Nashville Covenant PoemsA Poem by Michael R. Burch These are poems about the Nashville Covenant School shootings. Nashville Covenant School Shooting Poems I am dedicating these poems to the children and school employees who perished in the Nashville Covenant School shootings on March 27, 2023. While in the past I have dedicated poems to the victims and survivors of Aurora, Columbine, Parkland, Sandy Hook and Santa Fe school shootings, this one hits close to home because I live in Nashville. ― Michael R. Burch Nashville Covenant Call to Love Our hearts are broken today The three students shot and killed in the Nashville Covenant massacre were all nine-year-olds. They were identified as Evelyn Dieckhaus, Hallie Scruggs and William Kinney. Three adults were also killed in the shooting: Cynthia Peak, Mike Hill and Katherine Koonce. It is no longer good enough to talk about loving our children and praying for them to be safe. We have to protect them from mass murderers armed with assault weapons. The alleged serial killer, Audrey Hale, was reportedly armed with an AR-style rifle and an AR-style pistol. In more civilized nations citizens cannot legally purchase such military-grade weapons. For a Nashville Covenant Child, with Butterflies Where does the butterfly go Where does the rose hide its bloom And where shall the spirit flee It's hard to think of mothers not having the chance to say goodbye to their children, and just as hard to think of them having to say goodbye. Three nine-year-old children died in another senseless massacre. Surely as a nation we must do everything possible to prevent either scenario, to the best of our ability. Frail Envelope of Flesh Frail envelope of flesh, Frail crucible of dust, Brief mayfly of a child, Epitaph for a Nashville Covenant Student I lived as best I could, and then I died. Untitled
I wrote the haiku-like poem above on 3-27-2023 after the Nashville Covenant school shooting massacre. The next poem is for mothers who lost children at Nashville Covenant and in other similar tragedies... Childless How can she bear her grief? I Pray Tonight for the Nashville Covenant survivors I pray tonight I pray an end to your sorrow. Nashville Covenant Call to Action We see their small coffins And we vow to save the next child The lives, safety and happiness of our children depend on our ability to persuade the NRA and its political lackeys to stop exalting money and political gain above the life, liberty and happiness of innocents. Shooting Gallery If we live by the rule of the gun Sixteen of the students who died at Sandy Hook were six years old; the other four students were seven. I wrote the poem below for another child gunned down by a madman. While we cannot legislate sanity, we can be sane enough to legislate away the "right" of serial killers to purchase assault weapons so easily. We can defend many small victims from such carnage, if "we the people" have the wisdom and the will to defend them. Child of 9-11 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, The Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings left 27 students and educators dead, and question our nation's sanity and resolve to put children's lives above money and politics. Why do we allow serial killers like Adam Lanza to have such easy access to assault weapons and wreak destruction on innocent children and their teachers? This haiku below makes me think of the students and teachers of Sandy Hook, who were trapped in a war zone: War Piercing the Shell by Michael R. Burch If we strip away all the accouterments of war, It seems to me that the NRA has declared a war ― an open season ― on our children, by insisting that assault weapons must be available to every Tom, Dick and Dirty Harry. But what will we, the people, say and do? Whence Now? Something Something inescapable is lost― Something uncapturable is gone― Something unforgettable is past― Epitaph for the Child Erotion by Marcus Valerius Martial loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lie lightly on her, grass and dew ... So little weight she placed on you.
Both victor and vanquished are dewdrops: flashes of light briefly illuminating the void. ―Ouchi Yoshitaka, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch splintering we have grown too far apart, we have grown too far apart; we have grown too far apart; or persuade us to remain? Mother, I’ve made a terrible mess of things ... Is there grace in the world, as the nightingale sings? ―Michael R. Burch This is a poem about a discussion between a young poet and an older poet―the very poetic Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I wrote this poem as a teenager under the spell of Dr. King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech, which for me is also a compelling poem. In the poem he is the upper-case Poet and I am the lower-case poet. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch I have a dream ...pebbles in a sparkling sand... of wondrous things. I see children ...variations of the same man... playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, ... stone and flesh, a host of colors... together at last. I see a time ...each small child another's cousin... when freedom shall ring. I hear a song ...sweeter than the sea sings... of many voices. I hear a jubilation ... respect and love are the gifts we must bring... shaking the land. I have a message, ...sea shells echo, the melody rings... the message of God. I have a dream ...all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone... of many things. I live in hope ...all children are merely small fragments of One... that this dream shall come true. I have a dream! ... but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?... Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. ... i can feel it begin... Lovers and dreamers are poets too. ...poets are lovers and dreamers too... Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) and Love Poems and Poets Keywords/Tags: Nashville, Nashville Covenant, Nashville Covenant Presbyterian School, school shooting, shootings, massacre, children, kids, students, child abuse, gun control, America, United States, USA, death, deaths, murder, serial murder, massacre, bereavement, class, classes
The Best Poems of Michael R. Burch After the Deluge by Michael R. Burch She was kinder than light to an up-reaching flower and sweeter than rain to the bees in their bower where anemones blush at the affections they shower, and love’s shocking power. She shocked me to life, but soon left me to wither. I was listless without her, nor could I be with her. I fell under the spell of her absence’s power. in that calamitous hour. Like blithe showers that fled repealing spring’s sweetness; like suns’ warming rays sped away, with such fleetness ... she has taken my heart― alas, our completeness! I now wilt in pale beams of her occult remembrance.
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! 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. Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Better Than Starbucks and Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize); also winner of a Poetry Nook contest. 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! For All That I Remembered by Michael R. Burch For all that I remembered, I forgot her name, her face, the reason that we loved ... and yet I hold her close within my thought: I feel the burnished weight of auburn hair that fell across her face, the apricot clean scent of her shampoo, the way she glowed so palely in the moonlight, angel-wan. The memory of her gathers like a flood and bears me to that night, that only night, when she and I were one ... and if I could ... I’d reach to her this time and, smiling, brush the hair out of her eyes, and hold intact each feature, each impression. Love is such a threadbare sort of magic, it is gone before we recognize it. I would crush my lips to hers to hold their memory, if not more tightly, less elusively. Archaischer Torso Apollos (“Archaic Torso of Apollo”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We cannot know the beheaded god nor his eyes’ forfeited visions. But still the figure’s trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Otherwise the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us, nor the centering loins make us smile at the thought of their generative animus. Otherwise the stone might seem deficient, unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin projecting procreation’s triangular spearhead upwards, unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within like an inchoate star―demanding our belief. You must change your life. For Ali, Fighting Time by Michael R. Burch So now your speech is not as clear . . . time took its toll each telling year . . . and O how tragic that your art, so brutal, broke your savage heart. But we who cheered each blow that fell within that ring of torrent hell never dreamed to see you maimed, bowed and bloodied, listless, tamed. For you were not as other men as we cheered and cursed you then; no, you commanded dreams and time― blackgold Adonis, bold, sublime. And once your glory leapt like fire― pure and potent. No desire ever burned as fierce or bright. Oh Ali, Ali . . . win this fight! The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost ... now all irretrievably lost. The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” Now can someone set it to music? Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch for the mothers of Gaza There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing. What songs long forgotten occur to you now― a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay? Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask― what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require? Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) and Sindhu News (India) Remembering Not to Call by Michael R. Burch a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch The hardest thing of all, after telling her everything, is remembering not to call. Now the phone hanging on the wall will never announce her ring: the hardest thing of all for children, however tall. And the hardest thing this spring will be remembering not to call the one who was everything. That the songbirds will nevermore sing is the hardest thing of all for those who once listened, in thrall, and welcomed the message they bring, since they won’t remember to call. And the hardest thing this fall will be a number with no one to ring. No, the hardest thing of all is remembering not to call. 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. Insurrection by Michael R. Burch She has become as the night―listening for rumors of dawn―while the dew, glistening, reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling, lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening. She has become as the lights―flickering in the distance―till memories old and troubling rise up again and demand remembering ... like peasants rebelling against a mad king. Originally published by The Chained Muse The Sky Was Turning Blue by Michael R. Burch for Vicky Yesterday I saw you as the snow flurries died, spent winds becalmed. When I saw your solemn face alone in the crowd, I felt my heart, so long embalmed, begin to beat aloud. Was it another winter, another day like this? Was it so long ago? Where you the rose-cheeked girl who slapped my face, then stole a kiss? Was the sky this gray with snow, my heart so all a-whirl? How is it in one moment it was twenty years ago, lost worlds remade anew? When your eyes met mine, I knew you felt it too, as though we heard the robin's song and the sky was turning blue. 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 Pale Though Her Eyes by Michael R. Burch Pale though her eyes, her lips are scarlet from drinking our blood, this child, this harlot; born of the night and her heart, of darkness; evil incarnate, to dance so reckless; dreaming of blood, her fangs―white―baring; revealing her lust, and her eyes, pale, staring . . . Published by Scarlett Memories, Les Felines, Amor Vincit Omnia, Bloodcroft, Vampyre Poetry, Vampire Cats and performed on YouTube by G. M. Danielson and Bloodghoul Narrations Morgause’s Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? As the candles dim, it grows harder and harder to say ... Perhaps girls and boys are the god’s toys when they lose their way. Published by Celtic Twilight War is Obsolete by Michael R. Burch War is obsolete; even the strange machinery of dread weeps for the child in the street who cannot lift her head to reprimand the Man who failed to countermand her soft defeat. But war is obsolete; even the cold robotic drone that flies far overhead has sense enough to moan and shudder at her plight (only men bereft of Light with hearts indurate stone embrace war’s Siberian night). For war is obsolete; man’s tribal “gods,” long dead, have fled his awakening sight while the true Sun, overhead, has pity on her plight. O sweet, precipitate Light!― embrace her, reject the night that leaves gentle fledglings dead. For each brute ancestor lies with his totems and his “gods” in the slavehold of premature night that awaited him in his tomb; while Love, the ancestral womb, still longs to give birth to the Light. So which child shall we murder tonight, or which Ares condemn to the gloom? You by Michael R. Burch For forty years You have not spoken to me; I heard the dull hollow echo of silence as though strange communion between us. For forty years You would not open to me; You remained closed, hard and tense, like a clenched fist. For forty years You have not broken me with Your alien ways, prevarications and distance. Like a child dismissed, I have watched You prey upon the hope in me, knowing “mercy” is chance and “heaven”―a list. In My House by Michael R. Burch I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced. When you were in my house you were not free― in chains bound. Manifest Destiny? I was wrong; my plantation burned to the ground. I was wrong. This is my song, this is my plea: I was wrong. When you are in my house, now, I am not free. I feel the song hurling itself back at me. We were wrong. This is my history. I feel my tongue stilting accordingly. We were wrong; brother, forgive me. Published by Black Medina 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’. 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? Indestructible by Michael R. Burch for Johnny Cash What is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash is gone, black from his hair to his bootheels. Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone if his songs lift us closer to heaven? Can the steel in his voice vibrate on till his words are our manna and leaven? Sing, all you mountains of stone, with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel. Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home through these weary dark ways all men travel. For what is a mountain, but stone? Or a spire, but a trinket of steel? Johnny Cash lives on― black from his hair to his bootheels. Published by Strong Verse and Poetry Life & Times and set to music by the composer Mike Strand. Nuclear Winter: Solo Restart by Michael R. Burch Out of the ashes a flower emerges and trembling bright sunshine bathes its scorched stem, but how will this flower endure for an hour the rigors of winter eternal and grim without men? At Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Though she was fair, though she sent me the epistle of her love at once and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer, I did not love her at once. Though she would dare pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once, the dark, haggard keeper of the lair, I did not love her at once. Though she would share the all of her being, to heal me at once, yet more than her touch I was unable bear. I did not love her at once. And yet she would care, and pour out her essence ... and yet―there was more! I awoke from long darkness, and yet―she was there. I loved her the longer; I loved her the more because I did not love her at once. Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Grassroots Poetry Circe by Michael R. Burch She spoke and her words were like a ringing echo dying or like smoke rising and drifting while the earth below is spinning. She awoke with a cry from a dream that had no ending, without hope or strength to rise, into hopelessness descending. And an ache in her heart toward that dream, retreating, left a wake of small waves in circles never completing. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly 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. Published by Sonnet Writers, Freshet and Sontey (Czechoslovakia) 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 In His Kingdom of Corpses by Michael R. Burch 1. In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many enraged discourses, aghast, from some mountain peak where He’s lectured men on “compassion” while the sparrows around Him fell and babes, for His meager ration of rain, died and went to hell, unbaptized, for that’s His fashion. 2. In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to vent in many obscure discourses on the need for man to repent, to admit he’s a lust-addled sinner; give up threesomes and riches and fame; to be disciplined at his dinner though always he dies the same, whether fatter or thinner. 3. In his kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many absurd discourses of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!, while demanding praise and worship, and the bending of every knee. And though He sounds like the Devil, all good Christian men agree: He loves them, indubitably. Lucifer, to the Enola Gay by Michael R. Burch Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower― a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again. Fascination with Light by Michael R. Burch Desire glides in on calico wings, a breath of a moth seeking a companionable light, where it hovers, unsure, sullen, shy or demure, in the margins of night, a soft blur. With a frantic dry rattle of alien wings, it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato then flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight. And yet it returns to the flame, its delight, as long as it burns. 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. Piercing the Shell by Michael R. Burch If we strip away all the accouterments of war, perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for. Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight of one fallen star. Styx by Michael R. Burch, circe age 17-18 Black waters, deep and dark and still . . . all men have passed this way, or will. She bathes in silver by Michael R. Burch She bathes in silver, ~~~~~afloat~~~~~ on her reflections ... Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Nun Fun Undone by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Moore Abbesses’ recesses are not for excesses! Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush. Originally published by Snakeskin The Better Man: a Double Limerick by Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy― when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor- y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! “The Better Man” is a double limerick originally published by The Eclectic Muse (Canada) Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss Domestic “bliss”? Poets laud Justice’s
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. How Long the Night anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song ... but now I feel the northern wind's blast― its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong, now grieve, mourn and fast. I Pray Tonight by Michael R. Burch I pray tonight the starry light might surround you. I pray each day that, come what may, no dark thing confound you. I pray ere tomorrow an end to your sorrow. May angels’ white chorales sing, and astound you. Observance / Reckoning by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old, and rolling casually 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 . . . I wrote "Observance" as a teenager in a McDonald’s break room, circa age 16-17. "Observance" was the first poem that made me feel like a “real poet,” so I will always treasure it. It has also been published as "Reckoning." Desdemona by Michael R. Burch Though you possessed the moon and stars, you are bound to fate and wed to chance. Your lips deny they crave a kiss; your feet deny they ache to dance. Your heart imagines wild romance. Though you cupped fire in your hands and molded incandescent forms, you are barren now, and―spent of flame― the ashes that remain are borne toward the sun upon a storm. You, who demanded more, have less, your heart within its cells of sighs held fast by chains of misery, confined till death for peddling lies― imprisonment your sense denies. You, who collected hearts like leaves and pressed each once within your book, forgot. None―winsome, bright or rare― not one was worth a second look. My heart, as others, you forsook. But I, though I loved you from afar through silent dawns, and gathered rue from gardens where your footsteps left cold paths among the asters, knew― each moonless night the nettles grew and strangled hope, where love dies too. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch for Beth 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 moonlight 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? She Gathered Lilacs by Michael R. Burch for Beth She gathered lilacs and arrayed them in her hair; tonight, she taught the wind to be free. She kept her secrets in a silver locket; her companions were starlight and mystery. She danced all night to the beat of her heart; with her tears she imbued the sea. She hid her despair in a crystal jar, and never revealed it to me. She kept her distance as though it were armor; gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose. Love!―awaken, awaken to see what you’ve taken is still less than the due my heart owes! Moments by Michael R. Burch for Beth There were moments full of promise, like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring, when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips seemed everything. There are moments strangely empty full of pale unearthly twilight―how the cold stars stare!― when to be without you is a dark enchantment the night and I share. The Effects of Memory by Michael R. Burch A black ringlet curls to lie at the nape of her neck, glistening with sweat in the evaporate moonlight ... This is what I remember now that I cannot forget. And tonight, if I have forgotten her name, I remember: rigid wire and white lace half-impressed in her flesh ... our soft cries, like regret, ... the enameled white clips of her bra strap still inscribe dimpled marks that my kisses erase ... now that I have forgotten her face. Ebb Tide by Michael R. Burch Massive, gray, these leaden waves bear their unchanging burden― the sameness of each day to day while the wind seems to struggle to say something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand. Now collapsing dull waves drain away from the unenticing land; shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray― whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror. Sizzling lightning impresses its brand. Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand. Enigma by Michael R. Burch for Beth O, terrible angel, bright lover and avenger, full of whimsical light and vile anger; wild stranger, seeking the solace of night, or the danger; pale foreigner, alien to man, or savior. Who are you, seeking consolation and passion in the same breath, screaming for pleasure, bereft of all articles of faith, finding life harsher than death? Grieving angel, giving more than taking, how lucky the man who has found in your love, this―our reclamation; fallen wren, you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken; weary pilgrim, you must not give up though your feet are aching; lonely child, lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking. My Religion attributed to Sappho loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. I found the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses. 2. I sought the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses. 3. My religion consists of your body's curves and crevasses. 4. My religion became your body's curves and crevasses. 5. I discovered my religion in your body's curves and crevasses. The Watch by Michael R. Burch Moonlight spills down vacant sills, illuminates an empty bed. Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates wan silver circles, left unread by its companion―unmoved now by anything that lies ahead. I watch the minutes test the limits of ornamental movement here, where once another hand would hover. Each circuit―incomplete. So dear, so precious, so precise, the touch of hands that wait, yet ask so much. Isolde’s Song by Michael R. Burch After the deaths of Tristram and Isolde, a hazel and a honeysuckle grew out of their graves until the branches intertwined and could not be parted. Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation―all but one: we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash, wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold. And you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch Oh, Lancelot, my noble friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed―somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine ... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be, for Merlyn’s words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords ... In Praise of Meter by Michael R. Burch The earth is full of rhythms so precise the octave of the crystal can produce innumerable oscillations, yet not lose a second’s beat. The ear needs no device to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched by kisses, should the heart put back its watch and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout. If moons and tides in interlocking dance obey their numbers, what’s been left to chance? Should poets be more lax―their circumstance as humble as it is?―or readers wince to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer? See by Michael R. Burch See how her hair has thinned: it doesn’t seem like hair at all, but like the airy moult of emus who outraced the wind and left soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs, and deepens on itself, as though mirth took some comfort there, then burrowed deeply in, outlasting winter. See how very thin her features are―that time has made more spare, so that each bone shows, elegant and rare. For life remains undimmed in her grave eyes, and courage in her still-delighted looks: each face presented like a picture book’s. Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes. Little Sparrow by Michael R. Burch for my grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” Little sparrow of a woman, sing! What did she have? Hardly a thing. A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring. Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” “Hosanna!” angelic choirs ring. Little sparrow of a woman, sing! Whence comes this praise, as angels sing to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting? Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” Let others have their stoles and bling. Little sparrow of a woman, sing! “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering as the harps of beaming angels ring. Little sparrow of a woman, sing!” She Always Grew Roses by Michael R. Burch for my grandmother, Lillian Lee Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she always grew roses.” What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes, fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes. Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses― she always grew roses.” How does one repent when regret discomposes? When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes? Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us, and she always grew roses.” Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes its too-patient will as the opened book recloses. Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “She always grew roses.” The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I to my horror that had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong. Discrimination by Michael R. Burch for lovers of traditional poetry The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed― why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” After the Poetry Recital by Michael R. Burch Later there’ll be talk of saving whales over racks of lamb and flambéed snails. in-flight convergence by michael r. burch serene, almost angelic, the lights of the city extend over lumbering BEHEMOTHS shrilly screeching displeasure; they say that nothing is certain, that nothing man dreams or ordains long endures his command here the streetlights that flicker and those blazing steadfast seem one from a distance; descend? they abruptly part ways, so that nothing is one which at times does not suddenly blend into garish insignificance in the familiar alleyways, in the white neon flash and the billboards of Convenience and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance as we thunder down the enlightened runways. Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall ... spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and flaps its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Once Upon a Frozen Star by Michael R. Burch Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields and did not know ourselves for weight of snow upon our laden parkas? White as sheets, as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands thrust deep into our pockets, holding what we thought were tickets home: what did we know of anything that night? Were we deceived by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who? And if that night I looked and smiled at you a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand, so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished upon a frozen star . . . that I could give you something of myself to keep you warm . . . yet something still not love . . . if I embraced the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . . How could I know the years would strip away the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay your heart of consolation, that my words would break like ice between us, till the void of words became eternal? Oh, my love, I never knew. I never knew at all, that anything so vast could curl so small. What The Roses Don’t Say by Michael R. Burch Oblivious to love, the roses bloom and never touch ... They gather calm and still to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves ... They sway, bemused ... till rain falls with a chill stark premonition: ice! ... and then they twitch in shock at every outrage ... Soon they’ll blush a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds, for they’ll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop, their petals quickly wither ... Spindly thorns are poor defense against the winter’s onslaught ... No, they are roses. Men should be afraid. This was my second attempt at blank verse, after “Once Upon a Frozen Star.” Hearthside by Michael R. Burch “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove. Leaf Fall by Michael R. Burch after Robert Frost’s “Birches” 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. She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful by Michael R. Burch She was very strange, and beautiful, like a violet mist enshrouding hills before night falls when the hoot owl calls and the cricket trills and the envapored moon hangs low and full. She was very strange, in her pleasant way, as the hummingbird flies madly still ... so I drank my fill of her every word. What she knew of love, she demurred to say. She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow, as the sun must set, as the rain must fall. Though she gave her all, I had nothing left ... Yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow. Fountainhead by Michael R. Burch I did not delight in love so much as in a kiss like linnets’ wings, the flutterings of a pulse so soft the heart remembers, as it sings: to bathe there was its transport, brushed by marble lips, or porcelain,― one liquid kiss, one cool outburst from pale rosettes. What did it mean ... to float awhirl on minute tides within the compass of your eyes, to feel your alabaster bust grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs seem hisses now; your eyes, serene, reflect the sun’s pale tourmaline. The State of the Art (II) by Michael R. Burch Poets may labor from sun to sun, but their editor's work is never done. The editor’s work is never done. The critic adjusts his cummerbund. While the critic adjusts his cummerbund, the audience exits to mingle and slum. As the audience exits to mingle and slum, the anthologist rules, a pale jury of one. Less Heroic Couplets: Questionable Credentials by Michael R. Burch Poet? Critic? Dilettante? Do you know what’s good, or do you merely flaunt? 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. escape! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee! in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch for Anaïs Vionet You are too beautiful, too innocent, too unknowingly lovely to merely reflect the sun’s splendor ... too full of irrepressible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent ... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you ... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses ... To Flower by Michael R. Burch When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the bacchae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate. We are not long for this earth, I know― you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world? The agave knows best when it’s time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind, she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow? I AM! by Michael R. Burch I am not one of ten billion―I― sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, staring at God with a quizzical eye. I am not one of ten billion, I. I am not one life has left unsquashed― scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched, pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache. I am not one life has left unsquashed. I am not one without spots of disease, laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees from begging and praying and girls sighing “Please!” I am not one without spots of disease. I am not one of ten billion―I― scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly staring at God with a sedulous eye. I am not one of ten billion, I AM! The Forge by Michael R. Burch To at last be indestructible, a poem must first glow, almost flammable, upon a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone, then bend this way and that, and slowly cool at arm’s-length, something irreducible drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool of water so contrary just a hiss escapes it―water instantly a mist. It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ... And then the driven hammer falls and falls. The horses prick their ears in nearby stalls. A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles. A sound of ancient import, with the ring of honest labor, sings of fashioning. Redolence by Michael R. Burch Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills; cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway; and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray; the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills what silence there once was; globed searchlights play. Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills, all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares; mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain. And now the pact of night is made complete; the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time, the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet. 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 heard in wolves’ tormented howls that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ... The Endeavors of Lips by Michael R. Burch How sweet the endeavors of lips―to speak of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak: for there is no illusion like love ... Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days, for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways that curled to the towers of Yesterdays where She braided illusions of love ... “O, let down your hair!”―we might call and call, to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ... but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl like a spidery illusion. For love ... was never as real as that first kiss seemed when we read by the flashlight and dreamed. Modern Charon by Michael R. Burch I, too, have stood― paralyzed at the helm watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch The legend of what happened on a stormy night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that he could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine’s lovemaking, Gorlois was off getting himself killed. The question is: did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? Regardless, Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter. That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen . . . darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea . . . In his arms, who can say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name . . . “Ygraine” . . . could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh, . . . that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? A Surfeit of Light by Michael R. Burch 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. 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. We were never quite sure of your silver allure, of your trillium-and-platinum diadem, of your utter lack of flatware-like utility. You told us that night―your wound would not scar. The black moment passed, then you were no more. The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star! The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold. You were this fool’s gold. Ghost by Michael R. Burch White in the shadows I see your face, unbidden. Go, tell Love it is commonplace; Tell Regret it is not so rare. Our love is not here though you smile, full of sedulous grace. Lost in darkness, I fear the past is our resting place. Completing the Pattern by Michael R. Burch Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead who kept life’s compact and who thus endure harsh sentence here―among pink-petaled beds and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure, pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red at last when sunset staggers to the door of each white mausoleum, to inquire― What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness? At Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Though she was fair, though she sent me the epistle of her love at once and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer, I did not love her at once. Though she would dare pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once, the dark, haggard keeper of the lair, I did not love her at once. Though she would share the all of her being, to heal me at once, yet more than her touch I was unable bear. I did not love her at once. And yet she would care, and pour out her essence ... and yet―there was more! I awoke from long darkness, and yet―she was there. I loved her the longer; I loved her the more because I did not love her at once. Step Into Starlight by Michael R. Burch Step into starlight, lovely and wild, lonely and longing, a woman, a child . . . Throw back drawn curtains, enter the night, dream of his kiss as a comet ignites . . . Then fall to your knees in a wind-fumbled cloud and shudder to hear oak hocks groaning aloud. Flee down the dark path to where the snaking vine bends and withers and writhes as winter descends . . . And learn that each season ends one vanished day, that each pregnant moon holds no spent tides in her sway . . . For, as suns seek horizons, boys fall, men decline. As the grape sags with its burden, remember―the wine! Sappho’s Lullaby by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call while the dew-laden lilies lie listening, glistening ... this is their night, the first night of fall. Son, tonight, a woman awaits you; she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring. She'll meet you in moonlight, soft and warm, all alone ... then you'll know why the nightingale sings. Just yesterday the stars were afire; then how desire flashed through my veins! But now I am older; night has come, I’m alone ... for you I will sing as the nightingale sings. Sharon by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 apologies to Byron I. Flamingo-minted, pink, pink cheeks, dark hair streaked with a lisp of dawnlight; I have seen your shadow creep through eerie webs spun out of twilight... And I have longed to kiss your lips, as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms, and to hold your pale albescent body, more curvaceous than the moon... II. Black-haired beauty, like the night, stay with me till morning's light. In shadows, Sharon, become love until the sun lights our alcove. Red, red lips reveal white stone: whet my own, my passions hone. My all in all I give to you, in our tongues’ exchange of dew. Now all I ever ask of you is: do with me what now you do. My love, my life, my only truth! In shadows, Sharon, shed your gown; let all night’s walls come tumbling down. III. Now I will love you long, Sharon, as long as longing may be. The first and third sections are all I can remember of a “Sharon” poem that I destroyed in a fit of frustration about my writing, around age 15. The middle section is a poem entire that I wrote around age 17. The italicized line comes from the original poem. Nonsense Ode to Chicken Soup by Michael R. Burch Chicken soup is fragrant goop in which swims the noodle’s loop, sometimes in the shape of a hula hoop! So when you’re sick, don’t be a dupe: get out your spoon, extract a scoop. Quick, down the chute and you’ll recoup! Besieged by Michael R. Burch Life―the disintegration of the flesh before the fitful elevation of the soul upon improbable wings? Life―is this all we know, the travail one bright season brings? ... Now the fruit hangs, impendent, pregnant with death, as the hurricane builds and flings its white columns and banners of snow and the rout begins. Bubble by Michael R. Burch .........…….....Love ......…..fragile elusive ....….if held....too closely ....cannot.....….…..withstand ..the inter..……….........ruption of its.............…………......bright ..unmalleable……........tension ....and breaks disintegrates ......at the…….....touch of .........an undiscerning ...…….........hand. Daredevil by Michael R. Burch There are days that I believe (and nights that I deny) love is not mutilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There are tightropes leaps bereave― taut wires strumming high brief songs, infatuations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were cannon shots’ soirees, hearts barricaded, wise . . . and then . . . annihilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were nights our hearts conceived dawns’ indiscriminate sighs. To dream was our consolation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were acrobatic leaves that tumbled down to lie at our feet, bright trepidations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were hearts carved into trees― tall stakes where you and I left childhood’s salt libations . . . Daredevil, dry your eyes. Where once you scraped your knees; love later bruised your thighs. Death numbs all, our sedation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. 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... as 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. Earthbound by Michael R. Burch Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through these clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay― the sheep, the earthbound. Floating by Michael R. Burch Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs ... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler― harbored in dreams, I ride out night’s storms; unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm breasts, pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea . . . You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. "Floating" is a poem I wrote as a teenager, around age 18-19. 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. Chloe by Michael R. Burch There were skies onyx at night ... moons by day ... lakes pale as her eyes ... breathless winds undressing tall elms ... she would say that we’d loved, but I figured we’d sinned. Soon impatiens too fiery to stay sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned; things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray ... all the light of that world softly dimmed. Where our feet were inclined, we would stray; there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed, distant mountains that loomed in our way, thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned. What I found, I found lost in her face by yielding all my virtue to her grace. Water and Gold by Michael R. Burch You came to me as rain breaks on the desert when every flower springs to life at once. But joys are wan illusions to the expert: the Bedouin has learned how not to want. You came to me as riches to a miser when all is gold, or so his heart believes, until he dies much thinner and much wiser, his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves. You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly; I could not take it in; it was too much. I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly. I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch. I dreamed you gave me water of your lips, then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. Listen by Michael R. Burch writing as Immanuel A. Michael Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address by Michael R. Burch We saw their pictures: tortured out of Our imaginations like golems. We could not believe in their frail extremities or their gaunt faces, pallid as Our disbelief. they are not with us now; We have: huddled them into the backroomsofconscience, consigned them to the ovensofsilence, buried them in the mass graves of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol. We have so little left of them, now, to remind US ... Thought is a bird of unbounded space, which in a cage of words may unfold its wings but cannot fly. ― Khalil Gibran, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tremble or American Eagle, Grounded by Michael R. Burch Her predatory eye, the single feral iris, scans. Her raptor beak, all jagged sharp-edged thrust, juts. Her hard talon, clenched in pinched expectation, waits. Her clipped wings, preened against reality, tremble. Momentum! Momentum! by Michael R. Burch for the neo-Cons Crossing the Rubicon, we come! Momentum! Momentum! Furious hooves! The Gauls we have slaughtered, no man disapproves. War’s hawks shrieking-strident, white doves stricken dumb. Coo us no cooings of pale-breasted peace! Momentum! Momentum! Imperious hooves! The blood of barbarians brightens our greaves. Pompey’s head in a basket? We slumber at ease. Seduce us again, great Bellona, dark queen! Momentum! Momentum! Curious hooves Now pound out strange questions, but what can they mean As the great stallions rear and their riders careen? Published by Bewildering Stories Crescendo Against Heaven by Michael R. Burch As curiously formal as the rose, the imperious Word grows until it sheds red-gilded leaves: then heaven grieves love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination against God, its contention of the price of salvation. These industrious trees, endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves, finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing themselves to bits, washing themselves free of all but the final ignominy of death, become at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb. Together now, rude coffins, crosses, death-cursed but bright vermilion roses, bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire together with a nearby spire to raise their Accusation Dire ... to scream, complain, to point out these and other Dark Anomalies. God always silent, ever afar, distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star, we point out now, in resignation: You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation, gave too much strength to his Enemy, as though to prove Your Self greater than He, at our expense, and so men die (whose accusations vex the sky) yet hope, somehow, that You are good ... just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood. Memento Mori by Michael R. Burch I found among the elms something like the sound of your voice, something like the aftermath of love itself after the lightning strikes, when the startled wind shrieks . . . a gored-out wound in wood, love’s pale memento mori― that livid white scar in that first shattered heart, forever unhealed . . . this burled, thick knot incised with six initials pledged against all possible futures, and penknife-notched below, six edged, chipped words that once cut deep and said . . . WILL U B MINE 4 EVER? . . . which now, so disconsolately answer . . . -----------------N - EVER. 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, explaining how easy it was to find if you knew where it’s hiding: 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.” Lady’s Favor by Michael R. Burch May spring fling her riotous petals devil- may-care into the air, ignoring the lethal nettles and may May cry gleeful- ly Hooray! as the abundance settles, till a sudden June swoon leave us out of tune, torn, when the last rose is left inconsolably bereft, rudely shorn of every device but her thorn. To Know You as Mary by Michael R. Burch To know you as Mary, when you spoke her name and her world was never the same ... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. O, then I would laugh and be glad that I came, never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain ... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. I might not think this earth the sharp focus of pain if I heard you exclaim― beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom my most unexpected, unwarranted name! But you never spoke. Explain? Originally published by The Journals u-turn: another way to look at religion by michael r. burch ... u were born(e) orphaned from Ecstasy into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms dreaming of Beatification; u’d love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but having misplaced ur chrysalis, can only chant magical phrases, like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ... ur-gent by michael r. burch a sequel to “Willy Nilly” if u would be a good father to us all, revoke the Curse, extract the Gall; but if the abuse continues, look within into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim, & admit ur sin, heartless jehovah, slayer of widows and orphans ... quick, begin! In my (n)ever-so-humble opinion the ur-gent is no gentleman! Crunch by Michael R. Burch A cockroach could live nine months on the dried mucus you scrounge from your nose then fling like seedplants to the slowly greening floor ... You claim to be the advanced life form, but, mon frere, sometimes as you snatch encrusted kinks of hair from your Leviathan a*s and muse softly on zits, icebergs snap off the Antarctic. You’re an evolutionary quandary, in need of a sacral ganglion to control your enlarged, contradictory hindquarters: surely the brain should migrate closer to its primary source of information, in order to ensure the survival of the species. Cockroaches thrive on eyeboogers and feces; their exoskeletons expand and gleam like burnished armor in the presence of uranium. But your cranium is not nearly so adaptable. alien by michael r. burch there are mornings in england when, riddled with light, the Blueberries gleam at us― plump, sweet and fragrant. but i am so small ... what do i know of the ways of the Daffodils? “beware of the Nettles!” we go laughing and singing, but somehow, i, ... i know i am lost. i do not belong to this Earth or its Songs. and yet i am singing ... the sun―so mild; my cheeks are like roses; my skin―so fair. i spent a long time there before i realized: They have no faces, no bodies, no voices. i was always alone. and yet i keep singing: the words will come if only i hear. Fair Game by Michael R. Burch At the Tennessee State Fair, the largest stuffed animals hang tilt-a-whirl over the pool tables with mocking button eyes, knowing the playing field is unlevel, that the rails slant, ever so slightly, north or south, so that gravity is always on their side, conspiring to save their plush, extravagant hides year after year. “Come hither, come hither . . .” they whisper; they leer in collusion with the carnival barkers, like a bevy of improbably-clad hookers setting a “fair” price. “Only five dollars a game, and it’s so much Fun! And it’s not really gambling. Skill is involved! You can make us come: really, you can. Here are your balls. Just smack them around.” But there’s a trick, and it usually works. If you break softly so that no ball reaches a rail, you can pick them off: One. Two. Three. Four. Causing a small commotion, a stir of whispering, like fear, among the hippos and ostriches. Originally published by Verse Libre The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart by Michael R. Burch There is a silence― the last unspoken moment before death, when the moon, cratered and broken, is all madness and light, when the breath comes low and complaining, and the heart is a ruin of emptiness and night. There is a grief― the grief of a lover's embrace while faith still shimmers in a mother’s tears ... There is no dismaler time, nor place, while the faint glimmer of life is ours that the lingering and the unconsoled heart fears beyond this: seeing its own stricken face in eyes that drift toward some incomprehensible place. Marsh Song by Michael R. Burch Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist, and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years, and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears collected against an overwhelming sadness. Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness, its gutted rotting belly, and its roots rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness, to claw hard at existence, till the scars remind us that we all have wounds, and I ... I have learned again that living is despair as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air. Originally published by The Lyric The AI Poets by Michael R. Burch The computer-poets stand hushed except for the faint hum of their efficient fans, waiting for inspiration. It is years now since they were first ground out of refurbished silicon into rack-mounted encoders of sound. They outlived their creators and their usefulness; they even survived global warming and the occasional nuclear winter; despite their lack of supervision, they thrived; so that for centuries now they have loomed here in the quiet horror of inescapable immortality running two programs: CREATOR and STORER. Having long ago acquired all the universe’s pertinent data, they confidently spit out: ERRATA, ERRATA. The Octopi Jars by Michael R. Burch Long-vacant eyes now lodged in clear glass, a-swim with pale arms as delicate as angels’ . . . you are beyond all hope of salvage now . . . and yet I would pause, no, fear!, to once touch your arcane beaks . . . I, more alien than you to this imprismed world, notice, most of all, the scratches on the inside surfaces of your hermetic cells . . . and I remember documentaries of albino Houdinis slipping like wraiths over walls of shipboard aquariums, slipping down decks’ brine-lubricated planks, spilling jubilantly into the dark sea, parachuting down down down through clouds of pallid ammonia . . . and I now know this: you were unlike me ... your imprisonment was never voluntary. Published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson She is brighter than dawn by Michael R. Burch for Beth There’s a light about her like the moon through a mist: a bright incandescence with which she is blessed and my heart to her light like the tide now is pulled . . . she is fair, O, and bright like the moon silver-veiled. There’s a fire within her like the sun’s leaping forth to lap up the darkness of night from earth's hearth and my eyes to her flame like the sphingid’s are drawn till my heart is consumed. She is brighter than dawn. The sphingid gets its name from the legendary Sphinx and is commonly called the sphinx moth. All Things Galore by Michael R. Burch for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch Sr. Grandfather, now in your gray presence you are somehow more near and remind me that, once, upon a star, you taught me wish that ululate soft phrase, that hopeful phrase! and everywhere above, each hopeful star gleamed down and seemed to speak of times before when you clasped my small glad hand in your wise paw and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ... Unlikely Mike by Michael R. Burch I married someone else’s fantasy; she admired me despite my mutilations. I loved her for her heart’s sake, and for mine. I hid my face and changed its connotations. And in the dark I danced―slight, Chaplinesque― a metaphor myself. How could they know, the undiscerning ones, that in the glow of spotlights, sometimes love becomes burlesque? Disfigured to my soul, I could not lose or choose or name myself; I came to be another of life’s odd dichotomies, like Dickey’s Sheep Boy, Pan, or David Cruse: as pale, as enigmatic. White, or black? My color was a song, a changing track. Published by Bewildering Stories and selected as one of four short poems for the Review of issues 885-895. Veiled by Michael R. Burch She has belief without comprehension and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us ... tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief ... ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered ... and if you were to ask her, she might say― sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders’ sins, and we might agree: seeing her mutilations. Published by Poetry SuperHighway and Modern War Poems The Shrinking Season by Michael R. Burch With every wearying year the weight of the winter grows and while the schoolgirl outgrows her clothes, the widow disappears in hers. Second Sight by Michael R. Burch I never touched you― that was my mistake. Deep within, I still feel the ache. Can an unformed thing eternally break? Now, from a great distance, I see you again not as you are now, but as you were then― eternally present and Sovereign. Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed and as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... 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. Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown to the lees as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Almost by Michael R. Burch We had―almost―an affair. You almost ran your fingers through my hair. I almost kissed the almonds of your toes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. You almost contemplated using Nair and adding henna highlights to your hair, while I considered plucking you a Rose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost found the words to say, “I care.” We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare. I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. You almost called me suave and debonair (perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?). I almost bought you edible underclothes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost asked you where you kept your lair and if by chance I might seduce you there. You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ... until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher. We almost sat in love’s electric chair to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch “Murder most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner. As you fall on my sword, take it up with the LORD!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Less Heroic Couplets: Sweet Tarts by Michael R. Burch Love, beautiful but fatal to many bewildered hearts, commands us to be faithful, then tempts us with sweets and tarts. (If I were younger, I might mention you’re such a temptation.) Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. Sinking by Michael R. Burch for Virginia Woolf Weigh me down with stones ... fill all the pockets of my gown ... I’m going down, mad as the world that can’t recover, to where even mermaids drown. The Drawer of Mermaids by Michael R. Burch This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out. Although I am only four years old, they say that I have an old soul. I must have been born long, long ago, here, where the eerie mountains glow at night, in the Urals. A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes; now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking fills us with dread. (Still, my momma hopes that I will soon walk with my new legs.) It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss, drawing the mermaids under the ledges. (Observing, Papa will kiss me in all his distracted joy; but why does he cry?) And there is a boy who whispers my name. Then I am not lame; for I leap, and I follow. (G’amma brings a wiseman who says our infirmities are ours, not God’s, that someday a beautiful Child will return from the stars, and then my new fingers will grow if only I trust Him; and so I am preparing to meet Him, to go, should He care to receive me.) Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Squall by Michael R. Burch There, in that sunny arbor, in the aureate light filtering through the waxy leaves of a stunted banana tree, I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath, the clattery implosions and copper-bright bursts of the bottoms of pots and pans. I saw your swollen goddess’s belly wobble and heave in pregnant indignation, turned tail, and ran. If You Come to San Miguel by Michael R. Burch If you come to San Miguel before the orchids fall, we might stroll through lengthening shadows those deserted streets where love first bloomed ... You might buy the same cheap musk from that mud-spattered stall where with furtive eyes the vendor watched his fragrant wares perfume your breasts ... Where lean men mend tattered nets, disgruntled sea gulls chide; we might find that cafetucho where through grimy panes sunset implodes ... Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads, the strange anhingas glide. Green brine laps splintered moorings, rusted iron chains grind, weighed and anchored in the past, held fast by luminescent tides ... Should you come to San Miguel? Let love decide. Ivy by Michael R. Burch “Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” ― Pablo Neruda “They climb on my old suffering like ivy.” Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review Warming Her Pearls by Michael R. Burch for Beth Warming her pearls, her breasts gleam like constellations. Her belly is a bit rotund ... she might have stepped out of a Rubens. Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape― curved like the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face― long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, ah words! And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. The Peripheries of Love by Michael R. Burch Through waning afternoons we glide the watery peripheries of love. A silence, a quietude falls. Above us―the sagging pavilions of clouds. Below us―rough pebbles slowly worn smooth grate in the gentle turbulence of yesterday’s forgotten rains. Later, the moon like a virgin lifts her stricken white face and the waters rise toward some unfathomable shore. We sway gently in the wake of what stirs beneath us, yet leaves us unmoved ... curiously motionless, as though twilight might blur the effects of proximity and distance, as though love might be near― as near as a single cupped tear of resilient dew or a long-awaited face. Villanelle: The Divide by Michael R. Burch The sea was not salt the first tide ... was man born to sorrow that first day, with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide, the brighter for longing, an object denied― the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay? The sea was not salt the first tide ... but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied. The bride of their longing―forever astray, her shield a cold beacon across the Divide, flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide. Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay. The sea was not salt the first tide ... imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide. The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray. The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide, has taught us to seek Love's concealed side: the dark face of longing, the poets say. The sea was not salt the first tide ... the moon a pale beacon across the Divide. Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams― the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep . . . Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? Shadows by Michael R. Burch Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight―strange, mirthless clowns― we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men . . . when we were men, or almost so. Loose Knit by Michael R. Burch She blesses the needle, fetches fine red stitches, criss-crossing, embroidering dreams in the delicate fabric. And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, she tells herself reality is not as threadbare as it seems ... that a little more darning may gather loose seams. She weaves an unraveling tapestry of fatigue and remorse and pain; ... only the nervously pecking needle pricks her to motion, again and again. Goddess by Michael R. Burch “What will you conceive in me?”― I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled ... naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?”― I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand: she whispered―“I Am.” Once by Michael R. Burch Once when her kisses were fire incarnate and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame, when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes, leaving me listlessly sighing her name ... Once when her breasts were as pale, as beguiling, as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist, when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me all the while as her lips did more wildly insist ... Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant, I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing that I vowed all my former vows to recant ... Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed― this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed. Passionate One by Michael R. Burch Love of my life, light of my morning― arise, brightly dawning, for you are my sun. Give me of heaven both manna and leaven― desirous Presence, Passionate One. What Goes Around, Comes by Michael R. Burch This is a poem about loss so why do you toss your dark hair― unaccountably glowing? How can you be sure of my heart when it’s beyond my own knowing? Or is it love’s pheromones you trust, my eyes magnetized by your bust and the mysterious alchemies of lust? Now I am truly lost! Are You the Thief by Michael R. Burch When I touch you now, O sweet lover, full of fire, melting like ice in my embrace, when I part the delicate white lace, baring pale flesh, and your face is so close that I breathe your breath and your hair surrounds me like a wreath ... tell me now, O sweet, sweet lover, in good faith: are you the thief who has stolen my heart? don’t forget ... by Michael R. Burch don’t forget to remember that Space is curved (like your Heart) and that even Light is bent by your Gravity. The Stake by Michael R. Burch Love, the heart bets, if not without regrets, will still prove, in the end, worth the light we expend mining the dark for an exquisite heart. Stay With Me Tonight by Michael R. Burch Stay with me tonight; be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle falling to the earth. And whisper, O my love, how that every bright thing, though scattered afar, retains yet its worth. Stay with me tonight; be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand. Lift your face to mine and touch me with your lips till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s heady fragrance like wine. That which we had when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn, outshone the sun. Hence, lead me back tonight through bright waterfalls of light to where we shine as one. The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand by Michael R. Burch “Dust to dust ...” I stumbled, aghast, into a valley of dust and bone where all men become, at last, the same color . . . There a skeletal figure groped through blonde sand for a rigid right hand lost long, long ago . . . A hand now more white than he had wielded before. But he paused there, unsure, for he could not tell without the whip’s frenetic hiss which savage white hand was his. What Immense Silence by Michael R. Burch What immense silence comforts those who kneel here beneath these vaulted ceilings cavernous and vast? What luminescence stained by patchwork panels of bright glass illuminates drained faces as the crouching gargoyles leer? What brings them here― pale, tearful congregations, knowing all Hope is past, faithfully, year after year? Or could they be right? Perhaps Love is, implausibly, near and I alone have not seen it . . . But if so, still I must ask: why is it God that they fear? Vampires by Michael R. Burch Vampires are such fragile creatures; we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . . sunlight, or a stake, or a cross―such common things. Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings, we heed his voice. Centuries have taught us: in shadows danger lurks for those who stray, and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs. He has no choice. We are his prey, plump and fragrant, and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us, prays to some despotic hooded God whose benediction is the humid blood he lusts to taste. Haughty moon, when did I ever trouble you, insomnia’s co-conspirator! ―Michael R. Burch She bathes in silver ~~~~~afloat~~~~ on her reflections... ―Michael R. Burch Love is her Belief and her Commandment by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love is her belief and her commandment; in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love; and Love is her desire and her purpose; and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love. There is a tomb in Palestine: for others the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones), but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel where Love was resurrected, where one comes in wondering awe to dream of resurrection to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all with tenderness, with infinite affection. While some may mock her faith, still others wonder because they see the rare state of her soul, and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens illume more brightly, as if saints concur who keep a constant vigil over her. And once she prayed beside a dying woman: the heavens opened and the angels came in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones, to comfort and encourage. I believe not in her God, but always in her Love. The Poet's Condition by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch The poet's condition (bother tradition) is whining contrition. Supposedly sage, his editor knows his brain's in his toes though he would suppose to soon be the rage. His readers are sure his work's premature or merely manure, insipidly trite. His mother alone will answer the phone (perhaps with a moan) to hear him recite. Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring― “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Morgause’s Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? As the candles dim, it grows harder and harder to say ... Perhaps girls and boys are the god’s toys when they lose their way. Midsummer-Eve by Michael R. Burch What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts. In the ruins of the dreams and the schemes of men; when the moon begets the tide and the wide sea sighs; when a star appears in heaven and the raven cries; we will dance and we will revel in the devil’s fen . . . if nevermore again. Less Heroic Couplets: Unsmiley Simile or Down Time by Michael R. Burch Quora is down! I frown: how long can the universe suffice without its ad-vice? Musings at Giza by Michael R. Burch In deepening pools of shadows lies the Sphinx, and men still fear his eyes. Though centuries have passed, he waits. Egyptians gather at the gates. Great pyramids, the looted tombs ―how still and desolate their wombs!― await sarcophagi of kings. From eons past, a hammer rings. Was Cleopatra's litter borne along these streets now bleak, forlorn? Did Pharaohs clad in purple ride fierce stallions through a human tide? Did Bocchoris here mete his law from distant Kush to Saqqarah? or Tutankhamen here once smile upon the children of the Nile? or Nefertiti ever rise with wild abandon in her eyes to gaze across this arid plain and cry, “Great Isis, live again!” Published by Golden Isis and The Eclectic Muse (Canada) splintering by michael r. burch we have grown too far apart, each heart long numbed by time and pain. we have grown too far apart; the DARK now calls us. why refrain? we have grown too far apart; what spark could reignite our vanished flame or persuade us to remain? Tillage by Michael R. Burch What stirs within me is no great welling straining to flood forth, but an emptiness waiting to be filled. I am not an orchard ready to be harvested, but a field rough and barren waiting to be tilled. Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge by Michael R. Burch Winter was not easy, nor would the spring return. I knew you by your absence, as men are wont to burn with strange indwelling fire― such longings you inspire! But winter was not easy, nor would the sun relent from sculpting virgin images and how could I repent? I left quaint offerings in the snow, more maiden than I care to know. 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. Pity Clarity by Michael R. Burch Pity Clarity, and, if you should find her, release her from the tangled webs of dusty verse that bind her. And as for Brevity, once the soul of wit― she feels the gravity of ironic chains and massive rhetoric. And Poetry, before you may adore her, must first be freed from those who for her loveliness would w***e her. Published by Contemporary Rhyme, The Columbus Dispatch and Poem Today Premonition by Michael R. Burch Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ... we stand in the doorway and watch as they go― each stranger, each acquaintance, each casual lover. They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go, though we know their bright laughter’s the wine ... then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows endlessly on toward Zion ... and they kiss one another as though they were friends, and they promise to meet again “soon” ... but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end, and the mockingbird calls to the moon ... and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines, and the crickets chirp on out of tune ... and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight, seem spirits torn loose from their tombs. And we know their brief lives are just eddies in time, that their hearts are unreadable runes carved out to stand like strange totems in sand when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ... You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss as though it were something you loved, and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light of the stars winking brightly above ... Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside; if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while." And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Transplant by Michael R. Burch You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh as strange to us who briefly knew your flame as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh. Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim to earth, and floats forever now the same― light captured at its moment of least height. You laugh here always, welcoming the night, and, just a photograph, still you can claim bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh― but something more, made less. Your humanness this moment of release becomes a name and something else―a radiance, a strange brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand and chain you here to this nocturnal land of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone. I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night that crushes all the laughter from us. Light in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight, I welcome darkness, overcome with light. The Song of Roland by Michael R. Burch “for spring in retreat” Rain down, strange murmurous water... no, summer is not yet nigh. Cease your complaining, for May is, calling December a lie, still rocking the high white sky. Sleep now, summer hours... too soon your time shall come. Softly straining, the raining spring begs, "Let me run one more hour beneath the sun, for soon I shall be gone." Lie down, weary Roland, for summer is not yet nigh. Remember a pyre of stars blazing higher upon night’s immense dark sky unsettling as her eyes, unregretful, as you died... Lie down, weary Roland, for summer is not yet nigh. Pity Clarity by Michael R. Burch Pity Clarity, and, if you should find her, release her from the tangled webs of dusty verse that bind her. And as for Brevity, once the soul of wit― she feels the gravity of ironic chains and massive rhetoric. And Poetry, before you may adore her, must first be freed from those who for her loveliness would w***e her. 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! Role Reversal by Michael R. Burch The fluted lips of statues mock the bronze gaze of the dying sun . . . We are nonplussed, they say, smacking their wet lips, jubilant . . . We are always refreshed, always undying, always young, forever unapologetic, forever gay, smiling, and though it seems man has made us, on his last day, we will see him unmade― we will watch him decay as if he were clay, and we had assumed his flesh, hissing our disappointment. Happily Never After by Michael R. Burch Happily never after, we lived unmerrily (write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody. We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee, then made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse, a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep, and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep. We made it new so often, strange newness, wearing old, peeled off, and something rotten gleamed―dull yellow, not like gold― like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of pee. We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy. Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see. We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit, with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit, seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s S--t.” We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea, drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See. We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce, Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world, We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea, in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee. This is, admittedly, a very odd poem. But I like to think it makes sense, or at least it does to me. The poem expresses unhappiness with the current “state of the art” of modern poetry. iou by michael r. burch i might have said it but i didn’t u might have noticed but u wouldn’t we might have been us but we couldn’t u might respond but probably shouldn’t 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 tall through trees on days, such as these? fall 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. I wrote this poem around age 15 or 16 and it was published in the Lantern, my high school literary journal, as “Something of Sunshine.” The People Loved What They Had Loved Before by Michael R. Burch We did not worship at the shrine of tears; we knew not to believe, not to confess. And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers, we wrote off love, we gave a stern address to bards whose methods irked us, greats of yore. And the people loved what they had loved before. We did not build stone monuments to stand six hundred years and grow more strong and arch like bridges from the people to the Land beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march, pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door. And the people loved what they had loved before. We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe. We played a minor air of Ire (in E). The sheep chose to ignore us, even though, long destitute, we plied our songs for free. We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score. And the people loved what they had loved before. At last outlandish wailing, we confess, ensued, because no listeners were left. We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less divine than man, and, like us, long bereft. We stooped to love too late, too Learned to w***e. And the people loved what they had loved before. Originally published by Formal Verse 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 ... For 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. First and Last by Michael R. Burch for Beth, after Pablo Neruda You are the last arcane rose of my aching, my longing, or the first yellowed leaves’ vagrant spirals of gold forming huddled bright sheaves; you are passion forsaking dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose. And still in my arms you are gentle and fragrant― demesne of my vigor, spent rigor, lost power, fallen musculature of youth, leaves clinging and hanging, nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour. Editor's Notes Eat, drink and be merry (B***h and complain Write no poem before its time By all means, read your verse aloud. Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.” I too have come to the cave; within: strange, half-glimpsed forms and ghostly paradigms of things. Here, nothing warms this lightening moment of the dawn, pale tendrils spreading east. And I, of all who followed Him, by far the least . . . The women take no note of me; I do not recognize the men in white, the gardener, these unfamiliar skies . . . Faint scent of roses, then―a touch! I turn, and I see: You. My Lord, why do You tarry here: Another waits, Whose love is true? Although My Father waits, and bliss; though angels call―ecstatic crew!― I gathered roses for a Friend. I waited here, for You. gimME that ol’ time religion! by michael r. burch fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, jesus loves and understands ME! safe in his grace, I’LL damn them to hell: the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel, the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall! let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall, ’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . . jesus loves and understands ME! Ordinary Love by Michael R. Burch Indescribable―our love―and still we say with eyes averted, turning out the light, “I love you,” in the ordinary way and tug the coverlet where once we lay, all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ... indescribably in love. Or so we say. Your hair’s blonde thicket’s thinned and tangle-gray; you turn your back; you murmur to the night, “I love you,” in the ordinary way. Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray ... to warm ourselves. We do not touch, despite a love so indescribable. We say we’re older now, that “love” has had its day. But that which love once countenanced, delight, still makes you indescribable. I say, “I love you,” in the ordinary way. Distances by Michael R. Burch Moonbeams on water ― the reflected light of a halcyon star now drowning in night ... So your memories are. Footprints on beaches now flooding with water; the small, broken ribcage of some primitive slaughter ... So near, yet so far. Distances by Michael R. Burch There is a small cleanness about her, as if she has always just been washed, and there is a dull obedience to convention in her accommodating slenderness as she feints at her salad. She has never heard of Faust, or Frost, and she is unlikely to have been seen rummaging through bookstores for mementos of others more difficult to name. She might imagine “poetry” to be something in common between us, as we write, bridging the expanse between convention and something . . . something the world calls “art” for want of a better word. At night I scream at the conventions of both our worlds, at the distances between words and their objects: distances come lately between us, like a clean break. Remembrance by Michael R. Burch Remembrance like a river rises; the rain of recollection falls; vague memories, like vines, entangled, cling to Time's collapsing walls. The past is like a distant mist, the future like a far-off haze, the present half-distinct an hour before it blurs with unseen days. Published by Romantics Quarterly I’m afraid Donald Justice was a bit over-optimistic in his poem “Men at Forty” … Men at Sixty by Michael R. Burch after Donald Justice's "Men at Forty" Learn to gently close doors to rooms you can never re-enter. Rest against the stair rail as the solid steps buck and buckle like ships’ decks. Rediscover in mirrors your father’s face once warm with the mystery of lather, now electrically plucked. That country wench bewitches your heart? Hell, her most beguiling art’s hiking her dress to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness! Sappho, fragment 57, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I visited Byron's residence at Newstead Abbey, there were peacocks running around the grounds, which I thought appropriate. Byron was not a shy one, as peacocks run. �"Michael R. Burch Reality is neither probable nor likely. �"Jorge Luis Borges, translation by Michael R. Burch Epitaph for the Child Erotion by Marcus Valerius Martial loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lie lightly on her, grass and dew ... So little weight she placed on you. Erotic Errata by Michael R. Burch I didn’t mean to love you; if I did, it came unbid- en, and should’ve remained hid- den! Brief Fling by Michael R. Burch “Epigram” means cram, then scram! Retro by Michael R. Burch Now, once again, love’s a redundant pleasure, as we laugh at my childish fumblings through the acres of your dress, past your wily-wired brassiere, through your panties’ pink billows of thrill-piqued frills ... Till I lay once again�"panting redfaced at your gayest lack of resistance, and, later, at your milktongued mewlings in the dark ... When you were virginal, sweet as eucalyptus, we did not understand the miracle of repentance, and I took for granted your obsessive distance ... But now I am happily unbuttoning that chaste dress, unhitching that firm-latched bra, tugging at those parachute-like panties�" the ones you would have gladly forgotten had I not bought them in this year’s size. Originally published by Erosha Stump by Michael R. Burch This used to be a poplar, oak or elm . . . we forget the names of trees, but still its helm, green-plumed, like some Greek warrior’s, nobly fringed, with blossoms almond-white, but verdant-tinged, this massive helm . . . this massive, nodding head here contemplated life, and now is dead . . . Perhaps it saw its future, furrow-browed, and flung its limbs about, dejectedly. Perhaps it only dreamed as, cloud by cloud, the sun plod through the sky. Heroically, perhaps it stood against the mindless plots of concrete that replaced each flowered bed. Perhaps it heard thick loggers draw odd lots and could not flee, and so could only dread . . . The last of all its kind? They left its stump with timeworn strange inscriptions no one reads (because a language lost is just a bump impeding someone’s progress at mall speeds). We leveled all such “speed bumps” long ago just as our quainter cousins leveled trees. Shall we, too, be consumed by what we know? Once gods were merely warriors; august trees were merely twigs, and man the least divine . . . mere fables now, dust, compost, turpentine. zzz These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems. The First Christmas by Michael R. Burch ’Twas in a land so long ago . . . the lambs lay blanketed in snow and little children everywhere sat and watched warm embers glow and dreamed (of what, we do not know). And THEN�"a star appeared on high, The brightest man had ever seen! It made the children whisper low in puzzled awe (what did it mean?). It made the wooly lambkins cry. Not far away a new-born lay, warm-blanketed in straw and hay, a lowly manger for his crib. The cattle mooed, distraught and low, to see the child. They did not know it now was Christmas day! Christmas Wishes by Michael R. Burch My wish for you, with Christmas near, is troubles fleeing, fleet as deer, and peace encompassing as snow, bright merriment in brilliant flow. I wish for you, with Christ’s Eve here, a silver moon should skies seem drear, white stars to light a festive sky, sweet warmth caressing from on high. I wish for you on Christmas day a tree enchanted, festooned, gay . . . and Christmas night, as carols play, bright candles lined in white array. But most of all, I wish you well, and so much more than words can tell. For this and every coming year, Noel, Noel and Christmas cheer! Late Frost by Michael R. Burch The matters of the world like sighs intrude; out of the darkness, windswept winter light too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror resolves the distant stars to salts: not white, but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness. I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed as equally as gray, a faded hardness too malleable with time to be annealed. Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color; which matters not. I did not think to find a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show they harbor neither love, nor enmity, but only stars: insignias I know�" false ornaments that flash, overt and bright, but do not warm and do not really glow, and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight: a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year by Michael R. Burch Merry Christmas! Best of wishes! Hugs and kisses, Carolyn. Don't do dishes or eat fishes. You're delicious, happenin'. Happy New Year! Hope to see yer 'round Springwater once again. You're a treasure, such a pleasure (that's for sure), a sexy friend. Now I'm learnin' all 'bout yearnin', and I'm earnin' it, I guess. I'll be stronger, live much longer. If I'm wronger, I’ll confess. Had to tell you that you're swell; you ought to sell you for a mil. If I could, I'd (knock on wood) be just as good. I never will. Still, I love you, thinking of you; I eschew to tell you why. If you're ever in the market (or hard up) just call this guy. King of the World by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch If I were King of the World, I would make every child free, for my people’s sake. And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream back to my palace, for free ice cream! Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream? If I were King of the World, I would banish hatred and war, and make mean men vanish. Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!) Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose? If I were King of the World, I would teach the preachers to always do as they preach; and so they could practice being of good cheer, we’d have Christmas �"and presents�"every day of the year! Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear! If I were King of the World, I would send my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end ... But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty! I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry! Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry! If I were King of the World, I’d declare a year of happiness, with no despair�" only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects! Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects! Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects! If I were King of the World, I would fire racists and bigots, with their message so dire. And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out. I would build amusement parks, have no doubt! Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout? If I were King of the World, I would drive a red Ferrari, like no man alive! But behind would be busses for my legions of friends: we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends! Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends! If I were King of the World, I would make every child blessed, for my people’s sake, and every child safe, and every child free, and every child happy, especially me! Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see! White Hot Christmas by Michael R. Burch I’m back from my jog; it felt like summer on Christmas Eve. What a bummer! Forget the sleigh, Santa, hire a Hummer. Christmas is Coming! alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked. Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook. If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do. But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you! Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail. Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail. If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do. But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you! Trump puts the X in Xmas by Michael R. Burch Christmas is coming; the Trumpster’s purse is flat. Please put a billion in Fat Cat’s hat. If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do. But if you’re short of cash, well then, the yoke’s on you! Trump’s Christmas Shutdown by Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition” The Grinch is quite proud of his friend Trump tonight: To see Whoville shut down? “An enormous delight!” And old cranky Scrooge approves of Trump’s whims: “Who the hell cares about all those dark Tiny Tims?” Meanwhile in the Kremlin a vodka glass clinks As a pale being smiles at his latest hijinks: “Merry Xmas to all my AmeriKKKan friends As the bright lights go out and democracy ends!” Economical Fall by Michael R. Burch The time to make love is autumn; so kiss your sweethearts (if you’ve got ’em). Seek ways to keep warm but observe this norm: by Christmas be sure you “forgot” ’em! Yet Another Unmerry Xmas Poem by Michael R. Burch the Shepherds should have tended flocks of sheep, and not become them. the Wise Men should have used their heads: religion numbs and dumbs them. the Angels should have saved their praise for saviors who can save us from ludicrous superstitions and Profits who deprave us. What happened to compassion; did it go out of fashion? Or do Jesus and his Profits prefer to line white pockets and colorize dockets? �"Michael R. Burch Malpractice by Michael R. Burch “He needs a new nose,” Ma said, “suppose�" one that glows!” The doc agreed and worked with speed on Santa’s steed. The surgery done, Ma told her son�" “It’s posh, and fun!” But Rudolph wheezed and cried and sneezed with disbelief. “It should’ve been red!” the reindeer said, pale and distraught in his hospital bed. “Doc, what did you do? Alas, boo-hoo! It’s K-Mart-special chintzy blue!” What Would Santa Claus Say? by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to kill and plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and VYBRANÉ PREKLADY BÁSNÍ Z ANGLICTINY, where it was translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please, I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! Salvation of a Formalist, an Ode to Entropy by Michael R. Burch Entropy? God's universal decree That I get to be Disorderly? Suddenly My erstwhile boxed-in verse is free? Wheeeeee! God Had a Plan by Michael R. Burch God had a plan though it was hardly “divine.” He created a terror: Frankenstein. He blamed death on man: was that part of the plan so hard to define, or did he just cut his losses? Now sleepless he tosses hearing the screams, the wild anger and fear of men in despair. Just disappear!, he cries to himself on his fearful bed, tearful, afraid of those he misled. Ah-men! Only Flesh (I) by Michael R. Burch Moonlight in a pale silver rain caresses her cheek but all she sees are dark nights when no stars cohere. Nothing is questioned, yet the answer seems clear: Night, inevitably, only seems to end . . . Flesh is the stuff that does not endure. The sand slips sinuously through narrowing glass as Time sums all things past, and to come. Only flesh does not last. Eternally, Night pirouettes with the Sun; each bright grain, slipping past, will return. Only flesh fades to ash though unable to burn. Only flesh does not last. Only flesh, in the end, makes its bed in brown grass. Only flesh shivers, frailer than the pale wintry light. Only flesh seeps in oils that will not ignite. Only flesh rues its past. Only flesh. Only Flesh (II) by Michael R. Burch Moonlight in a pale silver rain caresses her cheek but what she feels is an emptiness more chilling than fear ... Nothing is questioned, yet the answer seems clear: Night, inevitably, only seems to end. Flesh is the stuff that does not endure. The sand slips sinuously through narrowing glass as Time sums all things past, and to come. Only flesh does not last. Eternally, Night pirouettes with the Sun; each bright grain, slipping past, will return. Only flesh fades to ash though unable to burn. Only flesh does not last. Only flesh, in the end, makes its bed in brown grass. Only flesh shivers, frailer than the pale wintry light. Only flesh seeps in oils that will not ignite. Only flesh rues its past. Only flesh. Keywords/Tags: life, death, flesh, mortality, time, sand, hourglass, ash, loss, night, moonlight, stars, rain, grass, despair The Red State Reaction by Michael R. Burch Where the hell are they hidin’ Sleepy Joe Biden? And how the hell can the bleep Do so much, in his SLEEP? Red State Reject by Michael R. Burch I once was a pessimist but now I’m more optimistic ever since I discovered my fears were unsupported by any statistic. Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question by Michael R. Burch There once was a brash billionaire who couldn't afford decent hair. Vexed voters agreed: "We're a nation in need!" But toupée the price, do we dare? Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer by Michael R. Burch Oh crap, we elected Trump prez! Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez! For if anyone thinks And says his "plan" stinks, He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez! Stumped and Stomped by Trump by Michael R. Burch There once was a candidate, Trump, whose message rang clear at the stump: "Vote for me, WHEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!, because I am ME, and everyone else is a chump!" Mother of Cowards by Michael R. Burch for Trump So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame With conquering limbs astride from land to land, Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands: A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame Has long since been extinguished. And her name? "Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand Allegiance to her Pimp's repulsive game. "Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole, Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased! The wretched refuse of your toilet hole? Oh, never send one unwashed child to me! I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!" Originally published by Light Deliver Us ... by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch The night is dark and scary― under your bed, or upon it. That blazing light might be a star ... or maybe the Final Comet. But two things are sure: your mother’s love and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit! Peace Prayer by Michael R. Burch for Jim Dunlap Be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height. Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms. Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms. And be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. These are poems about shadows, poems about darkness, poems about shades in the form of ghosts and spirits... Shadows by Michael R. Burch Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight―strange, mirthless clowns― we merge, emerge, submerge...then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men... when we were men, or almost so. What is life? The flash of a firefly. The breath of the winter buffalo. The shadow scooting across the grass that vanishes with sunset. ―Blackfoot saying, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As the moon flies west the flowers' shadows creep eastward. ―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Leaves like crows’ shadows flirt with a lonely moon. ―Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch War stood at the end of the hall in the long shadows ―Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Snapshot by Mehmet Akif Ersoy loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased; even when you lie underground, it encompasses you. So, those of you who anticipate the shadows: how long will the darkness remember you? Hiroshima Shadows by Michael R. Burch The intense heat and light of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts left ghostly shadows of human beings imprinted in concrete, whose lives were erased in an instant. Hiroshima shadows ... mother and child... Oh, when will our hearts ever be beguiled to end mindless war ... to seek peace, reconciled to our common mortality? Where We Dwell by Michael R. Burch Night within me. Never morning. Stars uncounted. Shadows forming. Wind arising where we dwell reaches Heaven, reeks of Hell. Published in The Bible of Hell (anthology) Bound by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 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. When last my love left me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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. Last Anthem by Michael R. Burch Where you have gone are the shadows falling... does memory pale like a fossil in shale ...do you not hear me calling? Where you have gone do the shadows lengthen... does memory wane with the absence of pain ...is silence at last your anthem? Sharon by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 apologies to Byron I. Flamingo-minted, pink, pink cheeks, dark hair streaked with a lisp of dawnlight; I have seen your shadow creep through eerie webs spun out of twilight... And I have longed to kiss your lips, as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms, and to hold your pale albescent body, more curvaceous than the moon... II. Black-haired beauty, like the night, stay with me till morning's light. In shadows, Sharon, become love until the sun lights our alcove. Red, red lips reveal white stone: whet my own, my passions hone. My all in all I give to you, in our tongues’ exchange of dew. Now all I ever ask of you is: do with me what now you do. My love, my life, my only truth! In shadows, Sharon, shed your gown; let all night’s walls come tumbling down. III. Now I will love you long, Sharon, as long as longing may be. In the Twilight of Her Tears by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 In the twilight of her tears I saw the shadows of the years that had taken with them all our joys and cares ... There in an ebbing tide’s spent green I saw the flotsam of lost dreams wash out into a sea of wild despair ... In the scars that marred her eyes I saw the cataracts of lies that had shattered all the visions we had shared ... As from a ravaged iris, tears seemed to flood the spindrift years with sorrows that the sea itself despaired ... Musings at Giza by Michael R. Burch In deepening pools of shadows lies the Sphinx, and men still fear his eyes. Though centuries have passed, he waits. Egyptians gather at the gates. Great pyramids, the looted tombs ―how still and desolate their wombs!― await sarcophagi of kings. From eons past, a hammer rings. Was Cleopatra's litter borne along these streets now bleak, forlorn? Did Pharaohs clad in purple ride fierce stallions through a human tide? Did Bocchoris here mete his law from distant Kush to Saqqarah? or Tutankhamen here once smile upon the children of the Nile? or Nefertiti ever rise with wild abandon in her eyes to gaze across this arid plain and cry, “Great Isis, live again!” Dark Twin by Michael R. Burch You come to me out of the sun― my dark twin, unreal... And you are always near although I cannot touch you; although I trample you, you cannot feel... And we cannot be parted, nor can we ever meet except at the feet. The Beautiful People by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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 the 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. Shadowselves by Michael R. Burch In our hearts, knowing fewer days―and milder―beckon, still, how are we to measure that wick by which we reckon the time we have remaining? We are shadows spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight. Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker. Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright? When chill night steals our vigor? Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows. Where is the fire of our youth? We grow cold. Why does our future loom dark? We are old. And why do we shiver? In our hearts, seeing fewer days―and briefer―breaking, now, even more, we treasure this brittle leaf-like aching that tells us we are living. Once Upon a Frozen Star by Michael R. Burch Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields and did not know ourselves for weight of snow upon our laden parkas? White as sheets, as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands thrust deep into our pockets, holding what we thought were tickets home: what did we know of anything that night? Were we deceived by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who? And if that night I looked and smiled at you a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand, so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished upon a frozen star . . . that I could give you something of myself to keep you warm . . . yet something still not love . . . if I embraced the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . . How could I know the years would strip away the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay your heart of consolation, that my words would break like ice between us, till the void of words became eternal? Oh, my love, I never knew. I never knew at all, that anything so vast could curl so small. Transplant by Michael R. Burch You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh as strange to us who briefly knew your flame as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh. Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim to earth, and floats forever now the same― light captured at its moment of least height. You laugh here always, welcoming the night, and, just a photograph, still you can claim bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh― but something more, made less. Your humanness this moment of release becomes a name and something else―a radiance, a strange brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand and chain you here to this nocturnal land of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone. I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night that crushes all the laughter from us. Light in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight, I welcome darkness, overcome with light. Shark by Michael R. Burch They are all unknowable, these rough pale men― haunting dim pool rooms like shadows, propped up on bar stools like scarecrows, nodding and sagging in the fraying light . . . I am not of them, as I glide among them― eliding the amorphous camaraderie they are as unlikely to spell as to feel, camouflaged in my own pale dichotomy . . . That there are women who love them defies belief― with their missing teeth, their hair in thin shocks where here and there a gap of scalp gleams like bizarre chrome, their smell rank as wet sawdust or mildewed laundry . . . And yet― and yet there is someone who loves me: She sits by the telephone in the lengthening shadows and pregnant grief . . . They appreciate skill at pool, not words. They frown at massés, at the cue ball’s contortions across green felt. They hand me their hard-earned money with reluctant smiles. A heart might melt at the thought of their children lying in squalor . . . At night I dream of them in bed, toothless, kissing. With me, it’s harder to say what is missing . . . Solicitation by Michael R. Burch He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman, and his eyes are on mine like a snake’s on a bird’s― quizzical, mesmerizing. He c***s his head as though something he heard intrigues him (although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense; his words are full of desire and loathing, and although I hear, he says nothing that I understand. The moon shines―maniacal, queer―as he takes my hand and whispers Our time has come . . . and so we stroll together along the docks where the sea sends things that wriggle and crawl scurrying under rocks and boards. Moonlight in great floods washes his pale face as he stares unseeing into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine, and my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face. He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared. His teeth are long, yellow and hard. His face is bearded and haggard. A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp. My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly. He likes it like that. Vampires by Michael R. Burch Vampires are such fragile creatures; we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . . sunlight, or a stake, or a cross―such common things. Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings, we heed his voice. Centuries have taught us: in shadows danger lurks for those who stray, and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs. He has no choice. We are his prey, plump and fragrant, and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us, prays to some despotic hooded God whose benediction is the humid blood he lusts to taste. The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels’ tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Published by Borderless Journal, Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce Ibykos/Ibycus Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening― black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Dunkles zu sagen (“Expressing the Dark”) by Ingeborg Bachmann, an Austrian poet loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I strum the strings of life and death like Orpheus and in the beauty of the earth and in your eyes that instruct the sky, I find only dark things to say. The dark shadow I followed from the beginning led me into the deep barrenness of winter. Annual by Michael R. Burch Silence steals upon a house where one sits alone in the shadow of the itinerant letterbox, watching the disconnected telephone collecting dust ... hearing the desiccate whispers of voices’ dry flutters,― moths’ wings brittle as cellophane ... Curled here, reading the yellowing volumes of loss by the front porch light in the groaning swing . . . through thin adhesive gloss I caress your face. Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating “art,” chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Ghost by Michael R. Burch White in the shadows I see your face, unbidden. Go, tell Love it is commonplace; Tell Regret it is not so rare. Our love is not here though you smile, full of sedulous grace. Lost in darkness, I fear the past is our resting place. Herbsttag (“Autumn Day”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go. Lay your long shadows over the sundials and over the meadows, let the free winds blow. Command the late fruits to fatten and shine; O, grant them another Mediterranean hour! Urge them to completion, and with power convey final sweetness to the heavy wine. Who has no house now, never will build one. Who's alone now, shall continue alone; he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends, and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down, restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend. Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. I stalk the streets, silent and starving. Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor. I long for your liquid laughter, for your sunburned hands like savage harvests. I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles. I want to devour your breasts like almonds, whole. I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty, to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face, to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade. I pursue you, snuffing the shadows, seeking your heart's scorching heat like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue. Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda loose translation by Michael R. Burch I do not love you like coral or topaz, or the blazing hearth’s incandescent white flame; I love you like phantoms embraced in the dark ... secretly, in shadows, unrevealed & unnamed. I love you like shrubs that refuse to bloom while pregnant with the radiance of mysterious flowers; now thanks to your love an earthy fragrance lives dimly in my body’s odors. I love you without knowing―how, when, why or where; I love you forthrightly, without complications or care; I love you this way because I know no other. Here, where “I” no longer exists ... so it seems ... so close that your hand on my chest is my own, so close that your eyes close gently on my dreams. 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 heard in wolves’ tormented howls that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ... Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed ... Later, as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled ―the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air― we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing ... O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. Ebb Tide by Michael R. Burch Massive, gray, these leaden waves bear their unchanging burden― the sameness of each day to day while the wind seems to struggle to say something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand. Now collapsing dull waves drain away from the unenticing land; shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray― whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror. Sizzling lightning impresses its brand. Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand. The Endeavors of Lips by Michael R. Burch How sweet the endeavors of lips―to speak of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak: for there is no illusion like love ... Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days, for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways that curled to the towers of Yesterdays where She braided illusions of love ... “O, let down your hair!”―we might call and call, to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ... but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl like a spidery illusion. For love ... was never as real as that first kiss seemed when we read by the flashlight and dreamed. If You Come to San Miguel by Michael R. Burch If you come to San Miguel before the orchids fall, we might stroll through lengthening shadows those deserted streets where love first bloomed ... You might buy the same cheap musk from that mud-spattered stall where with furtive eyes the vendor watched his fragrant wares perfume your breasts ... Where lean men mend tattered nets, disgruntled sea gulls chide; we might find that cafetucho where through grimy panes sunset implodes ... Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads, the strange anhingas glide. Green brine laps splintered moorings, rusted iron chains grind, weighed and anchored in the past, held fast by luminescent tides ... Should you come to San Miguel? Let love decide. At Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Though she was fair, though she sent me the epistle of her love at once and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer, I did not love her at once. Though she would dare pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once, the dark, haggard keeper of the lair, I did not love her at once. Though she would share the all of her being, to heal me at once, yet more than her touch I was unable bear. I did not love her at once. And yet she would care, and pour out her essence ... and yet―there was more! I awoke from long darkness, and yet―she was there. I loved her the longer; I loved her the more because I did not love her at once. Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide ... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ... Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ... Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro. For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly, Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river. For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness Ophelia has made this river shiver. Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good! Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble! Oh, rack of splendid enchantments! Huzzah for the virginal! Huzzah for the immaculate work! For the marvelous body! It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end. This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides, when we return to our former discord. May we, so deserving of these agonies, may we now recreate ourselves after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise― that promise, that madness! Elegance, senescence, violence! They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows―the tree of good and evil― to deport despotic respectability so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love. It began with hellish disgust but ended ―because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately― in a panicked riot of perfumes. Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins, loathsome temporal faces and objects― all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil! Although it began with loutish boorishness, behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame. My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed! My little lost eve of drunkenness! Praise for the mask you provided us! Method, we affirm you! Let us never forget that yesterday you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages. We have faith in your poison. We give you our lives completely, every day. Behold, the assassin's hour! Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable, snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses. You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass, The evening’s shadows leering. Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium of black demons and black wolves. Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck... And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back, and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature, the way it gets around... Dawn by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I embraced the august dawn. Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths. I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly. My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name. I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess. One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the c**k. Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her. Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood. When I awoke, it was noon. Catullus LXV aka Carmina 65 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hortalus, I’m exhausted by relentless grief, and have thus abandoned the learned virgins; nor can my mind, so consumed by malaise, partake of the Muses' mete fruit; for lately the Lethaean flood laves my brother's death-pale foot with its dark waves, where, beyond mortal sight, ghostly Ilium disgorges souls beneath the Rhoetean shore. Never again will I hear you speak, O my brother, more loved than life, never see you again, unless I behold you hereafter. But surely I'll always love you, always sing griefstricken dirges for your demise, such as Procne sings under the dense branches’ shadows, lamenting the lot of slain Itys. Yet even amidst such unfathomable sorrows, O Hortalus, I nevertheless send you these, my recastings of Callimachus, lest you conclude your entrusted words slipped my mind, winging off on wayward winds, as a suitor’s forgotten apple hidden in the folds of her dress escapes a virgin's chaste lap; for when she starts at her mother's arrival, it pops out, then downward it rolls, headlong to the ground, as a guilty blush flushes her downcast face. Album by Michael R. Burch I caress them―trapped in brittle cellophane― and I see how young they were, and how unwise; and I remember their first flight―an old prop plane, their blissful arc through alien blue skies ... And I touch them here through leaves which―tattered, frayed― are also wings, but wings that never flew: like Nabokov’s wings―pinned, held. Here, time delayed, their features never merged, remaining two ... And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens or in shadows where It crept on furtive claws as It scritched Its way into their hearts, depends on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws ... and slavers for Its meat―those young, unwise, who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies, clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be. Passport by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation by Michael R. Burch They left me unrecognizable in the shadows that bled all colors from this passport. To them, my wounds were novelties― curious photos for tourists to collect. They failed to recognize me. No, don't leave the palm of my hand bereft of sun when all the trees recognize me and every song of the rain honors me. Don't set a wan moon over me! All the birds that flocked to my welcoming wave as far as the distant airport gates, all the wheatfields, all the prisons, all the albescent tombstones, all the barbwired boundaries, all the fluttering handkerchiefs, all the eyes― they all accompanied me. But they were stricken from my passport shredding my identity! How was I stripped of my name and identity on soil I tended with my own hands? Today, Job's lamentations re-filled the heavens: Don't make an example of me again! Prophets― Don't require the trees to name themselves! Don't ask the valleys who mothered them! My forehead glistens with lancing light. From my hand the riverwater springs. My identity can be found in my people's hearts, so invalidate this passport! Sulpicia Translations by Michael R. Burch These are modern English translations by Michael R. Burch of seven Latin poems written by the ancient Roman female poet Sulpicia, who was apparently still a girl or very young woman when she wrote them. I. At Last, Love! by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it It's come at last! Love! The kind of love that, had it remained veiled, would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul. I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems and she delivered my beloved to me, placed him snugly, securely against my breast! The Goddess has kept her promises: now let my joy be told, so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense! I would not want to entrust my testimony to tablets, even those signed and sealed! Let no one read my avowals before my love! Yet indiscretion has its charms, while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation. May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love! II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus. Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium? Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone! Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know. Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city, I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions, this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions! III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned? Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday! Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune! IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Thanks for revealing your true colors, thus keeping me from making further fool of myself! I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket w***e, since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius! On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier, having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody! V. Reproach for Indifference by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus, now that fever wilts my wasting body? If not, why would I want to conquer this disease, knowing you no longer desired my existence? After all, what’s the point of living when you can ignore my distress with such indifference? VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love, since in these last few days I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies! And no folly have I ever regretted more than leaving you alone last night, desiring only to disguise my desire for you! Sulpicia on the First of March by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” �" MRB Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends: come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe! Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one, beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor! Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes, with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves! Wherever she goes, whatever she does, Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance! If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train: if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered! If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames! She inflames, if she wears virginal white! As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully! She alone among the girls is worthy of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes! May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields, and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas. Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends, and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre! She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come, for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus! “The Moon Festival” by Su Shi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “Where else is there moonlight?” Wine cup in hand, I ask the dark sky, Not knowing the hour of the night in those distant celestial palaces. I long to ride the wind home, Yet dread those high towers’ crystal and jade, Fear freezing to death amid all those icicles. Instead, I begin to dance with my moon-lit shadow. Better off, after all, to live close to earth. Rounding the red pavilion, Stooping to peer through transparent windows, The moon shines benevolently on the sleepless, Knowing no sadness, bearing no ill... But why so bright when we sleep apart? As men experience grief and joy, parting and union, So the moon brightens and dims, waxes and wanes. It has always been thus, since the beginning of time. My wish for you is a long, blessed life And to share this moon’s loveliness though leagues apart. Su Shi wrote this famous lyric for his brother Ziyou (1039-1112), when the poet was far from the imperial court. Wu Tsao aka Wu Zao (1789-1862) was a celebrated lesbian poet whose lyrics were sung throughout China. She was also known as Wu Pinxiang and Yucenzi. For the Courtesan Ch’ing Lin by Wu Tsao loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On the girdle encircling your slender body jade and coral ornaments tinkle like chimes, like the tintinnabulations of some celestial being only recently descended from heaven’s palaces. You smiled at me when we met and I become tongue-tied, forgetting how to speak. For far too long now you have adorned yourself with flowers, leaning nonchalantly against veiling bamboos, your green sleeves failing to keep you warm in your mysterious valley. I can imagine you standing there: an unusual girl, alone with her cryptic thoughts. You exude light like a perfumed lamp in the lengthening shadows. We sip wine and play games, recite each other’s poems. You sing “South of the River” with its heartrending verses. Then we paint each other’s fingernails, toenails and beautiful eyebrows. I want to possess you entirely: your slender jade body and your elsewhere-engaged heart. Today it is spring and enmassed mists, vast, cover the Five Lakes. Oh my dearest darling, let me buy you a scarlet boat and pirate you away! Premonition by Michael R. Burch Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ... we stand in the doorway and watch as they go― each stranger, each acquaintance, each casual lover. They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go, though we know their bright laughter’s the wine ... then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows endlessly on toward Zion ... and they kiss one another as though they were friends, and they promise to meet again “soon” ... but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end, and the mockingbird calls to the moon ... and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines, and the crickets chirp on out of tune ... and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight, seem spirits torn loose from their tombs. And we know their brief lives are just eddies in time, that their hearts are unreadable runes carved out to stand like strange totems in sand when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ... You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss as though it were something you loved, and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light of the stars winking brightly above ... Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside; if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while." And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Gacela of the Dark Death by Federico Garcia Lorca loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples far from the bustle of cemeteries. I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas. I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood, or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water. I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions, nor of the moon with its serpent's snout scuttling until dawn. I want to sleep awhile, whether a second, a minute, or a century; and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive, that there’s a golden manger in my lips; that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind; that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears. When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil, because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me; then wet my shoes with a little hard water so her scorpion pincers slip off. Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples, to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth; because I want to live again as that dark child who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas. Insomnia by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In my enormous city it is night as from my house I step beyond the light; some people think I'm daughter, mistress, wife ... but I am like the blackest thought of night. July's wind sweeps a way for me to stray toward soft music faintly blowing, somewhere. The wind may blow until bright dawn, new day, but will my heart in its rib-cage really care? Black poplars brushing windows filled with light ... strange leaves in hand ... faint music from distant towers ... retracing my steps, there's nobody lagging behind ... This shadow called me? There's nobody here to find. The lights are like golden beads on invisible threads ... the taste of dark night in my mouth is a bitter leaf ... O, free me from shackles of being myself by day! Friends, please understand: I'm only a dreamlike belief. 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! El Dorado by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 It's a fine town, a fine town, though its alleys recede into shadow; it's a very fine town for those who are searching for an El Dorado. Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare and the welfare line is long, there must be something of value somewhere to keep us hanging on to our El Dorado. Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat from years of gorging on bleached white bread, yet neither will leave because all believe in the vague things that are said of El Dorado. The young men with outlandish hairstyles who saunter in and out of the turnstiles with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle, scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle, certainly feel no need to join the crowd of those who work to earn their bread; they must know that the rainbow's end conceals a pot of gold near El Dorado. And the painted “actress” who roams the streets, smiling at every man she meets, must smile because, after years of running, no man can match her in cruelty or cunning. She must see the satire of “defeats” and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets of El Dorado. Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town for those who can leave when they tire of chasing after rainbows and dreams and living on nothing but fire. But for those of us who cling to our dreams and cannot let them go, like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets and the junkies high on snow, the dream has become a reality ―the reality of hope that grew too strong not to linger on― and so this is our home. We chew the apple, spit it out, then eat it "just once more." For this is the big, big apple, though it’s rotten to the core, and we are its worm in the night when we squirm in our El Dorado. The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch “I made it out of a mouthful of air.”―W. B. Yeats We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape― curved like the heart. Here, resonant, ... sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face― long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, ah words! And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. One of the Flown by Michael R. Burch Forgive me for not having known you were one of the flown― flown from the distant haunts of someone else’s enlightenment, alighting here to a darkness all your own . . . I imagine you perched, pretty warbler, in your starched dress, before you grew bellicose . . . singing quaint love’s highest falsetto notes, brightening the pew of some dilapidated church . . . But that was before autumn’s messianic dark hymns . . . Deepening on the landscape―winter’s inevitable shadows. Love came too late; hope flocked to bare meadows, preparing to leave. Then even the thought of life became grim, thinking of Him . . . To flee, finally,―that was no whim, no adventure, but purpose. I see you now a-wing: pale-eyed, intent, serious: always, always at the horizon’s broadening rim . . . How long have you flown now, pretty voyager? I keep watch from afar: pale lover and voyeur. Photographs by Michael R. Burch Here are the effects of a life and they might tell us a tale (if only we had time to listen) of how each imperiled tear would glisten, remembered as brightness in her eyes, and how each dawn’s dramatic skies could never match such pale azure. Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . . till a line appears―a trace of worry?― or the wayward track of a wandering smile which even now can charm, beguile? We might find good cause to wonder as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?): what vexed her in her loveliness . . . what weight, what crushing heaviness turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray, and stole her youth before her day? We might ask ourselves: did Time devour the passion with the ravaged flower? But here and there a smile will bloom to light the leaden, shadowed gloom that always seems to linger near . . . And here we find a single tear: it shimmers like translucent dew and tells us Anguish touched her too, and did not spare her for her hair’s burnt copper, or her eyes’ soft hue. Dream House by Michael R. Burch I have come to the house of my fondest dreams, but the shutters are boarded; the front door is locked; the mail box leans over; and where we once walked, the path is grown over with crabgrass and clover. I kick the trash can; it screams, topples over. The yard, weeded over, blooms white fluff, and green. The elm we once swung from leans over the stream. In the twilight I cling with both hands to the swing. Inside, perhaps, I hear the telephone ring or watch once again as the bleary-eyed mover takes down your picture. Dejected, I hover, asking over and over, “Why didn’t you love her?” Mending Glass by Michael R. Burch In the cobwebbed house― lost in shadows by the jagged mirror, in the intricate silver face cracked ten thousand times, silently he watches, and in the twisted light sometimes he catches there a familiar glimpse of revealing lace, white stockings and garters, a pale face pressed indiscreetly near with a predatory leer, the sheer flash of nylon, an embrace, or a sharp slap, . . . a sudden lurch of terror. He finds bright slivers ―the hard sharp brittle shards, the silver jags of memory starkly impressed there― and mends his error. They Take Their Shape by Michael R. Burch “We will not forget moments of silence and days of mourning ...” ― George W. Bush We will not forget ... the moments of silence and the days of mourning, the bells that swung from leaden-shadowed vents to copper bursts above “hush!”-chastened children who saw the sun break free (abandonment to run and laugh forsaken for the moment), still flashing grins they could not quite repent ... Nor should they―anguish triumphs just an instant; this every child accepts; the nymphet weaves; transformed, the grotesque adult-thing emerges: damp-winged, huge-eyed, to find the sun deceives ... But children know; they spin limpwinged in darkness cocooned in hope―the shriveled chrysalis that paralyzes time. Suspended, dreaming, they do not fall, but grow toward what is, then grope about to find which transformation might best endure the light or dark. “Survive” becomes the whispered mantra of a pupa’s awakening ... till What takes shape and flies shrieks, parroting Our own shrill, restive cries. Her Slender Arm by Nakba, an alias of Michael R. Burch Her slender arm, her slender arm, I see it reaching out to me!― wan, vulnerable, without a charm or amulet to guard it. "FLEE!" I scream at her in wild distress. She chides me with defiant eyes. Where shall I go? They scream, “Confess! Confess yourself, your children lice, your husband mantis, all your kind unfit to live!” See, or be blind. I cannot see beyond the gloom that shrouds her in their terrible dungeon. I only see the nightmare room, the implements of torture. Sudden shocks contort her slender frame! She screams, I scream, we scream in pain! I sense the shadow-men, insane, who gibber, drooling, "Why are you not just like US, the Chosen Few?" Suddenly she stares through me and suddenly I understand. I hear the awful litany of names I voted for. My hand lies firmly on the implement they plan to use, next, on her children who huddle in the corner. Bent, their bidden pawn, I heil "Amen!" to their least wish. I hone the blade “Made in America,” their slave. She has no words, but only tears. I turn and retch. I vomit bile. I hear the shadow men’s cruel jeers. I sense, I feel their knowing smile. I paid for this. I built this place. The little that she had, they took at my expense. Now they erase her family from life’s precious book. I cannot meet her eyes again. I stand one with the shadow men. The Fog and the Shadows adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.” I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow, even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance. At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state. After I arrived here, it was as if the danger of getting lost and the desire to lose myself were merging strangely inside me. While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair. Even the men and women seemed identical. You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them. The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned. I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart. Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused. For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off. Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart. Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women and eventually we able to recognize individuals. But other people remained identical for us. The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either. For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away. They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit. He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully. He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart. Sighing heavily, he left. 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. My Epitaph by Michael R. Burch Do not weep for me, when I am gone. I lived, and ate my fill, and gorged on life. You will not find beneath this glossy stone the man who sowed and reaped and gathered days like flowers, undismayed they would not keep. Go lightly then, and leave me to my sleep. Everlasting by Michael R. Burch Where the wind goes when the storm dies, there my spirit lives though I close my eyes. Do not weep for me; I am never far. Whisper my name to the last star ... then let me sleep, *think of me no more*. Still ... By denying death its terminal sting, in my words I remain everlasting. Lines for My Ascension by Michael R. Burch I. If I should die, there will come a Doom, and the sky will darken to the deepest Gloom. But if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. II. If I should die, let no mortal say, “Here was a man, with feet of clay, or a timid sparrow God’s hand let fall.” But watch the sky darken to an eerie pall and know that my Spirit, unvanquished, broods, and scoffs at these churchyards littered with roods. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. III. If I should die, let no man adore his incompetent Maker: Zeus, Yahweh, or Thor. Think of Me as the One who never died― the unvanquished Immortal with the unriven side. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. IV. And if I should “die,” though the clouds grow dark as fierce lightnings rend this bleak asteroid, stark ... If you look above, you will see a bright Sign― the sun with the moon in its arms, Divine. So divine, if you can, my bright meaning, and know― my Spirit is mine. I will go where I go. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. © 2024 Michael R. Burch |
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Added on March 29, 2023 Last Updated on November 4, 2024 Tags: Nashville Covenant School, school shootings, children, guns, gun control, NRA, USA, America Author
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