Saturday 18 June 2022

Poems & Tanka by Wayne F. Burke




June and cold here

and wet: it is not

fair--the short summer

should blaze like a gasoline

fire, with red sky and

sultry nights, air like

velvet on my skin; but

this is the North, land of

ice and cold wind, land

where the Igloo people

live--those who turn

lobster red in the

sun and wear

long-sleeved shirts plus


all year round...

Fur on their faces.


lassitude sets in and

the chair begins to sit

on me;

a fan turns it's idiot head

blowing a breeze, and

I solidify, like quartz


nod out


as traffic sweeps the

highway and

suchness spreads at

finite limits of

infinite space, like

the Blob of

silent flow, viscous

and deadly, and

coming to

a theatre near you






The cop walks up to me

as I sit

in the park:

He wears a bullet proof

vest and a silver star.

"What is the good word?"

he asks.

I think "go away," but

that is two words not one.

"Nice day isn't it?" he says.

"Well--it is not ninety" (92 yesterday).

He laughs a cop laugh.

He is a friendly cop--my new cop-buddy.

"No, it is not!"

His black sunglasses turn away.

His cop-ass moves sideways

down the sidewalk.



poetry does not get you to

the Hall of Fame--


through the



golden cloud heads

like busts of


achieved greatness

in their time




awarded a gold pen

by "Writer's of America"--

the pen

also detects levels of

carbon monoxide

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in LOTHLORIEN Poetry Journal). He is author of eight published poetry collections--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021--and one story collection, TURMOIL & Other Stories, Adelaide Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont.



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