"Ninety-three years seem long
But life is short -
How youth seems strong
But life is short -
How you love and give,
Life is still short -
How "is" a few minutes ago
Became a "was"
Oh, life is so short."

All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

(for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.)

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are

somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me

wish

that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star

gleamed down

and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw

and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ...

Keywords/Tags: family, grandfather, grandchild, grandson, teacher, mentor, example, guide, guidance, guru

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.

Keywords/Tags: sunset, aging, death, grandfather, grandson, grandchild, family, grave, funeral, loss, twilight, night, transcendence, heaven

The air is foggy,
And the sky is grey,
You can not see its blue today,
A suffocating silence fills this place,
And his empty seat's left a space,
So hollow and dim in my heart.

He sat right there next to the lamp,
But that place is cold and damp,
He left us in such a hurry,
Oh how much he made us worry!

I remember him really well,
Stories of fairies he would tell,
He'd tell us where the monsters dwell.
Generation by Generation told,
Stories with the worth of gold,
Stories containing young and old.

But now he's gone,
and I'm in grief,
Why must the world,
be such a thief?

Granddaddy Dan,
You were a man few in words
And large in heart.
You soared in a plane the open skies,
And now you've taken the final flight.
As I'm forced to say goodbye,
How I wish we'd spent more time,
But the hours we passed were a gift.
Sometimes love leaves no words
Other than "You'll be missed!"

Be That Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man—
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.

I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18 in 1976. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken—destitute, really. Keywords/Tags: Grandfather, Grandpa, rock, shelter, fortress, strength, courage, angels, years, time, age, loss, truth, voice

with its constant stirring
the long pendulum
of the grandfather clock
finally thickened the time
and hypnotized grandfather to sleep

then at zero hour
it started to beat the war drum
**** **** **** **** .....
on a sleepless young man's chest

cigarette smoke lingers in the air
take a breath,
you wouldn't dare
the ash dance like snowflakes on a cold winter night
the stench lingers,
like mistakes from the past
tabacco's awful isn't it?
but to me, it smells like home

days-old coffee left on bedside tables
take a sip,
it wouldn't hurt you
it is sweet but leaves a bitter aftertaste
like the moments we treasure,
but often fail to remember
i've never liked coffee
but to me, it tastes like home

medicinal pills that taste like ***
take a pop,
then 50 more
with every pill swallowed,
our days grow fewer
and when you went away,
the pills grew in number
i never liked this part of the story
but even for a while, it was still home

morning light entered
you took your leave at dawn
i'm sorry i couldn't see you earlier
but the cigarette smoke still lingers in the air
the cold coffee still sits on your bedside table
the pills still come in the mail, left uneaten
but it doesn't feel like home