
Saying he left after he came
Leigh Anne bashed the man most of all
She said he only had one ball
Sometimes it turned beet red
That's when he'd wet her bed
So, she kicked his A S S down the hall
Do poets always walk in the rain?
This poet once did
When she was but a kid.
The bathwater of summer drops
Cascading from suburban chimney tops,
Puddles on pavement
Begging for splashing,
A robin’s egg in the grass
All fractured and bashed-in.
The simple wonders
Of childhood
Are not so long gone.
Be mindful, you children
Don’t fail to hold on.
A kindergarten student is not usually sent to my office.
I am the counselor, who gets my shares of stirrers.
Usually when a five-year-old is sent to me, they are crying.
This little blonde blue-eyed beauty was not crying.
She had a smug look on her face, actually not a tear in sight.
Find out what happened, the principal said, before she left.
What happened? I asked the dainty cherub.
When?
I am not sure “just now?”
Nothing.
I have to call the teacher to get an inkling.
She was fighting.
You mean arguing?
No I mean flat out fist walloping pummeling fighting.
I look for scratches or bruises but see no evidence.
Were you in a fight?
She nods her head.
I smashed them and bashed him, she told me.
She had a pleased smile.
I am surprised, but not stunned.
I have raised three daughters.
Two of them are tough.
She brags about her fighting prowess.
I find out later this little darling has four older brothers.
Please stay on track Dad, the young mother said.
She wanted him to stick with the story others had read.
As soon as she was out of sight her twins pleaded with him.
Tell us the story of how they bashed and hanged Uncle Jim.
I heard that! Their mother said, now leave your grandpa alone.
So he got real quiet, and told them not to share when they got home.
He told them the story of a rat snake who ate children, dogs and lamps.
They were so frightened, they could not sleep, glad he was their gramps!
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