• can’t love a fish •

What’s ‘a matter, love,
Can’t love a fish?
That you can’t love a fish,
Is obvious.

I worry for my dear Silver Dollar,
Mister Silver Dollar, to you, Jim.
I worry, that if anything should,
‘Happen’, to me, (God forbid),
That it’d be,
‘The Big Flush’, for him.

Don’t you dare!
Anyway, I’m not worried:
You haven’t got the nerve,
To flush my Beta, too,
That’s Mister Beta Fish, Jim,
To you.
~ Tim Burchfield


• as too tats •

After crossing your ‘i’s,
And dotting your ‘t’s,
You may as well,
Check your speling,
You mad tatter.
“Regret nohing,”
“Two cool for scool,”
Dere I say it?
“Live you’re live,”
Need it be sed?
Chek thows eyes, and ease,
“Prome queen,”
“Only God will juge me,”
dont be two shreu.
For as the Goad Bok says:
“Nolege is power,”
Or, wuz it,
“Where thy Cheshire is,
So there, thigh heat shall be,”?
~ Tim Burchfield


• cave diving •

We all get depressed sometimes.
There’s no shame in it:
In point of fact, it may be best
To have plumbed the complexity
And profundity of thought,
To once again stumble into the quagmires,
Of one’s old haunts and fears:
To grapple with the thorny tendrils,
Of loss,
The bloody barbs of negativity,
To be filled with the lack of understanding
and drained by the lack of will,
to sit and sit in stillness –
To hear no sound,
to know no clocks that tick time forward,
to have no sense
Of how things get the way they can do:
To learn to deal with absence
And forced abstinence
due to circumstance.
Of the missing in multiples
Of a loved one or ones and twos,
Or of just the love that once was
With them still just there beside you:
When you can’t be filled
By food
Or wealth,
Or things things things;
Or, in a philosophical bent:
Of the dearth of meaning,
Of feeling useless,
Or undervalued
Even to yourself
To be so imbued with emptiness
Of dearth:
A cave dweller –
Discomfort itself, in skin.
At such times, as this,
Are we not adventurers?
Dicoverers? Explorers?
Delvers? Divers of diverse diversity,
From the University of experience?

Who is better qualified?
Who knows the dark places
Better than we,
Who better, of their usefulness?
Who better, of the knowing of
Where the treasure is hid, therein?
Who, where be, the troves of compassion, hid, than we?
Of the upwellings of humanity,
of kindness, of understanding,
from secret streams of clarity,
of the universal plights
through which we all must,
from time to time,
The cave divers.
We do.

We who emerge, bearing gifts
Formed in the dark,
Under heat, and pressure .
We do.

Cave diving the subterranean
Ventricles of the human heart,
Its eddies and streams,
Its lightless underground rivers,
Its undercurrents,
Its blind turns and fissures,
Its inexplicable fauna,
Its extremes:
Who better
to do the necessary surgeries, on ourselves,
than we?

So often we come out on the other side of such explorations,
Better equipped, to deal
with simple
stable reality:
Girded in unexpectation
Gilded with humility,
Clothed in cool compassion’s giving nature – giving, then,
again and again and again.

To go into the darkness
And come out laughing!
Better prepared in every way
To be a friend to Man.
To be a friend to Man –
Qualified to tell
the Story of Humanity
for the good of humanity:
To be the Storyteller,
with a plan.
That is the justification, and its end,
And it may be true, too.
In any case,
We delve.
~ Tim Burchfield