I was a competent, happy housewife, but that was before my husband died,
Leaving me to rear myriad children solo, as the lone star twinkles with pride.
John had left us a prosperous farm, with a lovely home, shaped like a shoe;
And our older children did farm work daily, as they'd ever been wont to do.
My older children were reliable and steadfast, since they were nearly grown;
But, my young ones often got in mischief, and my eldest didn't live at home.
Although I loved my children dearly, they did ofttimes, seem to be in my hair.
......
These are poems about time, poems about the process of maturation, poems about aging and growing old, poems about life's journey and its destination.
There is also a collection of my early poems, many about getting older and aging, toward the bottom of this page.
Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch
We are learning to fly
......
A scowl...
With hands on face
We are marked,
Stalked… and prey
Ticking away in escape
It cannot be saved
Moments pass behind us
Now becomes then
......
That old man in the chair
with the still, spotted hands
hunched over on his porch
and gazing into nowhere.
His youth has ran,
on the ground he lands.
No one seems to care,
and onto them, his dead eyes stare.
dear diary . i am turning twenty . there is nothing that i want , but to go back home .
to the village i grew up in , playing with friends , socks pasted with dirty sand . i am
not in despair , i spend my time thrifting clothes , jewelry that fits the color of my skin ,
footprints that i follow as i walk outside . i am full of sliver , tattooed on my skin , left
arm filled with bruise . i feel bad as i look at myself — how i ended up looking like a fool .
cigarettes tasting good as it never did like before , cherry wine ; i swallow it , like a glass
of water that i consume when i was seven . i see, an orange cat in the wild . i want to be
free just like it . running , feeling the breeze , sun being paired with my pale skin . i do not
know what to do . i do not want to turn twenty . i am scared . take me back to being a kid ,
simply enjoying the life that i never knew i had of me .
......
It begins softly-
a slower rise from the chair,
a name on the tip of the tongue
that stays just out of reach.
Lines appear
not as flaws
but as evidence-
laughter lived,
worry carried,
......
in his sunset years he daily
traversed a mile to smile
waiting
w a t c h i n g
A L E R T
the lilt of phantomic voice to
O P E N his
......
dear diary . i am turning twenty . there is nothing that i want , but to go back home .
to the village i grew up in , playing with friends , socks pasted with dirty sand . i am
not in despair , i spend my time thrifting clothes , jewelry that fits the color of my skin ,
footprints that i follow as i walk outside . i am full of sliver , tattooed on my skin , left
arm filled with bruise . i feel bad as i look at myself — how i ended up looking like a fool .
cigarettes tasting good as it never did like before , cherry wine ; i swallow it , like a glass
of water that i consume when i was seven . i see, an orange cat in the wild . i want to be
free just like it . running , feeling the breeze , sun being paired with my pale skin . i do not
know what to do . i do not want to turn twenty . i am scared . take me back to being a kid ,
simply enjoying the life that i never knew i had of me .
......
Though my world view become tarnished with age,
Let my imagination not so follow.
May its memory burn bright with the vigor of eager youth,
Happy to confront the dichotomy of discovery,
Which doesn't comport with my upbringing, my schooling, or my experience.
Only then will my self-worth meet the expectation of my promise.
Only then will I fulfill the destiny that Providence allows.
That pool can magnify, fool, and obscure.
But down at the bottom, that pool can cure.
......
Sweet recollections of youth,
tiny giants in immense world.
When days were lite and slow,
birthdays scarce and Christmas distant.
Knowledge... perspective
mortality, brutal realities
swelling with years
shrinking the world.
......