Long Spoor Poems
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She here elbowed past me stomping, pausing not (although me whomping
With her wildly swinging handbag – five kilograms, if not more).
Cackling brusquely in a lather, that I should her baggage gather,
She then made a beeline rather straight through to the bathroom door.
Bathrobe clad and I mouth gaping, a liquidesque and turgid score –
Heard I come from ‘hind said door.
Faculties mine then regaining, to the muffled sounds of straining,
Luggage lugged I by the armful ‘til it half covered the floor.
Having purged demons internal, emerged she with a stench infernal,
And disturbed wife’s rest nocturnal – sensed she had her mother’s spoor –
Thus awakened, hair disheveled, she exclaim-ed, “Oh my Lor-”
(At which point she saw Lenore).
Here, dear reader, I’ll acknowledge that I met my wife in college.
We did wed with an alacrity that left our families sore.
With them mostly, we’ve fence-mended, olive branches we’ve extended,
And with all have soreness ended, with th’exception of Lenore –
Impromptu Vegas nuptials ours ne’er pardoned she us for.
Forgiveness? She’d said, “Nevermore.”
Subsequently, every meeting, whether days in length or fleeting
Ever marred was by the vitriol that from her mouth did pour.
Our presence thus disdaining, we content were then remaining
Distant from her foul complaining – contact with her we forswore.
No truck had we had with her for nigh on twelve years, maybe more –
Hence the shock of her at door.
Standing there in hallway fuming, scent of ordure ‘round perfuming,
An entitled air assuming, my wife’s mother took the floor.
She in voice like squealy quacking, peppered with some phlegmy hacking,
Every dulcet tone it lacking, sounding like a wounded boar,
Claimed she an Ikean sofa that her ample rearguard bore –
“I’ve come to visit,” croaked Lenore.
Looked I to my wife in query (bad side hers on of being leery),
Wincing at what could be sheer emoted outrage and furore,
Said wife, “What drugs are you taking that would lead you then to making
The mistake you are mistaking in appearing at our door?
What dark, unholy, nasty, wretched reason came you for,
That you so defile our door?”
Poppy
by Michael R. Burch
“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”
It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.
The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.
The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.
Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!
Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.
You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no opiate for the heart.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
***
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth."
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her breasts and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
***
If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch
If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.
If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.
If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.
Keywords/Tags: birth, light, love, love hurts, flight, flying, life, heart
We sit in our idle houses
plugged-in to the world wide web
of digital madness and make-believe.
We text tweet posts from on far and shadow fight in elections streams but hide our eyes in the burning light of day. We crawl in the muck of media social septic sycophantic discharge.
The immaculate ejaculation of simple minds
lost in hate inspired by a buffoon's fury for the masses of a race at war with no one and everything.
We are the spoor of an absent absolute adolescent god.
The degeneration of a nation.
Walk on the left side of what is right.
Daggers to the left brainwashed, irrational.
We are the lost souls, shades of our former selves.
The whitewashed out wasted youth of a once-great nation that never was, and is only in the wet dreams of gun-loving, militant, mutant myopic ‘mericans.
We are the last bastion of some mad American empire that once never was and will be ever again from sea to shining towers of righteous jaded glass that reach to heavens zenith only to come down as men with destination if deaths deeds conspire to bring down.
An airliner of 767 designation demolition by design a government conspiracy that conspired to kill and to procreate war for profit and malicious malfeasance fester in flight of a mind at war with truth and a god at home of the brave land of the gun.
We are the product of our dysfunctional family that plugged us into the cathode ray tube, the wet nurse of the damaged damned and demented delusional diluted and dangerous.
We sit in our idle houses
plug-in to the world wide web
of digital madness and make-believe.
Of some mad American empire of crumbling crimson and cobalt blue fluids of stars sliver bright raining like falling embers or wormwood, blood, and sky and white light influx we are the offspring of some mad American empire…
Yesterday, in the meadows with comrades, dewy cloverleaves I nibbled,
Kneaded with hoofs, as galloped in euphoria hither and thither,
In a free, safe, and worthy world of utopia, my life flew off,
With companions gobbling cloverleaves and galloping bethink now,
Enclosed by lattice, so dry and thorny stalks weaved in thousands of eyes,
A worn and torn cypress, sulking under the azure heaven,
Neither cloverleaf nor cowslip to munch, pricky grasses instead,
Round and round scamper I within, my lonely soul escaping outside,
Afar, meadow and wilderness so green and opulent,
Beads of dews mingling upon, rolling on and sliding off,
Of my kind, devouring and whispering a blithe song to cloverleaves,
Galloping like a triumph of abduction I from the meadow,
My forlorn bell raising loud and louder in the zoological garden,
Pious living souls or saints to hear my call and companions to rescue,
Peering through the lattice, so blue and hollow my eyes sink inside,
Furs are forsaking my populous body to leave barren,
A day or two, they shall not miss the melody that I sang,
Neither they will know where I went, but believe I am there,
Their world so tired and battered of no entertainment,
Marvel so deeply where I elude with no trace of spoor,
Wander in the venture of the entertainer to rainbow their world,
In the zoological garden flatten I in the verge of last breath,
Friends outside the lattice that part our world; freedom and captivity,
I shall bell for liberation for once, breathe no more afterward.
Thank you
- Thinley UT Jamtsho
Mongar- 17658720
Her arms laden with small garden tools and sweet scented flowers
She wanders into the graveyard, and treads the trodden path
Noticing the subtle differences given with the different hours
The gentle swaying of cobwebs after they are so cleverly cast
The black birds hunting for their so hungry meal the earth scours
Afternoon flowers bowing under the suns hot burning wrath
Only to perk up once again after the so refreshing rain showers
She treads the trodden path
The tall trees over lapping, seem to hold her with their embrace
To her, whispering sweet nothings into her forever listening ears
It is as if with their sweeping branches her emotions they encase
Further down the trodden path she walks, her eyes welled with tears
Embodying her with a feeling of overwhelming compassion and grace
For often they have watched her come to this graveyard over the years
To tend her loved ones grave, and upon it, flowers she would place
She treads the trodden path
Has it not been 10 long years, or more, soon to join him, she is sure
This grave she has kept nurtured with all her love and all her plight
Death to her emptiness and loneliness will soon to be her only cure
Then together again, they will be reunited as their only given right
A grave then to be attended by their children they went on to spoor
Where they will then tread the trodden path at different times of light
Noticing the subtle differences of this graveyard, so beautiful and pure
They tread the trodden path
Who could have known of their watch
Who could have told of their suspicion
Who could have told
That they were the harbingers
To my resurrection?
Me, I sat there
Plummeted
Engrossed in my ingratitude
Occasionally
Languishing
Betraying the illusion
And I remember, too,
Lingering in the thirsty
Emptiness
Mummified
Entwined in my solitude.
Sometimes
Before the Eolithic era
Which refracted by dioptric
Prometheus moulded his man
There were no leaves on branches
No bark on the trunks
No undergrowth in the forest
No sweat on the pores.
I opened the cataract
on my veins
the silence of the stars
surged forth
down the rivers on my palm-
leaving deserts behind.
Sensing disturbance
In my oblivion
Reproaching my rebirth
I reached out for the present
Leaving no spoor.
Centuries after
I arrived at the end of my hibernation
At the beginning of their quest
I had not solicited, I swear!
Mother, they said
These cracks on your face
In the shape of nations
Who will mend them?
Those aliens
Who daily defile your rivers
Make love to your beaches
Shitting on your mountains
Who will excoriate their oddity?
Those derelicts
Shaking your constellation
To balance the ecology:
Who will indite the epilogue?
Those dirty mercenaries
Who raped your plains
Plundered your joy:
Who will expiate the outrage?
Who will resurrect
Your majesty?
Who will deflect
The holocaust?
Moonless night covers the world therefore
Most people in places including east Africa sleep after closing the door
There is good reason to secure the door
Not only because of thieves but something more
The dreaded beast from Africa’s lore
But it exists not only in that lore
It is real beast whose bone chilling soul shaking roar
Echoes from mountains to shore
The beast natives call chimiset creature with very strange spoor
In the night it is unwise forest to explore
For the creature often sits on branches above forest floor
As unknowingly a person walks beneath the branch they will hear no roar
But for a short moment they will feel terrible pain
As chimiset also called Nandi bear hits their skull before feasting on their brain
Only few white hunters his hide as a trophy tried to obtain
But the beast never been slain
The Nandi bear is a mysterious beast
That lives in Africa’s east
But there is little question that nocturnal predator under this name does exist
And can even go through wall of thorns so fierce is the beast
But if something so strange is real what else is in the universe we shall see
But the largest number is not infinity
And truly the strangest and the most awesome creature that we could ever see
It is the creature that from point of power rather than base like us can measure infinity
Paradise
I ramble and marvel on the alluring paradise I reside
Tall green pine trees spear to reach to the heavens gratified
A Few scattered pine that have lost the will to survive
Sounds of the wildlife the forest obscures and they thrive
The wondrous mountain range with tall timber surrounds me, enticing to explore
Lush green, brown grass and enchanting flowers in bloom I spoor
The crystal clear rivers and ponds stocked with a rainbow of fish in sight
The clear blue sky with scattered clouds and birds in flight
Through the high brush, I saunter enjoying my paradise, below
I catch sight of a couple, midway in a wallow in the meadow
Feasting on salal and brush
I rush to the underbrush
At a distance I hear the bugle of an old elk calling and gathering his harem
I wonder if I should challenge the old elk but his way up on the rim
By: Eve Roper
1/24/2015
THE TASTE OF YOU
The taste of you thrusts in my blood
my spirit longs to burst and soar
I feel you nipping at my heart
While my feet eat both sand and shore
I smell you through the dancing nights
When sea borne fog plays hide and seek
When Salty white --complex in joy--
Glorious fragrance-- bold and meek.
To you I give my hidden scent
Your flicking tongue finds me in flames
I'd find you if my eyes were blind --
Your spoor forever calls my name.
V. Anderson-Throop 2013
I will inform you once the shells are spoor.
When they're timorous around the seashore,
Just as mushrooms will grow around a grave,
If they shine like slight candles in a cave.
So, you and I will devour the beach dunes.
While a pearly moon sails the ocean tunes,
Listening to the meek growl of the waves,
Because of the eyesore, the seagull craves.
Leave the prospects of the moody era,
To the pinnacle of warm chimera,
Entirely all the measures we will climb,
Unwinding vexes will raddle each rhyme.
When the billow came to express goodbye,
Moon dimly veiled as if it were a sigh,
If love isn't exciting and no tears fell,
The ripple then needed to say farewell.
I will contact you when the seashells bloom,
While they dance with brittle light at my tomb,
We will play the doom game in parody,
I will call you when the shells grow quickly.
My deprived brain couldn't accept a farewell,
I wrote the last and final verse as well,
Like birds, you'd return to the nest at dusk,
Retrieve my typed quill that I'd drop when busk.
3rd place contest winner
Written: July 02, 2022
FAREWELL theme rhyming contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lisa YY
Checked by HMS.COM/ 10 Syllables per line