Family Poems

Family Poems: Poems about Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers and Grandfathers Mother's Smile by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena 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 Passionate One by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love of my life, light of my morning― arise, brightly dawning, for you are my sun. Give me of heaven both manna and leaven― desirous Presence, Passionate One. 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. 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 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! 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. 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 pale calla 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. NOTE: The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies. 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.” Keywords/Tags: Nature, spring, birth, baby animals, angels 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 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) 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. 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 by Michael R. Burch It's not that every leaf must finally fall, it's just that we can never catch them all. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. War is Obsolete by Michael R. Burch Trump’s war is on children and their mothers. "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi War is obsolete; even the strange machinery of dread weeps for the child in the street who cannot lift her head to reprimand the Man who failed to countermand her soft defeat. But war is obsolete; even the cold robotic drone that flies far overhead has sense enough to moan and shudder at her plight (only men bereft of Light with hearts indurate stone embrace war’s Siberian night.) For war is obsolete; man’s tribal “gods,” long dead, have fled his awakening sight while the true Sun, overhead, has pity on her plight. O sweet, precipitate Light!― embrace her, reject the night that leaves gentle fledglings dead. For each brute ancestor lies with his totems and his “gods” in the slavehold of premature night that awaited him in his tomb; while Love, the ancestral womb, still longs to give birth to the Light. So which child shall we murder tonight, or which Ares condemn to the gloom? Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and murder women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did. 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 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. 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. In My House by Michael R. Burch When you were in my house you were not free― in chains bound. Manifest Destiny? I was wrong; my plantation burned to the ground. I was wrong. This is my song, this is my plea: I was wrong. When you are in my house, now, I am not free. I feel the song hurling itself back at me. We were wrong. This is my history. I feel my tongue stilting accordingly. We were wrong; brother, forgive me. Published by Black Medina 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. 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? 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... To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl translation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive bloody sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. 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. 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. Resurrecting Passion by Michael R. Burch Last night, while dawn was far away and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies, as thunder boomed and lightning railed, I conjured words, where passion failed ... But, oh, that you were mine tonight, sprawled in this bed, held in these arms, your breasts pale baubles in my hands, our bodies bent to old demands ... Such passions we might resurrect, if only time and distance waned and brought us back together; now I pray that this might be, somehow. But time has left us twisted, torn, and we are more apart than miles. How have you come to be so far— as distant as an unseen star? So that, while dawn is far away, my thoughts might not return to you, I feed your portrait to the flames, but as they feast, I burn for you. Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse. Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? Originally published by The Lyric Villanelle: Hangovers by Michael R. Burch We forget that, before we were born, our parents had “lives” of their own, ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned. Yes, our parents had lives of their own until we were born; then, undone, they were buying their parents gravestones and finding gray hairs of their own (because we were born lacking some of their curious habits, but soon would certainly get them). Half-stoned, we watched them dig graves of their own. Their lives would be over too soon for their curious habits to bloom in us (though our children were born nine months from that night on the town when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned, we first proved we had lives of our own). 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. Haunted by Michael R. Burch Now I am here and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren. I am withering and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear. Go, if you will, for the ache in my heart is its hollowness and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness; there is nothing to fill. Take what you can; I have nothing left. And when you are gone, I will be bereft, the husk of a man. Or stay here awhile. My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams. Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems when you smile. Published by Romantics Quarterly Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again. hey pete by Michael R. Burch for Pete Rose hey pete, it's baseball season and the sun ascends the sky, encouraging a schoolboy's dreams of winter whizzing by; go out, go out and catch it, put it in a jar, set it on a shelf and then you'll be a Superstar. When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar." First Dance by Michael R. Burch for Sykes and Mary Harris Beautiful ballerina— so pert, pretty, poised and petite, how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau on those beautiful, elegant feet! How palely he now awaits you, although he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet! Keep the Body Well by Michael R. Burch for William Sykes Harris III Is the soul connected to the brain by a slender silver thread, so that when the thread is severed we call the body “dead” while the soul ― released from fear and pain ― is finally able to rise beyond earth’s binding gravity to heaven’s welcoming skies? If so ― no need to quail at death, but keep the body well, for when the body suffers the soul experiences hell. Dearly Beloved by Michael R. Burch for Suzan Blacksmith She was Dearly Beloved by her children, who gather to pay their respects; they remember her as they clung together through frightful weather, always learning that Love can persevere ... She was Dearly Beloved by family and friends who saw her great worth, even as she grew frail; for they saw with Love’s eyes how Love’s vision transcends, how her heart never faltered, through cyclones and hail ... She is Dearly Beloved, well-loved, sadly missed ... and, while we mourn the lost days of a life too-soon ended, we also rejoice that her suffering is past ... she now lives in the Light, by kind Angels befriended. And if others were greater in fortune and fame, and if some had iron wills when life’s pathways grew dark ... still, since Love’s the great goal, we now reaffirm her claim to the highest of honors: a mother’s Heart. Beyond the Tempest by Michael R. Burch for Martha Pilkington Johnson Martha Johnson was a formidable woman, like her namesake, Martha Washington— a woman like the Rock of Gibraltar, a sure and steadfast refuge for her children and grandchildren against the surging storms of life. But later in her life I beheld her transformation: her hair became like a corona of light, as if she were intent on becoming an angel and something in her visage brightened and softened, as if she were preparing to enter heaven where love and compassion rule and the troubles of earth are like a tempest in teapot. Birdsong by Rumi loose translation by Michael R. Burch Birdsong relieves my deepest griefs: now I'm just as ecstatic as they, but with nothing to say! Please universe, rehearse your poetry through me! Published as the collection "Family Poems" Keywords/Tags: Family, Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers, Grandfathers, mrbch

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