Victor, the VW bus was angry, he had rust on himself now
His owner was unkempt, frowsy, disheveled and frayed.
His house would have been condemned
If he had not hired a maid.
They have frowsy flamboyant hats,
some are born English,
while others are obviously alien.
They need a deep corner to thrive,
or a high ceiling.
Like Maasai maidens their necks
are stretched to infinity,
they will not take much manhandling.
If we ever find their spaceships
we will need a stepladder
to greet their leader.
They both cure depression
and bring depression on,
especially if you stand too long
in their shadows.
Sheila was blowsy, frowsy, frumpish, dowdy.
matching her unkempt messy, sloppy abode.
gone to seed, meanies said in a nasty way.
we kids saw through Sheila’s shabby drabness.
she was entertaining and fun, and she liked children.
best of all, she had a good heart and terrific stories.
meanies could not even dream of this personality for themselves.
I wake up with her,
check myself,
eyes creaking like blind stars.
She’s strange, she’s yesterday,
I remember us the week before;
wonder if tomorrow
will fade us both out completely.
We don’t get to know them -
the wives I mean.
Living together we grow
too myopically tangled, and the vows,
the wild love with a facsimilia of what
we thought they were,
the sharing of a frowsy bed,
a grody toilet,
the live-in tales of indifferent playwrights.
We forget to know them
and forget that we never really did.
An ex-wife chides me in my sleep now,
but occasionally I dream of erotic sex with her.
If she had not assumed that she knew me well,
we might be still turning around a togetherness
like hands on a clock, instead of just
doing this body-mike thing to each other.
I am up making coffee.
She comes into the kitchen
deliberately brushing her hip
against mine…nothing strange about that,
but I do wonder if sometimes
she thinks I am someone else.
Our body is not our own
But temporary wears
That will surely tear
Life full of horrible bled
So ignite your heavenly care
Our body is not our own
No matter how we fare
On this earthly affairs
All turns sudden despairs
So pays to be sincere
My body is not my own
while we still out here
So living our life in pair
While on this ball like sphere
Your body is not your own
Is sure a waste of time
To this present kind
So sure to tame your mind
To be a heavenly vine
His body is not his own
Cos' life on earth is timed
So try to pay ur fine
To meet the heavenly line
And sit at Potter dine
Her body is not her own
put on all your faith
With it you will never fate
Its such a warmly shame
On those who miss the date
This body is not my own
Some day heavenly call will roll
So while take a frowsy stroll
Into the this earthly bowl
That is full of tides and cold
This world is not our home
9/9/2020
Tuning William Blake's Whistle
by Michael R. Burch
a musical prophecy, after William Blake
I.
Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.
I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked
nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.
II.
Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,
the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.
III.
Among the children's
daisy faces
and in the women's
frowsy laces,
I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,
were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild
I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.
Keywords/Tags: William Blake, prophecy, Orpheus, singer, singing, minstrel, ministry, hymn, troubadour, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, labor, slavery, freedom, music, muse, song, poets, miracle
Orpheus
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
I.
Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.
I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked
nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.
II.
Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,
the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.
III.
Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,
I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,
were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild
I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.
All England, blinking nervously, is out!
A little mild spell, much to our surprise,
has brightened frowsy February skies.
We sniff the air with nostrils schooled in doubt.
Baffled by balm, the fruit trees have misfired.
Like foolish virgins, hurrying on their scarves,
They've pushed out blooms half-petaled and half-starved.
The coming frosts will slice them like cheese-wire.
And I have loved you far too eagerly.
My half-cocked hopes have withered on the bough.
I should have doled my sweets more meagerly -
then, had I granted space, and time, and light,
your hobbled feelings might have taken flight,
in any time or place ... but England. Now.