Best Insensate Poems
I am full
Of emptiness
I long for longing
Crave contentment
The insensate pain
Of intangible touch
Indecipherable ciphers
Choreographed madness
Craggy comfort
Of blunt condolence
The decorum of anarchy
Deserted crowds, social solitude
Miles given to intercept steps
At the dawn of abundance
I see only
bones of ghosts
Whose meager admonishment
I forgot to unlearn
Unredeemed
And unrepentant
I am in love
With loneliness.
9/20/19
To ALL those
who think
their thinking
will understand
life and love,
war and peace,
hate and forgiveness,
good and evil,
hell and heaven...
To the intellectuals
who loudly declare
hope an illusion,
belief delusion,
religion refuge
for fools, and
science to be
the only true god...
To the socialists
and communists and
all progressive people
who are certain
humanity's makeover
is just within reach,
perfection awaits
only correct ideology,
with justice, fairness,
equality for all...
(as long as it's
done their way).
To the materialists
who are bold and brave,
seeing death as extinction,
life as meaningless,
so proud, so very proud
that they, and only they
know the truth:
what you see is
what you get...
A toast to all the naive,
who see but are blind,
hear but are deaf,
feel but are so insensate
of life's Spirit,
they live like mice
in a magnificent palace...
Nighttime falls shrouded dark and spiritless,
Wavering fire a glaze dying cinder.
In grim silence tears ebb and flow aimless,
Lips quake angry filled breath growing dimmer.
Loneliness devours inch by inch loves amber,
Left raw to feel the flesh stretch. Brittle crust
Steady smoldering embers, numb anger,
Solace grieving soul filled volcanic dust.
It worsens with the tick-tock of the clock.
None can replace time, not a second in
A day hidden beneath insensate lock.
Days overwhelming calamities sin.
Loneliness niggles as the mind wanders
Bound by loves suffering also ponders.
1/14/2020
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
Rehearsed words tumble from his tongue
capable of vaporizing
feelings; then with his briefest smile
becomes the redresser once more
leaving the object of his words
emotionally traumatized:
Mind raping at its finest form;
Cold-bloodedness runs through his veins
colder than any ectotherm;
Temperament worse than the worst
lacking the slightest compunction;
More like reptilian than human
this controlling creature thriven
on human mental frailties.
Charcoal cloud clutches the marooned moon
The sky stifles behind the dark shroud
The nubile night breathes the music of breeze
Rippling in the sound of silence.
The ocean wreathes with surging surface waves
The water at cold depth is fathomless serene
Respires the breath of dense darkness
Flowing in the sound of silence.
The tapestry of life torn by torment
Searches deep within for the lattice of quietude
The smothered mind soaks the breath of solace
Drifting in the sound of silence.
The captivating cacophony of materialistic life
Suffocates the consciousness of the absolute being
The secluded soul is suffused with the breath of bliss
Wafting in the sound of silence.
In the endless journey of the insensate essence
Across the seamless landscape of the ultimate reality
As we be breathed, feel the breath of Om
Vibrating in the sound of silence.
(Om is the sound of sacred spiritual symbol in Hinduism, signifying the essence of the ultimate reality, consciousness, or Paramatman. (Wikipedia)
August 19, 2021
Contest : As We Be Breathed
Sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
Don't you dare look at her
with those dreadful eyes
if you think she'll be frightened
in your dreams you'll hear your own cries
Dont underestimate her strength
her dexterity is more then you
about her corporeal and mental power
hey insensate man-you have no clue
if you think you are supercilious
you better change your thinking
in reality you're vicious
proudness is what with which you're teeming
Your woman is your life
at your every step she will be with you
its your duty to respect her
she'll be always by her husband's side-yes that's true
you harass her, you kill her
you burn her alive
she has to face the consequences
she is the one who always strives
But mind you she wont let a tear flow down
her actions will be dynamic
your truculent behavior wont stop her
from heading towards the tallest peak
If you ever break her heart into pieces
she wont remember you as the one who broke her heart
But rather the one who taught her
to live with a broken heartDon't you dare look at her
with those dreadful eyes
if you think she'll be frightened
in your dreams you'll hear your own cries
Dont underestimate her strength
her dexterity is more then you
about her corporeal and mental power
hey insensate man-you have no clue
if you think you are supercilious
you better change your thinking
in reality you're vicious
proudness is what with which you're teeming
Your woman is your life
at your every step she will be with you
its your duty to respect her
she'll be always by her husband's side-yes that's true
you harass her, you kill her
you burn her alive
she has to face the consequences
she is the one who always strives
But mind you she wont let a tear flow down
her actions will be dynamic
your truculent behavior wont stop her
from heading towards the tallest peak
If you ever break her heart into pieces
she wont remember you as the one who broke her heart
But rather the one who taught her
to live with a broken heart
This world is so heavy upon us,
we scarcely can know of the Other
as it impinges on this world
of flesh and bone, air and water,
sky and mountain, man and woman....
Our bodies are too fine--
instruments of unending sensation
from birth to death,
our brains so vast in imagination...
yet so small in comprehension.
We live in fear and longing:
we sin...repent...sin again.
We pass by our neighbors
with barely a glance,
while we turn on our beloved
with blindness, with deafness--
little wonder why we despair.
The great wonder is--
why we are loved...
each of us so difficult,
so repulsive at times...
yet with just a slight
turn of the magnet
and we are bound
together once again.
The most magnificent wonder
of all is why He loves us--
blind little bugs scurrying
about in the dark, sentient
of the mud but insensate
of the glory until we are
transformed by the Light
and can see Heaven cupped
in our hands and feel, at
last, the Eternal beating
deep within our hearts.
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
Love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch
She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane;
she nestled my head to her breast
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs,
the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . .
Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . .
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . .
She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night.
The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Star Crossed
by Michael R. Burch
Remember—
night is not like day;
the stars are closer than they seem ...
now, bending near, they seem to say
the morning sun was merely a dream
ember.
The State of the Art (?)
by Michael R. Burch
Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?
loving male, natural of pleasure, quintessentially
rendered suitable to us via way ova our darling daughter.
tis the blessing of this average, contemplative damn
ejected flotsam globular human impish jokester kooky lamb
misunderstood nonestablishmentarian outlier praises quality ram
rod sterling stately treasured undergraduate, ventures wielding yawping zeal
asper near perfect synchronized
ventured capitalone bond to me doth appeal
twas thankful to seminal accomplishment
dearest Eden Liat exhibited
when smart as a whip per snapper abilities did congeal
witnessing passing each grade with flying colors -
electrifying mien kempf as if stung from Alaska Bull worm eel
I ask you to - just take in stride wordy way as sigh guide "sea legs" to feel
along murky medium, how to communicate élan which doth heal
this figurative war torn, self strafed, kamikaze buzz-feeding,
eventually fostered grimacing hangdog ilk insensate
blitzkrieg assailed middle aged married male - during his early decades
endured passivity, while peers viciously throve on me with hate
tread - pock marked psychological scars perforated
positive faith in self, only now I feel great,
whence untrammeled passion presumed murmured between themselves
when alone pondering their fate
two vibrant young adults appear especially well suited,
as two peas in a pod
a radiant ionic bond they plainly equate
(one comprising thee "star student" progeny),
supremely mature to date
and thee well groomed Emmanuel
dust blend harmonious with "Ode to Joy" ye create
such an idyllic sight engendering tears of happiness
buffer and shine each alphanumeric byte, NOT phishing for bait
most pleasing sight assuages psychic purposefulness,
Anorexia Nervosa once ate.
EMOTIONAL PERIHELION
Alpha rhythm
Relaxation to angst
Indifference inspired hate
Electrified mutiny. Powerful schism
Scofflaw perplexed;
Sycophantic insensate-
Brutal – inhuman – Trait
Trail of honey to lead the insects-
To altruistic rape.
Drug down into a selfless feudalistic hate.
Sadomasochistic shapes
Shadows crawl back in
And begin to dissect
Honor to inject and action to defend;
With pride, dishonor dies. Says goodbye,
To shame and regret.
The end.
King Arthur had a lightning rod. Guinevere found him trying.
His vassals though profoundly odd were far more satisfying.
In martial arts he did excel. At other trades his plying
Could never suit his ego well -- one often found him sighing.
Whenever he returned from war, he was the day's sensation;
But evening found him sad and sore, insensate to persuasion.
Sometimes he tried, and tried his best, to rise to the occasion,
But instanter fell back to rest. His queen must feign elation.
The thing that made it all so strange, he thought himself a charmer.
The king, it seems, a bit deranged, was fearful he might harm her.
She tried to be a faithful wife, avoiding page and farmer;
But Arthur would not, on his life, ever remove his armor.
"Swift Arthur" appeared previously in Fantasy & Terror 9, 1986. It will be collected for the first time in my forthcoming collection The Ocean's Tryst and Other Metrical Tales of Heroic Fantasy.
A mushy voice had left me insensate…
My soul grinned & hallowed my fate…
That “Belle” rambled close to me with elegance…
As if she comprehended riddle of my deep Sense…
Words from her rose lips felt like paradise…
It made the fondness for her in my heart rise…
Like a minor she laughs and roves for all to sight…
Becomes an astounding moment like sun bright…
While portraying her stunning beauty, I have inadequate utterance…
Seeing that each imperfect expression for her beauty would be an offence...
The journey seem to be foretold
And my arrant voice swooned
By the satire that echoed down
Down, to the plaintive essence of nascence
And they thought my eyes were deserted,
My heart was insensate,
My ires were wretched
And when I was bleeding
They went on saying, that
My blood was unchaste.
They who decided me to be one of them
They foretold my journey
By the shadow of immorality
And moaned me to the path of a broken destiny.
I stood up alone, and alone I look up
They smiled, they clapped and they reveled
Back of me,
I walked alone, and I met myself
They provoked, they chatted and they brayed
Yet I went on alone.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
That my emotions were not so deep.
The pencil-thin line of flaming red
Drawn so lightly in the morning sky
Announced the sun’s rising overhead
Yet left no impression upon my eye.
The crisp morning air that greeted me -
Rich with the scent of apple wood smoke –
Must have left no mark on my memory,
Nor knew the language my spirit spoke.
My children’s laughter at games and play
Fell on my ears like notes from a bell,
Though I heard those notes so clear and gay
My heart, I fear, did not listen well.
The aromas from the kitchen stove
Promised a meal for which I must wait,
But the smell of cornbread, ham and clove
Soon departed with my empty plate.
The evening stars that gently twinkled
Against the dark of heavenly height
Sent a warm glow that lightly sprinkled
On my too insensate soul tonight.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
I had no sense of what to keep.