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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 seek 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.” Published by Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Grassroots Poetry, Poet’s Forum Magazine, Harp-Strings Poetry Journal, A Flasher’s Dozen (prose version), Poetry Life & Times, Centrifugal Eye, Better Than Starbucks. Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, South, father, grandfather, son, grandson, memory, memories, flowers, nettles, **** weeds, pokeweed, poke salad, poke salat, bacon, lard, front porch swing, sweat bees, green,  greens, beans, forage, foraging Playthings by Michael R. Burch a sequel to “Playmates” There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered, when you and I were playmates and the days were long; then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . . Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding, and you and I were busy, then, as bees; the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy; each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . . But you were more the doer, I the dreamer, so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause; while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . . Then it came to pass you had no time for playthings, for with strong hands you built, with bricks and stone, tall buildings, then a life, and then you married. Now my fantasies, again, are all my own. This is a companion poem to “Playmates,” the second poem I remember writing, around age 13 or 14. However, I believe “Playthings” was written several years later, in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020. Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin's "Aubade" It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Quarterly Observance by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old and rolling casually in their old age; on the horizon youthful mountains bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . . By dying leaves and falling raindrops, I have traced time's starts and stops, and I have known the years to pass almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . . For here the valleys fill with sunlight to the brim, then empty again, and it seems that only I notice how the years flood out, and in . . . This is an early poem that made me feel like a “real poet.” I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student. I believe that was at age 17. "Observance" was originally published by Nebo as "Reckoning." It was later published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Piedmont Literary Review, Verses, Romantics Quarterly, Setu (India), Better Than Starburcks, The Chained Muse, Formal Verse, the anthology There is Something in the Autumn and Poetry Life & Times. That’s not too shabby for a teen poet! Ivy by Michael R. Burch “Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” — Pablo Neruda “They climb on my old suffering like ivy.” Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment without the sound of trumpets or a shining light, but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist felt more than seen. I was eighteen, my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist. Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant . . . without words, but with a deeper communion, as clothing first, then inhibitions fell; liquidly our lips met —feverish, wet— forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell, in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . . when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. This is one of my early poems but I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it. Due to the romantic style, I believe it was probably written during my first two years in college, making me 18 or 19 at the time. Moments by Michael R. Burch for Beth There were moments full of promise, like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring, when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips seemed everything. There are moments strangely empty full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!— when to be without you is a dark enchantment the night and I share. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry, The Chained Muse, in a Soundcloud reading by Vex Darkly, in a YouTube reading by Jasper Sole, and in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte Lucifer, to the Enola Gay by Michael R. Burch Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower— a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times Free Fall (II) by Michael R. Burch I have no earthly remembrance of you, as if we were never of earth, but merely white clouds adrift, swirling together through Himalayan serene altitudes— no more man and woman than exhaled breath—unable to fall back to solid existence, despite the air’s sparseness: all our being borne up, because of our lightness, toward the sun’s unendurable brightness . . . But since I touched you, fire consumes each wing! We who are unable to fly, stall contemplating disaster. Despair like an anchor, like an iron ball, heavier than ballast, sinks on its thick-looped chain toward the earth, and soon thereafter there will be sufficient pain to recall existence, to make the coming darkness everlasting. Fledglings by Michael R. Burch With her small eyes, pale and unforgiving, she taught me—December is not for those unweaned of love, the chirping nestlings who bicker for worms with dramatic throats still pinkly exposed, who have not yet learned the first harsh lesson of survival: to devour their weaker siblings in the high-leafed ferned fortress and impregnable bower from which men must fly like improbable dreams to become poets. They have yet to learn that, before they can soar starward, like fanciful archaic machines, they must first assimilate the latest technology, or lose all in the sudden realization of gravity, following Icarus’s, sun-unwinged, singed trajectory. The Higher Atmospheres by Michael R. Burch Whatever we became climbed on the thought of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings ten thousand miles above the breasted earth that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ... I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling my human form about; I writhe; I writhe. Invention is not Mastery, nor wings Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ... Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love melts callow wax the higher atmospheres leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers. Retro by Michael R. Burch Now, once again, love’s a redundant pleasure, as we laugh at my childish fumblings through the acres of your dress, past your wily-wired brassiere, through your ******* pink billows of thrill-piqued frills ... Till I lay once again—panting redfaced at your gayest lack of resistance, and, later, at your milktongued mewlings in the dark ... When you were virginal, sweet as eucalyptus, we did not understand the miracle of repentance, and I took for granted your obsessive distance ... But now I am happily unbuttoning that chaste dress, unhitching that firm-latched bra, tugging at those parachute-like ******* the ones you would have gladly forgotten had I not bought them in this year’s size. Originally published by Erosha
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Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:30 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Salat Days
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 seek 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.” Published by Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Grassroots Poetry, Poet’s Forum Magazine, Harp-Strings Poetry Journal, A Flasher’s Dozen (prose version), Poetry Life & Times, Centrifugal Eye, Better Than Starbucks. Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, South, father, grandfather, son, grandson, memory, memories, flowers, nettles, **** weeds, pokeweed, poke salad, poke salat, bacon, lard, front porch swing, sweat bees, green,  greens, beans, forage, foraging Playthings by Michael R. Burch a sequel to “Playmates” There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered, when you and I were playmates and the days were long; then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . . Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding, and you and I were busy, then, as bees; the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy; each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . . But you were more the doer, I the dreamer, so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause; while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . . Then it came to pass you had no time for playthings, for with strong hands you built, with bricks and stone, tall buildings, then a life, and then you married. Now my fantasies, again, are all my own. This is a companion poem to “Playmates,” the second poem I remember writing, around age 13 or 14. However, I believe “Playthings” was written several years later, in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020. Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin's "Aubade" It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Quarterly Observance by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old and rolling casually in their old age; on the horizon youthful mountains bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . . By dying leaves and falling raindrops, I have traced time's starts and stops, and I have known the years to pass almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . . For here the valleys fill with sunlight to the brim, then empty again, and it seems that only I notice how the years flood out, and in . . . This is an early poem that made me feel like a “real poet.” I remember writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school student. I believe that was at age 17. "Observance" was originally published by Nebo as "Reckoning." It was later published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Piedmont Literary Review, Verses, Romantics Quarterly, Setu (India), Better Than Starburcks, The Chained Muse, Formal Verse, the anthology There is Something in the Autumn and Poetry Life & Times. That’s not too shabby for a teen poet! Ivy by Michael R. Burch “Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” — Pablo Neruda “They climb on my old suffering like ivy.” Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment without the sound of trumpets or a shining light, but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist felt more than seen. I was eighteen, my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist. Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant . . . without words, but with a deeper communion, as clothing first, then inhibitions fell; liquidly our lips met —feverish, wet— forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell, in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . . when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. This is one of my early poems but I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it. Due to the romantic style, I believe it was probably written during my first two years in college, making me 18 or 19 at the time. Moments by Michael R. Burch for Beth There were moments full of promise, like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring, when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips seemed everything. There are moments strangely empty full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!— when to be without you is a dark enchantment the night and I share. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry, The Chained Muse, in a Soundcloud reading by Vex Darkly, in a YouTube reading by Jasper Sole, and in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte Lucifer, to the Enola Gay by Michael R. Burch Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower— a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times Free Fall (II) by Michael R. Burch I have no earthly remembrance of you, as if we were never of earth, but merely white clouds adrift, swirling together through Himalayan serene altitudes— no more man and woman than exhaled breath—unable to fall back to solid existence, despite the air’s sparseness: all our being borne up, because of our lightness, toward the sun’s unendurable brightness . . . But since I touched you, fire consumes each wing! We who are unable to fly, stall contemplating disaster. Despair like an anchor, like an iron ball, heavier than ballast, sinks on its thick-looped chain toward the earth, and soon thereafter there will be sufficient pain to recall existence, to make the coming darkness everlasting. Fledglings by Michael R. Burch With her small eyes, pale and unforgiving, she taught me—December is not for those unweaned of love, the chirping nestlings who bicker for worms with dramatic throats still pinkly exposed, who have not yet learned the first harsh lesson of survival: to devour their weaker siblings in the high-leafed ferned fortress and impregnable bower from which men must fly like improbable dreams to become poets. They have yet to learn that, before they can soar starward, like fanciful archaic machines, they must first assimilate the latest technology, or lose all in the sudden realization of gravity, following Icarus’s, sun-unwinged, singed trajectory. The Higher Atmospheres by Michael R. Burch Whatever we became climbed on the thought of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings ten thousand miles above the breasted earth that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ... I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling my human form about; I writhe; I writhe. Invention is not Mastery, nor wings Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ... Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love melts callow wax the higher atmospheres leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers. Retro by Michael R. Burch Now, once again, love’s a redundant pleasure, as we laugh at my childish fumblings through the acres of your dress, past your wily-wired brassiere, through your ******* pink billows of thrill-piqued frills ... Till I lay once again—panting redfaced at your gayest lack of resistance, and, later, at your milktongued mewlings in the dark ... When you were virginal, sweet as eucalyptus, we did not understand the miracle of repentance, and I took for granted your obsessive distance ... But now I am happily unbuttoning that chaste dress, unhitching that firm-latched bra, tugging at those parachute-like ******* the ones you would have gladly forgotten had I not bought them in this year’s size. Originally published by Erosha
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Would you be the Lard then, The Lard o' these lands ? <The Lard !!! I ain't the Lard of anything! I'm the Laird of these lands, yes! If that's what you mean.> The Laird, eh! So there's no Duck or Duchess over     them then. <Duck! You mean Duke, no Duke or     Duchess !!! Ain't no Dooks or Dutchesses around    here Mon! > Then what about the Goose, The Goose of Gainly Hall. <The Goose!!! What Goose ? It's a ghost not a goose, The Ghost of Gainly Hall ! Only goose I can see around here is     you Begone you unruly Mon, Begone!> Unruly Mon is it ! Unruly Mon !!!    (squaring up to the Laird) ...Heh! I'll nay fight ye, yer not worth it The Big Lairdy Mon I'll go off and alight some place else Just like the Goose, the Goose of Gainly     Hall !!! ............Hey Big Mon!!! The Goose! He's     loose!! He's gone!!!
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Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
bardo
The Goose of Gainly Hall
Would you be the Lard then, The Lard o' these lands ? <The Lard !!! I ain't the Lard of anything! I'm the Laird of these lands, yes! If that's what you mean.> The Laird, eh! So there's no Duck or Duchess over     them then. <Duck! You mean Duke, no Duke or     Duchess !!! Ain't no Dooks or Dutchesses around    here Mon! > Then what about the Goose, The Goose of Gainly Hall. <The Goose!!! What Goose ? It's a ghost not a goose, The Ghost of Gainly Hall ! Only goose I can see around here is     you Begone you unruly Mon, Begone!> Unruly Mon is it ! Unruly Mon !!!    (squaring up to the Laird) ...Heh! I'll nay fight ye, yer not worth it The Big Lairdy Mon I'll go off and alight some place else Just like the Goose, the Goose of Gainly     Hall !!! ............Hey Big Mon!!! The Goose! He's     loose!! He's gone!!!
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Slab Of Flab Protrudes From Ab twas an incremental subtle expansion of waist most likely aside effects of one or all prescription medication to stave off severe melancholy, social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera whereby most everything thy tongue did taste immediately delivered a randy paunch to former washboard smooth as a fresh application of gesso like paste readying canvass for partially naked self-portrait masterpiece depicting naked body laced with flat as a washboard physique unlike present dis graced whereat when sending a photograph of shirtless self-try with futility utilizing photoshop to get erased displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy saddled with unwanted fatty tissue that defaced proportionate rock hard stomach with a slender man about five foot and ten-inch build evincing an aura of being chaste gone forever analogous to temptation gobbling house constructed of cake and confectionery that nearly did likewise to Hansel and Gretel readying their not quite plump enough bodies tubby slathered with baste yet just in the nick of time the two abandoned children aced the sinister plot outwitting cannibalistic cackling croaking old woman inducing to break out into song singing Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh A doray-boomday ret set set Ah say pah say oh.
0
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
Slab Of Flab Protrudes From Ab
Slab Of Flab Protrudes From Ab twas an incremental subtle expansion of waist most likely aside effects of one or all prescription medication to stave off severe melancholy, social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera whereby most everything thy tongue did taste immediately delivered a randy paunch to former washboard smooth as a fresh application of gesso like paste readying canvass for partially naked self-portrait masterpiece depicting naked body laced with flat as a washboard physique unlike present dis graced whereat when sending a photograph of shirtless self-try with futility utilizing photoshop to get erased displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy saddled with unwanted fatty tissue that defaced proportionate rock hard stomach with a slender man about five foot and ten-inch build evincing an aura of being chaste gone forever analogous to temptation gobbling house constructed of cake and confectionery that nearly did likewise to Hansel and Gretel readying their not quite plump enough bodies tubby slathered with baste yet just in the nick of time the two abandoned children aced the sinister plot outwitting cannibalistic cackling croaking old woman inducing to break out into song singing Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh A doray-boomday ret set set Ah say pah say oh.
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And he handed me the carnage of so many wasted and poverty stricken corpses. And I scrubbed. And as I scrubbed, I watched the water turn into tea and then into coffee and then into a rainbow-shimmering sheen of crude oil. I scraped the burnt-on remains-off so the worn, rusted, yet impregnable metal pieces could be a bit more presentable: lamentable. In preparation of the first-world ones who take a bite at pleasure, and then discard. Who borrow by bond their treasure and waste the world with all their lard.
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Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
asa-d-bruss
Dish-Washing Poem
And he handed me the carnage of so many wasted and poverty stricken corpses. And I scrubbed. And as I scrubbed, I watched the water turn into tea and then into coffee and then into a rainbow-shimmering sheen of crude oil. I scraped the burnt-on remains-off so the worn, rusted, yet impregnable metal pieces could be a bit more presentable: lamentable. In preparation of the first-world ones who take a bite at pleasure, and then discard. Who borrow by bond their treasure and waste the world with all their lard.
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15
I'm done it's over No more no less I'm done with this touture, distress Stomach so nauseous My mind so vicious I can't do much more It really won't be long before I'm out that door Or is that a metaphor I really dont care anymore My life's a ***** Lending my heart My life my part And nothing but pain Nothing remains My core is all gone No strength to take on This world My head spins it's twirled I'm weak a dieing clover I'm done its over Inside me was beleif But was destroyed my mischief I'm all gone from this life Would I take it with a knife To my throat Maybe if I drowned I might float Who cares anymore I'm down on the floor No more helping hands All I can see is empty lands Hurt so hard A fat piece of lard A waste of space A complete disgrace To the whole human race Time to find a new place Who am I, what am I A monster meant to die? So hurt inside I tried to hide But is death the key Maybe then I can be free
0
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
tyler-man
I'm done its over
I'm done it's over No more no less I'm done with this touture, distress Stomach so nauseous My mind so vicious I can't do much more It really won't be long before I'm out that door Or is that a metaphor I really dont care anymore My life's a ***** Lending my heart My life my part And nothing but pain Nothing remains My core is all gone No strength to take on This world My head spins it's twirled I'm weak a dieing clover I'm done its over Inside me was beleif But was destroyed my mischief I'm all gone from this life Would I take it with a knife To my throat Maybe if I drowned I might float Who cares anymore I'm down on the floor No more helping hands All I can see is empty lands Hurt so hard A fat piece of lard A waste of space A complete disgrace To the whole human race Time to find a new place Who am I, what am I A monster meant to die? So hurt inside I tried to hide But is death the key Maybe then I can be free
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