apart from the city, steven is sleeping
his fur is made of sunlight
steven's retinals, archives of memories, are glowing

beneath is a lake that reflects the shining
steven's relaxed glimpse swims on the surface
earlier, his pack was murdered

above his head, an orbital cloud is floating
ghosts of the dead ones
urge to communicate

across the lake, a maze of wishes
drifts through the water
empty faces, eyeless and earless

Beyond this ashen landscape,
And the sifting smoke,
Lie melodic rivers,
Glimmering;
in their chilled iridescence.

Blossoming orange clouds
In the morning’s shining sun,
The softly stagnant lake
Sleeps, a dormant source
For the singing streams.

Today, I was sick.
The doctor said there was nothing wrong,
yet returning to the pavilion lake,
rains accompany my wakes.
A swelling sensation stuffed my chest,
I can't help but lay down and closed my eyes.

I don’t want to go to the lake

It’s too cold
I don’t have a swimsuit
I haven’t been eating well
I don’t like swimming
I don’t like being outside
I just don’t want to

These are all my excuses
But in reality...

I don’t want to have to tell you
There are dark, fresh scars on my thigh
On my wrist as well
I don’t want you to worry
I don’t want to have to explain

The silence surrounds
Laying on the green grass
Staring at the setting sun, it's a reddish round
A Twite's trill treads all around

A benign breeze breaks,
helping the wafting wherry
The perpetual pier
gathered a gleeful gaggle

The lulling lake
a serene sight
beauty bound
A dream domicile

Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
  where mockingbirds cry,
  alone, ever lonely . . .
  yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
  you never shall wake.
  Go down to the valley;
  go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
  of souls such as yours —
  mad souls without meaning,
  frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
  reserved for the dead.
  They lie in her shallows
  and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchanted, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion, Romance, First Love, Dark, Dreams