This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
The sublime below the radar
Ain't somethin' rarified for the few
It is in fact our heart’s blood
On circling pathways through
It is in fact the common thread
And while as sublime as it can be
If you can’t grok it right now
Just wait a tick or three
(2/1/26)
How does love travel...
Like a huge E-M pulse ?
Is it planned or more spontaneous,
Like a simple impulse ?
Can it search throughout the heavens,
For its like-minded mate ?
Or does it yield to time and distance,
By the burden of its weight ?
It carries with it a great vision,
Though it is often unseen.
As a potential building-block,
Joining all those in-between.
So the force behind its power,
Is one that can't be quantified.
Yet it remains to travel freely,
Amongst both common and rarified.
Joyful jumping, oh so jolly,
try it in a tram or trolley
Jiggle, juggle, Jane's tamale,
a laugh, a lark, fine, fun folly.
Happy, hopping, silly stomping,
rarified and risky romping,
bouncing Bonnie's butterscotch,
hilarious, howling hoppyscotch.
Lofty leaping, crazy creeping,
mindful mother's mostly sleeping,
but don't bop with Betty's brisket,
she'll conk you, bonk you, no, don't risk it.
Velvety earthmover, pink spades for paws,
mining for wriggles and nibbles.
You dig, delve and shovel,
breaststroke, through the soil,
a subterranean swimmer,
seeking a trapped sunlight
in the dimly packed dirt.
Myopic mole, surface,
peep out,
to blink at the moonlight,
rest upon your little hillock of labor,
a mound
that testifies to your busy soul.
Push your naked twitchy snout,
up into the wide-open,
whiskers alive to the rarified taste,
of a less muddy slice of life.
Time surfs over one page after another.
I wonder about the interludes,
the growth or decline of lesser or greater.
A few pages
stand out, creating pinnacles of inspiration,
that rise far beyond the print.
Other poems are workmanlike,
the tools are all there,
hands can be seen delving into unknown territory,
yet stopping just short of any new frontier.
The best are alien, strange, discomforting,
distressingly real,
they arrive with laser sharp pickaxes.
Then of course, there are
those rarified nuts and bolts
all poets must reshape into the stubborn word,
the perfect symbols of imperfection.
New Year's DAY 2024
I woke up this morning to find I am now ten plus three score,
With thoughts galore,
About this being a false score,
And wondering what is in store,
Now that 70 is the new me for sure,
With a new decade I need to explore,
And no way back to the one before.
But before I finish here,
There is one more thought I am keen to share,
That I think I am happy to be here,
In such rarified air,
That few get to share,
And while I will be taking my time to explore,
In no hurry to leave, now that I am here,
If I should wake up in 2034,
With a further decade to explore,
I know I will be grateful for sure,
Especially if I find you have joined me there,
To share the view in the more rarified air,
That few get to share.
There are moments in life,
That decide whether we seize the day,
Or just hope the lights are still working when the night comes.
We know know the lights are very dim indeed,
And fear may well keep us all indoors,
Afraid of our own shadows,
When we are still the clear majority,
And it is not too late,
To act while the moon is at its brightest,
And seek the rarified air,
That only comes with
Staying true to the view,
That the price of democracy is eternal vigilance,
And if we want to enjoy the limelight on the big stage,
We need to be know when it is our moment to shine,
And make that moment count.
There are certain deleterious effects
consequential developments and
conditional signs and symptoms
of being called-out, named, accused, or branded
of being, ever so slightly, a poet.
People may assume you live s cloistered, retiring,
purely academic existence, sipping only the rarified air
of your meditative being. Or
they might label you and your ephemeral art
as the drunken babble of an incoherent street poet. And
sometimes this is indeed a fact in all the case scenario's
here-for-to mentioned above, however in actuality,
though you perhaps might wax philosophical
on rare occasions, for instance when you opine
upon the mysterious disappearance of one matching
sock of any given pair of once matching socks,
however, in the main you are just a guy or gal
sitting with a laptop perched precariously on your belly,
trying to sound a whole lot brighter, more whimsical
and interesting than you really are.
Anxiously waiting autumn's end
Will welcome winter with open arms
When all cobwebs are swept away
With air rarified and pure
Each breath inhaled a cold delight.
Ocean turbulence on grey day
Sea foam and seagulls what a sight
Chilly winter rain does not deter me
Cozy in warm foul weather gear
Am happily away from summer heat.
Loitering on pebbled beach
Expectations of snowstorm low
Gulf stream of warm water
Ensures coastline is free of frost
Sadly no snow but counting blessings.
Why is Ireland so green?
Plethora of rainfall God given gift
Mountains and meadows soak up deluge
However, winter will always invigorate
As vaporous breath becomes misty cloud.
Winter Love
Free Verse
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by:
JCB Brul
18/02/2022
Pixabay image: Martina_Bulkova
I suppose I have been thoroughly gentrified
No lover of the old country bluegrass, I
Was country-bred and to poverty born,
And suppose back home in the hills I shall die
'Midst the high mountain's air now rarified,
I shall go back when aged like many others
To stroll the worn, beaten paths I remember
While I can before the urban life smothers,
And I am become another victim terrified
By angry waves of petrifying lawlessness
And sore deprivation in great time of need
In mind I have grown increasingly restless,
Mindful how the world around me might be
Finding myself, desperately longing to be free.
written September 12, 2021
The Horse Nebula
rises from flames, forged
from Milky Way core.
Saturn flanks his right,
Jupiter his left --
Gods girded for war.
Lightning bolts whistle
above the red glare
for all to beware.
Dark stallion ascends,
riderless, regal,
through the rarified air.
Photo taken by the author at the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge, July 29, 2019, showing Saturn, Jupiter, the Milky Way core, and Southern Delta Aquarid meteors.
This practice asks us to get to the root
Of everything ... forsooth!
We meditate
Contemplate
Shifting from gross to subtle
Layer by layer cognition spherical
Until we get to the subtlest
Rarified ... finest
For instance if we take matter
We shift from earth to water, fire, air and ether
Likewise the Gunas that orientation define
We move from Tamas to Rajas to Satva to align
In prayerful stillness nearer to God connectivity
Love hues too joy, empathy, compassion & purity
Five sheaths of the body
Thoughts refined as well as shoddy
The practice asks us to contemplate in a continuum
Shifting to the source eradicating the gross residuum
In all aspects of consciousness divine love our fulcrum
18-August-2020
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
Lozenge
by Michael R. Burch
When I was closest to love, it did not seem
real at all, but a thing of such tenuous sweetness
it might dissolve in my mouth
like a lozenge of sugar.
When I held you in my arms, I did not feel
our lack of completeness,
knowing how easy it was
for us to cling to each other.
And there were nights when the clouds
sped across the moon’s face,
exposing such rarified brightness
we did not witness
so much as embrace
love’s human appearance.
Keywords/Tags: Love, sweet, sweetness, sweet love, kiss, sugar, melt, melting, dissolve, dissolving, candy, lozenge, confection, tablet, pill, cough drop, capsule, confit, bonbon, honey, sweetie, chocolate, symbolism, romantic
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