Long Intermingling Poems
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A long time passes and I am still here
Silently insulting, brutally weeping
But then I lift my head from the ground
To see him standing there
Towering over me in all endeavor of quietude
Was he there the entire time?
I feel his eyes but see only his stare
I am dreaming again
Has he returned to guide me?
To frighten me back into reality?
Who are you, entity of fear?
I know death draws me near—
But why, oh mystery, do you linger here?
He never answers me, though still I try
Why are you here?
Must you hate me too?
He pulls me up staring me down
His thin, sophisticated form makes me feel hollow
Empty features burning my vision
As he bends facing me
I never want to see your face again
See, that’s why I hide. . .
Why, I ask, my voice croaking
Tell me why. . .
He takes my hand as I cringe
Walking me to the edge, his head tilted my way
I shake like a dried leaf on the brink of autumn
A small, pathetic part of me wants to thank him
To believe all of this. . .is right
How though, can I trust his blank sincerity?
I am the only. . .the lonely
But there he is beside me
His long fingers intermingling in mine
The sense of fear and confusion
Sticking to me like grime
I am the Slender Man—I am—your friend
And for once I let him embrace me
I cannot bear to flee
He tenses and tightens his grip
Dreading I may slip away in panic
Please stay. . .please stay
Soon it will all just go away. . .
He is warm against me—alive
Breathing slowly, I feel the beating of his heart
Bashing my nerves—blurring my mind
Tingles shoot down my spine
As I stand there, so close to him
We watch a sagging sunset
As tears flow down my infected eyes
I have learned to fly. . .to embrace the lies
Squeezing my hand he holds me close
As the black sun wearily lifts its head one last time
Only to sink from its post
I never want to see your face again
See, that’s why I lie
Slender Man cradles me in his tendrils
Surrounding me like I am its sickly nourishment
Whispering comforting falsehood
I gaze beyond the wasteland
Beyond myself. . .
But there I find nothing
Hand in hand we walk over the edge
Heading yonder into the sheer, sweet
Nothingness
The demons watch us disappear
Grinning from ear to ear
I cannot see them now. . .
But I can smell their fear
-January 26, 2013-
Curse you, curse you forgiving and patient heart
you would receive a thousand papercuts
before admitting a person's fault
I don't know why
Why are you so dead-set on letting me embrace, witness
the brutally honest elegantness dwelling inside...her, Anastasia
Why do you keep her tangled within
intermingling hues of my personality
Why can't you aid in my campaign to let her go
(sigh) I forfeit, I just want to let her go
let her go and recover, forget this dreadful haze
...I love her...no, we've been through this before
It just couldn't be, just leave me to believe in the folly
I realize I was willing to fight for her but I'd fight for anyone
I just didn't expect her to leave
I guess someone had to if I wouldn't
Yes, I was willing to fight but my prize
a thousand reasons to wave the white flag of surrender
I've seen all of this before but I swallow the pain down every time
like people in the circus swallow swords
It's written down in ancient history
I was taken down by the knife which killed me
In the face of truth, I denied fate to forge my own broadsword
which took off the head of the wielder (sigh) me
I kept our union alive long enough for her to stab me
and return to her king, her petty reasons I'll never grasp
but I despise them both for implanting this time bomb inside me
or was it really the seed of jealousy sprouting dangerously
I lied, claimed the feeling comfortable
while simultaneously because the spawn of the demon of anger
relatively close to the fate of Nero, part of the bloodline of Rome
To all these demanding questions, I don't know is your fatal answer
Curse you heart, why do you find joy in aiding the enemy
in slowly worming it's way back into me
I honestly thought, believed I banished her...
although I kept the door open in hopes of her return...
but she only came in to steal you again
On her way out, a punch she threw my way
and I stood there, a statue, still in sheer defiance
taking the force
and I stood still in a quiet storm
between enraged and hopeless
The tears raining down from the thunderstorm of my eyes
made me aware; I'm still me somewhere below the surface
...so why do I sit here in silence...
...feeling like I'm nothing...nothing...
...nothing at...all...
Island of fantasy
No swim wear on Bikini Island after all those testing years
waiting for the hidden radiance to…stop this is reality
I need to escape from where into what or do I when
one flash and blip in the history of time and my projections…
So here it is the nude beach stripped from another reality
granting a moment here or then stranded in magic another truth
in the loops and coconuts circuiting in the mind grapes hanging low
sweet and sour Me Robin’s son Friday or not…forever and another splendour
Essence food and shelter in abundance too much too plenty so
I’d rather bring a friend my lover soul-mate curvaceous sparkling
inspiration expiration joined in motion rhythm rhyme sequential
horizontal upright teasing poet tree in motion exploding fusing solitude
Cinnamon bark and musky flavour salt of the ocean chilli peppers
soul on soul skin on skin soul on skin intermingling penetration
of ideas creation words artistic dependent independent work in progress
giving taking heading truthful tongues lips balsam for the sun and tanning life
Books and poetry are also intimate wise companions mentors faithful fellow friendly
fire water earth and aerial dreams conjectures built up climax rest regeneration
and I suppose we like to write our own of rainbows thunder lightning comets
starlight moonshine distant proximity close by far away lands in kindness loving
Lotus flowers in perfusion fragrant storms meditating torrents stillness for
the mediation stories lived experience speaking hearing narrative exploration
where they rest on beauty interwoven follicles frolicking whims of nature nurtures
exude petals inner peace and outer seminal gentle epitome of sensual wisdom reason
But wait...why search on other ocean’s tide lines why run away from what there is
the island carol coral reefs and rainy forest dew in sunshine sweet perfume of life...
the envelope of brightness togetherness carnal mingling intellectual fulfilment
is here right here when we beam out from fantasy and run from insular fight or flight
06th June 2016
Modern migration and intermingling of races and cultures has trashed ancestry.
The world has become a mishmash, a hotch-potch
as cultures and languages fuse, blend and meld.
Knowing your origin and roots now means very little now
as what was there before, your origins and ancestry, have long gone.
It is so sad to see your old home renovated, or worse demolished.
In Queensland, Australia, many of the old wooden Queenslanders
get transported and sold off in old home parks.
There they are aligned in rows in a plot in park, for sale,
ancestral homes rid of memories and context.
If you are very smart you can trace where your old Queenslander went.
You can go on a trip and see it lobbed into its new address.
Very disturbing, to see your home transported and in foreign hands and lands,
But that is all that is left to do, to trace and refresh your memories.
We expect the past to be just the same as it used to be
like a photograph we expect our ancestry to be frozen in time.
But time marches on trashing the past, insensitive to how we want it to be.
Isolation is what help cultures develop their unique identity
In Australia, there were about 600 different clan groups or 'nations'
around the continent when Europeans arrived, many with distinctive cultures and beliefs.
Most have now gone, now there are fewer than 60,
many, many languages and cultures now lost, forever.
Modern mobility and movement of people means that no new cultures can develop in isolation.
In the past the isolation allowed two human cousin species to co-exist with *****sapiens in ancient time.
*****naledi lived in isolated pockets in Africa.
*****floresiensis lived isolation on the island of Flores in Indonesia.
Now that would be something,
to trace your ancestry back to one of these ancient species.
Humans have stopped evolving through inherited variations
both physically and culturally.
Ancestry is now an endangered species, fossilized.
Moon Spoons
We dive into each other with love from highest peaks of the mountain
quench our thirst with no parachute needed as we drink from the fountain
in free fall we enter the kingdom and queendom of passionate devotion
no hidden agenda self-righteousness gone just poetry and poets in motion
In words and all touch of the senses we scribe on intermingling tapestry
we dangle in suspense and fulfilment like chocolate milky stars in a galaxy
of kindness compassion held by emotion’s gravity solar powered and moon
when we met you promised to fetch it if you possibly could with a spoon
I replied that we would knit and harvest scoop up our journey together
catch dreams rainbows reality strong like a castle and light as a feather
two butterflies mating our soul mind body stellar constellation narration
scribing our infinite story of fairy tale attraction love smith’s pollination
Joined at hippy hips mind feeling flowering bodies and soul’s contemplation
we float further and further like purposive driftwood in tidal association
are all always and all ways reciprocate cupid’s arrows and fluttering hearts
sift through sediments previous losses chart thunder and light for a new start
Your rhyme and your rhythm convulses gently with my meter muse lute
the soft touches of skin on sugar coated layers of consciousness funnels flute
crevice and harbour safe havens hot lover’s lava fired in loving embraces
cuddle share solace transcend into tender time peaked pinnacle’s places
Words alone can never by a mile explain what it means to have you by my side
my lover soul mate best friend and pleasure’s companion day and all night
when we were in our darkest torrents devastation and it felt like a monsoon
we simply fell into love with each other full spoons ahead and into the moon
20th September 2016
I am also a prose poet, navigating the realms of expression unencumbered by the shackles of rhyme. In this vast expanse of literary freedom, I find my solace, my sanctuary. My words flow unencumbered, liberated from the constraints of syllabic patterns and predictable cadences.
I weave my tapestry of thoughts and emotions in a symphony of language, where rhythm emerges from the ebb and flow of ideas. Each sentence dances to its own melody, painting vivid images upon the canvas of imagination. There is no predetermined structure to confine my thoughts; they wander freely, exploring the depths of human experience.
Inspiration finds me in the subtlest of moments, when the world whispers its secrets in hushed tones. I am captivated by the delicate dance of sunlight upon dew-kissed petals, by the ethereal stillness of a moonlit night. Nature, with all its wonders and mysteries, becomes my muse as I wander in meadows and traverse the shores of my own consciousness.
Imagination becomes my compass as I embark on flights of fancy, unearthing hidden truths and breathing life into the intangible. I am the architect of worlds, the weaver of dreams. With each written word, I conjure realms of beauty and chaos, of joy and sorrow, bridging the gap between reality and the realms of the unseen.
In this realm of unstructured verse, I find a refuge from the clamour of the modern world. Here, time stands still, and the weight of expectation dissipates. I embrace the elegance of the old-fashioned, where sentiment is expressed with grace, and meaning is derived from the subtleties of language.
Through this medium, I seek to illuminate the world, to celebrate the beauty of raw expression. In each sentence, a story unfolds, a myriad of emotions intermingling. I surrender to the currents of inspiration, allowing them to guide me as I navigate this vast expanse of untamed verse.
I am also a prose poet, unbound by the constraints of rhyme, embracing the fluidity of language.
end part two
****
Free Verse
I live not far from humankind the cradle that is of
what and where we are all coming from Johannesburg
so they say and going to one human race of every colour
no need for power domination colonializing margins
The ‘dark continent’ where the ‘savages’ did not abide
by our expectations of what civilized should be and mean
where it was us the other 'othering' cannibalizing our flesh
of freedom dignity compassion lost in money mind and soul
My cradle rocks and sways in the wild gentle winds in
torrents of emotion mood reflection history anticipation
certain of uncertainty of what the intermingling retrospective
past and future web together like a tapestry of life a bricolage
Lost threads there are and double knitted faults and hollows
shallow worn out spins and spiral knots and missing patches
mended winding fabric scars and wounded oscillations
swings and roundabouts cul-de-sacs and four-way stoppage
Is there a pattern to cradling the moment to memories to
fantasies of rooted wings and flapping roots a human kind
of compass joining needles implements of mass construction
subjective individual shining lights and armour idiosyncratic beauty
Are we starving demising suffocating for self-righteousness
loosing the plot and all the marbles thrown high up in the
air with juggled balls we aim to fix the waters rivers flowing
on their own with push and pull of light and lighted gravitation
Just here and now not there and then when sunshine rises
where rainbows glitter melt and wax the wane all of the colours
into violet prisms focussing condensing refracting blinding darkness
understanding knowledge of the shadows and bright clarity
When I write some thoughts on paper on the screen of modern
techniques and ancient art of crafted words and scripted meaning
the cradling of the moment takes its paths of where I’ve started off
and might be going once and only when the moment passes
02nd July 2016 written in Johannesburg and everywhere
As I drive away from the past, from my old life, I look into the rearview mirror and hear my conscience say “Don’t think twice”
But it hurts, because in the wreckage left behind, I see a life that I will never have, one that will never be mine
I see all the damage, the loss that has occurred all because of me, and as I look into that rearview mirror it’s there in your eyes staring back at me
All the pain, the wasted time, the bloodshed to my heart, the remains are left there in front of you like the pieces of a totaled car
And so, I keep on driving farther and farther away from the view, away from your haunting eyes that are telling me you did what you had to do
And through the tears obstructing my view I get it I do see, the reason why you made me go and took what was left of me
You had no other choice you had to stay, and I had to go, but couldn’t you have prepared me for the impact you caused, wasn’t I to know?
I never saw it coming and, in these situations, you rarely do, I was blind sighted caught in the aftermath of the destruction that was you
I want to turn around because I feel for you and for me, your tears are intermingling with the pieces of my heart on the ground that you caused to be
Can you feel it the calmness now after the collision is through? I might have walked away unscathed, but only on the outside, you can’t see the damage within you put me through
The internal bleeding, my body that is all twisted up inside, yes, I may look like I’m not dead but to be honest I’m barely alive
Could you not see it in my eyes? Did you not witness the pain? How could you just let me drive away knowing that you’re to blame?
And the sad part is you don’t even care enough to come after me, your content with the way things ended while the shock of it is killing me.
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
(King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table have been reported as ghostly hunters, near Devon, around Halloween.)
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, hunting, Halloween, England, London, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales , romance, romantic, myth, mythology, legend, legends, night, sky
How do we explain love…should we even try?
It’s a complicated intermingling of our hearts our brains…our eyes…
I suppose the best definition…when all is said and done
is that love is a universal feeling that’s universally different for everyone.
Which reminds me of my first year of teaching…over 40 years ago
I wanted two teach my Autistic students about humor…I wanted to help them grow.
I thought, ‘who better to teach them?’…after all I am a funny guy.
They would be learning from the master…how the principles of humor apply.
On an easel in front of me was a comic strip from the newspaper…
In front of each student was the same.
My goal was to explain the humor…while going frame to frame.
It seems humor when explained this way is not an easy concept to see…
In the investigation…in the analysis…It loses it’s spontaneity
Not one chuckled…no one laughed…
my students had no sense of humor as far as I could tell
that is until they erupted with laughter…when I tripped on the easel…and fell.
My students showed no comprehension of humor…
not even the littlest giggle sound
Until they heard my high pitched scream…and I was face down on the ground…
There are two possibilities why this experiment failed:
The first…perhaps humor cannot be taught
The second, and my money’s on the first one here,
I’m not as funny as I thought.
Or perhaps there are some things in life we’re not meant to fully understand
That are designed to make us wonder…to be mysterious…and grand
Which brings me back to explaining love…
Perhaps the best explanation of all
Is that love is a lot like humor
And the best way to experience it…
is when you fall.