She’s trying to fly with
crippled wings and join
her dreams together with
guitar strings and when
she sings she sings her
songs of how she tries
to get along with the long
harsh road she’s been
wandering on as she tries
to fly with crippled wings
and join her dreams together
with guitar strings

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

If night would've been a girl,
I would've married her.
Night is beautiful,
don't look at her darkness, inside her,
it's her beauty that only those can see
who have sat with her.

I can see how pretty she gets
the darker she gets,
I have touched her
and she touched me too,
I have listened her
and she listened me too.

She made me hers
and I made her mine.
She made me feel I'm not alone
as she let me accompany her.
I love the way she stares at me
like I'm only hers.

- shivamrealmyself

honeybee
by michael r. burch

love was a little treble thing—
prone to sing
and (sometimes) to sting

Keywords/Tags: love, bee, honeybee, treble, song, sing, singer, sting, stinger, barb, poison

Orpheus
by Michael R. Burch

after William Blake

I.

Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.

I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked

nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.

II.

Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,

the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.

III.

Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,

I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,
unbeguiled,

were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild

I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.

Keywords/Tags: Orpheus, singer, poet, William Blake, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, song, freedom

I remember it like yesterday
50 years back, more or less
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She sang songs about rebellion
of love and hate and less
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

The bar was almost empty
Most nights it was I guess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

I remember when she saw me
We connected, I confess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

Word spread out about her
She was primed to have success
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

An agent came and watched her
A low life lizard known as Jess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

Promises were made to her
She heard his pitch, and she said yes
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

I saw her climb the charts that year
She was a shell, a real hot mess
She no longer had an old guitar
She now wore hot pants, not a dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

You could see she was a puppet
A golden goose for lizard Wes
She no longer had an old guitar
She now wore hot pants, not a dress

I heard she died, an overdose
I wasn't shocked, I must confess
They buried her in Hollywood
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
I remember her old guitar
And her faded yellow dress

Stormzy, more like bad lyrics
in a teacup, scream that your
street, but you brush of the
norm and drive around like
you better, than the bros that really
                      live and die on the street.

But you more receded than your
                hair line..

finking you know what the lyrics
you spill really mean.

But you faker than
          your forehead botoox
   that don't mean what you spill...

Like you lyrics..

                           That are like a bag
of scrabble spilt on the floor,
   disorganized sentences that
                                      mean nothing..

Making sentences that don't even flow,
         A desert flows smother than your


rhyme..

you faker than a Kardashian, but cheaper..

Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
----------------
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
through
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into
her.

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,

right

up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye
maybe,

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key
ingredi-ant,

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
----------
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IsaacBashevisSinger>