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EARLY POEMS by Michael R. Burch These are early poems and juvenilia by Michael R. Burch, many of them written as a teenager in high school, some while still a teenager as a college freshman and sophomore. Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky. Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say goodbye. There is a sequel, "Leave Taking II," at the bottom of this page. "Leave Taking" has been published by The Lyric, Borderless Journal (Singapore), Mindful of Poetry, Glass Facets of Poetry and Silver Stork Magazine. Styx by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Black waters, deep and dark and still... all men have passed this way, or will. "Styx" has been published by The Lyric, Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), The Raintown Review, Blue Unicorn, Brief Poems and Artvilla. Not too shabby for a teenage poem. Myth by Michael R. Burch, age 18 after Dylan Thomas Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. Published by There is Something in the Autumn (an anthology) and picked as the best poem in a Dylan Thomas poetry contest by the contest’s sponsor and judge, Vatsala Radhakeesoon. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch, age 20 The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. Published by The Lyric, The Aurorean, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and in a YouTube video by Asma Masooma Regret by Michael R. Burch, age 19-20 Regret, a bitter ache to bear . . . once starlight languished in your hair . . . a shining there as brief as rare. Regret, a pain I chose to bear . . . unleash the torrent of your hair . . . and show me once again— how rare. Published by The Chained Muse Observance by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Here the hills are old, and rolling carefully 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... I wrote this early poem as a teenager, around age 17, in a McDonald's break room. It was the first poem that made me feel like a "real" poet. "Observance" was originally titled "Reckoning" and it was was one of my earliest poems to be published. "Observance/Reckoning" has been published by Nebo, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse, Piedmont Literary Review, Tucumcari Literary Review, Borderless Journal (Singapore) and in the Borderless Journal anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles and the anthology There Is Something in the Autumn. Infinity by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair? Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth's wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity... windswept and blue. This is the second poem that made me feel like a "real" poet. "Infinity" has been published by Setu (India), Borderless Journal (Singapore), New Lyre, The Chained Muse, Penny Dreadful, Songs of Innocence, Artvilla and Lone Stars. Smoke by Michael R. Burch, age 14 The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today... The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away... I wrote this early poem around age 14 after seeing the ad for the movie "Summer of '42" starring a young Jacqueline Bisset.  "Smoke" appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, and my college journal, Homespun.  It has since been published by The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), Potcake Chapbooks (UK), Love Poems and Poets, Better Than Starbucks and Fullosia Press. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our husks into some savage ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze: blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, The Chained Muse and New Lyre Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true?   Is it true? Uncanny seer of all that appears and all that has appeared . . . what sights have you seen, what dreams have you dreamed,   what rhetoric have you heard? Is love an oration or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard?   Have you heard? "Moon Lake" was published by Romantics Quarterly, then set to music by David Hamilton and performed by the Australian choir Choralation. This early poem dates to around age 14 and was part of a longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song." Listen by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. Published by Penny Dreadful, Formal Verse, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England) The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. Something by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which denial has swept into a corner... where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Originally published in the anthology There is Something in the Autumn, then turned into a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong and published by Poezii in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte, "Something" is the first poem I wrote that didn't rhyme. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch, age 16 ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone .... requiescat in pace... May she rest in peace .... amen... Amen. This was my first translation, after I found the Latin prayer while sneak-reading one of my sister's historical romance novels. The Toast by Michael R. Burch, age 19 For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and grey, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames’ exhausted, drifting ash and petals falling from the rose ... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast— to joys set free, and those I fled. Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme Winter by Michael R. Burch, age 19 The rose of love’s bright promise lies torn by her own thorn; her scent was sweet but at her feet the pallid aphids mourn. The lilac of devotion has felt the winter **** and shed her dress; companionless, she shivers—nude, forlorn. Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean and Contemporary Rhyme. "Winter" was inspired and influenced by William Blake's poem "The Sick Rose." Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 Refuted by Michael R. Burch, age 18 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red ... — Shakespeare, Sonnet 130 Seas that sparkle in the sun without its light would have no beauty; but the light within your eyes is theirs alone; it owes no duty. Whose winsome flame, not half so bright, is meant for me, and brings delight. Coral formed beneath the sea, though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me; while your lips, not half so red, just touching mine, at once inflame me. Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse fathomless oceans fail to douse. Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared when winter comes, will wither quickly. Your cheeks, though paler when compared with them?—more lasting, never prickly. Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm, far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. I composed this poem in my head as a college freshman, as I walked back to my dorm from an English class where I had read Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 130.” This was my first attempt at a sonnet, but I dispensed with the rules, as has always been my wont. Am I by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 Am I inconsequential; do I matter not at all? Am I just a snowflake, to sparkle, then to fall? Am I only chaff? Of what use am I? Am I just a feeble flame, to flicker, then to die? Am I inadvertent? For what reason am I here? Am I just a ripple in a pool that once was clear? Am I insignificant? Will time pass me by? Am I just a flower, to live one day, then die? Am I unimportant? Do I matter either way? Or am I just an echo— soon to fade away? This is one of my very earliest poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” which appeared in my high school sophomore poetry assignment booklet. If not, it was a companion piece written around the same time. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems. Time by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 Time, where have you gone? What turned out so short, had seemed like so long. Time, where have you flown? What seemed like mere days were years come and gone. Time, see what you've done: for now I am old, when once I was young. Time, do you even know why your days, minutes, seconds preternaturally fly? "Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. "Time" and "Am I" were written on the same day, or within a short period of time, if I remember correctly. They were among the earliest of what I call my "I Am" and "Am I" poems. Righteous by Michael R. Burch, age 16-18 Come to me tonight in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising, spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer. Gather your hair and pin it up, knowing I will release it a moment anon. We are not one, nor is there a scripture to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms, but the swarms of bright stars revolving above us revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers. Published by Writer’s Gazette, Tucumcari Literary Review and The Chained Muse R.I.P. by Michael R. Burch, age 19 When I am lain to rest and my soul is no longer intact, but dissolving, like a sunset diminishing to the west, ... and when at last before His throne my past is put to test and the demons and the Beast await to feast on any morsel downward cast, while the vapors of impermanence cling, smelling of damask ... then let me go, and do not weep if I am left to sleep, to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps, only a little longer and more deep. Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Chained Muse. This is an early poem from my “Romantic Period” that was written in my late teens. Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch, age 15 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 earliest poems, written around age 15. Bound, by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground, I have lost what I once found in your arms. Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes, I have remade all my chains and am bound. Published as “Why Did I Go?” in the Lantern in 1976. I have made slight changes here and there, but the poem is essentially the same as what I wrote around age 14. Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch, age 11-13 If God is good half the Bible is libel. I read the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, ten chapters per day, at the suggestion of my devout Christian parents. I wrote this poem to express my conclusion about the bizarre behavior of the biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah . This was my first poem, as far as I can remember, although I considered it more of an observation at the time. Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun. Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life. There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived. The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind. They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life? Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago. Published by Borderless Journal Earthbound by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through these clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay— the sheep, the earthbound. Published by Boston Poetry Magazine, Native American Indian Pride and Native American Poems, Prayers and Stories Huntress by Michael R. Burch, age 19 after Baudelaire Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain. Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane. Rain falls upon your path, and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—On! Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Published by The HyperTexts and Sonnetto Poesia (Canada) Burn, Ovid by Michael R. Burch, age 14-43 “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973: I sat imagining watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers) as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, ************ ****** Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her ******* rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction? “Come unto me,      (unto me),”           together, we sang, cheek to breast,      lips on lips,           devout, afire, my hands      up her skirt,           her pants at her knees: all night long,      all night long,            in the heavenly choir. *** 101” and “Burn, Ovid” were written about my experiences during ninth grade at Faith Christian Academy, circa age 14-15 in 1972-1973. However, these poems were not completed until 2001 and are in a more mature voice and style than most of my other early poems. *** 101 by Michael R. Burch, age 14-43 That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. *** 101” and “Burn, Ovid” were written about my experiences during ninth grade at Faith Christian Academy, circa age 14-15 in 1972-1973. However, these poems were not completed until 2001 and are in a more mature voice and style than most of my other early poems. Because You Came to Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for Beth Because you came to me with sweet compassion and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair, I do not love you after any fashion, but wildly, in despair. Because you came to me in my black torment and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment they melt ... I am undone. Because I am undone, you have remade me as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me and bower me, somehow. I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, then revised it 30 years later and dedicated the new version to my wife Beth. Ambition by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Men speak of their “Ambition” and I smile to hear them say that within them burns such fire, such a longing to be great ... For I laugh at their “Ambition” as their wistfulness amasses; I seek Her tongue’s indulgence and Her parted legs’ crevasses. I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager! I wrote this one around age 18 or 19. An Illusion by Michael R. Burch, age 16 The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion... This is one of my early poems, written around age 16 and published in my high school literary journal. Describing You by Michael R. Burch, age 16 How can I describe you? The fragrance of morning rain mingled with dew reminds me of you; the warmth of sunlight stealing through a windowpane brings you back to me again. This is an early poem of mine, written around age 16. Analogy by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Our embrace is like a forest lying blanketed in snow; you, the lily, are enchanted by each shiver trembling through; I, the snowfall, cling in earnest as I press so close to you. You dream that you now are sheltered; I dream that I may break through. I believe I wrote this poem around age 18 or 19. Of You by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. I have tried to remember when I wrote this poem, but that memory remains elusive. It was definitely written by 1976 because the poem was published in the Lantern then. But many of those poems were written earlier and this one feels “younger” to me, so I will guess a composition date in 1974, around age 16. 49th Street Serenade by Michael R. Burch, age 16 It's four o'clock in the mornin' and we're alone, all alone in the city . . .      your sneakers 're torn      and your jeans 're so short that your ankles show, but you're pretty. I wish I had five dollars; I'd pay your bus fare home,      but how far canya go      through the sleet 'n' the snow for a fistful of change? 'Bout the end of Childe’s Lane. Right now my old man is sleepin' and he don't know the hell where I am.      Why he still goes to bed      when he's already dead, I don't understand, but I don't give a **** Bein' sixteen sure is borin' though I guess for a girl it's all right . . .      if you'd let your hair grow      and get some nice clothes, I think you'd look outta sight. And I wish I had ten dollars; I'd ask you if you would . . .      but wishin's no good      and you'd think I'm a hood, so I guess I'll be sayin' good night. This is one of my earliest poems; I actually started out writing songs when some long-haired friends of mine started a band around 1974. But I was too introverted and shy to show them to anyone. This one was too **** for my high school journal. Having Touched You by Michael R. Burch, age 18 What I have lost is not less than what I have gained. And for each moment passed like the sun to the west, another remained suspended in memory like a flower in crystal so that eternity is but an hour and fall is no longer a season but a state of mind. I have no reason to wait; the wind does not pause for remembrance or regret because there is only fate and chance. And so then, forget . . . Forget that we were very happy for a day. That day was my lifetime. Before that day I was empty and the sky was grey. You were the sunshine, the sunshine that gave me life. I took root and I grew. Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife, and yet I can bear it, having touched you. Odd, the things that inspire us! I wrote this poem after watching The Boy in the Bubble: a made-for-TV movie, circa 1976, starring John Travolta. So I would have been around 18 at the time. Hymn to Apollo by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 airy 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, the Lantern. as Time walked by by michael r. burch, age 16 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... and the hours were tentative, coy and shy while the sky swirled all its colors together, giving pleasure to the appreciative eye as Time walked by. then your smile could fill the darkest night with brilliant light or thrill the dullest day with ecstasy so long as Time led leisurely our way; as It did, It did. but 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 you were near with honey hair and happy smile lying sweetly by my side, but then i remembered—you were gone, that you toppled long ago like an orchid felled by snow as the thing called "us" sank slowly down to die and Time roared by. This poem appeared in my high school journal and was probably written around age 16. Playmates by Michael R. Burch, age 13-14 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 batter was our only lust! 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 injustice, or fate. Then we never thought about the next day, for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things didn'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, I believe, my second "real" poem. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it. hey pete by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. Floating by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Memories flood the sand's unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf's strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler— harbored in dreams, I ride out night's storms. Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm ******* pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea... You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. Mare Clausum by Michael R. Burch, age 19 These are the narrows of my soul— dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams. And these uncharted islands bleakly home wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams. Please don't think to find pearls' pale, unearthly glow within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs. For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know that vessel lists, and night brings no relief. Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost; then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust. This sea is not for sailors, but the ****** who lingered long past morning, till they learned why it is named: Mare Clausum. Mare Clausum is Latin for "Closed Sea." I believe this poem was written around age 19. Nevermore! by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Nevermore! O, nevermore!   shall the haunts of the sea —the swollen tide pools and the dark, deserted shore— mark her passing again. And the salivating sea shall never kiss her lips nor caress her ******* and hips, as she dreamt it did before, once, lost within the uproar. The waves will never **** her, nor take her at their leisure; the sea gulls shall not claim her, nor could she give them pleasure ... She sleeps, forevermore! She sleeps forevermore, a ****** save to me and her other lover, who lurks now, safely covered by the restless, surging sea. And, yes, they sleep together, but never in that way ... For the sea has stripped and shorn the one I once adored, and washed her flesh away. He does not stroke her honey hair, for she is bald, bald to the bone! And how it fills my heart with glee to hear them sometimes cursing me out of the depths of the demon sea ... their skeletal love—impossibility! Published by Romantics Quarterly and Penny Dreadful Shock by Michael R. Burch, age 18 It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom, with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom— that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain... and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. alien by michael r. burch, age 19 there are mornings in england when, riddled with light, the Blueberries gleam at us— plump, sweet and fragrant. but i am so small ... what do i know of the ways of the Daffodils? “beware of the Nettles!” we go laughing and singing, but somehow, i, ... i know i am lost. i do not belong to this Earth or its Songs. and yet i am singing ... the sun—so mild; my cheeks are like roses; my skin—so fair. i spent a long time there before i realized: They have no faces, no bodies, no voices. i was always alone. and yet i keep singing: the words will come if only i hear. I believe I wrote this poem around age 19, then revised it nearly a half-century later. One of my earliest memories is picking blueberries amid the brambles surrounding the tiny English hamlet, Mattersey, where I and my mother lived with her parents while my American father was stationed in Thule, Greenland, where dependents were not allowed. Was that because of the weather or the nukes? In any case, England is free of dangerous animals, but one must be wary of the copious thorns and nettles. Be that Rock by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr. When I was a child     I never considered man’s impermanence, for you were a mountain of adamant stone:     a man steadfast, immense, and your words rang. And when you were gone,     I still heard your voice, which never betrayed, "Be strong and of a good courage,     neither be afraid ..." as the angels sang. And, O!, I believed     for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave though the years slipped away     with so little to save of that talk. Now I'm a man—     a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child who sat at your feet     and learned as you smiled. Be that rock. I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18 in 1976. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken – destitute, really. Desdemona by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Though you possessed the moon and stars, you are bound to fate and wed to chance. Your lips deny they crave a kiss; your feet deny they ache to dance. Your heart imagines wild romance. Though you cupped fire in your hands and molded incandescent forms, you are barren now, and—spent of flame— the ashes that remain are borne toward the sun upon a storm. You, who demanded more, have less, your heart within its cells of sighs held fast by chains of misery, confined till death for peddling lies— imprisonment your sense denies. You, who collected hearts like leaves and pressed each once within your book, forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare— not one was worth a second look. My heart, as others, you forsook. But I, though I loved you from afar through silent dawns, and gathered rue from gardens where your footsteps left cold paths among the asters, knew— each moonless night the nettles grew and strangled hope, where love dies too. Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times Gone by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Tonight, it is dark and the stars do not shine. A man who is gone was a good friend of mine. We were friends. And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold when I awoke to find him gone ... This is one of my very earliest poems, one that was lost when I destroyed all the poems I had written in a fit of frustration and despair. The opening lines and "the strangest shade of orange on gold" are all of the original poem that I have been able to remember. I believe I wrote the original poem around age 14. Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch, age 19 When she was a child   in a dark forest of fear,     imagination cast its strange light       into secret places,       scattering traces     of illumination so bright,   years later, they might suddenly reappear, their light undefiled. When she was young,   the shafted light of her dreams     shone on her uplifted face       as she prayed;       though she strayed     into a night fallen like mildewed lace   shrouding the forest of screams, her faith led her home. Now she is old   and the light that was flame     is a slow-dying ember . . .       What she felt then       she would explain;     she would if she could only remember   that forest of shame, faith beaten like gold. Published by Piedmont Literary Review, Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times. This is an unusual poem that I wrote in my late teens, and it took me some time to figure out who the elderly woman was. She was a victim of childhood ****** hence the title I eventually chose. The Beautiful People by Michael R. Burch, age 18 They are the beautiful people, and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon to the listless strains of an ancient tune. Oh, no ... please don't touch them, for their smiles might fade. Don’t go ... don’t approach them as they promenade, for they waltz through a vacuum and dream they're not made of the dust and the dankness to which men degrade. They are the beautiful people, and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes. Winds do not blow there and storms do not rise, and each hair has its place and each gown has its price. And they whirl through the darkness untouched by our cares as we watch them and long for a "life" such as theirs. Burn by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Trump Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation. Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn. This was one of my early poems, written around age 19. I dedicated the poem to Trump after he pulled the United States out of the Paris climate change accords. as Time walked by by Michael R. Burch, age 16 yesterday i dreamed of u(s) 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, ur 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 u(s) 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 was written around age 16 and appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976. Dust (I) by Michael R. Burch, age 14 God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. This is one of my earliest poems, written circa 1972 at age 14, around the same time as “Jessamyn’s Song” but probably a bit earlier. “Dust” was at one time the closing stanza of “All My Children.” Dust (II) by Michael R. Burch, age 15 We are dust and to dust we must return ... but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn? I’m not sure when I wrote my second “Dust” poem but I will keep the poems together due to the shared title and theme. Dust (III) by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Flame within flame,   we burned and burned relentlessly     till there was nothing left to be consumed.     Only ash remained, the smoke plumed   like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we were left with only a name ever common between us.   We had thought to love “eternally,”     but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned,     the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned,   and our communal thought was: flee, flee, flee the choking dust. This is one of my early poems in the “Dust” series, but unfortunately I have no recollection of writing it, nor any notes about its composition. I will guess that I wrote this one in my late teens. Love Unfolded Like a Flower by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Love unfolded like a flower; Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky. I came to know you and to trust you in moments lost to springtime slipping by. Then love burst outward, leaping skyward, and untamed blossoms danced against the wind. All I wanted was to hold you; though passion tempted once, we never sinned. Now love's gay petals fade and wither, and winter beckons, whispering a lie. We were friends, but friendships end . . . yes, friendships end and even roses die. This is a love poem I wrote in my late teens for a girl I had a serious crush on. The poem was originally titled "Christy." Unfoldings by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Vicki Time unfolds ... Your lips were roses. ... petals open, shyly clustering ... I had dreams of other seasons. ... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming. Night and day ... Dreams burned within me. ... flowers part themselves, and then they close ... You were lovely; I was lonely. ... a ****** yields herself, but no one knows. Now time goes on ... I have not seen you. ... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged ... A fire rages; no one sees it. ... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain. Seasons flow ... A dream is dying. ... within parched clusters, life is taking form ... You were honest; I was angry. ... petals fling themselves before the storm. Time is slowing ... I am older. ... blossoms wither, closing one last time ... I'd love to see you and to touch you. ... a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry. Time contracts ... I cannot touch you. ... a solitary flower cries for warmth ... Life goes on as dreams lose meaning. ... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm. I wrote this poem for a college girlfriend, circa age 18-19. Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch, age 21 What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 21 The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... I believe “The Tender Weight of Her Sighs” and “Each Color a Scar” are companion poems, probably written around the same time at age 21. This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented the ***** form, which I will dub the “End-First Curtal Sonnet.” Impotent by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. Cameo by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes. Here, where times flies in the absence of light, all ecstasies are intimations of night. Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast; promise what cannot be given. Show me the stairway to heaven. Jacob's-ladder grows all around us; Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx. So breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonic eyes . . . and, if in the morning I am not wise, at least then I’ll know if this dream we call life was worth the surmise. My notes say that I copied and filed this poem in 1979, around age 21. Since I don’t have an earlier recollection of this poem, I will stick with that date. This one does feel a bit more mature than some of my teenage poems, so the date seems about right. The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine ... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be, for Merlyn’s words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords ... Originally published by Trinacria Lay Down Your Arms by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand. The battle is over and night is at hand. Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go ... the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow. Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more. Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore. The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin ... Lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.” Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song. If God was to save us, He waited too long. A new world emerges, but this world is through . . . so lay down your hymnals, or write something new. I wrote “Lay Down Your Arms” around age 21 and it became my first published poem, possibly. Can an acceptance be a rejection? I never received a copy of the first journal that accepted one of my poems, The Romantist, so I don’t know if my first “published poem” was actually published! In any case, poems that I wrote from (circa) ages 11 to 16 were eventually published, so I now consider those my “earliest” publications. /Y/ This is a poem about a discussion between a young poet and an older poet – the very poetic Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I wrote this poem as a teenager under the spell of Dr. King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech, which for me is also a compelling poem. In the poem he is the upper-case Poet and I am the lower-case poet. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch, age 17 I have a dream ...pebbles in a sparkling sand... of wondrous things. I see children ...variations of the same man... playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, ... stone and flesh, a host of colors... together at last. I see a time ...each small child another's cousin... when freedom shall ring. I hear a song ...sweeter than the sea sings... of many voices. I hear a jubilation ... respect and love are the gifts we must bring... shaking the land. I have a message, ...sea shells echo, the melody rings... the message of God. I have a dream ...all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone... of many things. I live in hope ...all children are merely small fragments of One... that this dream shall come true. I have a dream! ... but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?... Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. ... i can feel it begin... Lovers and dreamers are poets too. ...poets are lovers and dreamers too... Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) and Love Poems and Poets Fairest Diana by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Fairest Diana, princess of dreams, born to be loved and yet distant and lone, why did you linger—so solemn, so lovely— an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone? Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions? Surely your lips—for wild kisses, not vows! Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming a pearl of enchantment cast before sows? Fairest Diana, fragile as lilac, as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose; how did a stanza of silver-bright verse come to be bound in a book of dull prose? Published by Tucumcari Literary Journal and Night Roses I believe this poem was written in the late 1970s or very early 1980s, around the time it became apparent that the lovely Diana Spencer was going to marry into the British royal family. Flight by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. This poem was influenced by William Cullen Bryant’s “To a Waterfowl.” Flying by Michael R. Burch, age 16-17 i shall rise and try the ****** wings of thought ten thousand times before i fly ... and then i'll sleep and waste ten thousand nights before i dream; but when at last ... i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies where never hawks nor eagles dared to go, as i laugh among the meteors flashing by somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ... if i'm not told i’m just a man, then i shall know just what I AM. This is a poem written around age 16-17. According to my notes I may have revised the poem later, around 1978, but if so the changes were minor and the poem remains very close to the original. Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons ... and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears ... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway —a man as large as I left— and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim— "My father!" "My son!" “Sanctuary at Dawn” appeared in my poetry contest manuscript, so it was written either in high school or during my first two years of college: 1976 is an educated guess. In my teens, thirty was a generic age for adulthood. Shadows by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns— we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men . . . when we were men, or almost so. Published by Homespun and Mind in Motion This poem was written either in high school or my first two years of college because it appeared in the 1979-1980 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. Sappho’s Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Jeremy Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call as the pale calla 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. The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies.  After my son Jeremy was born, I dedicated this poem to him. Tell me what i am by michael r. burch, age 15 Tell me what i am, for i have often wondered why i live. Do u know?— please tell me so; drive away this darkness from within. For my heart is black with sin and i have often wondered why i am. And my thoughts are lacking light though i have often sought what was right. Now it is night; please drive away the darkness from without, for i doubt that i will see the coming of the day without ur help. This is one of my early “I am/am I” poems. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote the original version around age 15 or 16. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled; now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed dance before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. And you are music in my undreamt dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing starlets die. You touch me so and still I don't know why . . . But say you love me. Say you love me. This poem is dated 1983 in my notes, but it could have been written earlier and revised then. This one feels earlier to me, so I will guess it was written around age 18 during my late Romantic period. The original poem did not have “forming formless scenes” or “undreamt dreams.” I chose those revisions, not to be confusing, but in an attempt to capture the moment when, awakening from dreams, we briefly inhabit both worlds simultaneously. I came up with “starlets” because, as the sun eclipses ethereal starlight in our eyes, the reality of a lover in bed eclipses all vague, ethereal fantasies of dream lovers. Stewark Island (Ambiguity) by Michael R. Burch, age 17-18 “Take your child, your only child, whom you love...” Seas are like tears— they are never far away. I have fled them now these eighteen years, but I am nearer them today than I ever have been. Oh, I never could bear the warm, salty water or the cool comfort here in the shade of an altar sweeter than sin ... Sweeter than sin, yet cleansing, like love; still its feel to doomed skin either too little or too much of whatever it is. Seas and tears are like life— ridiculous, ambiguous. “Sea Dreams” is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of “Jessamyn’s Song.” To the best of my recollection, I wrote “Sea Dreams” around age 18 in high school my senior year, then worked on in college. It appeared in my poetry contest notebook and thus was substantially complete by 1978. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen ... By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days’ slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset’s scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no vessel’s sailed — great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls — and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing . . . But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I’ll taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, then I’ll bow my head to pray . . . II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea — down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs I’d so often climb when the wind was **** with a taste of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner’s dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright! Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow’s desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam . . . and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then . . . what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach . . . And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds. Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams . . . oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream    and dream     and dream. “Sea Dreams” is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of “Jessamyn’s Song.” For years I thought I had written “Sea Dreams” around age 19 or 20. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started by age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, “I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because ...” *** “Son” is a companion poem to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time and discussed in the same freshman dorm conversation. Ron, the other student, asked me how on earth I came up with a poem about being a father who abandoned his son to live on an island! I think the meter is pretty good for the age at which it was written. Son by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 An island is bathed in blues and greens as a weary sun settles to rest, and the memories singing through the back of my mind lull me to sleep as the tide flows in. Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, my heart and my home will be till I die, but where you are is where my thoughts go when the tide is high. [etc., see handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son] So there where the skylarks sing to the sun as the rain sprinkles lightly around, understand if you can the mind of a man whose conscience unconsciously drowned. Thoughts of the Everglades in Ontario by Michael R. Burch, age 20 We burned wildfire of September in a distant grass, watching the many variations of light devour the blades. All night long I tended the smoldering campfire remembering those sweat-drenched nights we spent in the ’glades listening as gators sang love songs to one another, curious serenades, their huge tails lashing the shallow swampland water. That night, camped out distantly beyond the closest farm, I did not hold you, as I so often have, to keep you warm, but rather to feel the restless movements of our unborn daughter. Now she’s three and the Everglades are in her eyes— dark and swampy, all muddled green and gray, and they seem to knowingly say, “It’s time to be on our way.” I wrote this poem as a college sophomore, age 20, in 1978. When last my love left me by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 in 1974, around age 16. War by Michael R. Burch, age 17 lysander lies in lauded greece and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow, unseeing as sunset devours limp willows, but War glares on. and joab's sightless gaze is turned beyond the jordan's ravaged shore; his war-ax lies to be hurled no more, but War hacks on. and roland sleeps in poppied fields with flowers flowing at his feet; their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep, but War raves on. and patton sighs an unheard sigh for sorties past and those to come; he does not heed the battle drum, but War rolls on. for now new heroes grab up guns and rush to fight their fathers' wars, as warriors' children must, of course, while War laughs on. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 17. I was never fully happy with the poem, although I liked some of the lines and revised it 46 years later, on 4-27-2021. Stryx: An Astronomer’s Report by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Yesterday (or was is an eon ago?) a sun spit out its last remnants of light over a planet long barren of life, and died. It was not a solitary occasion, by any stretch of the imagination, this decoronation of a planet conceived out of desolation. For her to die as she was born —amidst the glory of galactic upheaval— is not strange, but fitting. Fitting in that, shorn of all her preposterous spawn that had littered her surface like horrendous hair, she died her death bare and alone. Once she was home to all living, but she died home to the dead who bereaved her of life. Unfit for life she died that night as her seas shone fatal, dark and blue. Unfit for life she met her end as mountains fell and lava spewed. Unfit she died, agleam with death whose radiance she wore. Unfit she died as raging waves obliterated every shore. Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Contaminated with the rays that smoldered in her radiant swamps and seared her lifeless bays. Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! a ****** world no more, but a planet ***** and left to face her death as she was born— alone, so all alone. Yesterday, a planet green and lovely was no more. Yesterday, the whitecaps crashed against her shores and then they were no more. Yesterday, a soft green light no longer brushed the moon's dark heights . . . There was no moon, there was no earth; there were only the ******** she had given birth watching from their next ***** world. I wrote this poem around age 18 and it was published in the 1976-1977 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. With my daughter, by a waterfall by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 By a fountain that slowly shed its rainbows of water, I led my youngest daughter. And the rhythm of the waves that casually lazed made her sleepy as I rocked her. By that fountain I finally felt fulfillment of which I had dreamt feeling May’s warm breezes pelt petals upon me. And I held her close in the crook of my arm as she slept, breathing harmony. By a river that brazenly rolled, my daughter and I strolled toward the setting sun, and the cadence of the cold, chattering waters that flowed reminded us both of an ancient song, so we sang it together as we walked along —unsure of the words, but sure of our love— as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above. This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote it the year before, around age 18. You didn't have time by Michael R. Burch, age 17 You didn't have time to love me, always hurrying here and hurrying there; you didn't have time to love me, and you didn't have time to care. You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung: too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . . Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time to take time and you didn't have time to try. Every time I asked you why, you said, "Because, my love; that's why." And then you didn't have time at all, my love. You didn't have time at all. You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun that had blinded your eyes and left you undone. Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17. So little time by Michael R. Burch, age 14 There is so little time left to summer, to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds . . . to be young. There is so little time left till autumn shall come. There is so little time left for me to be free . . . so little time, just so, so little time. If I were handsome and brawny and brave, a love I would make and the time I would save. If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free — surely there would be one for me . . . Perhaps there'd be one. There is so little left of the sunshine although there’s much left of the rain . . . there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain. I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. The inversion in L8 makes me think this was a very early poem. That’s something I weaned myself of pretty quickly. Also, I was extremely depressed from age 14 to 15 because my family moved twice and I had trouble making friends because I was so shy and introverted. ​ Premonition by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ... we stand in the doorway and watch as they go— each stranger, each acquaintance, each casual lover. They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go, though we know their forced laughter’s the wine ... then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows endlessly on toward Zion ... and they kiss one another as though they were friends, and they promise to meet again “soon” ... but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end, and the mockingbird calls to the moon ... and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines, and the crickets chirp on out of tune ... and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight, seem spirits torn loose from their tombs. And we know their brief lives are just eddies in time, that their hearts are unreadable runes to be wiped clean, like slate, by the dark hand of Fate when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ... You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss as though it were something you loved, and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light of the stars winking sagely above ... Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside; if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while." And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile. I vividly remember writing this poem after an office party the year I co-oped with AT&T (at that time the largest company in the world, with a lot of office parties). This was after my sophomore year in college, making me around 19 years old. The poem is “true” except that I was not the host because the party was at the house of one of the managers. Nor was I dating anyone seriously at the time. I was still in “pool shark” mode, playing money games all night and into the wee hours of the morning. Reflections on the Loss of Vision by Michael R. Burch, age 20 The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls, remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,     that it seems if I tried     and just closed my eyes, I could once again be nine or ten. The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall, hunch there, I know, in the fast-piling snow, yet now I can't see them at all. For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,     some things that I saw     when I was a boy, are lost to me now in my “advancing” years. The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave are there as they were, and yet they are not; and if it seems childish to grieve, still, who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?     Well, in a small way,     through the passage of days, I have learned some of his loss. As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not— the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite haunts. But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,     and it seems such a waste     of those far-sighted days, to end up near blind in this wood. Every Man Has a Dream by Michael R. Burch, age 24 lines composed at Elliston Square Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ... a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain, of a breeze in the evening that, rising again, reminds him of something that cannot have been, and he calls this dream love. And each man has a dream that he fears to let live, for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all. So he curses, denies it and locks it within the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin, this madness, this love. But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams, and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls, and he finds in the end that he cannot deny the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries in the darkness of night for this light he calls love. Canticle: an Aubade by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day; dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away. Dew drops on the green grass echo splendors of the sun; the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung. Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves; and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees, there goes a brace of bees! Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel, the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields. Above the thoughtless traffic of the world wending their way, a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race. And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup, drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut. And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air, a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there . . . it looks like summer. I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport’s class at Maplewood High School. I had read a canticle somewhere, liked the name and concept, and decided I needed to write one myself. I believe this was in 1974 at age 16, but I could be off by a year. This is another early poem that makes me think I had a good natural ear for meter and rhyme. It’s not a great poem, but the music seems pretty good for a beginner. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch, age 22 How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame, lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I’ve thought on the meaning of autumn, how the rainbows’ enchantments defeated dark clouds while robins repeated ancient songs sagely heeded so wisely when winters before they’d flown south ... And still, in remembrance, I’ve conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, I found a gray hair ... it was all beyond my ken. I believe I wrote this poem in my early twenties, probably around 1980. This is another early poem with an usual form. Red Dawn by Michael R. Burch, age 14 The sun, like a spotlight, is spinning round the trees a web of light. And with her amber radiance she is driving off the night. Oh, how like a fire she is burning off the black. And in her flaming wake she has left a track of puffy smoke. I believe this is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 14, due to the fact that the original poem had three somewhat archaic apostrophes: ’round, ’way and ’luminance. I weaned myself of such things pretty quickly. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1975. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, the following year. These Hallowed Halls by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I. A final stereo fades into silence and now there is seldom a murmur to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls. I stand by a window where others have watched the passage of time, alone, not untouched, and I am as they were— unsure, and the days stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze. II. Ah, faithless lover— that I had never touched your breast, nor felt the stirrings of my heart, which until that moment had peacefully slept. For now I have known the exhilaration of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love, and the result of every infatuation— the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above. III. A solitary clock chimes the hour from far above the campus, but my peers, returning from their dances, heed it not. And so it is that we seldom gauge Time's speed because He moves so unobtrusively about His task. Still, when at last we reckon His mark upon our lives, we may well be surprised at His thoroughness. IV. Ungentle maiden— when Time has etched His little lines so carelessly across your brow, perhaps I will love you less than now. And when cruel Time has stolen your youth, as He certainly shall in course, perhaps you will wish you had taken me along with my broken heart, even as He will take you with yours. V. A measureless rhythm rules the night— few have heard it, but I have shared it, and its secret is mine. To put it into words is as to extract the sweetness from honey and must be done as gently as a butterfly cleans its wings. But when it is captured, it is gone again; its usefulness is only that it lulls to sleep. VI. So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night, to the moans of the moonlit hills that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep through the nightjar's cryptic trills. But I will not sleep this night, nor any... how can I, when my dreams are always of your perfect face ringed in whorls of fretted lace, and a tear upon your pillowcase? VII. If I had been born when knights roamed the earth and mad kings ruled foreign lands, I might have turned to the ministry, to the solitude of a monastery. But there are no monks or hermits today— theirs is a lost occupation carried on, if at all, merely for sake of tradition. For today man abhors solitude— he craves companions, song and drink, seldom seeking a quiet moment, to sit alone by himself, to think. VIII. And so I cannot shut myself off from the rest of the world, to spend my days in philosophy and my nights in tears of self-sympathy. No, I must continue as best I can, and learn to keep my thoughts away from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, centuries past though lost but a day. IX. Yes, I must discipline myself and adjust to these lackluster days when men display no chivalry and romance is the "old-fashioned" way. X. A single stereo flares into song and the first faint light of morning has pierced the sky's black awning once again. XI. This is a sacred place, for those who leave, leave better than they came. But those who stay, while they are here, add, with their sleepless nights and tears, quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls of these hallowed halls. I wrote this poem in my freshman dorm at age 18. Pilgrim Mountain by Michael R. Burch, age 16 I have come to Pilgrim Mountain to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow. Do not ask me why I have done this, for I do not know . . . but I had a vision of the end of time and I feared for my soul. On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks creak and groan in their misery, for they comprehend they’re prey to night and day, and ten thousand other fallacies. Sunlight shatters the stone, but midnight mends it again with darkness and a cooling flow. This is no place for men, and I know this, but I know that that which has been must somehow be again. Now here on Pilgrim Mountain I shall gouge my eyes with stone and tear out all my hair, and though I die alone, I shall not care . . . for the night will still roll on above my weary bones and these sun-split, shattered stones of late become their home here, on Pilgrim Mountain. I believe this poem was originally written around 1974 at age 16 or thereabouts. According to my notes, it was modified in 1978, then again in 1983. However, the poem remains very close to the original. I seem to remember writing this poem in Mr. Purcell’s history trailer. there is peace where i am going... by Michael R. Burch, age 15 there is peace where i am going, for i hasten to a land that has never known the motion of one windborne grain of sand; that has never felt a tidal wave nor seen a thunderstorm; a land whose endless seasons in their sameness are one. there i will lay my burdens down and feel their weight no more, and sleep beneath the unstirred sands of a soundless ocean's shore, where Time lies motionless in pools of lost experience and those who sleep, sleep unaware of the future, past and present (and where Love itself lies dormant, unmoved by a silver crescent) . and when i lie asleep there, with Death's footprints at my feet, not a thing shall touch me, save bland sand, lain like a sheet to wrap me for my rest there and to bind me, lest i dream, mere clay again, of strange domains where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams. yes, there is peace where i am going, for i am bound to be safe here, within the dull embrace of this dim, unchanging sea... before too long; i sense it now, and wait, expectantly, to feel the listless touch of Immortality. This is one of my early poems, written around age 15 after watching a documentary about Woodstock. absinthe sea by michael r. burch, circa age 18-19 i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe the bitter green liqueur reflects the dying sunset over the sea and the darkling liquid froths up over the rim of my cup to splash into the free, churning waters of the sea i do not drink i do not drink the liqueur, for I sail on an absinthe sea that stretches out unendingly into the gathering night its waters are no less green and no less bitter, nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light they both harbor night, and neither shall shelter me neither shall shelter me from the anger of the wind or the cruelty of the sun for I sail in the goblet of some Great God who gazes out over a greater sea, and when my life is done, perhaps it will be because He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea. I seem to remember writing this poem in college just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what it looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read in passing somewhere. Ode to the Sun by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Day is done . . . on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun. Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me. Now day is done . . . on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace; for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review I seem to remember writing this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18. It's Halloween! by Michael R. Burch, age 20 If evening falls on graveyard walls far softer than a sigh; if shadows fly moon-sickled skies, while children toss their heads uneasy in their beds, beware the witch's eye! If goblins loom within the gloom till playful pups grow terse; if birds give up their verse to comfort chicks they nurse, while children dream weird dreams of ugly, wiggly things, beware the serpent's curse! If spirits scream in haunted dreams while ancient sibyls rise to plague nightmarish skies one night without disguise, as children toss about uneasy, full of doubt, beware the Devil's lies . . . it's Halloween! I believe I wrote this poem around age 20. Laughter from Another Room by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist. Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry. Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints. The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; the poet never finds the words. The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior longs to spare his foe. The warrior longs to spare his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; the guiltiest are not to blame. The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods. If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; other men observe through tears. Other men observe through tears the passage of these days of doom; now I listen and I hear laughter from another room. Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem as a college freshman or sophomore, around age 18 or 19. It remains largely the same as the original poem. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 22 She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her immaculate breast as she breathed into my insensate lips the soft benedictions of her ecstatic sighs . . . But those veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears! Years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . . She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a moment’s rest . . . She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her Victor, then all was Night. Late ap-peals of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. According to my notes, I wrote this poem at age 22 in 1980, must have forgotten about it, then revised it on January 31, 1999. But I wasn’t happy with the first stanza and revised the poem again on September 22, 2023, a mere 43 years after I wrote the original version! The "ap-peals" wordplay was a 2023 revision. The only "ap" I had in high school was Pong. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen. By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days' slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset's scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no man has sailed — great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls — and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing... But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, and I bow my head to pray... II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea — down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs that I used to climb when the wind was **** with a taste of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner's dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright. Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow's desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam... and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then... what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach... And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds. Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams... oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream and dream and dream. As the Flame Flowers by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame, arches leaves skyward, aching for rain, but all it encounters are anguish and pain as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem. Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem reaches through night, through the staggering pain, for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain, as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame. Mesmerized by a wavering crescent-shaped gem that glistens like water though drier than sand, the flower extends itself, trembles, and then dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind. Ashes by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 A fire is dying; ashes remain . . . ashes and anguish, ashes and pain. A fire is fading though once it burned bright . . . ashes once embers are ashes tonight. A midnight shade of blue by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 someone wandering 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 seem to remember writing this one during my early songwriting phase. That would be around 1974, give or take. While I don’t claim it’s a great poem, I think I did show a pretty good touch with meter in my youth. Gentry by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The men shined their shoes and the ladies chose their clothes; the rifle stocks were varnished till they were untarnished by a speck of dust. The men trimmed their beards; the ladies rouged their lips; the horses were groomed until the time loomed for them to ride. The men mounted their horses, the ladies did the same; then in search of game they went, a pleasant time they spent, and killed the fox. This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, and was probably written around age 18 in high school. Beckoning by Michael R. Burch, age 17-18 Yesterday the wind whispered my name while the blazing locks of her rampant mane lay heavy on mine. And yesterday I saw the way the wind caressed tall pines in forests laced by glinting streams and thick with tangled vines. And though she reached for me in her sleep, the touch I felt was Time's. I wrote this poem around age 17 or 18. Damp Days by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 morasses of clumped clay while the temples throb in pain at the thought of more damp days. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem sometime between 1974 and 1976, then revised it around 1978. Easter, in Jerusalem by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 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. An Obscenity Trial by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints against whom several critics cited numerous complaints. They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd," and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud. The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed); it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed. He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity; twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality. The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind, though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind. Clerics loved the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin. Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in. The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face, knowing the trial would be a farce. "It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!" The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety, greeted this statement with applause. "This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it. Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer! His sense of rhythm is too fine! He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs. This man is an impostor! I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!" The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered. The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?" But how His Honor giggled then, seeing no poets were let in. Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times El Dorado by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 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’s 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. Blue Cowboy by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 He slumps against the pommel, a lonely, heartsick boy— his horse his sole companion, his gun his only toy —and bitterly regretting he ever came so far, forsaking all home's comforts to sleep beneath the stars, he sighs. He thinks about the lover who awaits his kiss no more till a tear anoints his lashes, lit by the heartless stars. He reaches to his aching breast, withdraws a golden lock, and kisses it in silence as empty as his thoughts while the wind sighs. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge between the earth and distant stars. Do not fall; the fiends of hell would leap to feast upon your heart. Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand for a drop of water warm and brown. Dream of streams like silver seams even as you gulp it down. Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs to hide the weakness in your soul. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge and wish that you were going home as the stars sigh. I believe I wrote “Blue Cowboy” during my songwriting phase, around age 15-16. Cowpoke by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 Sleep, old man ... your day has long since passed. The endless plains, cool midnight rains and changeless ragged cows alone remain of what once was. You cannot know just how the Change will **** the windswept plains that you so loved ... and so sleep now, O yes, sleep now ... before you see just how the Change will come. Sleep, old man ... your dreams are not our dreams. The Rio Grande, stark silver sand and every obscure brand of steed and cow are sure to pass away as you do now. I believe this poem was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. That was probably around age 15-16. Dance With Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Dance with me to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies. Enchantingly, each highstrung string, each yearning key, each a thread within the threnody, bids us, "Waltz!" then sets us free to wander, dancing aimlessly. Let us kiss beneath the stars as we slowly meet ... we'll part laughing gaily as we go to measure love’s arpeggios. Yes, dance with me, enticingly; press your lips to mine, then flee. The night is young, the stars are wild; embrace me now, my sweet, beguiled, and dance with me. The curtains are drawn, the stage is set —patterned all in grey and jet— where couples in like darkness met —careless airy silhouettes— to try love's timeless pirouettes. They, too, spun across the lawn to die in shadowy dark verdant. But dance with me. Sweet Merrilee, don't cry, I see the ironies of all the years within the moonlight on your tears, and every ****** has her fears ... So laugh with me unheedingly; love's gaiety is not for those who fail to heed the music's flow, but it is ours. Now fade away like summer rain, then pirouette ... the dance of stars that waltz among night's meteors must be the dance we dance tonight. Then come again— like a sultry wind. Your slender body as you sway belies the ripeness of your age, for a woman's body burns tonight beneath your gown of ****** white— a woman's ******* now rise and fall in answer to an ancient call, and a woman's hips—soft, yet full— now gently at your garments pull. So dance with me, sweet Merrilee ... the music bids us, "Waltz!" Don't flee; let us kiss beneath the stars. Love's passing pains will leave no scars as we whirl beneath false moons and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ... Oh, Merrilee, the curtains are drawn, the stage is set, we, too, are stars beyond night's depths. So dance with me. I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college, circa 1976-1977, after meeting George King, who taught the creative writing classes. I would have been 18-19 when I started the poem, but it didn’t always cooperate and I seem to remember working on it the following year as well. Dance With Me (II) by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 While the music plays remembrance strays toward a grander time . . . Let's dance. Shadows rising, mute and grey, obscure those fervent yesterdays of youth and gay romance, but time is slipping by, and now those days just don't seem real, somehow . . . Why don't we dance? This music is a memory, for it's of another time . . . a slower, stranger time. We danced—remember how we danced?— uncaring, merry, wild and free. Remember how you danced with me? Cheek to cheek and breast to breast, your ******* hard against my chest, we danced and danced   and danced. We cannot dance that way again, for the years have borne away the flame and left us only ashes, but think of all those dances, and dance with me. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the lovers many years later. So this poem would have been written sometime between 1976 and 1977, around age 18-19. Impressions of Darkness in the Aspects of Light by Michael R. Burch, age 19 The afternoon hours pass slowly, moment blending into golden moment as Time flows tranquilly by, and only the deepening shadows portend the Evening’s coming, for within their mystic twilight she sleeps, a Goddess immune to light. Meanwhile the dreaming maidens—half dark as the Darkness itself— bask in the amber radiance, oblivious to all save Time, for they sense the fragrance of dying flowers ... Fascinating aromas of poppy and hemp once cured by the Sun arise with the Wind, caressing the senses while numbing the spirit, inducing vague dreams and a willingness to sleep ... perhaps forevermore. For cruel Death awaits her hour and the lilies surely shall die. All the while Death’s dread Sister lurks in the shadows murmuring songs of a ghostly Moon haunting purple skies. Listen! I can hear the refrain far-off on the naked wind— rising, then falling, strengthening, then dying... calling me “home” once again. And even now Darkness stalks earth’s unsuspecting flocks with feline nonchalance, as the willows bow and their limbs scrape the earth seemingly in regret. And even now the skylark’s luting song harbors an elusive melancholy... And even now the spiraling hawk pauses momentarily to cast a sorrowful eye earthward, then rises slowly, as if unwilling to dare the utmost heights... And even now the Moon-drawn sea pauses from its rocking to lift a wave or two toward the engorging Darkness, imploring, despairing, an innocent child in the hands of a savage Master. “Oh Lord!” the anguished waves cry out, in the agony of despair, “Give us a little time ... a little time!” But their cries die out deep into the descending Nothingness. Who knows that it lurks there, now, but the sorrowing sea and I? Who else reckons the assuredness of its arrival or the insincerity of its departure? Not the flashy cardinal—he cares not but to fly. Never the solemn-eyed hoot owl, for he loves the Nighttime better than the day. Only, perhaps, the dying sun understands the arcane reasons for the coming on of Night and the changing of the seasons. For at her back she must always hear the chariots of Night drawing closer and closer, the hooves of coal-black stallions shattering the serenity of the heavens, creating the fiery sparks we call stars. But I am not alone in my unceasing vigil: the sun and the sea, my constant companions, console me, as does the enigmatic nightingale. And they shall comfort me tonight when the curtains of the Night are drawn and clouds obscure the stars. Together we shall count the hours until Dawn’s deliverance, when she comes to free us, bearing God’s bright banner, enlisting the glowering mountains and angry heavens. A pledge for ignorance In these changing times, when truth and conjecture are no longer distinguished by the common man, who accepts all things as part of some ultimate plan, believing, perhaps rightly so, that any gods existing now shall soon be overthrown, I have closed my eyes and seen the dissolution of my beliefs. Once I thought myself secure belonging to a race of logic and science, infallible, perhaps capable of conquering the universe . . . but as I have seen the plight of my people growing worse and worse, today I attempt not to think at all, nor do I scale the heights that I once did; having experienced one harrowing fall, I will not risk another even to save a brother. For thought is like the flight of birds that rise to heights unknown to men, till, grazing the orbits of fiery stars, they fall to earth, their feathers singed. So I will not venture those starry paths by moons unseen and planets ringed, but I will live my life below, secure in blissful ignorance, never approaching thought's orbs aglow . . . and though I may be wrong in this, what I have not seen, I have not missed. I Am Lonely by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 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? 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 the Lantern, so it was written no later than 1976. But I believe it was written around age 15-16. I held a heart in my outstretched hand by Michael R. Burch, age 19 I held a heart in my outstretched hand; it was ****** and red and raw. I ripped it and tore it; I gnashed it and gnawed it; I gored it with fingers like claws, but it never missed a beat of the heartfelt song it sang. There my bruised heart wept in my open palm and the gore dripped down my wrist; I reviled it, defiled it; I gave it a twist and wrung it dry of blood; still it beat with a hearty thud, and its movement was warm with love. But I flung it into the ditch and walked angrily, cruelly away . . . There it lay in the dust with a ****** crust caking the crimson stain that my claw-like fingers had made, and its flesh was grey with death. Oh, I cannot say why, but I turned and I cried, and I lifted it once again, holding it to my cheek, where it began to beat, but to a tiny, tragic measure devoid of trust or pleasure. Then it kissed my fingers and sighed, begging forgiveness even as it died. Now that was many years ago, and I am wiser, for I know that a heart can last out any pain, but cannot bear to be alone. And my lifeless heart is wiser too, having seen the way a careless man can take his being into his hands and crush it into a worthless ooze. Gainsboro(ugh) by Michael R. Burch, age 15 Times forgotten, times reviled were all you gave a child, beguiled, besides one ghostly memory to haunt him down Life’s winding wild. And though his character was formed somewhere within your lightless shade, not a fragment of the man that he became today remains anywhere within the gloom cast by your dark insidious trees ... for fleeting dreams and memories are only dreams and memories. Remembrance by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 That eerie night I met you, the moon bathed all the land in strange, enchanting patterns which stirred in my chilled mind forgotten dreams of fiery youth and hopes of things to come that I had seen destroyed or lost to cold, uncaring Time. The goblet of wine I held gleamed with a wildly-flickering light and the pool of fragrant liquid seemed a shade too close to blood; there, in its mirror-like surface, I saw you passing by, and suddenly, shockingly, I felt the pang of Love . . . You wore a long white gown and when the moonlight caught your hair you seemed a slender taper lit by a silver flame; and . .. though we had never met before . . . . . . somehow . . . I knew your name . . . I sought to speak, but I could not, for the demon wine had numbed my tongue . . . Oh, I turned to follow you through the door, looking about, but you were gone . . . "Remembrance" was written in my late teens, circa 1977-1978, and appears in my 1978 poetry contest folder. Morning by Michael R. Burch, age 14 It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. And everywhere the flowers were turning to the sun, just as the night before I had turned to the one for whom my heart yearned. It was morning and the sun shone in the sky like smoldering embers in the eyes of my lover— another night gone by. And everywhere the terraces were refreshed by bright assurances of the early-fallen rain which had doused the earth and morning’s birth with their sweet refrain. It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. I believe I wrote this poem around age 14, then according to my notes revised it around age 17. In any case, it was published in my high school literary journal. Jack by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I remember playing in the mud Septembers long ago when you and I were young with dreams of things to come and hopes for feet of snow. And at eight years old the days were long —long enough to last— and when it snowed the smiles would show behind each pane of glass. At ten years old, the fights were few, the future—far away, and when the snow showed on the streets there was always time to play . . . almost always time to play. And when you smiled your eyes were green, but when you cried they seemed ice blue; do you remember how we cried as little boys will do— trying hard not to, because we wanted to be "cool"? At twelve years old, the world was warm and hate had never crossed our minds, and in twelve short years we had not learned to hear the fearsome breath of Time behind. So, while the others all looked back, you and I would look ahead. It's such a shame that the world turned out to be what everyone said it would. And junior high was like a dream— the girls were mesmerized by you, sighing, smiling bright and sweet, as we passed them on the street on our way to school. And we did well; we never tried to make straight "A's," but always did. And just for kicks, when we saw cops, we ran away and hid. We seldom quarreled, never fought, for in our way, we loved each other; and had the choice been ours to make, you would have been my elder brother. But as it was, it always is— one's life is lost before it's lived. And when our mothers called our names, we ran away and hid. At fifteen we were back-court stars, freshman starters on the team; and every time we drove and scored the cheerleaders would scream our names. You played tennis; I played golf; you debated; I ran track; and whenever grades came out, you and I would lead the pack. I guess that we just had the knack. Whatever happened to us, Jack? All My Children by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as harsh as his monument, but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows. And there is Meg beside the spring that sings her endless sleep. Though it’s often said of stiller waters, sometimes quicksilver streams run deep. And there is Frankie, little Frankie, tucked in safe at last, a child who weakened and died too soon, but whose heart was always steadfast. And there is Mary by the bushes where she hid so well, her face as dark as their berries, yet her eyes far darker still. And Andy . . . there is Andy, sleeping in the clover, a child who never saw the sun so soon his life was over. And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly!, the prettiest of all . . . now she's put aside her dreams of beaus kind, dark and tall for dreams dreamed not at all. It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon this backyard garden, on the graves of all my children . . . God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. [But they never did depart; They still live within my heart.] This is one of my earliest poems, written around 1973 circa age 15, about the same time as “Jessamyn’s Song” although I think this one is a bit older, based on its language and style. Parting by Michael R. Burch, age 16 I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while. We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile. He roams this land in search of life, intent on being “free.” I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree. I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim. He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain. I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand. I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can. I knew he couldn't stay, and so . . . I didn't even ask. We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task. We both know life's a winding road with potholes every mile, and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles. One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife, but for now he has to travel on to seek a more “natural” life. He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try, just as I must write my poems although none please my eye. For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue; still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through. He left me as I left a friend so many years ago; I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know, it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone. It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun. And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too; but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it’s a rare girl who is true. I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast, still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past. Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can, and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men." We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be? We were friends for just a while . . . he went on to be free. Oh, say that you are mine by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Your lips are sweeter than apricot brandy; your breath invites with a pleasant warmth; you sweep through the darkest corridors of my soul— a waltzing maiden born of a dream; you brush the frailest fibre of my hopes and I sink to my knees— a quivering beggar. Your eyes are bluer than aquamarine set ablaze by the sun; your lips as inviting as cool streams to a wanderer of desert lands; I sleep in your hand, safe in the warmth of your tender palm, lost in the fragrance of your soft skin. We make love as deep as purple pine forests, your laughter richer and sweeter than honey poured in a pitcher of peaches and cream, your malice more elusive than the memory of a dream, your cheeks tenderer than eiderdown and cooler than snow-fed streams; you touch my lips with the lightest of kisses and my soul sings. Liar by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. SEQUELS Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky. Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say goodbye. This early poem dates to around age 14 and was part of a longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song." Leave Taking (II) by Michael R. Burch Although the earth renews itself, and spring is lovelier for all the rot of fall, I think of yellow leaves that cling and hang by fingertips to life, let go . . . and all men see is one bright instance of departure, the flame that, at least height, warms nothing. I, have never liked to think the ants that march here will deem them useless, grimly tramping by, and so I gather leaves’ dry hopeless brilliance, to feel their prickly edges, like my own, to understand their incurled worn resilience— youth’s tenderness long, callously, outgrown. I even feel the pleasure of their sting, the stab of life. I do not think —at all— to be renewed, as earth is every spring. I do not hope words cluster where they fall. I only hope one leaf, wild-spiraling, illuminates the void, till glad hearts sing. It's not that every leaf must finally fall ... it's just that we can never catch them all. Originally published by Silver Stork Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true?   Is it true? Uncanny seer of all that appears and all that has appeared . . . what sights have you seen, what dreams have you dreamed,   what rhetoric have you heard? Is love an oration or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard?   Have you heard? Tomb Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Go down to the valley where mockingbirds cry,   alone, ever lonely . . .    yes, go down to die. And dream in your dying you never shall wake.   Go down to the valley;    go down to Tomb Lake. Tomb Lake is a cauldron of souls such as yours —   mad souls without meaning,    frail souls without force. Tomb Lake is a graveyard reserved for the dead.   They lie in her shallows    and sleep in her bed. Playmates by Michael R. Burch, age 13-14 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 batter was our only lust! 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 injustice, or fate. Then we never thought about the next day, for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things didn'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, I believe, my second "real" poem. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it. Playthings by Michael R. Burch, age 19 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 . . . But then you put aside all “silly” playthings; with sunburned hands you built, from 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. Hello > Poetry Michael R Burch Poems Michael R Burch 3h EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART I These are juvenilia (early poems) of Michael R. Burch, written in high school and college… Bound by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground, I have lost what I once found in your arms. Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes, I have remade all my chains and am bound. This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?" Am I by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Am I inconsequential; do I matter not at all? Am I just a snowflake, to sparkle, then to fall? Am I only chaff? Of what use am I? Am I just a feeble flame, to flicker, then to die? Am I inadvertent? For what reason am I here? Am I just a ripple in a pool that once was clear? Am I insignificant? Will time pass me by? Am I just a flower, to live one day, then die? Am I unimportant? Do I matter either way? Or am I just an echo— soon to fade away? “Am I” is one of my very early poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” the poem below. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems. Time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Time, where have you gone? What turned out so short, had seemed like so long. Time, where have you flown? What seemed like mere days were years come and gone. Time, see what you've done: for now I am old, when once I was young. Time, do you even know why your days, minutes, seconds preternaturally fly? "Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school sophomore project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates." Stars by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Though night has come, I'm not alone, for stars appear —fierce, faint and far— to dance until they disappear. They reappear as clouds roll by in stormy billows past bent willows; sometimes they almost seem to sigh. And time rolls on, on past the willows, on past the stormclouds as they billow, on to the stars so faint and far . . . on to the stars so faint and far. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 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. aaa Liquid Assets by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 And so I have loved you, and so I have lost, accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost, debited wisdom, credited pain … My assets remaining are liquid again. I wrote this poem in college after my younger sister decided to major in accounting. In fact, the poem was originally titled “Accounting.” At another point I titled it “Liquidity Crisis.” absinthe sea by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe the bitter green liqueur reflects the dying sunset over the sea and the darkling liquid froths up over the rim of my cup to splash into the free, churning waters of the sea i do not drink i do not drink the liqueur, for I sail on an absinthe sea that stretches out unendingly into the gathering night its waters are no less green and no less bitter, nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light they both harbor night, and neither shall shelter me neither shall shelter me from the anger of the wind or the cruelty of the sun for I sail in the goblet of some Great God who gazes out over a greater sea, and when my life is done, perhaps it will be because He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea. I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” Ambition by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 Men speak of their “ambition” and I smile to hear them say that within them burns such fire, such a longing to be great ... But I laugh at their “Ambition” as their wistfulness amasses; I seek Her tongue’s indulgence and Her parted legs’ crevasses. I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager. as Time walked by by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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, 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 you were near with honey hair and happy smile lying sweetly by my side, but then i remembered—you 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. Gentry by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 The men shined their shoes and the ladies chose their clothes; the rifle stocks were varnished till they were untarnished by a speck of dust. The men trimmed their beards; the ladies rouged their lips; the horses were groomed until the time loomed for them to ride. The men mounted their horses, the ladies did the same; then in search of game they went, a pleasant time they spent, and killed the fox. "Gentry” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting, fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures. Of You by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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. bbb Burn, Ovid by Michael R. Burch “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973: I sat imaging watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers) as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, ************ ****** Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her ******* rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction? “Come unto me, (unto me),” together, we sang, cheek to breast, lips on lips, devout, afire, my hands up her skirt, her pants at her knees: all night long, all night long, in the heavenly choir. This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. The next poem, *** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. *** 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. Paradise by Michael R. Burch, circa 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. All My Children by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-16 It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as hard as his monument, but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows. And there is Meg beside the spring that sings her endless sleep. Though it’s often said of stiller waters, sometimes quicksilver streams run deep. And there is Frankie, little Frankie, tucked in safe at last, a child who weakened and died too soon, but whose heart was always steadfast. And there is Mary by the bushes where she hid so well, her face as dark as their berries, yet her eyes far darker still. And Andy ... there is Andy, sleeping in the clover, a child who never saw the sun so soon his life was over. And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly ... the prettiest of all ... now she's put aside her dreams of lovers dark and tall for dreams dreamed not at all. It is May now, merry May and the sun shines pleasantly upon these ardent gardens, on the graves of all my children ... But they never did depart; they still live within my heart. Dance With Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Dance with me to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies. Enchantingly, each highstrung string, each yearning key, each a thread within the threnody, whispers "Waltz!" then sets us free to wander, dancing aimlessly. Let us kiss beneath the stars as we slowly meet ... we'll part laughing gaily as we go to measure love’s arpeggios. Yes, dance with me, enticingly; press your lips to mine, then flee. The night is young, the stars are wild; embrace me now, my sweet, beguiled, and dance with me. The curtains are drawn, the stage is set —patterned all in grey and jet— where couples in such darkness met —careless airy silhouettes— to try love's timeless pirouettes. They, too, spun across the lawn to die in shadowy dark verdant. But dance with me. Sweet Merrilee, don't cry, I see the ironies of all the years within the moonlight on your tears, and every ****** has her fears ... So laugh with me unheedingly; love's gaiety is not for those who fail to heed the music's flow, but it is ours. Now fade away like summer rain, then pirouette ... the dance of stars that waltz among night's meteors must be the dance we dance tonight. Then come again— like winter wind. Your slender body as you sway belies the ripeness of your age, for a woman's body burns tonight beneath your gown of ****** white— a woman's ******* now rise and fall in answer to an ancient call, and a woman's hips—soft, yet full— now gently at your garments pull. So dance with me, sweet Merrilee ... the music bids us, "Waltz!" Don't flee. Let us kiss beneath the stars. Love's passing pains will leave no scars as we whirl beneath false moons and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ... Oh, Merrilee, the curtains are drawn, the stage is set, we, too, are stars beyond night's depths. So dance with me. I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college. Dance With Me (II) by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 While the music plays remembrance strays toward a grander time ... Let's dance. Shadows rising, mute and grey, obscure those fervent yesterdays of youth and gay romance, but time is slipping by, and now those days just don't seem real, somehow ... Why don't we dance? This music is a memory, for it's of another time ... a slower, stranger time. We danced—remember how we danced?— uncaring, merry, wild and free. Remember how you danced with me? Cheek to cheek and breast to breast, your ******* hard against my chest, we danced and danced and danced. We cannot dance that way again, for the years have borne away the flame and left us only ashes, but think of all those dances, and dance with me. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the same lovers many years later. Impotent by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-21 Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course ... Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Frail bit of elfin magic with eyes of brightest blue, sleep now lines your lashes, the sandman beckons you … please don't fight— it's all right. My newborn son, cease sighing, softly, slowly close your eyes, purse your tiny lips and kiss the crisp, cool night a warm goodbye. Fierce yet gentle fragment, the better part of me, why don't you dream a dream deep as eternity, until sunrise? Frail bit of elfin magic with eyes of brightest blue, sleep now lines your lashes, the sandman beckons you … please don't fight — it's all right. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled, for grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed dance before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. And you are music echoing through dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing embers die. You touch me so and still I don't know why ... But say you love me. Say you love me. With my daughter, by a waterfall by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 By a fountain that slowly shed its rainbows of water, I led my youngest daughter. And the rhythm of the waves that casually lazed made her sleepy as I rocked her. By that fountain I finally felt fulfillment of which I had dreamt feeling May’s warm breezes pelt petals upon me. And I held her close in the crook of my arm as she slept, breathing harmony. By a river that brazenly rolled, my daughter and I strolled toward the setting sun, and the cadence of the cold, chattering waters that flowed reminded us both of an ancient song, so we sang it together as we walked along —unsure of the words, but sure of our love— as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above. This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen. By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days’ slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset’s scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no man has sailed —great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls— and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing ... But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, and I bow my head to pray ... II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea— down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs I'd so often climb when the wind was **** with the tang of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner’s dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright. Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow’s desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam ... and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then ... what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach ... And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds! Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams ... oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream and dream and dream. “Sea Dreams” was one of my more ambitious early poems. The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time. Son by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 An island is bathed in blues and greens as a weary sun settles to rest, and the memories singing through the back of my mind lull me to sleep as the tide flows in. Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, my heart and my home will be till I die, but where you are is where my thoughts go when the tide is high. [etc., in the handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son] So there where the skylarks sing to the sun as the rain sprinkles lightly around, understand if you can the mind of a man whose conscience so long ago drowned. The People Loved What They Had Loved Before by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 We did not worship at the shrine of tears; we knew not to believe, not to confess. And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers, we wrote off love, we gave a stern address to things that we disapproved of, things of yore. And the people loved what they had loved before. We did not build stone monuments to stand six hundred years and grow more strong and arch like bridges from the people to the Land beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march, pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door. And the people loved what they had loved before. We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe. We played a minor air of Ire (in E). The sheep chose to ignore us, even though, long destitute, we plied our songs for free. We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score. And the people loved what they had loved before. At last outlandish wailing, we confess, ensued, because no listeners were left. We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less divine than man, and, like us, long bereft. We stooped to love too late, too Learned to ***** And the people loved what they had loved before. Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 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 very earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern. hey pete by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 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." Earthbound by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay— the sheep, the earthbound. Huntress by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 after Baudelaire Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain. Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane. Rain falls upon your path, and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—"On!" Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Flying by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 i shall rise and try the ****** wings of thought ten thousand times before i fly ... and then i'll sleep and waste ten thousand nights before i dream; but when at last ... i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies where never hawks nor eagles dared to go, as i laugh among the meteors flashing by somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ... if i'm not told i’m just a man, then i shall know just what I am. This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written around age 15-16. Love Unfolded Like a Flower by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20 for Christy Love unfolded like a flower; Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky. I came to know you and to trust you in moments lost to springtime slipping by. Then love burst outward, leaping skyward, and untamed blossoms danced against the wind. All I wanted was to hold you; though passion tempted once, we never sinned. Now love's gay petals fade and wither, and winter beckons, whispering a lie. We were friends, but friendships end … yes, friendships end and even roses die. Cameo by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes. Here, where times flies in the absence of light, all ecstasies are intimations of night. Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast; promise what cannot be given. Show me the stairway to heaven. Jacob's-ladder grows all around us; Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx. So breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonic eyes … and, if in the morning I am not wise, at least then I'll know if this dream we call life was worth the surmise. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Analogy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Our embrace is like a forest lying blanketed in snow; you, the lily, are enchanted by each shiver trembling through; I, the snowfall, cling in earnest as I press so close to you. You dream that you now are sheltered; I dream that I may break through. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Flight by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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 that 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. Freedom by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20 Freedom is not so much an idea as a feeling of open roads, of the hobo's call, of autumn leaves in brisk breeze reeling before a demon violently stealing all vestiges of the beauty of fall, preparing to burden bare tree limbs with the heaviness of her icy loads. And freedom is not so much a letting go as a seizing of forbidden pleasure, of ***** sport, of all that is delightful and pleasing, each taken totally within its season and exploited to the fullness of its worth though it last but a moment and repeat itself never. Oh, freedom is not so much irresponsibility as a desire to accept all the credit and all the blame for one's deeds, to achieve success or failure on one's own, to require either or both as a consequence of an inner fire, not to shirk one's duty, but to see one's duty become himself—himself to tame. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame, lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I've thought on the meaning of autumn, how the rainbows' enchantments defeated dark clouds while robins repeated ancient songs sagely heeded so wisely when winters before they'd flown south. And still, in remembrance, I've conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, I found a gray hair … it was all beyond my ken. Easter, in Jerusalem by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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. “Easter, in Jerusalem” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun. Gone by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 Tonight, it is dark and the stars do not shine. A man who is gone was a good friend of mine. We were friends. And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold when I awoke to find him gone ... "Gone" is actually gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to recreate from memory. At some point between age 14 and 15, I destroyed all the poems I had written, out of frustration. I was able to recreate some of the poems from memory, but not all. Canticle: an Aubade by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day; dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away. Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun; the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung. Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves; and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees, there goes a brace of bees! Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel, the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields. Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play, a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race. And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup, drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut. And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air, a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there … it looks like summer. I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport's class at Maplewood High School. It's not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner. Eternity beckons ... by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Eternity beckons ... the wine becomes fire in my veins. You are a petal, unfolding, cajoling. I am your sun. I will shine with the fierceness of my desire; touched, you will burst into flame. I will shine and again shine and again shine. I will shine. I will shine. You will burn and again burn and again burn. You will burn. You will burn. We will extinguish ourselves in our ecstasy; We will sigh like the wind. We will ebb into darkness, our love become ashes . . . never speaking of sin. Never speaking of sin. Every Man Has a Dream by Michael R. Burch, circa age 23 lines composed at Elliston Square Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ... a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain, of a breeze in the evening that, rising again, reminds him of something that cannot have been, and he calls this dream love. And each man has a dream that he fears to let live, for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all. So he curses, denies it and locks it within the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin, this madness, this love. But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams, and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls, and he finds in the end that he cannot deny the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries in the darkness of night for this light he calls love. Every time I think of leaving … by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Every time I think of leaving … I see my mother's eyes staring at me in despair, and I feel the old scar throbbing again. Then I think of the father that I never knew; I remember how, as a child, I could never understand not having a father. And when the tears start falling, running slowly down my cheeks, I think of our two sons and all their many dreams— dreams no better than dust the day that I leave. And when my hands start shaking, when my eyes will not adjust, when I know there's no tomorrow for the two of us, then I think of our young daughter who prays, eyes tightly shut, not to lose her mother or father … and I know that I can't leave. Every time I think of going, I close my eyes and see the days we spent together when love was all we dreamed, and I wish that I could find (how I wish that I could find!) a reason to believe. Go down to the hoe-down by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 Go down to the hoe-down. Pause in the pungent, moonless night, watching the partners as they dance; go down ... don’t you know ... it's your only chance? Go down to the hoe-down. Go down to the hoe-down, and whirl as you dance through a dream of wine, through a world once your world, through a world without time, through a world rich and rhythmic, through a world full of rhyme. O, go down to the hoe-down. Go down. As they slow down, the couples will whirl to a reel of romance, for the music has called them, and so they must dance. Go down, don't you know that this is your chance? Go down to the hoe-down. Sappho’s Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 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. Belfast's Streets by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 Belfast's streets are strangely silent, deserted for a while, and only shadows wander her alleys, slick and vile with children's darkening blood. Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones clack in misery beneath my booted feet, longing to be free from their legacy of blood, and yet there's no relief, for it seems that there's no God. Her sirens scream and her PAs plead and her shops and churches sob, but the city throbs —her heart the mobs that are also her disease— and still there's no relief, for it seems there is no God. I listen to a radio and men who seem to feel that only "right" is real. "We can't give in to men like them, for we have an ideal and God is on our side!" one angrily replies, but the sidewalks seem to chide, clicking like snapped teeth. And if God is on our side, then where is God's relief? And if there is a God, then why is there no love and why is there no peace? "Sweet innocence! this land was wild and better wild again than torn apart beneath the feet of ‘educated' men!" The other screams in rage and hate, and a war's begun that will not end till the show goes off at ten. Now a little girl is singing, walking t'ward me 'cross the street, her voice so high and sweet it hangs upon the air, and her eyes are Irish eyes, and her hair is Irish hair, all red and wild and fair, and she wears a Catholic cross, but she doesn't really care. She's singing to a puppy and hugging him between the verses of her hymn. Now here's a little love and here's a little peace, and maybe here's our Maker, present though unseen, on Belfast's dreary streets. This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms. Hills by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 For many years I have fought the rocks and the sand and the weeds, the frost and the floods and the trees of these hills to build myself a home. Now it seems I will fight no longer, but it’s a hard thing for an old warrior to give up. Here in these hills let them lay down my bones where the sun settles wearily to rest, and let my spirit dream in its endless sleep that someday it also shall rise to kiss the morning clouds. This wall of stone that I built of rock hewn by my own hands shall not stand long through the passage of time, and when it lies in cakes of dust and its particles kiss my bones, then the battle that these hills and I fought will finally have been won. But mother Gaia will not shun her wayward son for long; she will take me and cradle me in her mud, cover me with a blanket of snow, then sing me to sleep with a nightingale’s song. Now the night grows cold within me; no more summers shall I see … but, nevertheless, when June comes, my spirit shall wander the paths through the trees that lead to these hills, these ****** lovely hills, and then I shall be free. All the young sailors by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 All the young sailors follow the sea, leaving their lovers to live and be free, to brave violent tempests, to ride out wild storms, to dream of new lovers seductive and warm, to drink until sunset then stretch out at dawn in the dew of emotions they don't understand, to follow the sunlight, to flee from the rain, to live out their longings though often in pain, to dream of the children they never shall see while bucking the waves of an unending sea till, racked by harsh coughing, his lungs almost gone, straining to catch one last glimpse of the sun, the last of the sailors finally succumbs, for all the young sailors die young. Hush, my darling by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Hush, my darling; all your tears will never bring again that which Time has taken. And though you’re so ****** lovely that a god might wish to make you his, Time cares not for loveliness; he takes what he will take. Sleep now darling, don’t awaken till the dream is over. Dream of fields of clover dancing in an autumn wind. Lie down at my side and let sleep's soothing tide carry you into an ocean deep. Be silent, world; let her sleep. Do not disturb a child upon her journey mild into the realm of dreams. Sleep, carry her to that sweet state where little girls need not know Fate dismembers the dreams of men. Amora’s Complaint by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Will you walk with me tonight? for the moon hangs low and travelers seldom disturb the silence of this ghostly kingdom. We shall not be seen if we linger by this stream that shimmers in the starlight. Will you talk to me awhile? For sounds don’t carry very far; the interminable silence is barely marred by the labored breathing of the "giant" who lies sleeping in caverns fetid and vile, and I crave your immaculate smile. So close to death, the final sleep, he hastens as he lies. Silence louder than his sighs drifts on the languid air toward his musty lair, and all life that it finds, it keeps. And though he sleeps, in dreams content, mistaking bile for dew, he knows not what is true. His eyes are worse than blind men's eyes, for the images they “see” disguise how swift and sure is death's descent. His ears hear songs that are not sung; his nostrils scent a faint perfume permeating midnight's gloom, when all the while his rotting flesh heralds worms to view his death. He festers, having long been stung. O, once he was as you are now— full of passion, wild and free, majestic, formed most perfectly. But tonight, hideously deformed, he himself becomes a worm; though he doesn't see that he's changed, somehow. Why, he still calls me his “dearest friend,” although I cannot bear to near that stinking, dying sufferer! He asks me why I stray so far from the "comfort" of his arms ... Tonight, I said, "This is the end." O, he swore to not let me depart, but when he couldn't even rise to chase me as I leapt the skies, I think he almost understood. He frowned. His skin, like rotting wood, seemed to come apart. He almost touched my heart. But such a vile and leprous being I cannot have to be my love. So while the stars shine high above and you and I are here alone, help me undress; unzip my gown. Come, sate my Desire this perfect evening. Blue Cowboy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 He slumps against the pommel, a lonely, heartsick boy— his horse his sole companion, his gun his only toy —and bitterly regretting he ever came so far, forsaking all home's comforts to sleep beneath the stars, he sighs. He thinks about the lover who awaits his kiss no more till a tear anoints his lashes, lit by uncaring stars. He reaches to his aching breast, withdraws a golden lock, and kisses it in silence as empty as his thoughts while the wind sighs. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge between the earth and distant stars. Do not fall; the scorpions would leap to feast upon your heart. Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand for a drop of water warm and brown. Dream of streams like silver seams even as you gulp it down. Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs to hide the weakness in your soul. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge and wish that you were going home as the stars sigh. Cowpoke by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 Sleep, old man... your day has long since passed. The endless plains, cool midnight rains and changeless ragged cows alone remain of what once was. You cannot know just how the Change will **** the windswept plains that you so loved... and so sleep now, O yes, sleep now... before you see just how the Change will come. Sleep, old man... your dreams are not our dreams. The Rio Grande, stark silver sands and every obscure brand of steed and cow are sure to pass away as you do now. I believe “Cowpoke” was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. If Not For Love by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 The little child who cries, brushing sleep from startled eyes, might not have awakened from her dreams to fill the night with plaintive screams if not for love. The little collie pup who tore the sofa up and pleads here in a mournful crouch, might not have ripped apart the couch if not for love. And the little flower *** that broke and littered the rug with sod might not have been dropped if a child had not tried to place it at her mother's bedside— if not for love. Ecstasy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 A soft breeze stirs the sun-drenched grass that parts, reforms, and then is still. Sunshine, cascading from above, sipped by the flowers to their fill, then bursts out in the rosy reds, the violet blues and buttercup yellows, bolder, more eager, given fresh birth, somehow transformed within frail petals into an ecstasy of colors broadcast across the receptive land, which now wears a cloak like Joseph’s, nature’s brand. EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART II i (dedicated to u) by michael r. burch i. i move within myself i see beyond the sky and fathom with full certainty: this lifes a lethal lie my teachers try to tell me that they know more than i (and well they may but do they know shrewd TIME is slipping by and leaving us all to die?) i shout within myself i stand up to be seen but only my eyes watch as i rise and i am left between the nightmare of “REALITY” and sleeps soothing scenes and both are only dreams i cry out to my “friends” but none of them can hear i weep in dark frustration but they swim beyond my tears i reach out to assist them but they cannot find my hand they all believe in “GOD” yet all of them are ****** come, my self, come with me move within your shell cast aside ur “enlightenment” and let us leave this living hell ii. i watch the maidens play their fickle games of love and if this is what life is of then i have had enough all my teachers tell me to con-form to SOCIETY yet none of them will venture how (false) it came to be this gaud, SOCIETY i watch the maidens play and though i want them much i know the illusion of their purity would shatter at my touch leaving annihilated truth to be pieced together to dispel the lies that accompany youth i watch the maidens play and know that what i want i cannot take because then it would be gone iii. i watch the lovely maidens i search their sightless eyes i find that only darkness lies behind each guise i try to touch their feelings but they have been replaced by intelligence and manners and tact and social grace i want to make them love me but they cannot love themselves and though they seek love desperately and care for little else they stand little chance of much more than romance for a few days i try to friend the men but they have even less for they want nothing more than whatever seems “the best” their hollow, burnt-out eyes reveal: their souls have flown and all that loss has left is a strange, sad fear of debt and a love for things of gold iv. ive never seen a day break but ive seen a life shatter it was mine and i suppose it still is: all ten thousand pieces id. id like to put it together (someONE please tell me how!) for i am out of the glue called u that held my life together i.e. and i wish that u and i were thru but whatever u do dont say that we are! I wrote “i (dedicated to u)” after discovering the poetry of e. e. cummings while reading independently in high school. Ode to the Sun by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Day is done ... on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun. Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me. Now day is done ... on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace, for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on. Perspective by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 Childhood is a summer sky — the clouds are always passing by. Old age is a winter storm — the clouds are always coming on. Recursion by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 Love is a dream the pale dreamer imagines; the more he imagines, the less he can see; the less he can see, the more he imagines, for dreams lead to blindness, and blindness —to dreams. Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons ... and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears ... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway —a man as large as I left— and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim— "My father!" "My son!" Pilgrim Mountain by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 I have come to Pilgrim Mountain to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow. Do not ask me why I have done this, for I do not know … but I had a vision of the end of time and I feared for my soul. On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks creak and groan in their misery, for they comprehend they're prey to night and day, and ten thousand other fallacies. Sunlight shatters the stone, but midnight mends it again with darkness and a cooling flow. This is no place for men, and I know this, but I know that that which has been must somehow be again. Now here on Pilgrim Mountain I shall gouge my eyes with stone and tear out all my hair; and though I die alone, I shall not care … for the night will still roll on above my weary bones and these sun-split, shattered stones of late become their home here, on Pilgrim Mountain. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Playmates by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14 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. "Playmates" was originally published by The Lyric. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher, Anne Meyers, called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! In any case, "Happiness" was my first longish poem and "Playmates" was the second, at least as far as I can remember. The Sandman’s Song by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I sing white water, birds on the bough, bunnies and redwoods to sleep … to sleep … I sing, “Wild forests, green meadows, blue seas, drink deep … drink deep … drink deep …” I whisper, “Bright robins, please, be wise, and wily weasels, close your eyes … fierce eyes …” I bid all the rivers, “Come, seek your beds!” I bid all the children, “Off, sleepyheads!” then softly shutter their eyes … eyes … eyes. I lullaby, lullaby down the plains, echo through mountains and moonlit hills … hills … hills … I murmur, “Oh, mothers, please don’t rise; shadows and stars, be still … be still … be still.” And the world sleeps. Published by Borderless Journal Martin Luther King Jr. was a poet in his famous "I Have A Dream" poem-sermon-speech. I recognized this as a boy in a poem I wrote in which an older Poet (with a capital "P") speaks to a younger poet (with a lower-case "p") who echoes his thoughts. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 I have a dream …pebbles in a sparkling sand… of wondrous things. I see children …variations of the same man… playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, …stone and flesh, a host of colors… together at last. I see a time …each small child another's cousin… when freedom shall ring. I hear a song …sweeter than the sea sings… of many voices. I hear a jubilation …respect and love are the gifts we must bring… shaking the land. I have a message, …sea shells echo, the melody rings… the message of God. I have a dream …all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone… of many things. I live in hope …all children are merely small fragments of One… that this dream shall come true. I have a dream! …but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?… Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. …i can feel it begin… Lovers and dreamers are poets too. …poets are lovers and dreamers too… Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Rachel Lindsey by Michael R. Burch, age 22-26 Rachel Lindsey lives in fear of a love she'll never know, and she dreams of it in tears, but she will not let it grow, so she's building up a fortress that will keep her feelings in. It will have walls wide as China’s, and higher still, and then she'll build herself a tower that will rise above those walls. There she'll watch her love for hours as he tries to climb, but falls. And she'll sigh each time he falls, and she'll gasp each time he makes a little headway up her fortress, but she need not fear—she's safe. She wants desperately to love him, but she will not pay love's price; though she dreams about surrender, she's been living out a lie. She's no damsel in a tower; she's a woman growing old. She can't spare another hour to be distant, cruel and cold. And she knows this, but she knows that love's a gamble: few can win. And she cannot bear to see her heart spin Fortune’s wheel again. So she'll watch him as he walks, at last, dejectedly away, and she'll call and she will call, but she’ll never, never say the only words to make him stay. She'll never say, "I love you." Oh, my fair lady by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Oh, my fair lady, where have you gone … Over the mountains to follow the sun? Off to the northlands to follow the snow? Tell me, sweet lover; I'll go, oh I'll go! Morning by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. And everywhere the flowers were turning to the sun, just as the night before I had turned to the one for whom my heart yearned. “Morning” was published in my high school literary journal. In the Twilight of Her Tears by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 In the twilight of her tears I saw the shadows of the years that had taken with them all our joys and cares … There in an ebbing tide’s spent green I saw the flotsam of lost dreams wash out into a sea of wild despair … In the scars that marred her eyes I saw the cataracts of lies that had shattered all the visions we had shared … As from a ravaged iris, tears seemed to flood the spindrift years with sorrows that the sea itself despaired … impressions of a desert by michael r. burch, circa age 16 a barren wasteland nothing grows from the sky molten gold heats, congeals oases vanish or waver ,unreal, even scorpions languish somber mountains shift and merge dustbowl seas at the verge of the horizon stretch, converge the sky is poison sand storms surge lizards whining curse the sky squinting fire from burnt eyes slipping, squirming rattlesnakes quench awful yearning for moisture and hate a flower every thousand miles rustles crinkles worn and dry As the Flame Flowers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20 As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame, arches leaves skyward, aching for rain, but it only encounters wild anguish and pain as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem. Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem reaches through night, through the staggering pain, for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain, as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame. Mesmerized by a distant crescent-shaped gem which glistens like water though drier than sand, the flower extends itself, trembles, and then dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind. The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions. Ashes by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 A fire is dying; ashes remain … ashes and anguish, ashes and pain. A fire is fading though once it burned bright … ashes once embers are ashes tonight. “Ashes” is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” written the same day, I believe. still by michael r. burch, circa age 21 ur eyes are bluer than midnight —bluer, darker, more magic still— and ur lips are sweeter than honey —sweeter, warmer, more thrilling still— ur touch is gentler than raindrops —gentler, kinder, more nurturing still— yet UR more elusive than moonlight never once known and not still. In dreams like these by Michael R. Burch, age 26 In dreams like these, vexed seas engage and, gasping, grapple—wave to wave— while, farther off, dark storm clouds rise … I seek affection in your eyes and long for laughter on your lips. I trace your cheeks with fingertips that yearn to show you how I feel, yet tremble that this seems so real. In dreams like these faint stars, enraged, decline to warm the anguished waves while, further off, a storm ensues … Melissa, oh my love, I use my poetry to keep you near when you are more than miles away and dreams to drive away despair; return to me, and this time, stay. I wrote this poem during a troubled time in my first live-in relationship. In fantasies by Michael R. Burch, age 26 In fantasies I see you smile a wistful smile, as though to please; you touch my heart … I yearn and ache. I wish that you were here with me. In fantasies I dream of times when you and I were all alone; anxiety seemed distant then, much closer now that you have gone. In fantasies I have you now, I kiss your lips and hold you near, and all the world is brilliant light commingling both joy and fear … Return again; let dawn appear. “In fantasies” was written the same day as “In dreams like these.” jasbryx by michael r. burch, circa age 16 hidden deep inside of Me is someone else, and he is free; he laughs aloud, yet never is heard; he flits about, as free as a bird, so unlike Me silently within MySelf, he shouts aloud and shuns the shelf s'm'OTHERS deem to be his place; yet SOCIETY is not disgraced, for he is never heard above the spoken word "o, i am not as others are — inhuman things devoid of fire, for i am all i seem to be — innocent, childlike, frolicsome, free — and i raise no ire!" no, he is not as others are — keeping up with the JONESES, raising the BAR; living his life like a lark free of CARE: never brushing his TEETH, never parting his HAIR, and he's no ONE's sire! yes, he is all he seems to be — wild, rambunctious, innocent, free, so unlike Me I wrote “Jasbryx” in high school, under the influence of e. e. cummings, around age 16. The love we shared by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-24 The love we shared was lukewarm wine; we drank until the cup ran dry and then we filled it once again … fierce passions bubbled at the brim. And when the bottle, too, ran dry, we stomped our hearts to brew champagne; pale liquid love flew forth like rain … we thought to drink worth all the pain. And, O, the ecstasies we knew as long as wine gleamed in the cup, but when our spirits were consumed, leaving not a single drop, we tasted bitter dregs at last and learned that love was not enough. Lying by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Lying here beside you, I cannot meet your eyes, and yet, somehow, I still can see the tears welling up and glistening, blue, a part of me, a part of you . . . a part of all we've been throughout the years. Now the night is dark and fading into darkness deeper still, and your body shakes beside me as you weep, but what am I to say to you— a pleasing lie, the painful truth? I close my eyes and wish that I could sleep. My grandfather's hills by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 My grandfather lies at the foot of an oak far from the beaten path, and never before has a spirit so free lain fettered in sleep. But though he lies and walks no more, I see his eyes in the setting of the sun and I hear his voice when the sap runs, for these are an old man's hills. Don't tell me the government "owns" them, for the government didn't live them and breathe them and roam them— only he did. Don't tell me the government "regulates" them, when seventy years of his sweat and his blood and his tears flow through the waters of these hills to nourish the trees … No, these are an old man's hills. No one knew them as he did— every hole where the woodchucks hid, every nest where the blue jays lived— and nobody loved them as much as he loved them. Only he cared when the flood waters killed the tiny buds and the blades of grass that grew beyond the fields. And only he cared when the last bear died, caught killing livestock. "The oldest bear ever lived," he'd brag, "and the smartest." Though we'd often hear it trip and crash against the trash cans. These are an old man's hills, and they will never be the same without his loving hand gently transplanting shrubs and trees that surely would have died in the rocky, shopworn land. Yes, these are an old man's hills, and his eyes were the blue of the autumn skies he knew so well even after he went blind. "There's a few wispy clouds to the west today, fadin' away, ain't they, boy?" he'd ask me, and of course he was right. "Sure are, 'pa," I'd reply, and a smile would crease his face and a warmth would pour out of his soul, for he loved his hills. Don't say that someday the wind and the rain will weather away his mark from the land— the well that he dug and the wall that he built and the fields that he planted with his two callused hands. A memory cannot wither away when it’s reborn in the songs of the raucous jays and heard within the laughing waters of the sea's silver daughters. An old man lives within these hills, although he walks no more; I have often heard his voice within the winter's stormy snore; and I’ve seen his eyes flash sometimes in the bluest summer sky; and I’ve heard his silent laughter in my newborn baby's cry. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) I believe "My Grandfather's Hills" and "Twelve-Thirty" were written on the same day, or very close to each other. Twelve-Thirty by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 How cold the nights become so quickly; now a small fire does little to quench the winter's thirst for warmth. Sometimes it seems that all my life has been an endless winter: the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded … and time goes slowly when a man's strength is not enough to meet his needs. Tonight I feel an old man creeping into my bones, willing to die and sleep and never dream, and I accept him, not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease until I die, but because I am too weak and too weary to wish it otherwise … and a man is so very close to the edge when he lacks the strength to wish. Long ago, when I was young, I would run and fall and cry and not give up. But now it is twelve-thirty, the darkest hour of the night, and I am at the darkest point that I have ever known in life. So even as the frigid winds pass silently across the hills, I feel my spirit sigh within and steal into its cell. No longer does it venture forth to dare new feats and find its fate, but it lies asleep throughout the night and does not awake except to eat a little more of my life away. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Clown by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 My “friends” often remind me that I am a sluggard, a fool. They say that I resemble a clown and I suppose it is true that I do. There’s no need to mince words, for I know how ugly I am. And though I always tell myself that I don’t give a **** I do. How can I say that which I must —“Embrace me. Shelter me. Be mine”— when my appearance always bothers me as much as it does? And yet with you I’m sure that I could live my life and never mind; just the touch of your lips in the night could fill my troubled mind with trust. Just your presence at my side could give me all the strength I need; and your understanding touch could help my broken heart to heal a little each day. But what’s the use? This cannot be although I wish it so. My love, you’re far too beautiful for me to ever have or know for even a day. So when you send me upon my way —a tragic, foolish clown— you don’t have to struggle to kiss me goodbye. Don’t give me the runaround. Just please don’t put me down. Laughter from Another Room by Michael R. Burch, circa 18-19 Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist. Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry. Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints. The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; the poet never finds the words. The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior never knows his foe. The warrior never knows his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; the guiltiest are not to blame. The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods. If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; other men observe through tears. Other men observe through tears the passage of these days of doom; now I listen and I hear laughter from another room. Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Leaden-eyed lovers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Leaden-eyed lovers, sung to sleep by your own breathing, don't your hear the silence despairing, and the wind deceiving? Have you never wondered if there’s more to life than a dream of love and a fear of time? And what if tonight you have had each other wildly, totally, as only in love? What if tomorrow you shall have no others— is once ever enough? Is anything ever enough? Can you save enough love to last till tomorrow? Can you make enough memories to last when you've aged? And when you've grown old and are weary of burning, how then will you rage, ranging, busy seeking a continual change? You will never rest easy as long as you fear the dull encroachment of the coming years. You will never learn the meaning of love if you imagine it fading with a gray hair. Leaden-eyed lovers, dreams so incurious are bound to mislead. Open your eyes, look to each other, pay time no heed. Offer each other the promise of tomorrow and perhaps you may see. Liar by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 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. Lincoln by Michael R. Burch, age 20 A little child lies sleeping where the wind cannot touch him, while a flicker from an unseen star, though very, very dim, now and them creeps through the blinds to gently touch his eyes. If only he would open them, their forces might comprise! But still the storm is raging, and still sleep’s bonds hold firm; although he tosses in his dreams, in bed he merely squirms. And though sometimes he notices a warmth that wells within, he cannot understand conflicting omens on the wind. And still a single pelican he sometimes sees at dawn, flashing through the heavens; as soon as it is gone, he hears a strange, vague melody, a strain upon the wind that never echoes long enough for him to comprehend. I attended kindergarten and first grade in Lincoln, Nebraska. The pelican refers to my birth in Orlando, Florida. The use of “comprise” is intentional, as in “come together to create something larger.” Damp Days by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 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 morasses of clumped clay while the temples throb in pain at the thought of more damp days. Embryo by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17 You sail on an ocean of crystalline water somewhere far beyond where the Hebrides part, listening for the whispers and murmurs of a life-giving heart. Then you glide through the eerie, impregnable darkness somewhere far beyond the harsh brightness of birth, listening for a monotonous tremor that, half-forgotten, you now remember. You rest on the surface of silver-tongued waters somewhere far beyond a life that is lost, listening to a voice gently calling you to the coast. Then you dive through the depths’ strange, unfathomable darkness, caught somewhere between the beginning and end, listening for a sound through the stillness, with a stubborn willfulness, wondering when. You laze on a surface of shimmering clearness, trapped somewhere between fiery sunset and night, listening for a trumpet to sound its message bright. Then you plummet through the unsolvable darkness, somewhere far beyond any star, moon or sun, listening for the sound of the laughter of the gay daughters of Poseidon. You bask in the brilliance of cascading raindrops, somewhere within reach of a life you once lived, listening for the peal of a trumpet and a shiver of the sea and the wind. Then you drop through the depths of an alien ocean, sluggishly moving through its gravity, somewhere between the dead and the living, the dark and the livid, the end and eternity. So sail on your ocean of crystal-clear water, or ride on the crest of a bright tidal wave; tomorrow, perhaps, the trumpet will call you back from the grave. Or crawl through the depths of the pulsating darkness with the thud of a heartbeat strong in your ears, and do not worry that you might not awaken; for your time is not measured in years, but in changes. I wrote “Embryo” around the time I wrote “The snowman sleeps under the Sea.” The snowman sleeps under the sea by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Beware while bright sunlight, in ardor, caresses and kisses one arc of the earth, for others are trapped in the dungeons of night— crazed victims of an insane demon's mirth. Beware while the children are playing under a sun brightly blazing, for soon they, too, will be paying for the time they once thought free … for an ice-capped mountain is swaying and a snowman sleeps under the sea. Beware, though life's moments are fleeting, for, fleet though they may be, a moment in Hades, I have heard, can stretch into an eternity. Beware of the clouds whitely lazing under a sun brightly blazing, for soon dark Night will be freed, her black canopy raising. Now an ice-caped summit is waving and an iceman sleeps under the sea. Beware the snowman, cold as death, with winter terror on his breath; if he should touch you, flee, my friend, or into hell’s cold depths descend. I believe “The snowman sleeps under the sea” was inspired by the title of the Eugene O’Neill play “The Iceman Cometh” and the biblical idea of hell as bleak, cold “outer darkness.” M'lady by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Your nose is freckled like an imp's and tilts as though to see what's going on around it. And you never really sit; you wriggle, squirm and bounce as though you were a child … Well, I think perhaps you are, but the car is pulling up, M'lady. You're never dignified, yet no matter what I say, you still will toss your head and blazing curls, rebellious red, as though you were a queen surrounded by her slaves … Now may I have your hand, M'lady. Your eyes are full of mischief, of a childish sort, no doubt, and I know what plots you’re thinking because your eyes keep sinking, refusing to meet mine. Don't say it's “just the wine”! Now may I have this dance, M'lady. I'd ask you to behave, but I know you never shall, for, like a child, you're stubborn, refusing to be governed by any save yourself. Still, you know I wouldn't change you, even if I could … Though I'm almost sure I should, M'lady. But please pull down your dress! Man by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 Man levels woodlands to the ground and thinks that makes him "strong." He lives until he's eighty and he thinks his life is "long." He flings a tin can to the moon and thinks that makes him "wise." He thinks he's mastered "logic," yet falls for shysters' lies. Earth's mountains rise and fall and rise without the aid of man, and who's lived longer than the sea: what is its lifespan? Ten thousand meteors reach the moon, yet all they are is dust. As for the truth, what is it? We've barely scraped the crust. Man studies anthropology and thinks he's mastered "life." He fights his wars with capguns and thinks he knows of strife. He rules the land and braves the sea; he thinks he's over all; but compared to infant galaxies, he's not old enough to crawl. For the universe is ageless, and man knows no life but ours; and what weight hold wars when compared with the gravity of stars? And can man rule the elements? How can he take on airs, having only managed one small step on an infinite set of stairs? Man writes his faulty philosophies, his poetries and songs; he thinks he's all-important, that his Bibles can't be wrong. He tells himself he's "thoughtful," that he's "rational" and "wise." He thinks he'll build an empire that stretches beyond the skies. He puts himself above the stars; he's sentient, stalwart, brave. He thinks he'll tame the universe, yet he remains its slave. More energy than he can use flows each second from the sun. More space than he imagines lies from here to the next one. Yes, he speaks in terms of "light-years" but he cannot pass their bar. He'll be born and die a billion times in one heartbeat of a star. He's going to conquer time itself! Can he tell me what time is? Can he imagine his conceit, or the vanity that's his? The universe is boundless; it knows no end, nor time. It sings in crackling energy, supernovas are its rhyme. And the universe can form a sun, but man can't make a tree. And when we've used up everything, then what will there be? "Man" appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976. Born to Run by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17-18 And so you have gone … gone though you knew how I needed you, gone though I begged you to stay. Still, it's better this way— for neither of us could say goodbye. Not while harsh summer still steamed heaven's skies, not while love's embers still flared in the night, stirred by the winds of the feelings we shared, not while we were both running scared, and not even now. Still, it's better, somehow, that you left me this way … I don't think we two could have lasted even another day. Oh, sometimes it seems love was only a dream, a dream we could never let live, though we'd have sworn that we had the first time we met secretly, sinfully, nervous and wet with that August night’s heat under the old covered bridge. We were always half-lame, hungry, tired and afraid, running from this or from that, our only possessions my pipe and your hat … my pipe and your hat and the old, ugly cat who tagged along so many miles, eying us with a warped, wicked smile till we drove it away … And "those were the days." Yes, those were the days and those were the nights … That hot August night I first took you, bedding you in the damp grass, your ******* liquid fire in my harsh grasp, your lips wet and warm; I had never been with a woman before, nor you with a man, and when we had finished neither could stand. Now I think of those days, running half-crazed, living on love and an old frying pan empty as often as not. And the cheap, sickening *** that we bought when we could never did either of us any good though we though that it did. Remember that night when we hid sixteen hours in the back of a barn after stealing a car? It wouldn't even run. We were the ones who were running … running, always running, never slowing down, without thought to direction … spinning around and around. Well, you've stopped spinning now; I wonder if I have. How many years did we wander? From sixty-two till seventy-five? We must have been the last hippies alive! … I wonder where the others all went. They must have grown tired of running and tired of wondering why — I know you did. Well, I'm tired of spinning, too, but I've never learned to stand still. It's easier to run, though it's hard to refill on the move. Well, I guess that I'll be moving on, hitching a ride and following the sun. Perhaps you'll regain a life that seemed gone along with the wind and the snow and the rain; perhaps the old life can lived once again; I hope you're not wrong … I'm sure you're not wrong. But I've got to move on and follow this road till its winding is done … 'Cause I think that I was born to run. I remember writing “Born to Run” after Bruce Springsteen appeared on the cover of TIME in 1975. Chains by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-21 Roses bloom within your eyes, bright with laughter, rich with love, echoing the morning's light, full of promise, full of life. And how I long to kiss your eyes, to taste the salt of love's sweet tears, to feel the fullness of the years, to know that you were always near. How often in the dark of night, when heaven was a dream we shared, our eyes would meet and then ignite into twin flames of fervent light. And now that time has healed the scars of wounds we suffered seeking peace, our chained eyes meet to find release and, bonded, we are truly free. Be Strong by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20 Don't imagine the future will be brighter when this world is as it is; don't keep an account of the sorrow and the pain and the loneliness you suffer today, hoping tomorrow will repay you for all you have lost; don't expect happiness in repayment, and never complain at its cost, but seize it while it is with you and hold it as long as you can; then, when it is gone, do not mourn it, though it may never touch you again. For happiness crumbles to softness; a man must be hardened by pain. The ruggedest trees grow in deserts; only lilies and daisies crave rain. So dance while the moment is with you, as desert flowers dance in the sun, then crawl to the dunes when the wind dies and the blossom-strewn showers are gone. Sing while the cords of your heart snap in the blistering sun; thank God for the bleak accompaniment they give you as they, snapping, strum the bitter song of the dying young. Rejoice! Rejoice! and, right or wrong, at least you'll know that you are strong. Gentle by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 Flowers bend before the wind, then straighten out to stand again fair and proud beneath the sun, catching bright honey as it runs slowly down the edges of the sky, then through the hedges, and, as the daisies shake themselves, spreading sunlight through the dell, you take my hand and kiss it, whispering, "Be gentle." Clouds pass slowly before the sun, bowing, then rising and passing on; and as they cool us with their shadows, refreshing all the sun-drenched meadows, the butterflies rejoice, rejoin their brethren and dance once again, splendid and holy in the sun. You kiss my lips and take me gently in your arms, and I rejoice in this most unexpected warmth. "Be gentle, love, be gentle," you whisper from your place of imprisonment and safety, clasped in my embrace. "Yes, I will be gentle," is my only reply as I draw you nearer and hold you dearer than the mountains hold the sky, gently kissing your eyes. I hold you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 I hold you in the darkness, and the night that seemed so long when I was young and restless—so restless, strong and young— seems fleeting when I'm with you, yet endless when I'm not, and I think, "Soon she'll be leaving," and I tremble at the thought. Then the walls close in around me and my fears begin to grow and the tears course down my cheeks and then, like rivers melting snow, they form the lines that Time did not, and there, upon my face, I feel the wrinkles sagging, dragging me to Death's embrace. But the moonlight sparkles on your lips, and you whisper, "I won't go," and my wrinkles disappear, as do those rivers, into snow, and the firelight crackles in your hair that burns a darker red, and you kiss me as you lead me gently back toward our bed. Ghosts of the Shawnee by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 I sleep in moodless blue of starry skies, lost to a dream of many ancient things; death's rivers seek to drench me as they rise, but I stand above them, watching through the night, for a maiden more mysterious than spring. As I dream in deepest blue of brooding seas, a flow past flooding washes down the night. O, I sip the bitter nectar of Shawnee and wonder at the blazing northern light that flares as though some day it might ignite. Then shadows steeped in starlight call my name and I know, somehow, that she at last has come. There I rise to meet her as she enters in with eyes aflame and hair as black as sin, and I kiss her though I long to turn and run. I held a heart in my outstretched hand by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 I held a heart in my outstretched hand; it was ****** and red and raw. I ripped it and tore it; I gnashed it and gnawed it; I gored it with fingers like claws, but it never missed a beat of the heartfelt song it sang. There my bruised heart wept in my open palm and the gore dripped down my wrist; I reviled it, defiled it; I gave it a twist and wrung it dry of blood; still it beat with a hearty thud, and its movement was warm with love. But I flung it into the ditch and walked angrily, cruelly away … There it lay in the dust with a ****** crust caking the crimson stain that my claw-like fingers had made, and its flesh was grey with death. Oh, I cannot say why, but I turned and I cried, and I lifted it once again, holding it to my cheek, where it began to beat, but to a tiny, tragic measure devoid of trust or pleasure. Then it kissed my fingers and sighed, begging forgiveness even as it died. Now that was many years ago, and I am wiser, for I know that a heart can last out any pain, but cannot bear to be alone. And my lifeless heart is wiser too, having seen the way a careless man can take his being into his hands and crush it into a worthless ooze. I saw the sun rising by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 I saw ten billion stars shine with the brilliance of but one, and I thought, "What strange, satanic deed has some foul demon done, to steal the luster from the stars, to dim the autumn sky?" But as I mused upon the moment, deep within your eyes, I saw a hint of morning within moonlit blue residing, I noticed glints of blazing dawn within blue depths deriding, I caught a glimpse of coming days, still, secret and surprising, within the silent seas that flowed, stark silver and enticing; yes, looking in your eyes, my love, amid a flash of lightning, I saw the darkness going down . . . I saw the sun rising. It's just another Monday by Michael R. Burch, circa age 25 Now it's a sad, sad, sad, sad day … for all the stars have faded away, but all the people turn and they say, "It's just another Monday." "It's just another Monday." “Jack” was inspired by the plight of a schoolmate who had a rare disorder that made it dangerous for him to exercise. However, the details of the poem are imagined; we didn’t grow up together and weren’t close friends. Jack by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 I remember playing in the mud Septembers long ago when you and I were young with dreams of things to come and hopes for feet of snow. And at eight years old the days were long —long enough to last— and when it snowed the smiles would show behind each pane of glass. At ten years old, the fights were few, the future—far away, and when the snow showed on the streets there was always time to play . . . almost always time to play. And when you smiled your eyes were green, but when you cried they seemed ice blue; do you remember how we cried as little boys will do— trying hard not to, because we wanted to be "cool"? At twelve years old, the world was warm and hate had never crossed our minds, and in twelve short years we had not learned to hear the fearsome breath of Time behind. So, while the others all looked back, you and I would look ahead. It's such a shame that the world turned out to be what everyone said it would. And junior high was like a dream— the girls were mesmerized by you, sighing, smiling bright and sweet, as we passed them on the street on our way to school. And we did well; we never tried to make straight "A's," but always did. And just for kicks, when we saw cops, we ran away and hid. We seldom quarreled, never fought, for in our way, we loved each other; and had the choice been ours to make, you would have been my elder brother. But as it was, it always is— one's life is lost before it's lived. And when our mothers called our names, we ran away and hid. At fifteen we were back-court stars, freshman starters on the team; and every time we drove and scored the cheerleaders would scream our names. You played tennis; I played golf; you debated; I ran track; and whenever grades came out, you and I would lead the pack. I guess that we just had the knack. Whatever happened to us, Jack? Olivia by Michael R. Burch for Olivia Newton-John Turn your eyes toward me though in truth you do not see, and pass once again before me though you are distant as the sea. And smile once again, smile for me, though you do not know my name … and pass once again before me, and fade, and yet remain. Remain, for my heart still holds you —soft chords in a dying song!— * Stay, for your image still lingers though it will not linger long. And smile, for my heart is breaking though you do not know my name. Laugh, for your image is fading though I wish it to remain. But die, for I cannot have you, though I want you, this fell night; darken, and fade and be silent though your voice and aspect are light. Yet frown, for you cannot touch me though I have touched you now; then go, for you have not met me, and never, never shall. Phantasmagoria by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The night was a wrinkled pachyderm; grey-skinned and monstrous, it covered the earth till the sun, like a copper-mouthed serpent, swallowed it slowly, giving dawn birth. Behold the kaleidoscopic changing of nighttime to day; the sun, like a ravenous viper, has frightened the pale moon away. Intricate Melody by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Late in the sunlight silence, a shower of silver over the sea waltzed through the waves like a sad melody … She had eyes like September, flaming amber, searing autumn sunshine. She sang, "Love, I don't remember, was I yours, or were you mine?" And then in an stunning sunset, a flare of wildfire striking the trees rekindled the flames of an old memory … She had dreams like silver forests full of fancy dancing in the shadows. She sighed, "Love was working for us, now it's gone, I wonder how." But off the arcing evening, a frail trace of sunset recharging the breeze whispered the words of an old mystery … Though she sleeps in silver forests set in mountains towering to the heavens, still her heart beats to the chorus of one love, love for one man. “Intricate Melody” was inspired by “Unchained Melody” as covered by Bobby Hatfield of the Righteous Brothers in 1965. Marie by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Play your harp for me, Marie; merrily let it sing. Marry me and we will be happily together then. Marry me and we will be as happy as the jay; and I shall give you everything if only you will play for me today. Play your harp for me, Marie; make merry while we may! Melt my heart and move my soul; you shall, if you'll but play. O, play with me and we will be together for some time, and if you'll sing me songs as sweet as grapes when they combine, then I will sing you mine … Marie, let’s play! oh, say that you are mine by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 your lips are sweeter than apricot brandy; your breath invites with a pleasant warmth; you sweep through the darkest corridors of my soul— a waltzing maiden born of a dream; you brush the frailest fibre of my hopes and i sink to my knees— a quivering beggar. your eyes are bluer than aquamarine set ablaze by the sun; your lips as inviting as cool streams to a wanderer of desert lands; i sleep in your hand, safe in the warmth of your tender palm, lost in the fragrance of your soft skin. WE make love as deep as purple pine forests, your laughter richer and sweeter than honey poured in a pitcher of peaches and cream, your malice more elusive than the memory of a dream, your cheeks tenderer than eiderdown and cooler than snow-fed streams; you touch my lips with the lightest of kisses and my soul sings. Natashe by Michael R. Burch, age 21 I sleep through moodless blue of unstarred skies … dark waves weave patterns; wild sequestered seas grow huge and heavy, foddered by the breeze that blows them down. I drink Natashe; naval frigates freeze in agony across the frigid seas of death's domain. She brings me pain, and, comfortless, I toss like one who has slept too long on a slab-hard bed. O, I stir myself and groggily I groan just as Natashe said I surely would. God, these dreams are no good; I'd much rather live. Why did you leave? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Your touch was the warmth of a summer day, the revivingness of showers in May, the festivity of the coming of fall, the sparkle of winter's icicled walls, the splendor of sunset, the furor of dawn, as soft as a feather, as clear as a pond enchantingly blue. Your laughter was lilac and lemon and low; your tears were dimensions of sorrow untold; your kiss was enchanting—slow dancing and wine; your love was a lyric in search of a rhyme; your eyes were green islands; your curls formed a sea of dark, dancing ringlets … Love, why did you leave? Happiness by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14 A friend of mine had lost his wife. He said, “Her death has wrecked my life; now all that I have left is sorrow! How can I bear to face tomorrow?” And he told me, “Happiness is like a bubble: what’s fine now will soon be trouble. Today you may be sailing high, soaring magically through the sky. But soon you’ll plummet back to earth, and you’ll find your problems only worse on the sad, sad day your bubble bursts.” But once an (alleged) wise man told me, “This is how it was meant to be: for, as the sun and rain make all things grow, so all men need *both happiness and sorrow.” And he told me, “Happiness is the warm sunshine; when it appears, the world seems fine. But when pain’s chilling rains appear, warmth soon dissolves; the world grows drear. Yet soon the sun will shine again to drive away the dismal rain!” How then I sang, how I exclaimed: “Oh, happiness is like a bubble! Double, double, toil and trouble! Bright roses bloom amid the rubble! When shall I get my manly stubble, or will I be forever gullible? If present joys cause future pain, does anyone care if I abstain?” "Happiness" is the first longish poem I remember writing, around age 13-14, and I consider it my first real poem. EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART III Sarjann by Michael R. Burch , circa age 16-17 What did I ever do to make you hate me so? I was only nine years old, lonely and afraid, a small stranger in a large land. Why did you abuse me and taunt me? Even now, so many years later, the question still haunts me: what did I ever do? Why did you despise me and reject me, pushing and shoving me around when there was no one to protect me? Why did you draw a line in the bone-dry autumn dust, daring me to cross it? Did you want to see me cry? Well, if you did, you did. … oh, leave me alone, for the sky opens wide in a land of no rain, and who are you to bring me such pain? … This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around age 16-17, but could have been started earlier. Shadows by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns— we merge, emerge, submerge … then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men … when we were men, or almost so. “Shadows” appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun. Snapdragons: A Pleasant Fable with a Very Happy Ending by Michael R. Burch, age 21 We threaded snapdragons through her dark hair and drank berry wine straight from the vine. We were too young for love (or strong drink) but her lips were warm and her eyes so charmed, that I robbed a Brinks and bought her minks. The Road Always Taken by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 We have come to the time of the parting of ways; now love, we must linger no longer, amazed at the fleetness with which we have squandered our days. We have come to the time of the closing of scrolls; beyond us, indecipherable Eternity rolls … and I fear for our souls. We have come to the point of no fork, no return; above us, a few cooling stars dimly burn … And yet I still yearn. Tonight how I miss you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Tonight how I miss you, as never before, though morning is only a moment away. Oh, I know I should sleep, but I lie here, distraught, as you flit through my mind—such a wild, haunting thought. And love is a dream that I lately imagined— a dream, yet so real I can touch it at times. But how to explain? I can hardly envision myself without you, like a farce without mimes. Deep, deep in my soul lurks a creature of fire, dormant, not living unless you are near; now, because you are gone, he grows dim, and in dire need of your presence, he wavers, I fear … How he and I wish, how we wish you were here. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane; on a green ***** of moss she nestled my head and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ecstatic sighs … But the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears! Years I abided the eclectic assaults of her flesh … She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a moment’s rest … She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left its barb in a maelstrom of light. Love’s last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. Yesterday My Father Died by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 Rice Krispies and bananas, milk and orange juice, newspapers stiff with frozen dew … Yesterday my father died and the feelings that I tried to hide he'll never know, unless he saw through my disguise. Alarm clocks and radios, crumpled sheets and pillows, housecoats and tattered, too-small slippers … Why did I never say I cared? Why were few secrets ever shared? For now there's nothing left of him except the clothes he used to wear. Dimmed lights and smoky murmurs, a brief "Goodnight!" and fitful slumber, yesterday's forgotten dreams … Why did my father have to go, knowing that I loved him so? Or did he know? Because, it seems, I never told him so. The last words he spoke to me, his laughter in the night, mementos jammed in cluttered cabinets … What is this "love?" by Michael R. Burch, age 18 What is this "love" that drives men to such lengths as to betray their hearts and turn away from all resolve that once had granted strength and courage to them in life's harshest days? What is this "love" that causes men to shun the friends and family they once held so dear? What causes them to spurn the brilliant sun, to seek some gloomy cloister’s bitter tears? What is this "love" that urges men to yield their hearts' most cherished hopes and will’s restraint? What causes them to throw down reason’s shields, to spill their blood, till sense at last grows faint? This is the weakness in us, one and all— the love of love, the will to kneel, the hope, perhaps, to fall. “What is this ‘love’" was one of my earliest sonnets. You'll never know by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 You'll never know just how I need you, though you ought to know after all this time; you'll never see how much I want you, though your touch can tempt these words to rhyme. For storm clouds grow till stars flee, hidden; bright lightning rails against mankind; wild waves reach out toward scorched comets; but you do not see. You must be blind. Sundown by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Sunset’s shadows touch your eyes She’d rather have the truth than lies. wherein I find no alibis. And that seems strange … I wonder why. Now you and I have come this far, She seems so lovely and so calm. but further off, no guiding star. And yet I know that she is scarred. But without stars how can we see What’s best for her is best for me. ourselves, or where our paths fork free? And yet I loved her so sincerely! I think that we should end it here How can love end without a tear? and I can see that you agree. What’s best for her is best for me. Sunrise by Michael R. Burch, age 17 I ran toward a meadow that shimmered, all ablaze, and laughed to feel the buttercups my skin so softly graze. My soul was full of passion, my eyes were full of light, as sunrise crept into the depths of heart that had harbored only night. I leapt to catch a butterfly, then let it go again, and its glorious flight into the light caused me to clutch my pen and dash back to my darkling room to let the sunrise in, but not through open shutters,– through poems and psalms and hymns. Here “darkling” is a rare word that appears in more than one masterpiece of poetry. Spring dream time by Michael R. Burch, age 19 There are no dreams of springtime tomorrow left to my heart now that winter has come, nor passion to shine like a sun in ascendance to fierce incandescence; my spirit is numb. How shall I write when the words hold no meaning? How shall I feel, when all feeling is gone? How shall I seek what has never had presence or gather an essence I never have known? How to recapture what I once believed in, lost to strange seasons of riotous sun? How to rekindle the heart's effervescence, the spirit's resplendence, when springtime has flown? How will I write what has never been written? How can this ink leap from pen into poem? How can I believe what I know has no feasance, reducing the distance from fancied to known? Are there no others who dream not to lessen, not to wilt before winter, not to weaken—not some who **** to hellfire this winter of demons, imagining seasons of springtime to come? Tell me what i am by michael r. burch, circa age 14-16 Tell me what i am, for i have often wondered why i live. Do u know? Please, tell me so ... drive away this darkness from within. For my heart is black with sin and i have often wondered why i am; and my thoughts are lacking light, though i have often sought what was right. Now it is night; please drive away this darkness from without, for i doubt that i will see the coming of the day without ur help. This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. You didn't have time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 You didn't have time to love me, always hurrying here and hurrying there; you didn't have time to love me, and you didn't have time to care. You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung: too busy for love, "too old" to be young … Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time to take time and you didn't have time to try. Every time I asked you why, you said, "Because, my love; that's why." And then you didn't have time at all, my love. You didn't have time at all. You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun that had blinded your eyes and left you undone. Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You have become the morning light by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 You have become the morning light that floods from heaven, fair upon the dewed expanses of each lawn … I lift my face, for you are dawn. And in the warmth that, fanned to flame, I feel against my naked flesh, I find the fierceness of desire— the passions of each wild caress. Now how I long to make you mine in such a moment, as your ******* burn like fire in my hands, forming flame from drunkenness. And if in ardor for the sun or for your touch or for the wine, my lips should crush yours in a kiss so harsh and heated, tears combine with sweat and anguish till beads form— salt beads of passion on your brow, then lover, we will burn with dawn, for in your eyes the sun shines now. When I was in my heyday by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 When I was in my heyday, I howled to see the moon; the wail of a wolf, shrill, rising … then gruff echoed through night, such an impassioned tune! When I was in my heyday, hearts fluttered at my feet; I gathered them in like blossoms the wind had slaughtered and flung, but their fragrance was sweet. When I was in my heyday, I cursed the cage of stars that blocked me from rising above them and flying in rapture, uncaptured, beyond their bright bars. When I was in my heyday, my dreams were a dazzling mist that baffled my vision and veiled farthest heaven, but what did I care? I clenched fire in my fist! The Swing by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I. There was a Swing tied to a tall elm that reached out over the river. There, I used to send you flying out into the autumn air till you began to shiver, then I’d gather you in again, hugging you to keep you warm. How I loved the scent of your hair and the flush of your cheeks! I’d dream of you for weeks when you were at Vassar and I was at Mayer. Then, come the summer, how I loved to see your knee-length skirt billowing about you, revealing your legs, aloed and darkly lovely, and to feel your ample hips —so soft, so full, so warm— when I touched them, “accidentally,” of course, while swinging you. You always knew, I’m sure of that now. And you never let me go too far. But your kisses were warm. Oh, I remember—your kisses were warm! II. I’d often dream of ********** you, and once, just once, when I was helping you down from the Swing, I touched your breast, and you paused. Hurriedly, I unbuttoned your blouse as you stood breathless, and with good cause, after riding the Swing as wild as I swung you. Your bra was Immaculate White, your ******* warm and firm beneath the thin material. You said nothing until I flipped your skirt up, then slipped my fingers inside the waistband of your matchless cotton ******* to feel your hips, so full and so inviting, and then your nether lips. At which you said, “That’s enough,” gently, and it was. III. Now I think of those days and I wonder why I ever let you go. I remember one dark hour when, standing in the snow, you told me to take you or to let you go. I was a fool. Proud, and a fool. All you asked was for us to be married after we finished school. But I was a fool. IV. But I always loved you— my wild risk taker! My sweet gentle ******* of elms, my lovely heartbreaker. V. Now you’re a dancer, and a fine one, I’m told. I saw you, once, in men’s magazine. You hair was still maple with highlights of gold, your eyes just as green. But somehow you didn’t quite seem the wild sweet rambunctious angel of my dreams who’d defy men’s eyes and the edicts of heaven simply to Swing. The Latter Days: an Update by Michael R. Burch, age 22 1. Little Richard grew up. Now the world is not the same, somehow. And Elvis Presley passed away— an idol but with feet of clay. The Beatles left have shorn their locks; John Lennon died and Heaven rocks, though Yoko Ono still remains. (The earth is full of passing pains.) 2. The wall is being built, we hear, although the reason’s far from clear. But there’s one thing we know for sure: there’s never money for the poor. There are, however, trillions for the one percent, and waging war. ’Cause Tweety has an “awesome” plan: kiss Putin’s *** and nuke Iran! 3. The Hebrew prophets long ago warned of a Trump of Doom, and so we wonder if this “little horn” may be the Beast who earned their scorn. But surely not! Trump claims to be our Savior, true Divinity! So please relax, admire his rod, and trust this Orange Demigod! I wrote the first stanza at age 22 in 1980, then updated the rest of the poem after Trump became president in 2016. there is peace where i am going by michael r. burch, circa age 15 lines written after watching a TV documentary about Woodstock there is peace where i am going, for i hasten to a land that has never known the motion of one windborne grain of sand; that has never felt a tidal wave nor seen a thunderstorm; a land whose endless seasons in their sameness are one. there i will lay my burdens down and feel their weight no more, untouched beneath the unstirred sands of a neverchanging shore, where Time lies motionless in pools of lost experience and those who sleep, sleep unaware of the future, past and present (and where Love itself lies dormant, unmoved by a silver crescent). and when i lie asleep there, with Death's footprints at my feet, not a thing shall touch me, save bland sand, lain like a sheet to wrap me for my rest there and to bind me, lest i dream, mere clay again, of strange domains where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams. yes, there is peace where i am going, for i am bound to be embalmed within the chill embrace of this dim, unchanging sea … before too long; i sense it now, and wait, expectantly, to feel the listless touch of Immortality. This poem was written circa 1973, around age 15, after I watched a TV documentary about Woodstock. I think I probably owe the last two lines to Emily Dickinson. I believe "those who sleep the sleep of Death" was written around the same time and under the same influence. those who sleep the sleep of Death by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 those who sleep the sleep of Death sleep to wake no more … they lie upon a brackish shore where Time's tides lash the rugged rocks with waves that whip like ragged locks of long, unkempt white hair against the storm-filled air, but nothing can disturb them there. those who dream the dream of Death fail to see how Time pulses through the slime of earth’s dark fulsome loam, rank, rotting flesh and filthy foam … for, standing far off from the shore, She readies to attack once more those She had but killed before. those whom Death awakens awaken to a sleep that is far more deep than any they had known before; for there upon that ravaged shore, they do not see how Time now drives to destroy the fragile lives of those who still survive. The Song of the Wanderers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Through many miles of space we have flown; no life but ours have we known. No other race have we seen in the stars, nor under any sun that has shone. None in the shadows, none in the sun, none in the rainbows that brighten dark skies, none in the valleys, none in the hills, none in the rapids that ripple and rise. Our quest is near ending; the stars have been searched; we alone wander this vast universe. For every green planet, every blue sky we have encountered is barren of life. We are alone, unless below a creature exists somewhere in the snow. The planet beneath us lies shackled by night. The stars deck its mountains in garments of light. Close to us, its moon hovers ghostly in flight. Somewhere below us, perhaps there is life. Come, let us seek life, before we return to that fair planet for which our hearts yearn. Here snow descends as the wind whistles down from dark frozen northlands where glaciers abound. See, on the far shoreline, pale mists compound. Notice, companions, how the sun, like a fiery stallion, rears upon the eastern rim of a mountain range haggard, weathered and grim. A pity, perhaps, that at last it grows dim. But there's no life here, and so we must leave this desolate planet alone to its grief. No, wait just a moment! What can this be … concealed by dense fog here, surrounded by sea, some type of vessel, storm-tossed, to and fro? Yes, I believe, I'm sure that it's so! Here near this shoreline, half-buried in snow, lies a wrecked vessel dripping salt water and seaweed tresses. Make haste; let us hurry, the sea in its fury is dashing it upon the rocks! It may well be that at last we will see some relic of another race's past. What's this? It's no vessel, no ship of the seas. It's fashioned of stone and could not use the breeze. It has no engine, no portals, no helm, and yet it resembles … some demon from hell. It must be a statue, with horns on its head, long, flowing hair and a torch in its hand. Broken and shattered, cast off by the sea, tonight it erodes in this frozen dark sand. No, come, let us leave, it was fashioned by wind, molded by water and wasted therein. Come, let us leave it, to hasten back home; too long have we wandered, thus, lost and alone. The Liberty calls us; we cannot delay. Let us return now, and be underway. Through many miles of space we have flown. No other life have we known. And now that we know that we are alone, we search for our ancient home. Somewhere ahead she awaits our return, decked in bright garments of green; for eons of time we have not seen her face, and yet she has haunted our dreams. Somewhere ahead lies the planet we left when we set out the depths of deep space to explore, and now how we long to dash through her streams and sleep on her bright, sandy shores. The last cold, dark planet lies dying behind us; no others are left to be searched. The Liberty soon her last descent shall make when we relocate Mother Earth! The spinster waltz by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 The spinster waltz is playing in sad strains from other rooms, but here, where love beams, reigning, wedding bells greet brides and grooms. O, the bachelors are a-waltzing, but the married do not mind, for they whirl with one another to a far more hectic time. And as they feel the music seek to slow their breakneck thoughts, they murmur of the things they've gained, regretting what they've lost. The offering by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Tonight, if you will taste the tempting wine and come to sit beside me, I will say the words that you have thought that you might hear, the words that I have feared that I might say. And if you sit beside me with the goblet in your hand and offer me a sip to give me strength, then I will match your offer with an offer of my own, and, offering, so offer back that strength. And if I say, "I love you," don't laugh as though I jest, for a jester I am not, as you can see. And if I offer anything, I'll offer you myself — the man I am and not the man you see. For though you see successes and a man of many dreams, I see a pauper throwing dreams away; yes, once I dreamt of many things, but then I saw your face, and since I dream no more, and dreams can fade away. So if I offer you this ring of burnished gold that burns and sings, please take it for the thought and not the gold. And if I offer you my life, please understand, my love, don't sigh and tell me that you do not care for gold. I'm offering my love, my life, my joys, my cares, my fears, my nights, the dreams that I have dreamt and dream no more, I'm offering my soul, not gold … I'm offering my thoughts, my hopes … I'm offering myself and nothing more. And if this offer seems enough; if you can be content with love and cherish one who loves you as I do, then promise that I'll be your dreams, your hopes, your joys, your cares, all things that you could ever want or want to do. But if you cannot promise so, then let us say goodbye and go; I cannot love you less than I do now, but I would rather bear this pain and never, ever love again than burn in hope and fear as I do now. There Must Be Love by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 O, take me to earth’s tallest mountain and hurl me out into the dark; though I may fall ten thousand miles, still I’ll not say this life is all. I’ll shout, There’s more! There must be more! There must be Love. Then take me to faith’s highest fancy and show me all there is to see; though all the world bow prone before me, still I’ll not say this world is all. I’ll pray, There’s more. There must be more. There must be Love. Then lay me down beside dark waters where dying trees shed lifeless leaves, and though I shiver with the knowledge of my death, I shall not grieve. And when you say, There must be more … then I shall say, There is … believe! I’ll take your hand, and we’ll believe. This is how I love you Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Just to hold you as you sleep with your head against my shoulder, just to kiss your sweet lips and to know that you are mine, fills my heart with a sense of perfect completeness of a light and airy sweetness, like the scent of chilled white wine. For the love with which I love you is a pure and sacred thing, like the first touch of morning, when she bends to kiss her flowers; for then the dancing daisies and the gleaming marigolds reach out to receive her, each in turn, throughout dawn’s hours. And the light with which she touches them becomes their life; each stalk and stem are born of her who gives herself unselfishly. And to her spell the flowers bend, full willingly, with sometimes a hushed and fervent plea, "Touch me, O sun, touch me!" The Rose by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Oh Rose, thou art sick!”—William Blake Where life begins the seeds of death are likewise planted, but with faith the rose's roots combat the weeds’ to seek the nourishment it needs. Yet in its heart an insect breeds. Where dreams take form the flower grows, as do the weeds, and still the rose is gay and lovely, though her thorns are sharp! The casual touch she scorns … yet insects eat her leaves in swarms. When passion fails the rose grown old, no longer are her petals bold— in flaming glory bright-arrayed. In weeds of death at last is laid the rose by insects first betrayed. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22-25 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled; now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed parade before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. For you are music in my undreamt dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing starlets die. You touch me so and still I don't know why . . . But say you love me. Say you love me. Sheila by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 When they spoke your name, "Sheila," I imagined a flowing mane of reddish-orange hair tinged with fire and blazing eyes of emerald green spangled with desire. When I saw you first, Sheila, I felt an overwhelming thirst for the taste of your lips dry my lips and parch my tongue … and, much worse, I stuttered and stammered and lisped in your presence. But when I kissed you long, Sheila, I felt the morning come with temperamental sun to drive away the night with reddish-orange light and distant-sounding drums. Now I will love you long, as long as longing is, Sheila. The breathing low and the stars alight by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Silently I'll steal away into dank jungles pocked with night. I'll give no thought to the coming day; the breathing low and the stars alight alone shall mark my passage through in search of plateaus of delight. Through valleys filled with shrieks of fright I may pass; through vales of woe I may move with footsteps light. Who knows what trials I’ll undergo at the hands of demon Night before that fiend I overthrow? And yet at last the ebb and flow of time and tide will draw me tight within Death’s grasp; then I shall know the freedom of life's last respite, safe from dread nightmares and despite the breathing low and the black disquiet. Parting by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17 I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while. We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile. He roams this land in search of life, intent on being "free." I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree. I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim. He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain. I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand. I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can. I knew he couldn't stay, and so … I didn't even ask. We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task. We both know life's a winding road, with potholes every mile, and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles. One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife, but for now he has to travel on, to seek a more "natural" life. He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try, just as I must write my poems although none please my eye. For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue; still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through. He left me as I left a friend so many years ago; I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know, it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone. It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun. And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too; but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it's a rare girl who is true. I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast, still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past. Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can, and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men." We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be? We were friends for just a while … he went on to be "free." Rose by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Morning’s buds cling fervently to the tiny drops of dew that nourish them sacrificially, as nature bids them to. And how each petal cherishes the tiny silver gems that satisfy its thirst and caress its slender stem. All life comes of sacrifice, which makes it doubly sweet; for two lives sacrificed form one and thus become complete. Daisies plait the valleys that give their strength to yield such a tender host among the steamy summer fields. And how the flowers love the earth that freely gives its life, kissing and caressing it throughout the hours of night. So kiss me and caress me, love, for you are my fair Rose. And hold me through the depths of night and the heights of our repose. A bee entreats a flower: a tiny drop is given. A slender stalk caresses and gains a speck of pollen. All beings are dependent on others being too. And love cannot exist except when shared by two. So kiss me and caress me, love, for you are my fair Rose. And hold me through the depths of night and the heights of our repose. Spartacus by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Take the fire from her eyes to light the darkening skies exquisite shades of blue and jade. Place an orchid in her hair and tell her that you care, because you do, you surely do. Sleep beside her this last night; a clover bed, deep green and white, shall cushion you as leaves sing sad elegies to fleeting spring. Sleep beside her in the dew, both heartbeats fierce and true, and praise the gods who give such hearts, because you live. Not many do. So little time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 There is so little time left to summer, to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds … to be young. There is so little time left till autumn shall come. There is so little time left for me to be free … so little time, just *so, so little time. If I were handsome and brawny and brave, a love I would make and the time I would save. If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free — surely there would be one for me … Perhaps there'd be one. There is so little left of the sunshine although there's much left of the rain … there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain. I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. Valley of Stars by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 On a haunted moor, awash in starlight, when all the world lay hushed and still, while a ghostly orb, traversing the heavens, bathed every ridge of every hill in a shower of silver, I happened to spy a shadow creeping against the sky. And suddenly the shadow beckoned with a fair white hand, then called my name! Out of the haunting mists of midnight, through webs of ethereal light she came— the maiden I had wildly wanted, that had long my heart enchanted. It seemed to me that the stars shone brighter as she slipped into my arms, for they burned within the halo of her flaxen hair and warmed the air about us, so that I melted into the haven of her arms' shelter. Her fragrance of lilacs enraptured me; her sparkling eyes beguiled me. And when my lips found hers that night, nothing could have defiled me, or have dragged me down … we began to rise through the mists and vapors of a spinning sky. We rose for hours, or so it seemed, through galaxies of pearl and blue. She kissed my lips and made me feel that all I've heard of love is true. And now, although we're lost, I never wonder where we are, for my love and I wander paths of the sky, lost in a valley of stars. We Dance and Dream by Michael R. Burch, age 25 All the nights we danced it seemed the stars above were dancing too, and all the dreams we dared to dream it seemed were old dreams dreamed anew. But now no hallowed lovers’ lies pass our lips or glaze our eyes; and now no even wilder dreams cause our lips, with anguished screams, to pierce the peacefulness of night. We dance and dream, bereft of light, content to merely glide… We kept the dream alive by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Youthful reflections on the Vietnam War and the “Domino Theory” So that our nation should not “fall,” we sacrificed our lives; we choked back fears and blinked back tears. Our skin broke out in hives. We kept the dream alive. We counted freedom and honor worth saving; a flag waving against the sky filled us with pride, then led us to die. But was it a lie? What of the torch? What of its flame? We kept it lit through wind and rain. It brought us woe and bitter pain. And yet we bore it though it seemed the vaguest semblance of a dream. And all around the jungle screamed, “This is no place for you to die; the flag you fight for is a lie; the torch you bear burns bitter flame; the dream you cherish has no name but darkest shame …” We lost our lives, but to what gain? Will you walk with me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Will you walk with me a mile down this lane? for there is something I must say to you. And, as my feelings cry to be explained, this silence is a lie, bereft of truth. As does the bird that sings, I so must tell the feelings that my heart cannot keep in, for it must be a sin to speechless dwell when love entreats the trembling tongue to sing. And thus I cannot watch you silently, although I cringe to think that I must speak— my lisping lips then tremble shamelessly, my heart grows numb even as my knees go weak— but now the time has come to not delay, so listen closely to the words I say … If I could only hold you through the night, then wake to find you near me, each new day, my life would be so full of sheer delight that I would never notice should you stray. If I could only kiss your wanton lips and do so without fear of God's revenge, then I would even kneel to kiss your whip, and I would gladly bend to your demands. For I not only love your loving moods, fierce kisses and caresses and wild eyes, but darling, I still love you when you brood. I love you though you rail at me and lie. For love is not a passion that should fade; it burns!—the heat of sunlight on a cage. This was one of my first sonnets, or "sonnet attempts," written around age 18 as a college freshman in 1976. Where have all the flowers gone? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 Where have all the flowers gone that once shone in your hair when the sunlight touched them there? Now summer's fields are dark and bare. And what of all your lovely curls that caught the sunlight till a halo ringed their masses, golden-yellow? Into ash-grey their fire has mellowed… Where have all the starlings gone whose voices blended with your own in such a wild, emphatic song? From winter's grasp those birds have flown. And what of your own voice, my dear? Those splendid notes I hear no more which once from your sweet throat did pour. For now your throat is parched and sore. Oh, where have all the feelings gone? We once could name them all— emotions great and longings small . . . But now we heed them not at all. And what of our desire, my love, which we once wildly bore and felt at each soul's core? That passion now is calm, demure. For time has take all of this and the little left leaves much to miss. Were Love to Die by Michael R. Burch, circa age 24 Were love to die without pained sighs, without heartaches and brimming eyes, then tell me—what would love be worth if, dying, as in being birthed, it were no more than other words? Were love to die without a lie, without attempts to keep it nigh, then tell me—what would love have been if, fleeing as in entering, it was not holy, nor a sin? Were love to cause no grief, or pain, and come, then go, what would remain? And tell me—what would love have left if, being lost, as being kept, it did not bless and curse our fate? Won't you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 Won't you lie in my arms in the clutches of wine as dark petals, unfolding, whisper back to the vine? Won't you dream of that day, as I bring you again to an anguish, a heartache that throbs without end? Won't you dream of a day when the ocean grew wild, raging before us—green cauldron of bile!— while the passions we shared were stirred by a wind that later that evening sang softly of sin? Won't you rise in your yearning and touch me again? Won't you kiss me and curse me just as you did then? Won't you hate me and hold me and scold me and say that you'll never leave me, that this time you'll stay? O, tonight be my lifeline, re-cresting love’s waves … won't you rage in my arms as you did in those days? Won't you be half as gentle as you are rough, then spare me, care for me, saying, "This is enough!" Won't you lie in my arms with a lie on your lips and say to me, "Darling, there's nothing like this!" Won't you tell me, please tell me, O, what is the harm, as I lie here tonight with your child in my arms? The lamp of freedom by Michael R. Burch, age 16 When the lamp lies shattered, its bowl can be remade, but should its light be scattered, light cannot be regained. Hold high the lamp of freedom; let a man be no man's slave. Staying Free by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Others dwell in darkness, raging through the night, slaves to fearsome demons, though children of the light, where, caught up in emotions they fail to understand, they flock to laud the Mocker who kneads them in his hand. And all the revelations bright choirs of angels sing, they never seem to notice as their shackles clang and ring. They know naught of freedom, nor wish to—for, born slaves into dull lives of servitude, their chains they dearly crave. But let them live their captive lives; whatever they may be, for I am bound to be a man as long as I stay free. What Is Love If It’s Not Forever? by Michael R. Burch, age 17 My love, are you trying to tell me that you no longer love me? After all these years of sacrifice and hope and joy and compromise, are you saying that we are through? You always called me a romanticist, a fantasist, a dreamer, while labeling yourself a realist, a fatalist, a schemer … but I thought that, perhaps, a spark of romance existed also in you. And yet it seems that now, incredibly, you wish to leave me, and all that was said and done, unselfishly, in the name of love, must be written off as a total waste. You often hinted at a dark side to your inner nature, while despairing of my “innocent, unassuming character,” but I had always hoped that you would never act in such haste. For what is love if it’s not forever? Can such an ethereal thing exist beatifically for a moment and then be gone … like spring? Yes, what is love if it’s not forever? Is it caresses and laughter and words sweet and clever, intrigue and romance, sorrow and pain, whirligig dances, sunshine and rain, such as we had? Or is it more— a volcanic struggle deep at heart’s core; a wave of sweet sadness sweeping the shore of one’s emotions; a rampaging ocean of fantastical supposition; a ****** gut-wrenching war fought within oneself —such as I often felt, but which you admit now that you never have? [etc., see handwritten version] To prove you independence by leaving me is a quaint paradox, but unresolvable. So return to me, tell him goodbye, and let us tend to mysteries more solvable. For what is love if it’s not forever? Perhaps we already know, for we cannot live without one another: like the sunshine and summer, one cannot leave unless both will go. When love is just a memory by Michael R. Burch, age 25 When love is just a memory of August nights’ enflaming wine; when youth is just a dream, a scene from some forgotten time; when passion is a word for thought and nights are spent with friends; when we are old, and cannot “love,” how will you love me then? Are you so young and so naive that "love" means this to you— a fiery act, a frantic pact, a whispered word or two? O, darling, neither acts nor pacts could ever bind our hearts; only love might bond them, but then neither would be yours. And though we burn as one today, what ember does not die? Fire cleanses, but I fear only tears can sanctify. Yes, you may burn, and burn for me, but can you shed a tear to think that you and I might cool somewhere within the coming years? For love and hate are ill-defined, and where they meet, we cannot tell, but lust and love are unrelated, however closely they may dwell. And though I long for you tonight, such hellish passion I prefer to the hell of loving you with heat untempered by the years. Rag Doll by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed back and forth between cruel waves that have marred her easy beauty and ripped away her clothes. And her arms, once smoothly tanned, are gashed and torn and peeling as she dances to the waters’ rockings and reelings. She’s a rag doll now, a toy of the sea, and never before has she been so free, or so uneasy. She’s slammed by the hammering waves, the flesh shorn away from her bones, and her silent lips must long to scream, and her corpse must long to find its home. For she’s a rag doll now, at the mercy of all the sea’s relentless power, cruelly being ravaged with every passing hour. Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen shut to the pounding waves whose waters reached out to fill her mouth with puddles of agony. Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed; her hair hangs like seaweed in trailing tendrils draped across a never-ending sea. For she’s a rag doll now, a worn-out toy with which the waves will play ten thousand thoughtless games until her bed is made. Keywords/Tags: Early, Juvenalia, Young, Youth, Teen, Child, Childhood, Boy, Boyhood, Romantic, early, early poems, juvenilia, child, childhood, boy, boyhood, teen, teenager, young adult
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Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Early Poems by Michael R. Burch
EARLY POEMS by Michael R. Burch These are early poems and juvenilia by Michael R. Burch, many of them written as a teenager in high school, some while still a teenager as a college freshman and sophomore. Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky. Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say goodbye. There is a sequel, "Leave Taking II," at the bottom of this page. "Leave Taking" has been published by The Lyric, Borderless Journal (Singapore), Mindful of Poetry, Glass Facets of Poetry and Silver Stork Magazine. Styx by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Black waters, deep and dark and still... all men have passed this way, or will. "Styx" has been published by The Lyric, Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), The Raintown Review, Blue Unicorn, Brief Poems and Artvilla. Not too shabby for a teenage poem. Myth by Michael R. Burch, age 18 after Dylan Thomas Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. Published by There is Something in the Autumn (an anthology) and picked as the best poem in a Dylan Thomas poetry contest by the contest’s sponsor and judge, Vatsala Radhakeesoon. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch, age 20 The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. Published by The Lyric, The Aurorean, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and in a YouTube video by Asma Masooma Regret by Michael R. Burch, age 19-20 Regret, a bitter ache to bear . . . once starlight languished in your hair . . . a shining there as brief as rare. Regret, a pain I chose to bear . . . unleash the torrent of your hair . . . and show me once again— how rare. Published by The Chained Muse Observance by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Here the hills are old, and rolling carefully 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... I wrote this early poem as a teenager, around age 17, in a McDonald's break room. It was the first poem that made me feel like a "real" poet. "Observance" was originally titled "Reckoning" and it was was one of my earliest poems to be published. "Observance/Reckoning" has been published by Nebo, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse, Piedmont Literary Review, Tucumcari Literary Review, Borderless Journal (Singapore) and in the Borderless Journal anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles and the anthology There Is Something in the Autumn. Infinity by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair? Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth's wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity... windswept and blue. This is the second poem that made me feel like a "real" poet. "Infinity" has been published by Setu (India), Borderless Journal (Singapore), New Lyre, The Chained Muse, Penny Dreadful, Songs of Innocence, Artvilla and Lone Stars. Smoke by Michael R. Burch, age 14 The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today... The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away... I wrote this early poem around age 14 after seeing the ad for the movie "Summer of '42" starring a young Jacqueline Bisset.  "Smoke" appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, and my college journal, Homespun.  It has since been published by The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), Potcake Chapbooks (UK), Love Poems and Poets, Better Than Starbucks and Fullosia Press. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our husks into some savage ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze: blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, The Chained Muse and New Lyre Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true?   Is it true? Uncanny seer of all that appears and all that has appeared . . . what sights have you seen, what dreams have you dreamed,   what rhetoric have you heard? Is love an oration or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard?   Have you heard? "Moon Lake" was published by Romantics Quarterly, then set to music by David Hamilton and performed by the Australian choir Choralation. This early poem dates to around age 14 and was part of a longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song." Listen by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. Published by Penny Dreadful, Formal Verse, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England) The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. Something by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which denial has swept into a corner... where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Originally published in the anthology There is Something in the Autumn, then turned into a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong and published by Poezii in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte, "Something" is the first poem I wrote that didn't rhyme. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch, age 16 ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone .... requiescat in pace... May she rest in peace .... amen... Amen. This was my first translation, after I found the Latin prayer while sneak-reading one of my sister's historical romance novels. The Toast by Michael R. Burch, age 19 For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and grey, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames’ exhausted, drifting ash and petals falling from the rose ... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast— to joys set free, and those I fled. Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme Winter by Michael R. Burch, age 19 The rose of love’s bright promise lies torn by her own thorn; her scent was sweet but at her feet the pallid aphids mourn. The lilac of devotion has felt the winter **** and shed her dress; companionless, she shivers—nude, forlorn. Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean and Contemporary Rhyme. "Winter" was inspired and influenced by William Blake's poem "The Sick Rose." Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 Refuted by Michael R. Burch, age 18 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red ... — Shakespeare, Sonnet 130 Seas that sparkle in the sun without its light would have no beauty; but the light within your eyes is theirs alone; it owes no duty. Whose winsome flame, not half so bright, is meant for me, and brings delight. Coral formed beneath the sea, though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me; while your lips, not half so red, just touching mine, at once inflame me. Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse fathomless oceans fail to douse. Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared when winter comes, will wither quickly. Your cheeks, though paler when compared with them?—more lasting, never prickly. Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm, far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. I composed this poem in my head as a college freshman, as I walked back to my dorm from an English class where I had read Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 130.” This was my first attempt at a sonnet, but I dispensed with the rules, as has always been my wont. Am I by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 Am I inconsequential; do I matter not at all? Am I just a snowflake, to sparkle, then to fall? Am I only chaff? Of what use am I? Am I just a feeble flame, to flicker, then to die? Am I inadvertent? For what reason am I here? Am I just a ripple in a pool that once was clear? Am I insignificant? Will time pass me by? Am I just a flower, to live one day, then die? Am I unimportant? Do I matter either way? Or am I just an echo— soon to fade away? This is one of my very earliest poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” which appeared in my high school sophomore poetry assignment booklet. If not, it was a companion piece written around the same time. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems. Time by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 Time, where have you gone? What turned out so short, had seemed like so long. Time, where have you flown? What seemed like mere days were years come and gone. Time, see what you've done: for now I am old, when once I was young. Time, do you even know why your days, minutes, seconds preternaturally fly? "Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates," so I was probably around 14 or 15 when I wrote it. This seems like a pretty well-crafted poem for a teenage poet just getting started. "Time" and "Am I" were written on the same day, or within a short period of time, if I remember correctly. They were among the earliest of what I call my "I Am" and "Am I" poems. Righteous by Michael R. Burch, age 16-18 Come to me tonight in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising, spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer. Gather your hair and pin it up, knowing I will release it a moment anon. We are not one, nor is there a scripture to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms, but the swarms of bright stars revolving above us revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers. Published by Writer’s Gazette, Tucumcari Literary Review and The Chained Muse R.I.P. by Michael R. Burch, age 19 When I am lain to rest and my soul is no longer intact, but dissolving, like a sunset diminishing to the west, ... and when at last before His throne my past is put to test and the demons and the Beast await to feast on any morsel downward cast, while the vapors of impermanence cling, smelling of damask ... then let me go, and do not weep if I am left to sleep, to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps, only a little longer and more deep. Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Chained Muse. This is an early poem from my “Romantic Period” that was written in my late teens. Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch, age 15 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 earliest poems, written around age 15. Bound, by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground, I have lost what I once found in your arms. Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes, I have remade all my chains and am bound. Published as “Why Did I Go?” in the Lantern in 1976. I have made slight changes here and there, but the poem is essentially the same as what I wrote around age 14. Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch, age 11-13 If God is good half the Bible is libel. I read the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, ten chapters per day, at the suggestion of my devout Christian parents. I wrote this poem to express my conclusion about the bizarre behavior of the biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah . This was my first poem, as far as I can remember, although I considered it more of an observation at the time. Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun. Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life. There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived. The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind. They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life? Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago. Published by Borderless Journal Earthbound by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through these clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay— the sheep, the earthbound. Published by Boston Poetry Magazine, Native American Indian Pride and Native American Poems, Prayers and Stories Huntress by Michael R. Burch, age 19 after Baudelaire Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain. Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane. Rain falls upon your path, and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—On! Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Published by The HyperTexts and Sonnetto Poesia (Canada) Burn, Ovid by Michael R. Burch, age 14-43 “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973: I sat imagining watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers) as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, ************ ****** Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her ******* rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction? “Come unto me,      (unto me),”           together, we sang, cheek to breast,      lips on lips,           devout, afire, my hands      up her skirt,           her pants at her knees: all night long,      all night long,            in the heavenly choir. *** 101” and “Burn, Ovid” were written about my experiences during ninth grade at Faith Christian Academy, circa age 14-15 in 1972-1973. However, these poems were not completed until 2001 and are in a more mature voice and style than most of my other early poems. *** 101 by Michael R. Burch, age 14-43 That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. *** 101” and “Burn, Ovid” were written about my experiences during ninth grade at Faith Christian Academy, circa age 14-15 in 1972-1973. However, these poems were not completed until 2001 and are in a more mature voice and style than most of my other early poems. Because You Came to Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for Beth Because you came to me with sweet compassion and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair, I do not love you after any fashion, but wildly, in despair. Because you came to me in my black torment and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment they melt ... I am undone. Because I am undone, you have remade me as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me and bower me, somehow. I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, then revised it 30 years later and dedicated the new version to my wife Beth. Ambition by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Men speak of their “Ambition” and I smile to hear them say that within them burns such fire, such a longing to be great ... For I laugh at their “Ambition” as their wistfulness amasses; I seek Her tongue’s indulgence and Her parted legs’ crevasses. I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager! I wrote this one around age 18 or 19. An Illusion by Michael R. Burch, age 16 The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion... This is one of my early poems, written around age 16 and published in my high school literary journal. Describing You by Michael R. Burch, age 16 How can I describe you? The fragrance of morning rain mingled with dew reminds me of you; the warmth of sunlight stealing through a windowpane brings you back to me again. This is an early poem of mine, written around age 16. Analogy by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Our embrace is like a forest lying blanketed in snow; you, the lily, are enchanted by each shiver trembling through; I, the snowfall, cling in earnest as I press so close to you. You dream that you now are sheltered; I dream that I may break through. I believe I wrote this poem around age 18 or 19. Of You by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. I have tried to remember when I wrote this poem, but that memory remains elusive. It was definitely written by 1976 because the poem was published in the Lantern then. But many of those poems were written earlier and this one feels “younger” to me, so I will guess a composition date in 1974, around age 16. 49th Street Serenade by Michael R. Burch, age 16 It's four o'clock in the mornin' and we're alone, all alone in the city . . .      your sneakers 're torn      and your jeans 're so short that your ankles show, but you're pretty. I wish I had five dollars; I'd pay your bus fare home,      but how far canya go      through the sleet 'n' the snow for a fistful of change? 'Bout the end of Childe’s Lane. Right now my old man is sleepin' and he don't know the hell where I am.      Why he still goes to bed      when he's already dead, I don't understand, but I don't give a **** Bein' sixteen sure is borin' though I guess for a girl it's all right . . .      if you'd let your hair grow      and get some nice clothes, I think you'd look outta sight. And I wish I had ten dollars; I'd ask you if you would . . .      but wishin's no good      and you'd think I'm a hood, so I guess I'll be sayin' good night. This is one of my earliest poems; I actually started out writing songs when some long-haired friends of mine started a band around 1974. But I was too introverted and shy to show them to anyone. This one was too **** for my high school journal. Having Touched You by Michael R. Burch, age 18 What I have lost is not less than what I have gained. And for each moment passed like the sun to the west, another remained suspended in memory like a flower in crystal so that eternity is but an hour and fall is no longer a season but a state of mind. I have no reason to wait; the wind does not pause for remembrance or regret because there is only fate and chance. And so then, forget . . . Forget that we were very happy for a day. That day was my lifetime. Before that day I was empty and the sky was grey. You were the sunshine, the sunshine that gave me life. I took root and I grew. Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife, and yet I can bear it, having touched you. Odd, the things that inspire us! I wrote this poem after watching The Boy in the Bubble: a made-for-TV movie, circa 1976, starring John Travolta. So I would have been around 18 at the time. Hymn to Apollo by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 airy 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, the Lantern. as Time walked by by michael r. burch, age 16 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... and the hours were tentative, coy and shy while the sky swirled all its colors together, giving pleasure to the appreciative eye as Time walked by. then your smile could fill the darkest night with brilliant light or thrill the dullest day with ecstasy so long as Time led leisurely our way; as It did, It did. but 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 you were near with honey hair and happy smile lying sweetly by my side, but then i remembered—you were gone, that you toppled long ago like an orchid felled by snow as the thing called "us" sank slowly down to die and Time roared by. This poem appeared in my high school journal and was probably written around age 16. Playmates by Michael R. Burch, age 13-14 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 batter was our only lust! 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 injustice, or fate. Then we never thought about the next day, for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things didn'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, I believe, my second "real" poem. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it. hey pete by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. Floating by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Memories flood the sand's unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf's strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler— harbored in dreams, I ride out night's storms. Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm ******* pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea... You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. Mare Clausum by Michael R. Burch, age 19 These are the narrows of my soul— dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams. And these uncharted islands bleakly home wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams. Please don't think to find pearls' pale, unearthly glow within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs. For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know that vessel lists, and night brings no relief. Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost; then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust. This sea is not for sailors, but the ****** who lingered long past morning, till they learned why it is named: Mare Clausum. Mare Clausum is Latin for "Closed Sea." I believe this poem was written around age 19. Nevermore! by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Nevermore! O, nevermore!   shall the haunts of the sea —the swollen tide pools and the dark, deserted shore— mark her passing again. And the salivating sea shall never kiss her lips nor caress her ******* and hips, as she dreamt it did before, once, lost within the uproar. The waves will never **** her, nor take her at their leisure; the sea gulls shall not claim her, nor could she give them pleasure ... She sleeps, forevermore! She sleeps forevermore, a ****** save to me and her other lover, who lurks now, safely covered by the restless, surging sea. And, yes, they sleep together, but never in that way ... For the sea has stripped and shorn the one I once adored, and washed her flesh away. He does not stroke her honey hair, for she is bald, bald to the bone! And how it fills my heart with glee to hear them sometimes cursing me out of the depths of the demon sea ... their skeletal love—impossibility! Published by Romantics Quarterly and Penny Dreadful Shock by Michael R. Burch, age 18 It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom, with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom— that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain... and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 18 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. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. alien by michael r. burch, age 19 there are mornings in england when, riddled with light, the Blueberries gleam at us— plump, sweet and fragrant. but i am so small ... what do i know of the ways of the Daffodils? “beware of the Nettles!” we go laughing and singing, but somehow, i, ... i know i am lost. i do not belong to this Earth or its Songs. and yet i am singing ... the sun—so mild; my cheeks are like roses; my skin—so fair. i spent a long time there before i realized: They have no faces, no bodies, no voices. i was always alone. and yet i keep singing: the words will come if only i hear. I believe I wrote this poem around age 19, then revised it nearly a half-century later. One of my earliest memories is picking blueberries amid the brambles surrounding the tiny English hamlet, Mattersey, where I and my mother lived with her parents while my American father was stationed in Thule, Greenland, where dependents were not allowed. Was that because of the weather or the nukes? In any case, England is free of dangerous animals, but one must be wary of the copious thorns and nettles. Be that Rock by Michael R. Burch, age 18 for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr. When I was a child     I never considered man’s impermanence, for you were a mountain of adamant stone:     a man steadfast, immense, and your words rang. And when you were gone,     I still heard your voice, which never betrayed, "Be strong and of a good courage,     neither be afraid ..." as the angels sang. And, O!, I believed     for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave though the years slipped away     with so little to save of that talk. Now I'm a man—     a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child who sat at your feet     and learned as you smiled. Be that rock. I don't remember when I wrote this poem, but I will guess around age 18 in 1976. The verse quoted is from an old, well-worn King James Bible my grandfather gave me after his only visit to the United States, as he prepared to return to England with my grandmother. I was around eight at the time and didn't know if I would ever see my grandparents again, so I was heartbroken – destitute, really. Desdemona by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Though you possessed the moon and stars, you are bound to fate and wed to chance. Your lips deny they crave a kiss; your feet deny they ache to dance. Your heart imagines wild romance. Though you cupped fire in your hands and molded incandescent forms, you are barren now, and—spent of flame— the ashes that remain are borne toward the sun upon a storm. You, who demanded more, have less, your heart within its cells of sighs held fast by chains of misery, confined till death for peddling lies— imprisonment your sense denies. You, who collected hearts like leaves and pressed each once within your book, forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare— not one was worth a second look. My heart, as others, you forsook. But I, though I loved you from afar through silent dawns, and gathered rue from gardens where your footsteps left cold paths among the asters, knew— each moonless night the nettles grew and strangled hope, where love dies too. Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times Gone by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Tonight, it is dark and the stars do not shine. A man who is gone was a good friend of mine. We were friends. And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold when I awoke to find him gone ... This is one of my very earliest poems, one that was lost when I destroyed all the poems I had written in a fit of frustration and despair. The opening lines and "the strangest shade of orange on gold" are all of the original poem that I have been able to remember. I believe I wrote the original poem around age 14. Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch, age 19 When she was a child   in a dark forest of fear,     imagination cast its strange light       into secret places,       scattering traces     of illumination so bright,   years later, they might suddenly reappear, their light undefiled. When she was young,   the shafted light of her dreams     shone on her uplifted face       as she prayed;       though she strayed     into a night fallen like mildewed lace   shrouding the forest of screams, her faith led her home. Now she is old   and the light that was flame     is a slow-dying ember . . .       What she felt then       she would explain;     she would if she could only remember   that forest of shame, faith beaten like gold. Published by Piedmont Literary Review, Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times. This is an unusual poem that I wrote in my late teens, and it took me some time to figure out who the elderly woman was. She was a victim of childhood ****** hence the title I eventually chose. The Beautiful People by Michael R. Burch, age 18 They are the beautiful people, and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon to the listless strains of an ancient tune. Oh, no ... please don't touch them, for their smiles might fade. Don’t go ... don’t approach them as they promenade, for they waltz through a vacuum and dream they're not made of the dust and the dankness to which men degrade. They are the beautiful people, and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes. Winds do not blow there and storms do not rise, and each hair has its place and each gown has its price. And they whirl through the darkness untouched by our cares as we watch them and long for a "life" such as theirs. Burn by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Trump Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation. Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn. This was one of my early poems, written around age 19. I dedicated the poem to Trump after he pulled the United States out of the Paris climate change accords. as Time walked by by Michael R. Burch, age 16 yesterday i dreamed of u(s) 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, ur 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 u(s) 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 was written around age 16 and appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976. Dust (I) by Michael R. Burch, age 14 God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. This is one of my earliest poems, written circa 1972 at age 14, around the same time as “Jessamyn’s Song” but probably a bit earlier. “Dust” was at one time the closing stanza of “All My Children.” Dust (II) by Michael R. Burch, age 15 We are dust and to dust we must return ... but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn? I’m not sure when I wrote my second “Dust” poem but I will keep the poems together due to the shared title and theme. Dust (III) by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Flame within flame,   we burned and burned relentlessly     till there was nothing left to be consumed.     Only ash remained, the smoke plumed   like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we were left with only a name ever common between us.   We had thought to love “eternally,”     but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned,     the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned,   and our communal thought was: flee, flee, flee the choking dust. This is one of my early poems in the “Dust” series, but unfortunately I have no recollection of writing it, nor any notes about its composition. I will guess that I wrote this one in my late teens. Love Unfolded Like a Flower by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Love unfolded like a flower; Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky. I came to know you and to trust you in moments lost to springtime slipping by. Then love burst outward, leaping skyward, and untamed blossoms danced against the wind. All I wanted was to hold you; though passion tempted once, we never sinned. Now love's gay petals fade and wither, and winter beckons, whispering a lie. We were friends, but friendships end . . . yes, friendships end and even roses die. This is a love poem I wrote in my late teens for a girl I had a serious crush on. The poem was originally titled "Christy." Unfoldings by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Vicki Time unfolds ... Your lips were roses. ... petals open, shyly clustering ... I had dreams of other seasons. ... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming. Night and day ... Dreams burned within me. ... flowers part themselves, and then they close ... You were lovely; I was lonely. ... a ****** yields herself, but no one knows. Now time goes on ... I have not seen you. ... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged ... A fire rages; no one sees it. ... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain. Seasons flow ... A dream is dying. ... within parched clusters, life is taking form ... You were honest; I was angry. ... petals fling themselves before the storm. Time is slowing ... I am older. ... blossoms wither, closing one last time ... I'd love to see you and to touch you. ... a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry. Time contracts ... I cannot touch you. ... a solitary flower cries for warmth ... Life goes on as dreams lose meaning. ... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm. I wrote this poem for a college girlfriend, circa age 18-19. Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch, age 21 What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 21 The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... I believe “The Tender Weight of Her Sighs” and “Each Color a Scar” are companion poems, probably written around the same time at age 21. This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented the ***** form, which I will dub the “End-First Curtal Sonnet.” Impotent by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. Cameo by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes. Here, where times flies in the absence of light, all ecstasies are intimations of night. Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast; promise what cannot be given. Show me the stairway to heaven. Jacob's-ladder grows all around us; Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx. So breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonic eyes . . . and, if in the morning I am not wise, at least then I’ll know if this dream we call life was worth the surmise. My notes say that I copied and filed this poem in 1979, around age 21. Since I don’t have an earlier recollection of this poem, I will stick with that date. This one does feel a bit more mature than some of my teenage poems, so the date seems about right. The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine ... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be, for Merlyn’s words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords ... Originally published by Trinacria Lay Down Your Arms by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand. The battle is over and night is at hand. Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go ... the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow. Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more. Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore. The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin ... Lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.” Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song. If God was to save us, He waited too long. A new world emerges, but this world is through . . . so lay down your hymnals, or write something new. I wrote “Lay Down Your Arms” around age 21 and it became my first published poem, possibly. Can an acceptance be a rejection? I never received a copy of the first journal that accepted one of my poems, The Romantist, so I don’t know if my first “published poem” was actually published! In any case, poems that I wrote from (circa) ages 11 to 16 were eventually published, so I now consider those my “earliest” publications. /Y/ This is a poem about a discussion between a young poet and an older poet – the very poetic Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I wrote this poem as a teenager under the spell of Dr. King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech, which for me is also a compelling poem. In the poem he is the upper-case Poet and I am the lower-case poet. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch, age 17 I have a dream ...pebbles in a sparkling sand... of wondrous things. I see children ...variations of the same man... playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, ... stone and flesh, a host of colors... together at last. I see a time ...each small child another's cousin... when freedom shall ring. I hear a song ...sweeter than the sea sings... of many voices. I hear a jubilation ... respect and love are the gifts we must bring... shaking the land. I have a message, ...sea shells echo, the melody rings... the message of God. I have a dream ...all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone... of many things. I live in hope ...all children are merely small fragments of One... that this dream shall come true. I have a dream! ... but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?... Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. ... i can feel it begin... Lovers and dreamers are poets too. ...poets are lovers and dreamers too... Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) and Love Poems and Poets Fairest Diana by Michael R. Burch, age 22 Fairest Diana, princess of dreams, born to be loved and yet distant and lone, why did you linger—so solemn, so lovely— an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone? Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions? Surely your lips—for wild kisses, not vows! Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming a pearl of enchantment cast before sows? Fairest Diana, fragile as lilac, as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose; how did a stanza of silver-bright verse come to be bound in a book of dull prose? Published by Tucumcari Literary Journal and Night Roses I believe this poem was written in the late 1970s or very early 1980s, around the time it became apparent that the lovely Diana Spencer was going to marry into the British royal family. Flight by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. This poem was influenced by William Cullen Bryant’s “To a Waterfowl.” Flying by Michael R. Burch, age 16-17 i shall rise and try the ****** wings of thought ten thousand times before i fly ... and then i'll sleep and waste ten thousand nights before i dream; but when at last ... i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies where never hawks nor eagles dared to go, as i laugh among the meteors flashing by somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ... if i'm not told i’m just a man, then i shall know just what I AM. This is a poem written around age 16-17. According to my notes I may have revised the poem later, around 1978, but if so the changes were minor and the poem remains very close to the original. Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons ... and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears ... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway —a man as large as I left— and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim— "My father!" "My son!" “Sanctuary at Dawn” appeared in my poetry contest manuscript, so it was written either in high school or during my first two years of college: 1976 is an educated guess. In my teens, thirty was a generic age for adulthood. Shadows by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns— we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men . . . when we were men, or almost so. Published by Homespun and Mind in Motion This poem was written either in high school or my first two years of college because it appeared in the 1979-1980 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. Sappho’s Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, age 19 for Jeremy Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call as the pale calla 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. The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies.  After my son Jeremy was born, I dedicated this poem to him. Tell me what i am by michael r. burch, age 15 Tell me what i am, for i have often wondered why i live. Do u know?— please tell me so; drive away this darkness from within. For my heart is black with sin and i have often wondered why i am. And my thoughts are lacking light though i have often sought what was right. Now it is night; please drive away the darkness from without, for i doubt that i will see the coming of the day without ur help. This is one of my early “I am/am I” poems. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote the original version around age 15 or 16. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled; now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed dance before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. And you are music in my undreamt dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing starlets die. You touch me so and still I don't know why . . . But say you love me. Say you love me. This poem is dated 1983 in my notes, but it could have been written earlier and revised then. This one feels earlier to me, so I will guess it was written around age 18 during my late Romantic period. The original poem did not have “forming formless scenes” or “undreamt dreams.” I chose those revisions, not to be confusing, but in an attempt to capture the moment when, awakening from dreams, we briefly inhabit both worlds simultaneously. I came up with “starlets” because, as the sun eclipses ethereal starlight in our eyes, the reality of a lover in bed eclipses all vague, ethereal fantasies of dream lovers. Stewark Island (Ambiguity) by Michael R. Burch, age 17-18 “Take your child, your only child, whom you love...” Seas are like tears— they are never far away. I have fled them now these eighteen years, but I am nearer them today than I ever have been. Oh, I never could bear the warm, salty water or the cool comfort here in the shade of an altar sweeter than sin ... Sweeter than sin, yet cleansing, like love; still its feel to doomed skin either too little or too much of whatever it is. Seas and tears are like life— ridiculous, ambiguous. “Sea Dreams” is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of “Jessamyn’s Song.” To the best of my recollection, I wrote “Sea Dreams” around age 18 in high school my senior year, then worked on in college. It appeared in my poetry contest notebook and thus was substantially complete by 1978. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen ... By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days’ slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset’s scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no vessel’s sailed — great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls — and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing . . . But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I’ll taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, then I’ll bow my head to pray . . . II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea — down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs I’d so often climb when the wind was **** with a taste of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner’s dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright! Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow’s desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam . . . and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then . . . what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach . . . And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds. Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams . . . oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream    and dream     and dream. “Sea Dreams” is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of “Jessamyn’s Song.” For years I thought I had written “Sea Dreams” around age 19 or 20. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started by age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, “I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because ...” *** “Son” is a companion poem to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time and discussed in the same freshman dorm conversation. Ron, the other student, asked me how on earth I came up with a poem about being a father who abandoned his son to live on an island! I think the meter is pretty good for the age at which it was written. Son by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 An island is bathed in blues and greens as a weary sun settles to rest, and the memories singing through the back of my mind lull me to sleep as the tide flows in. Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, my heart and my home will be till I die, but where you are is where my thoughts go when the tide is high. [etc., see handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son] So there where the skylarks sing to the sun as the rain sprinkles lightly around, understand if you can the mind of a man whose conscience unconsciously drowned. Thoughts of the Everglades in Ontario by Michael R. Burch, age 20 We burned wildfire of September in a distant grass, watching the many variations of light devour the blades. All night long I tended the smoldering campfire remembering those sweat-drenched nights we spent in the ’glades listening as gators sang love songs to one another, curious serenades, their huge tails lashing the shallow swampland water. That night, camped out distantly beyond the closest farm, I did not hold you, as I so often have, to keep you warm, but rather to feel the restless movements of our unborn daughter. Now she’s three and the Everglades are in her eyes— dark and swampy, all muddled green and gray, and they seem to knowingly say, “It’s time to be on our way.” I wrote this poem as a college sophomore, age 20, in 1978. When last my love left me by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 in 1974, around age 16. War by Michael R. Burch, age 17 lysander lies in lauded greece and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow, unseeing as sunset devours limp willows, but War glares on. and joab's sightless gaze is turned beyond the jordan's ravaged shore; his war-ax lies to be hurled no more, but War hacks on. and roland sleeps in poppied fields with flowers flowing at his feet; their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep, but War raves on. and patton sighs an unheard sigh for sorties past and those to come; he does not heed the battle drum, but War rolls on. for now new heroes grab up guns and rush to fight their fathers' wars, as warriors' children must, of course, while War laughs on. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 17. I was never fully happy with the poem, although I liked some of the lines and revised it 46 years later, on 4-27-2021. Stryx: An Astronomer’s Report by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Yesterday (or was is an eon ago?) a sun spit out its last remnants of light over a planet long barren of life, and died. It was not a solitary occasion, by any stretch of the imagination, this decoronation of a planet conceived out of desolation. For her to die as she was born —amidst the glory of galactic upheaval— is not strange, but fitting. Fitting in that, shorn of all her preposterous spawn that had littered her surface like horrendous hair, she died her death bare and alone. Once she was home to all living, but she died home to the dead who bereaved her of life. Unfit for life she died that night as her seas shone fatal, dark and blue. Unfit for life she met her end as mountains fell and lava spewed. Unfit she died, agleam with death whose radiance she wore. Unfit she died as raging waves obliterated every shore. Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Contaminated with the rays that smoldered in her radiant swamps and seared her lifeless bays. Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! Unfit! a ****** world no more, but a planet ***** and left to face her death as she was born— alone, so all alone. Yesterday, a planet green and lovely was no more. Yesterday, the whitecaps crashed against her shores and then they were no more. Yesterday, a soft green light no longer brushed the moon's dark heights . . . There was no moon, there was no earth; there were only the ******** she had given birth watching from their next ***** world. I wrote this poem around age 18 and it was published in the 1976-1977 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. With my daughter, by a waterfall by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 By a fountain that slowly shed its rainbows of water, I led my youngest daughter. And the rhythm of the waves that casually lazed made her sleepy as I rocked her. By that fountain I finally felt fulfillment of which I had dreamt feeling May’s warm breezes pelt petals upon me. And I held her close in the crook of my arm as she slept, breathing harmony. By a river that brazenly rolled, my daughter and I strolled toward the setting sun, and the cadence of the cold, chattering waters that flowed reminded us both of an ancient song, so we sang it together as we walked along —unsure of the words, but sure of our love— as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above. This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote it the year before, around age 18. You didn't have time by Michael R. Burch, age 17 You didn't have time to love me, always hurrying here and hurrying there; you didn't have time to love me, and you didn't have time to care. You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung: too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . . Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time to take time and you didn't have time to try. Every time I asked you why, you said, "Because, my love; that's why." And then you didn't have time at all, my love. You didn't have time at all. You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun that had blinded your eyes and left you undone. Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17. So little time by Michael R. Burch, age 14 There is so little time left to summer, to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds . . . to be young. There is so little time left till autumn shall come. There is so little time left for me to be free . . . so little time, just so, so little time. If I were handsome and brawny and brave, a love I would make and the time I would save. If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free — surely there would be one for me . . . Perhaps there'd be one. There is so little left of the sunshine although there’s much left of the rain . . . there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain. I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. The inversion in L8 makes me think this was a very early poem. That’s something I weaned myself of pretty quickly. Also, I was extremely depressed from age 14 to 15 because my family moved twice and I had trouble making friends because I was so shy and introverted. ​ Premonition by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ... we stand in the doorway and watch as they go— each stranger, each acquaintance, each casual lover. They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go, though we know their forced laughter’s the wine ... then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows endlessly on toward Zion ... and they kiss one another as though they were friends, and they promise to meet again “soon” ... but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end, and the mockingbird calls to the moon ... and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines, and the crickets chirp on out of tune ... and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight, seem spirits torn loose from their tombs. And we know their brief lives are just eddies in time, that their hearts are unreadable runes to be wiped clean, like slate, by the dark hand of Fate when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ... You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss as though it were something you loved, and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light of the stars winking sagely above ... Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside; if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while." And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile. I vividly remember writing this poem after an office party the year I co-oped with AT&T (at that time the largest company in the world, with a lot of office parties). This was after my sophomore year in college, making me around 19 years old. The poem is “true” except that I was not the host because the party was at the house of one of the managers. Nor was I dating anyone seriously at the time. I was still in “pool shark” mode, playing money games all night and into the wee hours of the morning. Reflections on the Loss of Vision by Michael R. Burch, age 20 The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls, remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,     that it seems if I tried     and just closed my eyes, I could once again be nine or ten. The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall, hunch there, I know, in the fast-piling snow, yet now I can't see them at all. For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,     some things that I saw     when I was a boy, are lost to me now in my “advancing” years. The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave are there as they were, and yet they are not; and if it seems childish to grieve, still, who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?     Well, in a small way,     through the passage of days, I have learned some of his loss. As a keen-eyed young lad I endeavored to see things most adults could not— the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite haunts. But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,     and it seems such a waste     of those far-sighted days, to end up near blind in this wood. Every Man Has a Dream by Michael R. Burch, age 24 lines composed at Elliston Square Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ... a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain, of a breeze in the evening that, rising again, reminds him of something that cannot have been, and he calls this dream love. And each man has a dream that he fears to let live, for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all. So he curses, denies it and locks it within the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin, this madness, this love. But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams, and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls, and he finds in the end that he cannot deny the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries in the darkness of night for this light he calls love. Canticle: an Aubade by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day; dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away. Dew drops on the green grass echo splendors of the sun; the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung. Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves; and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees, there goes a brace of bees! Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel, the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields. Above the thoughtless traffic of the world wending their way, a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race. And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup, drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut. And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air, a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there . . . it looks like summer. I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport’s class at Maplewood High School. I had read a canticle somewhere, liked the name and concept, and decided I needed to write one myself. I believe this was in 1974 at age 16, but I could be off by a year. This is another early poem that makes me think I had a good natural ear for meter and rhyme. It’s not a great poem, but the music seems pretty good for a beginner. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch, age 22 How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame, lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I’ve thought on the meaning of autumn, how the rainbows’ enchantments defeated dark clouds while robins repeated ancient songs sagely heeded so wisely when winters before they’d flown south ... And still, in remembrance, I’ve conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, I found a gray hair ... it was all beyond my ken. I believe I wrote this poem in my early twenties, probably around 1980. This is another early poem with an usual form. Red Dawn by Michael R. Burch, age 14 The sun, like a spotlight, is spinning round the trees a web of light. And with her amber radiance she is driving off the night. Oh, how like a fire she is burning off the black. And in her flaming wake she has left a track of puffy smoke. I believe this is one of my very earliest poems, written around age 14, due to the fact that the original poem had three somewhat archaic apostrophes: ’round, ’way and ’luminance. I weaned myself of such things pretty quickly. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1975. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, the following year. These Hallowed Halls by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I. A final stereo fades into silence and now there is seldom a murmur to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls. I stand by a window where others have watched the passage of time, alone, not untouched, and I am as they were— unsure, and the days stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze. II. Ah, faithless lover— that I had never touched your breast, nor felt the stirrings of my heart, which until that moment had peacefully slept. For now I have known the exhilaration of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love, and the result of every infatuation— the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above. III. A solitary clock chimes the hour from far above the campus, but my peers, returning from their dances, heed it not. And so it is that we seldom gauge Time's speed because He moves so unobtrusively about His task. Still, when at last we reckon His mark upon our lives, we may well be surprised at His thoroughness. IV. Ungentle maiden— when Time has etched His little lines so carelessly across your brow, perhaps I will love you less than now. And when cruel Time has stolen your youth, as He certainly shall in course, perhaps you will wish you had taken me along with my broken heart, even as He will take you with yours. V. A measureless rhythm rules the night— few have heard it, but I have shared it, and its secret is mine. To put it into words is as to extract the sweetness from honey and must be done as gently as a butterfly cleans its wings. But when it is captured, it is gone again; its usefulness is only that it lulls to sleep. VI. So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night, to the moans of the moonlit hills that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep through the nightjar's cryptic trills. But I will not sleep this night, nor any... how can I, when my dreams are always of your perfect face ringed in whorls of fretted lace, and a tear upon your pillowcase? VII. If I had been born when knights roamed the earth and mad kings ruled foreign lands, I might have turned to the ministry, to the solitude of a monastery. But there are no monks or hermits today— theirs is a lost occupation carried on, if at all, merely for sake of tradition. For today man abhors solitude— he craves companions, song and drink, seldom seeking a quiet moment, to sit alone by himself, to think. VIII. And so I cannot shut myself off from the rest of the world, to spend my days in philosophy and my nights in tears of self-sympathy. No, I must continue as best I can, and learn to keep my thoughts away from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, centuries past though lost but a day. IX. Yes, I must discipline myself and adjust to these lackluster days when men display no chivalry and romance is the "old-fashioned" way. X. A single stereo flares into song and the first faint light of morning has pierced the sky's black awning once again. XI. This is a sacred place, for those who leave, leave better than they came. But those who stay, while they are here, add, with their sleepless nights and tears, quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls of these hallowed halls. I wrote this poem in my freshman dorm at age 18. Pilgrim Mountain by Michael R. Burch, age 16 I have come to Pilgrim Mountain to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow. Do not ask me why I have done this, for I do not know . . . but I had a vision of the end of time and I feared for my soul. On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks creak and groan in their misery, for they comprehend they’re prey to night and day, and ten thousand other fallacies. Sunlight shatters the stone, but midnight mends it again with darkness and a cooling flow. This is no place for men, and I know this, but I know that that which has been must somehow be again. Now here on Pilgrim Mountain I shall gouge my eyes with stone and tear out all my hair, and though I die alone, I shall not care . . . for the night will still roll on above my weary bones and these sun-split, shattered stones of late become their home here, on Pilgrim Mountain. I believe this poem was originally written around 1974 at age 16 or thereabouts. According to my notes, it was modified in 1978, then again in 1983. However, the poem remains very close to the original. I seem to remember writing this poem in Mr. Purcell’s history trailer. there is peace where i am going... by Michael R. Burch, age 15 there is peace where i am going, for i hasten to a land that has never known the motion of one windborne grain of sand; that has never felt a tidal wave nor seen a thunderstorm; a land whose endless seasons in their sameness are one. there i will lay my burdens down and feel their weight no more, and sleep beneath the unstirred sands of a soundless ocean's shore, where Time lies motionless in pools of lost experience and those who sleep, sleep unaware of the future, past and present (and where Love itself lies dormant, unmoved by a silver crescent) . and when i lie asleep there, with Death's footprints at my feet, not a thing shall touch me, save bland sand, lain like a sheet to wrap me for my rest there and to bind me, lest i dream, mere clay again, of strange domains where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams. yes, there is peace where i am going, for i am bound to be safe here, within the dull embrace of this dim, unchanging sea... before too long; i sense it now, and wait, expectantly, to feel the listless touch of Immortality. This is one of my early poems, written around age 15 after watching a documentary about Woodstock. absinthe sea by michael r. burch, circa age 18-19 i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe the bitter green liqueur reflects the dying sunset over the sea and the darkling liquid froths up over the rim of my cup to splash into the free, churning waters of the sea i do not drink i do not drink the liqueur, for I sail on an absinthe sea that stretches out unendingly into the gathering night its waters are no less green and no less bitter, nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light they both harbor night, and neither shall shelter me neither shall shelter me from the anger of the wind or the cruelty of the sun for I sail in the goblet of some Great God who gazes out over a greater sea, and when my life is done, perhaps it will be because He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea. I seem to remember writing this poem in college just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what it looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read in passing somewhere. Ode to the Sun by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Day is done . . . on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun. Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me. Now day is done . . . on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace; for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review I seem to remember writing this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18. It's Halloween! by Michael R. Burch, age 20 If evening falls on graveyard walls far softer than a sigh; if shadows fly moon-sickled skies, while children toss their heads uneasy in their beds, beware the witch's eye! If goblins loom within the gloom till playful pups grow terse; if birds give up their verse to comfort chicks they nurse, while children dream weird dreams of ugly, wiggly things, beware the serpent's curse! If spirits scream in haunted dreams while ancient sibyls rise to plague nightmarish skies one night without disguise, as children toss about uneasy, full of doubt, beware the Devil's lies . . . it's Halloween! I believe I wrote this poem around age 20. Laughter from Another Room by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist. Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry. Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints. The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; the poet never finds the words. The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior longs to spare his foe. The warrior longs to spare his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; the guiltiest are not to blame. The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods. If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; other men observe through tears. Other men observe through tears the passage of these days of doom; now I listen and I hear laughter from another room. Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem as a college freshman or sophomore, around age 18 or 19. It remains largely the same as the original poem. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, age 22 She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her immaculate breast as she breathed into my insensate lips the soft benedictions of her ecstatic sighs . . . But those veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears! Years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . . She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a moment’s rest . . . She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her Victor, then all was Night. Late ap-peals of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. According to my notes, I wrote this poem at age 22 in 1980, must have forgotten about it, then revised it on January 31, 1999. But I wasn’t happy with the first stanza and revised the poem again on September 22, 2023, a mere 43 years after I wrote the original version! The "ap-peals" wordplay was a 2023 revision. The only "ap" I had in high school was Pong. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen. By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days' slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset's scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no man has sailed — great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls — and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing... But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, and I bow my head to pray... II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea — down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs that I used to climb when the wind was **** with a taste of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner's dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright. Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow's desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam... and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then... what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach... And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds. Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams... oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream and dream and dream. As the Flame Flowers by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame, arches leaves skyward, aching for rain, but all it encounters are anguish and pain as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem. Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem reaches through night, through the staggering pain, for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain, as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame. Mesmerized by a wavering crescent-shaped gem that glistens like water though drier than sand, the flower extends itself, trembles, and then dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind. Ashes by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 A fire is dying; ashes remain . . . ashes and anguish, ashes and pain. A fire is fading though once it burned bright . . . ashes once embers are ashes tonight. A midnight shade of blue by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 someone wandering 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 seem to remember writing this one during my early songwriting phase. That would be around 1974, give or take. While I don’t claim it’s a great poem, I think I did show a pretty good touch with meter in my youth. Gentry by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The men shined their shoes and the ladies chose their clothes; the rifle stocks were varnished till they were untarnished by a speck of dust. The men trimmed their beards; the ladies rouged their lips; the horses were groomed until the time loomed for them to ride. The men mounted their horses, the ladies did the same; then in search of game they went, a pleasant time they spent, and killed the fox. This poem was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, and was probably written around age 18 in high school. Beckoning by Michael R. Burch, age 17-18 Yesterday the wind whispered my name while the blazing locks of her rampant mane lay heavy on mine. And yesterday I saw the way the wind caressed tall pines in forests laced by glinting streams and thick with tangled vines. And though she reached for me in her sleep, the touch I felt was Time's. I wrote this poem around age 17 or 18. Damp Days by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 morasses of clumped clay while the temples throb in pain at the thought of more damp days. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem sometime between 1974 and 1976, then revised it around 1978. Easter, in Jerusalem by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 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. An Obscenity Trial by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints against whom several critics cited numerous complaints. They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd," and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud. The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed); it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed. He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity; twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality. The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind, though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind. Clerics loved the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin. Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in. The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face, knowing the trial would be a farce. "It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!" The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety, greeted this statement with applause. "This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it. Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer! His sense of rhythm is too fine! He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs. This man is an impostor! I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!" The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered. The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?" But how His Honor giggled then, seeing no poets were let in. Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times El Dorado by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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 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’s 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. Blue Cowboy by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 He slumps against the pommel, a lonely, heartsick boy— his horse his sole companion, his gun his only toy —and bitterly regretting he ever came so far, forsaking all home's comforts to sleep beneath the stars, he sighs. He thinks about the lover who awaits his kiss no more till a tear anoints his lashes, lit by the heartless stars. He reaches to his aching breast, withdraws a golden lock, and kisses it in silence as empty as his thoughts while the wind sighs. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge between the earth and distant stars. Do not fall; the fiends of hell would leap to feast upon your heart. Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand for a drop of water warm and brown. Dream of streams like silver seams even as you gulp it down. Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs to hide the weakness in your soul. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge and wish that you were going home as the stars sigh. I believe I wrote “Blue Cowboy” during my songwriting phase, around age 15-16. Cowpoke by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 Sleep, old man ... your day has long since passed. The endless plains, cool midnight rains and changeless ragged cows alone remain of what once was. You cannot know just how the Change will **** the windswept plains that you so loved ... and so sleep now, O yes, sleep now ... before you see just how the Change will come. Sleep, old man ... your dreams are not our dreams. The Rio Grande, stark silver sand and every obscure brand of steed and cow are sure to pass away as you do now. I believe this poem was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. That was probably around age 15-16. Dance With Me by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Dance with me to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies. Enchantingly, each highstrung string, each yearning key, each a thread within the threnody, bids us, "Waltz!" then sets us free to wander, dancing aimlessly. Let us kiss beneath the stars as we slowly meet ... we'll part laughing gaily as we go to measure love’s arpeggios. Yes, dance with me, enticingly; press your lips to mine, then flee. The night is young, the stars are wild; embrace me now, my sweet, beguiled, and dance with me. The curtains are drawn, the stage is set —patterned all in grey and jet— where couples in like darkness met —careless airy silhouettes— to try love's timeless pirouettes. They, too, spun across the lawn to die in shadowy dark verdant. But dance with me. Sweet Merrilee, don't cry, I see the ironies of all the years within the moonlight on your tears, and every ****** has her fears ... So laugh with me unheedingly; love's gaiety is not for those who fail to heed the music's flow, but it is ours. Now fade away like summer rain, then pirouette ... the dance of stars that waltz among night's meteors must be the dance we dance tonight. Then come again— like a sultry wind. Your slender body as you sway belies the ripeness of your age, for a woman's body burns tonight beneath your gown of ****** white— a woman's ******* now rise and fall in answer to an ancient call, and a woman's hips—soft, yet full— now gently at your garments pull. So dance with me, sweet Merrilee ... the music bids us, "Waltz!" Don't flee; let us kiss beneath the stars. Love's passing pains will leave no scars as we whirl beneath false moons and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ... Oh, Merrilee, the curtains are drawn, the stage is set, we, too, are stars beyond night's depths. So dance with me. I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college, circa 1976-1977, after meeting George King, who taught the creative writing classes. I would have been 18-19 when I started the poem, but it didn’t always cooperate and I seem to remember working on it the following year as well. Dance With Me (II) by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 While the music plays remembrance strays toward a grander time . . . Let's dance. Shadows rising, mute and grey, obscure those fervent yesterdays of youth and gay romance, but time is slipping by, and now those days just don't seem real, somehow . . . Why don't we dance? This music is a memory, for it's of another time . . . a slower, stranger time. We danced—remember how we danced?— uncaring, merry, wild and free. Remember how you danced with me? Cheek to cheek and breast to breast, your ******* hard against my chest, we danced and danced   and danced. We cannot dance that way again, for the years have borne away the flame and left us only ashes, but think of all those dances, and dance with me. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the lovers many years later. So this poem would have been written sometime between 1976 and 1977, around age 18-19. Impressions of Darkness in the Aspects of Light by Michael R. Burch, age 19 The afternoon hours pass slowly, moment blending into golden moment as Time flows tranquilly by, and only the deepening shadows portend the Evening’s coming, for within their mystic twilight she sleeps, a Goddess immune to light. Meanwhile the dreaming maidens—half dark as the Darkness itself— bask in the amber radiance, oblivious to all save Time, for they sense the fragrance of dying flowers ... Fascinating aromas of poppy and hemp once cured by the Sun arise with the Wind, caressing the senses while numbing the spirit, inducing vague dreams and a willingness to sleep ... perhaps forevermore. For cruel Death awaits her hour and the lilies surely shall die. All the while Death’s dread Sister lurks in the shadows murmuring songs of a ghostly Moon haunting purple skies. Listen! I can hear the refrain far-off on the naked wind— rising, then falling, strengthening, then dying... calling me “home” once again. And even now Darkness stalks earth’s unsuspecting flocks with feline nonchalance, as the willows bow and their limbs scrape the earth seemingly in regret. And even now the skylark’s luting song harbors an elusive melancholy... And even now the spiraling hawk pauses momentarily to cast a sorrowful eye earthward, then rises slowly, as if unwilling to dare the utmost heights... And even now the Moon-drawn sea pauses from its rocking to lift a wave or two toward the engorging Darkness, imploring, despairing, an innocent child in the hands of a savage Master. “Oh Lord!” the anguished waves cry out, in the agony of despair, “Give us a little time ... a little time!” But their cries die out deep into the descending Nothingness. Who knows that it lurks there, now, but the sorrowing sea and I? Who else reckons the assuredness of its arrival or the insincerity of its departure? Not the flashy cardinal—he cares not but to fly. Never the solemn-eyed hoot owl, for he loves the Nighttime better than the day. Only, perhaps, the dying sun understands the arcane reasons for the coming on of Night and the changing of the seasons. For at her back she must always hear the chariots of Night drawing closer and closer, the hooves of coal-black stallions shattering the serenity of the heavens, creating the fiery sparks we call stars. But I am not alone in my unceasing vigil: the sun and the sea, my constant companions, console me, as does the enigmatic nightingale. And they shall comfort me tonight when the curtains of the Night are drawn and clouds obscure the stars. Together we shall count the hours until Dawn’s deliverance, when she comes to free us, bearing God’s bright banner, enlisting the glowering mountains and angry heavens. A pledge for ignorance In these changing times, when truth and conjecture are no longer distinguished by the common man, who accepts all things as part of some ultimate plan, believing, perhaps rightly so, that any gods existing now shall soon be overthrown, I have closed my eyes and seen the dissolution of my beliefs. Once I thought myself secure belonging to a race of logic and science, infallible, perhaps capable of conquering the universe . . . but as I have seen the plight of my people growing worse and worse, today I attempt not to think at all, nor do I scale the heights that I once did; having experienced one harrowing fall, I will not risk another even to save a brother. For thought is like the flight of birds that rise to heights unknown to men, till, grazing the orbits of fiery stars, they fall to earth, their feathers singed. So I will not venture those starry paths by moons unseen and planets ringed, but I will live my life below, secure in blissful ignorance, never approaching thought's orbs aglow . . . and though I may be wrong in this, what I have not seen, I have not missed. I Am Lonely by Michael R. Burch, age 15-16 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? 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 the Lantern, so it was written no later than 1976. But I believe it was written around age 15-16. I held a heart in my outstretched hand by Michael R. Burch, age 19 I held a heart in my outstretched hand; it was ****** and red and raw. I ripped it and tore it; I gnashed it and gnawed it; I gored it with fingers like claws, but it never missed a beat of the heartfelt song it sang. There my bruised heart wept in my open palm and the gore dripped down my wrist; I reviled it, defiled it; I gave it a twist and wrung it dry of blood; still it beat with a hearty thud, and its movement was warm with love. But I flung it into the ditch and walked angrily, cruelly away . . . There it lay in the dust with a ****** crust caking the crimson stain that my claw-like fingers had made, and its flesh was grey with death. Oh, I cannot say why, but I turned and I cried, and I lifted it once again, holding it to my cheek, where it began to beat, but to a tiny, tragic measure devoid of trust or pleasure. Then it kissed my fingers and sighed, begging forgiveness even as it died. Now that was many years ago, and I am wiser, for I know that a heart can last out any pain, but cannot bear to be alone. And my lifeless heart is wiser too, having seen the way a careless man can take his being into his hands and crush it into a worthless ooze. Gainsboro(ugh) by Michael R. Burch, age 15 Times forgotten, times reviled were all you gave a child, beguiled, besides one ghostly memory to haunt him down Life’s winding wild. And though his character was formed somewhere within your lightless shade, not a fragment of the man that he became today remains anywhere within the gloom cast by your dark insidious trees ... for fleeting dreams and memories are only dreams and memories. Remembrance by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 That eerie night I met you, the moon bathed all the land in strange, enchanting patterns which stirred in my chilled mind forgotten dreams of fiery youth and hopes of things to come that I had seen destroyed or lost to cold, uncaring Time. The goblet of wine I held gleamed with a wildly-flickering light and the pool of fragrant liquid seemed a shade too close to blood; there, in its mirror-like surface, I saw you passing by, and suddenly, shockingly, I felt the pang of Love . . . You wore a long white gown and when the moonlight caught your hair you seemed a slender taper lit by a silver flame; and . .. though we had never met before . . . . . . somehow . . . I knew your name . . . I sought to speak, but I could not, for the demon wine had numbed my tongue . . . Oh, I turned to follow you through the door, looking about, but you were gone . . . "Remembrance" was written in my late teens, circa 1977-1978, and appears in my 1978 poetry contest folder. Morning by Michael R. Burch, age 14 It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. And everywhere the flowers were turning to the sun, just as the night before I had turned to the one for whom my heart yearned. It was morning and the sun shone in the sky like smoldering embers in the eyes of my lover— another night gone by. And everywhere the terraces were refreshed by bright assurances of the early-fallen rain which had doused the earth and morning’s birth with their sweet refrain. It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. I believe I wrote this poem around age 14, then according to my notes revised it around age 17. In any case, it was published in my high school literary journal. Jack by Michael R. Burch, age 18 I remember playing in the mud Septembers long ago when you and I were young with dreams of things to come and hopes for feet of snow. And at eight years old the days were long —long enough to last— and when it snowed the smiles would show behind each pane of glass. At ten years old, the fights were few, the future—far away, and when the snow showed on the streets there was always time to play . . . almost always time to play. And when you smiled your eyes were green, but when you cried they seemed ice blue; do you remember how we cried as little boys will do— trying hard not to, because we wanted to be "cool"? At twelve years old, the world was warm and hate had never crossed our minds, and in twelve short years we had not learned to hear the fearsome breath of Time behind. So, while the others all looked back, you and I would look ahead. It's such a shame that the world turned out to be what everyone said it would. And junior high was like a dream— the girls were mesmerized by you, sighing, smiling bright and sweet, as we passed them on the street on our way to school. And we did well; we never tried to make straight "A's," but always did. And just for kicks, when we saw cops, we ran away and hid. We seldom quarreled, never fought, for in our way, we loved each other; and had the choice been ours to make, you would have been my elder brother. But as it was, it always is— one's life is lost before it's lived. And when our mothers called our names, we ran away and hid. At fifteen we were back-court stars, freshman starters on the team; and every time we drove and scored the cheerleaders would scream our names. You played tennis; I played golf; you debated; I ran track; and whenever grades came out, you and I would lead the pack. I guess that we just had the knack. Whatever happened to us, Jack? All My Children by Michael R. Burch, age 14-15 It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as harsh as his monument, but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows. And there is Meg beside the spring that sings her endless sleep. Though it’s often said of stiller waters, sometimes quicksilver streams run deep. And there is Frankie, little Frankie, tucked in safe at last, a child who weakened and died too soon, but whose heart was always steadfast. And there is Mary by the bushes where she hid so well, her face as dark as their berries, yet her eyes far darker still. And Andy . . . there is Andy, sleeping in the clover, a child who never saw the sun so soon his life was over. And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly!, the prettiest of all . . . now she's put aside her dreams of beaus kind, dark and tall for dreams dreamed not at all. It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon this backyard garden, on the graves of all my children . . . God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. [But they never did depart; They still live within my heart.] This is one of my earliest poems, written around 1973 circa age 15, about the same time as “Jessamyn’s Song” although I think this one is a bit older, based on its language and style. Parting by Michael R. Burch, age 16 I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while. We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile. He roams this land in search of life, intent on being “free.” I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree. I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim. He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain. I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand. I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can. I knew he couldn't stay, and so . . . I didn't even ask. We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task. We both know life's a winding road with potholes every mile, and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles. One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife, but for now he has to travel on to seek a more “natural” life. He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try, just as I must write my poems although none please my eye. For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue; still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through. He left me as I left a friend so many years ago; I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know, it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone. It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun. And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too; but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it’s a rare girl who is true. I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast, still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past. Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can, and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men." We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be? We were friends for just a while . . . he went on to be free. Oh, say that you are mine by Michael R. Burch, age 16 Your lips are sweeter than apricot brandy; your breath invites with a pleasant warmth; you sweep through the darkest corridors of my soul— a waltzing maiden born of a dream; you brush the frailest fibre of my hopes and I sink to my knees— a quivering beggar. Your eyes are bluer than aquamarine set ablaze by the sun; your lips as inviting as cool streams to a wanderer of desert lands; I sleep in your hand, safe in the warmth of your tender palm, lost in the fragrance of your soft skin. We make love as deep as purple pine forests, your laughter richer and sweeter than honey poured in a pitcher of peaches and cream, your malice more elusive than the memory of a dream, your cheeks tenderer than eiderdown and cooler than snow-fed streams; you touch my lips with the lightest of kisses and my soul sings. Liar by Michael R. Burch, age 16 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. SEQUELS Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch, age 14 Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky. Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say goodbye. This early poem dates to around age 14 and was part of a longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song." Leave Taking (II) by Michael R. Burch Although the earth renews itself, and spring is lovelier for all the rot of fall, I think of yellow leaves that cling and hang by fingertips to life, let go . . . and all men see is one bright instance of departure, the flame that, at least height, warms nothing. I, have never liked to think the ants that march here will deem them useless, grimly tramping by, and so I gather leaves’ dry hopeless brilliance, to feel their prickly edges, like my own, to understand their incurled worn resilience— youth’s tenderness long, callously, outgrown. I even feel the pleasure of their sting, the stab of life. I do not think —at all— to be renewed, as earth is every spring. I do not hope words cluster where they fall. I only hope one leaf, wild-spiraling, illuminates the void, till glad hearts sing. It's not that every leaf must finally fall ... it's just that we can never catch them all. Originally published by Silver Stork Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true?   Is it true? Uncanny seer of all that appears and all that has appeared . . . what sights have you seen, what dreams have you dreamed,   what rhetoric have you heard? Is love an oration or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard?   Have you heard? Tomb Lake by Michael R. Burch, age 18-19 Go down to the valley where mockingbirds cry,   alone, ever lonely . . .    yes, go down to die. And dream in your dying you never shall wake.   Go down to the valley;    go down to Tomb Lake. Tomb Lake is a cauldron of souls such as yours —   mad souls without meaning,    frail souls without force. Tomb Lake is a graveyard reserved for the dead.   They lie in her shallows    and sleep in her bed. Playmates by Michael R. Burch, age 13-14 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 batter was our only lust! 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 injustice, or fate. Then we never thought about the next day, for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things didn'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, I believe, my second "real" poem. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it. Playthings by Michael R. Burch, age 19 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 . . . But then you put aside all “silly” playthings; with sunburned hands you built, from 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. Hello > Poetry Michael R Burch Poems Michael R Burch 3h EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART I These are juvenilia (early poems) of Michael R. Burch, written in high school and college… Bound by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground, I have lost what I once found in your arms. Now it is winter—the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes, I have remade all my chains and am bound. This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It was originally titled "Why Did I Go?" Am I by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Am I inconsequential; do I matter not at all? Am I just a snowflake, to sparkle, then to fall? Am I only chaff? Of what use am I? Am I just a feeble flame, to flicker, then to die? Am I inadvertent? For what reason am I here? Am I just a ripple in a pool that once was clear? Am I insignificant? Will time pass me by? Am I just a flower, to live one day, then die? Am I unimportant? Do I matter either way? Or am I just an echo— soon to fade away? “Am I” is one of my very early poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” the poem below. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems. Time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15 Time, where have you gone? What turned out so short, had seemed like so long. Time, where have you flown? What seemed like mere days were years come and gone. Time, see what you've done: for now I am old, when once I was young. Time, do you even know why your days, minutes, seconds preternaturally fly? "Time" is a companion piece to "Am I." It appeared in my high school sophomore project notebook "Poems" along with "Playmates." Stars by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Though night has come, I'm not alone, for stars appear —fierce, faint and far— to dance until they disappear. They reappear as clouds roll by in stormy billows past bent willows; sometimes they almost seem to sigh. And time rolls on, on past the willows, on past the stormclouds as they billow, on to the stars so faint and far . . . on to the stars so faint and far. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 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. aaa Liquid Assets by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 And so I have loved you, and so I have lost, accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost, debited wisdom, credited pain … My assets remaining are liquid again. I wrote this poem in college after my younger sister decided to major in accounting. In fact, the poem was originally titled “Accounting.” At another point I titled it “Liquidity Crisis.” absinthe sea by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe the bitter green liqueur reflects the dying sunset over the sea and the darkling liquid froths up over the rim of my cup to splash into the free, churning waters of the sea i do not drink i do not drink the liqueur, for I sail on an absinthe sea that stretches out unendingly into the gathering night its waters are no less green and no less bitter, nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light they both harbor night, and neither shall shelter me neither shall shelter me from the anger of the wind or the cruelty of the sun for I sail in the goblet of some Great God who gazes out over a greater sea, and when my life is done, perhaps it will be because He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea. I seem to remember writing this poem in college, just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” Ambition by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 Men speak of their “ambition” and I smile to hear them say that within them burns such fire, such a longing to be great ... But I laugh at their “Ambition” as their wistfulness amasses; I seek Her tongue’s indulgence and Her parted legs’ crevasses. I was very ambitious about my poetry, even as a teenager. as Time walked by by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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, 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 you were near with honey hair and happy smile lying sweetly by my side, but then i remembered—you 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. Gentry by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 The men shined their shoes and the ladies chose their clothes; the rifle stocks were varnished till they were untarnished by a speck of dust. The men trimmed their beards; the ladies rouged their lips; the horses were groomed until the time loomed for them to ride. The men mounted their horses, the ladies did the same; then in search of game they went, a pleasant time they spent, and killed the fox. "Gentry” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun, along with "Smoke" and four other poems of mine. I have never been a fan of hunting, fishing, or inflicting pain on other creatures. Of You by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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. bbb Burn, Ovid by Michael R. Burch “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973: I sat imaging watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers) as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, ************ ****** Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her ******* rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction? “Come unto me, (unto me),” together, we sang, cheek to breast, lips on lips, devout, afire, my hands up her skirt, her pants at her knees: all night long, all night long, in the heavenly choir. This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. The next poem, *** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. *** 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. Paradise by Michael R. Burch, circa 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. All My Children by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-16 It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as hard as his monument, but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows. And there is Meg beside the spring that sings her endless sleep. Though it’s often said of stiller waters, sometimes quicksilver streams run deep. And there is Frankie, little Frankie, tucked in safe at last, a child who weakened and died too soon, but whose heart was always steadfast. And there is Mary by the bushes where she hid so well, her face as dark as their berries, yet her eyes far darker still. And Andy ... there is Andy, sleeping in the clover, a child who never saw the sun so soon his life was over. And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly ... the prettiest of all ... now she's put aside her dreams of lovers dark and tall for dreams dreamed not at all. It is May now, merry May and the sun shines pleasantly upon these ardent gardens, on the graves of all my children ... But they never did depart; they still live within my heart. Dance With Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Dance with me to the fiddles’ plaintive harmonies. Enchantingly, each highstrung string, each yearning key, each a thread within the threnody, whispers "Waltz!" then sets us free to wander, dancing aimlessly. Let us kiss beneath the stars as we slowly meet ... we'll part laughing gaily as we go to measure love’s arpeggios. Yes, dance with me, enticingly; press your lips to mine, then flee. The night is young, the stars are wild; embrace me now, my sweet, beguiled, and dance with me. The curtains are drawn, the stage is set —patterned all in grey and jet— where couples in such darkness met —careless airy silhouettes— to try love's timeless pirouettes. They, too, spun across the lawn to die in shadowy dark verdant. But dance with me. Sweet Merrilee, don't cry, I see the ironies of all the years within the moonlight on your tears, and every ****** has her fears ... So laugh with me unheedingly; love's gaiety is not for those who fail to heed the music's flow, but it is ours. Now fade away like summer rain, then pirouette ... the dance of stars that waltz among night's meteors must be the dance we dance tonight. Then come again— like winter wind. Your slender body as you sway belies the ripeness of your age, for a woman's body burns tonight beneath your gown of ****** white— a woman's ******* now rise and fall in answer to an ancient call, and a woman's hips—soft, yet full— now gently at your garments pull. So dance with me, sweet Merrilee ... the music bids us, "Waltz!" Don't flee. Let us kiss beneath the stars. Love's passing pains will leave no scars as we whirl beneath false moons and heed the fiddle’s plaintive tunes ... Oh, Merrilee, the curtains are drawn, the stage is set, we, too, are stars beyond night's depths. So dance with me. I distinctly remember writing this poem my freshman year in college. Dance With Me (II) by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 While the music plays remembrance strays toward a grander time ... Let's dance. Shadows rising, mute and grey, obscure those fervent yesterdays of youth and gay romance, but time is slipping by, and now those days just don't seem real, somehow ... Why don't we dance? This music is a memory, for it's of another time ... a slower, stranger time. We danced—remember how we danced?— uncaring, merry, wild and free. Remember how you danced with me? Cheek to cheek and breast to breast, your ******* hard against my chest, we danced and danced and danced. We cannot dance that way again, for the years have borne away the flame and left us only ashes, but think of all those dances, and dance with me. I believe I wrote this poem around the same time as the original “Dance With Me,” this time from the perspective of the same lovers many years later. Impotent by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-21 Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course ... Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Frail bit of elfin magic with eyes of brightest blue, sleep now lines your lashes, the sandman beckons you … please don't fight— it's all right. My newborn son, cease sighing, softly, slowly close your eyes, purse your tiny lips and kiss the crisp, cool night a warm goodbye. Fierce yet gentle fragment, the better part of me, why don't you dream a dream deep as eternity, until sunrise? Frail bit of elfin magic with eyes of brightest blue, sleep now lines your lashes, the sandman beckons you … please don't fight — it's all right. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled, for grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed dance before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. And you are music echoing through dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing embers die. You touch me so and still I don't know why ... But say you love me. Say you love me. With my daughter, by a waterfall by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 By a fountain that slowly shed its rainbows of water, I led my youngest daughter. And the rhythm of the waves that casually lazed made her sleepy as I rocked her. By that fountain I finally felt fulfillment of which I had dreamt feeling May’s warm breezes pelt petals upon me. And I held her close in the crook of my arm as she slept, breathing harmony. By a river that brazenly rolled, my daughter and I strolled toward the setting sun, and the cadence of the cold, chattering waters that flowed reminded us both of an ancient song, so we sang it together as we walked along —unsure of the words, but sure of our love— as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above. This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun 1976-1977. Sea Dreams by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I. In timeless days I've crossed the waves of seaways seldom seen. By the last low light of evening the breakers that careen then dive back to the deep have rocked my ship to sleep, and so I've known the peace of a soul at last at ease there where Time's waters run in concert with the sun. With restless waves I've watched the days’ slow movements, as they hum their antediluvian songs. Sometimes I've sung along, my voice as soft and low as the sea's, while evening slowed to waver at the dim mysterious moonlit rim of dreams no man has known. In thoughtless flight, I've scaled the heights and soared a scudding breeze over endless arcing seas of waves ten miles high. I've sheared the sable skies on wings as soft as sighs and stormed the sun-pricked pitch of sunset’s scarlet-stitched, ebullient dark demise. I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds ten thousand leagues or more above the windswept shores of seas no man has sailed —great seas as grand as hell's, shores littered with the shells of men's "immortal" souls— and I've warred with dark sea-holes whose open mouths implored their depths to be explored. And I've grown and grown and grown till I thought myself the king of every silver thing ... But sometimes late at night when the sorrowing wavelets sing sad songs of other times, I taste the windborne rime of a well-remembered day on the whipping ocean spray, and I bow my head to pray ... II. It's been a long, hard day; sometimes I think I work too hard. Tonight I'd like to take a walk down by the sea— down by those salty waves brined with the scent of Infinity, down by that rocky shore, down by those cliffs I'd so often climb when the wind was **** with the tang of lime and every dream was a sailor's dream. Then small waves broke light, all frothy and white, over the reefs in the ramblings of night, and the pounding sea —a mariner’s dream— was bound to stir a boy's delight to such a pitch that he couldn't desist, but was bound to splash through the surf in the light of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright. Christ, those nights were fine, like a well-aged wine, yet more scalding than fire with the marrow’s desire. Then desire was a fire burning wildly within my bones, fiercer by far than the frantic foam ... and every wish was a moan. Oh, for those days to come again! Oh, for a sea and sailing men! Oh, for a little time! It's almost nine and I must be back home by ten, and then ... what then? I have less than an hour to stroll this beach, less than an hour old dreams to reach ... And then, what then? Tonight I'd like to play old games— games that I used to play with the somber, sinking waves. When their wraithlike fists would reach for me, I'd dance between them gleefully, mocking their witless craze —their eager, unchecked craze— to batter me to death with spray as light as breath. Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs— songs of the haunting moon drawing the tides away, songs of those sultry days when the sun beat down till it cracked the ground and the sea gulls screamed in their agony to touch the cooling clouds. The distant cooling clouds! Then the sun shone bright with a different light over different lands, and I was always a pirate in flight. Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, if only for a while, and walk perhaps a mile along this windswept shore, a mile, perhaps, or more, remembering those days, safe in the soothing spray of the thousand sparkling streams that rush into this sea. I like to slumber in the caves of a sailor's dark sea-dreams ... oh yes, I'd love to dream, to dream and dream and dream. “Sea Dreams” was one of my more ambitious early poems. The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time. Son by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 An island is bathed in blues and greens as a weary sun settles to rest, and the memories singing through the back of my mind lull me to sleep as the tide flows in. Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, my heart and my home will be till I die, but where you are is where my thoughts go when the tide is high. [etc., in the handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son] So there where the skylarks sing to the sun as the rain sprinkles lightly around, understand if you can the mind of a man whose conscience so long ago drowned. The People Loved What They Had Loved Before by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 We did not worship at the shrine of tears; we knew not to believe, not to confess. And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers, we wrote off love, we gave a stern address to things that we disapproved of, things of yore. And the people loved what they had loved before. We did not build stone monuments to stand six hundred years and grow more strong and arch like bridges from the people to the Land beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march, pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door. And the people loved what they had loved before. We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe. We played a minor air of Ire (in E). The sheep chose to ignore us, even though, long destitute, we plied our songs for free. We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score. And the people loved what they had loved before. At last outlandish wailing, we confess, ensued, because no listeners were left. We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less divine than man, and, like us, long bereft. We stooped to love too late, too Learned to ***** And the people loved what they had loved before. Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 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 very earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. “Have I been too long at the fair?” was published in my high school literary journal, the Lantern. hey pete by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 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." Earthbound by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay— the sheep, the earthbound. Huntress by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 after Baudelaire Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain. Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane. Rain falls upon your path, and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—"On!" Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Flying by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 i shall rise and try the ****** wings of thought ten thousand times before i fly ... and then i'll sleep and waste ten thousand nights before i dream; but when at last ... i soar the distant heights of undreamt skies where never hawks nor eagles dared to go, as i laugh among the meteors flashing by somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ... if i'm not told i’m just a man, then i shall know just what I am. This is one of my early "I Am" poems, written around age 15-16. Love Unfolded Like a Flower by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20 for Christy Love unfolded like a flower; Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky. I came to know you and to trust you in moments lost to springtime slipping by. Then love burst outward, leaping skyward, and untamed blossoms danced against the wind. All I wanted was to hold you; though passion tempted once, we never sinned. Now love's gay petals fade and wither, and winter beckons, whispering a lie. We were friends, but friendships end … yes, friendships end and even roses die. Cameo by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes. Here, where times flies in the absence of light, all ecstasies are intimations of night. Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast; promise what cannot be given. Show me the stairway to heaven. Jacob's-ladder grows all around us; Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx. So breathe upon me the breath of life; gaze upon me with sardonic eyes … and, if in the morning I am not wise, at least then I'll know if this dream we call life was worth the surmise. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Analogy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Our embrace is like a forest lying blanketed in snow; you, the lily, are enchanted by each shiver trembling through; I, the snowfall, cling in earnest as I press so close to you. You dream that you now are sheltered; I dream that I may break through. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Flight by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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 that 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. Freedom by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19-20 Freedom is not so much an idea as a feeling of open roads, of the hobo's call, of autumn leaves in brisk breeze reeling before a demon violently stealing all vestiges of the beauty of fall, preparing to burden bare tree limbs with the heaviness of her icy loads. And freedom is not so much a letting go as a seizing of forbidden pleasure, of ***** sport, of all that is delightful and pleasing, each taken totally within its season and exploited to the fullness of its worth though it last but a moment and repeat itself never. Oh, freedom is not so much irresponsibility as a desire to accept all the credit and all the blame for one's deeds, to achieve success or failure on one's own, to require either or both as a consequence of an inner fire, not to shirk one's duty, but to see one's duty become himself—himself to tame. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame, lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I've thought on the meaning of autumn, how the rainbows' enchantments defeated dark clouds while robins repeated ancient songs sagely heeded so wisely when winters before they'd flown south. And still, in remembrance, I've conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, I found a gray hair … it was all beyond my ken. Easter, in Jerusalem by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 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. “Easter, in Jerusalem” was published in my college literary journal, Homespun. Gone by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 Tonight, it is dark and the stars do not shine. A man who is gone was a good friend of mine. We were friends. And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold when I awoke to find him gone ... "Gone" is actually gone, destroyed in a moment of frustration along with other poems I have not been able to recreate from memory. At some point between age 14 and 15, I destroyed all the poems I had written, out of frustration. I was able to recreate some of the poems from memory, but not all. Canticle: an Aubade by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 Misty morning sunlight hails the dawning of new day; dreams drift into drowsiness before they fade away. Dew drops on the green grass speak of splendor in the sun; the silence lauds a songstress and the skillful song she's sung. Among the weeping willows the mist clings to the leaves; and, laughing in the early light among the lemon trees, there goes a brace of bees! Dancing in the depthless blue like small, bright bits of steel, the butterflies flock to the west and wander through dawn's fields. Above the thoughtless traffic of the world, intent on play, a flock of mallard geese in v's dash onward as they race. And dozing in the daylight lies a new-born collie pup, drinking in bright sunlight through small eyes still tightly shut. And high above the meadows, blazing through the warming air, a shaft of brilliant sunshine has started something there … it looks like summer. I distinctly remember writing this poem in Ms. Davenport's class at Maplewood High School. It's not a great poem, but the music is pretty good for a beginner. Eternity beckons ... by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Eternity beckons ... the wine becomes fire in my veins. You are a petal, unfolding, cajoling. I am your sun. I will shine with the fierceness of my desire; touched, you will burst into flame. I will shine and again shine and again shine. I will shine. I will shine. You will burn and again burn and again burn. You will burn. You will burn. We will extinguish ourselves in our ecstasy; We will sigh like the wind. We will ebb into darkness, our love become ashes . . . never speaking of sin. Never speaking of sin. Every Man Has a Dream by Michael R. Burch, circa age 23 lines composed at Elliston Square Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ... a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain, of a breeze in the evening that, rising again, reminds him of something that cannot have been, and he calls this dream love. And each man has a dream that he fears to let live, for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all. So he curses, denies it and locks it within the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin, this madness, this love. But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams, and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls, and he finds in the end that he cannot deny the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries in the darkness of night for this light he calls love. Every time I think of leaving … by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Every time I think of leaving … I see my mother's eyes staring at me in despair, and I feel the old scar throbbing again. Then I think of the father that I never knew; I remember how, as a child, I could never understand not having a father. And when the tears start falling, running slowly down my cheeks, I think of our two sons and all their many dreams— dreams no better than dust the day that I leave. And when my hands start shaking, when my eyes will not adjust, when I know there's no tomorrow for the two of us, then I think of our young daughter who prays, eyes tightly shut, not to lose her mother or father … and I know that I can't leave. Every time I think of going, I close my eyes and see the days we spent together when love was all we dreamed, and I wish that I could find (how I wish that I could find!) a reason to believe. Go down to the hoe-down by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 Go down to the hoe-down. Pause in the pungent, moonless night, watching the partners as they dance; go down ... don’t you know ... it's your only chance? Go down to the hoe-down. Go down to the hoe-down, and whirl as you dance through a dream of wine, through a world once your world, through a world without time, through a world rich and rhythmic, through a world full of rhyme. O, go down to the hoe-down. Go down. As they slow down, the couples will whirl to a reel of romance, for the music has called them, and so they must dance. Go down, don't you know that this is your chance? Go down to the hoe-down. Sappho’s Lullaby by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 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. Belfast's Streets by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 Belfast's streets are strangely silent, deserted for a while, and only shadows wander her alleys, slick and vile with children's darkening blood. Her sidewalks sigh and her cobblestones clack in misery beneath my booted feet, longing to be free from their legacy of blood, and yet there's no relief, for it seems that there's no God. Her sirens scream and her PAs plead and her shops and churches sob, but the city throbs —her heart the mobs that are also her disease— and still there's no relief, for it seems there is no God. I listen to a radio and men who seem to feel that only "right" is real. "We can't give in to men like them, for we have an ideal and God is on our side!" one angrily replies, but the sidewalks seem to chide, clicking like snapped teeth. And if God is on our side, then where is God's relief? And if there is a God, then why is there no love and why is there no peace? "Sweet innocence! this land was wild and better wild again than torn apart beneath the feet of ‘educated' men!" The other screams in rage and hate, and a war's begun that will not end till the show goes off at ten. Now a little girl is singing, walking t'ward me 'cross the street, her voice so high and sweet it hangs upon the air, and her eyes are Irish eyes, and her hair is Irish hair, all red and wild and fair, and she wears a Catholic cross, but she doesn't really care. She's singing to a puppy and hugging him between the verses of her hymn. Now here's a little love and here's a little peace, and maybe here's our Maker, present though unseen, on Belfast's dreary streets. This is one of my earliest poems, as indicated by the occasional use of archaisms. Hills by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 For many years I have fought the rocks and the sand and the weeds, the frost and the floods and the trees of these hills to build myself a home. Now it seems I will fight no longer, but it’s a hard thing for an old warrior to give up. Here in these hills let them lay down my bones where the sun settles wearily to rest, and let my spirit dream in its endless sleep that someday it also shall rise to kiss the morning clouds. This wall of stone that I built of rock hewn by my own hands shall not stand long through the passage of time, and when it lies in cakes of dust and its particles kiss my bones, then the battle that these hills and I fought will finally have been won. But mother Gaia will not shun her wayward son for long; she will take me and cradle me in her mud, cover me with a blanket of snow, then sing me to sleep with a nightingale’s song. Now the night grows cold within me; no more summers shall I see … but, nevertheless, when June comes, my spirit shall wander the paths through the trees that lead to these hills, these ****** lovely hills, and then I shall be free. All the young sailors by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 All the young sailors follow the sea, leaving their lovers to live and be free, to brave violent tempests, to ride out wild storms, to dream of new lovers seductive and warm, to drink until sunset then stretch out at dawn in the dew of emotions they don't understand, to follow the sunlight, to flee from the rain, to live out their longings though often in pain, to dream of the children they never shall see while bucking the waves of an unending sea till, racked by harsh coughing, his lungs almost gone, straining to catch one last glimpse of the sun, the last of the sailors finally succumbs, for all the young sailors die young. Hush, my darling by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Hush, my darling; all your tears will never bring again that which Time has taken. And though you’re so ****** lovely that a god might wish to make you his, Time cares not for loveliness; he takes what he will take. Sleep now darling, don’t awaken till the dream is over. Dream of fields of clover dancing in an autumn wind. Lie down at my side and let sleep's soothing tide carry you into an ocean deep. Be silent, world; let her sleep. Do not disturb a child upon her journey mild into the realm of dreams. Sleep, carry her to that sweet state where little girls need not know Fate dismembers the dreams of men. Amora’s Complaint by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 Will you walk with me tonight? for the moon hangs low and travelers seldom disturb the silence of this ghostly kingdom. We shall not be seen if we linger by this stream that shimmers in the starlight. Will you talk to me awhile? For sounds don’t carry very far; the interminable silence is barely marred by the labored breathing of the "giant" who lies sleeping in caverns fetid and vile, and I crave your immaculate smile. So close to death, the final sleep, he hastens as he lies. Silence louder than his sighs drifts on the languid air toward his musty lair, and all life that it finds, it keeps. And though he sleeps, in dreams content, mistaking bile for dew, he knows not what is true. His eyes are worse than blind men's eyes, for the images they “see” disguise how swift and sure is death's descent. His ears hear songs that are not sung; his nostrils scent a faint perfume permeating midnight's gloom, when all the while his rotting flesh heralds worms to view his death. He festers, having long been stung. O, once he was as you are now— full of passion, wild and free, majestic, formed most perfectly. But tonight, hideously deformed, he himself becomes a worm; though he doesn't see that he's changed, somehow. Why, he still calls me his “dearest friend,” although I cannot bear to near that stinking, dying sufferer! He asks me why I stray so far from the "comfort" of his arms ... Tonight, I said, "This is the end." O, he swore to not let me depart, but when he couldn't even rise to chase me as I leapt the skies, I think he almost understood. He frowned. His skin, like rotting wood, seemed to come apart. He almost touched my heart. But such a vile and leprous being I cannot have to be my love. So while the stars shine high above and you and I are here alone, help me undress; unzip my gown. Come, sate my Desire this perfect evening. Blue Cowboy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 He slumps against the pommel, a lonely, heartsick boy— his horse his sole companion, his gun his only toy —and bitterly regretting he ever came so far, forsaking all home's comforts to sleep beneath the stars, he sighs. He thinks about the lover who awaits his kiss no more till a tear anoints his lashes, lit by uncaring stars. He reaches to his aching breast, withdraws a golden lock, and kisses it in silence as empty as his thoughts while the wind sighs. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge between the earth and distant stars. Do not fall; the scorpions would leap to feast upon your heart. Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand for a drop of water warm and brown. Dream of streams like silver seams even as you gulp it down. Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs to hide the weakness in your soul. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge and wish that you were going home as the stars sigh. Cowpoke by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 Sleep, old man... your day has long since passed. The endless plains, cool midnight rains and changeless ragged cows alone remain of what once was. You cannot know just how the Change will **** the windswept plains that you so loved... and so sleep now, O yes, sleep now... before you see just how the Change will come. Sleep, old man... your dreams are not our dreams. The Rio Grande, stark silver sands and every obscure brand of steed and cow are sure to pass away as you do now. I believe “Cowpoke” was written around the same time as “Blue Cowboy,” perhaps on the same day. If Not For Love by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 The little child who cries, brushing sleep from startled eyes, might not have awakened from her dreams to fill the night with plaintive screams if not for love. The little collie pup who tore the sofa up and pleads here in a mournful crouch, might not have ripped apart the couch if not for love. And the little flower *** that broke and littered the rug with sod might not have been dropped if a child had not tried to place it at her mother's bedside— if not for love. Ecstasy by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 A soft breeze stirs the sun-drenched grass that parts, reforms, and then is still. Sunshine, cascading from above, sipped by the flowers to their fill, then bursts out in the rosy reds, the violet blues and buttercup yellows, bolder, more eager, given fresh birth, somehow transformed within frail petals into an ecstasy of colors broadcast across the receptive land, which now wears a cloak like Joseph’s, nature’s brand. EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART II i (dedicated to u) by michael r. burch i. i move within myself i see beyond the sky and fathom with full certainty: this lifes a lethal lie my teachers try to tell me that they know more than i (and well they may but do they know shrewd TIME is slipping by and leaving us all to die?) i shout within myself i stand up to be seen but only my eyes watch as i rise and i am left between the nightmare of “REALITY” and sleeps soothing scenes and both are only dreams i cry out to my “friends” but none of them can hear i weep in dark frustration but they swim beyond my tears i reach out to assist them but they cannot find my hand they all believe in “GOD” yet all of them are ****** come, my self, come with me move within your shell cast aside ur “enlightenment” and let us leave this living hell ii. i watch the maidens play their fickle games of love and if this is what life is of then i have had enough all my teachers tell me to con-form to SOCIETY yet none of them will venture how (false) it came to be this gaud, SOCIETY i watch the maidens play and though i want them much i know the illusion of their purity would shatter at my touch leaving annihilated truth to be pieced together to dispel the lies that accompany youth i watch the maidens play and know that what i want i cannot take because then it would be gone iii. i watch the lovely maidens i search their sightless eyes i find that only darkness lies behind each guise i try to touch their feelings but they have been replaced by intelligence and manners and tact and social grace i want to make them love me but they cannot love themselves and though they seek love desperately and care for little else they stand little chance of much more than romance for a few days i try to friend the men but they have even less for they want nothing more than whatever seems “the best” their hollow, burnt-out eyes reveal: their souls have flown and all that loss has left is a strange, sad fear of debt and a love for things of gold iv. ive never seen a day break but ive seen a life shatter it was mine and i suppose it still is: all ten thousand pieces id. id like to put it together (someONE please tell me how!) for i am out of the glue called u that held my life together i.e. and i wish that u and i were thru but whatever u do dont say that we are! I wrote “i (dedicated to u)” after discovering the poetry of e. e. cummings while reading independently in high school. Ode to the Sun by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Day is done ... on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun. Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me. Now day is done ... on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace, for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on. Perspective by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 Childhood is a summer sky — the clouds are always passing by. Old age is a winter storm — the clouds are always coming on. Recursion by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-22 Love is a dream the pale dreamer imagines; the more he imagines, the less he can see; the less he can see, the more he imagines, for dreams lead to blindness, and blindness —to dreams. Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons ... and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears ... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway —a man as large as I left— and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim— "My father!" "My son!" Pilgrim Mountain by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 I have come to Pilgrim Mountain to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow. Do not ask me why I have done this, for I do not know … but I had a vision of the end of time and I feared for my soul. On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks creak and groan in their misery, for they comprehend they're prey to night and day, and ten thousand other fallacies. Sunlight shatters the stone, but midnight mends it again with darkness and a cooling flow. This is no place for men, and I know this, but I know that that which has been must somehow be again. Now here on Pilgrim Mountain I shall gouge my eyes with stone and tear out all my hair; and though I die alone, I shall not care … for the night will still roll on above my weary bones and these sun-split, shattered stones of late become their home here, on Pilgrim Mountain. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Playmates by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14 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. "Playmates" was originally published by The Lyric. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher, Anne Meyers, called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! In any case, "Happiness" was my first longish poem and "Playmates" was the second, at least as far as I can remember. The Sandman’s Song by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I sing white water, birds on the bough, bunnies and redwoods to sleep … to sleep … I sing, “Wild forests, green meadows, blue seas, drink deep … drink deep … drink deep …” I whisper, “Bright robins, please, be wise, and wily weasels, close your eyes … fierce eyes …” I bid all the rivers, “Come, seek your beds!” I bid all the children, “Off, sleepyheads!” then softly shutter their eyes … eyes … eyes. I lullaby, lullaby down the plains, echo through mountains and moonlit hills … hills … hills … I murmur, “Oh, mothers, please don’t rise; shadows and stars, be still … be still … be still.” And the world sleeps. Published by Borderless Journal Martin Luther King Jr. was a poet in his famous "I Have A Dream" poem-sermon-speech. I recognized this as a boy in a poem I wrote in which an older Poet (with a capital "P") speaks to a younger poet (with a lower-case "p") who echoes his thoughts. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 I have a dream …pebbles in a sparkling sand… of wondrous things. I see children …variations of the same man… playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, …stone and flesh, a host of colors… together at last. I see a time …each small child another's cousin… when freedom shall ring. I hear a song …sweeter than the sea sings… of many voices. I hear a jubilation …respect and love are the gifts we must bring… shaking the land. I have a message, …sea shells echo, the melody rings… the message of God. I have a dream …all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone… of many things. I live in hope …all children are merely small fragments of One… that this dream shall come true. I have a dream! …but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?… Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. …i can feel it begin… Lovers and dreamers are poets too. …poets are lovers and dreamers too… Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Rachel Lindsey by Michael R. Burch, age 22-26 Rachel Lindsey lives in fear of a love she'll never know, and she dreams of it in tears, but she will not let it grow, so she's building up a fortress that will keep her feelings in. It will have walls wide as China’s, and higher still, and then she'll build herself a tower that will rise above those walls. There she'll watch her love for hours as he tries to climb, but falls. And she'll sigh each time he falls, and she'll gasp each time he makes a little headway up her fortress, but she need not fear—she's safe. She wants desperately to love him, but she will not pay love's price; though she dreams about surrender, she's been living out a lie. She's no damsel in a tower; she's a woman growing old. She can't spare another hour to be distant, cruel and cold. And she knows this, but she knows that love's a gamble: few can win. And she cannot bear to see her heart spin Fortune’s wheel again. So she'll watch him as he walks, at last, dejectedly away, and she'll call and she will call, but she’ll never, never say the only words to make him stay. She'll never say, "I love you." Oh, my fair lady by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Oh, my fair lady, where have you gone … Over the mountains to follow the sun? Off to the northlands to follow the snow? Tell me, sweet lover; I'll go, oh I'll go! Morning by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 It was morning and the bright dew drenched the grasses like tears the trembling lashes of my lover; another day had come. And everywhere the flowers were turning to the sun, just as the night before I had turned to the one for whom my heart yearned. “Morning” was published in my high school literary journal. In the Twilight of Her Tears by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 In the twilight of her tears I saw the shadows of the years that had taken with them all our joys and cares … There in an ebbing tide’s spent green I saw the flotsam of lost dreams wash out into a sea of wild despair … In the scars that marred her eyes I saw the cataracts of lies that had shattered all the visions we had shared … As from a ravaged iris, tears seemed to flood the spindrift years with sorrows that the sea itself despaired … impressions of a desert by michael r. burch, circa age 16 a barren wasteland nothing grows from the sky molten gold heats, congeals oases vanish or waver ,unreal, even scorpions languish somber mountains shift and merge dustbowl seas at the verge of the horizon stretch, converge the sky is poison sand storms surge lizards whining curse the sky squinting fire from burnt eyes slipping, squirming rattlesnakes quench awful yearning for moisture and hate a flower every thousand miles rustles crinkles worn and dry As the Flame Flowers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20 As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame, arches leaves skyward, aching for rain, but it only encounters wild anguish and pain as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem. Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem reaches through night, through the staggering pain, for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain, as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame. Mesmerized by a distant crescent-shaped gem which glistens like water though drier than sand, the flower extends itself, trembles, and then dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind. The flower aflame yet entranced by the moon is, of course, a metaphor for destructive love and its passions. Ashes by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 A fire is dying; ashes remain … ashes and anguish, ashes and pain. A fire is fading though once it burned bright … ashes once embers are ashes tonight. “Ashes” is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” written the same day, I believe. still by michael r. burch, circa age 21 ur eyes are bluer than midnight —bluer, darker, more magic still— and ur lips are sweeter than honey —sweeter, warmer, more thrilling still— ur touch is gentler than raindrops —gentler, kinder, more nurturing still— yet UR more elusive than moonlight never once known and not still. In dreams like these by Michael R. Burch, age 26 In dreams like these, vexed seas engage and, gasping, grapple—wave to wave— while, farther off, dark storm clouds rise … I seek affection in your eyes and long for laughter on your lips. I trace your cheeks with fingertips that yearn to show you how I feel, yet tremble that this seems so real. In dreams like these faint stars, enraged, decline to warm the anguished waves while, further off, a storm ensues … Melissa, oh my love, I use my poetry to keep you near when you are more than miles away and dreams to drive away despair; return to me, and this time, stay. I wrote this poem during a troubled time in my first live-in relationship. In fantasies by Michael R. Burch, age 26 In fantasies I see you smile a wistful smile, as though to please; you touch my heart … I yearn and ache. I wish that you were here with me. In fantasies I dream of times when you and I were all alone; anxiety seemed distant then, much closer now that you have gone. In fantasies I have you now, I kiss your lips and hold you near, and all the world is brilliant light commingling both joy and fear … Return again; let dawn appear. “In fantasies” was written the same day as “In dreams like these.” jasbryx by michael r. burch, circa age 16 hidden deep inside of Me is someone else, and he is free; he laughs aloud, yet never is heard; he flits about, as free as a bird, so unlike Me silently within MySelf, he shouts aloud and shuns the shelf s'm'OTHERS deem to be his place; yet SOCIETY is not disgraced, for he is never heard above the spoken word "o, i am not as others are — inhuman things devoid of fire, for i am all i seem to be — innocent, childlike, frolicsome, free — and i raise no ire!" no, he is not as others are — keeping up with the JONESES, raising the BAR; living his life like a lark free of CARE: never brushing his TEETH, never parting his HAIR, and he's no ONE's sire! yes, he is all he seems to be — wild, rambunctious, innocent, free, so unlike Me I wrote “Jasbryx” in high school, under the influence of e. e. cummings, around age 16. The love we shared by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20-24 The love we shared was lukewarm wine; we drank until the cup ran dry and then we filled it once again … fierce passions bubbled at the brim. And when the bottle, too, ran dry, we stomped our hearts to brew champagne; pale liquid love flew forth like rain … we thought to drink worth all the pain. And, O, the ecstasies we knew as long as wine gleamed in the cup, but when our spirits were consumed, leaving not a single drop, we tasted bitter dregs at last and learned that love was not enough. Lying by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Lying here beside you, I cannot meet your eyes, and yet, somehow, I still can see the tears welling up and glistening, blue, a part of me, a part of you . . . a part of all we've been throughout the years. Now the night is dark and fading into darkness deeper still, and your body shakes beside me as you weep, but what am I to say to you— a pleasing lie, the painful truth? I close my eyes and wish that I could sleep. My grandfather's hills by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 My grandfather lies at the foot of an oak far from the beaten path, and never before has a spirit so free lain fettered in sleep. But though he lies and walks no more, I see his eyes in the setting of the sun and I hear his voice when the sap runs, for these are an old man's hills. Don't tell me the government "owns" them, for the government didn't live them and breathe them and roam them— only he did. Don't tell me the government "regulates" them, when seventy years of his sweat and his blood and his tears flow through the waters of these hills to nourish the trees … No, these are an old man's hills. No one knew them as he did— every hole where the woodchucks hid, every nest where the blue jays lived— and nobody loved them as much as he loved them. Only he cared when the flood waters killed the tiny buds and the blades of grass that grew beyond the fields. And only he cared when the last bear died, caught killing livestock. "The oldest bear ever lived," he'd brag, "and the smartest." Though we'd often hear it trip and crash against the trash cans. These are an old man's hills, and they will never be the same without his loving hand gently transplanting shrubs and trees that surely would have died in the rocky, shopworn land. Yes, these are an old man's hills, and his eyes were the blue of the autumn skies he knew so well even after he went blind. "There's a few wispy clouds to the west today, fadin' away, ain't they, boy?" he'd ask me, and of course he was right. "Sure are, 'pa," I'd reply, and a smile would crease his face and a warmth would pour out of his soul, for he loved his hills. Don't say that someday the wind and the rain will weather away his mark from the land— the well that he dug and the wall that he built and the fields that he planted with his two callused hands. A memory cannot wither away when it’s reborn in the songs of the raucous jays and heard within the laughing waters of the sea's silver daughters. An old man lives within these hills, although he walks no more; I have often heard his voice within the winter's stormy snore; and I’ve seen his eyes flash sometimes in the bluest summer sky; and I’ve heard his silent laughter in my newborn baby's cry. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) I believe "My Grandfather's Hills" and "Twelve-Thirty" were written on the same day, or very close to each other. Twelve-Thirty by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 How cold the nights become so quickly; now a small fire does little to quench the winter's thirst for warmth. Sometimes it seems that all my life has been an endless winter: the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded … and time goes slowly when a man's strength is not enough to meet his needs. Tonight I feel an old man creeping into my bones, willing to die and sleep and never dream, and I accept him, not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease until I die, but because I am too weak and too weary to wish it otherwise … and a man is so very close to the edge when he lacks the strength to wish. Long ago, when I was young, I would run and fall and cry and not give up. But now it is twelve-thirty, the darkest hour of the night, and I am at the darkest point that I have ever known in life. So even as the frigid winds pass silently across the hills, I feel my spirit sigh within and steal into its cell. No longer does it venture forth to dare new feats and find its fate, but it lies asleep throughout the night and does not awake except to eat a little more of my life away. Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore) Clown by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15-16 My “friends” often remind me that I am a sluggard, a fool. They say that I resemble a clown and I suppose it is true that I do. There’s no need to mince words, for I know how ugly I am. And though I always tell myself that I don’t give a **** I do. How can I say that which I must —“Embrace me. Shelter me. Be mine”— when my appearance always bothers me as much as it does? And yet with you I’m sure that I could live my life and never mind; just the touch of your lips in the night could fill my troubled mind with trust. Just your presence at my side could give me all the strength I need; and your understanding touch could help my broken heart to heal a little each day. But what’s the use? This cannot be although I wish it so. My love, you’re far too beautiful for me to ever have or know for even a day. So when you send me upon my way —a tragic, foolish clown— you don’t have to struggle to kiss me goodbye. Don’t give me the runaround. Just please don’t put me down. Laughter from Another Room by Michael R. Burch, circa 18-19 Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist. Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry. Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints. The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; the poet never finds the words. The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior never knows his foe. The warrior never knows his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; the guiltiest are not to blame. The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods. If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; other men observe through tears. Other men observe through tears the passage of these days of doom; now I listen and I hear laughter from another room. Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real. Leaden-eyed lovers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Leaden-eyed lovers, sung to sleep by your own breathing, don't your hear the silence despairing, and the wind deceiving? Have you never wondered if there’s more to life than a dream of love and a fear of time? And what if tonight you have had each other wildly, totally, as only in love? What if tomorrow you shall have no others— is once ever enough? Is anything ever enough? Can you save enough love to last till tomorrow? Can you make enough memories to last when you've aged? And when you've grown old and are weary of burning, how then will you rage, ranging, busy seeking a continual change? You will never rest easy as long as you fear the dull encroachment of the coming years. You will never learn the meaning of love if you imagine it fading with a gray hair. Leaden-eyed lovers, dreams so incurious are bound to mislead. Open your eyes, look to each other, pay time no heed. Offer each other the promise of tomorrow and perhaps you may see. Liar by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 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. Lincoln by Michael R. Burch, age 20 A little child lies sleeping where the wind cannot touch him, while a flicker from an unseen star, though very, very dim, now and them creeps through the blinds to gently touch his eyes. If only he would open them, their forces might comprise! But still the storm is raging, and still sleep’s bonds hold firm; although he tosses in his dreams, in bed he merely squirms. And though sometimes he notices a warmth that wells within, he cannot understand conflicting omens on the wind. And still a single pelican he sometimes sees at dawn, flashing through the heavens; as soon as it is gone, he hears a strange, vague melody, a strain upon the wind that never echoes long enough for him to comprehend. I attended kindergarten and first grade in Lincoln, Nebraska. The pelican refers to my birth in Orlando, Florida. The use of “comprise” is intentional, as in “come together to create something larger.” Damp Days by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-18 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 morasses of clumped clay while the temples throb in pain at the thought of more damp days. Embryo by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17 You sail on an ocean of crystalline water somewhere far beyond where the Hebrides part, listening for the whispers and murmurs of a life-giving heart. Then you glide through the eerie, impregnable darkness somewhere far beyond the harsh brightness of birth, listening for a monotonous tremor that, half-forgotten, you now remember. You rest on the surface of silver-tongued waters somewhere far beyond a life that is lost, listening to a voice gently calling you to the coast. Then you dive through the depths’ strange, unfathomable darkness, caught somewhere between the beginning and end, listening for a sound through the stillness, with a stubborn willfulness, wondering when. You laze on a surface of shimmering clearness, trapped somewhere between fiery sunset and night, listening for a trumpet to sound its message bright. Then you plummet through the unsolvable darkness, somewhere far beyond any star, moon or sun, listening for the sound of the laughter of the gay daughters of Poseidon. You bask in the brilliance of cascading raindrops, somewhere within reach of a life you once lived, listening for the peal of a trumpet and a shiver of the sea and the wind. Then you drop through the depths of an alien ocean, sluggishly moving through its gravity, somewhere between the dead and the living, the dark and the livid, the end and eternity. So sail on your ocean of crystal-clear water, or ride on the crest of a bright tidal wave; tomorrow, perhaps, the trumpet will call you back from the grave. Or crawl through the depths of the pulsating darkness with the thud of a heartbeat strong in your ears, and do not worry that you might not awaken; for your time is not measured in years, but in changes. I wrote “Embryo” around the time I wrote “The snowman sleeps under the Sea.” The snowman sleeps under the sea by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Beware while bright sunlight, in ardor, caresses and kisses one arc of the earth, for others are trapped in the dungeons of night— crazed victims of an insane demon's mirth. Beware while the children are playing under a sun brightly blazing, for soon they, too, will be paying for the time they once thought free … for an ice-capped mountain is swaying and a snowman sleeps under the sea. Beware, though life's moments are fleeting, for, fleet though they may be, a moment in Hades, I have heard, can stretch into an eternity. Beware of the clouds whitely lazing under a sun brightly blazing, for soon dark Night will be freed, her black canopy raising. Now an ice-caped summit is waving and an iceman sleeps under the sea. Beware the snowman, cold as death, with winter terror on his breath; if he should touch you, flee, my friend, or into hell’s cold depths descend. I believe “The snowman sleeps under the sea” was inspired by the title of the Eugene O’Neill play “The Iceman Cometh” and the biblical idea of hell as bleak, cold “outer darkness.” M'lady by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Your nose is freckled like an imp's and tilts as though to see what's going on around it. And you never really sit; you wriggle, squirm and bounce as though you were a child … Well, I think perhaps you are, but the car is pulling up, M'lady. You're never dignified, yet no matter what I say, you still will toss your head and blazing curls, rebellious red, as though you were a queen surrounded by her slaves … Now may I have your hand, M'lady. Your eyes are full of mischief, of a childish sort, no doubt, and I know what plots you’re thinking because your eyes keep sinking, refusing to meet mine. Don't say it's “just the wine”! Now may I have this dance, M'lady. I'd ask you to behave, but I know you never shall, for, like a child, you're stubborn, refusing to be governed by any save yourself. Still, you know I wouldn't change you, even if I could … Though I'm almost sure I should, M'lady. But please pull down your dress! Man by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 Man levels woodlands to the ground and thinks that makes him "strong." He lives until he's eighty and he thinks his life is "long." He flings a tin can to the moon and thinks that makes him "wise." He thinks he's mastered "logic," yet falls for shysters' lies. Earth's mountains rise and fall and rise without the aid of man, and who's lived longer than the sea: what is its lifespan? Ten thousand meteors reach the moon, yet all they are is dust. As for the truth, what is it? We've barely scraped the crust. Man studies anthropology and thinks he's mastered "life." He fights his wars with capguns and thinks he knows of strife. He rules the land and braves the sea; he thinks he's over all; but compared to infant galaxies, he's not old enough to crawl. For the universe is ageless, and man knows no life but ours; and what weight hold wars when compared with the gravity of stars? And can man rule the elements? How can he take on airs, having only managed one small step on an infinite set of stairs? Man writes his faulty philosophies, his poetries and songs; he thinks he's all-important, that his Bibles can't be wrong. He tells himself he's "thoughtful," that he's "rational" and "wise." He thinks he'll build an empire that stretches beyond the skies. He puts himself above the stars; he's sentient, stalwart, brave. He thinks he'll tame the universe, yet he remains its slave. More energy than he can use flows each second from the sun. More space than he imagines lies from here to the next one. Yes, he speaks in terms of "light-years" but he cannot pass their bar. He'll be born and die a billion times in one heartbeat of a star. He's going to conquer time itself! Can he tell me what time is? Can he imagine his conceit, or the vanity that's his? The universe is boundless; it knows no end, nor time. It sings in crackling energy, supernovas are its rhyme. And the universe can form a sun, but man can't make a tree. And when we've used up everything, then what will there be? "Man" appeared in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976. Born to Run by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17-18 And so you have gone … gone though you knew how I needed you, gone though I begged you to stay. Still, it's better this way— for neither of us could say goodbye. Not while harsh summer still steamed heaven's skies, not while love's embers still flared in the night, stirred by the winds of the feelings we shared, not while we were both running scared, and not even now. Still, it's better, somehow, that you left me this way … I don't think we two could have lasted even another day. Oh, sometimes it seems love was only a dream, a dream we could never let live, though we'd have sworn that we had the first time we met secretly, sinfully, nervous and wet with that August night’s heat under the old covered bridge. We were always half-lame, hungry, tired and afraid, running from this or from that, our only possessions my pipe and your hat … my pipe and your hat and the old, ugly cat who tagged along so many miles, eying us with a warped, wicked smile till we drove it away … And "those were the days." Yes, those were the days and those were the nights … That hot August night I first took you, bedding you in the damp grass, your ******* liquid fire in my harsh grasp, your lips wet and warm; I had never been with a woman before, nor you with a man, and when we had finished neither could stand. Now I think of those days, running half-crazed, living on love and an old frying pan empty as often as not. And the cheap, sickening *** that we bought when we could never did either of us any good though we though that it did. Remember that night when we hid sixteen hours in the back of a barn after stealing a car? It wouldn't even run. We were the ones who were running … running, always running, never slowing down, without thought to direction … spinning around and around. Well, you've stopped spinning now; I wonder if I have. How many years did we wander? From sixty-two till seventy-five? We must have been the last hippies alive! … I wonder where the others all went. They must have grown tired of running and tired of wondering why — I know you did. Well, I'm tired of spinning, too, but I've never learned to stand still. It's easier to run, though it's hard to refill on the move. Well, I guess that I'll be moving on, hitching a ride and following the sun. Perhaps you'll regain a life that seemed gone along with the wind and the snow and the rain; perhaps the old life can lived once again; I hope you're not wrong … I'm sure you're not wrong. But I've got to move on and follow this road till its winding is done … 'Cause I think that I was born to run. I remember writing “Born to Run” after Bruce Springsteen appeared on the cover of TIME in 1975. Chains by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-21 Roses bloom within your eyes, bright with laughter, rich with love, echoing the morning's light, full of promise, full of life. And how I long to kiss your eyes, to taste the salt of love's sweet tears, to feel the fullness of the years, to know that you were always near. How often in the dark of night, when heaven was a dream we shared, our eyes would meet and then ignite into twin flames of fervent light. And now that time has healed the scars of wounds we suffered seeking peace, our chained eyes meet to find release and, bonded, we are truly free. Be Strong by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-20 Don't imagine the future will be brighter when this world is as it is; don't keep an account of the sorrow and the pain and the loneliness you suffer today, hoping tomorrow will repay you for all you have lost; don't expect happiness in repayment, and never complain at its cost, but seize it while it is with you and hold it as long as you can; then, when it is gone, do not mourn it, though it may never touch you again. For happiness crumbles to softness; a man must be hardened by pain. The ruggedest trees grow in deserts; only lilies and daisies crave rain. So dance while the moment is with you, as desert flowers dance in the sun, then crawl to the dunes when the wind dies and the blossom-strewn showers are gone. Sing while the cords of your heart snap in the blistering sun; thank God for the bleak accompaniment they give you as they, snapping, strum the bitter song of the dying young. Rejoice! Rejoice! and, right or wrong, at least you'll know that you are strong. Gentle by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 Flowers bend before the wind, then straighten out to stand again fair and proud beneath the sun, catching bright honey as it runs slowly down the edges of the sky, then through the hedges, and, as the daisies shake themselves, spreading sunlight through the dell, you take my hand and kiss it, whispering, "Be gentle." Clouds pass slowly before the sun, bowing, then rising and passing on; and as they cool us with their shadows, refreshing all the sun-drenched meadows, the butterflies rejoice, rejoin their brethren and dance once again, splendid and holy in the sun. You kiss my lips and take me gently in your arms, and I rejoice in this most unexpected warmth. "Be gentle, love, be gentle," you whisper from your place of imprisonment and safety, clasped in my embrace. "Yes, I will be gentle," is my only reply as I draw you nearer and hold you dearer than the mountains hold the sky, gently kissing your eyes. I hold you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 20 I hold you in the darkness, and the night that seemed so long when I was young and restless—so restless, strong and young— seems fleeting when I'm with you, yet endless when I'm not, and I think, "Soon she'll be leaving," and I tremble at the thought. Then the walls close in around me and my fears begin to grow and the tears course down my cheeks and then, like rivers melting snow, they form the lines that Time did not, and there, upon my face, I feel the wrinkles sagging, dragging me to Death's embrace. But the moonlight sparkles on your lips, and you whisper, "I won't go," and my wrinkles disappear, as do those rivers, into snow, and the firelight crackles in your hair that burns a darker red, and you kiss me as you lead me gently back toward our bed. Ghosts of the Shawnee by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 I sleep in moodless blue of starry skies, lost to a dream of many ancient things; death's rivers seek to drench me as they rise, but I stand above them, watching through the night, for a maiden more mysterious than spring. As I dream in deepest blue of brooding seas, a flow past flooding washes down the night. O, I sip the bitter nectar of Shawnee and wonder at the blazing northern light that flares as though some day it might ignite. Then shadows steeped in starlight call my name and I know, somehow, that she at last has come. There I rise to meet her as she enters in with eyes aflame and hair as black as sin, and I kiss her though I long to turn and run. I held a heart in my outstretched hand by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 I held a heart in my outstretched hand; it was ****** and red and raw. I ripped it and tore it; I gnashed it and gnawed it; I gored it with fingers like claws, but it never missed a beat of the heartfelt song it sang. There my bruised heart wept in my open palm and the gore dripped down my wrist; I reviled it, defiled it; I gave it a twist and wrung it dry of blood; still it beat with a hearty thud, and its movement was warm with love. But I flung it into the ditch and walked angrily, cruelly away … There it lay in the dust with a ****** crust caking the crimson stain that my claw-like fingers had made, and its flesh was grey with death. Oh, I cannot say why, but I turned and I cried, and I lifted it once again, holding it to my cheek, where it began to beat, but to a tiny, tragic measure devoid of trust or pleasure. Then it kissed my fingers and sighed, begging forgiveness even as it died. Now that was many years ago, and I am wiser, for I know that a heart can last out any pain, but cannot bear to be alone. And my lifeless heart is wiser too, having seen the way a careless man can take his being into his hands and crush it into a worthless ooze. I saw the sun rising by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 I saw ten billion stars shine with the brilliance of but one, and I thought, "What strange, satanic deed has some foul demon done, to steal the luster from the stars, to dim the autumn sky?" But as I mused upon the moment, deep within your eyes, I saw a hint of morning within moonlit blue residing, I noticed glints of blazing dawn within blue depths deriding, I caught a glimpse of coming days, still, secret and surprising, within the silent seas that flowed, stark silver and enticing; yes, looking in your eyes, my love, amid a flash of lightning, I saw the darkness going down . . . I saw the sun rising. It's just another Monday by Michael R. Burch, circa age 25 Now it's a sad, sad, sad, sad day … for all the stars have faded away, but all the people turn and they say, "It's just another Monday." "It's just another Monday." “Jack” was inspired by the plight of a schoolmate who had a rare disorder that made it dangerous for him to exercise. However, the details of the poem are imagined; we didn’t grow up together and weren’t close friends. Jack by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 I remember playing in the mud Septembers long ago when you and I were young with dreams of things to come and hopes for feet of snow. And at eight years old the days were long —long enough to last— and when it snowed the smiles would show behind each pane of glass. At ten years old, the fights were few, the future—far away, and when the snow showed on the streets there was always time to play . . . almost always time to play. And when you smiled your eyes were green, but when you cried they seemed ice blue; do you remember how we cried as little boys will do— trying hard not to, because we wanted to be "cool"? At twelve years old, the world was warm and hate had never crossed our minds, and in twelve short years we had not learned to hear the fearsome breath of Time behind. So, while the others all looked back, you and I would look ahead. It's such a shame that the world turned out to be what everyone said it would. And junior high was like a dream— the girls were mesmerized by you, sighing, smiling bright and sweet, as we passed them on the street on our way to school. And we did well; we never tried to make straight "A's," but always did. And just for kicks, when we saw cops, we ran away and hid. We seldom quarreled, never fought, for in our way, we loved each other; and had the choice been ours to make, you would have been my elder brother. But as it was, it always is— one's life is lost before it's lived. And when our mothers called our names, we ran away and hid. At fifteen we were back-court stars, freshman starters on the team; and every time we drove and scored the cheerleaders would scream our names. You played tennis; I played golf; you debated; I ran track; and whenever grades came out, you and I would lead the pack. I guess that we just had the knack. Whatever happened to us, Jack? Olivia by Michael R. Burch for Olivia Newton-John Turn your eyes toward me though in truth you do not see, and pass once again before me though you are distant as the sea. And smile once again, smile for me, though you do not know my name … and pass once again before me, and fade, and yet remain. Remain, for my heart still holds you —soft chords in a dying song!— * Stay, for your image still lingers though it will not linger long. And smile, for my heart is breaking though you do not know my name. Laugh, for your image is fading though I wish it to remain. But die, for I cannot have you, though I want you, this fell night; darken, and fade and be silent though your voice and aspect are light. Yet frown, for you cannot touch me though I have touched you now; then go, for you have not met me, and never, never shall. Phantasmagoria by Michael R. Burch, age 18 The night was a wrinkled pachyderm; grey-skinned and monstrous, it covered the earth till the sun, like a copper-mouthed serpent, swallowed it slowly, giving dawn birth. Behold the kaleidoscopic changing of nighttime to day; the sun, like a ravenous viper, has frightened the pale moon away. Intricate Melody by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Late in the sunlight silence, a shower of silver over the sea waltzed through the waves like a sad melody … She had eyes like September, flaming amber, searing autumn sunshine. She sang, "Love, I don't remember, was I yours, or were you mine?" And then in an stunning sunset, a flare of wildfire striking the trees rekindled the flames of an old memory … She had dreams like silver forests full of fancy dancing in the shadows. She sighed, "Love was working for us, now it's gone, I wonder how." But off the arcing evening, a frail trace of sunset recharging the breeze whispered the words of an old mystery … Though she sleeps in silver forests set in mountains towering to the heavens, still her heart beats to the chorus of one love, love for one man. “Intricate Melody” was inspired by “Unchained Melody” as covered by Bobby Hatfield of the Righteous Brothers in 1965. Marie by Michael R. Burch, age 17 Play your harp for me, Marie; merrily let it sing. Marry me and we will be happily together then. Marry me and we will be as happy as the jay; and I shall give you everything if only you will play for me today. Play your harp for me, Marie; make merry while we may! Melt my heart and move my soul; you shall, if you'll but play. O, play with me and we will be together for some time, and if you'll sing me songs as sweet as grapes when they combine, then I will sing you mine … Marie, let’s play! oh, say that you are mine by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 your lips are sweeter than apricot brandy; your breath invites with a pleasant warmth; you sweep through the darkest corridors of my soul— a waltzing maiden born of a dream; you brush the frailest fibre of my hopes and i sink to my knees— a quivering beggar. your eyes are bluer than aquamarine set ablaze by the sun; your lips as inviting as cool streams to a wanderer of desert lands; i sleep in your hand, safe in the warmth of your tender palm, lost in the fragrance of your soft skin. WE make love as deep as purple pine forests, your laughter richer and sweeter than honey poured in a pitcher of peaches and cream, your malice more elusive than the memory of a dream, your cheeks tenderer than eiderdown and cooler than snow-fed streams; you touch my lips with the lightest of kisses and my soul sings. Natashe by Michael R. Burch, age 21 I sleep through moodless blue of unstarred skies … dark waves weave patterns; wild sequestered seas grow huge and heavy, foddered by the breeze that blows them down. I drink Natashe; naval frigates freeze in agony across the frigid seas of death's domain. She brings me pain, and, comfortless, I toss like one who has slept too long on a slab-hard bed. O, I stir myself and groggily I groan just as Natashe said I surely would. God, these dreams are no good; I'd much rather live. Why did you leave? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 Your touch was the warmth of a summer day, the revivingness of showers in May, the festivity of the coming of fall, the sparkle of winter's icicled walls, the splendor of sunset, the furor of dawn, as soft as a feather, as clear as a pond enchantingly blue. Your laughter was lilac and lemon and low; your tears were dimensions of sorrow untold; your kiss was enchanting—slow dancing and wine; your love was a lyric in search of a rhyme; your eyes were green islands; your curls formed a sea of dark, dancing ringlets … Love, why did you leave? Happiness by Michael R. Burch, circa age 13-14 A friend of mine had lost his wife. He said, “Her death has wrecked my life; now all that I have left is sorrow! How can I bear to face tomorrow?” And he told me, “Happiness is like a bubble: what’s fine now will soon be trouble. Today you may be sailing high, soaring magically through the sky. But soon you’ll plummet back to earth, and you’ll find your problems only worse on the sad, sad day your bubble bursts.” But once an (alleged) wise man told me, “This is how it was meant to be: for, as the sun and rain make all things grow, so all men need *both happiness and sorrow.” And he told me, “Happiness is the warm sunshine; when it appears, the world seems fine. But when pain’s chilling rains appear, warmth soon dissolves; the world grows drear. Yet soon the sun will shine again to drive away the dismal rain!” How then I sang, how I exclaimed: “Oh, happiness is like a bubble! Double, double, toil and trouble! Bright roses bloom amid the rubble! When shall I get my manly stubble, or will I be forever gullible? If present joys cause future pain, does anyone care if I abstain?” "Happiness" is the first longish poem I remember writing, around age 13-14, and I consider it my first real poem. EARLY POEMS: HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE, PART III Sarjann by Michael R. Burch , circa age 16-17 What did I ever do to make you hate me so? I was only nine years old, lonely and afraid, a small stranger in a large land. Why did you abuse me and taunt me? Even now, so many years later, the question still haunts me: what did I ever do? Why did you despise me and reject me, pushing and shoving me around when there was no one to protect me? Why did you draw a line in the bone-dry autumn dust, daring me to cross it? Did you want to see me cry? Well, if you did, you did. … oh, leave me alone, for the sky opens wide in a land of no rain, and who are you to bring me such pain? … This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around age 16-17, but could have been started earlier. Shadows by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns— we merge, emerge, submerge … then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men … when we were men, or almost so. “Shadows” appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun. Snapdragons: A Pleasant Fable with a Very Happy Ending by Michael R. Burch, age 21 We threaded snapdragons through her dark hair and drank berry wine straight from the vine. We were too young for love (or strong drink) but her lips were warm and her eyes so charmed, that I robbed a Brinks and bought her minks. The Road Always Taken by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 We have come to the time of the parting of ways; now love, we must linger no longer, amazed at the fleetness with which we have squandered our days. We have come to the time of the closing of scrolls; beyond us, indecipherable Eternity rolls … and I fear for our souls. We have come to the point of no fork, no return; above us, a few cooling stars dimly burn … And yet I still yearn. Tonight how I miss you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 Tonight how I miss you, as never before, though morning is only a moment away. Oh, I know I should sleep, but I lie here, distraught, as you flit through my mind—such a wild, haunting thought. And love is a dream that I lately imagined— a dream, yet so real I can touch it at times. But how to explain? I can hardly envision myself without you, like a farce without mimes. Deep, deep in my soul lurks a creature of fire, dormant, not living unless you are near; now, because you are gone, he grows dim, and in dire need of your presence, he wavers, I fear … How he and I wish, how we wish you were here. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 She was my Shilo, my Gethsemane; on a green ***** of moss she nestled my head and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ecstatic sighs … But the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears! Years I abided the eclectic assaults of her flesh … She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a moment’s rest … She anointed my lips with strange dews at her perilous breast; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left its barb in a maelstrom of light. Love’s last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. Yesterday My Father Died by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 Rice Krispies and bananas, milk and orange juice, newspapers stiff with frozen dew … Yesterday my father died and the feelings that I tried to hide he'll never know, unless he saw through my disguise. Alarm clocks and radios, crumpled sheets and pillows, housecoats and tattered, too-small slippers … Why did I never say I cared? Why were few secrets ever shared? For now there's nothing left of him except the clothes he used to wear. Dimmed lights and smoky murmurs, a brief "Goodnight!" and fitful slumber, yesterday's forgotten dreams … Why did my father have to go, knowing that I loved him so? Or did he know? Because, it seems, I never told him so. The last words he spoke to me, his laughter in the night, mementos jammed in cluttered cabinets … What is this "love?" by Michael R. Burch, age 18 What is this "love" that drives men to such lengths as to betray their hearts and turn away from all resolve that once had granted strength and courage to them in life's harshest days? What is this "love" that causes men to shun the friends and family they once held so dear? What causes them to spurn the brilliant sun, to seek some gloomy cloister’s bitter tears? What is this "love" that urges men to yield their hearts' most cherished hopes and will’s restraint? What causes them to throw down reason’s shields, to spill their blood, till sense at last grows faint? This is the weakness in us, one and all— the love of love, the will to kneel, the hope, perhaps, to fall. “What is this ‘love’" was one of my earliest sonnets. You'll never know by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 You'll never know just how I need you, though you ought to know after all this time; you'll never see how much I want you, though your touch can tempt these words to rhyme. For storm clouds grow till stars flee, hidden; bright lightning rails against mankind; wild waves reach out toward scorched comets; but you do not see. You must be blind. Sundown by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Sunset’s shadows touch your eyes She’d rather have the truth than lies. wherein I find no alibis. And that seems strange … I wonder why. Now you and I have come this far, She seems so lovely and so calm. but further off, no guiding star. And yet I know that she is scarred. But without stars how can we see What’s best for her is best for me. ourselves, or where our paths fork free? And yet I loved her so sincerely! I think that we should end it here How can love end without a tear? and I can see that you agree. What’s best for her is best for me. Sunrise by Michael R. Burch, age 17 I ran toward a meadow that shimmered, all ablaze, and laughed to feel the buttercups my skin so softly graze. My soul was full of passion, my eyes were full of light, as sunrise crept into the depths of heart that had harbored only night. I leapt to catch a butterfly, then let it go again, and its glorious flight into the light caused me to clutch my pen and dash back to my darkling room to let the sunrise in, but not through open shutters,– through poems and psalms and hymns. Here “darkling” is a rare word that appears in more than one masterpiece of poetry. Spring dream time by Michael R. Burch, age 19 There are no dreams of springtime tomorrow left to my heart now that winter has come, nor passion to shine like a sun in ascendance to fierce incandescence; my spirit is numb. How shall I write when the words hold no meaning? How shall I feel, when all feeling is gone? How shall I seek what has never had presence or gather an essence I never have known? How to recapture what I once believed in, lost to strange seasons of riotous sun? How to rekindle the heart's effervescence, the spirit's resplendence, when springtime has flown? How will I write what has never been written? How can this ink leap from pen into poem? How can I believe what I know has no feasance, reducing the distance from fancied to known? Are there no others who dream not to lessen, not to wilt before winter, not to weaken—not some who **** to hellfire this winter of demons, imagining seasons of springtime to come? Tell me what i am by michael r. burch, circa age 14-16 Tell me what i am, for i have often wondered why i live. Do u know? Please, tell me so ... drive away this darkness from within. For my heart is black with sin and i have often wondered why i am; and my thoughts are lacking light, though i have often sought what was right. Now it is night; please drive away this darkness from without, for i doubt that i will see the coming of the day without ur help. This heartfelt little poem appeared in my high school journal. You didn't have time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 You didn't have time to love me, always hurrying here and hurrying there; you didn't have time to love me, and you didn't have time to care. You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung: too busy for love, "too old" to be young … Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time to take time and you didn't have time to try. Every time I asked you why, you said, "Because, my love; that's why." And then you didn't have time at all, my love. You didn't have time at all. You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun that had blinded your eyes and left you undone. Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none. You didn't have time, and now you have none. You have become the morning light by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 You have become the morning light that floods from heaven, fair upon the dewed expanses of each lawn … I lift my face, for you are dawn. And in the warmth that, fanned to flame, I feel against my naked flesh, I find the fierceness of desire— the passions of each wild caress. Now how I long to make you mine in such a moment, as your ******* burn like fire in my hands, forming flame from drunkenness. And if in ardor for the sun or for your touch or for the wine, my lips should crush yours in a kiss so harsh and heated, tears combine with sweat and anguish till beads form— salt beads of passion on your brow, then lover, we will burn with dawn, for in your eyes the sun shines now. When I was in my heyday by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22 When I was in my heyday, I howled to see the moon; the wail of a wolf, shrill, rising … then gruff echoed through night, such an impassioned tune! When I was in my heyday, hearts fluttered at my feet; I gathered them in like blossoms the wind had slaughtered and flung, but their fragrance was sweet. When I was in my heyday, I cursed the cage of stars that blocked me from rising above them and flying in rapture, uncaptured, beyond their bright bars. When I was in my heyday, my dreams were a dazzling mist that baffled my vision and veiled farthest heaven, but what did I care? I clenched fire in my fist! The Swing by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 I. There was a Swing tied to a tall elm that reached out over the river. There, I used to send you flying out into the autumn air till you began to shiver, then I’d gather you in again, hugging you to keep you warm. How I loved the scent of your hair and the flush of your cheeks! I’d dream of you for weeks when you were at Vassar and I was at Mayer. Then, come the summer, how I loved to see your knee-length skirt billowing about you, revealing your legs, aloed and darkly lovely, and to feel your ample hips —so soft, so full, so warm— when I touched them, “accidentally,” of course, while swinging you. You always knew, I’m sure of that now. And you never let me go too far. But your kisses were warm. Oh, I remember—your kisses were warm! II. I’d often dream of ********** you, and once, just once, when I was helping you down from the Swing, I touched your breast, and you paused. Hurriedly, I unbuttoned your blouse as you stood breathless, and with good cause, after riding the Swing as wild as I swung you. Your bra was Immaculate White, your ******* warm and firm beneath the thin material. You said nothing until I flipped your skirt up, then slipped my fingers inside the waistband of your matchless cotton ******* to feel your hips, so full and so inviting, and then your nether lips. At which you said, “That’s enough,” gently, and it was. III. Now I think of those days and I wonder why I ever let you go. I remember one dark hour when, standing in the snow, you told me to take you or to let you go. I was a fool. Proud, and a fool. All you asked was for us to be married after we finished school. But I was a fool. IV. But I always loved you— my wild risk taker! My sweet gentle ******* of elms, my lovely heartbreaker. V. Now you’re a dancer, and a fine one, I’m told. I saw you, once, in men’s magazine. You hair was still maple with highlights of gold, your eyes just as green. But somehow you didn’t quite seem the wild sweet rambunctious angel of my dreams who’d defy men’s eyes and the edicts of heaven simply to Swing. The Latter Days: an Update by Michael R. Burch, age 22 1. Little Richard grew up. Now the world is not the same, somehow. And Elvis Presley passed away— an idol but with feet of clay. The Beatles left have shorn their locks; John Lennon died and Heaven rocks, though Yoko Ono still remains. (The earth is full of passing pains.) 2. The wall is being built, we hear, although the reason’s far from clear. But there’s one thing we know for sure: there’s never money for the poor. There are, however, trillions for the one percent, and waging war. ’Cause Tweety has an “awesome” plan: kiss Putin’s *** and nuke Iran! 3. The Hebrew prophets long ago warned of a Trump of Doom, and so we wonder if this “little horn” may be the Beast who earned their scorn. But surely not! Trump claims to be our Savior, true Divinity! So please relax, admire his rod, and trust this Orange Demigod! I wrote the first stanza at age 22 in 1980, then updated the rest of the poem after Trump became president in 2016. there is peace where i am going by michael r. burch, circa age 15 lines written after watching a TV documentary about Woodstock there is peace where i am going, for i hasten to a land that has never known the motion of one windborne grain of sand; that has never felt a tidal wave nor seen a thunderstorm; a land whose endless seasons in their sameness are one. there i will lay my burdens down and feel their weight no more, untouched beneath the unstirred sands of a neverchanging shore, where Time lies motionless in pools of lost experience and those who sleep, sleep unaware of the future, past and present (and where Love itself lies dormant, unmoved by a silver crescent). and when i lie asleep there, with Death's footprints at my feet, not a thing shall touch me, save bland sand, lain like a sheet to wrap me for my rest there and to bind me, lest i dream, mere clay again, of strange domains where cruel birth drew such harrowing screams. yes, there is peace where i am going, for i am bound to be embalmed within the chill embrace of this dim, unchanging sea … before too long; i sense it now, and wait, expectantly, to feel the listless touch of Immortality. This poem was written circa 1973, around age 15, after I watched a TV documentary about Woodstock. I think I probably owe the last two lines to Emily Dickinson. I believe "those who sleep the sleep of Death" was written around the same time and under the same influence. those who sleep the sleep of Death by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 those who sleep the sleep of Death sleep to wake no more … they lie upon a brackish shore where Time's tides lash the rugged rocks with waves that whip like ragged locks of long, unkempt white hair against the storm-filled air, but nothing can disturb them there. those who dream the dream of Death fail to see how Time pulses through the slime of earth’s dark fulsome loam, rank, rotting flesh and filthy foam … for, standing far off from the shore, She readies to attack once more those She had but killed before. those whom Death awakens awaken to a sleep that is far more deep than any they had known before; for there upon that ravaged shore, they do not see how Time now drives to destroy the fragile lives of those who still survive. The Song of the Wanderers by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Through many miles of space we have flown; no life but ours have we known. No other race have we seen in the stars, nor under any sun that has shone. None in the shadows, none in the sun, none in the rainbows that brighten dark skies, none in the valleys, none in the hills, none in the rapids that ripple and rise. Our quest is near ending; the stars have been searched; we alone wander this vast universe. For every green planet, every blue sky we have encountered is barren of life. We are alone, unless below a creature exists somewhere in the snow. The planet beneath us lies shackled by night. The stars deck its mountains in garments of light. Close to us, its moon hovers ghostly in flight. Somewhere below us, perhaps there is life. Come, let us seek life, before we return to that fair planet for which our hearts yearn. Here snow descends as the wind whistles down from dark frozen northlands where glaciers abound. See, on the far shoreline, pale mists compound. Notice, companions, how the sun, like a fiery stallion, rears upon the eastern rim of a mountain range haggard, weathered and grim. A pity, perhaps, that at last it grows dim. But there's no life here, and so we must leave this desolate planet alone to its grief. No, wait just a moment! What can this be … concealed by dense fog here, surrounded by sea, some type of vessel, storm-tossed, to and fro? Yes, I believe, I'm sure that it's so! Here near this shoreline, half-buried in snow, lies a wrecked vessel dripping salt water and seaweed tresses. Make haste; let us hurry, the sea in its fury is dashing it upon the rocks! It may well be that at last we will see some relic of another race's past. What's this? It's no vessel, no ship of the seas. It's fashioned of stone and could not use the breeze. It has no engine, no portals, no helm, and yet it resembles … some demon from hell. It must be a statue, with horns on its head, long, flowing hair and a torch in its hand. Broken and shattered, cast off by the sea, tonight it erodes in this frozen dark sand. No, come, let us leave, it was fashioned by wind, molded by water and wasted therein. Come, let us leave it, to hasten back home; too long have we wandered, thus, lost and alone. The Liberty calls us; we cannot delay. Let us return now, and be underway. Through many miles of space we have flown. No other life have we known. And now that we know that we are alone, we search for our ancient home. Somewhere ahead she awaits our return, decked in bright garments of green; for eons of time we have not seen her face, and yet she has haunted our dreams. Somewhere ahead lies the planet we left when we set out the depths of deep space to explore, and now how we long to dash through her streams and sleep on her bright, sandy shores. The last cold, dark planet lies dying behind us; no others are left to be searched. The Liberty soon her last descent shall make when we relocate Mother Earth! The spinster waltz by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 The spinster waltz is playing in sad strains from other rooms, but here, where love beams, reigning, wedding bells greet brides and grooms. O, the bachelors are a-waltzing, but the married do not mind, for they whirl with one another to a far more hectic time. And as they feel the music seek to slow their breakneck thoughts, they murmur of the things they've gained, regretting what they've lost. The offering by Michael R. Burch, age 21 Tonight, if you will taste the tempting wine and come to sit beside me, I will say the words that you have thought that you might hear, the words that I have feared that I might say. And if you sit beside me with the goblet in your hand and offer me a sip to give me strength, then I will match your offer with an offer of my own, and, offering, so offer back that strength. And if I say, "I love you," don't laugh as though I jest, for a jester I am not, as you can see. And if I offer anything, I'll offer you myself — the man I am and not the man you see. For though you see successes and a man of many dreams, I see a pauper throwing dreams away; yes, once I dreamt of many things, but then I saw your face, and since I dream no more, and dreams can fade away. So if I offer you this ring of burnished gold that burns and sings, please take it for the thought and not the gold. And if I offer you my life, please understand, my love, don't sigh and tell me that you do not care for gold. I'm offering my love, my life, my joys, my cares, my fears, my nights, the dreams that I have dreamt and dream no more, I'm offering my soul, not gold … I'm offering my thoughts, my hopes … I'm offering myself and nothing more. And if this offer seems enough; if you can be content with love and cherish one who loves you as I do, then promise that I'll be your dreams, your hopes, your joys, your cares, all things that you could ever want or want to do. But if you cannot promise so, then let us say goodbye and go; I cannot love you less than I do now, but I would rather bear this pain and never, ever love again than burn in hope and fear as I do now. There Must Be Love by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 O, take me to earth’s tallest mountain and hurl me out into the dark; though I may fall ten thousand miles, still I’ll not say this life is all. I’ll shout, There’s more! There must be more! There must be Love. Then take me to faith’s highest fancy and show me all there is to see; though all the world bow prone before me, still I’ll not say this world is all. I’ll pray, There’s more. There must be more. There must be Love. Then lay me down beside dark waters where dying trees shed lifeless leaves, and though I shiver with the knowledge of my death, I shall not grieve. And when you say, There must be more … then I shall say, There is … believe! I’ll take your hand, and we’ll believe. This is how I love you Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Just to hold you as you sleep with your head against my shoulder, just to kiss your sweet lips and to know that you are mine, fills my heart with a sense of perfect completeness of a light and airy sweetness, like the scent of chilled white wine. For the love with which I love you is a pure and sacred thing, like the first touch of morning, when she bends to kiss her flowers; for then the dancing daisies and the gleaming marigolds reach out to receive her, each in turn, throughout dawn’s hours. And the light with which she touches them becomes their life; each stalk and stem are born of her who gives herself unselfishly. And to her spell the flowers bend, full willingly, with sometimes a hushed and fervent plea, "Touch me, O sun, touch me!" The Rose by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Oh Rose, thou art sick!”—William Blake Where life begins the seeds of death are likewise planted, but with faith the rose's roots combat the weeds’ to seek the nourishment it needs. Yet in its heart an insect breeds. Where dreams take form the flower grows, as do the weeds, and still the rose is gay and lovely, though her thorns are sharp! The casual touch she scorns … yet insects eat her leaves in swarms. When passion fails the rose grown old, no longer are her petals bold— in flaming glory bright-arrayed. In weeds of death at last is laid the rose by insects first betrayed. Say You Love Me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 22-25 Joy and anguish surge within my soul; contesting there, they cannot be controlled; now grinding yearnings grip me like a vise. Stars are burning; it's almost morning. Dreams of dreams of dreams that I have dreamed parade before me, forming formless scenes; and now, at last, the feeling grows as stars, declining, bow to morning. For you are music in my undreamt dreams, rising from some far-off lyric spring; oh, somewhere in the night I hear you sing. Stars on fire form a choir. Now dawn's fierce brightness burns within your eyes; you laugh at me as dancing starlets die. You touch me so and still I don't know why . . . But say you love me. Say you love me. Sheila by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16 When they spoke your name, "Sheila," I imagined a flowing mane of reddish-orange hair tinged with fire and blazing eyes of emerald green spangled with desire. When I saw you first, Sheila, I felt an overwhelming thirst for the taste of your lips dry my lips and parch my tongue … and, much worse, I stuttered and stammered and lisped in your presence. But when I kissed you long, Sheila, I felt the morning come with temperamental sun to drive away the night with reddish-orange light and distant-sounding drums. Now I will love you long, as long as longing is, Sheila. The breathing low and the stars alight by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Silently I'll steal away into dank jungles pocked with night. I'll give no thought to the coming day; the breathing low and the stars alight alone shall mark my passage through in search of plateaus of delight. Through valleys filled with shrieks of fright I may pass; through vales of woe I may move with footsteps light. Who knows what trials I’ll undergo at the hands of demon Night before that fiend I overthrow? And yet at last the ebb and flow of time and tide will draw me tight within Death’s grasp; then I shall know the freedom of life's last respite, safe from dread nightmares and despite the breathing low and the black disquiet. Parting by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16-17 I was his friend, and he was mine; I knew him just a while. We laughed and talked and sang a song; he went on with a smile. He roams this land in search of life, intent on being "free." I stay at home and write my poems and work on my degree. I hope to be a writer soon, and dream of wild acclaim. He doesn't know what he will do; he only knows he loves the wind and rain. I didn't say goodbye to him; I know he'll understand. I'll never write a word to him; I don't know that I can. I knew he couldn't stay, and so … I didn't even ask. We both knew that he had to go; I tried to ease his task. We both know life's a winding road, with potholes every mile, and if we hit a detour, well, it only brings vague sadness to our smiles. One day he's bound to stop somewhere; perhaps he'll take a wife, but for now he has to travel on, to seek a more "natural" life. He knows such a life's elusive, but still he has to try, just as I must write my poems although none please my eye. For poetry, like life itself, is something most men rue; still, we meet disappointments with a smile, and smile until the time that they are through. He left me as I left a friend so many years ago; I promised I would call him, but I never did; you know, it's not that I didn't love him; it's just that gone is gone. It makes no sense to prolong the end; you cannot stop the sun. And I hope to find a lover soon, and I hope she'll love me too; but perhaps I'll find disappointment; I know that it's a rare girl who is true. I've been to many foreign lands, but now my feet are fast, still, I hope to travel once again when my college days are past. Our paths are very different, but we both do what we can, and though we don't know what it means, we try to "act like men." We were friends, and nothing more; what more is there to be? We were friends for just a while … he went on to be "free." Rose by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Morning’s buds cling fervently to the tiny drops of dew that nourish them sacrificially, as nature bids them to. And how each petal cherishes the tiny silver gems that satisfy its thirst and caress its slender stem. All life comes of sacrifice, which makes it doubly sweet; for two lives sacrificed form one and thus become complete. Daisies plait the valleys that give their strength to yield such a tender host among the steamy summer fields. And how the flowers love the earth that freely gives its life, kissing and caressing it throughout the hours of night. So kiss me and caress me, love, for you are my fair Rose. And hold me through the depths of night and the heights of our repose. A bee entreats a flower: a tiny drop is given. A slender stalk caresses and gains a speck of pollen. All beings are dependent on others being too. And love cannot exist except when shared by two. So kiss me and caress me, love, for you are my fair Rose. And hold me through the depths of night and the heights of our repose. Spartacus by Michael R. Burch, age 20 Take the fire from her eyes to light the darkening skies exquisite shades of blue and jade. Place an orchid in her hair and tell her that you care, because you do, you surely do. Sleep beside her this last night; a clover bed, deep green and white, shall cushion you as leaves sing sad elegies to fleeting spring. Sleep beside her in the dew, both heartbeats fierce and true, and praise the gods who give such hearts, because you live. Not many do. So little time by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14 There is so little time left to summer, to run through the fields or to swim in the ponds … to be young. There is so little time left till autumn shall come. There is so little time left for me to be free … so little time, just *so, so little time. If I were handsome and brawny and brave, a love I would make and the time I would save. If I were happy — not hamstrung, but free — surely there would be one for me … Perhaps there'd be one. There is so little left of the sunshine although there's much left of the rain … there is so little left in my life not of strife and of pain. I seem to remember writing this poem around age 14, in 1972. It was published in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. Valley of Stars by Michael R. Burch, circa age 19 On a haunted moor, awash in starlight, when all the world lay hushed and still, while a ghostly orb, traversing the heavens, bathed every ridge of every hill in a shower of silver, I happened to spy a shadow creeping against the sky. And suddenly the shadow beckoned with a fair white hand, then called my name! Out of the haunting mists of midnight, through webs of ethereal light she came— the maiden I had wildly wanted, that had long my heart enchanted. It seemed to me that the stars shone brighter as she slipped into my arms, for they burned within the halo of her flaxen hair and warmed the air about us, so that I melted into the haven of her arms' shelter. Her fragrance of lilacs enraptured me; her sparkling eyes beguiled me. And when my lips found hers that night, nothing could have defiled me, or have dragged me down … we began to rise through the mists and vapors of a spinning sky. We rose for hours, or so it seemed, through galaxies of pearl and blue. She kissed my lips and made me feel that all I've heard of love is true. And now, although we're lost, I never wonder where we are, for my love and I wander paths of the sky, lost in a valley of stars. We Dance and Dream by Michael R. Burch, age 25 All the nights we danced it seemed the stars above were dancing too, and all the dreams we dared to dream it seemed were old dreams dreamed anew. But now no hallowed lovers’ lies pass our lips or glaze our eyes; and now no even wilder dreams cause our lips, with anguished screams, to pierce the peacefulness of night. We dance and dream, bereft of light, content to merely glide… We kept the dream alive by Michael R. Burch, age 18 Youthful reflections on the Vietnam War and the “Domino Theory” So that our nation should not “fall,” we sacrificed our lives; we choked back fears and blinked back tears. Our skin broke out in hives. We kept the dream alive. We counted freedom and honor worth saving; a flag waving against the sky filled us with pride, then led us to die. But was it a lie? What of the torch? What of its flame? We kept it lit through wind and rain. It brought us woe and bitter pain. And yet we bore it though it seemed the vaguest semblance of a dream. And all around the jungle screamed, “This is no place for you to die; the flag you fight for is a lie; the torch you bear burns bitter flame; the dream you cherish has no name but darkest shame …” We lost our lives, but to what gain? Will you walk with me by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18 Will you walk with me a mile down this lane? for there is something I must say to you. And, as my feelings cry to be explained, this silence is a lie, bereft of truth. As does the bird that sings, I so must tell the feelings that my heart cannot keep in, for it must be a sin to speechless dwell when love entreats the trembling tongue to sing. And thus I cannot watch you silently, although I cringe to think that I must speak— my lisping lips then tremble shamelessly, my heart grows numb even as my knees go weak— but now the time has come to not delay, so listen closely to the words I say … If I could only hold you through the night, then wake to find you near me, each new day, my life would be so full of sheer delight that I would never notice should you stray. If I could only kiss your wanton lips and do so without fear of God's revenge, then I would even kneel to kiss your whip, and I would gladly bend to your demands. For I not only love your loving moods, fierce kisses and caresses and wild eyes, but darling, I still love you when you brood. I love you though you rail at me and lie. For love is not a passion that should fade; it burns!—the heat of sunlight on a cage. This was one of my first sonnets, or "sonnet attempts," written around age 18 as a college freshman in 1976. Where have all the flowers gone? by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18-19 Where have all the flowers gone that once shone in your hair when the sunlight touched them there? Now summer's fields are dark and bare. And what of all your lovely curls that caught the sunlight till a halo ringed their masses, golden-yellow? Into ash-grey their fire has mellowed… Where have all the starlings gone whose voices blended with your own in such a wild, emphatic song? From winter's grasp those birds have flown. And what of your own voice, my dear? Those splendid notes I hear no more which once from your sweet throat did pour. For now your throat is parched and sore. Oh, where have all the feelings gone? We once could name them all— emotions great and longings small . . . But now we heed them not at all. And what of our desire, my love, which we once wildly bore and felt at each soul's core? That passion now is calm, demure. For time has take all of this and the little left leaves much to miss. Were Love to Die by Michael R. Burch, circa age 24 Were love to die without pained sighs, without heartaches and brimming eyes, then tell me—what would love be worth if, dying, as in being birthed, it were no more than other words? Were love to die without a lie, without attempts to keep it nigh, then tell me—what would love have been if, fleeing as in entering, it was not holy, nor a sin? Were love to cause no grief, or pain, and come, then go, what would remain? And tell me—what would love have left if, being lost, as being kept, it did not bless and curse our fate? Won't you by Michael R. Burch, circa age 21 Won't you lie in my arms in the clutches of wine as dark petals, unfolding, whisper back to the vine? Won't you dream of that day, as I bring you again to an anguish, a heartache that throbs without end? Won't you dream of a day when the ocean grew wild, raging before us—green cauldron of bile!— while the passions we shared were stirred by a wind that later that evening sang softly of sin? Won't you rise in your yearning and touch me again? Won't you kiss me and curse me just as you did then? Won't you hate me and hold me and scold me and say that you'll never leave me, that this time you'll stay? O, tonight be my lifeline, re-cresting love’s waves … won't you rage in my arms as you did in those days? Won't you be half as gentle as you are rough, then spare me, care for me, saying, "This is enough!" Won't you lie in my arms with a lie on your lips and say to me, "Darling, there's nothing like this!" Won't you tell me, please tell me, O, what is the harm, as I lie here tonight with your child in my arms? The lamp of freedom by Michael R. Burch, age 16 When the lamp lies shattered, its bowl can be remade, but should its light be scattered, light cannot be regained. Hold high the lamp of freedom; let a man be no man's slave. Staying Free by Michael R. Burch, age 19 Others dwell in darkness, raging through the night, slaves to fearsome demons, though children of the light, where, caught up in emotions they fail to understand, they flock to laud the Mocker who kneads them in his hand. And all the revelations bright choirs of angels sing, they never seem to notice as their shackles clang and ring. They know naught of freedom, nor wish to—for, born slaves into dull lives of servitude, their chains they dearly crave. But let them live their captive lives; whatever they may be, for I am bound to be a man as long as I stay free. What Is Love If It’s Not Forever? by Michael R. Burch, age 17 My love, are you trying to tell me that you no longer love me? After all these years of sacrifice and hope and joy and compromise, are you saying that we are through? You always called me a romanticist, a fantasist, a dreamer, while labeling yourself a realist, a fatalist, a schemer … but I thought that, perhaps, a spark of romance existed also in you. And yet it seems that now, incredibly, you wish to leave me, and all that was said and done, unselfishly, in the name of love, must be written off as a total waste. You often hinted at a dark side to your inner nature, while despairing of my “innocent, unassuming character,” but I had always hoped that you would never act in such haste. For what is love if it’s not forever? Can such an ethereal thing exist beatifically for a moment and then be gone … like spring? Yes, what is love if it’s not forever? Is it caresses and laughter and words sweet and clever, intrigue and romance, sorrow and pain, whirligig dances, sunshine and rain, such as we had? Or is it more— a volcanic struggle deep at heart’s core; a wave of sweet sadness sweeping the shore of one’s emotions; a rampaging ocean of fantastical supposition; a ****** gut-wrenching war fought within oneself —such as I often felt, but which you admit now that you never have? [etc., see handwritten version] To prove you independence by leaving me is a quaint paradox, but unresolvable. So return to me, tell him goodbye, and let us tend to mysteries more solvable. For what is love if it’s not forever? Perhaps we already know, for we cannot live without one another: like the sunshine and summer, one cannot leave unless both will go. When love is just a memory by Michael R. Burch, age 25 When love is just a memory of August nights’ enflaming wine; when youth is just a dream, a scene from some forgotten time; when passion is a word for thought and nights are spent with friends; when we are old, and cannot “love,” how will you love me then? Are you so young and so naive that "love" means this to you— a fiery act, a frantic pact, a whispered word or two? O, darling, neither acts nor pacts could ever bind our hearts; only love might bond them, but then neither would be yours. And though we burn as one today, what ember does not die? Fire cleanses, but I fear only tears can sanctify. Yes, you may burn, and burn for me, but can you shed a tear to think that you and I might cool somewhere within the coming years? For love and hate are ill-defined, and where they meet, we cannot tell, but lust and love are unrelated, however closely they may dwell. And though I long for you tonight, such hellish passion I prefer to the hell of loving you with heat untempered by the years. Rag Doll by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17 On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed back and forth between cruel waves that have marred her easy beauty and ripped away her clothes. And her arms, once smoothly tanned, are gashed and torn and peeling as she dances to the waters’ rockings and reelings. She’s a rag doll now, a toy of the sea, and never before has she been so free, or so uneasy. She’s slammed by the hammering waves, the flesh shorn away from her bones, and her silent lips must long to scream, and her corpse must long to find its home. For she’s a rag doll now, at the mercy of all the sea’s relentless power, cruelly being ravaged with every passing hour. Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen shut to the pounding waves whose waters reached out to fill her mouth with puddles of agony. Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed; her hair hangs like seaweed in trailing tendrils draped across a never-ending sea. For she’s a rag doll now, a worn-out toy with which the waves will play ten thousand thoughtless games until her bed is made. Keywords/Tags: Early, Juvenalia, Young, Youth, Teen, Child, Childhood, Boy, Boyhood, Romantic, early, early poems, juvenilia, child, childhood, boy, boyhood, teen, teenager, young adult
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My mother's boyfriend had been out of jail for a few months he sat me down on the back porch taught me how to roll joints Breath in the air fingers red and splotchy too cold to achieve the task he taught me He rolled one up said **** it just take this" I smoked it all on my own fumbled around the steps next thing I knew I was awake with the sunrise leaves stuck to my face ants as my allies Laying in the corner of some unknown yard no phone, no hangover, no guilt, no bank card, The only thing I remember thinking in those first moments of waking was how much I wanted pizza.
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Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
elise-davis
Thirteen Years Old
My mother's boyfriend had been out of jail for a few months he sat me down on the back porch taught me how to roll joints Breath in the air fingers red and splotchy too cold to achieve the task he taught me He rolled one up said **** it just take this" I smoked it all on my own fumbled around the steps next thing I knew I was awake with the sunrise leaves stuck to my face ants as my allies Laying in the corner of some unknown yard no phone, no hangover, no guilt, no bank card, The only thing I remember thinking in those first moments of waking was how much I wanted pizza.
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