dredge the shallow pool

of my soul

for something of substance

if you dare try


all you will glean

from that murky mire

are hellish spectres

dreams and hopes

lost since dashed and lost

never forgotten


or resolved

only mourned


–  from the desk of Nigel Burke


the bottle, the glass, and I

red wine, what a victory
quickly, the glass is painted
and thusly it is paled
filling with void
I’m losing again
more wine, more success
I must catch up
stay ahead of the race
and my own failure
before long, victory
consumes me
the bottle’s turn has come
to be filled with loss
while my glass seems eternally pink
as am I

– from the desk of Nigel Burke

am I a Buddhist yet, dear?

our greatest desire
is that to be free
of desire, of want
wishing not to wish
I lust to not lust
I crave nothing more
than to crave no more
the when which I am free
is a when which cannot be
’til that when, I guess I’ll be
just another who isn’t free

from the desk of Nigel Burke

the crumpled page

crush it, flatten and tear it to shreds
squeeze it through a pinhole
then squash it in a corner
kill it, end it – make sure that it’s dead
wretched pest
the morrow brings doubt’s return
annoying me again
setting my unease ablaze
a mouse, a verminous devil
an idea not meant for the page
waste of my time
sign of my failure
I must get a cat

from the desk of Nigel Burke