Memories of an old friend's drum;
rejoice as your paths intertwine
and leave an emerald mark,
like a ferry towards safer shores
to guide you between kin's ways,
planting the roots of clarity
where you'll grow with the rhythm
of a ready wan light.

He taught me so much
When no one really cared
He loved me as his daughter
When no one else was there.
He was my mentor
And later my caregiver
He was an amazing person
My half sister's father
(The only thing we had in common
Was our mother)
And he always told me
There was something wrong with her
He had known
That she was his daughter
The reason he fell from grace
But he still loved her
Though she betrayed the human race
His cold blue eyes
With warm rusty hair
Cool toned skin
My mentor
Mr. Carver

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

He taught them
where to carve
the dead parts
so the rest could live,
to find its flow
and tap its sap.

With every mistake
the mentor took each
student by the hand
on a short walk
to the middle
of the forest

where it slopped
into pools
thick with inky water,
where the mist
often got trapped
between light and dark.

He mixed water and mud
and pressed it into their chest,
took a sharp branch
and gently scratched
his secret words into them,
until it became a tattoo.

He then gave each a bag of seeds
and a canteen of pool water,
guided them back to their errant tree,
chanted for them to mix both
into the thirsty soil until
it no longer screamed for inspiration.

The students repeated this every day,
watching the grass bloom infinite variations,
discovering their tongues speak
at first his and then their secret words
until they knew all of them,
even those yet to be spoken.

Blazed is the trail made by their mistakes
 
The high road created for all our sakes
 
Explorers of lands that were once uncharted
 
Now the cartographers of the paths they started
 
We are the proverbial parchment upon which they sketch
 
Vicariously imbuing their wisdom within each etch
 
The end of their journey is where we begin
 
For the trail ahead must be blazed again

the words of the mentor
the words of the king
self created

Point them; flex them;
Point them; flex them;
Put them in your
Lap, lap, lap.

She was my mentor
My first teacher
My friend.

Fifteen years
I knew her.
Or did I?

First tap,
then jazz,
ballet was short.
Then I met her again
in modern.

This was the last time
she would be my friend.
Gradually,
she would become my enemy.

I would see her now and again
each time, getting more and more
fire up and down my veins.

Until one day,
the last day,
that was it.

A simple hello
sent tears rushing
down my face.

Never has a simple
greeting been more empty.
Never have your words stung so deep.
Never will they again.