Smoke
by Michael R. Burch

The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well;
farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell
rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say
if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ...
The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today;
she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ...
[We loved and life we left alone and deftly was it done;
we sang our song all summer long beneath the sultry sun.]

I wrote this early poem as a boy, age 14, after seeing an ad for the movie "Summer of ’42," which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. But it could have been a bit later, with me working from memory. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie …



Listen, Hermie
by Michael R. Burch

Listen, Hermie . . .
you can hear the strangled roar
of water inundating that lost shore . . .

and you can see how white she shone

that distant night, before
you blinked
and she was gone . . .

But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are
her lips the sweeter since you kissed them once:
her waist wasp-thin beneath your hands always,
her stockinged shoeless feet for that one dance
still whispering their rustling nylon trope
of―“Love me. Love me. Love me. Give me hope
that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.”

How white her prim brassiere, her waist-high briefs;
how lustrous her white slip. And as you danced―
how white her eyes, her skin, her eager teeth.
She reached, but not for *** . . . for more . . . for you . . .
You cannot quite explain, but what is true
is true despite our fumbling in the dark.

Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away
still make us what we are. If love exists,
we find it in ourselves, grown wan and gray,
within a weathered hand, a wrinkled cheek.

She cannot touch you now, but I would reach
across the years to touch that chord in you
which sang the pangs of love, and play it true.



Tell me, Hermie
by  Michael R. Burch

Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw
her white brassiere crash to the floor
as she stepped from her waist-high briefs
into your arms, and mutual griefs ―
did you feel such fathomless awe
as mystics in artists’ reliefs?

How is it that dark night remains
forever with us ― present still ―
despite her absence and the pains
of dreams relived without the thrill
of any ecstasy but this ―
one brief, eternal, transient kiss?

She was an angel; you helped us see
the beauty of love’s iniquity.

Keywords/Tags: young, love, summer, smoke, smoky, haze, fog, foggy, cloudy, sky, skies, heat, summer heat, ****** heat, smog, mist, sultry, Summer of '42, Jennifer O’Neill, Hermie, sky, skies, cloud, clouds, cloudy, farewell, goodbye, memory, memories, teen, teenage, teen love, boy, boyfriend, first love, World War II,
confusion, regret, recall, recollection, memory, remembrance



Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22

Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.

They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.

And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far . . .

on to the stars
so faint and far.



Analogy
by Michael R. Burch

Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.

I believe I wrote this early poem around age 18.



alien
by michael r. burch

there are mornings in england
when, riddled with light,
the Blueberries gleam at us—
plump, sweet and fragrant.

but i am so small ...
what do i know
of the ways of the Daffodils?
“beware of the Nettles!”

we go laughing and singing,
but somehow, i, ...
i know i am lost. i do not belong
to this Earth or its Songs.

and yet i am singing ...
the sun—so mild;
my cheeks are like roses;
my skin—so fair.

i spent a long time there
before i realized: They have no faces,
no bodies, no voices.
i was always alone.

and yet i keep singing:
the words will come
if only i hear.

I believe I wrote this early poem around age 19, then revised it nearly a half-century later. One of my earliest memories is picking blueberries amid the brambles surrounding the tiny English hamlet, Mattersey, where I and my mother lived with her parents while my American father was stationed in Thule, Greenland, where dependents were not allowed. Was that because of the weather or the nukes? In any case, England is free of dangerous animals, but one must be wary of the copious thorns and nettles.



Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 25

Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.

My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.

Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?

Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.

I wrote this early poem around age 25.




As the Flame Flowers
by Michael R. Burch

As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame,
arches leaves skyward, aching for rain,
but all it encounters are anguish and pain
as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem.

Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem
reaches through night, through the staggering pain,
for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain,
as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame.

Mesmerized by a wavering crescent-shaped gem
that glistens like water though drier than sand,
the flower extends itself, trembles, and then
dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind.

I believe I wrote the first version of this early poem in my late teens or early twenties, wasn’t happy with it, put it aside, then revised nearly 20 years later, in 1998, then again another 20 years later in 2020. The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions.



Ashes
by Michael R. Burch

A fire is dying;
ashes remain . . .
ashes and anguish,
ashes and pain.

A fire is fading
though once it burned bright . . .
ashes once embers
are ashes tonight.

I wrote this early poem either in my late teens or early twenties: I will guess somewhere around age 18-19, but no later than age 21 according to the dated copy I have. This is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” perhaps written the same day.



This is one of my early poems, written as a teenager in high school around age 18. The first version may have been a bit earlier than 1976, but I’m not sure about this one. I seem to remember submitting it to the World of Poetry, which I didn’t realize was a vanity press at the time. I think the poem may have been published, but it’s not worth the time to verify.

The Beautiful People
by Michael R. Burch

They are the beautiful people,
and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon
to the listless strains of an ancient tune.

Oh, no ... please don't touch them,
for their smiles might fade.
Don’t go ... don’t approach them
as they promenade,
for they waltz through a vacuum
and dream they're not made
of the dust and the dankness
to which men degrade.

They are the beautiful people,
and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs
as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes.

Winds do not blow there
and storms do not rise,
and each hair has its place
and each gown has its price.
And they whirl through the darkness
untouched by our cares
as we watch them and long for
a "life" such as theirs.



Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17

On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.

She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.

Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.

"Rag Doll" is an early poem written around age 17.



EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART I
These are early poems of mine, written in high school and college…
Liquid Assets
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
And so I have loved you, and so I have lost,
accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost,
debited wisdom, credited pain …
My assets remaining are liquid again.
I wrote this poem in college after my younger sister decided to major in accounting. In fact, the poem was originally titled “Accounting.” At another point I titled it “Liquidity Crisis.”
absinthe sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe
the bitter green liqueur
reflects the dying sunset over the sea
and the darkling liquid froths
up over the rim of my cup
to splash into the free,
churning waters of the sea
i do not drink
i do not drink the liqueur,
for I sail on an absinthe sea
that stretches out unendingly
into the gathering night
its waters are no less green
and no less bitter,
nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light
they both harbor night,
and neither shall shelter me
neither shall shelter me
from the anger of the wind
or the cruelty of the sun
for I sail in the goblet of some Great God
who gazes out over a greater sea,
and when my life is done,
perhaps it will be because
He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea.
I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what absinthe looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read somewhere.
Am I
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?
Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a feeble flame,
to flicker, then to die?
Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?
Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?
Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo—
soon to fade away?
“Am I” is one of my very early poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” the poem below. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems.
Time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Time,
where have you gone?
What turned out so short,
had seemed like so long.
Time,
where have you flown?
What seemed like mere days
were years come and gone.
Time,
see what you've done:
for now I am old,
when once I was young.
Time,
do you even know why
your days, minutes, seconds
preternaturally fly?
"Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school sophomore project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it.
Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.
They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.
And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far . . .
on to the stars
so faint and far.
Ambition
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Men speak of their “ambition”
and I smile to hear them say
that within them burns such fire,
such a longing to be great ...
But I laugh at their “Ambition”
as their wistfulness amasses;
I seek Her tongue’s indulgence
and Her parted legs’ crevasses.
I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager. I wrote "Ambition" around age 18 or 19.
as Time walked by
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
yesterday i dreamed of us again,
when
the air, like honey,
trickled through cushioning grasses,
softly flowing, pouring itself upon the masses
of dreaming flowers ...
then the sly, impish Hours
were tentative, coy and shy
while the sky
swirled all its colors together,
giving pleasure to the appreciative eye
as Time walked by.
sunbright, your smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede our way;
until It did,
It did.
for soon the summer hid
her sunny smile ...
the honeyed breaths of wind
became cold,
biting to the bone
as Time sped on,
fled from us
to be gone
Forevermore.
this morning i awakened to the thought
that you were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered—you were gone,
that u’d been toppled long ago
like an orchid felled by snow
as the bloom called “us” sank slowly down to die
and Time roared by.
Gentry
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
The men shined their shoes
and the ladies chose their clothes;
the rifle stocks were varnished
till they were untarnished
by a speck of dust.
The men trimmed their beards;
the ladies rouged their lips;
the horses were groomed
until the time loomed
for them to ride.
The men mounted their horses,
the ladies did the same;
then in search of game they went,
a pleasant time they spent,
and killed the fox.
"Gentry” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting or fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures.
Of You
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
There is little to write of in my life,
and little to write off, as so many do ...
so I will write of you.
You are the sunshine after the rain,
the rainbow in between;
you are the joy that follows fierce pain;
you are the best that I've seen
in my life.
You are the peace that follows long strife;
you are tranquility.
You are an oasis in a dry land
and
you are the one for me!
You are my love; you are my life; you are my all in all.
Your hand is the hand that holds me aloft ...
without you I would fall.
This was the first poem of mine that appeared in my high school journal, the* Lantern, and thus it was my first poem to appear on a printed page. A fond memory, indeed.
The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.
There was an instant . . .
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
—feverish, wet—
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .
when the rest of the world became distant.
Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.
I wrote this poem around age 18.
Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch
“Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke
Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.
I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, *******, ******.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.
What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?
“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,
cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,
my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:
all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.
This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. The next poem, "*** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year.
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling—
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973.
Bound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
This poem appeared in my high school journal, the *Lantern, in 1976. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?"
Paradise
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
There’s a sparkling stream
And clear blue lake
A home to ******,
Duck and drake
Where the waters flow
And the winds are soft
And the sky is full
Of birds aloft
Where the long grass waves
In the gentle breeze
And the setting sun
Is a pure cerise
Where the gentle deer
Though timid and shy
Are not afraid
As we pass them by
Where the morning dew
Sparkles in the grass
And the lake’s as clear
As a looking glass
Where the trees grow straight
And tall and green
Where the air is pure
And fresh and clean
Where the bluebird trills
Her merry song
As robins and skylarks
Sing along
A place where nature
Is at her best
A place of solitude
Of quiet and rest
This is one of my very earliest poems, written as a song. It was “published” in a high school assignment poetry notebook.
All My Children
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-16
It is May now, gentle May,
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon the blousy flowers
of this backyard cemet'ry,
upon my children as they sleep.
Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now,
with a mound of earth for a pillow;
his face as hard as his monument,
but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows.
And there is Meg beside the spring
that sings her endless sleep.
Though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.
And there is Frankie, little Frankie,
tucked in safe at last,
a child who weakened and died too soon,
but whose heart was always steadfast.
And there is Mary by the bushes
where she hid so well,
her face as dark as their berries,
yet her eyes far darker still.
And Andy ... there is Andy,
sleeping in the clover,
a child who never saw the sun
so soon his life was over.
And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly ...
the prettiest of all ...
now she's put aside her dreams
of lovers dark and tall
for dreams dreamed not at all.
It is May now, merry May
and the sun shines pleasantly
upon these ardent gardens,
on the graves of all my children ...
But they never did depart;
they still live within my heart.
This is a poem I had forgotten for nearly 50 years until another poet, Robert Lavett Smith, mentioned the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth. As I read Wordsworth's poem about a little girl who refused to admit that some of her siblings were missing, I remembered a poem I had written as a teenager about a mother who clung as tenaciously to the memory of her children. The line "It is May now, gentle May" popped into my head and helped me locate the poem in my archives. I believe I wrote this poem about the same time as "Jessamyn's Song," which would place it around 1972-1974 at age 14-16, or thereabouts. I can tell it's one of my early poems because I was still allowing myself archaisms like "cemet'ry" which I would have avoided in my late teens and twenties. It feels a bit older than "Jessamyn's Song" so I will guess 1972. It is admittedly a sentimental poem, but then human beings are sentimental creatures.
Dance With Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Dance with me
to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies.
Enchantingly,
each highstrung string,
each yearning key,
each a thread within the threnody,
whispers "Waltz!"
then sets us free
to wander, dancing aimlessly.
Let us kiss
beneath the stars
as we slowly meet ...
we'll part
laughing gaily as we go
to measure love’s arpeggios.
Yes, dance with me,
enticingly;
press your lips to mine,
then flee.
The night is young,
the stars are wild;
embrace me now,
my sweet, beguiled,
and dance with me.
The curtains are drawn,
the stage is set
—patterned all in grey and jet—
where couples in such darkness met
—careless airy silhouettes—
to try love's timeless pirouettes.
They, too, spun across the lawn
to die in shadowy dark verdant.
But dance with me.
Sweet Merrilee,
don't cry, I see
the ironies of all the years
within the moonlight on your tears,
and every ****** has her fears ...
So laugh with me
unheedingly;
love's gaiety is not for those
who fail to heed the music's flow,
but it is ours.
Now fade away
like summer rain,
then pirouette ...
the dance of stars
that waltz among night's meteors
must be the dance we dance tonight.
Then come again—
like winter wind.
Your slender body as you sway
belies the ripeness of your age,
for a woman's body burns tonight
beneath your gown of ****** white—
a woman's ******* now rise and fall
in answer to an ancient call,
and a woman's hips—soft, yet full—
now gently at your garments pull.
So dance with me,
sweet Merrilee ...
the music bids us,
"Waltz!"
Don't flee;
let us kiss
beneath the stars.
Love's passing pains will leave no scars
as we whirl beneath false moons
and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ...
Oh, Merrilee,
the curtains are drawn,
the stage is set,
we, too, are stars beyond night's depths.
So dance with me.
I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college, after meeting George King, who taught the creative writing classes there. I would have been 18 when I started the poem, but it didn’t always cooperate and I seem to remember working on it the following year as well.
Dance With Me (II)
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
While the music plays
remembrance strays
toward a grander time . . .
Let's dance.
Shadows rising, mute and grey,
obscure those fervent yesterdays
of youth and gay romance,
but time is slipping by, and now
those days just don't seem real, somehow . . .
Why don't we dance?
This music is a memory,
for it's of another time . . .
a slower, stranger time.
We danced—remember how we danced?—
uncaring, merry, wild and free.
Remember how you danced with me?
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast,
your ******* hard against my chest,
we danced
and danced
and danced.
We cannot dance that way again,
for the years have borne away the flame
and left us only ashes,
but think of all those dances,
and dance with me.
I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the same lovers many years later.
Impotent
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-21
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.
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.
My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.
Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled,
for grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
dance before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
And you are music echoing through dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing embers die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why . . .
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.
And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.
By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt
petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.
By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,
and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,
so we sang it together as we walked along
—unsure of the words, but sure of our love—
as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977.
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days’
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset’s scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no man has sailed
— great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls —
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing . . .
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray . . .
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard.
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea —
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs that I used to climb
when the wind was **** with a taste of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner’s dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright.
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-aged wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow’s desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam . . .
and every wish was a moan.
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then . . . what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach . . .
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds.
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over different lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that rush into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams . . .
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
“Sea Dreams” was one of my more ambitious early poems. The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time, age 18. I remember showing this poem to a fellow student and he asked how on earth I came up with a poem about being a father who abandoned his son to live on an island! I think the meter is pretty good for the age at which it was written.
Son
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
An island is bathed in blues and greens
as a weary sun settles to rest,
and the memories singing
through the back of my mind
lull me to sleep as the tide flows in.
Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed,
my heart and my home will be till I die,
but where you are is where my thoughts go
when the tide is high.
[etc., in the handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son]
So there where the skylarks sing to the sun
as the rain sprinkles lightly around,
understand if you can
the mind of a man
whose conscience so long ago drowned.
The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to *****.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.
She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.
Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.
Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
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 very 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. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern.
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
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."
Earthbound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.

Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.
Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.
I believe I wrote “Earthbound” as a college sophomore, age 19 or 20.
Huntress
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
after Baudelaire
Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep
across a crevice dropping deep
into a dark and doomed domain.
Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane.
Rain falls upon your path, and pain
pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause
and heed the oft-lamented laws
which bid you not begin again
till night returns. You wail like wind,
the sighing of a soul for sin,
and give up hunting for a heart.
Till sunset falls again, depart,
though hate and hunger urge you—"On!"
Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn.
Flying
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
i shall rise
and try the ****** wings of thought
ten thousand times
before i fly ...
and then i'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before i dream;
but when at last ...
i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as i laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ...
if i'm not told
i’m just a man,
then i shall know
just what I am.
This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written around age 16-17. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original.
Love Unfolded Like a Flower
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
for Christy
Love unfolded
like a flower;
Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky.
I came to know you
and to trust you
in moments lost to springtime slipping by.
Then love burst outward,
leaping skyward,
and untamed blossoms danced against the wind.
All I wanted
was to hold you;
though passion tempted once, we never sinned.
Now love's gay petals
fade and wither,
and winter beckons, whispering a lie.
We were friends,
but friendships end …
yes, friendships end and even roses die.
Cameo
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes.
Here, where times flies
in the absence of light,
all ecstasies are intimations of night.
Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast;
promise what cannot be given.
Show me the stairway to heaven.
Jacob's-ladder grows all around us;
Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx.
So breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonic eyes …
and, if in the morning I am not wise,
at least then I'll know if this dream we call life
was worth the surmise.
Published by Borderless Journal *(Singapore)
Analogy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.
Published by *Borderless Journal (Singapore)
Flight
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow …
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I'm unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sun-splashed sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.
Robin, hawk or whippoorwill …
Should men care that you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.
Sparrow, lark or chickadee …
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.
Freedom
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20
Freedom is not so much an idea as a feeling
of open roads,
of the hobo's call,
of autumn leaves in brisk breeze reeling
before a demon violently stealing
all vestiges of the beauty of fall,
preparing to burden bare tree limbs with the heaviness of her icy loads.
And freedom is not so much a letting go as a seizing
of forbidden pleasure,
of ***** sport,
of all that is delightful and pleasing,
each taken totally within its season
and exploited to the fullness of its worth
though it last but a moment and repeat itself never.
Oh, freedom is not so much irresponsibility as a desire
to accept all the credit and all the blame
for one's deeds,
to achieve success or failure on one's own, to require
either or both as a consequence of an inner fire,
not to shirk one's duty, but to see
one's duty become himself—himself to tame.
Childhood's End
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22
How well I remember
those fiery Septembers:
dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame,
lay trampled before me
and fluttered, imploring
the bright, dancing rain to descend once again.
Now often I've thought on
the meaning of autumn,
how the rainbows' enchantments defeated dark clouds
while robins repeated
ancient songs sagely heeded
so wisely when winters before they'd flown south.
And still, in remembrance,
I've conjured a semblance
of childhood and how the world seemed to me then;
but early this morning,
when, rising and yawning,
I found a gray hair … it was all beyond my ken.
Easter, in Jerusalem
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
The streets are hushed from fervent song,
for strange lights fill the sky tonight.
A slow mist creeps
up and down the streets
and a star has vanished that once burned bright.
Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem,
who tends your flocks tonight?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
a Shepherd calls
through the markets and the cattle stalls,
but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight.
Golgotha shudders uneasily,
then wearily settles to sleep again,
and I wonder how they dream
who beat him till he screamed,
"Father, forgive them!"
Ah Nazareth, Nazareth,
now sunken deep into dark sleep,
do you heed His plea
as demons flee,
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep."
The temple trembles violently,
a veil lies ripped in two,
and a good man lies
on a mountainside
whose heart was shattered too.
Galilee, oh Galilee,
do your waters pulse and froth?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
the waters creep
to form a starlit cross.
“Easter, in Jerusalem” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Gone
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
Tonight, it is dark
and the stars do not shine.
A man who is gone
was a good friend of mine.
We were friends.
And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold
when I awoke to find him gone ...
"Gone" is actually gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to recreate from memory. At some point between age 14 and 15, I destroyed all the poems I had written, out of frustration. I was able to recreate some of the poems from memory, but not all.
Canticle: an Aubade
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16
Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day;
dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away.
Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun;
the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung.
Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves;
and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees,
there goes a brace of bees.
Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel,
the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields.
Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play,
a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race.
And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup,
drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut.
And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air,
a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there …
it looks like summer.
I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport's class at Maplewood High School. It's not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner.
Eternity beckons . . .
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Eternity beckons . . .
the wine becomes fire in my veins.
You are a petal,
unfolding,
cajoling.
I am your sun.
I will shine with the fierceness of my desire;
touched, you will burst into flame.
I will shine and again shine and again shine.
I will shine. I will shine.
You will burn and again burn and again burn.
You will burn. You will burn.
We will extinguish ourselves in our ecstasy;
We will sigh like the wind.
We will ebb into darkness, our love become ashes . . .
never speaking of sin.
Never speaking of sin.
Every Man Has a Dream
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 23
lines composed at Elliston Square
Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ...
a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain,
of a breeze in the evening that, rising again,
reminds him of something that cannot have been,
and he calls this dream love.
And each man has a dream that he fears to let live,
for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all.
So he curses, denies it and locks it within
the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin,
this madness, this love.
But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams,
and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls,
and he finds in the end that he cannot deny
the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries
in the darkness of night for this light he calls love.
Every time I think of leaving …
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Every time I think of leaving …
I see my mother's eyes
staring at me in despair,
and I feel the old scar
throbbing again.
And I think of the father
that I never knew;
I remember how,
as a child,
I could never understand
not having a father.
And when the tears start falling,
running slowly down my cheeks,
I think of our two sons
and all their many dreams—
dreams no better than dust
the day that I leave.
And when my hands start shaking,
when my eyes will not adjust,
when I know there's no tomorrow
for the two of us,
then I think of our young daughter
who prays, eyes tightly shut,
not to lose her mother or father …
and I know that I can't leave.
Every time I think of going,
I close my eyes and see
the days we spent together
when love was all we dreamed,
and I wish that I could find
(how I wish that I could find!)
a reason to believe.
Go down to the ***-down
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Go down
to the ***-down.
Pause in the pungent,
moonless night,
watching the partners as they dance;
go down . . .
don’t you know . . .
it's your only chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Go down
to the ***-down,
and whirl as you dance
through a dream of wine,
through a world once your world,
through a world without time,
through a world rich and rhythmic,
through a world full of rhyme.
O, go down
to the ***-down.
Go down.
As they slow down,
the couples will whirl
to a reel of romance,
for the music has called them,
and so they must dance.
Go down, don't you know
that this is your chance?
Go down
to the ***-down.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening . . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Belfast's Streets, circa age 14-20
by Michael R. Burch
Belfast's streets are strangely silent,
deserted for a while,
and only shadows wander
her alleys, slick and vile
with children's darkening blood.
Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones
clack in misery
beneath my booted feet,
longing to be free
from their legacy of blood,
and yet there's no relief,
for it seems that there's no God.
Her sirens scream and her PAs plead
and her shops and churches sob,
but the city throbs
—her heart the mobs
that are also her disease—
and still there's no relief,
for it seems there is no God.
I listen to a radio
and men who seem to feel
that only "right" is real.
"We can't give in
to men like them,
for we have an ideal
and God is on our side!"
one angrily replies,
but the sidewalks seem to chide,
clicking like snapped teeth.
And if God is on our side,
then where is God's relief?
And if there is a God,
then why is there no love
and why is there no peace?
"Sweet innocence! this land was wild
and better wild again
than torn apart beneath the feet
of ‘educated' men!"
The other screams in rage and hate,
and a war's begun that will not end
till the show goes off at ten.
Now a little girl is singing,
walking t'ward me 'cross the street,
her voice so high and sweet
it hangs upon the air,
and her eyes are Irish eyes,
and her hair is Irish hair,
all red and wild and fair,
and she wears a Catholic cross,
but she doesn't really care.
She's singing to a puppy
and hugging him between
the verses of her hymn.
Now here's a little love
and here's a little peace,
and maybe here's our Maker,
present though unseen,
on Belfast's dreary streets.
This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms.
Hills
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
For many years I have fought
the rocks and the sand and the weeds,
the frost and the floods and the trees
of these hills
to build myself a home.
Now it seems I will fight no longer,
but it’s a hard thing
for an old warrior to give up.
Here in these hills let them lay down my bones
where the sun settles wearily to rest,
and let my spirit dream in its endless sleep
that someday it also shall rise
to kiss the morning clouds.
This wall of stone that I built
of rock hewn by my own hands
shall not stand long
through the passage of time,
and when it lies in cakes of dust
and its particles kiss my bones,
then the battle that these hills and I fought
will finally have been won.
But mother Gaia will not shun
her wayward son for long;
she will take me and cradle me in her mud,
cover me with a blanket of snow,
then sing me to sleep with a nightingale’s song.
Now the night grows cold within me;
no more summers shall I see …
but, nevertheless, when June comes,
my spirit shall wander the paths through the trees
that lead to these hills,
these ******, lovely hills,
and then I shall be free.
All the young sailors
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20
All the young sailors
follow the sea,
leaving their lovers
to live and be free,
to brave violent tempests,
to ride out wild storms,
to dream of new lovers
seductive and warm,
to drink until sunset
then stretch out at dawn
in the dew of emotions
they don't understand,
to follow the sunlight,
to flee from the rain,
to live out their longings
though often in pain,
to dream of the children
they never shall see
while bucking the waves
of an unending sea
till, racked by harsh coughing,
his lungs almost gone,
straining to catch one last glimpse of the sun,
the last of the sailors finally succumbs,
for all the young sailors
die young.
Hush, my darling
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Hush, my darling; all your tears
will never bring again
that which Time has taken.
And though you’re so ****** lovely
that a god might wish to make you his,
Time cares not for loveliness;
he takes what he will take.
Sleep now darling, don’t awaken
till the dream is over.
Dream of fields of clover
dancing in an autumn wind.
Lie down at my side
and let sleep's soothing tide
carry you into an ocean deep.
Be silent, world; let her sleep.
Do not disturb a child
upon her journey mild
into the realm of dreams.
Sleep, carry her to that sweet state
where little girls need not know Fate
dashes the dreams of men.
Amora’s Complaint
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
Will you walk with me tonight?
for the moon hangs low and travelers seldom
disturb the silence of this ghostly kingdom.
We shall not be seen
if we linger by this stream
that shimmers in the starlight.
Will you talk to me awhile?
For sounds don’t carry very far;
the interminable silence is barely marred
by the labored breathing
of the "giant" who lies sleeping
in caverns fetid and vile,
and I crave your immaculate smile.
So close to death, the final sleep,
he hastens as he lies.
Silence louder than his sighs
drifts on the languid air
toward his musty lair,
and all life that it finds, it keeps.
And though he sleeps,
in dreams content,
he mistakes bile for dew,
for he knows not what is true.
His eyes are worse than blind men's eyes,
for the images they “see” disguise
how swift and sure is death's descent.
His ears hear songs that are not sung;
his nostrils scent a faint perfume
permeating midnight's gloom,
when all the while his rotting flesh
heralds worms to view his death.
He festers, having long been stung.
O, once he was as you are now—
full of passion, wild and free,
majestic, formed most perfectly.
But tonight, hideously deformed,
he himself becomes a worm;
though he doesn't see that he's changed, somehow.
Why, he still calls me his “dearest friend,”
although I cannot bear to near
that stinking, dying sufferer!
He asks me why I stray so far
from the "comfort" of his arms . . .
Tonight, I said, "This is the end."
O, he swore to not let me depart,
but when he couldn't even rise
to chase me as I leapt the skies,
I think he almost understood.
He frowned. His skin, like rotting wood,
seemed to come apart. He almost touched my heart.
But such a vile and leprous being
I cannot have to be my love.
So while the stars shine high above
and you and I are here alone,
help me undress; unzip my gown.
Come, sate my Desire this perfect evening.
Blue Cowboy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.
He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the scorpions
would leap to feast upon your heart.
Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.
Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.
Cowpoke
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
Sleep, old man...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.
You cannot know
just how the Change
will **** the windswept plains
that you so loved...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now...
before you see just how
the Change will come.
Sleep, old man...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sands
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.
I believe “Cowpoke” was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day.
If Not For Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
The little child who cries,
brushing sleep from startled eyes,
might not have awakened from her dreams
to fill the night with plaintive screams
if not for love.
The little collie pup
who tore the sofa up
and pleads here in a mournful crouch,
might not have ripped apart the couch
if not for love.
And the little flower ***
that broke and littered the rug with sod
might not have been dropped if a child had not tried
to place it at her mother's bedside—
if not for love.
Ecstasy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
A soft breeze stirs the sun-drenched grass
that parts, reforms, and then is still.
Sunshine, cascading from above,
sipped by the flowers to their fill,
then bursts out in the rosy reds,
the violet blues and buttercup yellows,
bolder, more eager, given fresh birth,
somehow transformed within frail petals
into an ecstasy of colors
broadcast across the receptive land,
which now wears a cloak like Joseph’s,
nature’s brand.



EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART III


Sarjann
by Michael R. Burch

What did I ever do
to make you hate me so?
I was only nine years old,
lonely and afraid,
a small stranger in a large land.
Why did you abuse me
and taunt me?
Even now, so many years later,
the question still haunts me:
what did I ever do?
Why did you despise me and reject me,
pushing and shoving me around
when there was no one to protect me?
Why did you draw a line
in the bone-dry autumn dust,
daring me to cross it?
Did you want to see me cry?
Well, if you did, you did.

… oh, leave me alone,
for the sky opens wide
in a land of no rain,
and who are you
to bring me such pain? …

This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around age 16-17, but could have been started earlier.

Shadows
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge … then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves we spill,
tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men …
when we were men, or almost so.
“Shadows” appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun.
Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Though night has come,
I'm not alone,
for stars appear
—fierce, faint and far—
to dance until they disappear.
They reappear
as clouds roll by
in stormy billows
past bent willows;
sometimes they almost seem to sigh.
And time rolls on,
on past the willows,
on past the stormclouds as they billow,
on to the stars
so faint and far …
on to the stars
so faint and far.
I believe this poem was written in my early twenties, around 1980, then revised and filed in 1982.
Snapdragons: A Pleasant Fable with a Very Happy Ending
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
We threaded snapdragons
through her dark hair
and drank berry wine
straight from the vine.
We were too young
for love (or strong drink)
but her lips were warm
and her eyes so charmed,
that I robbed a Brinks
and bought her minks.
The Road Always Taken
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
We have come to the time of the parting of ways;
now love, we must linger no longer, amazed
at the fleetness with which we have squandered our days.
We have come to the time of the closing of scrolls;
beyond us, indecipherable Eternity rolls …
and I fear for our souls.
We have come to the point of no fork, no return;
above us, a few cooling stars dimly burn …
And yet I still yearn.
Tonight how I miss you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
Tonight how I miss you, as never before,
though morning is only a moment away.
Oh, I know I should sleep, but I lie here, distraught,
as you flit through my mind—such a wild, haunting thought.
And love is a dream that I lately imagined—
a dream, yet so real I can touch it at times.
But how to explain? I can hardly envision
myself without you, like a farce without mimes.
Deep, deep in my soul lurks a creature of fire,
dormant, not living unless you are near;
now, because you are gone, he grows dim, and in dire
need of your presence, he wavers, I fear …
How he and I wish, how we wish you were here.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane;
on a green ***** of moss she nestled my head
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ecstatic sighs …
But the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears!
Years I abided the eclectic assaults of her flesh …
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a moment’s rest …
She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left its barb in a maelstrom of light.
Love’s last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
According to my notes, I wrote this poem at age 22 in 1980, must have forgotten about it, then revised it on January 31, 1999. But I wasn’t happy with the first stanza and revised the poem again on September 22, 2023, a mere 43 years after I wrote the original version!
Yesterday My Father Died
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
Rice Krispies and bananas,
milk and orange juice,
newspapers stiff with frozen dew …
Yesterday my father died
and the feelings that I tried to hide
he'll never know, unless
he saw through my disguise.
Alarm clocks and radios,
crumpled sheets and pillows,
housecoats and tattered, too-small slippers …
Why did I never say I cared?
Why were few secrets ever shared?
For now there's nothing left of him
except the clothes he used to wear.
Dimmed lights and smoky murmurs,
a brief "Goodnight!" and fitful slumber,
yesterday's forgotten dreams …
Why did my father have to go,
knowing that I loved him so?
Or did he know? Because, it seems,
I never told him so.
The last words he spoke to me,
his laughter in the night,
mementos jammed in cluttered cabinets …
What is this "love?"
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
What is this "love" that drives men to such lengths
as to betray their hearts and turn away
from all resolve that once had granted strength
and courage to them in life's harshest days?
What is this "love" that causes men to shun
the friends and family they once held so dear?
What causes them to spurn the brilliant sun,
to seek some gloomy cloister’s bitter tears?
What is this "love" that urges men to yield
their hearts' most cherished hopes and will’s restraint?
What causes them to throw down reason’s shields,
to spill their blood, till sense at last grows faint?
This is the weakness in us, one and all—
the love of love, the will to kneel, the hope, perhaps, to fall.
“What is this ‘love’" was one of my earliest sonnets.
You'll never know
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
You'll never know
just how I need you,
though you ought to know
after all this time;
you'll never see
how much I want you,
though your touch can tempt
these words to rhyme.
For storm clouds grow
till stars flee, hidden;
bright lightning rails
against mankind;
wild waves reach out
toward scorched comets;
but you do not see.
You must be blind.
Sundown
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Sunset’s shadows touch your eyes
She’d rather have the truth than lies.
wherein I find no alibis.
And that seems strange … I wonder why.
Now you and I have come this far,
She seems so lovely and so calm.
but further off, no guiding star.
And yet I know that she is scarred.
But without stars how can we see
What’s best for her is best for me.
ourselves, or where our paths fork free?
And yet I loved her so sincerely!
I think that we should end it here
How can love end without a tear?
and I can see that you agree.
What’s best for her is best for me.
Sunrise
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
I ran toward a meadow
that shimmered, all ablaze,
and laughed to feel the buttercups
my skin so softly graze.
My soul was full of passion,
my eyes were full of light,
as sunrise crept
into the depths
of heart that had harbored only night.
I leapt to catch a butterfly,
then let it go again,
and its glorious flight
into the light
caused me to clutch my pen
and dash back to my darkling room
to let the sunrise in,
but not through open shutters,–
through poems and psalms and hymns.
Here “darkling” is a rare word that appears in more than one masterpiece of poetry.
Spring dream time
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
There are no dreams of springtime tomorrow
left to my heart now that winter has come,
nor passion to shine like a sun in ascendance
to fierce incandescence; my spirit is numb.
How shall I write when the words hold no meaning?
How shall I feel, when all feeling is gone?
How shall I seek what has never had presence
or gather an essence I never have known?
How to recapture what I once believed in,
lost to strange seasons of riotous sun?
How to rekindle the heart's effervescence,
the spirit's resplendence, when springtime has flown?
How will I write what has never been written?
How can this ink leap from pen into poem?
How can I believe what I know has no feasance,
reducing the distance from fancied to known?
Are there no others who dream not to lessen,
not to wilt before winter, not to weaken—not some
who **** to hellfire this winter of demons,
imagining seasons of springtime to come?
Tell me what i am
by michael r. burch, circa age 14-16
Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.
Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...
drive away this darkness from within.
For my heart is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;
and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.
Now it is night;
please drive away this darkness from without,
for i doubt that i will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.
This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. I believe I wrote it around age 14 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?" It remains unpublished and unsubmitted outside the Lantern.
You didn't have time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
You didn't have time to love me,
always hurrying here and hurrying there;
you didn't have time to love me,
and you didn't have time to care.
You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:
too busy for love, "too old" to be young …
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time to take time
and you didn't have time to try.
Every time I asked you why, you said,
"Because, my love; that's why." And then
you didn't have time at all, my love.
You didn't have time at all.
You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun
that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You have become the morning light
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
You have become the morning light
that floods from heaven, fair upon
the dewed expanses of each lawn …
I lift my face, for you are dawn.
And in the warmth that, fanned to flame,
I feel against my naked flesh,
I find the fierceness of desire—
the passions of each wild caress.
Now how I long to make you mine
in such a moment, as your *******
burn like fire in my hands,
forming flame from drunkenness.
And if in ardor for the sun
or for your touch or for the wine,
my lips should crush yours in a kiss
so harsh and heated, tears combine
with sweat and anguish till beads form—
salt beads of passion on your brow,
then lover, we will burn with dawn,
for in your eyes the sun shines now.
When I was in my heyday
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22
When I was in my heyday,
I howled to see the moon;
the wail of a wolf,
shrill, rising … then gruff
echoed through night, such an impassioned tune!
When I was in my heyday,
hearts fluttered at my feet;
I gathered them in
like blossoms the wind
had slaughtered and flung, but their fragrance was sweet.
When I was in my heyday,
I cursed the cage of stars
that blocked me from rising
above them and flying
in rapture, uncaptured, beyond their bright bars.
When I was in my heyday,
my dreams were a dazzling mist
that baffled my vision
and hid farthest heaven,
but what did I care? I clenched fire in my fist!
The Latter Days: an Update
by Michael R. Burch, age 22
1.
Little Richard grew up. Now
the world is not the same, somehow.
And Elvis Presley passed away—
an idol but with feet of clay.
The Beatles left have shorn their locks;
John Lennon died and Heaven rocks,
though Yoko Ono still remains.
(The earth is full of passing pains.)
2.
The wall is being built, we hear,
although the reason’s far from clear.
But there’s one thing we know for sure:
there’s never money for the poor.
There are, however, trillions for
the one percent, and waging war.
’Cause Tweety has an “awesome” plan:
kiss Putin’s *** and nuke Iran!
3.
The Hebrew prophets long ago
warned of a Trump of Doom, and so
we wonder if this “little horn”
may be the Beast who earned their scorn.
But surely not! Trump claims to be
our Savior, true Divinity!
So please relax, admire his rod,
and trust this Orange Demigod!
I wrote the first stanza at age 22 in 1980, then updated the rest of the poem after Trump became president in 2016.
The Swing
by Michael R. Burch (http://www.thehypertexts.com/MichaelRBurchPoetPoetryPictureBio.htm), circa age 18
There was a Swing
tied to a tall elm
that reached out over the river.
There, I used to send you flying
out into the autumn air
till you began to shiver,
then I’d gather you in again,
hugging you to keep you warm.
How I loved the scent of your hair
and the flush of your cheeks!
I’d dream of you for weeks
when you were at Vassar and I was at Mayer.
Then, come the summer,
how I loved to see your knee-length skirt
billowing about you,
revealing your legs,
aloed and darkly lovely,
and to feel your ample hips
—so soft, so full, so warm—
when I touched them,
“accidentally,” of course,
while swinging you.
You always knew,
I’m sure of that now.
And you never let me go too far.
But your kisses were warm.
Oh, I remember—your kisses were warm!

I’d often dream of ******* you,
and once, just once,
when I was helping you down from the Swing,
I touched your breast, and you paused.
Hurriedly, I unbuttoned your blouse as you stood
breathless, and with good cause,
after riding the Swing as wild as I swung you.
Your bra was Immaculate White,
your ******* warm and firm
beneath the thin material.
You said nothing until I flipped
your skirt up, then slipped
my fingers inside the waistband
of your matchless cotton *******
to feel your hips,
so full and so inviting,
and then your nether lips.
At which you said,
“That’s enough,” gently,
and it was.

Now I think of those days
and I wonder
why I ever let you go.
I remember one dark hour
when, standing in the snow,
you told me to take you
or to let you go.
I was a fool.
Proud, and a fool.
All you asked was for us to be married
after we finished school.
But I was a fool.

But I always loved you—
my wild risk taker!
My sweet gentle ******* of elms,
my lovely heartbreaker.

Now you’re a dancer,
and a fine one, I’m told.
I saw you, once, in men’s magazine.
You hair was still maple
with highlights of gold,
your eyes just as green.
But somehow you didn’t quite seem
the wild sweet rambunctious angel of my dreams
who’d defy men’s eyes
and the edicts of heaven
simply to Swing.
Twelve-Thirty
by Michael R. Burh, circa age 19
How cold the nights become so quickly;
now a small fire does little to quench
the winter's thirst for warmth.
Sometimes it seems that all my life
has been an endless winter:
the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded …
and time goes slowly when a man's strength
is not enough to meet his needs.
Tonight I feel an old man
creeping into my bones,
willing to die and sleep and never dream,
and I accept him,
not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease
until I die,
but because I am too weak and too weary
to wish it otherwise …
and a man is so very close to the edge
when he lacks the strength to wish.
Long ago, when I was young,
I would run and fall and cry
and not give up.
But now it is twelve-thirty,
the darkest hour of the night,
and I am at the darkest point
that I have ever known in life.
So even as the frigid winds
pass silently across the hills,
I feel my spirit sigh within
and steal into its cell.
No longer does it venture forth
to dare new feats and find its fate,
but it lies asleep throughout the night
and does not awake except to eat
a little more of my life away.
Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
I believe "My Grandfather's Hills" and "Twelve-Thirty" were written on the same day, or very close to each other.
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days'
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset's scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no vessel's sailed
— great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls —
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing …
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray …
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard…
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea —
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs I'd so often climb
when the wind was **** with the tang of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner's dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright!
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-seasoned wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow's desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam …
and every wish was a moan!
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then … what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach …
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds.
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over sprightlier lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that tumble into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams …
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
"Sea Dreams" is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of "Jessamyn's Song." To the best of my recollection, I wrote "Sea Dreams" around age 18, circa 1976-1977. For years I thought I had written "Sea Dreams" around age 19 or 20, circa 1978. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started around age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, "I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because …"
The snowman sleeps under the sea
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17
Beware while bright sunlight, in ardor,
caresses and kisses one arc of the earth,
for others are trapped in the dungeons of night—
crazed victims of an insane demon's mirth.
Beware while the children are playing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon they, too, will be paying
for the time they once thought free …
for an ice-capped mountain is swaying
and a snowman sleeps under the sea.
Beware, though life's moments are fleeting,
for, fleet though they may be,
a moment in Hades, I have heard,
can stretch into an eternity.
Beware of the clouds whitely lazing
under a sun brightly blazing,
for soon dark Night will be freed,
her black canopy raising.
Now an ice-caped summit is waving
and an iceman sleeps under the sea.
Beware the snowman, cold as death,
with winter terror on his breath;
if he should touch you, flee, my friend,
or into hell’s cold depths descend.
I believe “The snowman sleeps under the sea” was inspired by the title of the Eugene O’Neill play “The Iceman Cometh” and the biblical idea of hell as bleak, cold “outer darkness.”
there is peace where i am going
by michael r. burch, circa age 15
lines written after watching a TV documentary about Woodstock
there is peace where i am going,
for i hasten to a land
that has never known the motion
of one windborne grain of sand;
that has never felt a tidal wave
nor seen a thunderstorm;
a land whose endless seasons
in their sameness are one.
there i will lay my burdens down
and feel their weight no more,
untouched beneath the unstirred sands
of a neverchanging shore,
where Time lies motionless in pools
of lost experience
and those who sleep, sleep unaware
of the future, past and present
(and where Love itself lies dormant,
unmoved by a silver crescent).
and when i lie asleep there,
with Death's footprints at my feet,
not a thing shall touch me,
save bland sand, lain like a sheet
to wrap me for my rest there
and to bind me, lest i dream,
mere clay again,
of strange domains
where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams.
yes, there is peace where i am going,
for i am bound to be
embalmed within the chill embrace
of this dim, unchanging sea …
before too long; i sense it now,
and wait, expectantly,
to feel the listless touch
of Immortality.
This poem was written circa 1973, around age 15, after I watched a TV documentary about Woodstock. I think I probably owe the last two lines to Emily Dickinson. I believe "those who sleep the sleep of Death" was written around the same time and under the same influence.
those who sleep the sleep of Death
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15
those who sleep the sleep of Death
sleep to wake no more …
they lie upon a brackish shore
where Time's tides lash the rugged rocks
with waves that whip like ragged locks
of long, unkempt white hair
against the storm-filled air,
but nothing can disturb them there.
those who dream the dream of Death
fail to see how Time
pulses through the slime
of earth’s dark fulsome loam,
rank, rotting flesh and filthy foam …
for, standing far off from the shore,
She readies to attack once more
those She had but killed before.
those whom Death awakens
awaken to a sleep
that is far more deep
than any they had known before;
for there upon that ravaged shore,
they do not see how Time now drives
to destroy the fragile lives
of those who still survive.
The Song of the Wanderers
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Through many miles of space we have flown;
no life but ours have we known.
No other race have we seen in the stars,
nor under any sun that has shone.
None in the shadows, none in the sun,
none in the rainbows that brighten dark skies,
none in the valleys, none in the hills,
none in the rapids that ripple and rise.
Our quest is near ending; the stars have been searched;
we alone wander this vast universe.
For every green planet, every blue sky
we have encountered is barren of life.
We are alone, unless below
a creature exists somewhere in the snow.
The planet beneath us lies shackled by night.
The stars deck its mountains in garments of light.
Close to us, its moon hovers ghostly in flight.
Somewhere below us, perhaps there is life.
Come, let us seek life, before we return
to that fair planet for which our hearts yearn.
Here snow descends as the wind whistles down
from dark frozen northlands where glaciers abound.
See, on the far shoreline, pale mists compound.
Notice, companions,
how the sun, like a fiery stallion,
rears upon the eastern rim
of a mountain range haggard, weathered and grim.
A pity, perhaps, that at last it grows dim.
But there's no life here, and so we must leave
this desolate planet alone to its grief.
No, wait just a moment! What can this be …
concealed by dense fog here, surrounded by sea,
some type of vessel, storm-tossed, to and fro?
Yes, I believe, I'm sure that it's so!
Here near this shoreline, half-buried in snow,
lies a wrecked vessel
dripping salt water and seaweed tresses.
Make haste; let us hurry,
the sea in its fury
is dashing it upon the rocks!
It may well be that at last
we will see some relic of another race's past.
What's this? It's no vessel, no ship of the seas.
It's fashioned of stone and could not use the breeze.
It has no engine, no portals, no helm,
and yet it resembles … some demon from hell.
It must be a statue, with horns on its head,
long, flowing hair and a torch in its hand.
Broken and shattered, cast off by the sea,
tonight it erodes in this frozen dark sand.
No, come, let us leave, it was fashioned by wind,
molded by water and wasted therein.
Come, let us leave it, to hasten back home;
too long have we wandered, thus, lost and alone.
The Liberty calls us; we cannot delay.
Let us return now, and be underway.
Through many miles of space we have flown.
No other life have we known.
And now that we know that we are alone,
we search for our ancient home.
Somewhere ahead she awaits our return,
decked in bright garments of green;
for eons of time we have not seen her face,
and yet she has haunted our dreams.
Somewhere ahead lies the planet we left
when we set out the depths of deep space to explore,
and now how we long to dash through her streams
and sleep on her bright, sandy shores.
The last cold, dark planet lies dying behind us;
no others are left to be searched.
The Liberty soon her last descent shall make
when we relocate Mother Earth!
The spinster waltz
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
The spinster waltz is playing
in sad strains from other rooms,
but here, where love beams, reigning,
wedding bells greet brides and grooms.
O, the bachelors are a-waltzing,
but the married do not mind,
for they whirl with one another
to a far more hectic time.
And as they feel the music
seek to slow their breakneck thoughts,
they murmur of the things they've gained,
regretting what they've lost.
The offering
by Michael R. Burch, age 21
Tonight, if you will taste the tempting wine
and come to sit beside me, I will say
the words that you have thought that you might hear,
the words that I have feared that I might say.
And if you sit beside me with the goblet in your hand
and offer me a sip to give me strength,
then I will match your offer with an offer of my own,
and, offering, so offer back that strength.
And if I say, "I love you," don't laugh as though I jest,
for a jester I am not, as you can see.
And if I offer anything, I'll offer you myself —
the man I am and not the man you see.
For though you see successes and a man of many dreams,
I see a pauper throwing dreams away;
yes, once I dreamt of many things, but then I saw your face, and since
I dream no more, and dreams can fade away.
So if I offer you this ring of burnished gold that burns and sings,
please take it for the thought and not the gold.
And if I offer you my life, please understand, my love, don't sigh
and tell me that you do not care for gold.
I'm offering my love, my life, my joys, my cares, my fears, my nights,
the dreams that I have dreamt and dream no more,
I'm offering my soul, not gold … I'm offering my thoughts, my hopes …
I'm offering myself and nothing more.
And if this offer seems enough; if you can be content with love
and cherish one who loves you as I do,
then promise that I'll be your dreams, your hopes, your joys, your cares, all things
that you could ever want or want to do.
But if you cannot promise so, then let us say goodbye and go;
I cannot love you less than I do now,
but I would rather bear this pain and never, ever love again
than burn in hope and fear as I do now.
There Must Be Love
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
O, take me to
earth’s tallest mountain
and hurl me out
into the dark;
though I may fall
ten thousand miles,
still I’ll not say
this life is all.
I’ll shout, There’s more!
There must be more!
There must be Love.

Then take me to
faith’s highest fancy
and show me all
there is to see;
though all the world
bow prone before me,
still I’ll not say
this world is all.
I’ll pray, There’s more.
There must be more.
There must be Love.
Then lay me down
beside dark waters
where dying trees
shed lifeless leaves,
and though I shiver
with the knowledge
of my death,
I shall not grieve.
And when you say,
There must be more …
then I shall say,
There is … believe!
I’ll take your hand,
and we’ll believe.
This is how I love you
Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Just to hold you as you sleep with your head against my shoulder,
just to kiss your sweet lips and to know that you are mine,
fills my heart with a sense of perfect completeness
of a light and airy sweetness,
like the scent of chilled white wine.
For the love with which I love you is a pure and sacred thing,
like the first touch of morning, when she bends to kiss her flowers;
for then the dancing daisies and the gleaming marigolds
reach out to receive her, each in turn, throughout dawn’s hours.
And the light with which she touches them
becomes their life; each stalk and stem
are born of her who gives herself
unselfishly. And to her spell
the flowers bend, full willingly,
with sometimes a hushed and fervent plea,
"Touch me, O sun, touch me!"
The Rose
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
“Oh Rose, thou art sick!”—William Blake
Where life begins the seeds of death
are likewise planted, but with faith
the rose's roots combat the weeds’
to seek the nourishment it needs.
Yet in its heart an insect breeds.
Where dreams take form the flower grows,
as do the weeds, and still the rose
is gay and lovely, though her thorns
are sharp! The casual touch she scorns …
yet insects eat her leaves in swarms.
When passion fails the rose grown old,
no longer are her petals bold—
in flaming glory bright-arrayed.
In weeds of death at last is laid
the rose by insects first betrayed.
Say You Love Me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22-25
Joy and anguish surge within my soul;
contesting there, they cannot be controlled;
now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise.
Stars are burning;
it's almost morning.
Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed
parade before me, forming formless scenes;
and now, at last, the feeling grows
as stars, declining,
bow to morning.
For you are music in my undreamt dreams,
rising from some far-off lyric spring;
oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing.
Stars on fire
form a choir.
Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes;
you laugh at me as dancing starlets die.
You touch me so and still I don't know why . . .
But say you love me.
Say you love me.
Sheila
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16
When they spoke your name,
"Sheila,"
I imagined a flowing mane
of reddish-orange hair
tinged with fire
and blazing eyes of emerald green
spangled with desire.
When I saw you first,
Sheila,
I felt an overwhelming thirst
for the taste of your lips
dry my lips and parch my tongue …
and, much worse,
I stuttered and stammered and lisped
in your presence.
But when I kissed you long,
Sheila,
I felt the morning come
with temperamental sun
to drive away the night
with reddish-orange light
and distant-sounding drums.
Now I will love you long,
as long as longing is,
Sheila.
This poem appeared in my high school journal the Lantern, so it was written no later than 1976. But it feels like one of my earlier poems, so I will guess that it was written around age 16 during my early Romantic phase. I'm not sure why the name Sheila made me think of reddish-orange hair. The poem is virtually the same today as when I wrote it in my teens. I did add L12 "dry my lips and parch my tongue" and changed the penultimate line from "as long as long is" to "as long as longing is." But it remains essentially the same poem I wrote around age 16.
The breathing low and the stars alight
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Silently I'll steal away
into dank jungles pocked with night.
I'll give no thought to the coming day;
the breathing low and the stars alight
alone shall mark my passage through
in search of plateaus of delight.
Through valleys filled with shrieks of fright
I may pass; through vales of woe
I may move with footsteps light.
Who knows what trials I’ll undergo
at the hands of demon Night
before that fiend I overthrow?
And yet at last the ebb and flow
of time and tide will draw me tight
within Death’s grasp; then I shall know
the freedom of life's last respite,
safe from dread nightmares and despite
the breathing low and the black disquiet.
Parting
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17
I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while.
We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile.
He roams this land in search of life, intent on being "free."
I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree.
I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim.
He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain.
I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand.
I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can.
I knew he couldn't stay, and so … I didn't even ask.
We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task.
We both know life's a winding road, with potholes every mile,
and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles.
One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife,
but for now he has to travel on, to seek a more "natural" life.
He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try,
just as I must write my poems although none please my eye.
For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue;
still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through.
He left me as I left a friend so many years ago;
I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know,
it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone.
It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun.
And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too;
but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it's a rare girl who is true.
I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast,
still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past.
Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can,
and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men."
We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be?
We were friends for just a while … he went on to be "free."
Rose
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Morning’s buds cling fervently
to the tiny drops of dew
that nourish them sacrificially,
as nature bids them to.
And how each petal cherishes
the tiny silver gems
that satisfy its thirst
and caress its slender stem.
All life comes of sacrifice,
which makes it doubly sweet;
for two lives sacrificed form one
and thus become complete.
Daisies plait the valleys
that give their strength to yield
such a tender host among
the steamy summer fields.
And how the flowers love the earth
that freely gives its life,
kissing and caressing it
throughout the hours of night.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
A bee entreats a flower:
a tiny drop is given.
A slender stalk caresses
and gains a speck of pollen.
All beings are dependent
on others being too.
And love cannot exist
except when shared by two.
So kiss me and caress me, love,
for you are my fair Rose.
And hold me through the depths of night
and the heights of our repose.
Spartacus
by Michael R. Burch, age 20
Take the fire
from her eyes
to light the darkening skies
exquisite shades
of blue and jade.
Place an orchid
in her hair
and tell her that you care,
because you do,
you surely do.
Sleep beside her
this last night;
a clover bed, deep green and white,
shall cushion you as leaves sing
sad elegies to fleeting spring.
Sleep beside her
in the dew,
both heartbeats fierce and true,
and praise the gods who give
such hearts, because you live.
Not many do.
So little time
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
There is so little time left to summer,
to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds …
to be young.
There is so little time left till autumn shall come.
There is so little time left for me to be free …
so little time, just so, so little time.
If I were handsome and brawny and brave,
a love I would make and the time I would save.
If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free —
surely there would be one for me …
Perhaps there'd be one.
There is so little left of the sunshine
although there's much left of the rain …
there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain.
I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. The inversion in L8 makes me think this was a very early poem. That's something I weaned myself of pretty quickly. Also, I was extremely depressed from age 14 to 15 because my family moved twice and I had trouble making friends because I was so shy and introverted.
Valley of Stars
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19
On a haunted moor, awash in starlight,
when all the world lay hushed and still,
while a ghostly orb, traversing the heavens,
bathed every ridge of every hill
in a shower of silver, I happened to spy
a shadow creeping against the sky.
And suddenly the shadow beckoned
with a fair white hand, then called my name!
Out of the haunting mists of midnight,
through webs of ethereal light she came—
the maiden I had wildly wanted,
that had long my heart enchanted.
It seemed to me that the stars shone brighter
as she slipped into my arms,
for they burned within the halo
of her flaxen hair and warmed
the air about us, so that I melted
into the haven of her arms' shelter.
Her fragrance of lilacs enraptured me;
her sparkling eyes beguiled me.
And when my lips found hers that night,
nothing could have defiled me,
or have dragged me down … we began to rise
through the mists and vapors of a spinning sky.
We rose for hours, or so it seemed,
through galaxies of pearl and blue.
She kissed my lips and made me feel
that all I've heard of love is true.
And now, although we're lost,
I never wonder where we are,
for my love and I
wander paths of the sky,
lost in a valley of stars.
We Dance and Dream
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
All the nights we danced it seemed
the stars above were dancing too,
and all the dreams we dared to dream
it seemed were old dreams dreamed anew.
But now no hallowed lovers’ lies
pass our lips or glaze our eyes;
and now no even wilder dreams
cause our lips, with anguished screams,
to pierce the peacefulness of night.
We dance and dream, bereft of light,
content to merely glide…
We kept the dream alive
by Michael R. Burch, age 18
Youthful reflections on the Vietnam War and the “Domino Theory”
So that our nation should not “fall,”
we sacrificed our lives;
we choked back fears
and blinked back tears.
Our skin broke out in hives.
We kept the dream alive.
We counted freedom
and honor worth saving;
a flag waving
against the sky
filled us with pride,
then led us to die.
But was it a lie?
What of the torch?
What of its flame?
We kept it lit through wind and rain.
It brought us woe and bitter pain.
And yet we bore it though it seemed
the vaguest semblance of a dream.
And all around the jungle screamed,
“This is no place for you to die;
the flag you fight for is a lie;
the torch you bear burns bitter flame;
the dream you cherish has no name
but darkest shame …”
We lost our lives,
but to what gain?
Will you walk with me
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
Will you walk with me a mile down this lane?
for there is something I must say to you.
And, as my feelings cry to be explained,
this silence is a lie, bereft of truth.
As does the bird that sings, I so must tell
the feelings that my heart cannot keep in,
for it must be a sin to speechless dwell
when love entreats the trembling tongue to sing.
And thus I cannot watch you silently,
although I cringe to think that I must speak—
my lisping lips then tremble shamelessly,
my heart grows numb even as my knees go weak—
but now the time has come to not delay,
so listen closely to the words I say …
If I could only hold you through the night,
then wake to find you near me, each new day,
my life would be so full of sheer delight
that I would never notice should you stray.
If I could only kiss your wanton lips
and do so without fear of God's revenge,
then I would even kneel to kiss your whip,
and I would gladly bend to your demands.
For I not only love your loving moods,
fierce kisses and caresses and wild eyes,
but darling, I still love you when you brood.
I love you though you rail at me and lie.
For love is not a passion that should fade;
it burns!—the heat of sunlight on a cage.
This was one of my first sonnets, or "sonnet attempts," written around age 18 as a college freshman in 1976.
Where have all the flowers gone?
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19
Where have all the flowers gone
that once shone in your hair
when the sunlight touched them there?
Now summer's fields are dark and bare.
And what of all your lovely curls
that caught the sunlight till a halo
ringed their masses, golden-yellow?
Into ash-grey their fire has mellowed…
Where have all the starlings gone
whose voices blended with your own
in such a wild, emphatic song?
From winter's grasp those birds have flown.
And what of your own voice, my dear?
Those splendid notes I hear no more
which once from your sweet throat did pour.
For now your throat is parched and sore.
Oh, where have all the feelings gone?
We once could name them all—
emotions great and longings small . . .
But now we heed them not at all.
And what of our desire, my love,
which we once wildly bore
and felt at each soul's core?
That passion now is calm, demure.
For time has take all of this
and the little left leaves much to miss.
Were Love to Die
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 24
Were love to die without pained sighs,
without heartaches and brimming eyes,
then tell me—what would love be worth
if, dying, as in being birthed,
it were no more than other words?
Were love to die without a lie,
without attempts to keep it nigh,
then tell me—what would love have been
if, fleeing as in entering,
it was not holy, nor a sin?
Were love to cause no grief, or pain,
and come, then go, what would remain?
And tell me—what would love have left
if, being lost, as being kept,
it did not bless and curse our fate?
Won't you
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21
Won't you lie in my arms in the clutches of wine
as dark petals, unfolding, whisper back to the vine?
Won't you dream of that day, as I bring you again
to an anguish, a heartache that throbs without end?
Won't you dream of a day when the ocean grew wild,
raging before us—green cauldron of bile!—
while the passions we shared were stirred by a wind
that later that evening sang softly of sin?
Won't you rise in your yearning and touch me again?
Won't you kiss me and curse me just as you did then?
Won't you hate me and hold me and scold me and say
that you'll never leave me, that this time you'll stay?
O, tonight be my lifeline, re-cresting love’s waves …
won't you rage in my arms as you did in those days?
Won't you be half as gentle as you are rough,
then spare me, care for me, saying, "This is enough!"
Won't you lie in my arms with a lie on your lips
and say to me, "Darling, there's nothing like this!"
Won't you tell me, please tell me, O, what is the harm,
as I lie here tonight with your child in my arms?
The lamp of freedom
by Michael R. Burch, age 16
When the lamp lies shattered,
its bowl can be remade,
but should its light be scattered,
light cannot be regained.
Hold high the lamp of freedom;
let a man be no man's slave.
Staying Free
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
Others dwell in darkness,
raging through the night,
slaves to fearsome demons,
though children of the light,
where, caught up in emotions
they fail to understand,
they flock to laud the Mocker
who kneads them in his hand.
And all the revelations
bright choirs of angels sing,
they never seem to notice
as their shackles clang and ring.
They know naught of freedom,
nor wish to—for, born slaves
into dull lives of servitude,
their chains they dearly crave.
But let them live their captive lives;
whatever they may be,
for I am bound to be a man
as long as I stay free.
What Is Love If It’s Not Forever?
by Michael R. Burch, age 17
My love, are you trying to tell me
that you no longer love me?
After all these years of sacrifice
and hope and joy and compromise,
are you saying that we are through?
You always called me a romanticist,
a fantasist, a dreamer,
while labeling yourself a realist,
a fatalist, a schemer …
but I thought that, perhaps,
a spark of romance
existed also in you.
And yet it seems that now,
incredibly, you wish to leave me,
and all that was said and done,
unselfishly, in the name of love,
must be written off as a total waste.
You often hinted at a dark side
to your inner nature,
while despairing of my “innocent,
unassuming character,”
but I had always hoped that
you would never act
in such haste.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Can such an ethereal thing
exist beatifically for a moment
and then be gone … like spring?
Yes, what is love if it’s not forever?
Is it caresses and laughter and words sweet and clever,
intrigue and romance, sorrow and pain,
whirligig dances, sunshine and rain,
such as we had? Or is it more—
a volcanic struggle deep at heart’s core;
a wave of sweet sadness sweeping the shore
of one’s emotions; a rampaging ocean
of fantastical supposition;
a ******, gut-wrenching war
fought within oneself
—such as I often felt,
but which you admit now that you never have?
[etc., see handwritten version]
To prove you independence by leaving me
is a quaint paradox, but unresolvable.
So return to me, tell him goodbye,
and let us tend to mysteries more solvable.
For what is love if it’s not forever?
Perhaps we already know,
for we cannot live without one another:
like the sunshine and summer,
one cannot leave unless both will go.
When love is just a memory
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
When love is just a memory
of August nights’ enflaming wine;
when youth is just a dream,
a scene from some forgotten time;
when passion is a word for thought
and nights are spent with friends;
when we are old, and cannot “love,”
how will you love me then?
Are you so young and so naive
that "love" means this to you—
a fiery act, a frantic pact,
a whispered word or two?
O, darling, neither acts nor pacts
could ever bind our hearts;
only love might bond them,
but then neither would be yours.
And though we burn as one today,
what ember does not die?
Fire cleanses, but I fear
only tears can sanctify.
Yes, you may burn, and burn for me,
but can you shed a tear
to think that you and I might cool
somewhere within the coming years?
For love and hate are ill-defined,
and where they meet, we cannot tell,
but lust and love are unrelated,
however closely they may dwell.
And though I long for you tonight,
such hellish passion I prefer
to the hell of loving you
with heat untempered by the years.

.

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22 tablets I've swallowed.
Only I knew what followed.

22 insults I've been given.
I promised myself I wouldn't give in.

22 lies to cover my scars.
I connect the dots like the stories of the stars.

22 arguments I've been in.
Whenever they're over I plaster on a grin.

22 gashes across my skin.
I'm dizzy now. My head starts to spin.

22 droplets of blood on the floor.
They look a little lonely, how about some more?

22 people who lied and deceived me.
To open my heart, you'd need the key.

22 bruises, marking my body.
I can't look in the mirror, I appear gaudy.

22 poems, left unread.
I'll be thinking of that as I lay on my deathbed.

22 stabs to end my life.
I smile and brandish my knife.

trafficking ideas:

sad first,
angry: much much later.

i'm leaving  a trail of unfinished poems behind, half efforts (almost)... oh no... i'm not having a dissociation meltdown of a second coming, i'm pretty focused, ah... it's like what Nietzsche said about writing the most content within the fewest number of words... i was never a fan of maxims or aphorisms... i know why i'm writing unfinished poems, or rather, why i don't want to finish them... i rekindled my relationship with marijuana / Afghan hash and i stopped using synthetic components to induce sleep, i.e. painkillers / anti-inflammatory drugs (same ****, different cover)... maybe that's why... or the fact that for all my efforts in writing? i have yet to reap any rewards... on the monetary front... ergo? no proper incentive to continue with a seriousness... or the fact that i started living again and it's a life of postcards, nothing worth celebrating let alone writing about, but precisely! the "petty life" grosses the best yield in terms of being scribbly-fertile, as i am...

i still can't understand it, i woke up in a daze...
i'm still pretty dazed...
if i am a man... unlike what Harold Norse mentions
with regards to him not being a man...
categorically, outright, Harold Norse exclaims that
he's not a man...
well... un-categorically me: if i am a man
(it's a bit like writing ich kampf rather than mein kampf...
i struggle is a continuum "bias"
rather than an ownership stressor,
i struggle is indefinite, i.e. when pronouns meet
the articles
while my struggle is definite, i.e. my coupled with the
as oppose to i coupled with a)

anyway... what's your name? Alina... how old are you?
22... at first i thought i didn't notice the plumpness
of her young body... i pretended it wasn't a familiar
sight of when i was 21 and she was 19...
full *******... although... she asked if i minded
her Cesaerian cut on her tummy?
no, of course not, that's before she didn't see me
standing with my back facing her and my "clipped wing"
scar of a shark-bite laser on my shoulder-blade...

i could tell she was pregnant... the ******* were slacked
or rather: tortured by a baby's suckling...
i never had a girl so petite before...
it felt ****** weird... i looked like a monster
after i climbed out from out of the shower
and started to dry myself while she started to undress herself...
when i put her hand into mine it
disappeared i should have cut off my index!
exactly! my index finger rather than my pinky
in order to give her a chance of pairing up with my hand...

raven hair, all the **** pretty features...
but... i must be a ******* outlier or something because
the whole affair started off well...
finished? even the prostitutes are changing...
she doesn't want to do this, clearly she's not the type
that likes ***... of all the ones i slept with pretty
much all of them enjoy ***... borderline pornographic
acting styles, but it depends...
i'm a paranoid p. so i get to play that game
of hide it or fake it quite a lot (oh thank god
i didn't qwerite quiet)...

all those men gurus online... young, fertile women...
yeah... if you want to have children...
but ***? maybe a 21 year old is more relatable to a 19 year
old given it's a different atmosphere
and you're both young... but a 36 year old man
and a 22 year old woman?
i'm not going to go through some *******'s worth
of a mea culpa as to why i didn't ******...
sure... i had an ******* at first... but then?
i switched off... it was borderline necrophilia...
i swear to god ******* a 22 year frightened little creature
is borderline necrophilia:
i don't care what the pornographic industry shows you
when there's this petite girl and some Hulk...

first encounter, upon a second encounter i'll need
to break her mentally, she'll have to give me her
lips to kiss... for starters she'll have to not watch
some much ******* TikTok videos and pay more
attention to me... how i will do this, i don't know...
well... i devised one way of doing it...
i'll have to come in my casual clothes,
expose the Karl Lagerfeld in me...
a tree wearing a baker-boy cap blah blah...

in that one night all my desires hit a ******* wall...
she was the first one that jumped at the opportunity
of starting ******* in a ******* position...
what was before me was the equivalent sight
of first seeing the cover of Marquis de Sade's novella
******: Hesperus, foreward by Janet Street-Porter 2003...
the aesthetic of a "tortured" plum of a woman's body...

no confusion concerning the apple of Eden...
the larynx of man and precisely for no reason should
there be mention of both the rib
and the phallus as somehow death and devil respectively...
even if i had any ******* envy, i cured that with
dissolving my former beard-envy...
but even with my desires men i felt beside content...

reframing: some hours later, it's a Friday night
and i just mixed some dark *** with some whiskey,
not a bad combination for foraging new music,
i thought Kula Shaker threw in the towel,
what do i find? the opening track from K20...
infinite sun... boys really came with a song to topple
Govindam...
mind you: i'm already converted to the sub-continents
cuisine...
i even took it upon myself to cook like Indian women,
i.e. not follow white girl tourist trail-blazing
with strict methodology...
i'm not an absolute hell-raiser of spices in the kitchen...

obviously the standards are in place, the base:
cumin coriander (seeds or powder),
green cardamom, chilli, turmeric,
garam masala...
now it's up to me whether to add coconut milk
cloves, black cardamom... always happy
to use the bay leaf... all spice? hell... why not...

what was i "talking" about prior...
oh... i feel relaxed... type in SELINA18
and it will give you a rough estimate of who i ****** last night,
aged 36... i'm surprised by a body only 22 summers old...
but i couldn't: i could for a period of time,
she's too young, i look like a monster compared
to her, she, this tiny creature...
i don't have ******* issues: i don't need
to be dropping blue pills... i know when it's
a woman's fault when i...

but she was the zenith of my hidden desires
and, hey presto, no surprises: she failed me...
a tight firm *** and all the more eager to
do it *******... what's with this aversion
of the eyes...
and her smart-phone screen addiction...
another put off...
i don't think she ****** enough men
who have put her off... if i was so unappealing
to begin with:
having washed myself prior to ***...
as is standard... she shouldn't have gloated at me
while the other 4 girls i already ******
smiled at me with enticement...

i'll learn, sooner or later... by now i'm *******
intrigued! i had to **** myself off to pictures
of legs donning nylon because i'm not into
too much pornographic culture and all that liberaton
*** *******...
funny... when i was younger all i wanted
to become was a monk...
well: now i'm just a ***** monk...
pair-bonding and all that evolutionary psychology
crap is sort of beside me:
i have one fault: why borrow...
why would man borrow the ontology of animals
and incorporate it into an ontology per se...

i don't care if animals have a soul or not...
they sure as **** have character...
esp. the ones you pet... not the wild ones...
the wild ones are generic... replications...
"clones"...
              not the ones you pet... though...
£25 worth of Afghan hash and i'm still smoking
it... it's coming up to 30 days...

i need to break this girl...
    not in a bad way... i just want her to feel pleasured
when she's with me...
i'm not a necrophiliac...
   i'm certainly not a dummy-******...
i need to steal her kiss... i need her to look me into
my eyes...
otherwise? i'll just please myself...
but i can't imagine how it began:
young women boasting all their prowess on street
interviews: but in the bedroom: frigid frightened
little things...

i must admit... woman sexuality still has some allure
left in the "bank"...
it's rare to find, but it's all hope when found...
i just asked the five... well... the four...
whether i was a funny man...
some Romanian whispers and i just wanted to know...
i received jack-**** in terms of coordinating
replies...

maybe her Caesar's scar thought i'd be put off...
the stretch marks on her stomach...
i don't know what put her off...
her being put off instigated me being put off...
oh... i'm not angry with myself:
my "ego" is not "wounded"... i'm just thinking...
i need to be a monster another time...
next time i'll toss that 5ft1 body from side
to side like i am the sea and she's a helpless ship...

oh **** me... i need to break this *****...
i made mistakes in my life...
but when it comes to crafting a luxurious pleasure
from ***: there's no past there's no future
there's only a here and now...
she was silent, i was silent...
i sweated from the shift like a boar
being chased to chase the wild out of him
and perform the arts of the Eden barber shop
on it for the boar to become a pig...

Romanian girls... well thank **** they're not
English or the glutton-free--prone American accents...
i hate the American accent...
it's so nasal and raspy... absolutely: totally:
uninformed about the affairs of men in the world...
when American women start peacocking
their accent on the train... i switch off...

what, a, strange, looking, creature, lying before
my arching over her with my clenched knuckles
giving myself grit and the proper function
of the pelvic piston... weird...

the last time i ****** someone much younger than
me... at 36 and she's 22...
wow... i just couldn't help myself from
tearing apart the body size difference...
i became a monster...
literally... if the female to male dynamic works
in the favour of females
in the insect realm with spiders and mantises...
**** me: in the realm of mammals...
we're going back to ******* basics...

the shift started pleasant enough...
i was paired up with cerebral palsy
Martin for the night... we talked about the "weather"
an ****...
funny moments came...
even the punters were looking at us in a weird
spotlight when i was left with no armour except for
giggles when i was picking him up...
Martin: dear dude... come on... you're going
to give me a second hiatus of pain of a hernia..

so i showed him a profile picture of one of the girls
we're working with...
i showed him the picture...
then told him who she was: the daughter of this
most ugly looking "dude"...
there and then i watched him "catch wind"
a whirlwind... he folded like a pancake...
he twirled saying **** me on repeat
before falling on his ***...
i had to giggle a bit while picking him up...
yeah, i told you, Martin, that she was a stunner...
a 10 out of 10...
the sort of girl you'd make sure that Guns 'n' Roses'
November Rain was the last song you ever heard...

what came next? i wasn't expecting my coworker
to almost start nibbling on my ear while
whispering into it some horrid gossip...
well... that's me ******* off to the brothel...
as i sat across the whole five lot of them...
all of them smiling...
am i? that special? or ******* spastic-fantastic...
i just finished a shift... this "work" is not challenging enough...

fair enough: getting your ear nibbled at like
it might be an oyster about to getting gulped down...
so i went to a brothel...
i always thought: if you see a fox or a cat
in your squandering ways doing
the best of keeping sanity by automatically
vomiting in the Ancient Roman sense
of easing the passing of judgement...

there she sat with a pretty face...
a pretty face for a prettier goodbye...
an even prettier hello..
22... Alisa... if not Romanian then at least Turkish...
body buys no body
and there's this headache within the confines
of the heart...

but i'm not going to blame myself for a limp-****...
if she's only 22, she still needs to learn from
inexperience...
she needs to **** plenty more men before she
***** me again and i'm up to her standard...
it felt like doing a "thing": all prosthetic...
she was so much smaller than me...
of course i didn't ******...
how could i? she was disengaged...
she forgot how much fun *** could be...

what astonishing lies we tell each other...
just in order to pretend to not have
told them before...

22... i tried engaging with her:
she was more engaged with TikTok videos...
i tried to be tender with her like
i might ever be with the flesh of an orange and the peel...
of course i didn't ******...
she just said: do you have to drink?!
but i like drinking...
do you have to be attempting to be so disused...
so absent-minded? that you have to
watch Chinese propaganda snippets?!

i don't mind climaxing...
she's only 22... she asked me: do you mind
the Caesarian cut on the stomach?
while i asked her if i could smoke a cigarette...
i showed off my own scar of a clipped wing...
do you mind?!
i can't ****** if what i'm dealing with is a girl
in her 20s and not readied for
the flea and flesh market...

but that doesn't bother me...
enough of the night is available for all of us to somehow
wish we had the *** lives of rock stars...
i just recall being blockaded
before leaving the brothel...
some other punter was coming in...
wow! the moment i walked in all five of them were smiling...
yes, i trimmed my beard... come Saturday and
i'll torture my hair... i'll come ln Tuesday
and i'll wear my casual worn...

what a pristine body... such a tiny... almost porcelain
indignant "sorrow" of
whenever under-performing...
my fault?! my fault?!
         *** is a case of what happens: both ways...

just because she's smaller than you...

in theory contra: through experience...
younger women are a turn off...
                           they are unruly with their bodies
that are only geared up for reproduction
and not geared up for bedroom fun...
they are stiff... they are toughened with
expectations...
                         just as bad as virgins...
what?! i'd rather **** an experienced *******
with saggy **** in her late 30s
than a ******* in her 20s with the most pink-peachy
pair of ****... but with no clue how to have a quickie
with a man...
what?! the ****** revolution happened for
no reason? i can't, just blatantly state the *******
facts?!
like **** i won't... i will...
but i'm not an explorer concerning the sort
of people associated with getting bored
with standard ****** positions...
have *** less = enjoy the ******* more...
simple, no?

tight ******* ***... my god... but she switched off...
i too practice the Ancient Roman rite
of passage when it comes to regurgitation...
whenever i'm constipated or ate too much...
i ***** in an automated mode...
i don't even need ******* down my throat
to instigate the throwing up...

so i've been following up on some counter-culture
material in the "manosphere" for some time...
inter-****** dynamics of "things"... really?
that infamous term: c.c. i.e. ****-courasel?
seriously? turns out...
i don't feel like doing the sort of work
that the men "at the top" perform in order to
get such access to "****"...
me? i just want to sleep throughout
the night, with synthetics,
i just want to listen to some good music, man...
seriously.... i want to scuba-dive with
a thrill of what happens when water or gravity
**** each ohter up...

rought ***... hard to find... not with an inexperienced
22 year old who has just given birth...
has stretch marks and a scar of giving birth to prove
leaving her youngling with her grandparents
and her ******* off to England to work as a *******...

i too wanted to age with someone...
tend to a fireplace...
drop acid and have an aquarium: certainly not
the original proposal i received,
i.e. grow old and watch the television set...
**** the t.v.!
my brain is already fried from all
the interactions i'm having:
i need someone with *******
cerebral palsy to make for a stimulating
conversation, for, ****'s sake!

no, men are not visual creatures...
men are auditory creatures too...
if there was no Picasso there was also no Mozart!
i watch ******* on mute:
if i watch it... usually i just flick through
legs exposing themselves in nylon...
at work i'm suddenly **** and a threat to
the other "alpha males" because i'm bilingual:
i find it funny, they find it funny...
it's all funny-funny...

i don't need to ******* with a woman
and later smoke a cigarette of Afghan hash to
find a wormhole for my heart to sink into
and twirl and...

hmm... and... what was this end of and?
me feeling guilty?
            wow for every other wow to come
in a row and for me to give
two ***** and commas for it to boot!