These are poems about relationships, including poems about mothers and their children, and poems for mothers and their children: i.e., the closest relationships of all. Also, poems about children and poems for children.
Infinity
by Michael R. Burch
Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?
Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity... windswept and blue.
This poem was originally published by TC Broadsheet Verses. I was paid a whopping $10, my first cash payment. It was subsequently published by Piedmont Literary Review, Penny Dreadful, the Net Poetry and Art Competition, Songs of Innocence, Poetry Life & Times, Better Than Starbucks and The Chained Muse.
Poems about Fathers and Grandfathers
Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they've become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly...
Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to...
Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch
I have walked these thirteen miles
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons...
and now my tears
have all been washed away.
Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.
The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,
but not with rain or tears...
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.
Now you stand outlined in the doorway
―a man as large as I left―
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.
Your eyes are grayer
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim―
'My father! '
'My son! '
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
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.
Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch
for my Grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
This distance between us
―this vast sea
of remembrance―
is no hindrance,
no enemy.
I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.
I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.
I feel the sea's salt spray―light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.
Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.
Note: Under the Sextant's Stars is a painting by Bernini.
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat―
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.
'Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard.'
'Don't eat the berries. You see―the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time.'
'I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.'
He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.
Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.
He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.
Years later I found the proper name―'pokeweed'―while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed.
I still can hear his laconic reply...
'Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard.'
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...
Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt
With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.
Nor let men's feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,
nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use―
to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.
Thou art the grass;
make them complete.
Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.
When I was a child
I never considered man's impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.
And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
'Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid...'
as the angels sang.
And, O! , I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.
Now I'm a man―
a man... and yet Grandpa... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.
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.
Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch
Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...
Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.
Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.
Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.
My Touchstone
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.
A man is known
by the life he lives
and those he leaves,
by each heart touched,
which, left behind,
forever grieves.
Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Christine Ena Hurt
There will be joy in the morning
for now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.
For fourteen years, he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.
Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.
He never lost her; she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.
Keywords/Tags: George Edwin Hurt Christine Ena Spouse reunited heaven joy together forever
Poems about Mothers and Grandmothers
Dawn
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt
Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.
Mother's Day Haiku
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt
Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness:
a mother’s compassion.
My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.
An emu feather ...
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.
The eagle sees farther
from its greater height:
our mothers' wisdom.
The Rose
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmother, Lillian Lee, who used to grow the most beautiful roses
The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.
This poem above is my translation of a Sappho epigram.
The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and the grandmother of my son Jeremy
The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.
But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such infinite love
will still reach me, underground.
Arisen
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Mother, I love you!
Mother, delightful,
articulate, insightful!
Angels in training,
watching over, would hover,
learning to love
from the Master: a Mother.
You learned all there was
for this planet to teach,
then extended your wings
to Love’s ultimate reach ...
And now you have soared
beyond eagles and condors
into distant elevations
only Phoenixes can conquer.
Amen
Poems about Children and Poems for Children
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.
He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!) .
He earned the nickname 'teacher's PEST.'
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor's yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty 'THWACK! '
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch and my wife Beth 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, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Originally published by TALESetc
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.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.
It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.
Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I
Will wake together, by and by.
Life's not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.
The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.
Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I
Know nothing but this lullaby.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy (written from his mother's perspective)
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, my dear son, how you're growing up!
You're taller than me, now I'm looking up!
You're a long tall drink and I'm half a cup!
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow,
there are so many things that I want you to know.
Most importantly this: that I love you so.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon a tender bud will thrust forth and grow
after the winter's long virgin snow;
and because there are things that you have to know...
Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom
and fill all the world with its wild perfume.
And though it's hard for me, I must give it room.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Success
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;
there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette
to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.
A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us—the first great success they achieve.
Precipice
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
They will teach you to scoff at love
from the highest, windiest precipice of reason.
Do not believe them.
There is no place safe for you to fall
save into the arms of love.
Love’s Extreme Unction
by Michael R. Burch
Lines composed during Jeremy’s first high school football game (he played tuba), while I watched his mother watch him.
Within the intimate chapels of her eyes—
devotions, meditations, reverence.
I find in them Love’s very residence
and hearing the ardent rapture of her sighs
I prophesy beatitudes to come,
when Love like hers commands us, “All be One!”
Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.
Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.
His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—
for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.
It's hard to be 'wise'
when the years
career through our lives
and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief
while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.
The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages
is useless
unless
it encompasses this:
his kiss.
What does it mean?
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
His little hand, held fast in mine.
What does it mean? What does it mean?
If he were not here, the sun would not shine,
nor the grass grow half as green.
What does it mean?
His arms around my neck, his cheek
snuggling so warm against my own...
What does it mean?
If life's a garden, he's the fairest
flower ever sown,
the sweetest ever seen.
What does it mean?
And when he whispers sweet and low,
'What does it mean? '
It means, my son, I love you so.
Sometimes that's all we need to know.
Boundless
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him,
and every day a new sharp feature emerges:
a feature we'll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining,
trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker...
And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated
in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils
in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples,
become unconscionable errors, become victories lost,
become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair...
if what he was becomes increasingly vague—like a white balloon careening
into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood,
hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders,
shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth,
then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing...
if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving bosom;
to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores;
to sail away like a balloon
on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens,
till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see,
bursting into tears over us:
what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe,
cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision,
unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken...
cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself—flying beyond us?
With a child's wonder
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
With a child's wonder,
pausing to ponder
a puddle of water,
for only a moment,
needing no comment
but bright eyes
and a wordless cry,
he launches himself to fly...
then my two-year-old lands
on his feet and his hands
and water explodes all around.
(From the impact and sound
you'd have thought that he'd drowned,
but the puddle was two inches deep.)
Later that evening, as he lay fast asleep
in that dreamland where two-year-olds wander,
I watched him awhile and smilingly pondered
with a father's wonder.
Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!
With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira's a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!
The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies' wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair...
I think she's just you when you're floating on air!
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass sucks!
On Looking into Curious George's Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.
Amen
Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa's
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number's rehearsed...
My, that last step's a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it's past time to sleep!
Note: 'Hatful of Stars' is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.
Love has a gentle grace
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth on Mother's Day
Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her
unless you've looked into your mother's eyes
and seen her faith
—serene, composed and wise—
that you're the center of her very being
(as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)
Love has no wilder beauty than the thought
that you're the best of all she ever sought.
(And if, perhaps, you don't believe my song,
can your mother be wrong?)
Keywords/Tags: Mothers Day, mother, child, children, family, love, grace, faith, beauty, wise, wisdom, courage, gentle, tender, tenderness, care, caring, nurture, nurturing, mom, maternal
Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
They'll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they're to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves...
And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
'Watch over these, my Angels,
if there's anyone kind, up there.'
Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)
Limericks
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: 'I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot.'
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, 'You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! '
—Michael R. Burch
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, 'Hey, it's great
to be alive! '
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch
Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...
Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.
Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.
Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.
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!
Sailing to My Grandfather, for George Hurt
by Michael R. Burch
This distance between us
—this vast sea
of remembrance—
is no hindrance,
no enemy.
I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.
I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.
I feel the sea's salt spray—light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.
Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.
Note: Under the Sextant's Stars is a painting by Bernini.
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!
Haiku
The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
― Buson Yosa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Poems for Older Children
Reflex
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there...
I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.
Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.
But, O! ,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously) , and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad's...
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats...
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Limericks
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
'When again, gentle bride? '
'Nevermore! ' bright-eyed Raven replied.
—Michael R. Burch
Autumn Conundrum
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
—Michael R. Burch
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
—Michael R. Burch
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.
'Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard.'
'Don't eat the berries. You see—the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time.'
'I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.'
He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.
Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.
He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.
Years later I found the proper name—'pokeweed'—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed.
I still can hear his laconic reply...
'Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard.'
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house—
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
—one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...
Lacking the words to describe
ah! , those pearl-luminous estuaries—
strange omens, incoherent nights.
Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.
Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and 'civilization.'
Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.
Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.
Or so the people dreamed, in chains.
Neglect
by Michael R. Burch
What good are your tears?
They will not spare the dying their anguish.
What good is your concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?
What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?
Before this day is gone,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, wasted limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?
I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of their souls departing...
mournful, and distant.
How pitiful our 'effort, '
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.
Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy's a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he's Benedick — most comical of lovers!
NOTE: Jeremy's father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.
Tall Tails
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Irony
is the base perception
alchemized by deeper reflection,
the paradox
of the wagging tails of dog-ma
torched by sly Reynard the Fox.
These are lines written as my son Jeremy was about to star as Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing at his ultra-conservative high school, Nashville Christian. Benedick is rather obvious wordplay but it apparently flew over the heads of the Puritan headmasters. Samson lit the tails of foxes and set them loose amid the Philistines. Reynard the Fox was a medieval trickster who bedeviled the less wily. 'Irony lies / in a realm beyond the unseeing, / the unwise.'
The Watch
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
I have come to watch my young son,
his blonde ringlets damp with sleep...
and what I know is that he loves me
beyond all earthly understanding,
that his life is like clay in my unskilled hands.
And I marvel this bright ore does not keep—
unrestricted in form, more content than shape,
but seeking a form to become, to express
something of itself to this wilderness
of eyes watching and waiting.
What do I know of his wonder, his awe?
To his future I will matter less and less,
but in this moment, as he is my world, I am his,
and I stand, not understanding, but knowing—
in this vast pageant of stars, he is more than unique.
There will never be another moment like this.
Studiously quiet, I stroke his fine hair
which will darken and coarsen and straighten with time.
He is all I bequeath of myself to this earth.
His fingers curl around mine in his sleep...
I leave him to dreams—calm, untroubled and deep.
The Tapestry of Leaves
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Leaves unfold
as life is sold,
or bartered, for a moment in the sun.
The interchange
of lives is strange:
what reason—life—when death leaves all undone?
O, earthly son,
when rest is won
and wrested from this ground, then through my clay's
soft mortal soot
thrust forth your root
until your leaves embrace the sun's bright rays.
The Long Days Lengthening Into Darkness
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Today, I can be his happiness,
and if he delights
in hugs and smiles,
in baseball and long walks
talking about Rug Rats, Dinosaurs and Pokemon
(noticing how his face lights up
at my least word,
how tender his expression,
gazing up at me in wondering adoration)
... O, son,
these are the long days
lengthening into darkness.
Now over the earth
(how solemn and still their processions)
the clouds
gather to extinguish the sun.
And what I can give you is perhaps no more nor less
than this brief ray dazzling our faces,
seeing how soon the night becomes my consideration.
Renown
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Words fail us when, at last,
we lie unread amid night's parchment leaves,
life's chapter past.
Whatever I have gained of life, I lost,
except for this bright emblem
of your smile...
and I would grasp
its meaning closer for a longer while...
but I am glad
with all my heart to be unheard,
and smile,
bound here, still strangely mortal,
instructed by wise Love not to be sad,
when to be the lesser poet
meant to be 'the world's best dad.'
Every night, my son Jeremy tells me that I'm 'the world's best dad.' Now, that's all poetry, all music and the meaning of life wrapped up in four neat monosyllables! The time I took away from work and poetry to spend with my son was time well spent.
Miracle
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
The contrails of galaxies mingle, and the dust of that first day still shines.
Before I conceived you, before your heart beat, you were mine,
and I see
infinity leap in your bright, fluent eyes.
And you are the best of all that I am. You became
and what will be left of me is the flesh you comprise,
and I see
whatever must be—leaves its mark, yet depends
on these indigo skies, on these bright trails of dust,
on a veiled, curtained past, on some dream beyond knowing,
on the mists of a future too uncertain to heed.
And I see
your eyes—dauntless, glowing—
glowing with the mystery of all they perceive,
with the glories of galaxies passed, yet bestowing,
though millennia dead, all this pale feathery light.
And I see
all your wonder—a wonder to me, for, unknowing,
of all this portends, still your gaze never wavers.
And love is unchallenged in all these vast skies,
or by distance, or time. The ghostly moon hovers;
I see; and I see
all that I am reflected in all that you have become to me.
Always
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Know in your heart that I love you as no other,
and that my love is eternal.
I keep the record of your hopes and dreams
in my heart like a journal,
and there are pages for you there that no one else can fill:
none one else, ever.
And there is a tie between us, more than blood,
that no one else can sever.
And if we're ever parted,
please don't be broken-hearted;
until we meet again on the far side of forever
and walk among those storied shining ways,
should we, for any reason, be apart,
still, I am with you... always.
The Gift
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth and Jeremy
For you and our child, unborn, though named
(for we live in a strange, fantastic age,
and tomorrow, when he is a man,
perhaps this earth will be a cage
from which men fly like flocks of birds,
the distant stars their helpless prey) ,
for you, my love, and you, my child,
what can I give you, each, this day?
First, take my heart, it's mine alone;
no ties upon it, mine to give,
more precious than a lifetime's objects,
once possessed, more free to live.
Then take these poems, of little worth,
but to show you that which you receive
holds precious its two dear possessors,
and makes each lien a sweet reprieve.
This poem was written after a surprising comment from my son, Jeremy.
The Onslaught
by Michael R. Burch
'Daddy, I can't give you a hug today
because my hair is wet.'
No wet-haired hugs for me today;
no lollipopped lips to kiss and say,
Daddy, I love you! with such regard
after baseball hijinks all over the yard.
The sun hails and climbs
over the heartbreak of puppies and daffodils
and days lost forever to windowsills,
over fortune and horror and starry climes;
and it seems to me that a child's brief years
are springtimes and summers beyond regard
mingled with laughter and passionate tears
and autumns and winters now veiled and barred,
as elusive as snowflakes here white, bejeweled,
gaily whirling and sweeping across the yard.
To My Child, Unborn
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
How many were the nights, enchanted
with despair and longing, when dreams recanted
returned with a restless yearning,
and the pale stars, burning,
cried out at me to remember
one night... long ere the September
night when you were conceived.
Oh, then, if only I might have believed
that the future held such mystery
as you, my child, come unbidden to me
and to your mother,
come to us out of a realm of wonder,
come to us out of a faery clime...
If only then, in that distant time,
I had somehow known that this day were coming,
I might not have despaired at the raindrops drumming
sad anthems of loneliness against shuttered panes;
I might not have considered my doubts and my pains
so carefully, so cheerlessly, as though they were never-ending.
If only then, with the starlight mending
the shadows that formed
in the bowels of those nights, in the gussets of storms
that threatened till dawn as though never leaving,
I might not have spent those long nights grieving,
lamenting my loneliness, cursing the sun
for its late arrival. Now, a coming dawn
brings you unto us, and you shall be ours,
as welcome as ever the moon or the stars
or the glorious sun when the nighttime is through
and the earth is enchanted with skies turning blue.
Transition
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
With his cocklebur hugs
and his wet, clinging kisses
like a damp, trembling thistle
catching, thwarting my legs—
he reminds me that life begins with the possibility of rapture.
Was time this deceptive
when my own childhood begged
one last moment of frolic
before bedtime's firm kisses—
when sleep was enforced, and the dark window ledge
waited, impatient, to lure
or to capture
the bright edge of morning
within a clear pane?
Was the sun then my ally—bright dawn's greedy fledgling?
With his joy he reminds me
of joys long forgotten,
of play's endless hours
till the haggard sun sagged
and everything changed.
I gather him up and we trudge off to bed.
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens' hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers...
... of voices of the wolves' tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams' soft, windy vowels...
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker's knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We'd like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy 'boo-boo! , ' only two.
We'd like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball's just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, 'It's me I see. Just me.'
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms
Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch
a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11,2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death...
Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.
Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.
Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.
And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.
Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.
Originally published by The Flea
For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
―for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes
like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother's lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears...
This is, I believe, the second poem I wrote. Or at least it's the second one that I can remember. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it.
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended... far, far away...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while 'sin' and 'damnation' meant little to us,
since forbidden batter was our only lust!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure-what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to injustice, or fate.
Then we never thought about the next day,
for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things didn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
Children
by Michael R. Burch
There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility...
when we might have made...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.
Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!
But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.
But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars,
and for a day,
what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the flurrying snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese in their unseen reprieve
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not―
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker's favorite haunts.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch
Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner
over and over again?
How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Or will we learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
never learning the golden rule?
Life Sentence or Fall Well
by Michael R. Burch
... I swim, my Daddy's princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down
to suck me up? ... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one) ,
and gazes down and whispers 'precious son'...
... the Plunger worked; i'm two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...
... i'm three; yay! whee! oh good! it's time to play!
(oh no, I think there's Others on the way;
i'd better pray) ...
... i'm four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there's Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to kill us, or, She wants some More...
... it's great to be alive if you are five (unless you're me) :
my Mommy says: 'you're WRONG! don't disagree!
don't make this HURT ME! '...
... i'm six; They say i'm tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort! ;
a tadpole's ripping Mommy's Room apart...
... i'm seven; i'm in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;
... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...
is that She feels Weird.
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 ...
Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
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.
Originally published by The Bible of Hell (anthology)
I call mercy “chance” and heaven a “list” because the bible says its “god” predestines some people to be “vessels of mercy” and others to be “vessels of destruction.” Thus mercy is reduced to the chance of birth and heaven is a precompiled list of the lucky chosen few. Of course there is no reason to believe in such a diabolical “god” or such an unjust “heaven” ... but billions have, and do.
The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites, amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true...
but came almost as static: background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope...
You will not find them here; they blew away
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
The Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.
We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.
Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”
We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.
“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”
Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.
Adrift
by Michael R. Burch
I helplessly loved you
although I was lost
in the veils of your eyes,
grown blind to the cost
of my ignorant folly
—your unreadable rune—
as leashed tides obey
an indecipherable moon.
POEMS ABOUT POOL SHARKS
These are poems about pool sharks, gamblers, con artists and other sharks. I used to hustle pool on bar tables around Nashville, where I ran into many colorful characters, and a few unsavory ones, before I hung up my cue for good.
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 . . .
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.
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.
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
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.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
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.)
Keywords/Tags: mermaid, mermaids, child, children, childhood, Urals, Ural Mountains, soul, soulmate, radiation
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.
Published by The Chimaera, Cyclamens and Swords and Lucid Rhythms
To Have Loved
by Michael R. Burch
Helen, bright accompaniment,
accouterment of war as sure as all
the polished swords of princes groomed to lie
in mausoleums all eternity ...
The price of love is not so high
as never to have loved once in the dark
beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale
upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails ...
Now all that war entails becomes as small,
as though receding. Paris in your arms
was never yours, nor were you his at all.
And should gods call
in numberless strange voices, should you hear,
still what would be the difference? Men must die
to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry,
leaves all the world dismembered.
Hold him, lie,
tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs;
enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall
and ash lie cold upon him.
Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim
with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry,
becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn
of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care
because you have this moment, and no man
can touch you as he can, and when he’s gone
there will be other men to look upon
your beauty, and have done.
Smile—woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales
paint this—your final portrait? Can the stars
find any strange alignments, Zodiacs,
to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks?
Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), The Chained Muse, Borderless Journal, The Pennsylvania Review, and in a YouTube recital by David B. Gosselin
Yasna 28, Verse 6
by Zarathustra (Zoroaster)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lead us to pure thought and truth
by your sacred word and long-enduring assistance,
O, eternal Giver of the gifts of righteousness.
O, wise Lord, grant us spiritual strength and joy;
help us overcome our enemies’ enmity!
1-800-HOT-LINE
by Michael R. Burch
“I don’t believe in psychics,” he said, “so convince me.”
When you were a child, the earth was a joy,
the sun a bright plaything, the moon a lit toy.
Now life’s small distractions irk, frazzle, annoy.
When the crooked finger beckons, scythe-talons destroy.
“You’ll have to do better than that, to convince me.”
As you grew older, bright things lost their meaning.
You invested your hours in commodities, leaning
to things easily fleeced, to the convenient gleaning.
I see a pittance of dirt—untended, demeaning.
“Everyone knows that!” he said, “so convince me.”
Your first and last wives traded in golden bands
to escape the abuses of your cruel hands.
Where unwatered blooms litter a small plot of land,
the two come together, waving fans.
“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”
As your father left you, you left those you brought
to the doorstep of life as an afterthought.
Two sons and a daughter tap shoes, undistraught.
Their tears are contrived, their condolences bought.
“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”
A moment, an instant ... a life flashes by,
a tunnel appears, but not to the sky.
There is brightness, such brightness it sears the eye.
When a life grows too dull, it seems better to die.
“I could have told you that,” he shrieked, “I think I’ll kill myself!”
Originally published by Penny Dreadful