"cornsilk" poems
BURY this old Illinois farmer with respect.
He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields.
Now he goes on a long sleep.
The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib,
The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.
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As soon as I heard the rumble of my husbands car
fade into the distance,
I put down my Bible, stepping out of bed.
I smoothed out the covers, like always.
because I'm not one to leaves things messy
because cleanliness is close to Godliness,
that’s what they say.
I fiddled with the faucet
testing the water on my hands.
The kids don’t like it too warm.
I left the door open
so I could hear the faucet running
all the way down the hall.
I opened the bedroom door
and squinted as I flicked a switch.
Let there be light!
Three sleepy faces peeked out at me
from underneath their blankets.
Such precious eyes looked up at me.
Poor things,
Daddy had just put them to bed.
They yawned and blinked their shiny eyes
and we all held hands as we walked down the hall.
They told me
Mommy, Mommy, it’s not bathtime.
I answered,
No, it’s not bathtime, it’s time to go.
They asked and asked,
but I just smiled down at them.
What curious little miracles!
The boys went first.
I placed one hand on each of their heads,
my fingers in cornsilk hair.
Their confused wailing
bounced off of the tile walls.
I silenced them with shushing sounds.
I told them don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid, Mommy’s got you.
Mommy won’t let go.
Mommy won’t ever let go.
I smiled at their tiny, twitching hands
and laughed along with their gurgling voices.
I wish they wouldn’t have splashed so much.
That’s just like the boys;
they were always making trouble.
How inconsiderate of them
to leave less water for their sister!
I laid the boys down to rest
and gave each one a kiss
on their clammy foreheads.
They were side by side on Earth,
now side by side in Heaven.
I lined them up next to each other
Like sweet little packages.
Little packages sent up to God.
I left my princess to float.
She just looked so pretty I couldn’t move her.
I could see her so clearly
once the splashing had stopped
and the water settled.
She was so beautiful
with her hair swaying
just beneath the surface.
My perfect angel.
I left her to float
like Moses on the River Jordan.
With my little cherubs put to rest,
I return now to my Bible,
but this time it’s not for reading.
I place it in the oven
and lay my head on it
like a tiny sacred pillow.
So that I can rest too.
and I'm not afraid
because it's time to go.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
~~~°°♡°°~~~
before a golden
bowl she stands
crystal sceptre
in her hands
~
exquisite form
bone china face
possessed of
perfect poise
and grace
~
hair so fine
lustrous, rich
like cornsilk platinum
to bewitch
~
eyes of wisdom
seas untold
revealing naught
but deepest
SOUL
~
encrusted sheath
shows hips that flare
diaphemous sleeves
lift with the air
~
oval jaw
cheekbones strong
her lips move
in elvish song
~
what does she know
that lights her eyes
violet
profoundly
wise
~
but sadness fills her
as she sings
she can't possess
The one
great
RING
~
mistress of
the wooded lands
monarch
noble
ethereal
GRAND
~
before a bowl
she casts her spell
immortal
queen
GALADRIEL
~~~°°♡°°~~~
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/30/2015
all rights protected
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
THERE was a high majestic fooling
Day before yesterday in the yellow corn.
And day after to-morrow in the yellow corn
There will be high majestic fooling.
The ears ripen in late summer
And come on with a conquering laughter,
Come on with a high and conquering laughter.
The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.
One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk
And a spot of red is on its shoulder
And I never heard its name in my life.
Some of the ears are bursting.
A white juice works inside.
Cornsilk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind.
Always-I never knew it any other way-
The wind and the corn talk things over together.
And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn
Talk things over together.
Over the road is the farmhouse.
The siding is white and a green blind is slung loose.
It will not be fixed till the corn is husked.
The farmer and his wife talk things over together.
1.9k
fire me towards a career
or something
(any/or/either/neither)
because i haven’t been
playing music
and i’m starting to seem
the emaciate-pit peach on a too-tall
tree of plenty
just out of reach
of tantalus,
waist-deep in a river
of cornsilk braids too
rich for eyes, too coarse for tongue or teeth
garden of goddesses
wielding life-flow
geometry
keep the
hounds and
ghost-things
at bay.
undress a smoky corset,
tendrils, or turgid
rapids, swatting
ceases less
twining strands
than flies.
i wish it away,
woven comfort,
a web of fraying
calico and red tape,
bearing the weight
of an arachnid slew.
yet away with it
yields my downfall,
tumbling branch
to branch,
unfeeling, unthinking,
but for my parachute.
i lost a life
to watching
a mirror and
the marker in my hand,
but it could not stop
the leaves from drifting,
nor the water from taking the leaves,
nor those leaves from disintegrating.
simmer down,
shudder breath,
breathe deep
¢er
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.
Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.
Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.
We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.
I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.
As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.
It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 10:30 AM UTC
She is a sunflower,
hair soft like cornsilk,
freckles,
the lines
in her smile,
honey,
sit with me,
entangled,
entwined,
wishing,
can I rewind?
Pause time?
As she sings,
finds me,
wishing,
that she wasn't
so high up on
a string,
out of reach,
like summer memories,
past.
Good morning you
work of art,
good morning heart,
sad to know she's
out of reach.
dm 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
Instruction
by Michael R. Burch
Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.
Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset
of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs
and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.
The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,
are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.
Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.
Keywords/Tags: instruction, sunset, night, skies, wind, sighs, moon, silver, portent, sea, stars
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 4:40 AM UTC
America is an untended urn,
Not filled with wick of candle,
But with eyelashes burned,
Butterfly kisses of slaves to simmering plows,
As the Whigs, Mugwumps, and Know Nothings
Like Senates, praetors, and praefactors of old,
In new form, snare the grasshopper pulse of populace.
If we could once more lay our heads—like the universe
Rests its child’s soul in the lap of its native mother—
In our Indian maiden’s lap, where she once rolled
Maize flour and the dusted cornsilk of our eyelashes,
She could knead our eyes closed, and the stars would walk
Barefoot with summering spirit through our midnight homes.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
the first time I saw Algernon
I was sure, God existed,
but He'd looked away for a second too long
and Algernon was bred, born in that shadow
of the Lord's lashes
the first time I saw Algernon,
the world felt wider
and it all lead to his hands
every road outstretched to meet his feet
Algernon made my life feel precarious,
like it'd topple
delicate as a tightrope of cornsilk
and he tugged on it as so
the first time I saw Algernon,
his eyes bore into me
chipped away at me
like patient cleave to reluctant marble
if a feeling could be a man,
summarily, he was a wrenching kind of curiosity
just like when I'd have that dangerous appetite
to flip to the final page of the book I'd only just begun,
far too ahead of myself
just to see
pore over those unexpected words
though I knew it would only be trouble
the trouble with trouble
is that I am, in some sick way,
eager to see it
the trouble with Algernon was
he kept wise
and kept me none the wiser
he looked on me as a child would a bird with a broken wing
morbidly
I cannot help you, but for the sake
of my yet untainted conscience,
I will convince myself I can
and let you die somewhere I can see
like the final page
and the cats tongue I ended up on
the band around my finger
the bite that never lost its teeth
the first time I saw Algernon,
it was a repetition of motion
some calculated corrosion
like gnashing fang
and shadow
and outstretching road
and patient cleave
and he was much,
too much
like me
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
out behind the town
there's a field between
the trees, growing dead
grass and at 7:03 just
before sunset, it bleached
itself in white then faded
to a soft cornsilk, and the
gnats weren't gnats anymore,
but specks of gold casting
threads of shadows in the
light fuzz and while no
one saw, I sparkled.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
i want to hold that golden evening glow
that sits on shedding cornsilk
of budding cornstalks in a far off field
while we lay watching the sky
endlessly open our universe
and laugh until we die...
….I don't want that to happen soon,
I just want to do die with you forever.
I need a restart from the womb.
Fresh years to remember less awkward things.
I won't find my awareness when this happens
So I'm stuck here in this existence and need to find acceptance.
My past is on the other side and
I can be born each day, as long as I wake.
To tell you the truth i'm drowning,
Even though I was born in the sea.
I don't hear music like when I used to listen
It doesn't dance like wind on-top your skin
but when its toes begin to preen my mind becomes a hive
that speaks through communal action
where words find no ground to stand on
but float above the nest, patiently waiting to reside.
I ain't heavy but I carry weight
don't try to save me, i've learned to be alright in the wake.
I can't ask sacrifice from the living;
Their duty to praise the passed.
Ask the dead to answer impossible prayers,
So why should the living aide the living?
Suffering is solely meant for those that suffer
Not thy loving neighbor, nor thy clan.
Watch me side step from the place you've set me
Now; try to meet me in my eyes, please.
Don't help me feel misused
Don't wash your fingers clean
As if I were unwanted and wasted glue
You said "I hope you know I'm stuck with you"
I promise I won't complain
I'll tell you how it is, but I swear to do it sweetly
Now watch me walk ahead
Praying to God you're not far behind.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Winter tested my endurance with its sharp and burning cold and now the warm lavender evening, with its smells and sounds of spring seems like a gift. The breeze is warm, and even the broad zones of shadow contain an inviting warmth.
The campus lamps should ignite soon but groups of students are milling, talking and laughing as if no one wants to let go of the day.
As Lisa enters the courtyard the campus lights flicker to life. As she approaches, she lets her book bag slide off her shoulder. Catching it by its strap a millisecond before it hits the ground as she reaches me - without looking - like a practiced trick.
Taking my hand in hers, she asks, head tilted slightly to see my eyes, “How’d the test go?”
I’m the first one in our squad to take a final - most are next week. “Cinchy,” I say with a grin and a flick of my free wrist, “not comprehensive - it just covered the last section.”
“Yea,” she says, “look at you go!” A warm breeze wells to obscure her face with her flaxen, cornsilk hair. She lets her bag fall the last inch, and ponytails it, two-handed, with smooth, practiced ease.
Finals existed, like ancient, cultural crucibles, long before our time, but these are ours, as if they’ve always been waiting - just for us.
Yale is still new to us, but we talk, juxtaposing experiences, challenging and comforting each other, even though we’re on slightly different paths. It seems that everyone is pumped up though, a little stressed maybe, but more than ready to hit it.
Apr 26, 2022
Apr 26, 2022 at 10:20 AM UTC
As the indigo moon chimes against the trees
Mother nature tells her story to me
Freckles etched across her dusky face
Wearing a flowing sundress standing barefoot on the stones
Hair with cornsilk weeds radiating in the breeze
A gap between her teeth and rosebud lips
With sun bleached eyes and a far away stare
Barriers of sea glass form along the kaleidoscope shores
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
You are
Raspberry when you are audacious
lavender cotton candy and rose when you are
sweet
sunshine cornsilk daffodils and cream when
you are happy
Sage seagrass and ivory when you are at peace
You are unique
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
My last memory of you,
is watching you walk through a crowd,
not realizing who you were,
Having lost you momentarily,
thinking snidely,
as I watched you,
bogart your way through the herd,
"Why is this old man in such a hurry?"
Then I recognized the hat,
That shaggy hair,
once spun cornsilk,
now grayer than I'd realized.
The trousers,
baggy on your thin frame,
less than thin,
gaunt.
I couldn't shake,
The way your skin hung,
like parchment on jagged bone.
Frail...
The word ricocheted in my mind,
like a rogue pinball...
You had been under the weather.
Dimly,
I understood that.
There had been a battery,
of tests.
A barrage of them,
But for every differential diagnosis,
came a negative finding.
There was and all clear,
nothing to see here,
kind of trend.
Of course it was so.
You were indestructible,
A legend,
A mythical being,
A titanium Phoenix,
rising ever from the ash,
leaving steely slide guitar riffs,
and cold fire in your wake.
I never saw you again after that day,
my birthday.
The next week,
I forgot to call.
Father's Day.
Not because I hadn't thought of it,
The time just always gets past me.
It haunts me still.
We made plans later,
I would make it up to you.
Grilled steaks on the rooftop deck.
You were even on your way,
to reconciling with Dave,
making amends at long last.
The ship was righting itself.
I slept soundly that night.
Groggilly ignored my phone,
in the morning,
But it just kept ringing.
Reaching in the early light,
clumsily,
to check the time,
I thought,
"There had better be something wrong..."
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Morning light, wrinkles sinewy ginger skin as distant bells
Ring of temperate ice and softer shapes. it overdoes the
Oculi, receding from the ostracized mirror.
Sprawling fronds of living illuminated wax, sweats
As hummingbirds flutter, licking clean any sagging
Nectar; molasses colored like sunset cornsilk.
The shades were drawn but i could see.
Spanish moss hung and swayed from your limbs,
Life collecting life, swarmed full with inviting creases.
Steam would not rise here; moisture surrounded moisture.
Dew after rain, dew after night. there would never
Be a season of drought. ginger would wrinkle in the sun
And the bells would muffle as the ice thawed into pools beneath
Our bodies as we slept; as we dreamt. we flooded ourselves
In puddles of imperfect cubes. our tea now, would only be warm.
Taken just like the Queen.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:59 AM UTC