Long Staves Poems
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Rant: Inevitability
by Michael R. Burch
This is a prophetic poem about the triumph of real poetry over its current poor imitation.
There is change in the wind; there is change in the sea
preternaturally strange with her myriad eyes—
stars mirrored in waves. Compelled by the moon,
whipped to foam, she is drawn into restive tides
rising and cresting as kestrels flee
shrieking, “Passion is all!” You are nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are words to arrange; there are tongues to employ;
there are songs to engrave on each vellum leaf.
But the gold will not hold lacking passion or joy
and the gilt ink fades without rage or grief.
All your high Latin hymnals bind spineless belief,
and your mild incantations mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
Emotionless arrows impale no meat,
leave no prey blood-splattered, no white bone staring,
no pale breast shattered, no lamb’s soft bleat ...
but a table barren, an ear uncaring.
And your listless denouements mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are souls’ riven screams, there are blind eyes staring—
imploring the sun or the moon or the sea
for an inkling of meaning, a morsel, a shaving ...
and your pallid dispassion means nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There is much that is lost, and yet much to be gained
in each dark starless night, each advance of the sun.
We have so little time to wrestle your meaning.
Stars trestle the heavens. Wind haunts. You are done.
And your temple bells’ tinklings mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
All my cruel Celtic henchmen, my bold Nordic bards,
will shatter the canes of your cripples to shards,
impaling pale corpses on blood-slickened staves,
tossing leprous white limbs to the wild-drooling waves.
For your steaming viscera are manna to me.
What will be, will be.
No Iscariot kiss, but a Jubilant Hiss
you will get from me. What will be, now is.
Keywords/Tags: poetry, poets, poems, write, writing, words, romantic, romanticism, wind, sea, waves, moon, stars, tides, foam, passion, strange
Combining the words “Fianna” and “Bard”, I give you the warrior-poet clan of the Fiard.
Also, a fiard is an inlet of the sea with low banks on either side, common along the Gulf of Finland, and formed by the post-glacial drowning of the Fenno-Scandian shield.
I give you the first Fiard’s ritual -
First of all, we thank the sacred 3 which is now known as Awen. In this ritual they shall be the earth, the moon and sun. And for the 3 worlds in which we roam. Starting we face towards the east, from where our sun does come, we thank the element of Air, also intelligence comes from there. And the wishes of the Ancient Ones. Its symbol is the Dagger, and its king is Lugh.
Turning now to the north, its element is our sacred Earth. As we honour all living beings on her, whether they’re trees or animals, they are all gifts from the Ancient Ones. The symbol of Earth is the pentacle or disc, and its mighty lord of animals, Cernunnos.
Now spinning to the west, where our sun does rest. The element there is water; its symbol therefore is the chalice, the cup. The waters of life do heal us and purify our being. The king of water is Llyn.
Now we face the south, its element is fire which has strong guardians called salamanders, with teeth dripping with poison. Fire’s symbol is the wand (preferably out of Hazel). The king of fire is Belenos.
Focusing now back to the centre where the fifth element is Spirit. In spirit all mysteries are revealed. Spirit flows through all things; spirit is the sacred, the hallowed, the pure, the unspoken. Spirit is Being beyond form. Spirit unites us in the Isles of the blessed. We send now peace to all 4 quarters, turning slowly 3 times giving our thanks. Then I, the elected throws 4 staves in the centre, one for each symbol, and return with it on the next ritual. Now leaving the sacred circle by which your symbol does represent, the ritual now over, but when we return time, you must enter In the same direction with your symbol held out straight in both hands. We finish with the whisper of Awen.
You see them loot on city streets,
attack people and leave them beat,
take what they want with no regard,
it’s ‘easier’ than working hard.
We see them take a human life,
with no regard for people’s rights,
defraud taxes, both poor and rich,
spend your hard work without a hitch.
Will the police protect you then?
if the politicians left them,
but if your view and thoughts are ‘wrong’
they help the thugs to get along.
Your life must be in your own hands,
a never-changing rule of man,
the wolf is always at the door,
if you want peace, prepare to war.
We’re so secure in modern times
that it seems bizarre to some minda
to think foreigners could invade,
some relic from a darker age,
to the point that they will decree,
“Let’s only use diplomacy,”
forgetting that the wretched lot
that usually rise to the top
crave what you have, and do not care
if war is what will get them there.
But why have these guys no struck yet?
an ever-present fear of death,
the fact that we will kill them back
is all that staves of their attack.
Reason can never convince them
to give up power’s addiction,
and when the sheep-dogs go away
then these wolves will come out to prey,
with no thought of the blood and strife,
they’ll take your land and rape your wife,
the wolf is always at the door,
if you want peace, prepare for war.
We can’t forgive the greatest threat,
the evil we’re forced to abet,
the specter we call government,
forever plays on sentiments,
divides and riles openly,
draws power from our liberties,
and even here, in a free state,
a tyrant lies in each, and waits…
Waits to seize what it never should,
while claiming it’s for your own good.
our founders knew just what they are,
tried to stop them going too far,
to this day they chafe at restraint,
make it a reason for complaint,
but their intentions are well known:
they see themselves upon a throne.
From senator to bureaucrat,
we’d do well to remember that
the wolf is always at the door,
if you want peace, prepare for war.
Golden swaying heads of the amber wavesthe sunshine sweetly upon the wheat fields’Tares are standing taller in their own graves Only the mercy of God is that which stavesfalling to the ground the flowing harvest yieldsGolden swaying heads of the amber waves that which slips into darkness as death cravesThe sun shines sweetly upon granite shieldsTares are standing taller in their own graves One is truly free in life but both are slavesThe reaper comes fast a sharp scythe he wieldsGolden swaying heads of the amber waves Marching proud to the sounds of their own clavesWar drums beat as a gathering storm buildsTares are standing taller in their own graves Never knowing his grace the one that savesSun and the rain comes upon the dark guildsGolden swaying heads of the amber wavesTares are standing taller in their own graves
The ghost of Harriet Harris abhor real
disillusioned, disenchanted,
and disembodied (incorporeal
spirit of mine late mother) doth feel
displeasure toward this sole son seal
ling himself most every day inside
the one bedroom flat, a bargain deal
asper costs pegged to monthly
social security disability as sole
income intended to support me,
and the missus, who does not troll
the internet for employment,
and in fact exhibits no goal
to supplement marginal roll,
out sans unearned income, especially now,
(no surprise I wanna be a bachelor)
cuz finances teeter on cusp of red hole
mainly whereby two sizable
automotive costs (within a
six plus month period) sunk me soul,
and psyche on the point
of despair, where goal
to be alive undermined
nearly being penniless
and this communique not aiming to trawl
for sympathy, nor remuneration,
which latter would definitely draw scowl
upon countenance of eldest daughter completes
University study (housed with her eminent beau
within city of brotherly love), awl
so this papa disinclined to apprise her
meager finances put me the dole
drums mainly aforestated a cup pull
of hefty car repairs
spurs impetus to burrow self like a mole
whiling away hours of each twenty four hour
listening...perhaps for me the bell will toll
(at long last mitigating this
deplorable strait no life atoll
where today hard pressed
upon Highland Manor knoll,
and basically undifferentiated from yesterday),
budget restrictions limit choices, hence I stay
inside, where the brutal cold oye vey
also contributes preference
to remain comfortable at
60?Fahrenheit until April or May
solitary (trivial) purrs hoots
occupy time, to allay
writing, reading, meditating,
exercising... staves off ennui
until...these lovely bones turn brittle,
and shock (wave) of brown hair turns gray.
From The Desk of :Diminuendo Battuta Alcuna
President of Musicolgy School Of dance and Music
Groovey Beats Lane
Money Grip City U.S.A.
50005-0010
Attention: Suite Muisca Staves and Staff
Soothology and Emo_Glam Initiative
A>K>A>: "The Power of Opportunity"
Forward to:Bel Ragazzo and
Moglie Sessuale of Big-Money Music LLC.
and
"No Jive Radio"
2.8 Diphthongs – Essential of Linguistics
Part One Precedes the Following
Consonants are the opposite of vowels. They are sounds made with a restricted airflow, where the tongue, teeth, or lips are used to block or modify the flow of air.
Y as a Vowel:roasted pork tongue with lettuce tomato cheese and best taco sauce seasoned with cumin and cilantro and lime juice. on a soft shell taco
.gliding Sound:
Unlike a monophthong (a single, pure vowel sound), a diphthong involves a continuous movement or glide from one vowel sound to another.
One Syllable:
The two vowel sounds in a diphthong occur within the same syllable.
Examples:
Common examples in English include the sounds in "boy" (/??/), "out" (/a?/), and "my"
Origin:
The word "diphthong" comes from the Greek word "diphthongs," meaning "having two sounds".
Not Just Two Vowels:
It's important to note that not all combinations of two vowels are diphthongs. For example, "book" or "sheep" have two vowels but only one vowel sound.
Variations:
The specific diphthongs and their pronunciation can vary slightly between different dialects of English.
Diphthong Definition & Meaning - Merriam-Webster
Pronunciation Practice Difficult Vowel Sounds [DIPHTHONGS]
really great English practice for you so what the heck is a diff thong. it's a complicated word that you will probably
2.8 Diphthongs – Essential of Linguistics
Get ready
Maybe we should arm the homeless
give them all staves and stones
they could take over our mansions
walk right in and say, "I am home"
the gated communities will not help us
and there'll be no place to hide
from the numbers that are piling up
and they're piling up just outside
it's just a matter of time
just a matter of time
before we witness that late night horror
a real life zombie fight
I'm afraid if we don't put'm back to work
we're all going to die
total chaos and anarchy
the result of our nations financial suicide
rape the poor
rape the poor
let's amortize their homes
rape the poor
rape the poor
their to stupid to know
let's tell them to go to school
we'll make a killing on the loans
we'll set up meat grinders and give them A's
and when they get out and start to complain
that they can't find a job
we'll just change the name
learn the golden rule
don't you love success
do unto others and why have slaves
when you can offer them so much less
give them enough to buy a tv
so we can tell them we're the best
we'll run like hell towards destruction
then reward ourselves after the crash
then we'll point our finger at God
and blame him for the mess
who is serving who
get to work so we can waste your tax
rape the poor
rape the poor
they are the new middle class
tell them they live in the land of the free
then choke them to death
after all we have our needs
and we've sold them out already
we off set our losses
by putting our faith in foreign currencies
maybe we should arm the homeless
give them staves and stones
maybe they could put us out of our misery
by tearing the flesh from our bones
don't you want to be like them
alive in debt and burried
come on it's almost time
everybody get ready
Form:
My paper heart
Flies like a bird
And flutters like a butterfly
When I feel my breath taken away.
It is weightless,
Gliding on air
Along miniature music staves,
Hop-hop-hopping to the notes
In quarters, eighths, and halves.
And it beats on,
My paper heart singing its song,
Waiting for love to set it free
And make a paper symphony;
To trace and re-trace
The plans that it made,
A bittersweet step
Down memory lane,
And all of the things
I don't think it could take.
My paper heart lies restless--
Awake.
It falls asleep
In the cottonwood tree
On a paper branch, by a paper leaf,
Its tripping and skipping
Short and sweet.
My paper heart begins to dream.
My paper heart
Knows what it is to love,
To give everything
Beyond and above,
From the stars to the Sun
From the moon to the sky.
My paper heart
Couldn't give up its mind.
It wrapped itself
In a nice little box,
Wrote a note, and took a shot
At happiness and wild joy.
It was never meant
To be someone's toy.
My paper heart was hit with rocks--
They tore up the note
And sent back the box.
So came an end
To this short history.
It gave, and gave
But never received.
My paper heart
Had gotten them wrong,
Breaking, and hating
And aching along.
My paper heart
Changed its tune,
Lonely, sad, and filled with gloom.
It fell apart
And cried a lagoon.
An innocent love
Had met its doom.
The sum of which
Just made life harder.
My paper heart-
It flinched away,
It couldn't take another day-
Realized with a bitter start:
They had written
In permanent marker.
My paper heart,
Wounded and scarred,
Broke down amidst
Every battle scar,
Gave way to a storm
Not likely to end.
My paper heart
Ripped itself to shreds.
Stand In The Shadow Of A Tall Mountain
I went, to stand in the shadow of a tall mountain
not content to sail the deep blue seas.
Delicious sweet that bubbling brook, my fountain
amidst the flowers and massive tall trees.
Morning Sun brought glory within shiny bright rays
splattering across the wilderness cover.
To live, embrace the wonder of such majestic days
fly into the clouds there and just hover.
Solitude bringing into life clear and soft sounds
echoes that quietly invade my searching mind.
Daily Nature walking, doing my eager long rounds
every moment expecting another great find.
Watching the grazing of the skittish, wary deer
mind's glow steadying my new racing heart.
Imagining magnificent beauty wrapping me all year
the paradise held aloft in my soul's chart.
Each Spring this wilderness destination is my goal
trekking into this deep forested retreat.
Wrestling with dark pains eating away at my soul
knowing this place staves off my defeat.
I race, to stand in the shadow of a tall mountain
not content to sail the deep blue seas.
Delicious sweet that bubbling brook, my fountain
amidst the flowers and massive tall trees.
Morning Sun brought glory within shiny bright rays
splattering across the wilderness cover.
To love, embrace the wonder of such majestic days
fly into the clouds there and just hover.
Robert Lindley
May twenty-three ,1988
Straw Men (for Patrick and others)
There are scant few of them now, standing
In the rows of my memorably failed crop.
They came dressed as they were.
I always complimented them.
Counting on them to dispel
The crows, the starlings, black eyes
That have circled since before my days
At a miserable piano, black keys
Black notes, black words, scorched screams
From the nest, mothered with a smoking tongue.
My straw men would shoo those winged
Sooty moments, with their stuffed smiles.
But a lost girl, losing time, mind gone
And more birds lined up on the sagging staves
I trusted my straw men to silence my blank-eyed
Arias of despair, as straw men should, yes?
But fickle winds and wounding skies
Dissembled the men. Sometimes they climbed
Down and walked away, trailing their stuff
As the caws and cackles mocked their shuffled exit.
So many years, and my fields are picked over
One last man barely held his own stiff spine.
His straw swept and scattered by a tantrum storm, a terrible
Fugue of quick black notes, bird song and magpie laughing,
Left me again in my fallow place, face down
Tears feeding the aging soil and spoiled seed.
Goddamn them all! Damn all the straw men.
Let the black wings come and do their best.
I will sing some semblance of a single bright
Melody, my own, soaring as a scratchy drone
Over a black chorus that is now mine to direct.