The Poet

By the side of the sea blue
lived a poet with a heart true
words were his treasure
books and music his pleasure.

Out from the cupids bow flew
striking the poet without a clue
A sweet poisoned arrow of love
The poet fell like a flightless dove

To this maiden of fair beauty
To give love the poets duty
Under the stars love they made
promised by Ecstasy never to fade

Then by the side of the sea blue
The season changed and a storm blew
The maiden of fair beauty went afar
Tis poet found solace in dim lit bar

time and time the poet cried
memories returned though he tried
moments he neared deaths claw
yet to survive from its jaw

sands of time made the sea calm
Books and music were his balm
In the depth of sorrow he did find
A dream to serve he made his mind

A journey of many a mile
The poet made many to smile
Through the smile the broken heart he did mend
Tis the story of a poet giving smile till the end

In the hands of a poet,
Love is a variety of beautiful and dark things.

In the hands of a poet,
Your name may be wind chimes or the scream of a banshee.

In the hands of a poet,
Your actions are either of sin or valour.

In the hands of any other poet,
You are just someone to be played.

As that’s what we do with our toys and words.

But,

If that poet was me,
Love is nothing but light and forever long bliss.

If that poet was me,
Your name is in sync with my steady heartbeat.

If that poet was me,
Your actions are of soft and graceful as the summer breeze.

If that poet was me,
You are love, and neither words nor I can simply play with you.

(A.I.)

based on the song by Bruce Cockburn

Maybe the poet is old,
But they won't do as they're told
Maybe the poet is young
But her words you should not shun,
Maybe the poet is free
Are you blind and do not see?
Maybe the poet's a Slave
But those white flags won't be waved!
Maybe the poet is saved
Maybe the poet's a knave
But he'll shout unto the grave!

Black or white,  or coffee brown
His words will stay... they'll stick around
Tan or beige, russet red
You will recall what's been said
It will play all through your head
She will *speak until she's she's dead!

Maybe the poet is rich
And is sitting by a beach
Maybe the poet is poor
But her words you'll hear for sure
Maybe ill with no cure
Though she's dead she will endure
Homeless woman, wealthy man
They won't do as you have planned
They won't play on with the band
They'll be strong and take a stand

They'll holler til you understand!

They won't have a TV show
Won't be on your radio
But the word of mouth will go
Be it fast or be it slow

They may be killed, they may be shot
They will speak TRUTH!
THEY CAN'T BE BOUGHT!
Ignominy may be their lot

But they will produce some thought!

Maybe the voice of The Spirit
In which case you'd better hear it!
You may not touch it. Can't get near it.

Please don't expect applause
Don't find rejection odd...

For it is the Words of God.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/16/2016

You fell in love with my poetry
But does that mean you know how to love me?
Have you ever loved a poet before?
Do you understand it may take a little more?

We see things more vivid than most people do
We may seem distant sometimes
Because we are

Lost in our thoughts or daydreams
Beautiful things will sometimes make us cry
I am telling you this so you don't have to wonder why

If you love a poet
You must not be the jealous type
If you ever plan to make a poet your wife

Our poetry is for everyone, not just you
This is something you must understand
If you want a poet to be your man

Sometimes our words will come out better on paper
Than when we are speaking to you
Sometimes we still might feel alone
No matter what you say or do

Do you really understand what it takes to love a poet?
Do not let our words intimidate you or expect to heal our scars
Just accept us for the beautiful souls we are

We will love you like no other
And the way we will show it will leave you smitten
We will again and again proclaim it through the poems we've written

When you love a poet
Each kiss will be a masterpiece
Each embrace will be the first and last

When you love a poet
They will be a puzzle
And you will be a puzzle piece

I'm a poet, do I know it?
How could I show what I don't know?
How could I grow from what I can't show?

          Knowledge is painful, do I bleed?
          Ignorance is boring, must I plead?
          For something that every human will need?
          To say or share or sing my pain?
          I'm simply a poet with too much to say
          But ever as such, I have no more to gain

                    I am a poet, does that mean I'm in pain?
                    Singing and crying and lying with shame?
                    Must I pretend that life is always a cloud?
                    That is dark and its only purpose to shroud
                    And destroy all the happiness that I see every day
                    Would that make me a poet, in any way?

                              You are a poet, I can see in your eyes
                              As they scour the ground searching for disguise
                              As they prey on the souls of the giddy and free
                              You are a poet, you are like me
                              And I assume that means you're in pain
                              But looking at you, I see no such shame

                                        He was a poet, with blood on his tongue
                                        Choking, and curling his sin to a song
                                        Singing in tunes with abysmal pain
                                        He made me a poet, he made me feel shame
                                        But I don't need him when you made me feel free
                                        *There was never a poet as happy as me

Write with how you feel
But just don’t let your emotions become a big deal
You are a Poet with lots of expressions
Because you are a Poet, your mind transcends with inspiration
A Poet is more than just words
A Poet is an artist who turns writing into a masterpiece
Your letters and words just give the right effective strike
Yet the key to being a Poet is commitment
A reader’s appreciation of poetry in being a compliment
A desire to be heard
Also not thinking your part of a writing herd
Positive thinking is what being a poet is all about
Your own creations having that shout
Be proud and honored that you have a gift to write
Because we are Poets, we know how to excite
Action into perfection
Ideas with a suggestion
Being a Poet is a creed
The Lord gave us this gift and wants us to proceed
There’s your Poet commandment
Remember you are guided by your own thoughts in instruction
In concluding, “A Poet’s mind is the reader being caught up in thought”.

Deeper beyond any words in write
Destruction at every corner having a strange direction
Yet a plight with numerous complications
A Poet’s thought of life in the mind
A bit of surprises that might seem sublime
The Poet writes what they had experienced
The emotions were disturbed by a storm within
The storm became severe
There was a roadblock with no idea of how to preserver
The Poet’s mind became a conclude
The formulation was no solitude
But something told the Poet to jolt down the words
Immediately there was a silence with no sound
The Poet had no idea in where they would be bound
It wasn’t a place nor a town
But the Poet knows who they are and will construct a write down
The sustain will continue to remain
Yet the Poet dwells blame
A theme suddenly pops into the Poet’s head, “For Once It Came”
It’s all but a memory of a dream
It was long time ago standing as a youngster playing by a stream
I must return to reality, and think Poet
But as I write, I understand within my own convictions, and as a Poet, I now know it.

THE POET’S PANEGYRIC

“There’s someone I knew with talent unleashed
and a heart that had for so many relentlessly reached
This poet sought inspiration from the living and the dead
But I can tell you this about the poet who has moved me by what this poet had ever said
I read the words from a comfort zone
which this poet created, surrounded by friends or by foes or simply alone”
His essence of soul sweeps down deserted dead streets
where the thunder still crackles, the burial bell bleats
He laughed at himself as a Royal Rhymester Clown
but bore the black pains of those all around,
He echoed regrets but never a grudge
... of this I’ll say little... let his lines be the judge

THE POET’S PEN

Blind shots cry out beneath the night,
a car is cruising by.
A stripling’s blood streams words to write
... Wry rhymes to ask us why

A silly girl with child, *****...
to many, but a ****.
The baby at her breast is dead
... Cruel couplets meant to cut

A drifter, broken, cast aside,
lies lifeless in the cold.
Tap tattoos on a tattered hide
... Some scarlet stanzas scold

Two lovers clutch a turtledove,
enraptured by her coo,
impaled on pangs of Ladylove
... A sultry song for two

A drone of drums in distant wars
beguiling bold dragoons
who sell their souls like wanton ******
... Raw rhythms writ in runes

The stars ablaze, like tiger-eyes
reflecting candlelight,
’lume angels singing Lullabies
... A sonnet stuns the night

The soulless eyes of shackled slaves
drip tears that burn and blur.
Their ash, like dust, set free in graves
... Emblazing ballads stir

A hurricane, foretold, unfurled,
unravels mystic signs
as Demons dance, destroy the World
... Limned lurid lyric lines

Some die a death neath hangmen’s hands
where tainted justice reigns
for ‘thou shalt ****’, Revenge commands
... A quiet quatrain pains

While well-to-dos amass and flaunt
And follow fashion’s trends,
pale children starve and die of want
... And so an epic ends

THE POET’S EPITAPH**

His words lie strewn along the sand
While breakers wash ashore
The ripples weave designs unplanned
... a verse forevermore

His tales, entwined in cryptic airs
where freedom seeds are blown,
warn Guarders of the Realm ‘beware’
... his heresy is sown

His life outlined a chronicle
along a lonesome road
It started out as doggerel
... and ended as an ode

Sometimes i thought and want to hide 
Somewhere 
Where you can't see me
I want to fly,fly,fly, far away from you

Im just an extraordinary ink of a pen
Im only a poet that doesn't know where my feelings go
A stubborn poet

I dont have friends
And im all alone

But i don't regret any of that

Cause there's my ballpen that i can still write
I still have my paper to where i can insert and spread my wings 
I still have you
My poet
That i can share
That i can talk
That i can learn
And that i can call
My only poet,
Thanks for being there.

There’s more to a Poet that meets the eye
Poet spelled backwards is Teop and that is why
According to the dictionary, Teop is a language of Northern Bougainville, Papua New Ginea
Imagine that
You probably thought a Poet was alone, but the dictionary let it be known
Being a Poet when you think about it can come in many different languages
Cultures expressed in Poetry foreign vibes
Teop being a language all its own
Good information for letting it be known
How a Poet expresses in varying foreign words
Let’s face it all they want is to be heard
Poet and Teop in the spoken written tongue
What it all mount’s to is communication
Poet into Teop and any other culture are that one’s who are the assembler of words
Culture Poet’s are the one’s in their native language interacting the thought
The idea of sought
So Poet and Teop do have something in common
If you are reading this, I got your attention
Of course, I had to mention.

No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...





Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017

I see your poems,
Written so eloquently,
And I wonder--
Poet can I be?

Like Yoda syntax I must twist,
And interspersing similes,
Metaphors,
This I must do, too.

My reader I must confuse,
I must leave interpretations open,
Meanings ambiguous,
Clues strewn recklessly

Like forgotten treasures dropped on a trail of crumbs.
Inexplicable line breaks and questionable punctuation,
All in hopes of an adequate label--
Poem.

I see your poems,
I read them,
Then I read my poems,
And I wonder
Poet can I be?

Is a poet a poet for writing words with figurality?
Making up words like Shakespeare and Geisel
(That's Dr. Suess to you)
Spewing rhetoric like a wretched fountain,
O blessed poet can I be?

Or is it simpler than this?
Is poetry nothing more than beauty,
But beauty which must be carefully crafted?
(Poe)

Or is it the spontaneous overflow of emotion?
The simplistic,
Expression of feeling, nothing more?
(Wordsworth)

Or does poetry simply say more and do more with less?
Is it simply succinct and strong-willed sentiments upon a page?
(Professor)

I do not claim to know what makes a poem a poem
Or a poet a poet.
I only sit here and wonder,
Poet can I be?

I am not much of a poet, and it takes a whole lot of poet to write a love poem
Sappy and happy never read as well as blood, sweet, and tears
And years of turmoil has always aid me
But lately, I’v been hastily and systematically fathoming how to make words fit
Like our bodies do at sundown, when we are the only light inside a dark room
Just beaming at one another, why bother… cheesy isn’t easy .. but I try
I try to find the powerful words that will describe the electricity that pulsates from us
We are the biggest power source around, if only I found the words to say it right
I am not much of a poet, and it takes a whole lot of poet to write a real love poem
But if I tried to write a love poem, it would be about you
About how your smile is a sun rise after endless nights
About how I only know your strength because you pull me in close
Like I weigh nothing and my baggage is just a carry on, nothing that can’t be handled
Never pushing me away or hurting, your strength is seen in your gentleness
I would explain how you make stretch marks feel like beauty marks
How you make sun kisses feel cool, how you make heartbeats in to drums, how you make a guitar sing, and your voice vibrates and rolls something between honey and heaven.
I would write about how you have endless energy and ambition
Charisma and endless potential that grabs at every opening door
I would write about how you grow friendships and flowers like they are one in the same
And how you love and invest in both
How you read like a scholar and chase after things only brave men chase after
I am not much of a poet but if I were I would paint in words for you the most vibrant expressions
Of lust and love and tinder kindness
Lay down words like bricks to build you up
Show how you are the one I searched and found worth finding
How we light up, show how exciting…..
Im not a love poet, not much of a poet at all…
But either way you are worth the fall, you deserve a love poem.

Let the footprints of words open our story
A poet who was inspired in the woods
His thoughts focusing on should
The Poet observed the environment that he was in
Somewhere there was going to be an enchanted event
The Poet wrote4 down words that seemed to describe love
Suddenly a rush of a wind blew, and what the Poet wrote down had flown up to a Princess living in a castle
The Princess said, “What was this piece of paper on the floor?”
She read and immediately felt in love
The Princess needed to know who wrote such a beautiful poem
She later discovered, the Poet was at her door
When the Princess opened the Castle door, there was an immediate attraction
The Princess said, I want you to recite some poetry directly for me
“Beauty being the Princess eyes. A love that I have now found, I want to be your Prince and stick around. Please give me one kiss and your hand in marriage is my one wish”
Well the Princess was so welcomed with the poem recite and didn’t know what to say then ok
It was cheers of joy to the Princess Poet Prince
They both took hands in marriage and Poet Prince wrote until
So how did this Poet fairytale love affair continue?
Enchanted in every way
Dove birds flew and musical bliss could be heard in the distance
However, Poet Prince passed generation to generation in poetry write
Write on everyone
Write into the night.

The poet,
Notice how none call writer,
Notice how she does not call herself,
Notice how the poem plays on when she is gone,
Notice how poet does not recognise poem.

The poet,
Words do not make it so,
The rhyme and rhythm is secondary,
Speech is a privilege not a commandment,
Defined by inside not the pretence.

The poet,
Expression comes in many forms,
Of late night lunches and barely hidden smiles,
Grimaces painted like cold baritones in her chest,
Poetry is not what makes the poet,

The poet,
Is made of daisies,
Is curled 'round buttercups and beers,
Is twisted like fine wine,
Is mountainous drops of emotive chills,

The poet,
Is not alive,
Does not ask for forgiveness,
Does not read the grateful limericks,
Does not walk the line of truth and ignorance.

The poet,
Is an animal of freedom,
A whispered wisp of breath,
The closed eyes of the girl huddled to the fire,
Is tears upon his cheeks.

The poet,
Is not afraid,
Not a monster,
Not a hero,
Is only one.

The poet,
Nameless beast is she,
Forged from her sight,
Trees broken down to fight,
And holy mimicry.

Phong hit the ground
Within a second of the sound
Of the gunshot that laid him down
Loosened the grip on his own weapon
At the moment of impact
It fell with a thud
Next to his body in the mud
When his head hit the hard earth
He heard thunder and saw light

The bullet in the North Vietnames man's skull was made in America
Loaded by The Poet earlier that afternoon
Along with the rest of his ammo
In the second after Phong died
Poet lowered his sight
And came to an abrupt and awkward halt
There was no denying the man was hit
Even less to prove the man was dead
The hole in the back of the metal helmet
Was the same size as the hole in the back of the dead man's head

Instinct bred caution even so
As The Poet slowly tread the fifteen yards
Between where he stood and where Phong lay
He crouched down
Rolled him over slowly
Placed his fingers on the corpse's eyelids
(I know you can see me)
Shut them gently
(May the darkness be your savior)

The Poet took the bayonet knife bolstered at his side
Pressing down on Phong's shoulder
He cut an incision between the man's chest muscles
With a gentle sawing he cut through tendons and bone
Until a trough had formed
A six inch baptismal filled with blood
Still almost warm as life
The Poet plunged his left hand deep into the pool
Grabbed hold of Phong's heart and tugged
He caught the resistance of the arteries
And severed them
With the knife in his right hand

Raising the dripping ***** to his nose
The poet inhaled deeply the strange odor
Inspiration teased
Quickly The Poet brought Phong's heart to his mouth
With a huge bite his mouth was full
His brain felt as it would explode
The drama and the dreams of the whole world
He chewed and savored the flavor
He had come to appreciate it during his time in the jungle
As well the firm gelatinous texture
The saltiness of the blood
This was The Poet's reward

With the last swallow he wiped his hands on Phong's shirt
He felt a piece of paper folded in the right pocket
A letter, written in Vietnamese
And though he didn't know the language
Somehow a few sentences made sense

"Confessor
My soul is tormented
I am a liar
My wicked heart has made me do despicable things
Words and actions without regard
Of consequences
Things that would hurt people, if they only knew
If they knew what I have done
They would rise against me and do ******
I would deserve whatever punishment they saw fit
For I am a renegade poet
And I have lost all respect for the art"

As he finished reading the page
The Poet felt nausea in his gut
He dropped the paper
Bent over and vomited
He heaved several times until his stomach was empty
Then he just stood there, hands on knees
Staring at the mess
(I have a message for all mankind)
He forced himself to look at it
Until inspiration left him

He reached for his gun
Stood up and walked to Phong's rifle
Bent to pick it up as well
Strapping it to his side
The Poet walked away
As a gentle breeze blew the confession
Far from Phong's lonesome body

The poet is a universe
In the universe
Having the universe in him
Vibrating the universe in his head
Kicking the ball in the mind field
In complex tapestry of words woven
To attain infinity in infinity.

Wonder not, the poet
In the universe knows
What others know not
By unravelling the universe
In complex poetic rhythms
From deep afflatus.

Living in the universe and
Carrying the universe on head
Are they equal?
I know the poet is a universe
Thinking the universe
Carrying the universe
In complex colors of night and day
Complicating the universe in issues
But resolving them in poetry

The poet is a universe
Growing tap root into the ocean soil
Shooting foliage to hell and heaven
Engaging the the universe in dialogue
To grow tall trees of wisdom and understanding
In the universe in which he is a universe.

The poet, a universe
Isolated in the universe
To think the universe in the plains,
Valleys and mountains of a universe
In the universe bewildering complexities
The poet is a universe!

I wish I loved a poet
so I could be immortalized in words
so stories about me could be written in verse
just once

I wish I loved a poet
so I could be an inspiration
just once

I wish I loved a poet
so I could be the writer
just once

I wish I loved a poet
so I could help them when they realize
that the world of dreams is just that

I wish I loved a poet
so I could teach them of reality
of the beauty and the pain and the mystery

I wish I loved a poet
so I could show them the stars
so I could teach them how to reach them

I wish I loved a poet
so we could watch the night
and wonder

just once

I'm here sitting
alone,
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
desperate,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
or
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
or
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.

I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are

the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter

I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place

the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore

Everyone wants to have
The look of the poet
Yet noone these day's,
Wants to be real poet's....
Everyone wants to be a rock star
Or movie star.
Or even an athlete.....
But the poet,
Is one not of this world...
A poet
Is one unearhtly
Celestial in his way's.....
A poet doesn't follow the paths of this world......
The poet followeth his soul,
Which cometh from God....
And no rock star
Or athlete,
Couldst match up to that....


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

We poets write what's on our mind
and in our heart.
To us it comes naturally, never questioning
it. To us its art.
To every curve we feel the pen stroking
on the paper wall,
like a dancer swaying in rhythm and to
dare not fall.
From one poet to another, we have a common
courtesy for most.
We either love it or we don't or can share it
playing host.
We appreciate each others differences and
poetic style.
Even when we disagree, we never argue,
as we smile.
From one poet to another, we can feel ones
pain and joy.
Though we never knock each other down
or do no harm employ.
From one poet to another, its a way of
sharing what's in our soul.
Whether it be good or bad, we respect each other
for simply sharing and letting go.
We can write about most anything like nature, love,
pain, art, or rock.
The worst thing from one poet to another, is a thing
called "writer's block."
So when we take the time to very publically; to
from our depths do share.
Its a way of sharing a piece of our minds like a
a window to our soul declare.
Even though we may hide away from
time to time.
It's because we're always thinking and
reflect on past experiences to rhyme.
Most of us are pretty social and can
be artistic in other ways.
Like music, dancing, singing or
acting and directing  plays.
We choreograph our feelings out
and lay them out as words of art.
Sharing to others to enjoy a piece
of our life that taketh part.
We don't always say things out loud
properly and publically.
We are sometimes better writing in what we
do best- in written poetry.
From one poet to another, we know some get it
or they don't.
Most poets will because they can disect it
or they won't.
From one poet to another, we know we
don't always have to rhyme our word.
I prefer to write in rhyme, but when I don't-
other poets don't think its absurd.
From one poet to another, we write our
feelings, thoughts and beliefs with ease.
From one poet to another, for some its
a masterpiece.

Sherri Harder

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

A poet can feel your pain
And express his own
He has an opinion
And will stand alone
He will tell of things
He thinks in the night
He only cares
About what is right
He will make you think
About life and who you are
It may be painful
It may open a scar
You will know by his words
That his mind does burn
And even if you disagree
You will soon return
Because he will tell you
The truth as only he can
And in this world of rhyme
Only the strong will stand

A few months ago
I knew we would speak
As I thought about this
I imagined what I would say
To a roomful of children
That I’d never met before
It was 2:00 AM and I couldn't sleep
So I jumped up and wrote most of this on the spot
Just so you know
I’m not a professional speaker
But I am a person
Just like you
And I know how I feel about things
I started writing because I became tired of war
And because I want my children to know how I think
So I’m here to talk about poetry
I view poetry as a combination of art and opinion/experience
But in reality
I'm here to talk about life
Your teachers are helping you
They are giving you the tools you need
So you can take care of yourself as an adult
They teach you English and Spanish
And Math and Science
But these are just like a hammer
Or a saw or a drill
They are in your tool chest
You know…
In your mind
I like to call it the braided mind
Because it's a blend or a braid of three things
The Intellectual
The emotional
The spiritual
And as a child you are trying to develop these things
I think being a poet can help
In my opinion most failures are due to emotional immaturity
It seems that school typically concentrates on the intellectual
But the emotional side is very important
And you need to develop this too
So I have a question for you
And I find the answer to this question to be very important
It helps as you interact with people
It helps you be a true poet
Can you put yourself in another person's shoes?
Can you UNDERSTAND their problems?
What about this question?
Can you accept the truth even if it conflicts with everything you believe?
That’s a tough one
I have two other questions
Do you have a need to be cool?
Are you a trend-setter or are you trendy?
I used to worry about stuff like that
The answers to these questions involve lessons of maturity
That's why I ask
I know it is difficult to go against the grain
To stand alone in a mob
It is a huge personal challenge
So what is it about emotional maturity that involves poetry?
It can teach to think for yourself
To be unswayed by the wrong thing
Even if everyone else disagrees with you
The poet offers his true feelings without regard to criticism
You are the poet
You are not affected by mere opinion
You are affected by truth
Here is another question
How do you feel about life?
Because we want to know
Because you are the poet
We want you to make us see what you see
With words
We want you to make us feel what you feel
With words
If you can think like this
And open your mind to the things around you
Then you will always feel alive
This is the way I try to think
And because of this I am never bored
I didn’t say I wasn’t boring!
I said I am never bored
Because my mind is always feeling things
And then I communicate
The ability to effectively communicate is critical
That is why you study the rules of language
But what are you going to do
With what you have learned?
There are so many possibilities
But what you have to know
Is that nothing is impossible
Look at me
I’m 53 years old
That’s probably pretty old to you
And it sounds old to me too
Just the other day
I received an offer for senior citizens
Senior citizens!
Like my life was over or something
But look at me
I’m here talking to you
It's because I decided I wanted to speak out
I wanted to be a poet
And I started down that road four years ago
So I was already old when I started something new
But look at you
You are young
Is it too early for you?
Like some say it’s too late for me?
NO!
You can start now
You can start thinking
You can start being who you are
But will you dare
Or will you worry about what someone may think?
Understand what I am saying
I’m not talking about doing what you want
So you can hurt someone
Or cheat your way through life
Or disrupt your teacher
I’m talking about being who you are
And not being afraid
Being tough
But not stubborn
Being able to care
But not obsessing
Being able to forgive
But not being easy
Being wise
But not arrogant
So what about poetry?
Do you think that men write poetry?
Do you think that men have feelings?
Do you think that men can make rhymes?
You better believe it
Because men feel things like women do
We all do
We can be mad
But don’t stay mad
That’s the secret
We can feel sorrow
But don’t stay sorrowful
It’s a matter of understanding why
Why do you feel that way
Then deal with it
Because if you deal with it
Then you own it
Then you control it
So it doesn’t control you
When I am sad or mad
I don’t just fall apart
But I don’t deny the feelings either
Sometimes we carry these feelings with us
And they eat away at our insides
Why?
Because we don’t really confront them
We let them sit there
Ready to pounce
So how do you do control that?
For me that’s where writing comes in
I try to express what it is that I am feeling
Then I write about it
And it becomes easier and easier
Why?
Because it’s my true self
I know myself
I know how I feel
So I tell myself
Then I tell you
And when I am willing to tell somebody
That’s when the magic starts to happen
Now… I feel things
But it’s not always about me
Sometimes it’s about someone else
There is something philosophers call a priori
That means you can see something that is true
Without having to experience it for yourself
And when you can feel that pain
Without experiencing it yourself
Then that’s called empathy
That’s when you put their shoes on
That’s when you know about their life
Then you realize they are real
Just like you
And then that’s when you can speak
About others
About right and wrong
Because then you don’t have to wait
Until it happens to you
Because what kind of life is that
Just waiting for something bad to happen
To you
Before you care
Maybe you are already angry
Maybe you aren’t popular
Maybe you’ve been picked on
What should you do?
Pick a fight?
Steal something?
Do something wrong?
No!
Think about Martin Luther King
He was made to feel less than a man
He didn’t have the rights others had
Just because of the color of his skin
He was humiliated
Do you know what that word means?
Do you know how that feels?
To be intensely made fun of
Or ridiculed
But what did he do?
He stood up for what is right
He used his anger wisely
He didn’t strike back
But he was not meek
He stood up and said
That is wrong
And he knew he would be hated
He knew he would be in danger
But that anger became the fuel
For greatness
And change in mankind
And he did not strike a blow with his fists
He just walked and sat
Where he was told he could not
He turned the other cheek
But he held his ground
And he won
Because they knew he was right
And what is right never loses
It just takes someone to say
It’s time to be right
What about Gandhi?
He was a small man
He was one man
Like Martin Luther King
Gandhi was a lawyer
But you don’t have to go to law school to understand
But to instinctively know about right and wrong
Means to know in your heart
Nobody has to tell you
You don’t have to read it in a book
You just know
And he knew
But he didn’t strike a blow
He just walked and sat
Where he was not allowed
And he became a great man
So what does this all mean?
It means you can think now
It means you can know now
It means that you can stand up
For right and against what is wrong
Because when you do
You will become very powerful
People will respect you
Some will fear you
I’m not saying walk around pointing fingers
But I am saying stand up for yourself
Don’t be swayed
Don’t let someone convince you otherwise
You are ready to be a leader
For good
Why not today?
But you do not have to wait
For something to happen
You can write about it now
You have your mind open
Remember
I’m not too old to live
And you’re not too young to live
So we both will express our feelings
And become poets
Because there is a dignity to this
It teaches you to be human
And to be alive
In any situation
Regardless of where you are
Or who you are with
Because life suddenly has meaning
In every moment
And you can be a part of each moment
If you let yourself be
Will you?
There is another challenge
Accepting truth
Sounds easy
But it’s not
To be a truth-seeker
You must be willing to be open minded
You must be willing to change
No matter what
Because the truth is the truth
It doesn’t care what you believe
It lives in its own world
To be a poet
You must be free
You must be willing to speak
About truth
Not to make yourself look good
Or to justify yourself
But for the sake of truth only
There is nothing like it
They say it can set you free
And it is true
I know it to be true
Because in my life
When I was honest
Not in a hurtful way
But in a compassionate way
Then I was able to be free mentally
Free of worries
Free of burdens
Because there was nothing to hide
And I knew I was in control
Of my mind
And nobody can brainwash me
I will listen
And I will consider what you say
But I won’t automatically believe it
Just because it’s on TV
Or the internet
Or because somebody said it loudly
Loud doesn’t mean right
Loud just means loud
So to be a true poet
You have to tell us what you really think
That means tell us the truth about your feelings
No matter what it is
Because when we read truth
From someone’s heart
We are drawn in
Because that is a rare thing in this world
It’s not a matter of making rhymes
It’s a matter of life
And people crave honesty
And sincerity
And courage
Tell us about fear
About sadness
About joy
About sorrow
Are you ready?
Inspiration has its own clock
And when you feel these things
Your pen will know what to do
This is what we want
From you
Can you do it?




Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona

///

He was jealous of her love, killed the poet's Juliet
The poet killed him too,
They caught the poet and send him into the Jail,
He didn’t see her Juliet last because someone didn’t take him the bail

Today the poet is free, he has gone to beside her grave
Again he tries to hold his crave,
memorized the glisten days when both they were young,
and those had sprung

Those good things which he was sharing with Juliet,
how the stream of love melted with each other!
and how they felt their little bird’s feather

She has told the poet, don’t wait here
and never weep
rather all those dark to sweep
move forward and take that sun into your grip

Again Juliet told him that she is very well at there
and an Angel hoped her here,
She will stay at haven soon and turned to be the poet's moon
The poet has told her that he will come and see her very soon

///

@ Musfiq us shaleheen

When a poet falls in love with you,
You will be his queen
You will be the most beautiful lady that they have seen
You will be the subject and protagonist in every story and scene
Because when a poet falls in love with you,
that poet will take away your fears and sorrow
and you can be **** sure that he will wipe away your tears and for you, he sure as hell will catch an arrow
and he will promise you that there is a beauty in every tomorrow

when a poet falls in love with you,
he will surely give you all of his time and attention,
love and affection,
gives you all of his protection,
as if you're the most precious masterpiece in his entire creation
and in times that you'll feel you're all alone,
he will become your favorite superhero without a cape on
because a poet knows how powerful the words are-
he will build your dreams up and through his words, you will become immortal
you will be the center of his universe, you will be his stars and moon
and even though you're thousand miles apart he will never be tired in saying "see you soon"

Because when a poet falls for you,he will use all of his vocabulary
his words,letters, sentences and paragraph will be his armory
because for him, nothing is more precious than seeing his girl happy

I am not a poet.
I do not count my syllables or rime my lines
I do not scratch pages with metaphors so deep, their meaning soars above my head.
I am not a poet because I don’t write for everyone…
I write for me.
I am not a poet.
If I read in front of everyone, or a room, or one person,
I would hear no snaps, get no claps, have no feeling of elation from what others think.
Would I?  No, I am no poet, and I don’t know how to be one.

But you are a poet!

I guess, maybe, with the right light, the right background… I am, aren’t I?
If I tell myself enough times, maybe I just might believe it.
I am a poet. I am a poet. I am… me.
I always write my truth
Fill every line with emotions too strong to hold in one body.
I won’t stop.
Not even when I am out of words to write.
Not even when my emotions lay dormant just out of my grasp.
I do not need recognition, nor fans, fortune, or fame.
All I need is the subtlety of language married to the written word.
I am a poet.

EARLY POEMS by Michael R. Burch

These are early poems and juvenilia by Michael R. Burch


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—****, 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'****** 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.

Keywords/Tags: Early, Juvenalia, Young, Youth, Teen, Child, Childhood, Boy, Boyhood, Romantic

Bookmarks/Tags: early, early poems, juvenilia, child, childhood, boy, boyhood, teen, teenager, young adult

I can imagine her in Aarhus Kunstmuseum coming across this painting, adjusting her glasses, pursing her lips then breaking out into a big smile. The gallery is almost empty. It is early in the day for visitors, but she is a tourist so allowances are made. Her partner meanwhile is in the Sankt Markus Kirke playing the *****, a 3 manual tracker-action gem built in 1967 by Poul Gerhard Anderson. Sweelink then Bach (the trio sonatas written for his son Johann Christian) are on the menu this morning. In the afternoon she will take herself off to one of the sandy beaches a bus ride away and work on a poem or two. He has arranged to play the grand 83-voice Frobinus ***** in the Cathedral. And so, with a few variations, some illustrious fugues and medley of fine meals in interesting restaurants, their stay in Denmark’s second city will be predictably delightful.
       She is a poet ‘(and a philosopher’, she would say with a grin), a gardener, (old roses and a Jarman-blue shed), a musician, (a recorder player and singer), a mother (four girls and a holy example), but her forte is research. A topic will appear and relentlessly she’d pursue it through visits to favourite libraries in Cambridge and London. In this relentless pursuit she would invariably uncover a web of other topics. These would fill her ‘temporary’ bookcase, her notebooks and her conversation. Then, sometimes, a poem would appear, or not.
          The postcard from Aarhus Kunstmuseum had sat on her table for some weeks until one quiet morning she decided she must ‘research’ this Sosphus Claussen and his colleagues. The poem ‘Imperia’ intrigued her. She knew very little Danish literature. Who did for goodness sake! Hans Christian Anderson she dismissed, but Søren Kierkegaard she had read a little. When a student, her tutor had talked about this author’s use of the pseudonym, a very Socratic device, and one she too had played with as a poet. Claussen’s name was absent from any online lists (Were there really on 60 poets in Danish literature?). Roge appeared, and the painter Willumsen had a whole museum dedicated to his work; this went beyond his El Greco-like canvases into sculpture, graphics, architecture and photography. He looked an interesting character she thought as she browsed his archive. The one thing these three gentlemen held in common was an adherence to the symbolist aesthetic. They were symbolists.
         For her the symbolists were writers, playwrights, artists and composers who in the later years of the 19C wanted to capture absolute truth through indirect methods. They created work in a highly metaphorical and suggestive manner, endowing particular images or objects with symbolic meaning. Her studies in philosophy had brought her to Schopenhauer who considered Art to be ‘a contemplative refuge from the world of strife’. Wasn’t this what the symbolists were all about?
         Her former husband had introduced her to the world of Maurice Maeterlinck through Debussy’s Pelleas and those spare, intense, claustrophobic dramas like Le Malheure Passe. It was interesting how the discovery of the verse of the ancient Chinese had appeared at the time of the symbolist project, and so influenced it. Collections like The Jade Flute that, in speaking of the everyday and the natural world, held with such simplicity rich symbolic messages. Anyway, she didn’t do feelings in her poetry.
           When she phoned the composer who had fathered three of her children he said to her surprise ‘Delius’. He explained: C.F. Keary was the librettist for the two operas Delius composed. Keary wrote a novel called The Journalist (1898) based on Sosphus, a writer who wrote plays ‘heavily laced with symbolism’ and who had also studied art and painted in Paris. Keary knew Claussen, who he described as a poet, novelist, playwright, painter, journalist and eventually a newspaper owner. Claussen was a close friend of Verlaine and very much part of the Bohemian circle in Paris. Claussen and Delius’ circle intersected in the person of Herman Bang, a theatre director who produced Claussen’s Arbedjersken (The Factory Girl). Clauseen wrote an important poem on Bang’s demise, which Delius set to music.
          She was impressed. ‘How is it that you know so much about Delius?’, she asked. He was a modernist, on the experimental edge of contemporary music. ‘Ah’, he replied, ‘I once researched the background to Delius’ Requiem. I read the composer’s Collected Letters (he was a very serious letter writer – sometimes 10 a day), and got stuck into the letters of his Paris years when so many of his friends were Scandinavian émigrés. You once sent me a postcard of a painting by Wilhumsen. It was of Clauseen reading to two of his ‘symbolist’ colleagues. I think you’d picked it up in Denmark. You said, if I recall, that you’d found it ‘irresistible’’.
          And so it was, this painting. Irresistible. She decided that its irresistibility lay in the way the artist had caught the head and body positions of reader and listeners. The arrangement of legs, she thought, says so much about a man. Her husband had always sat with the care embedded in his training as a musician at an instrument. He could slouch like the rest of us, she thought, but when he sat properly, attentive to her words, or listening to their sweet children, he was beautiful. She still loved him, and remembered the many poems she had composed for him, poems he had never seen (she had instructed a daughter to ‘collect’ them for him on her passing). Now, it was he who wrote poetry, for another, for a significant other he had said was his Muse, his soul’s delight, his dearly beloved.
          The wicker chair Sophos Claussen is sitting in, she decided, she would like in her sitting room. It looked the perfect chair for giving a reading. She imagined reading one of her poems from such a chair . . .
 
If daydreams are wrecks of something divine
I’m amazed by the tediousness of mine.
I’m always the power behind throne.
I rescue princes to make my own.
 
‘And so it goes’, she thought, quoting that American author she could never remember. So it goes, this strange life, where it seems possible for the mind to enter an apartment in 19C København and call up the smell of brilliantined hair, cigar tobacco, and the samovar in the kitchen. This poem Imperia I shall probably never read, she thought, though there is some American poet on a Fulbright intent on translating Claussen’s work into English. In a flash of the mind’s miracle she travels to his tiny office in his Mid-West university, surrounded by the detritus of student tutorials. In blue jeans and cowboys boots Devon Whittall gazes out of his third storey window at the falling snow.
 
There is nothing in the world as quiet as snow,
when it gently descends through the air,
muffles your steps
hushes, gently hushes
the voices that speak too loud.
 
There is nothing in the world of a purity like snow's,
swan's down from the white wings of Heaven,
On your hand a flake
is like dew of tears,
White thoughts quietly tread in dance.
 
There is nothing in the world that can gentle like snow,
quietly you listen to the silent ringing.
Oh, so fine a sound,
peals of silver bells,
rings within your innermost heart.
 
And she imagines Helge Rode (his left arm still on his right shoulder) reading his poem Snow in the quiet of the winter afternoon at Ellehammersvej 20 Kastrup Copenhagen. ‘And so it goes,’ she thought, ‘this imagination, flowing on and on. When I am really old like my Grandmother (discharging herself from hospital at 103 because the food was so appalling) will my imagination continue to be as rich and capable as it is today?’
          Closing her notebook and shutting down her laptop, she removed her cat from its cushion on the table, and walked out into her garden, leaving three Danish Symbolists to their readings and deliberations.

The sun sends his gorgeous light
A poet gives us inestimable delight
The sun brightens the world with his glorious rays
And the poet illuminates it with his poetic ways

The sun sometimes hides him self in the cloud
And the poet at gloomy times in the crowd
The eclipse may darken the sun for a while
And the society may subject the poet for a trial

The sun gives us necessary heat
And the poet makes his/her aesthetic feat
The sun is the life giver for the universe
The poet is the truth lover with his/her verse

The poet can view
Where the sun has no clue
I worship the sun god
And adore the poetic lord

A Poet to be who was in bed thinking lying down
Eyes focused in the room looking all around
He wrote down some words
But the question within him how will he be heard
A Poetry Festival was coming to his town
A new approach that had been found
The Poet prepared some of his writings to the test
He wanted to make sure they were his very best
It will be poetry to read having inspiration to proceed
Oh the thought in deed
The Poet became an actual Poet
No longer being a Poet to be
The audience witnessed themselves in applause and they did see
The Poet explained to the audience he never gave any thought in being a Poet
It was something in the ceiling that gave him the idea
As you can see he did preserver
But I encourage anyone with a desire to write
Unlock your mind with fear and don’t be uptight
Take your time and watch as words accelerate
Writing is never too late
Let your mind tell you what to say
Thinking in the moment is certainly ok
Don’t hesitate in write, just expel in write
Before you know it, you will find you were meant to be a Poet
It was just having courage to show it
A Poet I am and shall be
Now I am making writing my life for all to see.