Instruction
by Michael R. Burch

Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.

Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset

of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs

and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.

The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,

are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.

Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.

Keywords/Tags: instruction, sunset, night, skies, wind, sighs, moon, silver, portent, sea, stars

A Surfeit of Light
by Michael R. Burch

There was always a surfeit of light in your presence.
You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world—
a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood.

We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race,
raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s.
Yours was an antique grace—Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s.

We were never quite sure of your silver allure,
of your trillium-and-platinum diadem,
of your utter lack of flatware-like utility.

You told us that night—your wound would not scar.
The black moment passed, then you were no more.
The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star!

The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold.
You were this fool’s gold.

Keywords/Tags: surfeit, light, presence, chariot, Thrace, Mesopotamia, silver, gold, platinum, antique, grace, heirloom, diadem, crown, tiara




Alas, Sir Munchalot!
by Michael R. Burch

You ate too much,
your common lot;
you munched too much,
so now you’ve got
a gut.

My mother didn't birth me, she said.
'I plucked you from a tree, 
a Papaya tree',  she says.

'It rained torrents that Chait* night,
a storm raged, tearing apart 
all that came its way
our hut was blown, everything swept away
the tree shuddered, so did the fruits
I spent the night clinging to the scarred trunk
worried about our next meal, 
a wild gale, then, bent the Papaya tree 
I latched on to you while your siblings 
fell apart. Bursting seedlings over my body. 
With all my strength, I plucked you
the stem and branches bruised my hands and arms
streaks of blood trickled and covered your face
you had a tender, pale skin. 

Can you feel the scar on your forehead ? 
That's where my silver bracelet was lodged. 
You weren't ripe, not yet. 

Next morning, still trembling, I hid you 
in the warmth of the last cloth on my body, thereon
you slept in my ***** till
the first rain of Baisakh**.

Your father, she said, 
'had gone seeding the fields'.
She said, 'You are the fruit of my labour.'

Your thoughts are far from the ground,
Like cumulonimbus clouds thundering by
And pouring rain. 


Life seems to pass by, scattered and wispy 

with the sound of the wind like a whistling train playing
as you stare at the elusive silver lining.

The pit patter of Peter Pan being lost
dwells heavy in your heart,
As you revise the sequence of the cumulus memories.

Life paces
As you ignore the malice and bantering of the crowds
Sticking your head above up into the clouds
half-deaf to reality in the room.

You have a foot in a fairy tale,
And one in the abyss.

Untradeable. Pain is silver,
Sterling. Serrated, dual-faced coin.
Its flip side, a mirror.