#juvenile
juvenile
with your harsh profanities
and gritty teeth
grabbing ahold of me
puncturing my flesh
i want to be more like God
and i’m trying so hard
i read inspirational poetry books in the mirror
and around you,
i smile in fear
do things rehearsed and pre-planned and you don’t even notice
because the main focus
is you
façade strong
happy blushing faces all day long
that’s not who i am
and you’re the one who should know me best
but you don’t.
and i don’t understand how you plan
to take me down to the pits of the earth’s core
because i want to be more
like who i adore
and that’s just not you.
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 4:26 PM UTC
Lord knocks at the family of four
sensing the needy void
a grace hopes to cure
and fill light to its darkness
that almost devours the other three
for its life-taking shadow
A veil of moonlight uncovers
Lord's worn in tanned and dreads
Together his lady angel
carrying bags of white powder
looking around for space
separated, weighed and fed the void
Led the lord to a room
spacious and humid,
no other stuff but
a static television sound
no moving air
powders remain
let the cure runs thru the house
of juvenile and the lost
Goodbye days are waving
to the lost's relative three
A vast and lonesome emptiness
Hits the face and broke a bridge
Of trust and a second chance
A Lord's fraud grace
put the four
floating in pitch black water
sets the powdered metal
and spark from their eyes
shines through
the soul and life
were almost taken
if the wall didn't catch
the bullet
from the drug lord's blessing.
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 2:29 AM UTC
These are early poems of mine, written as a high school student in the 10th grade.
as Time walked by
by Michael R. Burch
yesterday i dreamed of us again,
when
the air, like honey,
trickled through cushioning grasses,
softly flowing, pouring itself upon the masses
of dreaming flowers...
then
the sly impish Hours
were tentative, coy and shy
while the sky
swirled all its colors together,
giving pleasure to the appreciative eye
as Time walked by.
sunbright, your smile
could fill the darkest night
with brilliant light
or thrill the dullest day
with ecstasy
so long as Time did not impede our way...
until It did,
as It did.
for soon the summer hid
her sunny smile...
the honeyed breaths of wind
became cold,
biting to the bone
as Time sped on,
fled from us
to be gone
Forevermore.
this morning i awakened to the thought
that u were near
with honey hair and happy smile
lying sweetly by my side,
but then i remembered—u were gone,
that u'd been toppled long ago
like an orchid felled by snow
as the bloom called “us” sank slowly down to die
and Time roared by.
This poem appeared in my high school literary journal and was probably written around age 15-16, or thereabouts. This was during my 'cummings period, ' which started after I/i discovered e.e. cummings in an English textbook. "as Time walked by" and the next poem "hymn to Apollo" are companion poems, written around the same time and perhaps even on the same day.
hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch
something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
golden,
splashed on the easel of god . . .
what,
i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike,
flit through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?
and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice
enchantedly
rang
chanting “Night!” . . .
till all the bright light
retired,
expired.
This poem appeared in my high school literary journal; I believe I was around 15 or 16 when I wrote it.
Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch
Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?
This is one of my early poems, written around age 15 and published in my high school literary journal.
When last my love left me
by Michael R. Burch
The sun was a smoldering ember
when last my love left me;
the sunset cast curious shadows
over green arcs of the sea;
she spoke sad words, departing,
and teardrops drenched the trees.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, issue 1976-1977. I believe I wrote the original version around age 16.
Flight
by Michael R. Burch
Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow . . .
What you are I do not know.
Where you go I do not care.
I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear.
But as you mount the sun-splashed sky,
I only wish that I could fly.
I only wish that I could fly.
Robin, hawk or whippoorwill . . .
Should men care if you hunger still?
I do not wish to see your home.
I do not wonder where you roam.
But as you scale the sky's bright stairs,
I only wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.
Sparrow, lark or chickadee . . .
Your markings I disdain to see.
Where you fly concerns me not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
But as you wheel and arc and dive,
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I, too, would feel so much alive.
I think this poem was written around age 16.
Damp Days
by Michael R. Burch
These are damp days,
and the earth is slick and vile
with the smell of month-old mud.
And yet it seldom rains;
a never-ending drizzle
drenches spring's bright buds
till they droop as though in death.
Now Time
drags out His endless hours
as though to bore to tears
His fretting, edgy servants
through the sheer length of His days
and slow passage of His years.
Damp days are His domain.
Irritation
grinds the ravaged nerves
and grips tight the gorging brain
which fills itself, through sense,
with vast seas of soggy clay
while the temples throb in pain
at the thought of more damp days.
I wrote the first version of this poem around age 16.
El Dorado
by Michael R. Burch
It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.
Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.
Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.
The young men with the outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a *** of gold
near El Dorado.
And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can match her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.
Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.
But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.
We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
though it is rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.
This is an early poem of mine. I believe I wrote the first version during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college. Keywords/Tags: El Dorado, big apple, worms, New York City, junkies, streetwalkers, hookers, prostitutes, actors, actresses, hustlers, conmen
Easter, in Jerusalem
by Michael R. Burch
The streets are hushed from fervent song,
for strange lights fill the sky tonight.
A slow mist creeps
up and down the streets
and a star has vanished that once burned bright.
Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem,
who tends your flocks tonight?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
a Shepherd calls
through the markets and the cattle stalls,
but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight.
Golgotha shudders uneasily,
then wearily settles to sleep again,
and I wonder how they dream
who beat him till he screamed,
"Father, forgive them!"
Ah Nazareth, Nazareth,
now sunken deep into dark sleep,
do you heed His plea
as demons flee,
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep . . ."
The temple trembles violently,
a veil lies ripped in two,
and a good man lies
on a mountainside
whose heart was shattered too.
Galilee, oh Galilee,
do your waters pulse and froth?
"Feed my sheep,"
"Feed my sheep,"
the waters creep
to form a starlit cross.
According to my notes, I wrote this poem around age 15-16.
Of You
by Michael R. Burch
There is little to write of in my life,
and little to write off, as so many do . . .
so I will write of you.
You are the sunshine after the rain,
the rainbow in between;
you are the joy that follows fierce pain;
you are the best that I've seen
in my life.
You are the peace that follows long strife;
you are tranquility.
You are an oasis in a dry land
. . . and . . .
you are the one for me!
You are my love; you are my life; you are my all in all.
Your hand is the hand that holds me aloft . . .
without you I would fall.
This was the first poem of mine that appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, and thus it was my first poem to appear on a printed page. A fond memory, indeed! I have tried to remember when I wrote the poem, but that memory remains elusive. This one feels “younger” to me, so I will guess a composition date around age 16.
I Am Lonely
by Michael R. Burch
Oh God, I am lonely;
I am weak and sore afraid.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when my heart is torn in two?
Oh God, I am lonely
and I cannot find a mate.
Now, just who am I to turn to
when the best friend that I’ve made
remains myself?
This poem appeared in my high school journal; I believe it was written around age 15-16.
A midnight shade of blue
by Michael R. Burch
You thought you saw a shadow moving somewhere in the night—
a lost and lonely stranger searching for a little light—
so you told me to approach him, ask him if he'd like a room . . .
how sweet of you to think of one alone out in the gloom,
but he was only ... a midnight shade of blue.
I thought I saw an answer shining somewhere in the night—
a spark of truth irradiating wisdom sweet and bright—
but when I sought to seize it, to bring it home to you . . .
it fluttered through my fingers like a wispy curlicue,
for it was only ... a midnight shade of blue.
We thought that we had found true love together in the night—
a love as fine and elegant as wine by candlelight—
but when we woke this morning, we knew it wasn't true . . .
the "love" we'd shared was less than love; I guess we owe it to
emotion ... and a midnight shade of blue.
I wrote this poem around age 16.
Paradise
by Michael R. Burch, age 15
There’s a sparkling stream
And clear blue lake
A home to ******
Duck and drake
Where the waters flow
And the winds are soft
And the sky is full
Of birds aloft
Where the long grass waves
In the gentle breeze
And the setting sun
Is a pure cerise
Where the gentle deer
Though timid and shy
Are not afraid
As we pass them by
Where the morning dew
Sparkles in the grass
And the lake’s as clear
As a looking glass
Where the trees grow straight
And tall and green
Where the air is pure
And fresh and clean
Where the bluebird trills
Her merry song
As robins and skylarks
Sing along
A place where nature
Is at her best
A place of solitude
Of quiet and rest
This is one of my very earliest poems, written as a song. It was “published” in a high school assignment poetry notebook.
Liar
by Michael R. Burch
Chiller than a winter day,
quieter than the murmur of the sea in her dreams,
eyes softer than the diaphanous spray
of mist-shrouded streams,
you fill my dying thoughts.
In moments drugged with sleep
I have heard your earnest voice
leaving me no choice
save heed your hushed demands
and meet you in the sands
of an ageless arctic world.
There I kiss your lifeless lips
as we quiver in the shoals
of a sea that, endless, rolls
to meet the shattered shore.
Wild waves weep, "Nevermore,"
as you bend to stroke my hair.
That land is harsh and drear,
and that sea is bleak and wild;
only your lips are mild
as you kiss my weary eyes,
whispering lovely lies
of what awaits us there
in a land so stark and bare,
beyond all hope . . . and care.
This is one of my early poems, written as a high school sophomore or junior.
Keywords/tags: early, early poem, juvenile, juvenalia, child, childhood, boy, boyhood, teen, teenage, student, study, studies, high school, freshman, sophomore, junior, senior, college, first love, time
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 6:23 AM UTC
I keep telling myself "oh it's just a crush"
But I find myself doing anything for you
And I find myself falling asleep wishing you were here
And then I dream about you just holding my ******* hand
But the love songs I hear always make me think of your goofy smile
And the movies and the shows about romance make me think about us
And then I dream about you feeling the same way
But it's just a crush. And I just feel crushed.
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
Her gaze got the best of me
Burning bright and mahogany
Conversation-soliloquy
I framed my fervor in filigree
hollow gestures, a pantomime
She just wanted to pass the time
Nearly twenty, too juvenile
To be anything more than tactile
A crowded room, a compact tableau
I still look for her where I go
A stubborn habit, it’s hard to quell
Maybe too callous, but I meant well
A little less than fortuitous
Resolution eluded us
Two strings, discordant synchronies
My pride, my wounded dignity
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
the clock
tick tocks
in golden variables
every hour malleable
every minute ductile
every second savored
while we are juvenile
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 7:03 AM UTC
i try to suppress the pain
but emotion isn't docile
i form words to explain
but it's all juvenile
& i want to be heard
but language is so futile
though i can think as an adult,
i speak like a ******* child
the ringing in my ears
won't seem to cease
my body burns in hell
while everyone else
gets to roam free
no hope for the future
hope is naive
i'm just longing
to feel nothing,
because nothing
creates peace.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
A young girl stands in front of the mirror
Her hands gripping on to her hip bones
And she still believes that she is too fat
She is holding her breath and ******* it all in
Her lips are pouting
Her eyes are wandering
Her face is flushed
She asks herself :
"Do they like me?"
Do you like you?
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
Stay whoever you are I plead,
Those charms, that is what I do need.
But if you have to grow for life,
Just don't forget your fragile seed.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
To Cat Steven's tune of "Try to live again")
I could have given you all of my gas
it keeps coming right outta my ***
and it's taken just all that I have
**** I'll try not to **** again
yes, I'll try to not do it again
The first **** from the oven
yes, the first **** is an omen
when it comes to being silent, I'm not
when it comes to being guilty, I'm caught
I still want you by my side
even though, you might've died
and good lord, I'm gonna try
to never **** again
yes never **** again, **** I know
The first **** from the oven
yes, the first **** is an omen
when it comes to being silent, I'm not
when it comes to being guilty, I'm caught
Try not, to **** again....
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
Court Day
So sullenly he sneers and slouches there
Behind a menu that he will not read
His mother smiles apologetically
And orders milk and cereal for him
He sulks beneath his franchise baseball cap
And grunts into a little plastic box
Then shoves it back into his pressed knee-pants
His mother smiles apologetically
tips apologetically
pays apologetically
The waitress with her chalice takes communion ‘round
Refills the cups at each creaky table
Newspaper stories, what is this world coming to,
Bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice, refills, life
Beyond the misted glass the old court house
Begins to take the early morning light
Like an old man taking his first cup of the day
Having another go at civilization
A rural Thomas More parks his old truck
This Chaucerian sergeant of the law
Will plead the usual catalogue of not-his-faults
The lad will smirk and feign apologies
The creaky tables of the ancient laws
To be served with irrelevant custom
The lad demands change for the Coke machine
His mother yields
Apologetically.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
i've always dreamed of sleeping in your arms
from the day i was conscious enough.
i dreamed of smelling the breakfast you made
and the scent of the detergent you used to wash my clothes.
also dreamed of going home to warm hugs and
"how's your day?"
sometimes, i wished you saw me singing on stage
with the friends you told me to stay away from.
however, they became my family instead.
i wish i get the love i expected as a child.
but it never happened as far as i can remember.
never happened to get great hugs from you when i feel sad
never happened to get enough appreciation on things i sacrifice for you.
i never got the simple things a daughter like me
could ever ask for.
never did. maybe
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC
“Boys will be boys,”
The bully’s parents said.
All that talk of discipline
Went over their heads.
The older boys at school
Gathered around the kid
With the glasses on his face;
Knocked them off his head.
Their words questioning
His manhood and his folks
And nobody paid attention
To the nature of the jokes.
“Boys will be boys,”
The principal said.
He washed his hands
Now one boy is dead.
They waited in an alley
Until the boy walked by
A place they knew for sure
No one would hear him cry.
They each one ***** him
Then one guy had a knife
After he killed the boy
He called him a lousy wife.
“Boys will be boys,”
The police officer said
Then used his baton
On the black kid’s head.
A black kid found the body
Of the white kid in the mud.
He brought the local cop, who
Thought him from the hood.
He beat up on the black kid
And took him to the jail.
Nobody knew about him, so
Nobody made his bail.
“Boys will be boys,”
The juvenile judge said
He closed the case
Went golfing instead.
There were no forensics,
No witnesses were sought.
No evidence of quality
Was asked for or brought.
The system had its criminal
And quickly put him away
And that’s where he is living
Until this very day.
“Boys will be boys,”
Never really worked
It only ever pointed out
That the speaker was a ****
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.
No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!
I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.
I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.
In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.
Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
I like to think
you could love me;
scars, bruises, and all.
Every notion of your being;
the charcoal that feeds this flame.
Pulsing. Radiant. Throwing heat from
thick cast iron walls— my heart:
Cellar-ridden, half concealed.
Juvenile- petty in nature.
Still, capable of love.
Of this, I am certain.
Regardless, I can
never offer the
love that you
deserve...
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
The mark of maturity is when,
you try to understand them then.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
For all the poems
written on the subject
of unrequited love.
There are far too few
discussed on
being the desire
of the affection.
A difficult topic
to build a
foundation on.
Considering,
you're suffocating in
debilitating silence.
How could I know
if the words were
never spoken?
Like counting birds
against the blaring sun,
its almost
an impossible feat
to accomplish
battling a massive
lack of knowledge.
--and with the
cataclysm raining
down on your shoulders.
Do you feel cold
and lost in desperation?
A silent hope built up
into a concealed bonfire.
Standing alone.
Burning alone.
Impossibly alone.
I didn't know.
The words never
left your tongue.
No promises made
No catharsis expressed.
Only lustful secret
clutched to your chest.
Sometimes solutions
are not as simple as
they seem.
If only I'd known,
If only I'd been told
long ago;
then maybe
this wretched ending
could have been
something beautiful
instead
of a juvenile mess...
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC