#sons
Age 17
I slip quiet through kitchen
***** blind for bed
In the 1 am night
Forgot the golf *****
I left lying there
One by one
They roll, they bounce
In a staccato poem
Of Oh hell
Yes, he flings door open
“Any more noise I will get my belt!”
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 10:44 AM UTC
Repost
*
Its all about greed malice jealousy
for the Oil Gas found in Gaza all belonging to Palestinians
The culprit are stealing it all
Only Iran cares for indigenous Muslim peopñe
Palestinian fathers, sons aren't terrorist the culprit attacking them is since 1947
HAMAS TOO is defending their land their very existence.
Hamas is an idea a hero with sticks and stones fighting back against bulldozers tankers bombs brutal baby bloodshed
Shame on you Israel
Our snake in our paradise
Stiff genocidal Joe Biden has got to go can't call Israel off.
Israelites jews baby genocidal murderers criminals run Congress I hear.
We all see you read you well it has not Iraeli soldiers wearing diapers
They know Palestinian fighters will not **** women much less **** them.
I never thought I would see the day when the whole world would shout its heartfelt agonies begging governments leaders save Palestinians.
It's so moving in the face of the horror Israel is committing.
Israelites took my grandkids and mangled my daughters mentally physically psychologically in USA and myself in Mexico as a small child.
Free palestine give them back their land
My my heart my soul for you Palestinians my voice my word my homeland love you,I
Palestinians the true chosen ones of God
My heart my soul God Bless Egypt
Arab countries unite against tyrant apartheid **** regime.
Stop the genocide the slaughter
of innocents by Israel dictatorship.
All of us the people for the people
all if us are Gods chosen
children of the most high.
Palestinian lives matter.
All lives matter
Prosecute the narcissist
sadist Israelite apartheid
bombing children.
So help us God
Boycott Boycott Boycott
If we fail to unite
against this evil jews
hiding in plain sight
wearing their kkk
black hats next will be
all of us in our homeland
turned to concentration camps.
Fight this evil war crimes against
Palestinians.
Israel horned Satanyahu
prime sinister of Hell on Earth
stop bombing children
in Gaza sease fire!
100 000 you have bombed
Turn your guns to your head
drop bombs to your family ET-
associates and homes!
Bomb your sinful synagogue too.
Sacrificing kidnapping
christian children
babies under synagogues!
In New York City USA.
Shame on USA England
all for allowing USA gov to
dictate war after war
trillions in dollars wasted
arming sadistic Israeli battalions
to the teeth
Murdering genocidal blood thirsty
ancient narcissists
By: Karijinbba
To honor a famed painting
Mr and Mrs Andrews.
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 10:26 PM UTC
I find self in argument
With sons
Over money, over crypto
Which is a mysterious coin
Being chased by new generations
I am belittled
When giving advise on
Intangible wealth of this century
That my experience is seen as useless,
Described by them to me,
"My Boomer generation knows Nothing"
Told to feel unworthy as an argument builds
Put down as a mother as
My brain pain of their reckless youth
I had to pay attention to
As if the reciept of my womb
Was a wasted placenta
All because of a bit of coin searching for wealth
The riches these young men of mine
Will likely not find from the
Depth of their families legacy
Who will be written off in their own time
Is in their grandfather's wartime draft card, tied to the most important person
Asking,
"Name of Person Who Will Always Know Your Address",
Let that sink in.
"Relationship of This Person" , "Mother"
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 12:43 PM UTC
A woman, bears the responsibility
of bearing her husband a son –
_His legacy_
Yet, even as she presents him
with a daughter, she gives him
a gift he never knew he had –
_A soft heart_
And in all that she offers him,
she provides a reason for him to
embrace the fullness of,
_Fatherhood!_
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 10:46 AM UTC
Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.
I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 9:28 AM UTC
Pour me a scotch son and let your father talk.
Untie his tongue and hear his secrets sing.
Release the torrent there within.
And repressed within that sacred silence
Recollections hold their breath to survive.
Let go this man who was once alive.
Tom Lefort 2024
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 5:13 PM UTC
He looks in the mirror
He sees himself
Young, driven and about the make
the same mistakes again
I look back at him, feeling
young, driven and wiser
Each attempt to right the wrongs
of the past
to live a second life through me
is like one rock striking another
until one day
age finally numbs the sparks
and the reflections in the glass
turn to one of understanding
When I am older
I want to look in the mirror
at my son, proud at the
refined version that he is
knowing that I did not tell him
how to live his life
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 6:22 PM UTC
Hey son
what it do!
You know how much I love you.
How did you get so far from me. Hey son between us two you've put quite some distance.
Feels like seeing I'm mother as your growing up I'm now the resistance.
Remember I'm not the enemy. Hey son I love you from the Earth to the Moon and the distant Sun.
Hi little Gemini.
I want to see you take your wings to soar I want to see you fly.
I give you your time, distance and your space. But I remember when you were a little boy who didn't mind me planting kisses on your face.
Hi son I remember June 20th the day you were born.
From every moment I've helped you grow through every storm.
Hey young Gemini.
It's like now we can't see eye-to-eye.
But you'll always be the apple of my eye.
I know that you're on your way to being a strong young man
Just don't forget I'm here with an outreached hand.
I'm your mom a go hard fan.
With you I've done the best that I can.
Your journey has begun.
Go on now son.. Enjoy Life
I get to see you live and continue to learn and to grow and grow.
@H.E.R_Poetry S.A.M
Feb 19, 2022
Feb 19, 2022 at 3:37 PM UTC
Enter the winter of our life as one
The months and years have rushed on by
Together we’ve endured what life has dealt
Our true love’s the reason why
We both were sweet 16 when introduced
We waved hello across the room
Was one year later till we met again
Wasn’t long before love bloomed
When reminiscing through our life
there’s so much that we hold dear
Regret is not a word that we would use
despite all the tears …
Our vows were said when we were just 18
We pledged a love to last the years
Such declaration gave us confidence
Helped mitigate our fears
Our firstborn son came after nineteen months
Our second son just eighteen more
Now in their forties with wives of their own
Ladies whom we so adore
When reminiscing through our life
there’s so much that we hold dear
Regret is not a word that we would use
despite all the tears …
And so we live to love another day
You smile at me and take my hand
Assured that as we face life’s obstacles
Together we will stand
Just for a moment, I go back in time
Freshness of youth as memories soar
If I were asked to do it all again
I would wish to love you more …
Mark Toney © 2021
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 2:50 PM UTC
.
Hoping the sun don't fail by your eyes be seen. hoping light don't fail to show in the darkness where hope need grow.
Reaching where cruelty always strikes mean, as it's stealing comfort where love wants to gleam.
reflecting on a day was born.. and realizing this is where landed earths storm.
Trying to be grateful, and gives thanks. while being punished in sorrowful branks.
Imprisoned and legendary.. worldwide outside or small roomed inside. Your eyes can see whats visionary,. And nothing can steal your imaginary. Till away you go soaring where earthly eyes can't see... man can't understand God forgiving plans... Or how he makes you whiter then snow in his cleansing hands.
For every fed up day..
Just pray .... pray away walls.. scars.. pains and alls.. faith walk just walk.. and heavenly talk.. God frees the caged lions...Gives them his blessing new beginnings..
Better then where you are.. you are better then what you have done..
your are better then what's said by any man.. Lift your hands.. Clap your hands oh earthly man..
LIFT Your HANDS.. IN WORSHIP LET FLOW God praise from thy lips..
Be ye comforted.. down to your bones...wrapped in psalms 91.. be covered..
selinasharday s.a.m 2021
Jun 5, 2021
Jun 5, 2021 at 4:56 PM UTC
Is your source of comfort from God or the news?
Is your source of joy from God or the number of your followers, likes and views?
Who sets your standards, Jesus or your favorite singers or rappers?
Who sets your standards, Jesus or your favorite celebrities, actresses or actors?
Do you follow God or do you follow the trends?
Do you follow God or do you follow so called 'woke' social media influencers and friends?
Do you do it for Jesus or for the culture and clout?
Do you do it for Jesus or to be talked about?
Are your sights on God or on money, *** and fame?
Are your sights on God or on ruling the whole world and it knowing your name?
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 12:50 AM UTC
I'd share with you
how much our
early morning
walks have become
sacred coffee meditations
a chance for you
to confide in me
your dreams
pose bizarre scenarios
tell me about kids who
are YouTube famous
& vow you'll
make "mom a millionaire
one day"
I smile
absorbing obscure
WWII trivia
listening to
your laugh's positivity
wanting to just
hold you close
catching my breath
instead
we silence
our footsteps
staring up at the mystic sky
an ivory moon
tarnished yellow
by the yawn of day
& I want to keep this moment
open, blooming inside my chest
feeling your steps racing
beyond my own, knowing this
wedding cake memory
is but a taste I can only savor
you, the moon, the talk of
future days, such riches
blessing my heart
only quiet tears express
this love
of a mother
to her teenage son
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 7:26 AM UTC
Family Poems: Poems about Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers and Grandfathers
Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much."
So more than "much, " much more than "all."
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Originally published by TALESetc
Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love of my life,
light of my morning―
arise, brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.
Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven―
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.
Success
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;
there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette
to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.
A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us—the first great success they achieve.
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.
He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST."
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor's yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty "THWACK! "
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!
With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira's a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!
The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies' wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair...
I think she's just you when you're floating on air!
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass *****
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.
It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.
Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I
Will wake together, by and by.
Life's not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.
The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.
Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I
Know nothing but this lullaby.
Sappho's Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call,
while the 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.
NOTE: 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.
Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves ...
And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”
Keywords/Tags: Nature, spring, birth, baby animals, angels
Limericks
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! "
—Michael R. Burch
Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)
Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch
Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...
Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.
Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.
Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.
Poems for Older Children
Reflex
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there...
I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.
Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.
But, O!,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes)ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad's...
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats...
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Limericks
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride? "
"Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied.
—Michael R. Burch
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch
Trump’s war is on children and their mothers.
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi
War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.
But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night.)
For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light!―
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.
For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?
Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and ****** women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did.
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.
"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard."
"Don't eat the berries. You see—the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."
"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."
He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.
Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.
He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.
Years later I found the proper name—"pokeweed"—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****
I still can hear his laconic reply...
"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
for Anais Vionet
Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house—
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
—one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...
Lacking the words to describe
ah!, those pearl-luminous estuaries—
strange omens, incoherent nights.
Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.
Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and "civilization."
Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.
Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.
Or so the people dreamed, in chains.
Neglect
by Michael R. Burch
What good are your tears?
They will not spare the dying their anguish.
What good is your concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?
What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?
Before this day is gone,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, wasted limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?
I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of their souls departing...
mournful, and distant.
How pitiful our "effort, "
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.
In My House
by Michael R. Burch
When you were in my house
you were not free―
in chains bound.
Manifest Destiny?
I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.
When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.
I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.
We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.
Published by Black Medina
Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.
Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.
His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—
for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.
It's hard to be "wise"
when the years
career through our lives
and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief
while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.
The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages
is useless
unless
it encompasses this:
his kiss.
Boundless
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him,
and every day a new sharp feature emerges:
a feature we'll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining,
trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker...
And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated
in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils
in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples,
become unconscionable errors, become victories lost,
become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair...
if what he was becomes increasingly vague—like a white balloon careening
into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood,
hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders,
shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth,
then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing...
if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving *****
to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores;
to sail away like a balloon
on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens,
till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see,
bursting into tears over us:
what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe,
cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision,
unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken...
cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself—flying beyond us?
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens' hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers...
... of voices of the wolves' tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams' soft, windy vowels...
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...
And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker's knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We'd like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!, " only two.
We'd like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball's just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me."
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms
Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch
a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death...
Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.
Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.
Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.
And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.
Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.
Originally published by The Flea
For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
―for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes
like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother's lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears...
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
translation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.
This is, I believe, the second poem I wrote. Or at least it's the second one that I can remember. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it.
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended... far, far away...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden 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.
Children
by Michael R. Burch
There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility...
when we might have made...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.
Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!
But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.
But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars,
and for a day,
what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.
Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch
Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?
Will we be children sat in the corner
over and over again?
How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Or will we learn, and when?
Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
never learning the golden rule?
Life Sentence or Fall Well
by Michael R. Burch
... I swim, my Daddy's princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down
to **** me up?... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers "precious son"...
... the Plunger worked; i'm two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...
... i'm three; yay! whee! oh good! it's time to play!
(oh no, I think there's Others on the way;
i'd better pray)...
... i'm four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there's Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More...
... it's great to be alive if you are five (unless you're me) :
my Mommy says: "you're WRONG! don't disagree!
don't make this HURT ME! "...
... i'm six; They say i'm tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort! ;
a tadpole's ripping Mommy's Room apart...
... i'm seven; i'm in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;
... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...
is that She feels Weird.
Resurrecting Passion
by Michael R. Burch
Last night, while dawn was far away
and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies,
as thunder boomed and lightning railed,
I conjured words, where passion failed ...
But, oh, that you were mine tonight,
sprawled in this bed, held in these arms,
your ******* pale baubles in my hands,
our bodies bent to old demands ...
Such passions we might resurrect,
if only time and distance waned
and brought us back together; now
I pray that this might be, somehow.
But time has left us twisted, torn,
and we are more apart than miles.
How have you come to be so far—
as distant as an unseen star?
So that, while dawn is far away,
my thoughts might not return to you,
I feed your portrait to the flames,
but as they feast, I burn for you.
Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse.
Currents
by Michael R. Burch
How can I write and not be true
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?
Originally published by The Lyric
Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Haunted
by Michael R. Burch
Now I am here
and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren.
I am withering
and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.
Go, if you will,
for the ache in my heart is its hollowness
and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness;
there is nothing to fill.
Take what you can;
I have nothing left.
And when you are gone, I will be bereft,
the husk of a man.
Or stay here awhile.
My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams.
Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems
when you smile.
Published by Romantics Quarterly
Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch
Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?
This is one of my 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. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again.
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
First Dance
by Michael R. Burch
for Sykes and Mary Harris
Beautiful ballerina—
so pert, pretty, poised and petite,
how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau
on those beautiful, elegant feet!
How palely he now awaits you, although
he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet!
Keep the Body Well
by Michael R. Burch
for William Sykes Harris III
Is the soul connected to the brain
by a slender silver thread,
so that when the thread is severed
we call the body “dead”
while the soul ― released from fear and pain ―
is finally able to rise
beyond earth’s binding gravity
to heaven’s welcoming skies?
If so ― no need to quail at death,
but keep the body well,
for when the body suffers
the soul experiences hell.
Dearly Beloved
by Michael R. Burch
for Suzan Blacksmith
She was
Dearly Beloved by her children, who gather
to pay their respects; they remember her
as they clung together through frightful weather,
always learning that Love can persevere ...
She was
Dearly Beloved by family and friends
who saw her great worth, even as she grew frail;
for they saw with Love’s eyes how Love’s vision transcends,
how her heart never faltered, through cyclones and hail ...
She is
Dearly Beloved, well-loved, sadly missed ...
and, while we mourn the lost days of a life too-soon ended,
we also rejoice that her suffering is past ...
she now lives in the Light, by kind Angels befriended.
And if
others were greater in fortune and fame,
and if some had iron wills when life’s pathways grew dark ...
still, since Love’s the great goal, we now reaffirm her claim
to the highest of honors: a mother’s Heart.
Beyond the Tempest
by Michael R. Burch
for Martha Pilkington Johnson
Martha Johnson was a formidable woman,
like her namesake, Martha Washington—
a woman like the Rock of Gibraltar,
a sure and steadfast refuge for her children and grandchildren
against the surging storms of life.
But later in her life
I beheld her transformation:
her hair became like a corona of light,
as if she were intent on becoming an angel
and something in her visage
brightened and softened,
as if she were preparing to enter heaven
where love and compassion rule
and the troubles of earth are like a tempest in teapot.
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
Published as the collection "Family Poems"
Keywords/Tags: Family, Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers, Grandfathers, mrbch
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
The open way is coming
Try to tie
Your love with your family
Call your parents
Ask in truly
Phone your sons
Greeting your daughters
Make a beautiful kiss
Flaying over clouds
Chattering the fear
Improving our tie
That is a way
In addition to obey
Our Gods who can forgive
The faults and can give
Happiness clouds that will save
Our plants of life
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
I thought you loved her
As we all should do
Loving ones mummy, comes automatically
Go ahead, say I love you too
Yeah, Yeah, the bond is so strong
But, I blew up like an atomic bomb
I lost my lovin’ mom
I stayed away for years
And my letters never arrived
Rubber stamped, ‘Return to Sender’
I miss my mother
because the bond was once so strong
I now realise my faults
as some of you would understand
Hope-Pray
to reunite someday soon
My love for my mama
For our bond is still so strong
The risk of exploding, it’s in everyone
But never forget every lost soul
Was once a lovin’ son.
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 12:42 AM UTC
Mom's joy
Dad's boy!
I learn,
discern
God's Word
I heard
God's Will
instill
Result-
adult
Most good
I should
My call
help all
Some bad
some sad
My wife
great life
Our sons
blessed ones
Good friends
lives end
Grow old
be bold
Dear ones
death comes
Lord's call
stand tall
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
Love's cornerstone set
Forty-five years together
Dear wife of my youth
Our sons, their wives, our lives full
May love's embrace continue...
~ to the moon and back ~
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC