Children's PoemsA Poem by Michael R. BurchThere never was a fonder smile than mother's smile, no softer touch than mother's touch. So sleep awhile and know she loves you more than "much." So more than "much, " much more than "all." Though tender words, these do not speak of love at all, nor how we fall and mother's there, nor how we reach from nightmares in the ticking night and she is there to hold us tight. There never was a stronger back than father's back, that held our weight and lifted us, when we were small, and bore us till we reached the gate, then held our hands that first bright mile till we could run, and did, and flew. But, oh, a mother's tender smile will leap and follow after you! Originally published by TALESetc for Jeremy There is a child I used to know who sat, perhaps, at this same desk where you sit now, and made a mess of things sometimes.I wonder how he learned at all... He saw T-Rexes down the hall and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks. He dribbled phantom basketballs, shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks. He played with pasty Elmer's glue (and sometimes got the glue on you!) . He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST." His mother had to come to school because he broke the golden rule. He dreaded each and every test. But something happened in the fall ― he grew up big and straight and tall, and now his desk is far too small; so you can have it. One thing, though ― one swirling autumn, one bright snow, one gooey tube of Elmer's glue... and you'll outgrow this old desk, too. Originally published by TALESetc for Jeremy Jeremy hit the ball today, over the fence and far away. So very, very far away a neighbor had to toss it back. (She thought it was an air attack!) Jeremy hit the ball so hard it flew across our neighbor's yard. So very hard across her yard the bat that boomed a mighty "THWACK! " now shows an eensy-teensy crack. Originally published by TALESetc for Keira We had a special visitor. Our world became suddenly brighter. She was such a charmer! Such a delighter! With her sparkly diamond slippers and the way her whole being glows, Keira's a picturebook princess from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes! The Aery Faery Princess by Michael R. Burch for Keira There once was a princess lighter than fluff made of such gossamer stuff ― the down of a thistle, butterflies' wings, the faintest high note the hummingbird sings, moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair... I think she's just you when you're floating on air! Tallen the Mighty Thrower by Michael R. Burch Tallen the Mighty Thrower is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks... they splash and they cheer when he tosses bread near because, you know, eating grass sucks! On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors by Michael R. Burch for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon Maya was made in the image of God; may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors always echo back Love. Amen Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem by Michael R. Burch for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon With a hatful of stars and a stylish umbrella and her hand in her Papa’s (that remarkable fella!) and with Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore in tow, may she dance in the rain cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe till each number’s rehearsed ... My, that last step’s a leap! ― the high flight into bed when it’s past time to sleep! Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK) Lullaby by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin; Angelic face; wild chimp within. It does not matter; sleep awhile As soft mirth tickles forth a smile. Gray moths will hum a lullaby Of feathery wings, then you and I Will wake together, by and by. Life's not long; those days are best Spent snuggled to a loving breast. The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky Will bronze lean muscle, by and by. Soon you will sing, and I will sigh, But sleep here, now, for you and I Know nothing but this lullaby. Love Is Not Love
(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall, Love is not love that never winced, When all all that it knows Limericks by Michael R. Burch There once was a leopardess, Dot, who indignantly answered: "I'll not! The gents are impressed with the way that I'm dressed. I wouldn't change even one spot." There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can't sing, but now, here's the thing ― just think of the tunes you can carry! " Enough with this pitiful pelican! He's awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican! His beak's far too big, so he eats like a pig, and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican! The Hippopotami There’s no seeing eye to eye Generation Gap by Michael R. Burch A quahog clam, age 405, said, "Hey, it's great to be alive! " I disagreed, not feeling nifty, babe though I am, just pushing fifty. Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years. Murder Most Fowl! “Murder most foul!” “Friend, I’m no sinner; Published by Lighten Up Online and Potcake Chapbooks NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! This poem also questions who the "original sinner" was. How was it not the Creator, if such a being exists, since owls are forced by nature to murder innocent mice and other prey animals? Is it possible that the Creator is not so heroic either? ― Michael R. Burch Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. we did not Dye in vain! from “songs of the sea snails” though i’m just a slimy crawler, i salute you, fellow loyals, Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes! The Last Enchantment Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, The time is not, nor ever shall be, Success by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy We need our children to keep us humble between toast and marmalade; there is no time for a ticker-tape parade before bed, no award, no bright statuette to be delivered for mending skinned knees, no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow. A kiss is the only approval they show; to leave us ― the first great success they achieve. Keep Up by Michael R. Burch Keep Up! Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can; I'll move much faster when I'm a man... Time unwinds as the heart reels, as cares and loss and grief plummet, as faith unfailing ascends the summit and heartache wheels like a leaf in the wind. Like a rickety cart wheel time revolves through the yellow dust, its creakiness revoking trust, its years emblazoned in cold hard steel. Keep Up! Son, I'm walking as fast as I can; take it easy on an old man. Haiku The butterfly perfuming its wings fans the orchid ― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch A kite floats at the same place in the sky where yesterday it floated... ― Buson Yosa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch An ancient pond, the frog leaps: the silver plop and gurgle of water ― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Poems for Older Children Reflex by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Some intuition of her despair for her lost brood, as though a lost fragment of song torn from her flat breast, touched me there... I felt, unable to hear through the bright glass, the being within her melt as her unseemly tirade left a feather or two adrift on the wind-ruffled air. Where she will go, how we all err, why we all fear for the lives of our children, I cannot pretend to know. But, O! , how the unappeased glare of omnivorous sun over crimson-flecked snow makes me wish you were here. Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad) by Michael R. Burch He did not think of love of Her at all frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads (nee princes)ruled in chinks and grew so small at last to be invisible. He smiled (the fables erred so curiously) , and thought bemusedly of being reconciled to human flesh, because his heart was not incapable of love, but, being cursed a second time, could only love a toad's... and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats... and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted, his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted. Clyde Lied by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride? " "Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied. Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch It's not that every leaf must finally fall, it's just that we can never catch them all. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Salat Days by Michael R. Burch Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr. I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat... though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing, dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone, talking about poke salat ― how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it... standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green, straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches, crowding out the less-hardy nettles. "Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat with some bacon drippin's or lard." "Don't eat the berries. You see ― the berry's no good. And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time." "I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry. Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst." He seldom was hurried; I can see him still... silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight, stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace. Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard, trampling his beans, dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants. He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression. Years later I found the proper name―pokeweed―while perusing a dictionary. Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed. I still can hear his laconic reply... "Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard." Of Civilization and Disenchantment by Michael R. Burch for Anais Vionet Suddenly uncomfortable to stay at my grandfather's house ― actually his third new wife's, in her daughter's bedroom ― one interminable summer with nothing to do, all the meals served cold, even beans and peas... Lacking the words to describe ah! , those pearl-luminous estuaries ― strange omens, incoherent nights. Seeing the flares of the river barges illuminating Memphis, city of bluffs and dying splendors. Drifting toward Alexandria, Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta, lands at the beginning of a new time and "civilization." Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery, Alexander's corpse floating seaward, bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey. Memphis shall be waste and desolate, without an inhabitant. Or so the people dreamed, in chains. Neglect by Michael R. Burch What good are your tears? They will not spare the dying their anguish. What good is your concern to a child sick of living, waiting to perish? What good, the warm benevolence of tears without action? What help, the eloquence of prayers, or a pleasant benediction? Before this day is gone, how many more will die with bellies swollen, wasted limbs, and eyes too parched to cry? I fear for our souls as I hear the faint lament of their souls departing... mournful, and distant. How pitiful our "effort, " yet how fatal its effect. If they died, then surely we killed them, if only with neglect. Childless
Delicacy for all good mothers
Your love is the string Such Tenderness for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as only the dove on her mildest day has, What songs long forgotten occur to you now― Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... I can only admire, unable to ask― what is the source, whence comes the desire I Cannot Remember My Mother I cannot remember my mother, I cannot remember my mother, I cannot remember my mother, Frail Envelope of Flesh, from "Poems of the Nakba" for the mothers and children of Gaza Frail envelope of flesh, Frail crucible of dust, Brief mayfly of a child, Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe." The children of Gaza and their parents know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not "terrorists," so why are they being punished collectively for the "crime" of having been born "wrong"? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such barbarism? Erin All that’s left of Ireland is her hair― her brilliant air of cavalier despair, the others to avoid it. For nowhere How can men look upon her and not spin The Poet's Condition
The poet's condition his editor knows His readers are sure His mother alone The Greatest of These ... for my mother Christine Ena Burch The hands that held me tremble. Angelic flesh, now parchment, But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; I can almost believe such love Heroin or Heroine?
or rise up, resist Dawn for Beth, Laura and all good mothers Bring your peculiar strength
Love has a gentle grace
Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her Love has no wilder beauty than the thought (And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song, Your Gift
Counsel, console. Passages on Fatherhood by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy He is my treasure, and by his happiness I measure my own worth. Four years old, with diamonds and gold bejeweled in his soul. His cherubic beauty is felicity to simplicity and passion ― for a baseball thrown or an ice-cream cone or eggshell-blue skies. It's hard to be "wise" when the years career through our lives and bees in their hives test faith and belief while Time, the great thief, with each falling leaf foreshadows grief. The wisdom of the ages and prophets and mages and doddering sages is useless unless it encompasses this: his kiss. Boundless by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him, and every day a new sharp feature emerges: a feature we'll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining, trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker... And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples, become unconscionable errors, become victories lost, become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair... if what he was becomes increasingly vague ― like a white balloon careening into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood, hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders, shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth, then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing... if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving bosom; to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores; to sail away like a balloon on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens, till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see, bursting into tears over us: what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe, cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision, unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken... cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself ― flying beyond us? Chip Off the Block for Jeremy In the fusion of poetry and drama, NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be. Pan by Michael R. Burch ... Among the shadows of the groaning elms, amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves... ... Once there were paths that led to coracles that clung to piers like loosening barnacles... ... where we cannot return, because we lost the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss... ... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens' hair who never were enchanted, and the stairs... ... that led up to the Fortress in the trees will not support our weight, but on our knees... ... we still might fit inside those splendid hours of damsels in distress, of rustic towers... ... of voices of the wolves' tormented howls that died, and live in dreams' soft, windy vowels... Originally published by Sonnet Scroll Leaf Fall by Michael R. Burch Whatever winds encountered soon resolved to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall. In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each dry leaf into its place and built a high, soft bastion against earth's gravitron ― a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright impediment to fling ourselves upon. And nothing in our laughter as we fell into those leaves was like the autumn's cry of also falling. Nothing meant to die could be so bright as we, so colorful ― clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea The Folly of Wisdom by Michael R. Burch She is wise in the way that children are wise, looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes I must bend down to her to understand. But she only smiles, and takes my hand. We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go, so I smile, and I follow... And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves that flutter above us, and what she believes ― I can almost remember ― goes something like this: the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss. She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well if only we find him! The woodpecker's knell as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree that once was a fortress to someone like me rings wildly above us. Some things that we know we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly Just Smile by Michael R. Burch We'd like to think some angel smiling down will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard, ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps, his doddering progress through the scarlet house to tell his mommy "boo-boo! , " only two. We'd like to think his reconstructed face will be as good as new, will often smile, that baseball's just as fun with just one arm, that God is always Just, that girls will smile, not frown down at his thousand livid scars, that Life is always Just, that Love is Just. We do not want to hear that he will shave at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks, that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each new operation costs a billion tears, when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech some poet with more skill with words than tears to find some happy ending, to believe that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries... Or look inside his courage, as he ties his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me." He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures. Your pity is the worst cut he endures. Originally published by Lucid Rhythms Child of 9-11 by Michael R. Burch a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born on September 11,2001 and died at the age of nine, shot to death... Child of 9-11, beloved, I bring this lily, lay it down here at your feet, and eiderdown, and all soft things, for your gentle spirit. I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it. Much love I bring ― I lay it down here by your form, which is not you, but what you left this shell-shocked world to help us learn what we must do to save another child like you. Child of 9-11, I know you are not here, but watch, afar from distant stars, where angels rue the vicious things some mortals do. I also watch; I also rue. And so I make this pledge and vow: though I may weep, I will not rest nor will my pen fail heaven's test till guns and wars and hate are banned from every shore, from every land. Child of 9-11, I grieve your tender life, cut short... bereaved, what can I do, but pledge my life to saving lives like yours? Belief in your sweet worth has led me here... I give my all: my pen, this tear, this lily and this eiderdown, and all soft things my heart can bear; I bear them to your final bier, and leave them with my promise, here. Originally published by The Flea For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails, when thunder howls, when hailstones scream, when winter scowls, when nights compound dark frosts with snow... Where does the butterfly go? Where does the rose hide its bloom when night descends oblique and chill beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, where does the butterfly go? And where shall the spirit flee when life is harsh, too harsh to face, and hope is lost without a trace? Oh, when the light of life runs low, where does the butterfly go? Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch ―for the mothers and children of Gaza Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon's table with anguished eyes like your mother's eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable... Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this ― your tiny hand in your mother's hand for a last bewildered kiss... Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother's lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears... This is, I believe, the second poem I wrote. Or at least it's the second one that I can remember. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it. Playmates by Michael R. Burch WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours, we spent endless hours with simple toys, and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days were uncomprehended... far, far away... for the temptations and trials we had yet to face were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze. Then simple pleasures were easy to find and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind; for even a penny in a pocket back then was one penny too many, a penny to spend. Then feelings were feelings and love was just love, not a strange, complex mystery to be understood; while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us, since forbidden batter was our only lust! Then we never worried about what we had, and we were both sure-what was good, what was bad. And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate; we seldom gave thought to injustice, or fate. Then we never thought about the next day, for tomorrow seemed hidden ― adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things didn't last. Still, we never worried about getting by, and we didn't know that we were to die... when we spent endless hours with simple toys, and I was your playmate, and we were boys. The Origins of Smoke
I wrote this poem as a boy, after seeing an ad for the movie Summer of ’42, which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. But it could have been a bit later, with me working from memory. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie … Listen, Hermie Listen, Hermie . . . and you can see how white she shone that distant night, before But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.”
Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away She cannot touch you now, but I would reach Tell me, Hermie Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw her white brassiere crash to the floor How is it that dark night remains despite her absence and the pains
Children by Michael R. Burch There was a moment suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall, impendent, pregnant with possibility... when we might have made... anything, anything we dreamed, almost anything at all, coalescing dreams into reality. Oh, the love we might have fashioned out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos and the rhythms of evening! But we were young, and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss and what is left is not worth saving. But, oh, you were lovely, child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars, and for a day, what little we partook of all that lay before us seemed so much, and passion but a force with which to play. Kindergarten by Michael R. Burch Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow― our lessons still not learned? Will we surrender over to sorrow? How many times must our fingers be burned? Will we be children sat in the corner over and over again? How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner? Or will we learn, and when? Will we be children wearing the dunce cap, giggling and playing the fool, re-learning our lessons forever and ever, never learning the golden rule? Life Sentence or Fall Well ... I swim, my Daddy's princess, newly crowned, toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down to suck me up? ... She sits upon Her Throne, Imperious (denying we were one) , and gazes down and whispers "precious son"... ... the Plunger worked; i'm two, and, if not blessed, still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest; a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest... ... i'm three; yay! whee! oh good! it's time to play! (oh no, I think there's Others on the way; i'd better pray) ... ... i'm four; at night I hear the Banging Door; She screams; sometimes there's Puddles on the Floor; She wants to kill us, or, She wants some More... ... it's great to be alive if you are five (unless you're me): my Mommy says: "you're WRONG! don't disagree! don't make this HURT ME! "... ... i'm six; They say i'm tall, yet Time grows Short; we have a thriving Family; Abort!; a tadpole's ripping Mommy's Room apart... ... i'm seven; i'm in heaven; it feels strange; I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain; another Noah built a Mighty Ark; God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark; ... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed my head against the Tub, and then I swam toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard... is that She feels Weird.
Floating
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips Memories of ghostly white limbs . . . We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, Suspended there, Your love is a sea, Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, And I rise sometimes bright waves throw back your reflection at me. This is one of my more surreal poems, as the sea and lover become one. I believe I wrote this one at age 19. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem may have had a different title when it was originally published, but it escapes me . . . ah, yes, "Entanglements." Performing Art
What parodies of irony What instinctual memories of the dull gray slug abiding in darkness it applauds its performance? Originally published by The Raintown Review
Pity Clarity Pity Clarity,
And Poetry, Published by Contemporary Rhyme (January 2005), The Columbus Dispatch (Sunday, April 3, 2005) and Poem Today. This poem expresses my unhappiness with the "state of the art" in three different poetic camps or churches. The Poem of Poems This is my Poem of Poems, for you. Practice Makes Perfect
I frown as I squelch its damn beep, Originally published by Light Quarterly Reflections on the Loss of Vision by Michael R. Burch The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls, remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then, that it seems if I tried and just closed my eyes, I could once again be nine or ten. The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall, hunch there, I know, in the flurrying snow, yet now I can't see them at all. For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear, some things that I saw when I was a boy, are lost to me now in my advancing years. The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese in their unseen reprieve are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve, who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost? Well, in a small way, through the passage of days, I have learned some of his loss. As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not― the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite haunts. But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could, and it seems such a waste of those far-sighted days, to end up near blind in this wood. The Sky Was Turning Blue Yesterday I saw you Was it another winter, How is it in one moment escape! to live among the daffodil folk . . . Escape!! You are too beautiful, too full of irresistible candor Come, my beautiful Bambi The Octopi Jars Long-vacant eyes you are beyond all hope I, more alien than you and I remember documentaries and I know now in life you were unlike me: Published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson Sailing to My Grandfather, for George Edwin Hurt This distance between us I see you out of the shining mists I find you now in fits and bursts I feel the sea's salt spray―light fists, Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts Note: Under the Sextant’s Stars is a painting by Benini. Sanctuary at Dawn I have walked these thirteen miles Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, Now you stand outlined in the doorway Your eyes are grayer "My father!" This poem appeared in my 1978 poetry contest manuscript, so it was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. While 1976 is an educated guess, it was definitely written sometime between 1974 and 1978. At that time thirty seemed "old" to me and I used that age more than once to project my future adult self. For instance, in the poem "You." Love Has a Southern Flavor Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew, Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines, Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights: Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet, Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India), Victorian Violet Press, A Long Story Short, Glass Facets of Poetry, Docster, Trinacria, PS: It’s Poetry (anthology), and in a Czech translation by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava Ode to the Sun Day is done . . . Leave no trace of where you've been; Now day is done . . . Published by The Tucumcari Literary Review. I believe I wrote this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, during my early Romantic Period. Bubble by Michael R. Burch ...…..….........Love I believe this is my only shape/shaped/concrete poem. Breakings by Michael R. Burch I did it out of pity. I did it out of love. I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove. But gods without compassion ordained: "Frail things must break!" Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake? I did it not to push. I did it not to shove. I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love. But gods, all mad as hatters, who legislate in all such matters, ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters. Break Time by Michael R. Burch for those who lost loved ones on 9-11 Intrude upon my grief; sit; take a spot of milk to cloud the blackness that you feel; add artificial sweeteners to conceal the bitter aftertaste of loss. You’ll heal if I do not. The coffee’s hot. You speak: of bundt cakes, polls, the price of eggs. You glance twice at your watch, cough, look at me askance. The TV drones oeuvres of high romance in syncopated lip-synch. Should I feel the underbelly of Love’s warm Ideal, its fuzzy-wuzzy tummy, and not reel toward some dark conclusion? Disappear to pale, dissolving atoms. Were you here? I brush you off: like saccharine, like a tear. chrysalis by Michael R. Burch these are the days of doom u seldom leave ur room u live in perpetual gloom yet also the days of hope how to cope? u pray and u grope toward self illumination ... becoming an angel (pure love) and yet You must love Your Self If you know someone who is very caring and loving, but struggles with self worth, this may be a poem to consider. Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for Christine Ena Burch The rose is: the ornament of the earth, the glory of nature, the archetype of the flowers, the blush of the meadows, a lightning flash of beauty. This is my loose translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram. Ah! Sunflower after William Blake O little yellow flower
© 2021 Michael R. Burch |
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