A Child's Prayer of Despair for a Hindu SaintA Poem by Michael R. Burch These are poems about children, despair, and prayer. A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint Santa Claus, Childless How can she bear her grief? Mother’s Smile by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch There 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, then flew. But, oh, a mother’s tender smile will leap and follow after you! Child of 9-11 by Michael R. Burch a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born Much love I bring ― I lay it down here by your form, which is not you, Child of 9-11, I know And so I make this pledge and vow: Child of 9-11, I grieve I give my all: my pen, this tear, I Pray Tonight for the Nashville Covenant children I pray tonight I pray an end to your sorrow. Precipice by Michael R. Burch for my son Jeremy when he was a child They will teach you to scoff at love from the highest, windiest precipice of reason. Do not believe them. There is no place safe for you to fall save into the arms of love. First Steps by Michael R. Burch for Caitlin Shea Murphy To her a year is like infinity, each day―an adventure never-ending. She has no concept of time, but already has begun the climb― from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending. I would caution her, "No! Wait! There will be time enough another day . . . time to learn the Truth and to slowly shed your youth, but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! . . ." But her time is not a time for cautious words, nor a time for measured, careful understanding. She is just certain that, by grabbing the curtain, in a moment she will finally be standing! Little does she know that her first few steps will hurtle her on her way through childhood to adolescence, and then, finally, pubescence . . . while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray! Smoke by Michael R. Burch, age 14 The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ... The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... I wrote "Smoke" around age 14 and it appeared in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, and my college literary journal, Homespun. The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and grey, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames’ exhausted, drifting ash and petals falling from the rose ... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast― to joys set free, and those I fled. Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme Love Is Not Love by Michael R. Burch
for Beth, all loving mothers, and their children Love is not love that never looked within itself and questioned all, curled up like a zygote in a ball, throbbed, sobbed and shook. (Or went on a binge at a nearby mall, then would not cook.) Love is not love that never winced, then smiled, convinced that soar’s the prerequisite of fall. When all its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed, where does Love find the wherewithal to try again, endeavor, when all that it knows is: O, because! Erin by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair― bright carrot―and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children―some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.
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 just don’t 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. But hack him down and still he’ll always rise, lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.
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. Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true? Is it true? Uncanny seer of all that appears and all that has appeared . . . what sights have you seen, what dreams have you dreamed, what rhetoric have you heard? Is love an oration or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard? Have you heard? Copyright © 1992 by Michael R. Burch Man Retreats into Savagery by Michael R. Burch What I ache to say is beyond saying― no words for the horror of not loving enough, like a mummy half-wrapped in its moldering casements holding a lily aloft. No, there are no words for the horror as a cyclone howls between teetering floes and the cold freezes down to my clawed hairy toes ... What use to me, now, if the stars appear? As I moan the moon finds me, fangs goring the deer. And a Little Child Shall Lead Them by Michael R. Burch 1. "Where's my daughter?" "Get on your knees, get on your knees!" "It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you." 2. 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? Four-year-old Dae'Anna Reynolds, nicknamed Dae Dae, loves fireworks; we can see her holding a "Family Pack" on the Fourth of July; the accompanying Facebook blurb burbles, "Anything to see her happy." But perhaps Dae Dae won’t appreciate fireworks nearly as much in the future, or "Independence" Day either. Diamond Lavish Reynolds, Dae Dae’s mother, will remain "preternaturally calm" during the coming encounter with the cops, or at least until the very end. Philando Divall Castile, cafeteria manager at a Montessori magnet school, was "famous for trading fist bumps with the kids and slipping them extra Graham crackers." Never convicted of a serious crime, he was done in by a broken tail light. Or was it his “wide-set nose” that made him look like a robbery suspect? Or was it racism, or perhaps just blind―and blinding―fear? Lavish, Dae Dae and Castile went from picnicking in the park early on the evening of the Fourth, in an "all-American idyll" celebrating freedom, to the opposite extreme: being denied the simple freedom to live and pursue happiness. Over a broken tail light and/or a suspiciously broad nose. Castile can be seen sitting on a park bench. Dae Dae and a friend are "running happily across the grass." Lavish, wearing an American flag top, exclaims, "Happy Fourth, everybody! Put the guns down, let these babies enjoy these fireworks!" Odd to have to put guns down to celebrate a holiday. Only in America, land of the free and the home of the brave? 3. 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? ... Now the cop’s gun is drawn in earnest, four shots ring out, Castile slumps over in his seat, a "gaping bullet hole in his arm," the vivid red blood seeping "across the chest of his white T-shirt." The cop continues to point his pistol into the car. His voice is "panicky." "F**k!" The same curse a Baton Rouge police officer screamed after shooting another black man in a similar incident. "He was reaching for his wallet and the officer just shot him!" "Ma'am just keep your hands where they are!" "I will sir, no worries." "F**k!" "I told him not to reach for it. I told him to get his hand open." "You told him to get out his ID, sir, and his driver's license." Little Dae Dae, sitting in the back seat, watches it all unfold. So praiseworthy when confronting the unthinkable, she seeks to console her mother, her voice "tender and reassuring" in marked contrast to the cop’s screams. "It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you." 4. 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? "Oh my God, please don't tell me he's dead! Please don't tell me my boyfriend went like that!" "Keep your hands where they are, please!" Suddenly so polite, perhaps sensing some sort of mistake? "Yes, I will, sir. I'll keep my hands where they are." "It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you." 5. I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. More cops appear on the scene. "Get the female passenger out!" "Ma'am exit the car right now, with your hands up. Exit now." "Keep 'em up, keep 'em up! Face away from me and walk backward! Keep walking!" "Where's my daughter? You got my daughter?" "Get on your knees! Get on your knees!" "It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you." 6. Something inescapable is lost― lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone― gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past― blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, and finality has swept into a corner where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. "Ma'am, you're just being detained for now, until we get this straightened out, OK!" By now the cops realize the severity of the situation and Castile's injuries, which will result in his death within twenty minutes of the shooting. "F**k! F**k! F**k! F**k! F**k!" "Please don't tell me my boyfriend's gone! He don't deserve this! Please, he's a good man. He works for St. Paul Public Schools. He doesn't have a record of anything. He's never been in jail, anything. He's not a gang member, anything." Lavish begins praying aloud: "Allow him to be still here with us, with me … Please Lord, wrap your arms around him … Please make sure that he's OK, he's breathing … Just spare him, please. You know we are innocent people, Lord … We are innocent. My four-year-old can tell you about it." Lavish asks one of the cops if she can retrieve her phone. "It's right there, on the floor." "F**k! It has to be processed." The cop speaks to Dae Dae, who has started heading back to the car. "Can you just stand right there, sweetie?" "No, I want to get my mommy's purse." "I'll take care of that for you, OK? Can you just stand right there for me?" The cops continue to treat Lavish as a suspect. She later said that the cops "treated me like a criminal ... like it was my fault." "Can you just search her?" Mother addresses daughter tenderly: "Come here, Dae Dae." "Mommy…" "Don't be scared." Lavish informs Facebook Live: "My daughter just witnessed this." She tips the phone's camera to the side window of the squad car: "That's the police officer over there that did it. I can't really do s**t because they got me handcuffed." "It's OK, mommy." "I can't believe they just did this!" Lavish cries out, sounding "trapped, grief-torn." Dae Dae speaks again, "mighty with love," a child whose "quiet magnificence" commands us to also rise to the occasion. "It's okay, I'm right here with you." 7. And a little child shall lead them. Amen NOTE: The quoted parts of this poem were taken from a blow-by-blow account of the incident, "The Bravest Little Girl in the World," written by Michael Daly and published by The Daily Beast. Chariots Afire by Michael R. Burch “He was too gentle for this earth.” ― Elizabeth Harris Burch, who asked me to write this poem Elijah Jovan McCain was a young, slight black man who weighed just 140 pounds and had never been arrested or charged with any crime. Friends and family described him as a “spiritual seeker, pacifist, oddball, vegetarian, athlete, and peacemaker who was exceedingly gentle.” There was always a surfeit of light in your presence. You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world ― a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood. Elijah had taught himself to play violin and guitar. During lunch breaks from his job as a massage therapist, Elijah took his instruments to animal shelters and played for the abandoned animals, believing his music helped put them at ease. Friends said Elijah’s gentleness with animals extended to his fellow human beings. One of his clients recalled Elijah as “the sweetest, purest person I have ever met. He was definitely a light in a whole lot of darkness.” We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race, raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s. Yours was an antique grace ― Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s. On August 24, 2019, in the Denver suburb of Aurora, a 911 caller reported that someone who turned out to be Elijah was wearing a ski mask, flailing his arms, and looked “sketchy.” (Elijah was dressed warmly and wearing a ski mask because he had a blood circulation disorder that caused him to chill easily. His family believes the “arm flailing” was dancing and the transcript below confirms that Elijah was listening to music as he walked home.) After being accosted by three police officers, Elijah was pinned down, placed in a choke hold, and given an overdose of 500 mg of the sedative ketamine. He then went into cardiac arrest and died six days later. All three officers said their body cameras were knocked off during the incident. 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? Jurors would later convict one officer of third-degree assault and criminally negligent homicide, while acquitting two other officers of all charges. Two paramedics who administered the overdose were found guilty of negligent homicide. 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? THE TRANSCRIPT Officer: Do me a favor. Stop right there. Hey, stop right there. Stop. Stop. Elijah: I have a right (crosstalk). Officer: Stop. Stop. I have a right to stop you, because you’re being suspicious. Elijah: Well, okay. Officer: Turn around. Turn around. Elijah: I see your (inaudible). Officer: Turn around. Stop. Stop tensing up, dude. Elijah: Let go of me. Officer: Stop tensing up, bro. Stop tensing up. Elijah: Let go of me. Officer: Stop tensing up. Elijah: Let me go. Officer: Stop tensing up. Elijah: No, let go of me. Elijah: No. I am an introvert! Officer: Stop tensing up. Elijah: Please respect the boundaries that I am speaking. Officer: Stop tensing up. Elijah: Stop. Stop! Officer: Relax. Elijah: I’m going home! Officer: Relax, or I’m going to have to change this situation. Elijah: Leave me alone! Officer: Stop. THE OFFICERS TAKE ELIJAH TO THE GROUND Elijah: You guys started to arrest me and I was stopping my music to listen. Now let go of me. Officer: (inaudible) Let’s get over to grass there. Lay you down (inaudible). Elijah: I intend to take my power back because I intend to be (inaudible). I get to be (inaudible). Officer: (crosstalk) He just grabbed your gun, dude. Officer: (crosstalk) Stop, dude! (inaudible). Get us some more units. We’re fighting him. ELIJAH IS PINNED DOWN Elijah: I can’t breathe! Officer 1: Get him on back, he’s getting cuffs. Officer 2: (Inaudible) In a bar-hammer. Officer 1: Stop! Officer 2: Stop! Elijah: I can’t breathe, please stop! Elijah: My name is Elijah McClain! Officer: We had to use carotid. Elijah: That’s all I was doing, I was just going home! (inaudible). I’m an introvert, and I’m different! Officer: I heard some snoring. Elijah: (Inaudible) I’m just different! I’m just different. That’s all! That’s all I was doing! Officer: It was actually Rosenblatt’s. He reached for your gun, dude. Officer: When we showed him up. When we showed up, he was wearing a ski mask. Elijah: (crosstalk) Forgive me! All I was trying to do was become better. Officer: We started it because he reached for Rosie’s gun. These were Elijah’s last words: I can't breathe. I have my ID right here. My name is Elijah McClain. That's my house. I was just going home. I'm an introvert. I'm just different. That's all. I'm so sorry. I have no gun. I don't do that stuff. I don't do any fighting. Why are you attacking me? I don't even kill flies! I don't eat meat! But I don't judge people, I don't judge people who do eat meat. Forgive me. All I was trying to do was become better. I will do it. I will do anything. Sacrifice my identity, I'll do it. You all are phenomenal. You are beautiful and I love you. Try to forgive me. I'm a mood Gemini. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ow, that really hurt! You are all very strong. Teamwork makes the dream work. [after vomiting] Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to do that. I just can't breathe correctly. THE END I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Elijah would cling to life for six days before his soul left his body forever... Something inescapable is lost― lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone― gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past― blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, and finality has swept into a corner where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Keywords/Tags: child, little child, lead, children, Christianity, Jesus Christ, Santa Claus, Christmas, heaven, hell, salvation, Gandhi, Hindu, saint, knees, kneeling, prayer, mercy, compassion, grace, toys, games, candy, god, religion, intolerance, bigotry © 2024 Michael R. Burch |
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