May 2020
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Does God judge human beings for the ****** desires he presumably gave them? Is the purpose of religion called Christianity to torture us for being human with human lust, passion, and desire? At puberty do the gates of hell and damnation swing wide open for us? Keywords/Tags: God, religion, Christ, Christianity, lust, passion, desire, hell, damnation, puberty, mrbigrew mrbgrew
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven.
who, US?
by michael r. burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there's no Room
for the meek and the mild
... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of "no Room! "
and Puritanical scorn...
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same —
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame...
"who's to blame? "
In the poem "US" means both the United States and "us" the people of the world, wherever we live. The name "jesus" is uncapitalized while "Room" is capitalized because it seems many evangelical Christians are more concerned about land and not sharing it with the less fortunate, than the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, Jesus and his parents were refugees for whom there was "no Room" to be found. What would Jesus think of Christian scorn for the less fortunate, one wonders? What would Jesus think of people adopting his name for their religion, then voting for someone like Trump, as four out of five evangelical Christians did, according to exit polls? Keywords/Tags: Jesus Christ, children, abuse, hypocrisy, Christian, Christianity, religion, USA, racism
A Child's Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don't bring me toys, or games, or candy...
just... Santa, please...
I'm on my knees! ...
please don't let Jesus torture Gandhi!
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?
For he'll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
***** Nilly
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life's a pickle, dilly.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you'll not act illy.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Red State Religion Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
I’d like to believe in your LORD
but I really can’t risk it
when his world is as badly composed
as a half-baked biscuit.
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...
pretty pickle
by michael r. burch
u'd blaspheme if u could
because ur God's no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant) .
In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He's lectured man 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.
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he's a sinner;
give up ***, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.
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 religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.
Originally published by The Chimaera and Lucid Rhythms
Evil Cabal
by Michael R. Burch
those who do Evil
do not know why
what they do is wrong
as they spit in ur eye.
nor did Jehovah,
the original Devil,
when he murdered eve,
our lovely rebel.
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
I've got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you're at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You're nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!
For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham! ?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell's pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.
I'm glad I'm redeemed, ecstatic you're not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His! ,
for you're not the lost sheep He sought.
jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he's mad at you!
jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
'cause if i use my **** or brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first Priests tell me "look above, "
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then They sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well
and understanding half the Bible
(if god is love) is clearly libel.
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
lust
by michael r. burch
i was only a child
in a world dark and wild
seeking affection
in eyes mild
and in all my bright dreams
sweet love shimmered, beguiled...
but the black-robed Priest
who called me the least
of all god's creation
then spoke for the Beast:
he called my great passion a thing base, defiled!
He condemned me to hell,
the foul Ne'er-Do-Well,
for the sake of the copper
His Pig-Snout could smell
in the purse of my mother,
"the ***** jezebel."
my sweet passions condemned
by ungenerous men?
and she so devout
she exclaimed, "yay, aye-men! "...
together we learned why Religion is hell.
Tillage
by Michael R. Burch
What stirs within me
is no great welling
straining to flood forth,
but an emptiness
waiting to be filled.
I am not an orchard
ready to be harvested,
but a field
rough and barren
waiting to be tilled.
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.
Listen
by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch)
1.
Listen to me now
and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone,
screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black
and white is white
and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
A madman does not choose his words;
they come to him:
the moon's illuminations,
intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now,
and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell,
and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen,
or cut off your ears,
for I Am weary.
I desire mercy, not sacrifice.
Love is her Belief and her Commandment
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love is her belief and her commandment;
in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love;
and Love is her desire and her purpose;
and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love.
There is a tomb in Palestine: for others
the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones),
but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel
where Love was resurrected, where one comes
in wondering awe to dream of resurrection
to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all
with tenderness, with infinite affection.
While some may mock her faith, still others wonder
because they see the rare state of her soul,
and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens
illume more brightly, as if saints concur
who keep a constant vigil over her.
And once she prayed beside a dying woman:
the heavens opened and the angels came
in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones,
to comfort and encourage. I believe
not in her God, but always in her Love.
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch
You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened . . .
You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching . . .
You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted . . .
Hymn for Fallen Soldiers
by Michael R. Burch
Sound the awesome cannons.
Pin medals to each breast.
Attention, honor guard!
Give them a hero’s rest.
Recite their names to the heavens
Till the stars acknowledge their kin.
Then let the land they defended
Gather them in again.
When I learned there’s an American military organization, the DPAA (Defense/POW/MIA Accounting Agency) that is still finding and bringing home the bodies of soldiers who died serving their country in World War II, after blubbering like a baby, I managed to eke out this poem.
don’t forget ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved
(like your Heart)
and that even Light is bent
by your Gravity.
I dedicated this poem to the love of my life, but you are welcome to dedicate it to the love of yours, if you like it. The opening lines were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings. I went through a "cummings phase" around age 15 and wrote a number of poems "under the influence."
The One and Only
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
If anyone ever loved me,
It was you.
If anyone ever cared
beyond mere things declared;
if anyone ever knew ...
My darling, it was you.
If anyone ever touched
my beating heart as it flew,
it was you,
and only you.
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
for Anaïs 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.
Fascination with Light
by Michael R. Burch
for Anaïs Vionet
Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,
where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,
a soft blur.
With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato
and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.
And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns.
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended . . . far, far away . . .
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die . . .
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric.
****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch
This is not what I need . . .
analysis,
paralysis,
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
supported
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****.
Impotent
by Michael R. Burch
Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.
I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.
I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.
I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course . . .
Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.
I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?
I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,
but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.
I believe this poem was written in my early twenties, around 1980.
Love Has a Southern Flavor
by Michael R. Burch
Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle's spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume...
Love's Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines...
Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations' dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree's
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight...
Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.
Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India) , Victorian Violet Press, A Long Story Short, Glass Facets of Poetry, Docster, Trinacria, PS: It's Poetry (anthology), and in a Czech translation by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava
Our English Rose
by Michael R. Burch
for Christine Ena Burch
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 is my loose translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram.
teacher
by michael r. burch, age 17
teacher, take a look at my life,
for it has just begun
and u think that i am “misinformed”
merely because i'm young;
but the truth is often hidden
(what lies lurk behind ur eyes?)
and maybe Puff can tell u
where the Dragon flies.
teacher, take a look at my life:
urs is a dull-edged knife
(the white-hot blade long blunted).
now ur as cold as ice.
still, when u come to class,
act like u know it all,
for if u show insecurity,
surely wee will folderol.
I wrote "teacher" after hearing the song "Old Man" by Neil Young. "Wee" is a pun, not a typo.
These are my translations of Holocaust poems by Ber Horvitz (also known as Ber Horowitz); his bio follows the poems.
Der Himmel
"The Heavens"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These skies
are leaden, heavy, gray ...
I long for a pair
of deep blue eyes.
The birds have fled
far overseas;
"Tomorrow I’ll migrate too,"
I said ...
These gloomy autumn days
it rains and rains.
Woe to the bird
Who remains ...
Doctorn
"Doctors"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Early this morning I bandaged
the lilac tree outside my house;
I took thin branches that had broken away
and patched their wounds with clay.
My mother stood there watering
her window-level flower bed;
The morning sun, quite motherly,
kissed us both on our heads!
What a joy, my child, to heal!
Finished doctoring, or not?
The eggs are nicely poached
And the milk's a-boil in the ***.
Broit
“Bread”
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why?
On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie.
Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor,
the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore.
At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom:
"Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!”
His mother, reawakened into this frightful place,
presses her frightened child even closer to her breast …
"If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone!
A little boy must sleep ... this, now, is our new home.”
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around,
exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground.
"My Lament"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothingness enveloped me
as tender green toadstools
lie blanketed by snow
with its thick, heavy prayer shawl …
After that, nothing could hurt me …
Ber Horvitz aka Ber Horowitz (1895-1942): Born to village people in the woods of Maidan in the West Carpathians, Horowitz showed art talent early on. He went to gymnazie in Stanislavov, then served in the Austrian army during WWI, where he was a medic to Italian prisoners of war. He studied medicine in Vienna and was published in many Yiddish newspapers. Fluent in several languages, he translated Polish and Ukrainian to Yiddish. He also wrote poetry in Yiddish. A victim of the Holocaust, he was murdered in 1942 by the Nazis.
Departed
by Michael R. Burch
Christ, how I miss you! ,
though your parting kiss is still warm on my lips.
Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips
and the dishes are all stacked away.
You left me today...
and each word left unspoken now whispers regrets.
Describing You
by Michael R. Burch
How can I describe you?
The fragrance of morning rain
mingled with dew
reminds me of you;
the warmth of sunlight
stealing through a windowpane
brings you back to me again.
This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager.
This Distance Between Us
by Michael R. Burch
This distance between us,
this vast gulf of remembrance
void of understanding,
sets us apart.
You are so far,
lost child,
weeping for consolation,
so dear to my heart.
Once near to my heart,
though seldom to touch,
now you are foreign,
now you grow faint...
like the wayward light of a vagabond star—
obscure, enigmatic.
Is the reveling gypsy
becoming a saint?
Now loneliness,
a broad expanse
—barren, forbidding—
whispers my name.
I, too, am a traveler
down this dark path,
unsure of the footing,
cursing the rain.
I, too, have felt pain,
pain and the ache of passion unfulfilled,
remorse, grief, and all the terrors
of the night.
And how very black
and how bleak my despair...
O, where are you, where are you
shining tonight?
Confession
by Michael R. Burch
What shall I say to you, to confess,
words? Words that can never express
anything close to what I feel?
For words that seem tangible, real,
when I think them
become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them.
And words that I thought that I knew,
like "love" and "devotion"
never ring true.
While "passion"
sounds strangely like the latest fashion
or a perfume.
NOTE: At the time I wrote this poem, a perfume named Passion was in fashion.
Consequence
by Michael R. Burch
They are fresh-faced,
not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded,
oblivious to time and death,
of each counted breath
in the pendulum's sway
falling unheeded.
They are bright, undissuaded
by foreign tongues,
by sepulchers empty and waiting,
by sarcophagi of ancient kings,
by proclamations,
by rituals of scalpels and rings.
They are sworn, they are fated
to misadventure and grief;
but they revel in life
till the sun falls, receding
into silent halls
to torrents of inconsequential tears...
... to brief tragedies of tears
when they consider this: No one else sees.
But I know.
We all know.
We all know the consequence
of being so young.
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter's *******
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 ***** 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.
Dancer
by Michael R. Burch
You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.
Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled
of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.
They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
stages
slipping by.
You pause;
applause
is all you hear.
You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.
Daredevil
by Michael R. Burch
There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were cannon shots' soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise...
and then... annihilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were nights our hearts conceived
dawns' indiscriminate sighs.
To dream was our consolation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were acrobatic leaves
that tumbled down to lie
at our feet, bright trepidations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were hearts carved into trees—
tall stakes where you and I
left childhood's salt libations...
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch
You come to me
out of the sun —
my dark twin, unreal...
And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel...
And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.
Damp Days
by Michael R. Burch
These are damp days,
and the earth is slick and vile
with the smell of month-old mud.
And yet it seldom rains;
a never-ending drizzle
drenches spring's bright buds
till they droop as though in death.
Now Time
drags out His endless hours
as though to bore to tears
His fretting, edgy servants
through the sheer length of His days
and slow passage of His years.
Damp days are His domain.
Irritation
grinds the ravaged nerves
and grips tight the gorging brain
which fills itself, through sense,
with vast seas of soggy clay
while the temples throb in pain
at the thought of more damp days.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 16, or so.
Fairest Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Fairest Diana, princess of dreams,
born to be loved and yet distant and lone,
why did you linger—so solemn, so lovely—
an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone?
Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions?
Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows!
Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming
a pearl of enchantment cast before sows?
Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac,
as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose;
how did a stanza of silver-bright verse
come to be bound in a book of dull prose?
Contraire
by Michael R. Burch
Where there was nothing
but emptiness
and hollow chaos and despair,
I sought Her...
finding only the darkness
and mournful silence
of the wind entangling her hair.
Yet her name was like prayer.
Now she is the vast
starry tinctures of emptiness
flickering everywhere
within me and about me.
Yes, she is the darkness,
and she is the silence
of twilight and the night air.
Yes, she is the chaos
and she is the madness
and they call her Contraire.
Disconcerted
by Michael R. Burch
Meg, my sweet,
fresh as a daisy,
when I'm with you
my heart beats like crazy
& my future gets hazy...
130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
And their flame, not half as bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
And the searing flames your lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses' brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them? —more lasting, never prickly.
And your cheeks, so dear and warm,
far vaster treasures, need no thorns.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. I wrote this poem as a teenager, after reading Shakespeare's sonnet 130 and having "issues" with it.
In this Ordinary Swoon
by Michael R. Burch
In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.
Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.
I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun
and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.
Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch
I never touched you—
that was my mistake.
Deep within,
I still feel the ache.
Can an unformed thing
eternally break?
Now, from a great distance,
I see you again
not as you are now,
but as you were then—
eternally present
and Sovereign.
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean.
Prayer for a Merciful, Compassionate, etc., God to ****** His Creations Quickly & Painlessly, Rather than Slowly & Painfully
by Michael R. Burch
Lord, **** me fast and please do it quickly!
Please don’t leave me gassed, archaic and sickly!
Why render me mean, rude, wrinkly and prickly?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re an expert killer!
Please, don’t leave me aging like Phyllis Diller!
Why torture me like some poor sap in a thriller?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, we all know you’re an expert at ******
like Abram—the wild-eyed demonic goat-herder
who’d slit his son’s throat without thought at your order.
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re a terrible sinner!
What did dull Japheth eat for his 300th dinner
after a year on the ark, growing thinner and thinner?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Dear Lord, did the lion and tiger compete
for the last of the lambkin’s sweet, tender meat?
How did Noah preserve his fast-rotting wheat?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, why not be a merciful Prelate?
Do you really want me to detest, loathe and hate
the Father, the Son and their Ghostly Mate?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Light verse and nonsense verse …
Less Heroic Couplets: Mini-Ode to Stamina
by Michael R. Burch
When you’ve given so much
that I can’t bear your touch,
then from a safe distance
let me admire your persistence.
The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch
An elephant never forgets
which is why they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you
so you may as well save your regrets!
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found **** on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
Paradoxical Ode to Antinatalism
by Michael R. Burch
A stay on love
would end death’s hateful sway,
someday.
A stay on love
would thus BE love,
I say.
Be true to love
and thus end death’s
fell sway!
Antinatalist Poems
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Bittersight
by Michael R. Burch
for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri, an ancient antinatalist poet
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”
as some “god” has defined.
veni, vidi, etc.
by Michael R. Burch
the last will and testament of a preemie, from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
i came, i saw, i figured
it was better to be transfigured,
so rather than cross my Rubicon
i fled to the Great Beyond.
i bequeath my remains, so small,
to Brutus, et al.
Lighten your tread:
The ground beneath your feet is composed of the dead.
Walk slowly here and always take great pains
Not to trample some departed saint's remains.
And happiest here is the hermit with no hand
In making sons, who dies a childless man.
Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri (973-1057), antinatalist Shyari
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
There were antinatalist notes in Homer, around 3,000 years ago...
For the gods have decreed that unfortunate mortals must suffer, while they remain sorrowless. — Homer, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It is best not to be born or, having been born, to pass on as swiftly as possible.—attributed to Homer, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
One of the first great voices to directly question whether human being should give birth was that of Sophocles, around 2,500 years ago...
Not to have been born is best,
and blessed
beyond the ability of words to express.
—Sophocles, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It’s a hundred times better not be born;
but if we cannot avoid the light,
the path of least harm is swiftly to return
to death’s eternal night!
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: birth, control, procreation, childbearing, children, antinatalist, antinatalism, contraception
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!
Translator’s Note: The Gathas consist of 17 hymns believed to have been composed by Zoroaster, also known as Zarathustra, Zarathushtra Spitama or Ashu Zarathushtra.
Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch
"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain
Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!
Less Heroic Couplets: Crop Duster
by Michael R. Burch
We are dust and to dust we must return ...
but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn?
Less Heroic Couplets: Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but her horse neighs “She’s shady!”
The couplet above is based on the limerick below:
Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms fancied shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she’s no lady!)
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron ***** ginormous!
Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron ***** ginormous!
When reading the second version of the poem, the reader can select “chased” or “chaste” or read them together, quickly.
I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch
“Show, don’t tell!”
I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.
In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.
I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.
In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.
I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?
In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are ****.
Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch
At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.
The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!
Limericks
There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch
A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch
A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch
There was a young lady of France
Who’d let cute boys root in her pants:
Where they'd give her the finger
And she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
Although I prefer
onions
to bunions,
I still primarily defer
to legal ******.
—Michael R. Burch
Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!
Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!
Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.
Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry
Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch
a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.
Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.
And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.
That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.
And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.
No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering not to call.
Final Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully—for now your suffering’s over.
Sleep peacefully—immune to all distress,
like pebbles unaware of raging waves.
Sleep peacefully—like fields of fragrant clover
unmoved by any motion of the wind.
Sleep peacefully—like clouds untouched by earthquakes.
Sleep peacefully—like stars that never blink
and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.
Sleep peacefully—in your eternal vault,
immaculate, past perfect, without fault.
Published as the collection "When I Was Small, I Grew"
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Does God judge human beings for the ****** desires he presumably gave them? Is the purpose of religion called Christianity to torture us for being human with human lust, passion, and desire? At puberty do the gates of hell and damnation swing wide open for us? Keywords/Tags: God, religion, Christ, Christianity, lust, passion, desire, hell, damnation, puberty, mrbigrew mrbgrew
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven.
who, US?
by michael r. burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there's no Room
for the meek and the mild
... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of "no Room! "
and Puritanical scorn...
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same —
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame...
"who's to blame? "
In the poem "US" means both the United States and "us" the people of the world, wherever we live. The name "jesus" is uncapitalized while "Room" is capitalized because it seems many evangelical Christians are more concerned about land and not sharing it with the less fortunate, than the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, Jesus and his parents were refugees for whom there was "no Room" to be found. What would Jesus think of Christian scorn for the less fortunate, one wonders? What would Jesus think of people adopting his name for their religion, then voting for someone like Trump, as four out of five evangelical Christians did, according to exit polls? Keywords/Tags: Jesus Christ, children, abuse, hypocrisy, Christian, Christianity, religion, USA, racism
A Child's Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don't bring me toys, or games, or candy...
just... Santa, please...
I'm on my knees! ...
please don't let Jesus torture Gandhi!
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?
For he'll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
***** Nilly
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life's a pickle, dilly.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you'll not act illy.
Isn't it silly, ***** Nilly?
Red State Religion Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
I’d like to believe in your LORD
but I really can’t risk it
when his world is as badly composed
as a half-baked biscuit.
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...
pretty pickle
by michael r. burch
u'd blaspheme if u could
because ur God's no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant) .
In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He's lectured man 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.
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he's a sinner;
give up ***, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.
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 religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.
Originally published by The Chimaera and Lucid Rhythms
Evil Cabal
by Michael R. Burch
those who do Evil
do not know why
what they do is wrong
as they spit in ur eye.
nor did Jehovah,
the original Devil,
when he murdered eve,
our lovely rebel.
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
I've got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you're at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You're nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!
For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham! ?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell's pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.
I'm glad I'm redeemed, ecstatic you're not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His! ,
for you're not the lost sheep He sought.
jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he's mad at you!
jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
'cause if i use my **** or brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first Priests tell me "look above, "
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then They sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well
and understanding half the Bible
(if god is love) is clearly libel.
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
lust
by michael r. burch
i was only a child
in a world dark and wild
seeking affection
in eyes mild
and in all my bright dreams
sweet love shimmered, beguiled...
but the black-robed Priest
who called me the least
of all god's creation
then spoke for the Beast:
he called my great passion a thing base, defiled!
He condemned me to hell,
the foul Ne'er-Do-Well,
for the sake of the copper
His Pig-Snout could smell
in the purse of my mother,
"the ***** jezebel."
my sweet passions condemned
by ungenerous men?
and she so devout
she exclaimed, "yay, aye-men! "...
together we learned why Religion is hell.
Tillage
by Michael R. Burch
What stirs within me
is no great welling
straining to flood forth,
but an emptiness
waiting to be filled.
I am not an orchard
ready to be harvested,
but a field
rough and barren
waiting to be tilled.
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.
Listen
by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch)
1.
Listen to me now
and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone,
screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black
and white is white
and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
A madman does not choose his words;
they come to him:
the moon's illuminations,
intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now,
and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell,
and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen,
or cut off your ears,
for I Am weary.
I desire mercy, not sacrifice.
Love is her Belief and her Commandment
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love is her belief and her commandment;
in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love;
and Love is her desire and her purpose;
and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love.
There is a tomb in Palestine: for others
the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones),
but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel
where Love was resurrected, where one comes
in wondering awe to dream of resurrection
to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all
with tenderness, with infinite affection.
While some may mock her faith, still others wonder
because they see the rare state of her soul,
and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens
illume more brightly, as if saints concur
who keep a constant vigil over her.
And once she prayed beside a dying woman:
the heavens opened and the angels came
in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones,
to comfort and encourage. I believe
not in her God, but always in her Love.
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch
You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened . . .
You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching . . .
You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted . . .
Hymn for Fallen Soldiers
by Michael R. Burch
Sound the awesome cannons.
Pin medals to each breast.
Attention, honor guard!
Give them a hero’s rest.
Recite their names to the heavens
Till the stars acknowledge their kin.
Then let the land they defended
Gather them in again.
When I learned there’s an American military organization, the DPAA (Defense/POW/MIA Accounting Agency) that is still finding and bringing home the bodies of soldiers who died serving their country in World War II, after blubbering like a baby, I managed to eke out this poem.
don’t forget ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved
(like your Heart)
and that even Light is bent
by your Gravity.
I dedicated this poem to the love of my life, but you are welcome to dedicate it to the love of yours, if you like it. The opening lines were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings. I went through a "cummings phase" around age 15 and wrote a number of poems "under the influence."
The One and Only
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
If anyone ever loved me,
It was you.
If anyone ever cared
beyond mere things declared;
if anyone ever knew ...
My darling, it was you.
If anyone ever touched
my beating heart as it flew,
it was you,
and only you.
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
for Anaïs 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.
Fascination with Light
by Michael R. Burch
for Anaïs Vionet
Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,
where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,
a soft blur.
With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato
and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.
And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns.
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended . . . far, far away . . .
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die . . .
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric.
****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch
This is not what I need . . .
analysis,
paralysis,
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
supported
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****.
Impotent
by Michael R. Burch
Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.
I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.
I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.
I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course . . .
Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.
I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?
I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,
but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.
I believe this poem was written in my early twenties, around 1980.
Love Has a Southern Flavor
by Michael R. Burch
Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle's spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume...
Love's Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines...
Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations' dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree's
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight...
Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.
Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India) , Victorian Violet Press, A Long Story Short, Glass Facets of Poetry, Docster, Trinacria, PS: It's Poetry (anthology), and in a Czech translation by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava
Our English Rose
by Michael R. Burch
for Christine Ena Burch
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 is my loose translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram.
teacher
by michael r. burch, age 17
teacher, take a look at my life,
for it has just begun
and u think that i am “misinformed”
merely because i'm young;
but the truth is often hidden
(what lies lurk behind ur eyes?)
and maybe Puff can tell u
where the Dragon flies.
teacher, take a look at my life:
urs is a dull-edged knife
(the white-hot blade long blunted).
now ur as cold as ice.
still, when u come to class,
act like u know it all,
for if u show insecurity,
surely wee will folderol.
I wrote "teacher" after hearing the song "Old Man" by Neil Young. "Wee" is a pun, not a typo.
These are my translations of Holocaust poems by Ber Horvitz (also known as Ber Horowitz); his bio follows the poems.
Der Himmel
"The Heavens"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These skies
are leaden, heavy, gray ...
I long for a pair
of deep blue eyes.
The birds have fled
far overseas;
"Tomorrow I’ll migrate too,"
I said ...
These gloomy autumn days
it rains and rains.
Woe to the bird
Who remains ...
Doctorn
"Doctors"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Early this morning I bandaged
the lilac tree outside my house;
I took thin branches that had broken away
and patched their wounds with clay.
My mother stood there watering
her window-level flower bed;
The morning sun, quite motherly,
kissed us both on our heads!
What a joy, my child, to heal!
Finished doctoring, or not?
The eggs are nicely poached
And the milk's a-boil in the ***.
Broit
“Bread”
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why?
On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie.
Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor,
the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore.
At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom:
"Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!”
His mother, reawakened into this frightful place,
presses her frightened child even closer to her breast …
"If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone!
A little boy must sleep ... this, now, is our new home.”
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around,
exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground.
"My Lament"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothingness enveloped me
as tender green toadstools
lie blanketed by snow
with its thick, heavy prayer shawl …
After that, nothing could hurt me …
Ber Horvitz aka Ber Horowitz (1895-1942): Born to village people in the woods of Maidan in the West Carpathians, Horowitz showed art talent early on. He went to gymnazie in Stanislavov, then served in the Austrian army during WWI, where he was a medic to Italian prisoners of war. He studied medicine in Vienna and was published in many Yiddish newspapers. Fluent in several languages, he translated Polish and Ukrainian to Yiddish. He also wrote poetry in Yiddish. A victim of the Holocaust, he was murdered in 1942 by the Nazis.
Departed
by Michael R. Burch
Christ, how I miss you! ,
though your parting kiss is still warm on my lips.
Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips
and the dishes are all stacked away.
You left me today...
and each word left unspoken now whispers regrets.
Describing You
by Michael R. Burch
How can I describe you?
The fragrance of morning rain
mingled with dew
reminds me of you;
the warmth of sunlight
stealing through a windowpane
brings you back to me again.
This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager.
This Distance Between Us
by Michael R. Burch
This distance between us,
this vast gulf of remembrance
void of understanding,
sets us apart.
You are so far,
lost child,
weeping for consolation,
so dear to my heart.
Once near to my heart,
though seldom to touch,
now you are foreign,
now you grow faint...
like the wayward light of a vagabond star—
obscure, enigmatic.
Is the reveling gypsy
becoming a saint?
Now loneliness,
a broad expanse
—barren, forbidding—
whispers my name.
I, too, am a traveler
down this dark path,
unsure of the footing,
cursing the rain.
I, too, have felt pain,
pain and the ache of passion unfulfilled,
remorse, grief, and all the terrors
of the night.
And how very black
and how bleak my despair...
O, where are you, where are you
shining tonight?
Confession
by Michael R. Burch
What shall I say to you, to confess,
words? Words that can never express
anything close to what I feel?
For words that seem tangible, real,
when I think them
become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them.
And words that I thought that I knew,
like "love" and "devotion"
never ring true.
While "passion"
sounds strangely like the latest fashion
or a perfume.
NOTE: At the time I wrote this poem, a perfume named Passion was in fashion.
Consequence
by Michael R. Burch
They are fresh-faced,
not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded,
oblivious to time and death,
of each counted breath
in the pendulum's sway
falling unheeded.
They are bright, undissuaded
by foreign tongues,
by sepulchers empty and waiting,
by sarcophagi of ancient kings,
by proclamations,
by rituals of scalpels and rings.
They are sworn, they are fated
to misadventure and grief;
but they revel in life
till the sun falls, receding
into silent halls
to torrents of inconsequential tears...
... to brief tragedies of tears
when they consider this: No one else sees.
But I know.
We all know.
We all know the consequence
of being so young.
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter's *******
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 ***** 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.
Dancer
by Michael R. Burch
You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.
Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled
of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.
They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
stages
slipping by.
You pause;
applause
is all you hear.
You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.
Daredevil
by Michael R. Burch
There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were cannon shots' soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise...
and then... annihilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were nights our hearts conceived
dawns' indiscriminate sighs.
To dream was our consolation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were acrobatic leaves
that tumbled down to lie
at our feet, bright trepidations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were hearts carved into trees—
tall stakes where you and I
left childhood's salt libations...
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch
You come to me
out of the sun —
my dark twin, unreal...
And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel...
And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.
Damp Days
by Michael R. Burch
These are damp days,
and the earth is slick and vile
with the smell of month-old mud.
And yet it seldom rains;
a never-ending drizzle
drenches spring's bright buds
till they droop as though in death.
Now Time
drags out His endless hours
as though to bore to tears
His fretting, edgy servants
through the sheer length of His days
and slow passage of His years.
Damp days are His domain.
Irritation
grinds the ravaged nerves
and grips tight the gorging brain
which fills itself, through sense,
with vast seas of soggy clay
while the temples throb in pain
at the thought of more damp days.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 16, or so.
Fairest Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Fairest Diana, princess of dreams,
born to be loved and yet distant and lone,
why did you linger—so solemn, so lovely—
an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone?
Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions?
Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows!
Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming
a pearl of enchantment cast before sows?
Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac,
as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose;
how did a stanza of silver-bright verse
come to be bound in a book of dull prose?
Contraire
by Michael R. Burch
Where there was nothing
but emptiness
and hollow chaos and despair,
I sought Her...
finding only the darkness
and mournful silence
of the wind entangling her hair.
Yet her name was like prayer.
Now she is the vast
starry tinctures of emptiness
flickering everywhere
within me and about me.
Yes, she is the darkness,
and she is the silence
of twilight and the night air.
Yes, she is the chaos
and she is the madness
and they call her Contraire.
Disconcerted
by Michael R. Burch
Meg, my sweet,
fresh as a daisy,
when I'm with you
my heart beats like crazy
& my future gets hazy...
130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
And their flame, not half as bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
And the searing flames your lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses' brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them? —more lasting, never prickly.
And your cheeks, so dear and warm,
far vaster treasures, need no thorns.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. I wrote this poem as a teenager, after reading Shakespeare's sonnet 130 and having "issues" with it.
In this Ordinary Swoon
by Michael R. Burch
In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.
Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.
I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun
and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.
Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch
I never touched you—
that was my mistake.
Deep within,
I still feel the ache.
Can an unformed thing
eternally break?
Now, from a great distance,
I see you again
not as you are now,
but as you were then—
eternally present
and Sovereign.
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean.
Prayer for a Merciful, Compassionate, etc., God to ****** His Creations Quickly & Painlessly, Rather than Slowly & Painfully
by Michael R. Burch
Lord, **** me fast and please do it quickly!
Please don’t leave me gassed, archaic and sickly!
Why render me mean, rude, wrinkly and prickly?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re an expert killer!
Please, don’t leave me aging like Phyllis Diller!
Why torture me like some poor sap in a thriller?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, we all know you’re an expert at ******
like Abram—the wild-eyed demonic goat-herder
who’d slit his son’s throat without thought at your order.
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re a terrible sinner!
What did dull Japheth eat for his 300th dinner
after a year on the ark, growing thinner and thinner?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Dear Lord, did the lion and tiger compete
for the last of the lambkin’s sweet, tender meat?
How did Noah preserve his fast-rotting wheat?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, why not be a merciful Prelate?
Do you really want me to detest, loathe and hate
the Father, the Son and their Ghostly Mate?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Light verse and nonsense verse …
Less Heroic Couplets: Mini-Ode to Stamina
by Michael R. Burch
When you’ve given so much
that I can’t bear your touch,
then from a safe distance
let me admire your persistence.
The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch
An elephant never forgets
which is why they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you
so you may as well save your regrets!
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found **** on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
Paradoxical Ode to Antinatalism
by Michael R. Burch
A stay on love
would end death’s hateful sway,
someday.
A stay on love
would thus BE love,
I say.
Be true to love
and thus end death’s
fell sway!
Antinatalist Poems
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Bittersight
by Michael R. Burch
for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri, an ancient antinatalist poet
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”
as some “god” has defined.
veni, vidi, etc.
by Michael R. Burch
the last will and testament of a preemie, from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
i came, i saw, i figured
it was better to be transfigured,
so rather than cross my Rubicon
i fled to the Great Beyond.
i bequeath my remains, so small,
to Brutus, et al.
Lighten your tread:
The ground beneath your feet is composed of the dead.
Walk slowly here and always take great pains
Not to trample some departed saint's remains.
And happiest here is the hermit with no hand
In making sons, who dies a childless man.
Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri (973-1057), antinatalist Shyari
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
There were antinatalist notes in Homer, around 3,000 years ago...
For the gods have decreed that unfortunate mortals must suffer, while they remain sorrowless. — Homer, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It is best not to be born or, having been born, to pass on as swiftly as possible.—attributed to Homer, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
One of the first great voices to directly question whether human being should give birth was that of Sophocles, around 2,500 years ago...
Not to have been born is best,
and blessed
beyond the ability of words to express.
—Sophocles, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It’s a hundred times better not be born;
but if we cannot avoid the light,
the path of least harm is swiftly to return
to death’s eternal night!
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: birth, control, procreation, childbearing, children, antinatalist, antinatalism, contraception
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!
Translator’s Note: The Gathas consist of 17 hymns believed to have been composed by Zoroaster, also known as Zarathustra, Zarathushtra Spitama or Ashu Zarathushtra.
Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch
"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain
Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!
Less Heroic Couplets: Crop Duster
by Michael R. Burch
We are dust and to dust we must return ...
but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn?
Less Heroic Couplets: Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but her horse neighs “She’s shady!”
The couplet above is based on the limerick below:
Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms fancied shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she’s no lady!)
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron ***** ginormous!
Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron ***** ginormous!
When reading the second version of the poem, the reader can select “chased” or “chaste” or read them together, quickly.
I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch
“Show, don’t tell!”
I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.
In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.
I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.
In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.
I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?
In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are ****.
Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch
At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.
The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!
Limericks
There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch
A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch
A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch
There was a young lady of France
Who’d let cute boys root in her pants:
Where they'd give her the finger
And she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
Although I prefer
onions
to bunions,
I still primarily defer
to legal ******.
—Michael R. Burch
Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!
Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!
Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.
Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry
Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch
a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.
Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.
And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.
That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.
And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.
No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering not to call.
Final Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully—for now your suffering’s over.
Sleep peacefully—immune to all distress,
like pebbles unaware of raging waves.
Sleep peacefully—like fields of fragrant clover
unmoved by any motion of the wind.
Sleep peacefully—like clouds untouched by earthquakes.
Sleep peacefully—like stars that never blink
and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.
Sleep peacefully—in your eternal vault,
immaculate, past perfect, without fault.
Published as the collection "When I Was Small, I Grew"
