#cap
Half the picture all that’s required
Preaching truths by holy liars
Greener grass brainwashed desires
Half a song is all that’s required
Words of the FOX the sheep do admire
Idiots information overloaded empire
Reacting to stimulus with a red cap
A little honey sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perception springs the final trap
Half a thought is that’s required
Critical thinking intentionally gets smaller
Media highlighted brain rot laser fired
Half the people is all we require
Perceived freedom controllers the shellfire
They’re stealing your jobs propaganda news wire
Reacting to stimulus with a red cap
A little honey sweetens the crap
Spoon fed perception springs the final trap
Victor Timmons 12/10/2024
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 9:17 PM UTC
I am the ALPHA of cringeverse
My quirks are anime’s curse
I try to hide
My unhinged side
But drowning in cap is not worth it
Nov 4, 2024
Nov 4, 2024 at 10:33 PM UTC
Across the street, not too many cars pass.
Not on Eleventh Street,
Not on a Sunday,
And certainly not in this kind of heat.
Across the street, an old man.
Presumably asleep,
Hopefully asleep,
Ratty baseball cap in hand,
Arm outstretched
Like God christening Adam as the Earth’s first Yankees fan.
An old man, unmoving,
Unbothered,
Sat down on a park bench
Since before you got here
And going nowhere anytime soon.
You feel admiration
Or maybe envy,
Hoping perhaps that you too could remain so carefree
And blissful
So late in life.
And then pity,
Or probably guilt,
When you realize a man with his getup
In his kind of disheveled state
Might not be on that bench by choice,
And there you were,
Examining him,
Like a lab assistant with a petri dish
Doting over his first bacterial colony.
Do the right thing.
Go over and give him something,
Or take him somewhere,
Or at least make sure he’s ok.
Go over where?
Across the street?
Across Eleventh Street?
What about the cars? You’d stop traffic
If you didn’t get hit first.
What cars?
Look around!
What kind of traffic would be on Eleventh Street,
On a Sunday,
In this kind of heat? Stop stalling
And go over already.
You tell yourself
That he won’t bite,
Although from the looks of him
There’s no guarantee.
But that’s a mean way to think of things,
So you brave the white water rapids
That are apparently Eleventh Street
On this particular Sunday,
With very little difficulty whatsoever.
You tell yourself
How weird it is
That you’re filled with this much anxiety
At the thought of approaching him,
When just moments ago
You looked on him with respect,
And then sympathy,
Hopefully sympathy,
At least enough of whatever it was
To drag you over
All the way across Eleventh Street
And stand you up beside him.
You tell yourself
How weird it is
That he’s still sleeping
So soundly,
In this kind of heat,
Amidst the ambience of Eleventh Street,
Even on a Sunday such as this one
In its especially vacant state.
The worst kind of thought crosses your mind,
And you start to imagine
That maybe he needs more help
Than you could possibly give him.
But then it strikes you,
An odd image to be struck by,
His old ball cap.
Frayed at the edges, probably made before your lifetime
And still pinched firmly between his left thumb
And forefinger.
Somehow
Whilst sleeping
So soundly,
He still manages to hold on to the thing
So effortlessly.
Something
Gives him the strength,
And you convince yourself that it’s not rigor mortis
But maybe some kind of learned vitality,
Accessible only to someone like him
Who’s life has been so much longer and fuller than yours.
Or more likely just determination,
And hopefulness that someone like you
Could be more generous to a sleeping him than a waking one.
You realize that his chest is rising and falling like normal,
And probably had been the whole time.
Some time
Has passed since you crossed,
And you convince yourself that it’s probably time
To stop standing around
And do something already.
So you drop a few bills in the hat,
Making sure they’re not all ones.
What kind of payoff would that be?
You empty out your coin pocket as well,
Making sure they won’t be blown away,
And making sure your wallet might finally stop rattling.
With that,
Your confidence dries up,
You make the perilous voyage back across Eleventh Street,
Back to your own bench,
And resume your favorite activity,
One you seem to be better at than anything you just did
Or tried to do,
Sitting and watching.
You sit and watch
As he continues to sleep,
And sleep some more
And go right on sleeping
And as he does so
Your thoughts start to spin,
And spin some more
And go right on spinning.
Was it enough?
Was it impolite
Not to wake him up?
Was it impolite
Not to buy him a hot meal
Or some cold water
Or a some new clothes instead,
Or God forbid,
What if someone comes along and takes it?
Your moping is cut short.
Not that you would’ve done anything anyway,
But it’s certainly too late now.
The man is yawning,
He stretches for a
Deservedly
Long
Time,
And he stands.
And he takes his cap,
Without even looking at it, like it’s a part of his body,
And he puts it on.
And he leaves.
An old man, unassuming,
Unbothered,
Quarters and nickels rolling down his back,
Chugging along down Eleventh Street,
Leaving a shiny breadcrumb trail
To whichever café
Or library
Or sports field he’s off to.
You feel strange
As he turns the corner onto Twelfth
And disappears, out of sight
But certainly not out of mind,
For who would, and who could ever
Forget the time they saw an innocent old man,
Napping on a bench one particularly hot Sunday
And thought it was a good idea
To fill his baseball cap with change?
What a silly and foolish thing you’ve done.
And how silly and foolish you must feel,
And how silly and foolish it is
That this silly and foolish thing
Has made you smile
This much.
Aug 31, 2022
Aug 31, 2022 at 9:39 PM UTC
Half covered faces
All over the world
Only eye meets eye
I look at you
You look at me
Am I smiling
You don’t know.
Only sadness in your eyes.
Shell✨🐚
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 7:21 AM UTC
Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch
Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner
over and over again?
How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Or will we learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
never grasping the golden rule?
Keywords/Tags: kindergarten, golden rule, lessons, timeout, corner, dunce cap, fool, foolish, flunk, graduate, mrbchild
Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”
So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Originally published by TALESetc
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes. I wonder how
he learned at all ...
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates’ necks.
He played with pasty Elmer’s glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname “teacher’s PEST.”
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer’s glue ...
and you’ll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor’s yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty “THWACK!”
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!
With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira’s a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!
The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair ...
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air!
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks ...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass *****
On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.
Amen
Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed ...
My, that last step’s a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!
Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening . . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.
It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.
Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I
Will wake together, by and by.
Life’s not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.
The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.
Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I
Know nothing but this lullaby.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy (written from his mother’s perspective)
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, my dear son, how you’re growing up!
You’re taller than me, now I’m looking up!
You’re a long tall drink and I’m half a cup!
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow,
there are so many things that I want you to know.
Most importantly this: that I love you so.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon a tender bud will ****** forth and grow
after the winter’s long ****** snow;
and because there are things that you have to know ...
Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom
and fill all the world with its wild perfume.
And though it’s hard for me, I must give it room.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Success
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;
there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette
to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.
A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us—the first great success they achieve.
With a child's wonder
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
With a child's wonder,
pausing to ponder
a puddle of water,
for only a moment,
needing no comment
but bright eyes
and a wordless cry,
he launches himself to fly ...
then my two-year-old lands
on his feet and his hands
and water explodes all around.
(From the impact and sound
you'd have thought that he'd drowned,
but the puddle was two inches deep.)
Later that evening, as he lay fast asleep
in that dreamland where two-year-olds wander,
I watched him awhile and smilingly pondered
with a father's wonder.
Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!
NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.
Tall Tails
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Irony
is the base perception
alchemized by deeper reflection,
the paradox
of the wagging tails of dog-ma
torched by sly Reynard the Fox.
These are lines written as my son Jeremy was about to star as Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing at his ultra-conservative high school, Nashville Christian. Benedick is rather obvious wordplay but it apparently flew over the heads of the Puritan headmasters. Samson lit the tails of foxes and set them loose amid the Philistines. Reynard the Fox was a medieval trickster who bedeviled the less wily. “Irony lies / in a realm beyond the unseeing, / the unwise.”
The Watch
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
I have come to watch my young son,
his blonde ringlets damp with sleep . . .
and what I know is that he loves me
beyond all earthly understanding,
that his life is like clay in my unskilled hands.
And I marvel this bright ore does not keep—
unrestricted in form, more content than shape,
but seeking a form to become, to express
something of itself to this wilderness
of eyes watching and waiting.
What do I know of his wonder, his awe?
To his future I will matter less and less,
but in this moment, as he is my world, I am his,
and I stand, not understanding, but knowing—
in this vast pageant of stars, he is more than unique.
There will never be another moment like this.
Studiously quiet, I stroke his fine hair
which will darken and coarsen and straighten with time.
He is all I bequeath of myself to this earth.
His fingers curl around mine in his sleep . . .
I leave him to dreams—calm, untroubled and deep.
The Tapestry of Leaves
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Leaves unfold
as life is sold,
or bartered, for a moment in the sun.
The interchange
of lives is strange:
what reason—life—when death leaves all undone?
O, earthly son,
when rest is won
and wrested from this ground, then through my clay’s
soft mortal soot
****** forth your root
until your leaves embrace the sun's bright rays.
The Long Days Lengthening Into Darkness
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Today, I can be his happiness,
and if he delights
in hugs and smiles,
in baseball and long walks
talking about Rug Rats, Dinosaurs and Pokemon
(noticing how his face lights up
at my least word,
how tender his expression,
gazing up at me in wondering adoration)
. . . O, son,
these are the long days
lengthening into darkness.
Now over the earth
(how solemn and still their processions)
the clouds
gather to extinguish the sun.
And what I can give you is perhaps no more nor less
than this brief ray dazzling our faces,
seeing how soon the night becomes my consideration.
Renown
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Words fail us when, at last,
we lie unread amid night’s parchment leaves,
life’s chapter past.
Whatever I have gained of life, I lost,
except for this bright emblem
of your smile . . .
and I would grasp
its meaning closer for a longer while . . .
but I am glad
with all my heart to be unheard,
and smile,
bound here, still strangely mortal,
instructed by wise Love not to be sad,
when to be the lesser poet
meant to be “the world’s best dad.”
Every night, my son Jeremy tells me that I’m “the world’s best dad.” Now, that’s all poetry, all music and the meaning of life wrapped up in four neat monosyllables! The time I took away from work and poetry to spend with my son was time well spent.
Miracle
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
The contrails of galaxies mingle, and the dust of that first day still shines.
Before I conceived you, before your heart beat, you were mine,
and I see
infinity leap in your bright, fluent eyes.
And you are the best of all that I am. You became
and what will be left of me is the flesh you comprise,
and I see
whatever must be—leaves its mark, yet depends
on these indigo skies, on these bright trails of dust,
on a veiled, curtained past, on some dream beyond knowing,
on the mists of a future too uncertain to heed.
And I see
your eyes—dauntless, glowing—
glowing with the mystery of all they perceive,
with the glories of galaxies passed, yet bestowing,
though millennia dead, all this pale feathery light.
And I see
all your wonder—a wonder to me, for, unknowing,
of all this portends, still your gaze never wavers.
And love is unchallenged in all these vast skies,
or by distance, or time. The ghostly moon hovers;
I see; and I see
all that I am reflected in all that you have become to me.
Always
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Know in your heart that I love you as no other,
and that my love is eternal.
I keep the record of your hopes and dreams
in my heart like a journal,
and there are pages for you there that no one else can fill:
none one else, ever.
And there is a tie between us, more than blood,
that no one else can sever.
And if we’re ever parted,
please don’t be broken-hearted;
until we meet again on the far side of forever
and walk among those storied shining ways,
should we, for any reason, be apart,
still, I am with you ... always.
The Gift
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth and Jeremy
For you and our child, unborn, though named
(for we live in a strange, fantastic age,
and tomorrow, when he is a man,
perhaps this earth will be a cage
from which men fly like flocks of birds,
the distant stars their helpless prey),
for you, my love, and you, my child,
what can I give you, each, this day?
First, take my heart, it’s mine alone;
no ties upon it, mine to give,
more precious than a lifetime’s objects,
once possessed, more free to live.
Then take these poems, of little worth,
but to show you that which you receive
holds precious its two dear possessors,
and makes each lien a sweet reprieve.
This poem was written after a surprising comment from my son, Jeremy.
The Onslaught
by Michael R. Burch
“Daddy, I can’t give you a hug today
because my hair is wet.”
No wet-haired hugs for me today;
no lollipopped lips to kiss and say,
Daddy, I love you! with such regard
after baseball hijinks all over the yard.
The sun hails and climbs
over the heartbreak of puppies and daffodils
and days lost forever to windowsills,
over fortune and horror and starry climes;
and it seems to me that a child’s brief years
are springtimes and summers beyond regard
mingled with laughter and passionate tears
and autumns and winters now veiled and barred,
as elusive as snowflakes here white, bejeweled,
gaily whirling and sweeping across the yard.
To My Child, Unborn
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
How many were the nights, enchanted
with despair and longing, when dreams recanted
returned with a restless yearning,
and the pale stars, burning,
cried out at me to remember
one night ... long ere the September
night when you were conceived.
Oh, then, if only I might have believed
that the future held such mystery
as you, my child, come unbidden to me
and to your mother,
come to us out of a realm of wonder,
come to us out of a faery clime ...
If only then, in that distant time,
I had somehow known that this day were coming,
I might not have despaired at the raindrops drumming
sad anthems of loneliness against shuttered panes;
I might not have considered my doubts and my pains
so carefully, so cheerlessly, as though they were never-ending.
If only then, with the starlight mending
the shadows that formed
in the bowels of those nights, in the gussets of storms
that threatened till dawn as though never leaving,
I might not have spent those long nights grieving,
lamenting my loneliness, cursing the sun
for its late arrival. Now, a coming dawn
brings you unto us, and you shall be ours,
as welcome as ever the moon or the stars
or the glorious sun when the nighttime is through
and the earth is enchanted with skies turning blue.
Transition
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
With his cocklebur hugs
and his wet, clinging kisses
like a damp, trembling thistle
catching, thwarting my legs—
he reminds me that life begins with the possibility of rapture.
Was time this deceptive
when my own childhood begged
one last moment of frolic
before bedtime’s firm kisses—
when sleep was enforced, and the dark window ledge
waited, impatient, to lure
or to capture
the bright edge of morning
within a clear pane?
Was the sun then my ally—bright dawn’s greedy fledgling?
With his joy he reminds me
of joys long forgotten,
of play’s endless hours
till the haggard sun sagged
and everything changed. I gather him up and we trudge off to bed.
What does it mean?
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
His little hand, held fast in mine.
What does it mean? What does it mean?
If he were not here, the sun would not shine,
nor the grass grow half as green.
What does it mean?
His arms around my neck, his cheek
snuggling so warm against my own ...
What does it mean?
If life's a garden, he's the fairest
flower ever sown,
the sweetest ever seen.
What does it mean?
And when he whispers sweet and low,
"What does it mean?"
It means, my son, I love you so.
Sometimes that's all we need to know.
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch
for Caitlin Shea Murphy
To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day ...
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."
But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)
Limericks and Nonsense Verse
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
—Michael R. Burch
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch
Keep Up!
Daddy, I’m walking as fast as I can;
I’ll move much faster when I’m a man . . .
Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.
Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.
Keep Up!
Son, I’m walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.
Haiku
The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
― Buson Yosa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Poems for Older Children
Reflex
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there . . .
I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.
Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.
But, O!,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Limericks
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
—Michael R. Burch
Autumn Conundrum
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
—Michael R. Burch
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
—Michael R. Burch
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat ...
though first, usually, he’d stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it ...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.
“Nobody knows that it’s there, lad, or that it’s fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin’s or lard.”
“Don’t eat the berries. You see—the berry’s no good.
And you’d hav’ta wash the leaves a good long time.”
“I’d boil it twice, less’n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it’s tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.”
He seldom was hurried; I can see him still ...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man’s angular gray grace.
Sometimes he’d pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.
He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.
Years later I found the proper name—“pokeweed”—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****
I still can hear his laconic reply ...
“Well, chile, s’m’times them times wus hard.”
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather’s house—
actually his third new wife’s,
in her daughter’s bedroom
—one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas . . .
Lacking the words to describe
ah!, those pearl-luminous estuaries—
strange omens, incoherent nights.
Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.
Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser’s fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and “civilization.”
Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander’s corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.
Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.
Or so the people dreamed, in chains.
Neglect
by Michael R. Burch
What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?
What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?
Before this day is over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?
I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs departing ...
mournful, and distant.
How pitiful our “effort,”
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.
Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.
Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.
His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—
for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.
***
It’s hard to be “wise”
when the years
career through our lives
and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief
while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.
***
The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages
is useless
unless
it encompasses this:
his kiss.
Boundless
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him,
and every day a new sharp feature emerges:
a feature we’ll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining,
trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker . . .
And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated
in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils
in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples,
become unconscionable errors, become victories lost,
become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair . . .
if what he was becomes increasingly vague—like a white balloon careening
into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood,
hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders,
shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth,
then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing . . .
if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving *****
to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores;
to sail away like a balloon
on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens,
till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see,
bursting into tears over us:
what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe,
cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision,
unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken . . .
cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself—flying beyond us?
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs ...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees ...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ...
... of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ...
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow ...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ...
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me."
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms
Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch
a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death ...
Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.
Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.
Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.
And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.
Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.
Originally published by The Flea
For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and 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 ...
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended . . . far, far away . . .
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die . . .
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric.
Children
by Michael R. Burch
There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility ...
when we might have made ...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.
Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!
But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.
But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars,
and for a day,
what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.
Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch
Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner,
paddled again and again?
How long must we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Will we ever learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
still failing the golden rule?
Life Sentence or Fall Well
by Michael R. Burch
. . . I swim, my Daddy’s princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom . . . if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down
to **** me up? . . . She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers “precious son” . . .
. . . the Plunger worked; i’m two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest . . .
. . . i’m three; yay! whee! oh good! it’s time to play!
(oh no, I think there’s Others on the way;
i’d better pray) . . .
. . . i’m four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there’s Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More . . .
. . . it’s great to be alive if you are five (unless you’re me);
my Mommy says: “you’re WRONG! don’t disagree!
don’t make this HURT ME!” . . .
. . . i’m six; They say i’m tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort!;
a tadpole’s ripping Mommy’s Room apart . . .
. . . i’m seven; i’m in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;
. . . I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel . . . last, I heard . . .
is that She feels Weird.
Untitled
I sampled honeysuckle
and it made my taste buds buckle!
by Michael R. Burch
Poems about Man's Best Friend
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch
Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!
Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for him mommies,
one of the SEVEN —
the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.
Amen
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch
for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever
Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.
Amen
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Wickett
by Michael R. Burch
Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .
You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed
Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.
Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.
May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold
and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.
Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!
The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch
for Harmony
Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.
Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,
strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move
with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!
*
When autumn came early,
you could not stay.
Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom
and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room
is your resting place.
*
Await by the door
her remembered step,
her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.
Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret
its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,
And when you awaken,
she will be there,
smiling,
at the Rainbow Bridge.
Lady’s Favor: the Noble Ballad of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch
Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?
From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!
When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a Scrubbie that it could crawl on like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent her the message she had requested.
Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.
Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.
And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 4:25 AM UTC
They've been untied
And i've been coming loose
It's for the best. In order to rebuild.
Retie.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
She dons every cap,
But the credit still eludes;
The fight continues!
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
Mujer morena
que canta nocturna,
niña colombiana
de ojos grandes,
mi canto que
se vuelve nocturno,
mujer de luna,
corremos despacio,
mojamos el mundo.
Te vi sonreir,
con los jeans azules,
el cigarro eterno,
la mirada al infinito.
Soñe despierto
buscando el recuerdo
siempre
risueña,
mujer,
miel de abeja...
La chica...
La de la gorra rosa.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
and the truly talented ones
eclipsed his paltry
writes
which engendered in him a
want to disappear their
rites
the green eye of jealousy
was constantly gnawing at
him
why he asked unto himself
are they more superior of
trim
people who knew a fine pick
would shun his dreadful
pap
they sought out authors who
wore the praise worthy
cap
he couldn't match the greater
pens that did show so
well
to whit he bought off the head bloke
with a sizeable money
shell
to-day he's the so called
genius of expressionistic
art
whose popularity on culture plus
is like a sale at
Walmart
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
My cap hides papers in its bill.
I find a new message each day.
They always give neat information.
How it knows these things I cannot say.
It told me why the stars twinkle.
It told me how most caps are sown.
Yesterday it told me you hate me.
So I guess I should leave you alone.
My thinking cap just informed me:
That you beat it, so it would die.
Why would you do that? I hate you too!
You can't fool me! My cap wouldn't lie!
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC
They wield the button as a weapon of
their verse, throwing words like a glove.
But it was limp like there inconsistent verse,
like a lefty throwing, right handed but worse.
Your momentary time of the month, I gave
you an emoji tissue to wipe off the embarrassment
of sweaty words you opened up on now behave.
needing a little dignity, reverse on your disembarrassment.
Either that or been known for your CAPSLOCK stutter,
seeing you tripping over yourself amid ridiculed clutter.
now see that light on the side, click it speak respectably.
now calm your rage, and talk respect others expectedly.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
I am not bottle cap you can remove
The image you see is so fade
I have no time for fake
My heart is something great
See me and look deep into my soul
I an not perfect but i don't give up
My kindness is my weakness
To understand me is see darkness with the sun
Your lack for understand and logic will be your down fall
the door that you slam is now closed and so is my heart
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Now I know what I've lost:
Reaching for what's nothing but unspoken heartbreak and icy air.
You've locked the door on me and rearranged your heart,
Now I don't know the code.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
About a year ago,
Some man with an ulterior motive called,
Took it upon himself to take advantage
Of your orchestrated guilt, and you
Allowed him to intimidate and manipulate you
Slow in catching on to his surreptitious tactics,
Would have been slower if it weren't for two,
You know who I'm alluding to,
You felt that all your crown
Needed was a dunce cap.
Heed to the lesson: never surrender to
Anyone or anything out of intimidation.
Originally written 10/31/13
Revised 11/16/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
It's not ruined
If it is...
You're the one
who ruined it.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC