Regret
by Michael R. Burch

Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear . . .

once starlight
languished
in your hair . . .

a shining there
as brief
as rare.

Regret . . .
a pain
I chose to bear . . .

unleash
the torrent
of your hair . . .

and show me
once again—
how rare.

Keywords/Tags: regret, bitter, ache, pain, bear, starlight, shining, hair, brief, rare

Seeing myself
Through my lover’s eyes: forgiveness.
Through my own eyes: hatred.
Everyone else: only a mask?
Tortured self depiction.
False mirrors.
Where lies the truth?
Raindrops. Hair. Molecules.

When I die, I will miss
A woman’s long hair in the wind,
Not a timeless thing, but a thing
Without concern for time,
The way Rome always reminds
Of Greece, and Greece reminds
Of salt air and vines.

I was always told my hair texture was bad.
So here comes the white cream.
The white cream is chemical hell.
I can smell it as I write this.
As I got older I realized the white cream took out more than my curls and coils that the Man upstairs scribbled for me.
It took away my temple hairs. It took my chances of having hair past my shoulders.
But the white cream never took my curiosity.
My never ending curiosity of what I would look like if the white cream never took my real hair from me.
My real hair, which was, is, and never will be “bad.”

I have this melody in my head.
It is real, you can actually listen.
It sometimes makes me wish I was dead
And then others, it feels like I've actually risen.

To the stars and pulled back I was thinking
How much
I would like to see you.
Over there, on the side of the road.
I'd pretend you were looking at me when it actually was
true.

And I'd wait for this dream to be gone but it wouldn't.
And I know that I actually shouldn't,
But I'd go to you in that moment of fearlessness just to see you closer a little bit.

What is the true colour of your hair when you stand in the sun?
What is the shade of your skin under all that tan?
What's the colour of your eyes when you're looking at me?
Do your lips taste like a mint cup of tea?

Do I have to wake up from this dream?

She may have drops of Jupiter in her hair,
But it's her eyes as bright as the moon that made me stop and stare. The night I met her, she was on the beach looking at stars.
When I walked up to her, she smiled and said look! there's mars.
That night, we talked about everything under the sky.
She told me "that's where I hope I live when I die."
That moment, I knew I had to make her mine.
I would do whatever it took.
I would rewrite the stars
So that our hearts would align and the world would be ours

Indestructible, for Johnny Cash
by Michael R. Burch

What is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash is gone,
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone
if his songs lift us closer to heaven?
Can the steel in his voice vibrate on
till his words are our manna and leaven?

Then sing, all you mountains of stone,
with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel.
Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home
through these weary dark ways all men travel.

For what is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash lives on—
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Originally published by Strong Verse. When I was a teenager Johnny Cash used to pop into the Nashville McDonald’s where I worked to buy burgers after the Grand Ole Opry let out. True to his nickname, the Man in Black always wore black. I think he’s as immortal now as human beings can become, since someone will be singing songs he wrote and and recorded till the end of time. Keywords/Tags: Johnny Cash, black, hair, clothes, boots, voice, rasp, gravel, steel, guitar, songs, music, mountain, stone, heaven, manna, leaven

Violets
by Michael R. Burch

Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height

and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:

suddenly,
I knew:
everything had changed.

Later, as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,

the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,

we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.

O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare

then haunt our small remainder of hours.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand

Keywords/Tags: Violets, flowers, wind, skirt, blush, hair, shadows, sunset, evening, love, illusions, time, commonplace, rare

Never could grow a decent beard…
If I tried It’d be a bit sparse,
trying to cultivate on my face
what grows wild around my ****.
I’ve tried all sorts...hormones, unctions,
ointment, chicken manure…
(I'd heard that was good) but nothing,
it seems, quite cracks it when adding to my allure!

With my hair unleashed,
strands fall to meet the crevices
of a sweaty neck.

See the black dye mirrored,
hands stained with disdain -
she watches.

A rendez-vous so scented,
slick with gazes squandered
loose after I wandered.