Post-Mother's-Day Poems
We desperately need a Mother Recovers Day!
by Michael R. Burch
Mother’s Day!
Lovers’ Day!
Adulation Re-Smothers Day!
Hugs ’n kisses galore
till she’s tired and bone-sore.
Now, like a needle in the hay,
she needs to find a Recovers Day!
Mother’s Day Replay
by Michael R. Burch
Mother’s Day!
Lovers’ Day!
This Hug-and-Kiss Smothers Day
when a roll in the hay
conjures babies, olé!
(Please, children, ignore these verses, okay?)
Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch
a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.
Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.
And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.
That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.
And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.
No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering NOT to call.
Arisen!
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Mother, I love you!
Mother, delightful,
articulate, insightful!
Angels in training,
watching, would hover,
learning to love
from the Master: a Mother.
You learned all there was
for this planet to teach,
then extended your wings
to Love’s ultimate reach ...
And now you have soared
beyond eagles and condors
into distant elevations
only Phoenixes can conquer.
Amen
Delicacy
by Michael R. Burch
for all good mothers
Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring―'Fly! Fly! Fly! '
Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere
There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough...
and time? ―insufficient to life's brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask―
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple's morning service
wafts over me like my mother's perfume.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens' vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.
Frail Envelope of Flesh, from 'Poems of the Nakba'
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes
like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother's lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears...
Note: The phrase 'frail envelope of flesh' was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one) . More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for 'Catastrophe.' The children of Gaza and their parents know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not 'terrorists, ' so why are they being punished collectively for the 'crime' of having been born 'wrong'? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such barbarism?
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch
The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,
his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.
His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.
His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.
The Greatest of These...
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch
The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.
But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such love
will reach me, underground.
Your Gift
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Counsel, console.
This is your gift.
Calm, kiss and encourage.
Tenderly lift
each world-wounded heart
from its fatal dart.
Mend every rift.
Bid pain, “Depart!”
Save every sorrow
for your own untaught heart.
Relative Theories
by Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother’s eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
Keywords/Tags: Mother's Day, mother, mothers, child, children, baby, babies, family, families, love, hugs, kisses, adulation
