Juvenilia: Early Poems

Juvenilia: Early Poems by Michael R. Burch

Juvenilia: Early Poems

I have put together a timeline of my earliest poems. Somewhere between the ages of 11 and 13, I began to jot down a few poems, then from age 13 to 15, I became a serious poet. Several of my early poems have been published by literary journals, so I like to think I displayed talent at an early age, but you can be the judge …

Age 11-13:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good
half the Bible
is libel.

Ironic Vacation

by Michael R. Burch

Salzburg.

Seeing Mozart’s baby grand piano.

Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius.

Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem & challenge the Immortals.

Next stop, the catacombs!

This is a poem I wrote about a vacation my family took to Salzburg when I was a boy, age 11 or perhaps a bit older. 

Happiness
by Michael R. Burch

Happiness is like a bubble:
What’s fine now will soon be trouble …

“Happiness” was the first longish poem I wrote, probably around age 13. I won’t bore you with the whole thing, but I think the meter and rhyme were not too bad for such an early effort. 

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 cookies were our only lusts!

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 the uncertainties of fate.

Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden―adventures away.

Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn'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.

This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher would later call it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second longish poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric.

Smoke
by Michael R. Burch

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 ...

This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It also appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. It has since been published by The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Fullosia Press and Better Than Starbucks, and translated into Romanian and published by Petru Dimofte. I was probably around 13 or 14 when I wrote the poem. I think it's interesting that I was able to write a "rhyme rich" poem at such a young age. In six lines the poem has 26 rhymes and near rhymes: smoke-spoke-smoky, well-farewell-tell-bells-still-recall-still, summer-remember-summer-summer, within-din-in, say-today-days-haze-today-away, had-good-bad.

Age 14-15:

Leave Taking
by Michael R. Burch

Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.

But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky ...

Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may

have learned what it means to say―
goodbye.

This poem started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," that dates to around age 14 or 15.

Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch

Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?

This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15.

Bound
by Michael R. Burch

Now it is winter―the coldest night.

And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.

Now it is winter―the coldest night.

And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.

This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. I seem to remember writing it around age 14 or 15.

Am I
by Michael R. Burch

Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?

Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a flame,
to flicker, then to die?

Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?

Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?

Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo―
soon to fade away?

This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. I believe I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. The title is a reversal of the biblical "I Am."

Time
by Michael R. Burch

Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.

Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.

Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.

Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?

This is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it.

Age 16-18:

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

... qui laetificat juventutem meam ...
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone
... . requiescat in pace ...
May she rest in peace
... . amen ...
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. 

Styx
by Michael R. Burch

Black waters,
deep and dark and still ...
all men have passed this way,
or will.

I believe this was my second epigram, after "Bible Libel." 

The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

I have not come for the harvest of roses―
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer―
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

Something

―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba

by Michael R. Burch

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,
which finality has swept into a corner, where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

This was the first poem that I wrote that didn't rhyme. I believe I wrote it around age 18. 

Observance
by Michael R. Burch

Here the hills are old and rolling
carefully in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains ...

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops ...

For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in ...

This is an early poem that made me feel like a real poet. I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student. I believe that was in 1975, at age 17. 

Infinity
by Michael R. Burch

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue.

This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet. I believe I wrote it around age 18.

hymn to Apollo

by Michael R. Burch

something of sunshine attracted my i

as it lazed on the afternoon sky,

   golden,

splashed on the easel of god ...

what,

i thought,

could this elfin stuff be,

to, phantomlike,

   flit

through tall trees

on fall days, such as these?

 

and the breeze

whispered a dirge

to the vanishing light;

enchoired with the evening, it sang;

its voice

enchantedly

rang

chanting “Night!” ...

till all the bright light

retired,

expired.

This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote it around age 16. 

The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch

There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.

There was an instant ...
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
―feverish, wet―
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union ...
when the rest of the world became distant.

Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.

I believe this poem was probably written during my first two years in college, making me 18 or 19 at the time.

These Hallowed Halls

by Michael R. Burch

a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age ...

I.

A final stereo fades into silence

and now there is seldom a murmur

to trouble the slumber

of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched

the passage of time alone,

not untouched,

and I am as they were―

                                    unsure,

and the days

stretch out ahead,

a bewildering maze.

II.

Ah, faithless lover―

that I had never touched your breast,

nor felt the stirrings of my heart,

which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration

of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love,

and the result of every infatuation―

the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.

III.

A solitary clock chimes the hour

from far above the campus,

but my peers,

returning from their dances,

heed it not.

And so it is

that we seldom gauge Time’s speed

because He moves so unobtrusively

about His task.

Still, when at last

we reckon His mark upon our lives,

we may well be surprised

at His thoroughness.

IV.

Ungentle maiden―

when Time has etched His little lines

so carelessly across your brow,

perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen

your youth, as He certainly shall in course,

perhaps you will wish you had taken me

along with my broken heart,

even as He will take you with yours.

V.

A measureless rhythm rules the night―

few have heard it,

but I have shared it,

and its secret is mine.

To put it into words

is as to extract the sweetness from honey

and must be done as gently

as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again;

its usefulness is only

that it lulls to sleep.

VI.

So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,

to the moans of the moonlit hills

that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep

through the nightjar’s cryptic trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any ...

how can I, when my dreams

are always of your perfect face

ringed in whorls of fretted lace,

and a tear upon your pillowcase?

VII.

If I had been born when knights roamed the earth

and mad kings ruled strange lands,

I might have turned to the ministry,

to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today―

theirs is a lost occupation

carried on, if at all,

merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude―

he craves companions, song and drink,

seldom seeking a quiet moment,

to sit alone by himself, to think.

VIII.

And so I cannot shut myself

off from the rest of the world,

to spend my days in philosophy

and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can,

and learn to keep my thoughts away

from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth,

centuries past though lost but a day.

IX.

Yes, I must discipline myself

and adjust to these lackluster days

when men display no chivalry

and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.

X.

A single stereo flares into song

and the first faint light of morning

has pierced the sky's black awning

once again.

XI.

This is a sacred place,

for those who leave,

leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here,

add, with their sleepless nights and tears,

quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls

of these hallowed halls.

I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18, watching my peers return to their dorms from a hard night of partying ...

An Illusion

by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee

and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold

when I awoke.

She came to me with the sound of falling leaves

and the scent of new-mown grass;

I held out my arms to her and she passed

into oblivion ...

This little dream-poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 16.

Regret

by Michael R. Burch

1.

Regret,

a bitter

ache to bear ...

once starlight

languished

in your hair ...

a shining there

as brief

as rare.

2.

Regret ...

a pain

I chose to bear ...

unleash

the torrent

of your hair ...

and show me

once again―

how rare.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 19. I may have been thinking about Rapunzel.

Poetry

by Michael R. Burch

Poetry, I found you

where at last they chained and bound you;

with devices all around you

to torture and confound you,

I found you―shivering, bare.

They had shorn your raven hair

and taken both your eyes

which, once cerulean as Gogh's skies,

had leapt at dawn to wild surmise

of what was waiting there.

Your back was bent with untold care;

there savage brands had left cruel scars

as though the wounds of countless wars;

your bones were broken with the force

with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair.

You once were loveliest of all.

So many nights you held in thrall

a scrawny lad who heard your call

from where dawn’s milling showers fall―

pale meteors through sapphire air.

I learned the eagerness of youth

to temper for a lover’s touch;

I felt you, tremulant, reprove

each time I fumbled over-much.

Your merest word became my prayer.

You took me gently by the hand

and led my steps from child to man;

now I look back, remember when

you shone, and cannot understand

why now, tonight, you bear their brand.

***

I will take and cradle you in my arms,

remindful of the gentle charms

you showed me once, of yore;

and I will lead you from your cell tonight

back into that incandescent light

which flows out of the core

of a sun whose robes you wore.

And I will wash your feet with tears

for all those blissful years ...

my love, whom I adore.

I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. I believe I wrote the first version in my late teens, probably around age 19.

Each Color a Scar

by Michael R. Burch

What she left here,

upon my cheek,

is a tear.

She did not speak,

but her intention

was clear,

and I was meek,

far too meek, and, I fear,

too sincere.

What she can never take

from my heart

is its ache;

for now we, apart,

are like leaves

without weight,

scattered afar

by love, or by hate,

each color a scar.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 20-21.

Blue Cowboy

by Michael R. Burch 

He slumps against the pommel,

a lonely, heartsick boy―

his horse his sole companion,

his gun his only toy

―and bitterly regretting

he ever came so far,

forsaking all home's comforts

to sleep beneath the stars,

he sighs.

He thinks about the lover

who waits for him no more

till a tear anoints his lashes,

lit by the careless stars.

He reaches to his aching breast,

withdraws a golden lock,

and kisses it in silence

as empty as his thoughts

while the wind sighs.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge

between the earth and distant stars.

Do not fall; the fiends of hell

would leap to feast upon your heart.

Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand

for a drop of water warm and brown.

Dream of streams like silver seams

even as you gulp it down.

Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs

to hide the weakness in your soul.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge

and wish that you were going home

as the stars sigh.

I believe I wrote this poem during my songwriting phase, sometime between 1974 and 1976, around age 16 or a bit later.

absinthe sea
by Michael R. Burch

i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe

the bitter green liqueur
reflects the dying sunset over the sea

and the darkling liquid froths
up over the rim of my cup
to splash into the free,
churning waters of the sea

i do not drink

i do not drink the liqueur,
for I sail on an absinthe sea
that stretches out unendingly
into the gathering night

its waters are no less green
and no less bitter,
nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light

they both harbor night,
and neither shall shelter me

neither shall shelter me
from the anger of the wind
or the cruelty of the sun

for I sail in the goblet of some Great God
who gazes out over a greater sea,
and when my life is done,
perhaps it will be because
He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea.

I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what absinthe looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read somewhere.

Am I
by Michael R. Burch

Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?

Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a feeble flame,
to flicker, then to die?

Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?

Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?

Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo―
soon to fade away?

This is one of my very earliest poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” which appeared in my high school sophomore poetry assignment booklet. If not, it was a companion piece written around the same time. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems.

Time
by Michael R. Burch

Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.

Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.

Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.

Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?

This is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it.

Ambition
by Michael R. Burch

Men speak of their “ambition”
and I smile to hear them say
that within them burns such fire,
such a longing to be great ...

But I laugh at their “Ambition”
as their wistfulness amasses;
I seek Her tongue’s indulgence
and Her parted legs’ crevasses.

I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager. I wrote this one around age 18 or 19.

Analogy
by Michael R. Burch

Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;

I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 18. The lily symbolizes purity and virginity.

As the Flame Flowers
by Michael R. Burch

As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame,
arches leaves skyward, aching for rain,
but it only encounters wild anguish and pain
as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem.

Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem
reaches through night, through the staggering pain,
for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain,
as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame.

Mesmerized by a distant crescent-shaped gem
which glistens like water though drier than sand,
the flower extends itself, trembles, and then
dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem in my late teens. The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions.

Ashes
by Michael R. Burch

A fire is dying;
ashes remain . . .
ashes and anguish,
ashes and pain.

A fire is fading
though once it burned bright . . .
ashes once embers
are ashes tonight.

This is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” written the same day, I believe.

Because You Came to Me
by Michael R. Burch

Because you came to me with sweet compassion
and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair,
I do not love you after any fashion,
but wildly, in despair.

Because you came to me in my black torment
and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun
upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment
they melt, I am undone.

Because I am undone, you have remade me
as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow
the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me
and bower me, somehow.

I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, then revised it 30 years later and dedicated the new version to my wife Beth.

The Beautiful People
by Michael R. Burch

They are the beautiful people,
and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon
to the listless strains of an ancient tune.

Oh, no ... please don't touch them,
for their smiles might fade.
Don’t go ... don’t approach them
as they promenade,
for they waltz through a vacuum
and dream they're not made
of the dust and gross dankness
to which men degrade.

They are the beautiful people,
and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs
as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes.

Winds do not blow there
and storms do not rise,
and each hair has its place
and each gown has its price.
And they whirl through the darkness
untouched by our cares
as we watch them and long for
a "life" such as theirs.

I believe I wrote this poem around 1976, at age 18 or thereabouts.

Beckoning
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday the wind whispered my name
while the blazing locks
of her rampant mane
lay heavy on mine.

And yesterday
I saw the way
the wind caressed tall pines
in forests laced by glinting streams
and thick with tangled vines.

And though she reached
for me in her sleep,
the touch I felt was Time's.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, wasn't happy with it, put it aside, then revised it six years later.

Gentry
by Michael R. Burch

The men shined their shoes
and the ladies chose their clothes;
the rifle stocks were varnished
till they were untarnished
by a speck of dust.

The men trimmed their beards;
the ladies rouged their lips;
the horses were groomed
until the time loomed
for them to ride.

The men mounted their horses,
the ladies did the same;
then in search of game they went,
a pleasant time they spent,
and killed the fox.

This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting or fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures. I believe I wrote the poem around age 18. 

I Am Lonely
by Michael R. Burch

Oh God, I am lonely;
I am weak and sore afraid.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when my heart is torn in two?

Oh God, I am lonely
and I cannot find a mate.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when the best friend that I’ve made

remains myself?

This poem appeared in my high school journal the Lantern. I believe it was written circa age 16.

Impotent
by Michael R. Burch

Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.

I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.

I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.

I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course . . .

Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.

I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?

I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,

but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.

I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties.

It's Halloween!
by Michael R. Burch

If evening falls
on graveyard walls
far softer than a sigh;
if shadows fly
moon-sickled skies,
while children toss their heads
uneasy in their beds,
beware the witch's eye!

If goblins loom
within the gloom
till playful pups grow terse;
if birds give up their verse
to comfort chicks they nurse,
while children dream weird dreams
of ugly, wiggly things,
beware the serpent's curse!

If spirits scream
in haunted dreams
while ancient sibyls rise
to plague nightmarish skies
one night without disguise,
as children toss about
uneasy, full of doubt,
beware the Devil's lies . . .

it's Halloween!

I believe I wrote this poem around age 20.

Nevermore!
by Michael R. Burch

Nevermore! O, nevermore
shall the haunts of the sea
―the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore―
mark her passing again.

And the salivating sea
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her breasts and hips
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.

The waves will never rape her,
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not have her,
nor could she give them pleasure . . .
She sleeps forevermore.

She sleeps forevermore,
a virgin save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely smothered
by the restless, surging sea.

And, yes, they sleep together,
but never in that way!
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.

He does not stroke her honey hair,
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea . . .

their skeletal love―impossibility!

Published by Romantics Quarterly and Penny Dreadful

Morning
by Michael R. Burch

It was morning
and the bright dew drenched the grasses
like tears the trembling lashes of my lover;
another day had come.

And everywhere the flowers
were turning to the sun,
just as the night before
I had turned to the one
for whom my heart yearned.

It was morning
and the sun shone in the sky
like smoldering embers in the eyes of my lover―
another night gone by.

And everywhere the terraces
were refreshed by bright assurances
of the early-fallen rain
which had doused the earth
and morning’s birth
with their sweet refrain.

It was morning
and the bright dew drenched the grasses
like tears the trembling lashes of my lover;
another day had come.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 14, then according to my notes revised it around age 17. In any case, it was published in my high school literary journal.

Stryx: An Astronomer’s Report
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday
(or was is an eon ago?)
a sun spit out its last remnants of light
over a planet long barren of life,
and died.

It was not a solitary occasion,
by any stretch of the imagination,
this decoronation
of a planet conceived out of desolation.

For her to die as she was born
―amidst the glory of galactic upheaval―
is not strange,
but fitting.

Fitting in that,
shorn of all her preposterous spawn
that had littered her surface like horrendous hair,
she died her death bare
and alone.

Once she was home to all living,
but she died home to the dead
who bereaved her of life.

Unfit for life she died that night
as her seas shone fatal, dark and blue.
Unfit for life she met her end
as mountains fell and lava spewed.

Unfit she died, agleam with death
whose radiance she wore.

Unfit she died as raging waves
obliterated every shore.

Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit!
Contaminated with the rays
that smoldered in her radiant swamps
and seared her lifeless bays.

Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit!
a virgin world no more,
but a planet raped and left to face
her death as she was born―
alone, so all alone.

Yesterday,
a planet green and lovely was no more.

Yesterday,

the whitecaps crashed against her shores
and then they were no more.

Yesterday,
a soft green light
no longer brushed the moon's dark heights . . .

There was no moon,
there was no earth;
there were only the b******s she had given birth
watching from their next raped world.

I wrote this poem around age 18 and it was published in the 1976-1977 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun.

Tell Me
by Michael R. Burch

Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.

Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...

drive away the darkness from within.

For my life is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;

and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.

Please shed some light
and drive away the darkness from without,

for I doubt that I will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.

This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote it around age 15 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?"

as Time walked by
by michael r. burch

yesterday i dreamed of us again,
when
the air, like honey,
trickled through cushioning grasses,
softly flowing, pouring itself upon the masses
of dreaming flowers ...

then the sly impish Hours
were tentative, coy and shy
while the sky
swirled all its colors together,
giving pleasure to the appreciative eye
as Time walked by.

sunbright, your smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede our way ...
until It did,
as It did.

for soon the summer hid
her sunny smile ...
the honeyed breaths of wind
became cold,
biting to the bone
as Time sped on,
fled from us
to be gone
Forevermore.

this morning i awakened to the thought
that u were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered―u were gone,

that u'd been toppled long ago
like an orchid felled by snow
as the bloom called “us” sank slowly down to die
and Time roared by.

This poem appeared in my high school journal in 1976 and was probably written around 1974 at age 16 or thereabouts. It was written during my "cummings period," which started around 1974 after I discovered him in a high school English book.

Unfoldings, for Vicki
by Michael R. Burch

Time unfolds . . .
Your lips were roses.
. . . petals open, shyly clustering . . .
I had dreams
of other seasons.
. . . ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming.

Night and day . . .
Dreams burned within me.
. . . flowers part themselves, and then they close . . .
You were lovely;
I was lonely.
. . . a virgin yields herself, but no one knows.

Now time goes on . . .
I have not seen you.
. . . within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged . . .
A fire rages;
no one sees it.
. . . a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain.

Seasons flow . . .
A dream is dying.
. . . within parched clusters, life is taking form . . .
You were honest;
I was angry.
. . . petals fling themselves before the storm.

Time is slowing . . .
I am older.
. . . blossoms wither, closing one last time . . .
I'd love to see you
and to touch you.
. . . a flower crumbles, crinkling―worn and dry.

Time contracts . . .
I cannot touch you.
. . . a solitary flower cries for warmth . . .
Life goes on as
dreams lose meaning.
. . . the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm.

I wrote this poem for a college girlfriend, circa age 18-19.

When last my love left me
by Michael R. Burch

The sun was a smoldering ember
when last my love left me;
the sunset cast curious shadows
over green arcs of the sea;
she spoke sad words, departing,
and teardrops drenched the trees.

This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1976-1977. I believe I wrote the original version in 1974, around age 16.

Winter
by Michael R. Burch

The rose of love's bright promise
lies torn by her own thorn;
her scent was sweet
but at her feet
the pallid aphids mourn.

The lilac of devotion
has felt the winter hoar
and shed her dress;
companionless,
she shivers―nude, forlorn.

I wrote “Winter” around age 20; it has been published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts.

Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall―yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you―
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words―barbed, cruel?

Published by The Lyric, La Luce Che Non Moure (Italy), The Chained Muse, Better Than Starbucks, Glass Facets of Poetry and Trinacria

You didn't have time

by Michael R. Burch

You didn't have time to love me,

always hurrying here and hurrying there;

you didn't have time to love me,

and you didn't have time to care.

You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:

too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . .

Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.

You didn't have time, and now you have none.

You didn't have time to take time

and you didn't have time to try.

Every time I asked you why, you said,

"Because, my love; that's why."  And then

you didn't have time at all, my love.

You didn't have time at all.

You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun

that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.

Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.

You didn't have time, and now you have none.

This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17.

"Of You" was the first poem of mine that appeared in my high school journal, The Lantern, and thus it was my first poem to appear on a printed page. A fond memory, indeed. 

Of You

by Michael R. Burch

There is little to write of in my life,

and little to write off, as so many do . . .

so I will write of you.

You are the sunshine after the rain,

the rainbow in between;

you are the joy that follows fierce pain;

you are the best that I've seen

in my life.

You are the peace that follows long strife;

you are tranquility.

You are an oasis in a dry land

               and

you are the one for me!

You are my love; you are my life; you are my all in all.

Your hand is the hand that holds me aloft . . .

without you I would fall.

I have tried to remember when I wrote this poem, but that memory remains elusive. It was definitely written by 1976 because the poem was published in The Lantern then. But many of those poems were written earlier and this one feels “younger” to me, so I will guess a composition date in 1974,  around age 16.

49th Street Serenade

by Michael R. Burch

It's four o'clock in the mornin'

and we're alone, all alone in the city . . .

     your sneakers 're torn

     and your jeans 're so short

that your ankles show, but you're pretty.

I wish I had five dollars;

I'd pay your bus fare home,

     but how far canya go

     through the sleet 'n' the snow

for a fistful of change?

'Bout the end of Childe’s Lane.

Right now my old man is sleepin'

and he don't know the hell where I am.

     Why he still goes to bed

     when he's already dead,

I don't understand,

but I don't give a damn.

Bein' sixteen sure is borin'

though I guess for a girl it's all right . . .

     if you'd let your hair grow

     and get some nice clothes,

I think you'd look outta sight.

And I wish I had ten dollars;

I'd ask you if you would . . .

     but wishin's no good

     and you'd think I'm a hood,

so I guess I'll be sayin' good night.

This is one of my earliest poems; I actually started out writing songs when some long-haired friends of mine started a band around 1974. But I was too introverted and shy to show them to anyone. This one was too racy for my high school journal.

130 Refuted

by Michael R. Burch

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red ...

�" Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

Seas that sparkle in the sun

without its light would have no beauty;

but the light within your eyes

is theirs alone; it owes no duty.

And that flame, not half as bright,

is meant for me, and brings delight.

Coral formed beneath the sea,

though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;

while your lips, not half so red,

just touching mine, at once inflame me.

And the searing flames your lips arouse

fathomless oceans fail to douse.

Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared

when winter comes, will wither quickly.

Your cheeks, though paler when compared

with them?�"more lasting, never prickly.

And your cheeks, so dear and warm,

far vaster treasures, need no thorns.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

I believe I wrote this poem as a college freshman; if not as a freshman, then definitely by my sophomore year. I composed my refutation in my head as I walked back to my dorm from an English class where I had read Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 130.” This was my first attempt at a sonnet, but I dispensed with the rules, as has always been my wont.

With my daughter, by a waterfall

by Michael R. Burch

By a fountain that slowly shed

its rainbows of water, I led

my youngest daughter.

And the rhythm of the waves

that casually lazed

made her sleepy as I rocked her.

By that fountain I finally felt

fulfillment of which I had dreamt

feeling May’s warm breezes pelt

petals upon me.

And I held her close in the crook of my arm

as she slept, breathing harmony. 

By a river that brazenly rolled,

my daughter and I strolled

toward the setting sun,

and the cadence of the cold,

chattering waters that flowed

reminded us both of an ancient song,

so we sang it together as we walked along

―unsure of the words, but sure of our love―

as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.

This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote it the year before, around age 18. 

All My Children

by Michael R. Burch

It is May now, gentle May,

and the sun shines pleasantly

upon the blousy flowers

of this backyard cemet'ry,

upon my children as they sleep.

Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,

with a mound of earth for a pillow;

his face as hard as his monument,

but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.

And there is Meg beside the spring

that sings her endless sleep.

Though it’s often said of stiller waters,

sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.

And there is Frankie, little Frankie,

tucked in safe at last,

a child who weakened and died too soon,

but whose heart was always steadfast.

And there is Mary by the bushes

where she hid so well,

her face as dark as their berries,

yet her eyes far darker still.

And Andy ... there is Andy,

sleeping in the clover,

a child who never saw the sun

so soon his life was over.

And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly ...

the prettiest of all ...

now she's put aside her dreams

of lovers dark and tall

for dreams dreamed not at all.

It is May now, merry May

and the sun shines pleasantly

upon these ardent gardens,

on the graves of all my children ...

But they never did depart;

they still live within my heart.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 15-16.

Keywords/Tags: juvenilia, early poems, early poetry, early writing, write, young, youth, youthful, teen, teenage, poets, poems, poetry, poems, verse, writing