We cut the mooring lines
and quietly paddled into the bay.
The ocean dared us onward
there was nothing left to say.
The stars, those distant travelers,
silently guided us on our way.
“Looks pretty rough,” old Johnson noted,
and spit defiantly into the sea.
“We’ll never make it,” the young ensign asserted,
......
These are poems about shadows, poems about darkness, poems about shades in the form of ghosts and spirits...
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
......
Moon is a lonesome voyeur
Who peeks down lustfully at the silhouetted nudity of Night.
Peccant, she does it with overt grandeur,
Reluming steadily crackling embers of a smouldering light.
There's light everywhere;
Still, our hearts are full of murk;
We need light indeed.
I sit in darkness,
hiding my pain,
in regions of sorrow,
my thoughts remain.
Torrents of tears,
run down my face.
as I search for comfort,
In a warm embrace.
A thousand thought,
......
These are poems about shadows, poems about darkness, poems about shades in the form of ghosts and spirits...
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
......
I sit in darkness,
hiding my pain,
in regions of sorrow,
my thoughts remain.
Torrents of tears,
run down my face.
as I search for comfort,
In a warm embrace.
A thousand thought,
......
We cut the mooring lines
and quietly paddled into the bay.
The ocean dared us onward
there was nothing left to say.
The stars, those distant travelers,
silently guided us on our way.
“Looks pretty rough,” old Johnson noted,
and spit defiantly into the sea.
“We’ll never make it,” the young ensign asserted,
......
Fallow moonlight, under trees
Darkling sun the animals see
Gloom-grey ruins, the fled day glows:
Nothing's bright where nothing grows.
Fallow moonlight, what comes forth
In the darkness' questioned worth?
Shapes around, not fit for day,
Nightmares bound: just let them be.
Echoes of summons ring on.
With them a sonorous clamour for painted lines.
The rim of night stretches and holds fast to
a colossal nocturne hung on furs-and-clouds walls,
and a concentric image of life rotates on
edges of weak silver.
Long-dead poets campaign openly for verses –
among them Wordsworth and Eliot –
each putting a swagger to his arrogant gait of lines,
......