The raw madness waits in my secret garden,
where pretty flowers bloom all year long.
Where the bees and butterflies,
suck the nectar to fill their tiny tummies.
Words fill my mind and heart,
telling me what to write.
Where the red birds stop by to sing,
singing in perfect harmony.
I hear rhymes and then free verse,
as I begin to write.
As I sit here on this old wooden bench,
I have found peace.
My pen and paper join together,
they united and write as one.
Peace covers me about the past,
I have peace about the long lost years.
Thanking peace for this beautiful day,
my hand holds my pen tight.
I leave the raw madness far behind,
as I sing and write in perfect harmony.
Hues and fluttering,
Beauty in a microcosm,
In and out of sight.
An egg first; and then
Caterpillar; then in womb;
Then I rise, I fly.
Scent of pheromones;
She glides and circles and soars
He showers his love.
Nestlings
I write best
Close to the vest
I attest
It’s what I know
Best
In my nest
It’s what I
Behest
I write best
Close to the vest
Be my guest
I’ll unload
My chest
Be just like
An inner inquest
I write best
Close to the vest
Just sit tight
I’ll feed ya
The rest
Bill MacEachern
03/24/23
Write me a poem of good things
Things that are golden to write
Sing me a sonnet of butterfly’s wings
Wings that are fresh in their flight
Send me a message on moonbeams
That I can read in the dark
Paint me a picture from out of a dream
A blaze from out of a spark
Give me the gift of a strong helping hand
Come to my side and I’ll help you stand
Don’t stray away, I need you right here
Give me today and I’ll make it a year.
In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch
for George King
In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky,
and the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our bodies to some violent ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, SOAR! through the night on a butterfly's breeze:
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the world of resplendence from which we were seized.
Published in Songs of Innocence and Romantics Quarterly. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King.
A butterfly danced through the crisp air of the northern United States. She may have been cold, but she loved the cold all the same. Chills and snow are so much better than the blistering heat, that’s what she thought.. The snow was beautiful, the wilting flowers were oddly beautiful in their own way, it couldn’t have been any better. Though people always tried to help her, a little kid trying to capture her in a jar, an animal lover trying to put her away, it was horrible. Last time a butterfly trusted a human, they died, and this young butterfly never forgot that.
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