It’s quite a sight
To be rescued by a garbage truck
Before anyone or anything else with luck
Rises
So early this morning
After the big snow
Schools closed business delayed
Road uncut by any car
Birds sleeping in
The synapse of tree limbs white feathered with fins
Reaching out for one another in an apologetic wind
But those guys
One impossibly young the other impossibly old
Defiant
Or miserable
Is there a difference, these cosmic travelers?
Not making much money
But here they are
Unmoved by all our mythical possibilities
Holding to a relentless backend schedule
Swinging down up and through the drifts
They lift
Our buried bin to the automatic contraption
Right on time no matter what
Emptying again
Another week’s waste from all our lives.
I stand in the swamp by the riverbank
clutching a coin I have stolen
as my heart still beats within my breast
It is only my spirit
that has slipped away
to await the ferryman of Acheron
Charon who
skillfully pilots his skiff
from there to where it flows
into Styx
He arrives and I pay the price
He places the coin in his pocket
and grabs hold of the pole
pushing away from the shore
as I lay indolent with lament
in the bottom of the boat
the icy chill of the water
seeping through the wood
Shivering I stare at the stars
silently weeping
remembering the many wishes
I made on them that went unrealized
unheard
for the Gods must have
found me unworthy
Cerberus will step aside to admit me
heads snarling
as the snakes on his back writhe
Hades will welcome me
Or he may hand me over
to be judged by Aeacus
and plunged into the pit of Tartarus
for my many sins
to be tortured for eternity
starved and beaten
my liver eaten by birds
May he have mercy on me
this sorrowful lost soul
for all I ever wanted
was to dance
carefree and content
to the music of miracles
in the golden flower filled
Elysian Fields forever
with you
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters, deep and dark and still:
all men have passed this way, or will.
NOTE: According to ancient Greek mythology, the Styx was the River of Death. The dead would pay Charon, the ferryman of Hades, a fare to carry them across the Styx to their eternal destination. (Hades was not "hell" as it was improperly translated in the King James Bible. Hades had heavenly regions, such as the Elysian Fields and the Blessed Isles.) The fee was normally an obolus or danake. The Greeks would place the coins in the mouths of the dead, but over time the custom would become placing coins, usually pennies, on the eyes of the dead.
Charon 2001
by Michael R. Burch
I, too, have stood—paralyzed at the helm
watching onrushing, inevitable disaster.
I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster
damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film
becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter
living in darkness, bright things overwhelm.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
I wait for the boat to come
from the far shore of the sky
across the tree tops
right up to the side of my window
where I sit, looking out
my eyes as glazed and shining as pieces of silver.
If the boatman asks for coins,
I have them ready.
Two quarters
copper peaking out along the edge between their silver skins.
It isn’t much.
Less than a load of laundry.
I guess Charon’s sheets never need to be washed.
How peaceful it must be
to row away
watching one’s room fade into the distance
the sound of the trees softly snoring in the breeze
unaware no one will be there to climb them tomorrow.
How peaceful it must be
to drift away
over the world
the highway slipping far away
the sound of haste softening into memory.
How peaceful it must be
to come to the edge of the clouds
and stick one’s foot out
and leave no prints behind.
Wading upon the brine of a gloomy sea,
Upon a floating dory, I sit above this forsaken deep
A creation of shape-less matter, a liquid heap
A shadowy taint covers all directions, no exit to flee
I paddle slowly, my movements are meech
Solitude stalks my soul, avariciously. It follows me
Far from hope, attached to an invisible leash
The safety of the sand is far from my reach
All I hope is to find some relief, but a mortal toll must be paid
The specter grabs at me, a featureless fiend, I cannot runaway
I paddle to escape, fear-stricken – zero time to pray
But no amount of effort matters, I am trapped in this place
I will float upon this black sea alone
The only ocean I have ever known
Nor thunder in the dark, nor flash, nor fire,
nor other pyrotechnics that, they say,
accompany all such events, nor dire
phantasmagorias, going astray
in the unconsciousness. I’m all alone
down by the river which impassive face
turns gold with dusk. The other side is grown
with willows. A bit cloudy; a quick trace
of water striders, playing tag; a heron,
hiding among the reeds; a leaky boat;
an empty planked footway. But where is Charon?
The obol I have brought for him to float
me far away lies on the riverbed:
the tricky death as usual misled.
05/14/2019
Favourite Poem from May, 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Was it just coincidence or the work of hidden powers
that Jefferson and John Adams passed on within few hours
on a very weighty date indeed , which was July the fourth,
a day of celebration uniting south and north,
and furthermore a jubilee that fell this selfsame year,
In eighteen twenty-six, a time of joy and cheer?
Monroe, fifth president in line, died on the selfsame date,
though in his case I have to say he was a few years late.
At length Tom Jefferson woke up from a state like sleep,
and felt the urge to wander off and grant himself a peep.
Would Charon, grave ferryman, let him cross the Stygian brook?
The sullen figure thereupon, with a bleak and doleful look,
warned the hopeful president he’d be in for a nasty shock
once Charon’s bark had landed him close to the Plymouth rock..
Though America had outlived wars and then a mighty slump,
he was less sure of its chances at the blast of the final trump.
It might therefore be wiser to rest up in heaven or hell
than on earth to witness the toll of the Liberty’ knell.
Behind my sunken, shallow eyes
dissected phantoms draw themselves
and smeared perceptions comprise
a scheme to thwart the wicked spell.
Poignant screens of smoke and screams
lactate upon my lungs
where illustrations scrawl o'er dreams
of twisted eyes and cursive tongues.
And burning embers torture groans
in visual dreams like vocal hymns
the sound a scratch on chalkboard bones
a testimony of the grim.
The injured malevolent and destitute,
their pity played on sane despair;
decapitations done of gratitude
throw heads aloft the endless massacre.
The milk of tattered spirits wreath
the blades that Chaos thrashes round
and restless victims thrash beneath
unsettled graves, unholy ground.
I'd flee the bloody Styx and death
but taints of darkness linger on
enmeshed in sticky threads of Fate’s dank breath
I know survival would be a phenomenon
And as the oars of Charon paddle hours
I will not pray to reincarnate
for Life itself is damned and it devours
with wraiths of faith I cannot satiate.