Heretical Sonnets by Michael R. Burch

These are sonnets by Michael R. Burch. Many of these sonnets are "heretical" sonnets in that they disobey the rules of orthodox sonnets and return to the original definition of "sonnet" as a "little song." Included are Shakespearean sonnets, Petrarchan sonnets, Spenserian sonnets, blank verse sonnets, free verse sonnets and experimental sonnets.

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
leaves us out of tune,
torn,
when the last rose is left
inconsolably bereft,
rudely shorn
of every device but her thorn.

Published by The Lyric, Poem Today, Deviant Art and Suravejiliz (Tokelau)

Corona
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.

With all the understandable gloom, doom and despair over the coronavirus, I was reminded of using the term "corona" in a happier light. I wrote this poem around age 18. It has been published by *Grassroots Poetry* and *Poetry Webring* as “The Communion of Sighs.” The ellipses should be spaces, for purposes of indentation, but some websites eliminate multiple spaces for reasons know only to god and AI.

Lozenge
by Michael R. Burch

When I was closest to love, it did not seem
real at all, but a thing of such tenuous sweetness
it might dissolve in my mouth
like a lozenge of sugar.

When I held you in my arms, I did not feel
our lack of completeness,
knowing how easy it was
for us to cling to each other.

And there were nights when the clouds
sped across the moon’s face,
exposing such rarified brightness
we did not witness
so much as embrace
love’s human appearance.



Sonnet: Sun Poem
by Michael R. Burch

I have suffused myself in poetry
as a lizard basks, soaking up sun,
scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light
he understands�"when it comes, it comes.
A flood of light leaches down to his bones,
his feral eye blinks�"bold, curious, bright.
Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling;
here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead.
Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling,
simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed,
his tongue flicking rhythms,
the sun�"throbbing, spilling.



Sonnet: 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 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
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly as “A Dying Fall”



Sonnet: A Vain Word
by Michael R. Burch

Oleanders at dawn preen extravagant whorls
as I read in leaves’ Sanskrit brief moments remaining
till sunset implodes, till the moon strands grey pearls
under moss-stubbled oaks, full of whispers, complaining
to the minions of autumn, how swiftly life goes
as I fled before love ... Now, through leaves trodden black,
shivering, I wander as winter’s first throes
of cool listless snow drench my cheeks, back and neck.
I discerned in one season all eternities of grief,
the specter of death sprawled out under the rose,
the last consequence of faith in the flight of one leaf,
the incontinence of age, as life’s bright torrent slows.

O, where are you now?�"I was timid, absurd.
I would find comfort again in a vain word.



Sonnet: Oasis
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

I want tears to form again
in the shriveled glands of these eyes
dried all these long years
by too much heated knowing.

I want tears to course down
these parched cheeks,
to star these cracked lips
like an improbable dew

in the heart of a desert.
I want words to burble up
like happiness, like the thought of love,
like the overwhelming, shimmering thought of you

to a nomad who
has only known drought.



Sonnet: Melting
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Entirely, as spring consumes the snow,
the thought of you consumes me: I am found
in rivulets, dissolved to what I know
of former winters’ passions. Underground,
perhaps one slender icicle remains
of what I was before, in some dark cave�"
a stalactite, long calcified, now drains
to sodden pools, whose milky liquid laves
the colder rock, thus washing something clean
that never saw the light, that never knew
the crust could break above, that light could stream:
so luminous, so bright, so beautiful ...

I lie revealed, and so I stand transformed,
and all because you smiled on me, and warmed.



Sonnet: Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...

once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...

for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...

enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.



Sonnet: All Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch

Something remarkable, perhaps ...
the color of her eyes ... though I forget
the color of her eyes ... perhaps her hair
the way it blew about ... I do not know
just what it was about her that has kept
her thought lodged deep in mine ... unmelted snow
that lasted till July would be less rare,
clasped in some frozen cavern where the wind
sculpts bright grotesqueries, ignoring springs’
and summers’ higher laws ... there thawing slow
and strange by strange degrees, one tick beyond
the freezing point which keeps all things the same
... till what remains is fragile and unlike
the world above, where melted snows and rains
form rivulets that, inundate with sun,
evaporate, and in life’s cyclic stream
remake the world again ... I do not know
that we can be remade�"all afterglow.

[Note: “inundate with snow” is not a typo.]



Sonnet: Twice
by Michael R. Burch

Now twice she has left me
and twice I have listened
and taken her back, remembering days
when love lay upon us
and sparkled and glistened
with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze.

But twice she has left me
to start my life over,
and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn:
rekindle a fire
from ash, soot and cinder
and softly it sputters, refusing to burn.



"The Descent into the Underworld"
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Martin Mc Carthy

The Sibyl began to speak:
“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”



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.



Sonnet: Modern Appetite
by Michael R. Burch

It grumbled low, insisting it would feast
on blood and flesh, etcetera, at least
three times a day. With soft lubricious grease
and pale salacious oils, it would ease
its way through life. Each day�"an aperitif.
Each night�"a frothy bromide, for relief.
It lived on TV fare, wore pinafores,
slurped sugar-coated gumballs, gobbled S’mores.
When gas ensued, it burped and farted. *’Course*,
it thought aloud, *my wife will leave me. W****s
are not so damn particular. Divorce
is certainly a settlement, toujours!*
A Tums a day will keep the shrink away,
recalcify old bones, keep gas at bay.
If Simon says, etcetera, Mother, may
I have my hit of calcium today?



Imperfect Sonnet
by Michael R. Burch

A word before the light is doused: the night
is something wriggling through an unclean mind,
as rats creep through a tenement. And loss
is written cheaply with the moon’s cracked gloss
like lipstick through the infinite, to show
love’s pale yet sordid imprint on us. Go.
We have not learned love yet, except to cleave.
I saw the moon rise once ... but to believe ...
was of another century ... and now ...
I have the urge to love, but not the strength.
Despair, once stretched out to its utmost length,
lies couched in squalor, watching as the screen
reveals "love's" damaged images: its dreams ...
and emulating limply, screams and screams.



Sonnet: Ant Farm
by Michael R. Burch

I had a Vast, Eccentric Notion�"
out of the Void, to Conjure one Bright Spark,
to lend all Weight of Thought to one small matter,
to give it “life.” Alas!, it was a lark…

The Wasted Seconds!�"failed experiment…
I turned My Back and shrugged; how could I know
appraisal of My lab-sprung tenement
would be so taxing? (Though Mom told me so.)

I poked them while She quickly tabulated
the final Cost of All that I Created…
The Jury’s back. Eviction: Dad’s Decree.
I’ll pull the plug, but slowly. How they scurry!

They have to pay, to suffer: “life” is strange.
They cost too much. Let’s toast them… on the range!



Fly’s Eyes
by Michael R. Burch

Inhibited, dark agile fly along
paint-peeling sills, up to the bright glass drawn
by radiance compounded thousandfold,�"
I do not see the same as you, but hold
antenna to the brilliant pane of life
and buzz bewilderedly.
In your belief
the world outside is “as it is” because
you see it clearly, windowed without flaws,
you err.
I see strange terrors in the glass�"
dead airless bubbles light can never pass
without distortion, fingerprints that blur
the sun itself. No, nothing here is clear.

You see the earth distinct, eyes “open wide.”
It only seems that way, unmagnified.



Sonnet: Singularity
by Michael R. Burch

Are scientists confounded like the ostrich?
Heads buried in the sand, they shout, *Preposterous!*
This universe, so magical, they say,
proves there’s no God. But let’s look anyway ...

He said, *Let there be Light*, and there was light.
Stumped scientists have scratched their heads all night
and solemnly proclaimed an awesome Bang,
from which de Light immediately sprang ...

which sounds like God to me!, Who, with one word
made Light, and proved man’s theories, not absurd,
but logical, if only they’d agree
in one tremendous Singularity!

(However, there’s one problem with my plea:
*it turns out that His world is made of pee*.)



Sonnet: Quanta
by Michael R. Burch

The stars shine fierce and hard across the Abyss
and only seem to twinkle from such distance
we scarcely see at all. But sheer persistence
in seeing what makes “sense” to us, is man’s
best art and science. BIG, he comprehends.
Love’s photons are too small, escape the lens.

Who dares to look upon familiar things
will find them alien. True distance reels.
Less what he knows than what his finger feels,
the lightning of the socket sparks and sings,
then stings him into comic reverie.
Cartoonish lightbulbs overhead, do we
not “think” because we feel there must be More,
as less and less we know what we explore?



Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I grope,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear�"
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.
And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?
Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).



No Proof
by Michael R. Burch

They only know to sing�"not understand,
though quizzical, heads cocked, they need no proof
that God’s above. They hop across my roof
with prescient eyes, to fall into His hand...
as sure of Grace as if it were mere air.

He gave them wings to fly; what do they care
of cumbrous knowledge, pale Leviathan?
Huge-brained Behemoth, sagging-bellied one!

You too might fly, might test this addling breeze
as gravity, mere ballast, tethers naught
but merely centers. Chained to heavy Thought,
you cannot slip earth’s bonds to rise at ease.
And yet you too can sing, if only thus:
Flash, flash bright quills; rise, rise on nothingness!



Sonnet: 911 Carousel
by Michael R. Burch

*“And what rough beast ... slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”�"W. B. Yeats*

They laugh and do not comprehend, nor ask
which way the wind is blowing, no, nor why
the reeling azure fixture of the sky
grows pale with ash, and whispers “Holocaust.”
They think to seize the ring, life’s tinfoil prize,
and, breathless with endeavor, shriek aloud.
The voice of terror thunders from a cloud
that darkens over children adult-wise,
far less inclined to error, when a step
in any wrong direction is to fall
a JDAM short of heaven. Decoys call,
their voices plangent, honking to be shot ...
Here, childish dreams and nightmares whirl, collide,
as East and West, on slouching beasts, they ride.



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 emptier 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.



In a Stolen Moment
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub

In a stolen moment,
when the clock’s hands complete their inevitable course
and sleep is the night’s dark spell,
I call it a curse,
seeking the force,
the font of candescent words, the electric thrill
tingling from brain to spine
to incessant quill�"
the fever, the chill.
I know it as well as I know myself.
Time’s second hand stirs; not I; in my cell,
words spill.



Doppelgänger
by Michael R. Burch

Here the only anguish
is the bedraggled vetch lying strangled in weeds,
the customary sorrows of the wild persimmons,
the whispered complaints of the stately willow trees
disentangling their fine lank hair,
and what is past.

I find you here, one of many things lost,
that, if we do not recover, will undoubtedly vanish forever ...
now only this unfortunate stone,
this pale, disintegrate mass,
this destiny, this unexpected shiver,
this name we share.



Geode
by Michael R. Burch

Love�"less than eternal, not quite true�"
is still the best emotion man can muster.
Through folds of peeling rind�"rough, scarred, crude-skinned�"
she shines, all limpid brightness, coolly pale.

Crude-skinned though she may seem, still, brilliant-hearted,
in her uneven fissures, glistening, glows
that pale rose: like a flame, yet strangely brittle;
dew-lustrous pearl streaks gaping mossback shell.

And yet, despite the raggedness of her luster,
as she hints and shimmers, touching those who *see*,
she is not without her uses or her meanings;
in all her avid gleamings, Love bestows
the rare spark of her beauty to her bearer,
till nothing flung to earth seems half so fair.



Sonnet: Eras Poetica II
by Michael R. Burch

*“... poetry makes nothing happen ...”�"W. H. Auden*

Poetry is the art of words: beautiful words.
So that we who are destitute of all other beauties exist
in worlds of our own making; where, if we persist,
the unicorns gather in phantomlike herds,
whinnying to see us; where dark flocks of birds,
hooting, screeching and cawing, all madly insist:
“We too are wild migrants lost in this pale mist
which strangeness allows us, which beauty affords!”

We stormproof our windows with duct tape and boards.
We stockpile provisions. We cull the small list
of possessions worth keeping. Our listless lips, kissed,
mouth pointless enigmas. Time’s bare pantry hoards
dust motes of past grandeurs. Yet here Mars’s sword
lies shattered on the anvil of the enduring Word.



Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

*for Nadia Anjuman*

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw―
envenomed, fanged―could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.



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.



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?



O, My Redeeming Angel
by Michael R. Burch

O my Redeeming Angel, after we
have fought till death (and soon the night is done) ...
then let us rest awhile, await the sun,
and let us put aside all enmity.

I might have been the “victor”�"who can tell?�"
so many wounds abound. All out of joint,
my groin, my thigh ... and nothing to anoint
but sunsplit, shattered stone, as pillars hell.

Light, easy flight to heaven, Your return!
How hard, how dark, this path I, limping, walk.
I only ask Your blessing; no more talk!
Withhold Your name, and yet my ears still burn
and so my heart. You asked me, to my shame:
for Jacob�"trickster, shyster, sham�"’s my name.



Because You Came to Me
by Michael R. Burch

*for Beth*

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

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

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



Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch

*after Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”*

O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
�"a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)�"
embrace my a*s in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: anal, vaginal,
penile, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by *The Oldie*, where it was the winner of a poetry contest.



If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch

If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur�"one interlude
without prequel or sequel�"wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.

If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.

If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.



Because She Craved the Very Best
by Michael R. Burch

Because she craved the very best,
he took her East, he took her West;
he took her where there were no wars
and brought her bright bouquets of stars,
the blush and fragrances of roses,
the hush an evening sky imposes,
moonbeams pale and garlands rare,
and golden combs to match her hair,
a nightingale to sing all night,
white wings, to let her soul take flight ...
She stabbed him with a poisoned sting
and as he lay there dying,
she screamed, "I wanted everything!"
and started crying.



Duet of the Heroic Hamster
by Michael R. Burch

If love is just an impulse meant to bring
two tiny hearts together, skittering
like hamsters from their Quonsets late at night
in search of lust’s productive exercise…

If love is the mutation of some gene
made radiant�"an accident of bliss
played out by two small actors on a screen
of silver mesh, who never even kiss…

If love is evolution, nature’s way
of sorting out its DNA in pairs,
of matching, mating, sculpting flesh’s clay…
why does my wrinkled hamster climb his stairs

to set his wheel revolving, then descend
and stagger off … to make hers fly again?



u-turn: another way to look at religion
by Michael R. Burch

... u were borne 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 ...



pretty pickle
by Michael R. Burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur GAUD’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).



Sonnet: Wonderland
by Michael R. Burch

We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test
the beatific anthems of the blessed,
the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s
sincere religion. Magnified, the lens
shot back absurd reflections of each face�"
a carnival-like mirror. In the space
between the silver backing and the glass,
we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass
who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed
to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed
for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee
to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key.
We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung.
In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one.



East Devon Beacon
by Michael R. Burch

Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness�"a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.

Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
with directions
obtained from passing strangers?

Why do we sit,
frantically retracing
love’s long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?

Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon’s face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?



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.



Sonnet: Caveat
by Michael R. Burch

If only we were not so *eloquent*,
we might sing, and only sing, not to impress,
but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed.
We might inundate the earth with thankfulness
for light, although it dies, and make a song
of night descending on the earth like bliss,
with other lights beyond�"*not to be known*�"
but only to be welcomed and enjoyed,
before all worlds and stars are overthrown ...
as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face
and find it beautiful for emptiness
of all but joy. There is no thought to love
but love itself. How senseless to redress,
in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . .

Originally published by *Clementine Unbound*



Within the CPU
by Michael R. Burch

Here the electronic rush of meaning,
the impulse of mathematics
and rationality,
becomes almost a restless dreaming
never satisfied�"
the first stirrings of some fetal Entity.

Here within a sterile void
flash wild electrons,
portent stars.

Once the earth was an asteroid
this inert, this barren
till a force
flashed across the face of formless waters
and a zigzag bolt of lightning
sparked life within an ocean.

Now inquisitive voltage crackles
along pathways
never engineered. A notion
stirs. And what we have created
creates within itself
something we cannot hope to comprehend.

Whatever It is,
when It emerges from the mist,
its god will not be man.

I wrote “Within the CPU” as a freshman computer science major, age 18 or 19.



Sonnet: The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose
by Michael R. Burch

I lead you here to pluck this florid rose
still tethered to its post, a dreary mass
propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned
(what hand was ever daunted less to touch
such *flame*, in blatant disregard of all
but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose
not symbolize our love? But as I place
its emblem to your breast, how can this poem,
long centuries deflowered, not debase
all art, if merely genuine, but not
“original”? Love, how can *reused words*
though frailer than all petals, bent by air
to lovelier contortions, still persist,
defying even gravity? For here
beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness!



Sonnet: 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*.



Sonnet: Bowery Boys
by Michael R. Burch

Male bowerbirds have learned
that much respect is earned
when optical illusions
inspire wild delusions.

And so they work for hours
to line their manly bowers
with stones arranged by size
to awe and mesmerize.

It’d take a great detective
to grok the false perspective
they use to lure in cuties
to smooch and fill with cooties.

Like human politicians,
they love impressive fictions
as they lie in their randy causes
with props like the Wizard of Oz’s.



Sonnet: Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch

*"Keep it simple, stupid."*

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.

It only matters that *she* taps her feet
or that *he* frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused�"a child�"as images
of worlds he'd lost come flooding back, and then...
they'll cheer the poet's insubordinate pen.

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.



At Cædmon’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
�"perhaps by God, perhaps by need�"
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.

Originally published by *The Lyric*



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.



These Hallowed Halls
by Michael R. Burch

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

A final stereo fades into silence
and now there is seldom a murmur
to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls.
I stand by a window where others have watched
the passage of time alone, not untouched,
and I am as they were�"unsure, for the days
stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze.

Ah, faithless lover�"that I had never touched your breast,
nor felt the stirrings of my heart,
which until that moment had peacefully slept.
For now I have known the exhilaration
of a heart that has leapt the highest pinnacle of Love,
and the result of all such infatuations�"
the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.

Originally published by *The Lyric*



Artificial Smile
by Michael R. Burch

I’m waiting for my artificial teeth
to stretch belief, to hollow out the cob
of zealous righteousness, to grasp life’s stub
between clenched molars, and yank out the grief.

Mine must be art-official�"zenlike Art�"
a disembodied, white-enameled grin
of Cheshire manufacture. Part by part,
the human smile becomes mock porcelain.

Till in the end, the smile alone remains:
titanium-based alloys undestroyed
with graves’ worm-eaten contents, all the pains
of bridgework unrecalled, and what annoyed
us most about the corpses rectified
to quaintest dust. The Smile winks, deified.



Altared Spots
by Michael R. Burch

The mother leopard buries her cub,
then cries three nights for his bones to rise
clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.

Good mother leopard, pensive thought
and fiercest love’s wild insurrection
yield no certainty of a resurrection.

Man’s tried them both, has added tears,
chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs’
white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs

where dead men’s frozen genes convene ...
there is no answer�"death is death.
So bury your son, and save your breath.

Or emulate earth’s “highest species”�"
write a few strange poems and odd treatises.



Maker, Fakir, Curer
by Michael R. Burch

A poem should be a wild, unearthly cry
against the thought of lying in the dark,
doomed�"never having seen bright sparks leap high,
without a word for *flame*, none for the mark
an ember might emblaze on lesioned skin.

A poet is no crafty artisan�"
the maker of some crock. He dreams of *flame*
he never touched, but�"fakir’s courtesan�"
must dance obedience, once called by name.

Thin wand, divine!, this world is too the same�"
all watery ooze and flesh. Let fire cure
and quickly harden here what can endure.

Originally published by *The Lyric*



To the Post-Modern Muse, Floundering
by Michael R. Burch

The anachronism in your poetry
is that it lacks a *future* history.
The line that rings, the forward-sounding bell,
tolls death for you, for drowning victims tell
of insignificance, of eerie shoals,
of voices underwater. Lichen grows
to mute the lips of those men paid no heed,
and though you cling by fingertips, and bleed,
there is no lifeline now, for what has slipped
lies far beyond your grasp. Iron fittings, stripped,
have left the hull unsound, bright cargo lost.
The argosy of all your toil is rust.
The anchor that you flung did not take hold
in any harbor where repair is sold.



The Evolution of Love
by Michael R. Burch

Love among the infinitesimal
flotillas of amoebas is a dance
of transient appendages, wild sails
that gather in warm brine and then express
one headstream as two small, divergent wakes.

*Minuscule voyage�"love!* Upon false feet,
the pseudopods of uprightness, we creep
toward self-immolation: two nee one.

We cannot photosynthesize the sun,
and so we love in darkness, till we come
at last to understand: man’s spineless heart
is alien to any land.  We part
to single cells; we rise on buoyant tears,
amoeba-light, to breathe new atmospheres ...
and still we sink. The night is full of stars
we cannot grasp, though all the World is ours.

Have we such cells within us, bent on love
to ever-changingness, so that to part
is not to be the same, or even one?

Is love our evolution, or a scream
against the thought of separateness�"a cry
of strangled recognition? Love, or die,
or love and die a little. *Hopeful death!*
Come scale these cliffs, lie changing, share this breath.

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.

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.

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.

Sunset

by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr., on the day he departed this life

Between the prophecies of morning

and twilight's revelations of wonder, 

the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds, 

waiting, as if to plunder

the dusk of its lilac iridescence, 

and in the bright-tentacled sunset

we imagine a presence

full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, 

brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, 

we recognize at once, but cannot name.

Published by Contemporary Rhyme, New Lyre, The Chained Muse, Age of Muses, Poetry Life & Times, ArtVilla, Motherbird and Word Bird

Spring Was Delayed

by Michael R. Burch

Winter came early: 

the driving snows, 

the delicate frosts

that crystallize

all we forget

or refuse to know, 

all we regret

that makes us wise.

Spring was delayed: 

the nubile rose, 

the tentative sun, 

the wind's soft sighs, 

all we omit

or refuse to show, 

whatever we shield

behind guarded eyes.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

Defenses

by Michael R. Burch

Beyond the silhouettes of trees

stark, naked and defenseless

there stand long rows of sentinels: 

these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard, 

the good Lord only knows; 

but savages would have to laugh

observing the tidy rows.

Polish

by Michael R. Burch

Your fingers end in talons�"

the ones you trim to hide

the predator inside. 

Ten thousand creatures sacrificed; 

but really, what's the loss? 

Apply a splash of gloss. 

You picked the perfect color

to mirror nature's law: 

red, like tooth and claw. 

Vacuum

by Michael R. Burch

Over hushed quadrants

forever landlocked in snow, 

time's senseless winds blow...

leaving odd relics of lives half-revealed, 

if still mostly concealed...

such are the things we are unable to know

that once intrigued us so. 

Come then, let us quickly repent 

of whatever truths we'd once determined to learn

but lost in these drifts at each unexpected turn.

There's nothing left of us here; it's time to go.

Less Heroic Couplets: Questionable Credentials

by Michael R. Burch

Poet? Critic? Dilettante? 

Do you know what's good, or do you merely flaunt? 

Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed

by Michael R. Burch

for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air

Their volume's impressive, it's true...

but somehow it all seems "much ado."

The Humpback

by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet

equipped with snarky fins.

It has a winning smile: 

and when it Smiles, it wins

as miles and miles of herring

excite its fearsome grins.

So beware, unwary whalers, 

lest you drown, sans feet and shins! 

Published by Lighten Up Online

Don't ever hug a lobster! 

by Michael R. Burch

Don't ever hug a lobster, if you meet one on the street! 

If you hug a lobster to your breast, you're apt to lose a teat! 

If you hug a lobster lower down, it'll snip away your privates! 

If you hug a lobster higher up, it'll leave your cheeks with wide vents! 

So don't ever hug a lobster, if you meet one on the street, 

But run away and hope your frenzied feet are very fleet! 

The Unregal Beagle vs. The Voracious Eagle

by Michael R. Burch

I'd rather see an eagle

than a beagle

because they're so damn regal.

But when it's time to wiggle

and to giggle, 

I'd rather embrace an angel

than an evil.

And when it's time to share the same small space, 

I'd much rather have a beagle lick my face! 

Resemblance

by Michael R. Burch

Take this geode with its rough exterior�"

crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted...

a diode of amethyst�"wild, electric; 

its sequined cavity�"parted, revealing.

Find in its fire all brittle passion, 

each jagged shard relentlessly aching.

Each spire inward�"a fission startled; 

in its shattered entrails�"fractured light, 

the heart ice breaking.

Less Heroic Couplets: Midnight Stairclimber

by Michael R. Burch

Procreation

is at first great sweaty recreation, 

then�"long, long after the sex dies�"

the source of endless exercise.

Elemental

by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

There is within her a welling forth

of love unfathomable.

She is not comfortable

with the thought of merely loving: 

but she must give all.

At night, she heeds the storm's calamitous call; 

nay, longs for it. Why? 

O, if a man understood, he might get her.

But that never would do! 

Beth, as you embrace the storm, 

so I embrace elemental you. 

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? 

Published in The Bible of Hell

Lay Down Your Arms

by Michael R. Burch

Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.

The battle is over and night is at hand.

Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go...

the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.

Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.

Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.

The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin...

Lay down your pamphlets; now no one will "win."

Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.

If God was to save us, He waited too long.

A new world emerges, but this world is through...

so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.

Bittersight

by Michael R. Burch

for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri

To be plagued with sight

in the Land of the Blind, 

�"to know birth is death

and that Death is kind�"

is to be flogged like Eve

(stripped, sentenced and fined) 

because evil is "good"

in some backwards mind.

Golden Rue

by Michael R. Burch

Love has the value

of gold, if it's true; 

if not, of rue.

"Golden Rue" is a pun on "golden rule" and the fact that rue (regret)  is seldom seen as golden.

Why the Kid Gloves Came Off

by Michael R. Burch

for Lemuel Ibbotson

It's hard to be a man of taste

in such a waste: 

hence the lambaste.

Siren Song

by Michael R. Burch

The Lorelei's

soft cries

entreat mariners to save her...

How can they resist

her seductive voice through the mist? 

Soon she will savor

the flavor

of sweet human flesh. 

Rounds

by Michael R. Burch

Solitude surrounds me

though nearby laughter sounds; 

around me mingle men who think

to drink their demons down, 

in rounds.

Now agony still hounds me

though elsewhere mirth abounds; 

hidebound I stand and try to think, 

not sink still further down, 

spellbound.

Their ecstasy astounds me, 

though drunkenness compounds

resounding laughter into joy; 

alloy such glee with beer and see

bliss found.

Nothing Returns

by Michael R. Burch

A wave implodes, 

impaled upon

impassive rocks...

this evening

the thunder of the sea

is a wild music filling my ear...

you are leaving

and the ungrieving 

winds demur...

telling me

that nothing returns

as it was before, 

here where you have left no mark

upon this dark

Heraclitean shore.

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) 

Leave Taking (I) 

by Michael R. Burch

Brilliant leaves abandon

battered limbs

to waltz upon ecstatic winds

until they die.

But the barren and embittered trees

lament the frolic of the leaves

and curse the bleak

November sky.

Now, as I watch the leaves'

high flight

before the fading autumn light, 

I think that, perhaps, at last I may

have learned what it means to say

goodbye.

Published by The Lyric, Borderless Journal (Singapore) , Mindful of Poetry, Silver Stork Magazine, and There is Something in the Autumn (anthology) 

Con Artistry

by Michael R. Burch

The trick of life is like the sleight of hand

of gamblers holding deuces by the glow

of veiled back rooms, or aces; soon we'll know

who folds, who stands...

The trick of life is like the pool shark's shot�"

the wild massé across green velvet felt

that leaves the winner loser. No, it's not

the rack, the hand that's dealt...

The trick of life is knowing that the odds

are never in one's favor, that to win

is only to delay the acts of gods

who'd ante death for sin...

and death for goodness, death for in-between.

The rules have never changed; the artist knows

the oldest con is life; the chips he blows

can't be redeemed.

Self Reflection

by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form

and a smile that brightens her dorm...

but she's grossly unthin

when seen from within; 

soon a griefstricken campus will mourn. 

Yet she'd never once criticize

a friend for the size of her thighs.

Do unto others�"

sisters and brothers? 

Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.

Ah! Sunflower

by Michael R. Burch

for and after William Blake

O little yellow flower

like a star...

how beautiful, 

how wonderful

we are! 

Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) 

no foothold

by michael r. burch

there is no hope; 

therefore i became invulnerable to love.

now even god cannot move me: 

nothing to push or shove, 

no foothold. 

so let me live out my remaining days in clarity, 

mine being the only nativity, 

my death the final crucifixion

and apocalypse, 

as far as the i can see...

brrExit

by Michael R. Burch

what would u give

to simply not exist�"

for a painless exit? 

he asked himself, uncertain.

then from behind

the hospital room curtain

a patient screamed�"

'my life! '

fog

by michael r. burch

ur just a bit of fluff

drifting out over the ocean, 

unleashing an atom of rain, 

causing a minor commotion, 

for which u expect awesome GODS

to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION! 

... but ur just a smidgen of mist

unlikely to be missed...

where did u get the notion? 

grave request

by michael r. burch

come to ur doom

in Tombstone; 

the stars stark and chill

over Boot Hill

care nothing for ur desire; 

                 still, 

imagine they wish u no ill, 

that u burn with the same antique fire; 

for there's nothing to life but the thrill

of living until u expire; 

so come, spend ur last hardearned bill

on Tombstone.

Starting from Scratch with Ol' Scratch

by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh

went to the ovens. Please don't bother to cry.

You could have saved her, but you were all tied up

complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp. 

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.

You had something more important to do: 

while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza

with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a

religious tract against homosexual marriage

and various things gods and evangelists disparage.) 

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I'm quite sure! 

Your intentions were noble and ineluctably pure.

And what the hell does THE LORD care about Palestinians? 

Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.

Scratch that. You're one of the Devil's minions.

thanksgiving prayer of the parasites

by michael r. burch

GODD is great; 

GODD is good; 

let us thank HIM

for our food.

by HIS hand

we all are fed; 

give us now

our daily dead: 

ah-men! 

(p.s., 

most gracious

& salacious

HEAVENLY LORD, 

we thank YOU in advance for

meals galore

of loverly gore: 

of precious

delicious

sumptuous

scrumptious 

human flesh!) 

Sometimes the Dead

by Michael R. Burch

Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes�"

     the pale dead.

          After they have fled

the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.

Once they have become a cloud's mist, sometimes like the rain

     they descend; 

they appear, sometimes silver like laughter, 

to gladden the hearts of men.

Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift

     unencumbered, yet lumbrously, 

          as if over the sea

there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.

Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies

     only half-remembered.

          Though they lie dismembered

in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies, 

yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust

     blood-engorged, but never sated

          since Cain slew Abel.

But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must...

This poem was recited by Carla Maria Gnappi to her English literature class in Italy, along with other poems of mine, during a study of the poetry of William Blake. 

Orpheus

by Michael R. Burch

for and after William Blake

I.

Many a sun

and many a moon

I walked the earth

and whistled a tune.

I did not whistle 

as I worked: 

the whistle was my work.

I shirked

nothing I saw

and made a rhyme

to children at play

and hard time.

II.

Among the prisoners

I saw

the leaden manacles

of Law, 

the heavy ball and chain, 

the quirt.

And yet I whistled

at my work.

III.

Among the children's

daisy faces

and in the women's

frowsy laces, 

I saw redemption, 

and I smiled.

Satanic millers, 

unbeguiled, 

were swayed by neither girl, 

nor child, 

nor any God of Love.

Yet mild

I whistled at my work, 

and Song

broke out, 

ere long.

FIRST ON HELLO

Les Bijoux ("The Jewels") 

by Charles Baudelaire

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims

Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems; 

Her art was saving men despite their sins�"

She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems! 

She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, 

My world of stone and metal sparking bright; 

I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair�"

Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite! 

Naked she lay and offered herself to me, 

Parting her legs and smiling receptively, 

As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea�"

Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly. 

A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent...

Intent on lust, content to purr and please! 

Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent 

An odd charm to her metamorphoses.

Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs, 

Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan, 

Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes; 

Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone.

Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster, 

To break the peace which had possessed my heart, 

She flashed her crystal rocks' hypnotic luster

Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart. 

Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously 

Out-thrust, and yet... and yet, somehow, still coy...

As if stout haunches of Antiope 

Had been grafted to a boy...

The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out, 

Till firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud; 

Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt, 

It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood.

Published by Lush Stories, The Erotic Salon and loovebook

BeMused

by Michael R. Burch

You will find in her hair

a fragrance more severe

than camphor.

You will find in her dress

no hint of a sweet

distractedness.

You will find in her eyes

horn-owlish and wise

no metaphors

of love, but only reflections

of books, books, books.

If you like Her looks, 

meet me in the long rows, 

between Poetry and Prose, 

where we'll win Her favor

with jousts, and savor

the wine of Her hair, 

the shimmery wantonness

of Her rich-satined dress; 

where we'll press

our good deeds upon Her, save Her

from every distress, 

for the lovingkindness

of Her matchless eyes

and all the suns of Her tongues.

We were young, 

once, 

unlearned and unwise...

but, O, to be young

when love comes disguised

with the whisper of silks

and idolatry, 

and even the childish tongue claims

the intimacy of Poetry.

Resurrecting Passion

by Michael R. Burch

Last night, while dawn was far away

and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies, 

as thunder boomed and lightning railed, 

I conjured words, where passion failed...

But, oh, that you were mine tonight, 

sprawled in this bed, held in these arms, 

your breasts pale baubles in my hands, 

our bodies bent to old demands...

Such passions we might resurrect, 

if only time and distance waned

and brought us back together; 

                                                       now

I pray these things might be, somehow.

But time has left us twisted, torn, 

and we are more apart than miles.

How have you come to be so far�"

as distant as an unseen star? 

So that, while dawn is far away, 

my thoughts might not return to you, 

I feed your portrait to banked flames, 

but as they feast, I burn for you.

Progress

by Michael R. Burch

There is no sense of urgency

at the local Burger King.

Birds and squirrels squabble outside

for the last scraps of autumn: 

remnants of buns, 

goopy pulps of dill pickles, 

mucousy lettuce, 

sesame seeds.

Inside, the workers all move

with the same très-glamorous lethargy, 

conserving their energy, one assumes, 

for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms, 

pep rallies, keg parties, 

reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.

The manager, as usual, is on the phone, 

talking to her boyfriend.

She gently smiles, 

brushing back wisps of insouciant hair, 

ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.

Through her filmy white blouse

an indiscreet strap

suspends a lace cup

through which somehow the n****e still shows.

Progress, we guess, ...

and wait patiently in line, 

hoping the Pokémons hold out.

Poppy

by Michael R. Burch

"It is lonely to be born." - Dannie Abse, "The Second Coming"

It is lonely to be born

between the intimate ears of corn...

the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.

The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows...

Pale butterflies in staggering flight

ascend the gauntlet winds and light

before the scything harvester.

The winsome buds of cornflowers

prepare themselves to be airborne, 

and it is lonely to be shorn, 

decapitate, of eager life

so early in love's blinding maze

of silks and tassels, goldened days

when life's renewed, gone underground.

Sad confidante of worm and mound, 

how little stands to be regained

of what is left.

A tiny cleft

now marks your birth, your reddening

among the amber waves. O, sing! 

Another waits to be reborn

among bent thistle, down and thorn.

A hoofprint's cleft, a ram's curved horn

curled inward, turned against the heart, 

a spoor like infamy. Depart.

You came too late, the signs are clear: 

whose world this is, now watches, near.

There is no opiate for the heart.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

Child of 9-11

by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born on September 11,2001 and died at the age of nine, shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved, 

I bring this lily, lay it down

here at your feet, and eiderdown, 

and all soft things, for your gentle spirit. 

I bring this psalm�"I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring�"I lay it down

here by your form, which is not you, 

but what you left this shellshocked world

to help us learn what we must do

to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know

you are not here, but watch afar

from distant stars, where angels rue

the evil things some mortals do.

I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow: 

though I may weep, I will not rest

nor will my pen fail heaven's test

till guns and wars and hate are banned

from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve

your gentle life, cut short. Bereaved, 

what can I do, but pledge my life

to saving lives like yours? Belief

in your sweet worth has led me here...

I give my all: my pen, this tear, 

this lily and this eiderdown, 

and all soft things my heart can bear; 

I bring them to your final bier, 

and leave them with my promise, here.

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.

"Upon a Frozen Star" was my first attempt at blank verse.

Of Civilization and Disenchantment

by Michael R. Burch

for Anais Vionet

Suddenly uncomfortable

to stay at my grandfather's house�"

actually his third new wife's, 

in her daughter's bedroom

�"one interminable summer

with nothing to do, 

all the meals served cold, 

even beans and peas...

Lacking the words to describe

ah! , those pearl-luminous estuaries�"

strange omens, incoherent nights.

Seeing the flares of the river barges

illuminating Memphis, 

city of bluffs and dying splendors.

Drifting toward Alexandria, 

Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta, 

lands at the beginning of a new time and 'civilization.'

Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery, 

Alexander's corpse floating seaward, 

bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.

Memphis shall be waste and desolate, 

without an inhabitant.

Or so the people dreamed, in chains.

An Obscenity Trial

by Michael R. Burch

The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints

against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.

They accused him of trying to reach the 'common crowd, '

and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.

The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed) ; 

it seems he'd never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.

He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity; 

twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.

The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind, 

though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.

Clerics loved the 'Hanging Judge' and the critics were his kin.

Bystanders said, 'They'll crucify him! ' The public was not let in.

The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face, 

knowing the trial would be a farce.

'It is obscene, ' he screamed, 'to expose the naked heart! '

The recorder (bewildered Society) , well aware of his notoriety, 

 greeted this statement with applause.

'This man is no poet. Just look�"his Hallmark shows it.

Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer! 

His sense of rhythm is too fine! 

He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs.

This man is an impostor! 

I ask that his sentence be... the almost perceptible indignity

of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster! '

The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered.

The defendant sighed in mild despair, 'Might I not answer to my peers? '

But how His Honor giggled then, 

seeing no poets were let in.

Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad

and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.

Ann Rutledge's Irregular Quilt

based on "Lincoln the Unknown" by Dale Carnegie

I.

Her fingers "plied the needle" with "unusual swiftness and art"

till Abe knelt down beside her: then her demoralized heart

set Eros's dart a-quiver; thus a crazy quilt emerged: 

strange stitches all a-kilter, all patterns lost. 

                                                                      (Her host

kept her vicarious laughter barely submerged.) 

II.

Years later she'd show off the quilt with its uncertain stitches

as evidence love undermines men's plans and women's strictures 

(and a plethora of scriptures.) 

III.

But O the sacred tenderness Ann's reckless stitch contains

and all the world's felicities: rich cloth, for love's fine gains, 

for sweethearts' tremulous fingers and their bright, uncertain vows

and all love's blithe, erratic hopes (like now's) .

IV.

Years later on a pilgrimage, by tenderness obsessed, 

Dale Carnegie, drawn to her grave, found weeds in her place of rest

and mowed them back, revealing the spot of the Railsplitter's joy and grief

(and his hope and his disbelief) . 

V.

For such is the tenderness of love, and such are its disappointments.

Love is a book of rhapsodic poems. Love is an grab bag of ointments.

Love is the finger poised, the smile, the Question �" perhaps the Answer? 

Love is the pain of betrayal, the two left feet of the dancer.

VI.

There were ladies of ill repute in his past. Or so he thought. Was it true? 

And yet he loved them, Ann (sweet Ann!) , as tenderly as he loved you.

The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse

by Michael R. Burch

"I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains

There was relief there, 

and release, 

on Île Grosse

in the spreading gorse

and the cry of the wild geese...

There was relief there, 

without remorse, 

when the tin whistle lifted its voice

in a tune of artless grief, 

piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.

And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief, 

but of their faith and belief�"

like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose, 

driving men to the seas like lemmings, 

they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death, 

and their belief in God was their only wealth. 

They were proud folk, with only their lives to owe, 

who sought the liberation of this strange new land.

Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row, 

with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory, 

reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad�"but, O, their faith was grand! 

wild wild west-east-north-south-up-down

by michael r. burch

each day it resumes�"the great struggle for survival.

the fiercer and more perilous the wrath, 

the wilder and wickeder the weaponry, 

the better the daily odds

(just don't bet on the long term, or revival) .

so ur luvable Gaud decreed, Theo-retically, 

if indeed He exists 

                               as ur Bible insists�"

the Wildest and the Wickedest of all

with the brightest of creatures in thrall

(unless u

somehow got that bleary

Theo-ry 

wrong too) .

I wrote this poem after discovering the poetry of e. e. cummings while reading poetry independently in high school. My "cummings period" started around 1974 at age 15-16. I believe this poem was the first of its genre. I seem to remember working on it my sophomore and junior years, making mostly minor revisions in 1975. 

i (dedicated to u) 

i.

i move within myself

i see beyond the sky

and fathom with full certainty: 

this lifes a lethal lie

my teachers try to tell me

that they know more than i

(and well they may

but do they know

shrewd TIME is slipping by

and leaving us all to die?) 

i shout within myself

i stand up to be seen

but only my eyes

watch as i rise

and i am left between

the nightmare of "REALITY"

and sleeps soothing scenes

and both are only dreams

i cry out to my "friends"

but none of them can hear

i weep in dark frustration

but they swim beyond my tears

i reach out to assist them

but they cannot find my hand

they all believe in "GOD"

yet all of them are damned

come, my self, come with me

move within your shell

cast aside such "enlightenment"

and let us leave this living hell

ii.

i watch the maidens play

their fickle games of love

and is this is what

life is of

then i have had enough

all my teachers tell me

to adjust to SOCIETY

yet none of them will venture

how (false)  it came to be

this gaud, SOCIETY

i watch the maidens play

and though i want them much

i know the illusion of their purity

would shatter at my touch

leaving annihilated truth

to be pieced together to dispel

the lies that accompany youth

i watch the maidens play

and know that what i want

i cannot take because

then it would be gone

iii.

i watch the lovely maidens

i search their sightless eyes

i find that only darkness

lies behind each guise

i try to touch their feelings

but they have been replaced

by intelligence and manners

and tact and social grace

i want to make them love me

but they cannot love themselves

and though they seek love desperately

and care for little else

they stand little chance

of much more than romance

for a few days

i try to friend the men

but they have even less

for they want nothing more

than whatever seems "the best"

their hollow, burnt-out eyes

reveal their souls have flown

and all that loss has left

is a strange, sad fear of debt

and a love for things of gold

ive.

ive never seen a day break

but ive seen a life shatter

it was mine

and i suppose it still is: 

all ten thousand pieces

id.

id like to put it together

(someONE please tell me how!) 

for i am out of the glue

called u

that held my life together

i.e.

and i wish that u

and i were through

but whatever u do

dont say that we are! 

Cycles

by Michael R. Burch

I see his eyes caress my daughter's breasts

through her thin cotton dress, 

and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra

holds his bald fingers 

in fumbling mammalian awe...

And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk

of a distant park, 

hot blushes, 

wild, disembodied rushes of blood, 

portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers...

and now in him the memory of me lingers

like something thought rancid, 

proved rotten.

I see Another again�"hard, staring, and silent�"

though long-ago forgotten...

And I remember conjectures of panty lines, 

brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs, 

coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors, 

all the odd, questioning stares...

Yes, I remember it all now, 

and I shoo them away, 

willing them not to play too long or too hard

in the back yard�"

with a long, ineffectual stare

that years from now, he may suddenly remember.

Sunset, at Laugharne

by Michael R. Burch

for Dylan Thomas

At Laugharne, in his thirty-fifth year, 

he watched the starkeyed hawk career; 

he felt the vested heron bless, 

and larks and finches everywhere

sank with the sun, their missives west�"

where faith is light; his nightjarred breast

watched passion dovetail to its rest.

*

He watched the gulls above green shires

flock shrieking, fleeing priested shores

with silver fishes stilled on spears.

He felt the pressing weight of years

in ways he never had before�"

that gravity no brightness spares, 

from sunken hills to unseen stars.

He saw his father's face in waves

which gently lapped Wales' gulled green bays.

He wrote as passion swelled to rage�"

the dying light, the unturned page, 

the unburned soul's devoured sage.

*

The words he gathered clung together

till night�"the jetted raven's feather�"

fell, fell... and all was as before...

till silence lapped Laugharne's dark shore

diminished, where his footsteps shone

in pools of fading light�"no more.

No One

by Michael R. Burch

No One hears the bells tonight; 

they tell him something isn't right.

But No One feels no need to rush: 

he smiles from beds soft, green and lush

as far away a startled thrush

flees screeching owls in sinking flight.

No One hears the cannon's roar

and muses that its voice means war

comes knocking on men's doors tonight.

He sleeps outside in awed delight

beneath the enigmatic stars

and shivers in their cooling light.

No One knows the world will end, 

that he'll be lonely, without friend

or foe to conquer. All will be

once more, celestial harmony.

He'll miss men's voices, now and then, 

but worlds can be remade again.

These Hallowed Halls

by Michael R. Burch

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

A final stereo fades into silence

and now there is seldom a murmur

to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched

the passage of time�"alone, not untouched.

And I am as they were�"unsure, 

                                                    for the days

stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze.

Ah, faithless lover�"that I had never touched your breast, 

nor felt the stirrings of my heart, 

which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration

of a heart having leapt from the pinnacle of Love, 

                  and the result of each such infatuation...

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

These Hallowed Halls

by Michael R. Burch

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

I.

A final stereo fades into silence

and now there is seldom a murmur

to trouble the slumber 

of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched

the passage of time�"alone, 

not untouched.

And I am as they were

...unsure...

for the days

stretch out ahead, 

a bewildering maze.

II.

Ah, faithless lover�" 

that I had never touched your breast, 

nor felt the stirrings of my heart, 

which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration

of a heart having vaulted the Pinnacle of Love, 

             and the result of each such infatuation...

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

III.

A solitary clock chimes the hour 

from far above the campus, 

but my peers, 

returning from their dances, 

heed it not.

And so it is

that we fail to gauge Time's speed

because He moves so unobtrusively

about His task. 

Still, when at last 

we reckon His mark upon our lives, 

we may well be surprised 

at His thoroughness.

IV.

Ungentle maiden�" 

when Time has etched His little lines

so carelessly across your brow, 

perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen

your youth, as He certainly shall in course, 

perhaps you will wish you had taken me

along with my broken heart, 

even as He will take you with yours.

V.

A measureless rhythm rules the night�"

few have heard it, 

but I have shared it, 

and its secret is mine.

To put it into words 

is as to extract the sweetness from honey

and must be done as gently 

as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again; 

its usefulness is only 

that it lulls to sleep.

VI.

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

to the moans of the moonlit hills'

bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill

with the nightjar's strange bullfrog-like trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any; 

how can I�"when my dreams

are always of your perfect face

ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace, 

and a tear upon your pillowcase?

VII.

If I had been born when knights roamed the earth

and mad kings ruled savage lands, 

I might have turned to the ministry, 

to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today�"

theirs is a lost occupation

carried on, if at all, 

merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude�"

he craves companions, song and drink, 

seldom seeking a quiet moment, 

to sit alone, by himself, to think.

VIII.

And so I cannot shut myself 

off from the rest of the world, 

to spend my days in philosophy 

and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can, 

and learn to keep my thoughts away

from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, 

centuries past though lost but a day.

IX.

Yes, I must discipline myself 

and adjust to these lackluster days

when men display no chivalry 

and romance is the 'old-fashioned' way.

X.

A single stereo flares into song 

and the first faint light of morning

has pierced the sky's black awning 

once again.

XI.

This is a sacred place, 

for those who leave, 

leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here, 

add, with their sleepless nights and tears, 

quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls

of these Hallowed Halls.

At the Natchez Trace

by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

I.

Solitude surrounds me

though nearby laughter sounds; 

around me mingle men who think

to drink their demons down, 

in rounds.

Beside me stands a woman, 

a stanza in the song

that plays so low and fluting

and bids me sing along.

Beside me stands a woman

whose eyes reveal her soul, 

whose cheeks are soft as eiderdown, 

whose hips and breasts are full.

Beside me stands a woman

who scarcely knows my name; 

but I would have her know my heart

if only I knew where to start.

II.

Not every man is as he seems; 

not all are prone to poems and dreams.

Not every man would take the time

to meter out his heart in rhyme.

But I am not as other men�"

my heart is sentenced to this pen.

III.

Men speak of their 'ambition'

but they only know its name...

I never say the word aloud, 

but I have felt the Flame.

IV.

Now, standing here, I do not dare

to let her know that I might care; 

I never learned the lines to use; 

I never worked the wolves' bold ruse.

But if she looks my way again, 

perhaps I will, if only then.

V.

How can a man have come so far

in searching after every star, 

and yet today, 

though years away, 

look back upon the winding way, 

and see himself as he was then, 

a child of eight or nine or ten, 

and not know more? 

VI.

My life is not empty; I have my desire...

I write in a moment that few men can know, 

when my nerves are on fire

and my heart does not tire

though it pounds at my breast�"

wrenching blow after blow.

VII.

And in all I attempted, I also succeeded; 

few men have more talent to do what I do.

But in one respect, I stand now defeated; 

In love I could never make magic come true.

VIII.

If I had been born to be handsome and charming, 

then love might have come to me easily as well.

But if had that been, then would I have written? 

If not, I'd remain; damn that demon to hell! 

IX.

Beside me stands a woman, 

but others look her way

and in their eyes are eagerness...

for passion and a wild caress? 

But who am I to say? 

Beside me stands a woman; 

she conjures up the night

and wraps itself around her

till others flit about her

like moths drawn to firelight.

X.

And I, myself, am just as they, 

wondering when the light might fade, 

yet knowing should it not dim soon

that I might fall and be consumed.

XI.

I write from despair

in the silence of morning

for want of a prayer

and the need of the mourning.

And loneliness grips my heart like a vise; 

my anguish is harsher and colder than ice.

But poetry can bring my heart healing

and deaden the pain, or lessen the feeling.

And so I must write till at last sleep has called me

and hope at that moment my pen has not failed me.

XII.

Beside me stands a woman, 

a mystery to me.

I long to hold her in my arms; 

I also long to flee.

Beside me stands a woman; 

how many has she known

more handsome, charming, 

chic, alarming? 

I hope I never know.

Beside me stands a woman; 

how many has she known

who ever wrote her such a poem? 

I know not even one.

"Sea Dreams" is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of "Jessamyn's Song." To the best of my recollection, I wrote "Sea Dreams" around age 18 in high school my senior year, then worked on in college. It appeared in my poetry contest notebook and thus was substantially complete by 1978. 

Sea Dreams

by Michael R. Burch

I.

In timeless days

I've crossed the waves

of seaways seldom seen...

By the last low light of evening

the breakers that careen

then dive back to the deep

have rocked my ship to sleep, 

and so I've known the peace

of a soul at last at ease

there where Time's waters run

in concert with the sun.

With restless waves

I've watched the days'

slow movements, as they hum

their antediluvian songs.

Sometimes I've sung along, 

my voice as soft and low

as the sea's, while evening slowed

to waver at the dim

mysterious moonlit rim

of dreams no man has known.

In thoughtless flight, 

I've scaled the heights

and soared a scudding breeze

over endless arcing seas

of waves ten miles high.

I've sheared the sable skies

on wings as soft as sighs

and stormed the sun-pricked pitch

of sunset's scarlet-stitched, 

ebullient dark demise.

I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds

ten thousand leagues or more

above the windswept shores

of seas no vessel's sailed

�" great seas as grand as hell's, 

shores littered with the shells

of men's 'immortal' souls �"

and I've warred with dark sea-holes

whose open mouths implored

their depths to be explored.

And I've grown and grown and grown

till I thought myself the king

of every silver thing...

But sometimes late at night

when the sorrowing wavelets sing

sad songs of other times, 

I taste the windborne rime

of a well-remembered day

on the whipping ocean spray, 

and I bow my head to pray...

II.

It's been a long, hard day; 

sometimes I think I work too hard.

Tonight I'd like to take a walk

down by the sea �"

down by those salty waves

brined with the scent of Infinity, 

down by that rocky shore, 

down by those cliffs I'd so often climb

when the wind was tart with the tang of lime

and every dream was a sailor's dream.

Then small waves broke light, 

all frothy and white, 

over the reefs in the ramblings of night, 

and the pounding sea

�"a mariner's dream�"

was bound to stir a boy's delight

to such a pitch

that he couldn't desist, 

but was bound to splash through the surf in the light

of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright! 

Christ, those nights were fine, 

like a well-seasoned wine, 

yet more scalding than fire

with the marrow's desire.

Then desire was a fire

burning wildly within my bones, 

fiercer by far than the frantic foam...

and every wish was a moan.

Oh, for those days to come again! 

Oh, for a sea and sailing men! 

Oh, for a little time! 

It's almost nine

and I must be back home by ten, 

and then... what then? 

I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, 

less than an hour old dreams to reach...

And then, what then? 

Tonight I'd like to play old games�"

games that I used to play

with the somber, sinking waves.

When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, 

I'd dance between them gleefully, 

mocking their witless craze

�"their eager, unchecked craze�"

to batter me to death

with spray as light as breath.

Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs�"

songs of the haunting moon

drawing the tides away, 

songs of those sultry days

when the sun beat down

till it cracked the ground

and the sea gulls screamed

in their agony

to touch the cooling clouds.

The distant cooling clouds.

Then the sun shone bright

with a different light

over sprightlier lands, 

and I was always a pirate in flight.

Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, 

if only for a while, 

and walk perhaps a mile

along this windswept shore,

a mile, perhaps, or more, 

remembering those days, 

safe in the soothing spray

of the thousand sparkling streams

that tumble into this sea.

I like to slumber in the caves

of a sailor's dark sea-dreams...

oh yes, I'd love to dream, 

to dream

and dream

and dream.

"Sea Dreams" is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of "Jessamyn's Song." For years I thought I had written "Sea Dreams" around age 19 or 20. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started by age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, "I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because..."

Alien Nation

by Michael R. Burch

for J. S. S., a Christian poet who believes in "hell"

On a lonely outpost on Mars

the astronaut practices "speech"

as alien to primates below

as mute stars winking high, out of reach. 

And his words fall as bright and as chill

as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro �"

far colder than Jesus's words

over the "fortunate" sparrow. 

And I understand how gentle Emily

must have felt, when all comfort had flown, 

gazing into those inhuman eyes, 

feeling zero at the bone.

Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? 

For if he is human, I am not. 

Note: The coinage "grok" appears in Robert Heinlein's classic sci-fi novel Stranger in a Strange Land. The novel's protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith, was raised on Mars by enlightened Martians, and he often feels out of sorts on Earth, where he struggles to grok (understand deeply and profoundly)  earthlings and their primitive, often inhuman, ways.

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Author's Note

These are sonnets by Michael R. Burch.