A descension of value bows night scenes,
the purple canopy edges its hoist,
spirits cool Platte River to lose its sheen,
Nebraskans wake to clarion fields voiced.
A loyal guest calls, it's the Sandhill Cranes,
dancing lessons, fields fattening corn orts,
pecking and choosing established campaigns.
Last state, go afoul, -- a date with the courts.
Locals aid their tally, most from afar,
It is nature's clock, all good things must end,
fly north to breed, and brood, and up to par,
A month's here, till next year, that's how the trend.
Awnings grey, triumphant stirs, the tension,
inspiring, crescendo ... the ascension.
Categories:
orts, allusion, analogy, animal, appreciation,
Form: Crown of Sonnets
Blessed art thou that believes, kneel before Thee
Morn and night our eynes unfolded on Thee
Lest we stagger or plop by the wile trap
To Thee we knock, drop the badger unwrapped
Creeds from thou embark, twitches of deeds shift
Habitus from wails and torment we drift
Hands of stone we glorify images
Images of beasts festoon above thy sages
Afore icons loss of might comes thy judgement
Erelong nay beliefs or mooncalfs will lament
Betwixt good and evil crumpets disport
Eke esurient gudgeons hence thirst and port
Orison, not purfles orts for prithee
Maugre poshes, naught comes higher than Thee
Categories:
orts, god,
Form: Sonnet
Inside an old library of things uncountable
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
‘things’
nothing can be
excluded
yes the air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered,
incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another.
Orts of loss, tittle, and trifles. A library
in pieces.
A fine looking woman approaches
she has an armful of books.
Maybe she works here
or maybe she works only
in this moment.
Behind her
things begin to fall off shelves.
“Don’t worry.”
She is Scottish and actually says
“dinna fash yersel.”
An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of every-thing
pecks and probes.
She places more books
on the reading table.
The thought of a ‘reading table’
amuses.
Outside the library the world is simplifying.
A fresh sky begins to write
in a language only spoken of
in empty rooms.
It’s a braw uncluttered daylight
that greets awakening eyes.
Categories:
orts, poetry,
Form: Free verse
SURVEILLIOCENTRICHOSPIDROME
Sanctuary of my deepest thoughts
(Fill me with you r everence sustain)
My Inner Sanctum for peace of mind
(Where the heart meets with my soul and brain)
Ninth circle of dwell ing in placement
(Make sense of existence in its wake)
Chemical reaction of sense s
(Sacred Space that travels through the ways)
Familiar path familiar
(Tracker beacon tethered to remain s)
Mirror ed signal fires reciprocate
(Blueprint Honed Core that DNA names)
Nine Virtionic fires of justice
(Nine Hallowed entrances of domain)
Home is where the heart designates, is
(Home, where the heart is design contained)
Nourishment tabernacle of s orts
Orting miracles of the spark
Sparking connections, im port
S porter in an embark
Embarking on Life
Living the dream
Dreams onsite
Onsite
Glean
Categories:
orts, blessing, creation, emotions, encouraging,
Form: Rhyme
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Moore
1.
Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss—
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here ...
2.
You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back—
one long, descending glide ...
3.
Disgruntledly you grope dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts ...
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts—
this way and that ...
Contentious, shrewd, you scan—
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.
Originally published by Able Muse
Categories:
orts, literature,
Form: Free verse
Memories hunker behind
a door marked “Blessed Oblivion”.
The key is under the mat.
To choose one, open and peek
inside would be
a foolish flagellation.
Secrets simmer in cannibal pots,
lids held down by tenuous fingers.
Some truths deserve to be buried.
Some memories must be held
as closed as a spinster’s knees.
Doors opened less than judiciously
trigger popping puppets that scream.
A mind is only as strong
as its most heinous memory.
Some minds are olios, badly stirred,
their orts floating in a brine of insanity
that needs a pinch of salt.
Reality paints itself as a circus clown,
and changes the rules of life
without warning...
Categories:
orts, emotions, endurance, evil,
Form: Blank verse
How many Mary Celestes sail
On the uncharted oceans of your mind?
How many lost souls vainly flail
To clamber on board, how many left behind?
So many unvisited ports
Beckon, tantalize and tease.
Does one survive on life’s orts
And accept “Destiny” with peace?
Which Ghost Ship's your succor, you ask?
Who’ll take you on board?
Are you the one who’ll set the task,
Or the one to command where its shored?
How much jettison to your account
Is toted in your Book?
How much flotsam can you count
Which you wish you never took?
Categories:
orts, allegory, conflict, introspection,
Form: Rhyme
When the unforeseen mistrel swipes the land,
tiny warriors trudge against the force.
“Back down! Retreat!”, the general commands.
The musketeers recoil back on course.
Then the torrent readily disembarks,
the entire army rolls up horse and foot.
A few lucky ones hop on Noah’s ark,
their chiseled armors soaked with sludge and soot.
When many lightning bolts descend to strike,
the runnel puts on a golden brown cloak,
keep spinning to show and tell, like a tyke.
Unheeded, the beast goes berserk and croaks.
Then emerges an ugly tsunami,
too marred, the canoe gives in to this strife.
Unyielding, the orts repair unity,
primed to take it down head-on with their lives.
When the wreckage is wrecked with such a flair,
then their raw thumbs stands upright in the air.
Categories:
orts, boat, soldier, war, weather,
Form: Iambic Pentameter