Long Surfeit Poems
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Few will believe my genuine praise
Of the rare graces you so subtly possess,
Men of a lighter spirit may trace
My adulation to some forbidden drug.
Yet if men your gracious beauty opt to doubt,
May these immortal lines your record keep;
And may that rare seeker of truth unbelieving lies
Find these enduring lines in some forgotten heap.
Ashamed, they will read ‘Ode to Kate’
And curse the error of baseless doubt.
Your fame shall outlast the rigors of fate
As you get peppered into the larger earth.
The yellowing ode to your fair features
And wasting flesh under Nature’s weight
Shall not your unmatched loveliness erase
But make sweet the tale of gorgeous surfeit.
Let eyes meet eyes, be it mirror or pond,
On own image mirage-like crazy go,
For, today’s youth has grown to be nigh fond
Of self, lessons of Narcissus or no.
Let the English lexicon celebrate
Words which the Greek epics gave -- a long list:
Mentor is one, Medea--- Odysseus’ mate,
Panic from their god Pan, and Narcissist.
The last, a tale of extreme self-regard.
Today’s wars wage, for, we think but of us,
And scarce the green garden of others guard,
Why? Narcissus loves only Narcissus,
The world is surfeit with the tales of narc,
The rest as empaths whilst passively hark.
_____________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 11.08.2026 | adventure, epic, love, odyssey/journey, self, Sonnet
Note: ‘The Narcissus’ in two parts I am trying to expand into a full Crown of Sonnets in seven parts, if I can.
There’s nothing like the lovely rustic charm
Exuded by the far flung lush green country farm
Where trees in majesty sweep heaven with their crown
And birds with celestial music, the surrounding valley drown
Where the air, so pristine and sweet like the forest glade
And Heaven with rich profusion bless the country wide.
Where the rural folk in relentless toil, values, and pride
With their simple, artless, and modest life reside
My senses have ere long etched every sight n’ sound
Of that countryside wherein my childhood inextricably bound
Take me to that place of bliss to which I long to retreat
And splurge in memories that cascade down in surfeit.
Dec. 10.2022
Entered For Brian's Contest- Your Pick Again
Take Me There- Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Margarita Lillico
A god's dream is existence
In the hearts of these amnesic men
Most are insomniacs.
Lackadaisical,
whose survival
would always be undermined.
Then we colonize
Make them walk on their feet.
Blinded by their ego,
we neo-colonize
And I think, they still need to be recolonized
Gust of wind in them when luxury comes
Like an electrical surge,
they bring looted fortunes to us
Oh, a sudden rush
All, all, all of it
What surfeit! Clouded race
If you are white ,
you must be a supreme being
I am white
" formalised
" civilised
" plagiarized
" pride
" overestimated
" ..proud
What has Elysium got?
Good tidings?
Air food ?
Free jets ?
Sky cars?
Invisible structures?
We are making them
Trust me
We are making them !
Just as we made a car / a fish
Just as we made networking /a storm
Just as we made power / heat
Just as we made robots / men
against light source well crafted
tubular structure appended with
eyepiece gazing offers viewer eye-
opening, mind boggling instantaneously
birthing then vanishing resplendent
myriad colorful geometric awesome
shifting shapes hypnotizing sight
seer whirling gigolo where multi
faceted fractals display pin-wheeling
arithmetically perfect triangulate squarely with
proportionate arcs astounding with blind faith
on microscopic scale analogous to cosmic big bang
spell-binding mankind from time immemorial when
her/his gaze turned heavenward peering into
azure vault – one macrocosmic hint per origin
from when on-looking proto-humans ruminated
inscrutably enamored at the spectacular eminence grise
forever holding mystery of universe evolution
in shroud of secret continually mystifying
one generation after another until twenty first
century astro-physicists begin to unravel evolutionary
tale writ small on planet earth yet storied tome
pried open from scientific revolutions enabling
birth of cosmos honed with more fine tuned precision
to zero in on precise second whence explosion filled void
with nebulous material coalescing into rudimentary
galactic masses generating vast surfeit of globular
structures evincing
conically swirling
millennially futuristic clear cut entities
upon which one – namely gaia
finds this sole member *****sapiens reveling
in his makeshift primitive contrivance
teasing ocular sense with visual orgasms
begetting thought provoking questions
into eternal wonderment that perchance
intelligent deity willfully rotates planet
some plaything synonymous mere mortal
peering into magic of kaleidoscope.
A Surfeit of Light
by Michael R. Burch
There was always a surfeit of light in your presence.
You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world—
a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood.
We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race,
raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s.
Yours was an antique grace—Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s.
We were never quite sure of your silver allure,
of your trillium-and-platinum diadem,
of your utter lack of flatware-like utility.
You told us that night—your wound would not scar.
The black moment passed, then you were no more.
The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star!
The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold.
You were this fool’s gold.
Keywords/Tags: surfeit of light, death, death of a friend, funeral, eulogy, heartbreak, light, star, presence, world
Mayflies
by Michael R. Burch
These standing stones have stood the test of time
but who are you
and what are you
and why?
As brief as mist, as transient, as pale...
Inconsequential mayfly!
Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope?
Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see?
Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants
to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea?
Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars
regret the glowworm’s stellar mimicry
the day it dies? Does not the world grind on
as if it’s no great matter, not to be?
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose.
And yet somehow you’re everything to me.
Advice to Young Poets
by Nicanor Parra Sandoval
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Youngsters,
write however you will
in your preferred style.
Too much blood flowed under the bridge
for me to believe
there’s just one acceptable path.
In poetry everything’s permitted.
Originally published by Setu
True feelings concealed craftily
beneath the sheath of surfeit psyche,
fragile fantasy of self sanguinity fostered
by the colors of chameleon skin,
evoke emotions surreptitious,
pretentiously paraded skillfully
away from the edge of reason,
epitomize cleverly the camouflaged ego.
The chase of mirage
in the deceptive self-esteem desert,
etches the frail footprints
of delusive dominance
with scathing sandstorm trajectory,
but the squall of strife
over the dune of dwindled life
subsides in the inner space
of latent devotion configured
in the conceded cauldron
of self-less surrender,
where the shower of sagacity,
spurting from the fountain of love
with heavenly flamboyance
fabricates the fluid framework
of cordially congruent epitome of existence.
When in anguished awareness
the flimsy frame of self-image breaks,
it sinks within to reach the soul
at the depth of prudent perception,
attains the sublime state of consciousness,
feels the divine connection with God.
The devout mantra of the sanctified soul,
intoned in the temple of the heart,
resonates with the symphony of sacred spirit,
transcends the self-seeking perimeter.
The cosmic creator of echoing silence of eternity
makes my awakened soul proclaim
the divine decree, I am the reflection of the absolute.
Dark Novembers
It’s the silence that is killing
this cold November chilling
Natures beauty with frost, stillness, color but no sound.
A wiser woman knows the inner temperature of the soul paints the
landscape to match their own
a fool discovers the surfeit of despair
This Thanksgiving day bleak, weak, sick, sad, still, quiet, reflective
I had not to give the love you sought so you walked out,
And the past knew you were to come…
And like a reverberation of the all the relationships I’ve known
The past and to come will follow the ripples of that first stone,
I cannot love you in November I loved you all the months through
September, many decades upon each, watching entropy teach me the ways
to age…
I make no sound but inside screaming
Nature may be jesting in her seeming to mock whole
the lamentation of all the secret silent sorrows of each soul.
This was the year for an abundance of plums,
the fruitlets spared by the absence of frost.
The tree was leaning, the branches drooping
with a curtain of fruit downward plunging.
Such was the challenge of so many plums –
how much could we cope with? What would be lost?
Each gust of wind the ripe fruit scattering,
the dark red plums ready for gathering.
What to do with the abundance of plums? –
some stewed then stoned to use for plum crumble,
some straight to the mouth, juice from my lips dripping;
bags in the freezer with one of them leaking.
To raise a glass for this surfeit of plums,
into a bucket the ripest would tumble -
nine kilos of plums in hot water steeping,
then syrup added with yeast for fermenting.
Juice remaining for a cordial of plums,
which went well with tonic and of course gin.
We ran out of jars for jam we were making,
so sieved the rest, then further reducing
concentrated the taste of so many plums -
confection perfection (perhaps also a sin).
Indulgence redeemed through gifting and sharing
and a crate at the gate for neighbours passing.
I ask what is this tree that gave us these plums? -
it has dark red leaves like Burgundy wine.
That the tree might expire I was fearing;
so I pruned back branches, the plum curtain drawing.
Lastly for pigs a barrow load of plums
should flavour some pork to dine with plum wine,
plum crumble follows plus double cream topping,
the surfeit continues. (Inside I’m cramping!)
Against light source well crafted
tubular structure appended with eyepiece gazing
offers viewer eye-opening, mind boggling
instantaneously birthing then vanishing
resplendent myriad colorful
geometric awesome shifting shapes
hypnotizing sight seer into a whirling gigolo
where multifaceted fractals display pin-wheeling
arithmetically perfect triangulate squarely
with proportionate arcs astounding
blind faith on microscopic scale
analogous to cosmic big bang spellbinding
mankind from time immemorial
when her/his gaze turned heavenward
peering into azure vault –
one macrocosmic hint
per origin from when on-looking
proto-humans ruminated inscrutably
enamored at the spectacular eminence grise
forever holding mystery of universe
evolution in shroud of secret
continually mystifying one generation
after another until...
twenty first century astrophysicists
begin to unravel evolutionary tale
writ small on planet earth yet storied tome
pried open from scientific revolutions
enabling birth of cosmos honed with more
fine tuned precision to zero in
precise second, whence explosion filled void
nebulous material coalescing
into rudimentary galactic masses generating
vast surfeit of globular structures evincing
conically swirling
millennial futuristic clear cut entities
upon which one – namely gaia
finds this sole member *****sapiens
reveling in his makeshift primitive contrivance
teasing ocular sense with visual orgasms
begetting thought provoking questions
into this eternal wonderment
that perchance some intelligent deity
willfully rotates planet like some plaything
synonymous with mere mortal
peering into magic of kaleidoscope
whereby generic one primate in love with words!
As subtle obvious
from above and bellow doth burst
this non quitting chap doth tick cursed
with avidity, cupidity, electricity durst
flickr ring, google ling, and high five ving first
to flout conformity, and will when
coffin doth bear me away,
lest cremation mine ashes get disbursed
aspiring to wax poetic fur better
or hud duh livery wurst.