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frustrated and afraid i grow
our society in decline
discipline, personal responsibility
only few adhere to

how far must the pendulum swing
is this when, enough is enough!

learn we must from past misfortunes
our elders abused and taken for,
those locked rooms, monsters behind unchecked
horrors lived, compassion grow-ed, forced upon;
Justly! the Corporal dishonourably discharged

now, today- legacy apparent
our youth growing without
the Corporals watchful eye-
time outs, detention
stars to earn...
all to worry bout! ! !

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poem by Hal Burke
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Ceyx and Alcione I

Ceyx (pronounced SAY-ex) was a bright darkness upon the earth, being the son of a star. His father, who nobody had ever seen by day, had been king of a distant realm. But he was visible in the night sky from which he shone brilliantly, clear to anyone who looked. True, he had been thrown out of his kingdom for discretionary reasons by the God-King because he was ambitious and loved things rather than ideas. To what extant this defect came to inhabit his son Ceyx is vague-maybe it did and maybe it didn't. You would not like to meet him in a dark alley, though, by the looks of him, for a paradoxical darkness enveloped him, born from so bright a source, that you might think would make the going tough.
His thick eyebrows arched darkly over fine, onyx-black eyes that burned like the star they were born from, fringed with leaf-like lashes that all but bore dates. His mouth was full and his teeth looked better than they were. His head was well-sculpted and his chin was, like glass, richly cleft. A length of neck bore his head up smartly. The head itself was covered with shiney, straight black hair, that fell over his sloping forehead in bangs, unless he had recently cut it. Only his nose was a little large.
He was married to a king's daughter named Alcione, (pronounced Hal-SEE-oh-nee) , whose father was named Aeolus (pronounced HAY-oh-luss) . He happened to be king of the winds, no easy job. His was to command the whistling winds from his citadel off the coast of Sicily-why there, God only knows, but the space was available, so he took it.
Alcione, his daughter, ....

poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Irony of Love

Irony is a literary or rhetorical device.
The essayist Henry Watson Fowler wrote:
“any definition of irony
—though hundreds might be given,
and very few of them would be accepted—
must include this,
that the surface meaning
and the underlying meaning of
what is said are not the same.'
He left out that any definition of
Irony must include that it is cruel.

I never understood
The meaning of irony
Or how cruel it can be,
Until you told me,
That though you may love me,
You find it difficult to
Hear the words
“I love you” from me.

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poem by Hal Caufield
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Hallelujah: A Sestina

A wind's word, the Hebrew Hallelujah.
I wonder they never gave it to a boy
(Hal for short) boy with wind-wild hair.
It means Praise God, as well it should since praise
Is what God's for. Why didn't they call my father
Hallelujah instead of Ebenezer?

Eben, of course, but christened Ebenezer,
Product of Nova Scotia (hallelujah).
Daniel, a country doctor, was his father
And my father his tenth and final boy.
A baby and last, he had a baby's praise:
Red petticoats, red cheeks, and crow-black hair.

A boy has little to say about his hair
And little about a name like Ebenezer
Except that you can shorten either. Praise
God for that, for that shout Hallelujah.
Shout Hallelujah for everything a boy
Can be that is not his father or grandfather.

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poem by Robert Francis
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found Love Letter...bugger

My Dearest,

I think this is meant to be! ....... a test! this will make what we have so much stronger. To yearn so much is testament to this.

Thru out history lovers have steeled themselves to this very task.

I ask you my lovely to trust me. I am yours! only yours! .........

I am sorry my love, lol... but i am not going anywhere!

I long to look upon you, into your eyes, into the well of your soul-This is where home truly is...I feel safe here, as I did the first time: -)

Just think my love you will be the one looking into the sky! ... waiting... I too will be looking and waiting.

I remember the first time we walked up our hill, my god I was nervous, were you? I miss our walks so much, when I walk anywhere now I look at my shadow.. imagining/expecting you to be there. When we next come together I think we will walk some more! !

I have looked upon your pictures many times and many more no doubt, but I find these are hollow compared to what I yearn for; your flesh, your smell, your compassion, your wisdom....

My baby, I am sad because you are feeling what I am feeling, it is growing and wont go away-what is it my love?

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poem by Hal Burke
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Toland’s Invitation To Dismal To Dine With The Calve’s Head Club

If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine
Upon a single dish, and tavern wine,
Toland to you this invitation sends,
To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends.
Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes,
Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes.
To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare,
Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share:
When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell,
How by brave hands the royal traitor fell;
The meat shall represent the tyrant's head,
The wine, his blood our predecessors shed;
Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings,
We toast, Confusion to the race of kings!
At monarchy we nobly show our spight,
And talk, what fools call treason, all the night.
Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk,
Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk?
Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face,
And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place:

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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On The Death Of Dr. Lancton President Of Maudlin College

When men for injuryes unsatisfy'd,
For hopes cutt off, for debts not fully payd,
For legacies in vain expected, mourne
Over theyr owne respects within the urne,
Races of tears all striveing first to fall
As frequent are as eye and funerall;
Then high swolne sighes drawne in and sent out strong
Seeme to call back the soule or goe along.
Goodness is seldome such a theam of woe
Unless to her owne tribe some one or two;
But here's a man, (alas a shell of man!)
Whose innocence, more white than silver swan,
Now finds a streame of teares; such perfect greif
That in the traine of mourners hee is cheife
Who lives the greatest gainer; and would faine
Bee now prefer'd unto his loss againe.
The webb of nerves with subtill branches spred
Over the little world, are in theyr head
Scarce so united as in him were knitt
All his dependants: Hee that strives to sitt

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poem by William Strode
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Die insel Bachi.

Als ich das neu weltbuch durchlase
Wie vil insel durchfaren wase
Die neu schiffart von Portugal,
Darein ich wunder ane zal
5
Funt, gar von seltsamen refieren,
Von menschen, vögel, fisch und tieren;
Zu nachts trieb mich die fantaseie
In ein schwere melancholeie,
Nach zu gründen den dingen tief,
10
Bis ich entlich darin entschlief.
Do traumet mir so eigentleiche,
Wie ich in Portugal dem reiche
Ausfüre auf das weite mer
In einer naue mit eim her
15
Für manche insel groß und weite.
Entlich kam wir in kurzer zeite
Zu der insel Bachi mit nam

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poem by Hans Sachs
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The Coronation

At Westminster, hid from the light of day,
Many who once had shone as monarchs lay.

Edward the Pious, and two Edwards more,
The second Richard, Henrys three or four;

That is to say, those who were called the Third,
Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth (the much self-widowered),

And James the Scot, and near him Charles the Second,
And, too, the second George could there be reckoned.

Of women, Mary and Queen Elizabeth,
And Anne, all silent in a musing death;

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poem by Thomas Hardy
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A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."

"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going

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poem by Frank O'Hara
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