At Once
by Michael R. Burch

Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.

And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence ...
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,

and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Grassroots Poetry. Keywords/Tags: Epistle, love, antique, prayer, pain, shadows, lair, touch, heal, healing, share, sharing, companionship

White Goddess
by Michael R. Burch

White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell

Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.

Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.

Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.

Published by Carnelian, The Chained Muse, Poetry Life & Times, A-Poem-A-Day and in a YouTube video by Aurora G. with the titles “Ghost,” “White Goddess” and “White in the Shadows”

Keywords/Tags: White, Goddess, ghost, shadows, spirit, Muse, love, regret, sedulous, grace, face, common, commonplace, rare, darkness, past, grave

My demons came last night
They caught me when my sword was
In its sheath and my armour hung
On the wall, didn't I loathe myself?
They came in black gums and white teeth
Could it not lend some respite

For a distressing spirit?
My demons mirrored my piano last night
My fingers were gateways to torment
And through my arms they gloated —
Black and white betrayed me
Until my guardian angel came

Through the mist of my eyes
And the fog in my brain —
She clothed me in my armour
Oh! They did tremble in that hour
From whence they came they fled.

Last Anthem
by Michael R. Burch

Where you have gone are the shadows falling...
does memory pale
like a fossil in shale
...do you not hear me calling?

Where you have gone do the shadows lengthen...
does memory wane
with the absence of pain
...is silence at last your anthem?

Keywords/Tags: elegy, eulogy, epitaph, death, grave, Sheol, shadows, silence, eternity, funeral, memory, memorial, tribute

They're swinging left and swinging right.
They hide in the shadows just out of sight.
But how can I fight what I cannot see?
How can I stop them from breaking every piece of me?
If you're out there and feeling all alone,
you don't have to fight all on your own.
Because the more you ask for help, the more you take control.
And when you take control and feel it in your soul,
the doubts will start to disappear.
Doubts! The bullies of the mind.
Doubts! Leave no trace of them behind.
Now that you know how to fight back, it's time to put it to the test. Take it one step, one day at a time, and we'll figure out the rest.

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

"'I am half-sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shalott."
-Lord Alfred Tennyson
…but half of her bends towards them,
these whispered tableaus, her spine tilting backward.
She carefully hordes them
like granules of opal. Her hands become lacquered
in half-dreams and dyes,
and her tapestry spins into colors so rich
even she is surprised
that her fingers have laced every cross, every stitch.
She is sick of half-shadows;
she wants the thick darkness to drown her whole essence.
These sparkles and dayglows
will stir her to madness in milky-white crescents,
and she will sink into nothing
without any name on the heirlooms she weaves;
She will fade into nothing,
and no shadows will weep on the day that she leaves.