Long Uneasily Poems
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The people surrounding me keep asking “why are you going back and forth uneasily on the empty stage shedding crocodile tears, and telling the stories of negative effects on others, though you are not of a man of faculty who is even able to produce a theory comparable to 'Blind Will of Universe', one of worst hypothesizes a man can think of.
It’s because though,
when a worldly-minded snob shouts from a podium
“you should have a positive attitude,” while displaying
his resume proudly with the title that is little-to-do with his personality,
his limited academic background that barely conceals the lack of intelligence, and insignificant accomplishment with somewhat concocted experience hiding his real being and thought, he receives respect from the audience who fascinated by every movement the snob makes in the form of applaud with standing ovation, I was always treated badly from audience, fed only by unwelcome astringent fruits of rejection and drink bitter tasting water sprang from unwanted rotten roots to quench my desire…
And that’s why the course of my reasoning became negative,
and, as a natural consequence, no matter how often you may say
to the audience “you ought to be a person of positive attitude,”
since there are more negative aspects surrounding us than
the positive elements, and that’s why I was accepted by
others negatively. More importantly, I was treated negatively
from others simply because reality goes before me.
Although positive thinkers boast themselves as if their thoughts are
sound and healthy, by saying that the water in a cup is half full;
negative thinkers sigh with a defected air and say that a cup is
half empty. However, it doesn’t make any difference how you think,
men’s thoughts cannot surpass the physical phenomena
and, therefore, a half is a half, no more nor less than a half.
In the boundary and limit is as such, whether you like it or not,
men have to go on the path of their own destiny.
Then, why does everyone has to have a positive attitude? I suppose,
that is, not more than a writhe of the men who won’t admit reality
in desperate agony. That’s the self-gratification of men
who are not able to face the facts as they are.
[The irony is, nonetheless, man is able to bear and raise a baby
by an act of self-gratification. It’s amazing, the world is a place
full of wonders.]
Nutty grandpa president
is talking crazy uncle Donald again
His little Chucky thumbs
is tapping epithet tweet nonsense
Batty grandpa’s been
grumpily sucking
on the hate hot sauce bottle
stashed in his KKK closet
Now he’s sporting a Commander-in-Chief cap,
dressed in a wrinkled birthday suit
Churlish grandpa wanna blow the nuclear candles out
in his Oval padded room
He’s trying to smear his coconut-frosted
pejorative German chocolate cake
on every African looking face
Calling Doctor Strangelove and nurse Annie Wilkes Misery,
bad Grandpa is verbally pooping all over the place
His anti-social, mood swing meds
is scattered everywhere on the bed
Nutty grandpa prez
is a stable genius he says
But his schizophrenia behavior
is open and shut caged rage ... Jekyll and Hyde
Hannibal Lecter ... American Gothic suicide
Old Grandpa says
young women love him like Frankenstein’s bride
His paranoid soul
got a misogynist itch
in it’s nether parts
Curmudgeon grandpa claims he’s really rich,
and has an Ebenezer Scrooge heart
Nutty grandpa prez don’t like no immigrants
who came from where he ain’t
Straight jacket truth wraps him wrong,
he loves to swear that he’s no saint
Crazy grandpa just wanna roam the West Wing halls at night,
cursing at everybody left and right
His angry autocrat ticker just wanna be dictator loved
with family suck-up sniveling loyalty
Cuckoo grandpa flew his nest egg eyes over someone in the staff,
whose nurse Ratched mirror image greedy
Nutty grandpa president just got another person fired
for improper cleansing backside kissing
And the raucous din,
rising from the voter base-ment,
means it’s electoral shock therapy time again
So lock the border doors —
keep it dissent quiet, dum-dum
Czar grandpa prez don’t like all that democratic noise
Silence of the lambs,
that soothing lullaby hum
Is the sweet sound
that calms his Joker tweeting thumbs
Rest your rage, nutty grandpa prez:
Uneasily snore deeply,
wearing your Mad Hatter MAGA brim
(keep having more troubled, neo-Nazi policy dreams
of Making America Great Again)
As the White House hospice staff is issuing
M.A.S.H unpatriotic greetings
to Parallel reality refugees
seeking insane asylum ...
Welcome, to the Oval Sanatorium
I could change my mind
about adopting you
no more than change my heart's content
about what is healthy
and what is diseased absence of integrity
and what lies somewhat uneasily in-between
within my contenting patient bicameral mind.
ProActive adoption
healthing my ego's affluent hope-filled exploration
and our ecohabitat's effluent nutritional transliterations,
discerning communions
composed of conflicted, fragmented people,
adopting/adapting our weeds and edible and ornamental resources,
our Earth motherland planetary spaces
revolving DNA fractal interdependent deep learning memories--
noticing-understanding
planning-planting
implementing-governing-harvesting
evaluating-digesting
noticing positive and negative changes,
healthy and pathological,
winning and losing interdependent health and fragmenting pathologies
Adopting adaptive changes of holonic universal WinWin
becoming light and dualdark
co-passioning bright left
with bilateral co-arising intuitive felt right
for here and now
Adoption works best
when cooperatively intended
for mutual WinWin benefit,
for both internal ego needs
and external-ecotherapeutic feeling climates, internalized humanely
healthy wealth of long-term dynamic interdependent resilience.
Adoption, whether co-gravitating with a child,
or a habitat,
or a healthy-wealth intentional good-faith
active hope
interdependently webbing community,
is informed by our transubstantiated history
of co-acclimating reunion experiences,
mental and physical,
spiritual and natural
EarthTribe egos
adopting Earth-transformative healthing souls/soils,
DNA adaptive across regenerational wealth,
non-sectarian holonic habitats,
non-dualistic,
non-violently interdependent,
so not just business as usual LeftBrain fragmentary,
fragmenting.
I could change my left deductive/reductive affluent mind
about co-acclimating with you
no more than change my heart's Earth-righteously effluent content
about what is healthy
and what is diseased
for all humanity's meaning-full healthy climates,
purposeful interdependent and fragmenting moods,
thoughts,
needs,
feelings
flowing somewhat uneasily
within our ego-contenting in-between eco-passionate
EarthJustice informed/exflowing mind.
There is a hidden story here,
wordings in the lines of a book that openly appear
well-worn images cleared
along paths and byways out of stagnation,
birth life experiences out of the shadows of creation
marked by words and phrases, filled within blank spaces
holding time in all its places,
imaginings real and vague,
too easily erased by respite, consternation, aged oasis.
The word streams up and down the page gathered together
in paragraphs and sentences, uneasily phrased
chapters to be told but never quite heard,
lives lived sad and happy within the written word,
addressing all the hows and whys
the wherefores brave and bold
life once delicate, innocent, foolish with intent, pure and pristine
held silent by images of unimaginable aging in the unforeseen.
A mistake taken and made quickened faulty steps
out of shadows, dark consuming, mesmerizing desires inept,
companions, friends, partners , dreamers, schemers, and lovers
searching for the futures waiting to be discovered,
paying tokens, worship of ancestral icons,
love's fool hearty titans, sublime and divine
to the body electric, solemn, serious, serene,
pleasurable by design.
Solemn prayers vocalized by the heart
beating in unison panicked when distant or apart
relaying the story of where love ends and where it starts,
blended, bonded, separated by passion, the moment on display played
unawares and barely assured of how long the magic alures.
or could have stayed lingering thought in the want and need
of where it once was made, all finely focused on life's grand parade.
The story is often sad but true
lovers, unfortunate in youth, emotional fools without a clue
knowing that all hope and dreams are learned better out of school
that truth, deception, and lie form both pleasure and sin
walling up the mind and soul from down deep within,
the story rolls out in a plot of twists and turns
and all, in the end, get burned.
Here the story, silently it may lay
placed hidden on a dusty shelf well-worn and frayed
unopened, unheard, and yet retold
so like the stories generations old,
over and over again by companions, family, relatives,
the lovers and the friends.
There were silence and stillness in the autumn air
Foliage adorned the trees like fair auburn hair
The stream did not bubble; the pond had no ripples
The garden seemed uninhabited by people
But the garden was not void of good company
On a bench was seated the little girl and me
‘You look quite troubled. What could be wrong?’ I asked her
‘Is there any way I could make you feel better?’
The little girl looked at me and said, ‘I feel lost…’
‘There is a debt that comes at much too high a cost
I cannot meet the price; it is just too hefty
This unmet debt unsettles me; I feel guilty…’
‘Debt? Hefty? Guilty?’ her vague statements puzzled me
‘What you are saying to me is a mystery!
What hefty debt could come at much too high a cost?
Is it greater than the price Christ paid on the cross?’
‘I understand what you’re saying in my mind’s eye
But my heart condemns me; that I cannot deny
For Christ, my Lord, tells me to love my enemy
But I can’t show concern to the one who hurt me’
I could not find the proper words to comfort her
Guilt burned within me like hot, ignited sulfur
Since the one who hurt me is not my enemy
Why does it repulse me to show her some pity?
After some silence and reflection, I asked her:
‘My dear, have you brought this struggle to God in prayer?’
‘Prayer?’ the little girl fidgeted uneasily
‘Well, no… I can’t…’ she sighed and bowed her head sadly
‘Well, why not?’ I pressed her for a clearer answer
‘I’m afraid… Afraid to pray about this matter
I’ve locked it up in that dark, familiar closet
It is something I want to, but cannot, forget’
‘Why would unlocking the closet bring you such fear?’
‘I don’t want to go to that room… I’m happy here
I was once held captive in that dark, dreadful room
Confined in a closet where despondency loomed
What if my return holds me captive forever?
What if the closet recaptures its prisoner?
No, I will never set foot in that room again!
Dear Lord, please spare me the trauma; save me the pain!’
Lost for words, I reached out and took hold of her hands
‘Our fears and struggles, our Lord Jesus understands
Though words of prayer may fail us, He knows our frailty
Entrust our guilt to Him; our load He will carry’
I saw her lovely face in the window daily While I was going to the college swiftly After seeing the beautiful moon lively
My hero cycle had become k a bike really.
Reached the college campus very quickly. But I was not able to forget the angel suddenly. I tried to read the English textbook simply The flower blossomed in the page only.
I waited for the college over impatiently. I took the cycle and rode it immediately. The bird perched in the same place patiently. It saw me and waved it's wings speedily
Had seen the star only one time a day seriously There was no chance to see the comet again easily The girl was in the dreams and everything lovely. I never forgot that particular day uneasily.
It was November fourteen,children's day humbly When I came near her house slowly My dream doll stood there silently
She was only a little lamb closely
And not a matured mare definitely The sweet box gave me a chocolate box wholly. My life long dreams were shattered highly. Like the last scene of Mckenna's gold film fully.
A Trip to the Opera
By Elton Camp
According to what I very often hear related,
Opera you should attend to be sophisticated
Just the same, it’s nothing I’ve known about
But I finally decided I would give it a tryout
How much different from a movie could it be
So I picked out one at random that I’d go to see
The very first thing that caused me some dismay
Was how much for the ticket I was forced to pay
I decided to go early so it’d be easy to find my seat
And what a bunch of snobs there were to meet
I figured tank top and shorts would be a disgrace
But you should see how they dressed at that place
Man with tux and woman dressed in a long grown
In my suit, uneasily it was that I looked around
Except for being old folks, I’d think they come from
Dancing at the very most fancy high school prom
I went in and found my seat to keep out of the way
As others came in, I listened to what they had to say
They spoke of libretto, aria, cadenza, and verismo
I hadn’t any idea what those words meant, though
But finally the curtain went up and the opera underway
Then I found I couldn’t understand a word they say
It seemed like some foreign language they were using
Ones who speak English they should’ve been choosing
Other folks there seemed to thing that it was just fine
But I wondered why they had to sing every single line
Not that I had anything against hearing a good song
But hours and hours of it was, for me, much too long
The story they were telling seemed awful complicated
That I had spent my money to come I certainly hated
And I wished that I’d eaten supper before I went there
But none of the others about any food seemed to care
I began to wonder when there would be an intermission
I need to go to the restroom, but did I need permission?
Finally I decided that about going I no longer could stall
Then found the restroom line extended plum to the wall
When the opera was finally over I’ll admit that I was glad
Because I never had expected it to be anything like that bad
I guess it’s because I’m a country hick brought up in the hills
But I sure found that going to the opera didn’t give me thrills
11:45pm
i was at Andrew's,
she says
oh, i see, i say
you remember Andrew?
she says
i don't, sorry,
what about Andrew?
i say
i told you
i had a crush on this guy
7 years back in the PhD
remember?
she says
i don't mind, i say
listen,
after long hangouts together
and many frozen dreams
i realized he was a gay,
she says
oh, i see, i say,
and he was married
married as two husbands
and the other husband
who also adopted a child
cheated on him
and they divorced...
she continues
oh, i see, now, i re-member,
i say
what **** is "oh, i see, i re-member..."?
5 hours i was with Andrew tonight,
with my gay friend, and once in a week,
why are you mad?
she says
listen, i used to mind,
but not now, girl friend or gay friend,
i say, self-assuredly but uneasily
...when you act superior
unsuccessfully, though,
you sound lunatic,
she says
and worse,
when two lunatics join
not knowing where to go
and stumble in darkness
of their ignorance of each other
they are nothing but walking sacks of ****,
i say
oh, i see, she says,
mockingly
you are the dog of night
who barks at something
he cannot see,
she adds
oh, my...! I scream, am I alone,
where is my
"My Brother's Keeper" gone?
now, my muse, Atete, jumps in
she walks me out
and whispers:
"Ase, listen! you can't run
from anything like this anymore
face it! make it or break it!"
"oh, Atete, now i see," i say
to my muse--
my muse aims to sing
songs of Love and Hope for me
but there isn't time...
and i come back
to balance:
the struggle within
and
the struggle without--
and to think of this
uneventfulness of Being...
now, before we go,
let us close this goddamned story thus:
when your muse whispers
when you don't listen
when there is not much to remember
when there is not much to forget
you are at dead-end, at an impasse--
maybe you made them a Priority
maybe you are to them only an Option
you can't tell turkey by feathers
let your Life and your Death be
not like theirs...
if Love betrays
Luck doesn't...
listen, beautiful loser!
These are my early poems, or juvenilia...
alien
by michael r. burch
there are mornings in england
when, riddled with light,
the Blueberries gleam at us—
plump, sweet and fragrant.
but i am so small ...
what do i know
of the ways of the Daffodils?
“beware of the Nettles!”
we go laughing and singing,
but somehow, i, ...
i know i am lost. i do not belong
to this Earth or its Songs.
Easter, in Jerusalem
by Michael R. Burch
The streets are hushed from fervent song,
for strange lights fill the sky tonight.
A slow mist creeps
up and down the streets
and a star has vanished that once burned bright.
Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem,
who tends your flocks tonight?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
a Shepherd calls
through the markets and the cattle stalls,
but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight.
Golgotha shudders uneasily,
then wearily settles to sleep again,
and I wonder how they dream
who beat him till he screamed,
"Father, forgive them!"
Ah Nazareth, Nazareth,
now sunken deep into dark sleep,
do you heed His plea
as demons flee,
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep . . ."
The temple trembles violently,
a veil lies ripped in two,
and a good man lies
on a mountainside
whose heart was shattered too.
Galilee, oh Galilee,
do your waters pulse and froth?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
the waters creep
to form a starlit cross.
I wrote this poem around age 15-16.
and yet i am singing ...
the sun—so mild;
my cheeks are like roses;
my skin—so fair.
i spent a long time there
before i realized: They have no faces,
no bodies, no voices.
i was always alone.
and yet i keep singing:
the words will come
if only i hear.
I believe I wrote "alien" around age 19 as a college freshman or sophomore.
Keywords/Tags: early, juvenilia, juvenile, college, school, child, childhood, class, youth, write, writing, voice,
EATING OUT
Seated uneasily at the edge tables, café males alone, silent -
Focused on eating, heads moving, looking around to defend,
Guarding their plates against enemies and, finished, quickly leaving.
Am I feeling different from these? Or not really believing?
This man, round-shouldered predator over a fresh kill,
Shoveling in untidy dangling heaps on a fork, devours his fill,
Bare arms laid either side of plate, his shaggy hair a lion-mane.
Salty meaty-stuff in great hunks : it’s feeding time at the zoo again.
Elbows-off-table, not for manners, but for speed,
That man’s cutting with edge of fork and filling his need,
Stabbing the meat like it was alive and needed subduing,
Levering huge pieces into his mouth and rapidly chewing.
In rapid action their jaw muscles ripple :
It’s a job of work to be completed as quickly as possible.
The chewing muscles in sync with moving ears :
Must finish it all off - before any enemy appears.
Café-females are nested in the central tables - to chat, to think.
In table-groups of two or three, discussing the food and drink ,
Sweet cakes’ crumbs carefully swept with back of finger,
They eat only incidentally, no purpose for them, they linger -
It is a process, not a product, an experience, an exchange of souls.
Select one from a plate of small sweet rolls,
With small bites chewed slowly, elegantly, with thought,
Sitting up straight the way mother taught.
Hands occasionally touching for spoken emphasis in speech,
Unhurried, they pause over coffee and talk intently each to each.
Heads move neither up nor down nor away to the side.
Over each other’s faces, appraising, their eyes roam wide.
I assess these people closely, and rub my chin-stubble in thought:
With the eyes of a poet I mentally note their features as I ought.
Drink up my coffee quick, and move to the counter for more meat pies
Before any enemy arrives.