I remember when she told me
She would forget me
And everyone else
We were in the kitchen
I was clutching the white teapot
Like I was holding on to
A sliver of hope
And I said nothing
Nothing that meant something anyway
They gave me fourteen more years with her
Maybe less
And I started counting

See the old man,
by the alley,
by the sidewalk,
by the city.

Buy the teapot,
in the window,
in the shop,
in the city.

See the crooks,
in dark allies,
in dark corners,
in the city.

See the mayor,
by his lonesome,
not so lonesome,
******'s pretty.

The quiet marching of the drums,
towards endless shenanigans and fun.

Sweet and sour, you count down the hour,
when the time comes, you will cower.

Touch the stone walls,
in the park,
in the center,
of the city.

Hear the cars,
on the road,
on the highway,
in the city.

Smell the stench,
of the liars,
of the ignorant,
of the city.

Taste the sweat,
of the beat,
of the heat,
of the city.

And when the city gets to you,
promise me you'll know what to do.

Just come out to the country,
and visit me.

“Good afternoon”
Light kisses on the cheek
Walk gracefully to your seat
Cross your legs at the ankles
                    Never the knees!

“May I have a cup of tea, please?”
A porcelain teapot pours
With grace, three quarters full
And, as not to cross the paths of love
                    Milk is always last

A silver spoon in glistening pride
An inverted reflection
Of your well-bred smile
Stir, ever so carefully, from 6 to 12
                       Never ***** the sides!


Take a sip, looking into, never over
The cup. Laugh, smile, and converse
Indulge in a skon (not scone)
With clotted cream and raspberry jam
                         Always parted in two

As you say your farewells, praise yourself
You have made Queen Catherine proud
With your lady-like poise and elegant charm
At afternoon tea

Impossible, invisible

                  but somehow still nearby.


A teapot in the orbit

                  of a planet
                                                                                                                                                faraway.


Omnipotent (supposedly),

                  but gallingly benign.

As silent as the sky at night

                  and nowhere to be seen.


A speck of dust is planet earth

                  caught in this beam of light

that shines despite the dark of space,
                                                                                                                              beckoning us home.

Jan. 22nd, 2013

The bird tweets, but not for you.
Like a teapot screaming with no one to remove it;
Your voice is like a teleprompter on a fuzzy station telling me the evening news

But it's not as if you are hallowing out my bones with every word
The rings of age on my trunk are colored red and blue when you were there
but now green with life and growth and care

and I can't figure out if I'm completely full of ****
or if I'm just over it.

Nan,
being slightly Victorian and
very old
would decant a bottle of Mackeson
into a teapot and
pretend to us children that she
was having her
daily cuppa.

We knew though,
could smell the sweetness
of the alcohol even through
the odours of Number 3 ***** and
macassar oil which seemed to
be an integral part of
Nan
and her Lodge street home.

Convoluted thoughts intertwine like cats squabbling in the yard.
My mind is a neighborhood.
Scores of houses and cars, all neatly arranged;
Like packages wrapped under the Christmas tree.
Inside are storms and fires.
Beautiful earthquakes shake them about like a locomotive running laps.
Graffiti on buildings and discarded tires.
A harmonious melody of rain and a whistling teapot.
Bells tolling.
Bikes litter the cul-de-sac.
A basketball rolls into a puddle.
Daisies and peonies sprouting out of little baskets, hanging from kitchen windowsills.
Streetlamps *ignite.

Family Poems: Poems about Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers and Grandfathers



Mother's Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much."

So more than "much, " much more than "all."
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you!

Originally published by TALESetc



Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love of my life,
light of my morning―
arise, brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.

Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven―
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.



Success
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

We need our children to keep us humble
between toast and marmalade;

there is no time for a ticker-tape parade
before bed, no award, no bright statuette

to be delivered for mending skinned knees,
no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow.

A kiss is the only approval they show;
to leave us—the first great success they achieve.



The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...

He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates' necks.

He played with pasty Elmer's glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname "teacher's PEST."

His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.

One thing, though—

one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer's glue...
and you'll outgrow this old desk, too.

Originally published by TALESetc



A True Story
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)

Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor's yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty "THWACK! "
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.

Originally published by TALESetc



Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch

for Keira

We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!

With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira's a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!



The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch

for Keira

There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies' wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair...
I think she's just you when you're floating on air!



Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch

Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass *****!



Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.

It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.

Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I

Will wake together, by and by.

Life's not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.

The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.

Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I

Know nothing but this lullaby.



Sappho's Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call,
while the pale calla lilies lie
listening,
glistening...
this is their night, the first night of fall.

Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone...
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.

Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone...
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.

NOTE: The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies.



Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves ...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Keywords/Tags: Nature, spring, birth, baby animals, angels



Limericks

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! "
—Michael R. Burch



Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Originally published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK)



Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch

Keep Up!
Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can;
I'll move much faster when I'm a man...

Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.

Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.

Keep Up!
Son, I'm walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.



Poems for Older Children

Reflex
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Some intuition of her despair
for her lost brood,
as though a lost fragment of song
torn from her flat breast,
touched me there...

I felt, unable to hear
through the bright glass,
the being within her melt
as her unseemly tirade
left a feather or two
adrift on the wind-ruffled air.

Where she will go,
how we all err,
why we all fear
for the lives of our children,
I cannot pretend to know.

But, O!,
how the unappeased glare
of omnivorous sun
over crimson-flecked snow
makes me wish you were here.



Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch

He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes)ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad's...
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats...
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.



Limericks

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride? "
"Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied.
—Michael R. Burch



Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch

It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.



Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch

Trump’s war is on children and their mothers.
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi

War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.

But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night.)

For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light!―
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.

For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?

Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and ****** women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did.



Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard."

"Don't eat the berries. You see—the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."

"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.

Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name—"pokeweed"—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.
I still can hear his laconic reply...

"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."



Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch

for Anais Vionet

Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house—
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
—one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...

Lacking the words to describe
ah!, those pearl-luminous estuaries—
strange omens, incoherent nights.

Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.

Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and "civilization."

Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.

Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.
Or so the people dreamed, in chains.



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are your tears?
They will not spare the dying their anguish.
What good is your concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is gone,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, wasted limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of their souls departing...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our "effort, "
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

When you were in my house
you were not free―
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina



Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.

Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.

His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—

for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.

It's hard to be "wise"
when the years
career through our lives

and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief

while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.

The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages

is useless
unless
it encompasses this:

his kiss.



Boundless
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Every day we whittle away at the essential solidity of him,
and every day a new sharp feature emerges:
a feature we'll spend creative years: planing, smoothing, refining,

trying to find some new Archaic Torso of Apollo, or Thinker...

And if each new day a little of the boisterous air of youth is deflated
in him, if the hours of small pleasures spent chasing daffodils
in the outfield as the singles become doubles, become triples,
become unconscionable errors, become victories lost,

become lives wasted beyond all possible hope of repair...

if what he was becomes increasingly vague—like a white balloon careening
into clouds; like a child striding away aggressively toward manhood,
hitching an impressive rucksack over sagging, sloping shoulders,
shifting its vaudevillian burden back and forth,

then pausing to look back at us with an almost comical longing...

if what he wants is only to be held a little longer against a forgiving *****;
to chase after daffodils in the outfield regardless of scores;
to sail away like a balloon
on a firm string, always sure to return when the line tautens,

till he looks down upon us from some removed height we cannot quite see,

bursting into tears over us:
what, then, of our aspirations for him, if he cannot breathe,
cannot rise enough to contemplate the earth with his own vision,
unencumbered, but never untethered, forsaken...

cannot grow brightly, steadily, into himself—flying beyond us?



Pan
by Michael R. Burch

... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves...

... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles...

... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss...

... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens' hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs...

... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees...

... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers...

... of voices of the wolves' tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams' soft, windy vowels...

Originally published by Sonnet Scroll



Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.

And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea



The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.

We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow...

And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.

She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker's knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me

rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We'd like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!, " only two.

We'd like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball's just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren't easily fashioned, that his smile's
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life's Mysteries...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It's me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms



Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

Originally published by The Flea



For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

―for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes
like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother's lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears...



To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
translation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.



This is, I believe, the second poem I wrote. Or at least it's the second one that I can remember. I believe I was around 13 or 14 when I wrote it.

Playmates
by Michael R. Burch

WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended... far, far away...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.

Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.

Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden batter was our only lust!

Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure-what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to injustice, or fate.

Then we never thought about the next day,
for tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things didn't last.

Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.



Children
by Michael R. Burch

There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility...

when we might have made...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.

Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!

But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.

But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars,
and for a day,

what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.



Kindergarten
by Michael R. Burch

Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow—
our lessons still not learned?
Will we surrender over to sorrow?
How many times must our fingers be burned?

Will we be children sat in the corner
over and over again?
How long will we linger, playing Jack Horner?
Or will we learn, and when?

Will we be children wearing the dunce cap,
giggling and playing the fool,
re-learning our lessons forever and ever,
never learning the golden rule?



Life Sentence or Fall Well
by Michael R. Burch

... I swim, my Daddy's princess, newly crowned,
toward a gurgly Maelstrom... if I drown
will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down

to **** me up?... She sits upon Her Throne,
Imperious (denying we were one),
and gazes down and whispers "precious son"...

... the Plunger worked; i'm two, and, if not blessed,
still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;
a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest...

... i'm three; yay! whee! oh good! it's time to play!
(oh no, I think there's Others on the way;
i'd better pray)...

... i'm four; at night I hear the Banging Door;
She screams; sometimes there's Puddles on the Floor;
She wants to **** us, or, She wants some More...

... it's great to be alive if you are five (unless you're me) :
my Mommy says: "you're WRONG! don't disagree!
don't make this HURT ME! "...

... i'm six; They say i'm tall, yet Time grows Short;
we have a thriving Family; Abort! ;
a tadpole's ripping Mommy's Room apart...

... i'm seven; i'm in heaven; it feels strange;
I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;
another Noah built a Mighty Ark;
God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;

... I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed
my head against the Tub, and then I swam
toward the magic tunnel... last, I heard...

is that She feels Weird.



Resurrecting Passion
by Michael R. Burch

Last night, while dawn was far away
and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies,
as thunder boomed and lightning railed,
I conjured words, where passion failed ...

But, oh, that you were mine tonight,
sprawled in this bed, held in these arms,
your ******* pale baubles in my hands,
our bodies bent to old demands ...

Such passions we might resurrect,
if only time and distance waned
and brought us back together; now
I pray that this might be, somehow.

But time has left us twisted, torn,
and we are more apart than miles.
How have you come to be so far—
as distant as an unseen star?

So that, while dawn is far away,
my thoughts might not return to you,
I feed your portrait to the flames,
but as they feast, I burn for you.

Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse.



Currents
by Michael R. Burch

How can I write and not be true
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?

Originally published by The Lyric



Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-******.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-******,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-******,
we first proved we had lives of our own).



Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad)
by Michael R. Burch

He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.



Haunted
by Michael R. Burch

Now I am here
and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren.
I am withering
and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.

Go, if you will,
for the ache in my heart is its hollowness
and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness;
there is nothing to fill.

Take what you can;
I have nothing left.
And when you are gone, I will be bereft,
the husk of a man.

Or stay here awhile.
My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams.
Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems
when you smile.

Published by Romantics Quarterly



Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch

Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?

This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again.



hey pete
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.

When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."



First Dance
by Michael R. Burch

for Sykes and Mary Harris

Beautiful ballerina—
so pert, pretty, poised and petite,
how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau
on those beautiful, elegant feet!
How palely he now awaits you, although
he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet!



Keep the Body Well
by Michael R. Burch

for William Sykes Harris III

Is the soul connected to the brain
by a slender silver thread,
so that when the thread is severed
we call the body “dead”
while the soul ― released from fear and pain ―
is finally able to rise
beyond earth’s binding gravity
to heaven’s welcoming skies?

If so ― no need to quail at death,
but keep the body well,
for when the body suffers
the soul experiences hell.



Dearly Beloved
by Michael R. Burch

for Suzan Blacksmith

She was

Dearly Beloved by her children, who gather
to pay their respects; they remember her
as they clung together through frightful weather,
always learning that Love can persevere ...

She was

Dearly Beloved by family and friends
who saw her great worth, even as she grew frail;
for they saw with Love’s eyes how Love’s vision transcends,
how her heart never faltered, through cyclones and hail ...

She is

Dearly Beloved, well-loved, sadly missed ...
and, while we mourn the lost days of a life too-soon ended,
we also rejoice that her suffering is past ...
she now lives in the Light, by kind Angels befriended.

And if

others were greater in fortune and fame,
and if some had iron wills when life’s pathways grew dark ...
still, since Love’s the great goal, we now reaffirm her claim
to the highest of honors: a mother’s Heart.



Beyond the Tempest
by Michael R. Burch

for Martha Pilkington Johnson

Martha Johnson was a formidable woman,
like her namesake, Martha Washington—
a woman like the Rock of Gibraltar,
a sure and steadfast refuge for her children and grandchildren
against the surging storms of life.

But later in her life
I beheld her transformation:
her hair became like a corona of light,
as if she were intent on becoming an angel
and something in her visage
brightened and softened,
as if she were preparing to enter heaven
where love and compassion rule
and the troubles of earth are like a tempest in teapot.



Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!



Published as the collection "Family Poems"

Keywords/Tags: Family, Mothers, Fathers, Children, Sons, Daughters, Grandparents, Grandmothers, Grandfathers, mrbch

Dreams of entertainment
Full of amazement and surprises
Take a back seat Beauty and the Beast
We are a standalone being our feast
The music being for us both
Together we took an oath
A Teapot and cup and saucers are the ones who know
We will carry the show
Just follow the flow
Song and dance and perhaps a sketch
You the audience will have to catch
Creating the right effect
We don’t want the audience to reject
We will not be mean only lean
You won’t see much of a pour
Only our total performing galore
Our story our very own and it will be full blown
Teapot became a theory
Cup and Saucers a mystery
We were always sitting on a shelf or convent
Barely used or not used at all
We were considered a prop
I always had to accept like it or not
It was simply “NOT”
Disney thought they had it right
We took it as a plight
We were determined to show our talent
We refused to be silent
When the curtain rose and the spotlight was on
First the teapot went through the audience and asked, “Do you want some tea?”
The audience didn’t know exactly in how to respond other than laugh
The music started and that’s entertainment
Then the cup and saucers with their enchanting voices stating we are Cup and Saucers best
You are our guest
But we have only one request, “Don’t expect us to serve”
We are entertainment and that is what you deserve
Let’s go back into Teapot and cup and saucers time
On the table a teapot and cup and saucers that was always there
Alone with barely a touch
That doesn’t sound much
The table of beauty being a setting and we were decorative
Being objective
There was a party and the Teapot and Cup and Saucers were the highlight
Ready to fulfill
At will
Determined
There was some pour and detail
But without fail
Beautiful friendship
Pleasure to be your acquaintance
Music still playing enchanted
The stage is now full of dancers
Flashing lights
Teapot and Cup and Saucers dancing in delight
We shall dance
Suddenly the beast appeared being angry and upset
The duo of Teapot and cup and saucers had an effect
The question came up from the beast in why he wasn’t invited?
The response, Teapots and cup and saucers are the entertainers and you are only the prop when needed
It was on with the show
We put the beast finally in the know
The finale being an encore, the teapot and cup and saucers together a team
The audience stood up and applauded and the curtain came down
It was a teapot and cup and saucers with a pouring spirit
You have to give them merit
That’s entertainment the way it was meant to be
Encore

How glorious it once was
My Wonderland
Singing flowers, unbirthday parties
And painting roses red
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee
Laughing, playing jubilantly
White Rose
Beautiful, brave
Shy Violet
Strong, sweet
Hatter
Protective, playful
Gave hope, kindness, love
I grew older
Wonder fading
Until only madness remained
My dormouse hid in his little teapot
My Cheshire cat disappeared
The Queen of Hearts gave misery
Tied in a treacherous bow
The caterpillar tried to transform
Toxic, *****, fear
Beware the Jabberwock, my dear
He wants you for his bed
My love, the Hatter left me
One golden afternoon
Devoid of wonder
Doomed to ache
The White Rabbit came
And took me by the hand
To lead me from my once wondrous Wonderland
You’re late You’re late
Your future will not wait
No time to say “I love you, Goodbye”
You’re late You’re late You’re late

I zip up my astronaut suit,
plop the cubed veil onto my head.

In my hat, I am the observer
Living behind the netted television.

Dressed for pain avoidance.  No tears.
(Perhaps I should wear this out on dates)

A tall metal teapot with its accordion attachment rests,
on guard, in my yellow stained gloves.

Together, we enter the boxed colony
The teapot’s steam spurts clusters of buzzers into the air—

I grab coarse honeycombs, drain the
visions of nectar.

When the day is over, I gather the jars,
amber sucrose, the ***-colored concoctions, to head inside.

In the kitchen, the timer aches to sing as the clouds
From the pumpkin loaves clog the room.

I hold my honey and I store my bread.

It hit me the other day
Not the smell of fresh tea
Nor the steam that hissed out of the spout
Spraying droplets into the air
But of the infinitesimal
Interconnected this of it all.

Even in this teapot a small ecosystem brews
Unaware of its function
I stared at my own reflection
And back it stared
It's eyes glassy
Or was that the sheen of the lacquer?
The smooth ceramic just was
yet my reflection was anything but
In it's simplicity it made a stranger out of me
I am a stranger to myself it seems
And yet I must be a teapot to others
Simplicity or duplicity
Equally deceptive yet difference in kind.
So let's drink tea you and I.

can I take but 2 subtle moments of your time
to sit in a dress, lace and my legs crossed
my hand movements filter the air
as I begin to wordlessly explain
the happiness in my well of coins
upon broken wishes, life’s affliction
and loves beautiful kisses
the muscles in my neck tighten
as my chest grows heavy with memories

I have grown old within this room
I try to clean with the veins in my wrists
its dusty corners with my witch and lovely broom
come sit, as I boil tea leaves in my old teapot
they have said to me many times, within you
breeds an old soul, and I do feel that energy
living within me

you see, I have been here before
I have cried those tears before
I have felt that love before

I have curled up like a baby
when you did those things to me,
before

I guess I have much to say
much to
convey and ignore

its 6 in the morning and the sun
is just making its way through the sky
and the birds are beginning to speak
in that language that I would die
to understand

I would love to have a bird on
my shoulder right now, feeling
its claws dig into my skin

I stare at my window
and remember all the lovers I left behind
those emotions from which I have resigned
and then a month passed and you lost it
and so did I
the love that we were both unable to find

and you lingering down
I must admit I see how the areas have changed
how it is me you sometimes blame, but
life
life
I just do not feel the same

in the hours that leak down
like children’s tears, candle wax
frail and delicate bones
I grind the surface of my body
in hope of fleeting a greater destruction
within my body
I have been overcome by my sanity
learned blindly how to dispose
of this anarchy

I am breathing now harshly
I am breathing now slowly
my torso opens and I intake everything

and I am finally blooming

That girl doesn't know yet,
But she is going to fall
Madly in love with me.

I'm as sure of that as:
Mary breaking all the school rules;
The fox enjoying the gingerbread man;
The sky not falling on Chicken Little;
The safety of the three little pigs;
The birds eating Gretel's crumbs;
Midnight striking and the slipper dropping;
Cows jumbing moons, cats playing fiddles;
Doctor Foster making it to Gloucester;
Georgie making girls cry;
The little teapot getting steamed up;
The old man snoring;
Mary is contrary;
Old McDonald can spell;
Mother Hubbard's dog going boneless;
Polly making tea;
The wheels on the bus going round... and round;
The kittens finding their mittens, and hence, getting their pie.

Yes, that girl will fall in love with me;
I will read all the rhymes and stories
To her I read to her mother,
And she was once a little girl,
And she loves me.

I'm going away for a while.
If you pass her by:
Tell her I miss her.
Her voice, her smile.
But tell her "boys don't cry".
Tell her I'm sorry,
though she already knows.
Tell her I still think of her,
say it though it shows.
And tell her I meant to say
that I wish things hadn't gone that way
that I wish I gave her a reason
for wanting me to stay;
and please tell her
that I'm not begging
or pleading
or wasting away.
Tell her I'm carrying on,
tell her I'm okay.

Tell her she's been in my dreams
and that last night I held her hand.
Tell her the cat gave my tongue back to me.
Just tell her, she'll understand.
Tell her it made me feel alive
to once again feel her touch.
Though feeling alive without her here
is not feeling very much.
But anyway,
tell her that I miss her
and that time we sat by the docks,
she knows,
I really meant to kiss her
right there,
but now I sit alone
and watch the clock.
"Time
goes by
so slowly"
Tick Tock, it goes,
Tick Tock
Tick
Tock.

But tell her I'm not lonely.
Tell her I'm quite alright.
I never needed someone to love me
or someone to hold me tight.
But tell her I wouldn't mind it
if she called me,
or took the time to write.
Even just to say good morning,
good afternoon, good evening,
or goodnight.
Tell her I was alone before I knew her,
that I got on just fine.
Just now it's but a little bit harder
So I'll sit down and sip on her city's wine,
I'll savour that bitter-sweet flavour,
and I will be
just fine.

Tell her Rome has fallen,
the war is over,
and I have lost the fight.
That she's better off without me
That what she did was right
But tell her that If I could go back,
and she knows that I would,
that I wouldn't hesitate to do it right
no matter what way God, fate, or karma
says it shouldn't or should.

Tell her I hope she's doing well
and that it isn't too late.
Though she might tell you
that too late it is.
And perhaps that's just fate.
Maybe we weren't made for each other,
like I had really hoped.
Maybe she's meant for another
and that's just how it goes.
Or maybe she needs nobody at all.
No one there to stand her up.
No one there to catch her fall.
But tell her I'm happy for her either way.
Tell her it's fine
Tell her it's okay.

But maybe you shouldn't tell her
anything that I have said.
I think it's best
for all of us
If any memory of me was wiped
away
from her head,
and she just forgets me instead.
It might be better if you tell her
That I never said a thing.
I think it's best if she forgets
Her forgetful little fling.

But wait.

I was more than that.
"And I know because she said so."
Tell her to forget my insecurity,
and please tell her,
because she might not know
that I was just scared
so afraid that she might leave,
that she might go:
That I pushed her away
that I pick up whats most important
disregard,
then foolishly throw.
But tell her I didn't mean it,
that it wasn't supposed to be so.

Tell her only good wishes to her I send.
That I was in the wrong.
that 'There are cracks in the walls
that I can't mend."
Again, to quote a song.

And tell her I'm a fool.
Not that she needs to be told,
because "only fools rush in"
and with her,
my heart was quickly sold.
Tell her I played the game,
I gambled,
and now all the dice have been rolled.
Tell her it's a strange feeling.
Tell her that "I will never grow so old".

Tell her when I asked for her kiss
and saw that look in her eyes:
I thought then she never wanted me.
Tell her I believed my own silly lies.
Tell her before I didn't see it
But God, I see it now.
Tell her I have to live with what I've done
but I'll get by somehow.

Tell her that in the airport
(for maybe she might laugh)
I was kicked out of a prayer room
for sleeping on prayer mats.
And as I lay on those mats,
a movie quote came to mind
"See you in another life
when we are both cats."
Maybe some meaning
I hoped she might find.

And tell her, before I forget,
on our last walk
she splashed a puddle
and I got wet.
But I didn't mind,
I didn't get upset.
Just tell her,
because I might not get a chance
that as she skipped, jumped,
gravity making her tied hair dance
"Well, it suddenly struck me,"
as she splashed that puddle:
and I knew, then and there,
I won't lie,
I would not deny
one
last
cuddle.
But such is life,
and life
is unfair.

Tell her I hope she finds her little house in the snow.
I won't be there, that much she will know.
Sad and regretful, maybe,
but spiteful I am not.
Tell her that I love her still.
Tell her
she'll always be my little teapot.

You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.

Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.

Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.

Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.

You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.

I add to the experience
From the one before
Like a Fibonacci typewriter
Snapping off the keys and letting go
to line up on the floor

I am the infinite monkey
Whose nonsense on sense
Will eventually line up too
In a somewhere where the parallel functions are
and with the golden ratio sentence

I'll keep walking jealous and pitying
The shadows upon the cavern wall
Hoping for the teapot orbit high above
to veer away to another constellation
Where logics reign over logic minds
and law is clear and never minted
A quantum absolution
both there and not at all

I don't want to be depressed anymore.
The shoulds and woulds
All wrapped up in why did he
And how could she.
Eating slowly at the bonds I've formed
With people.
Human beings that are doing their best
But never good enough for me,
For perfection.
I'd rather be dead.

I don't want to be upset anymore
With the strangers on the bus
In their garb of business and ***
That they speak with boisterous joy
They should be considerate of me
And speak louder to drown out my thoughts.
Maybe I could drown them out on my own.

I want to be content
Because I want to do the dishes and use them
I want to ***** the floors and wash them again,
I want to see the beauty in a teapot and the joy in a
soft pillow
To see what it is to comfort a weathered soul.
I want to uphold routine.

I want to be happy
Because I love to feel alive
And I love to feel in love.
I love to love you and I want to do that for me
And maybe you'll do it for you too.
I want to sit with you in silence
And discuss soda in the coffee shop,
I want to look at you and cry
In gratitude
The only thing I can feel for you
And I know I will.

I want to live a life,
Because I want to be alive.

There were bright lights
from the ceiling
once it got
dark outside

and when big Ted
brought in
the sandwiches
for tea or supper

or whatever
they called it
I sat next to Christine
on one

of the double sofas
and she looked
at the plates
of sandwiches

that were laid
on the table
and said
usual boring stuff

I’m not eating
I’d rather starve
big Ted said
O come on

young lady
we've got
to get you well again
and out of this ward

he offered her
a ham sandwich
real ham
he said

not that tin stuff
she looked at him
don't fancy meat
she said

he took up
a cheese sandwich
Cheddar
he said

good stuff
I’ve tasted it
downstairs
in the kitchen

I could eat a horse
I said
taking the cheese sandwich
no horse sandwiches today

Ted said smiling
Christine gazed at me
then at the plate
of sandwiches

it's an effort to eat
she said
I should be coming home
from my honeymoon now

if the **** hadn't left me
at the altar
done my head in
Ted raised his eyebrows

is there anything
I can get you other
than sandwiches?
they've got

sausage rolls downstairs
all dressed
in my wedding dress
with flowers

and waiting
and he doesn't show
I take a ham sandwich
his loss

I said
he must be missing a *****
not to wed you
she gazed at me

then took
a cheese sandwich
and ate
Ted frowned

and walked off
to get the teapot
and coffee pots
and cups

from the trolley
you'll find someone
I said
don't think

I want anyone now
think I'll become a nun
or missionary
in some far off land

sexless and taking care
of others
she sat eating
in silence for a moment

or two
not sure
I could go long
without ***

come to think of it
she took a ham sandwich
with one hand
and placed a hand

on my thigh
with that dull light
in her green blue
left eye.

I will slay the Beast
Eragon that damb fire breathing
Menace of a dragon
fly
swatted with my unsheathed sword
I will Purge its bowels
and sanctify my words in iridescent glass ink
I'll shoot Stupid Cupid out of the sky with a sharp pointed arrow ball point pen
Take out the Man in the Moon
Eat a slice of humble pie
my favorite...can taste it now actually
when I left  in such a huff
Cut my hands off to spite my face
How am I ever going to write poetry now
and...
Climb those Church walls that look like a castle...making a rope from crumpled paper
Maybe I can ask you to dance
I'm good at all kinds though a country waltz sure sounds dandy
yup...my cowboy boots and tight fittin jeans Conway

or hang out somewhere in the great big city
make it BIG like Tom
Or carry out a Mission Impossible
we could end up back together
Stranger things have happened

I might have an apoplexy and end up in The Nut House
Should I commit Harry Carey and end up in prison
You want to hear truth
I'll tell you some truth
I don't know if you can handle this truth or not
I'll tell you it in perfect comedic timing,
in my dictation, in my phrasing ,
puddling of lines
and cleverly sounding rhyming
ya I'm a poet sure I am
I can chew on a few magic mushrooms smoke some *****
raise our social consciousness if it helps
Find a little more of my madness because  my madness
maybe even my sadness
helps
to see the world a little more beautifully
look a little more than the guy looking at his feet as he walks down the street
I'll skip a rock across the ocean in rippling wonder with just flick of my pen
paint the mountains with such a crisp contrast they look like paper cutouts
and the clouds
alright... looks like Zeus is up there with his arms folded in anger
dark grey outlines his feet
thunder rolls from his belly
stomping around, crashing lighting
on tips the of billowing bright white golden fleeced
gauze drenched clouds
like the back of a newborn lamb
Oh..
Don't you want to touch it

I might jump Johnny's pirate ship across the sky in the blackened
night navigating through the Stars
laughing menacingly
at the starlit tears guiding us
and at the ghostly fleets chasing
I will be the one looking back at you
in the mirror and show you what you  need to see
do I have the power of discernment?
No...just a poet
I guess I'm a poet after all
so send me your Peter Pan and Tinker Bell dreams
I'll dance with the little teapot and dip the Little Spoon
in the river  
with Aesop playing bagpipes to catch us some dinner
shoot straight at a carnival game
knock them all down
expert shot.
First try
next?

I knew you'd Miss Me When I'm Gone
It's part of the poetic curse
my poetic curse
I'm just a poet

though my words will always be here for you to read.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

“Everything crackles when I walk, dear,”

she said as she stood to go.

The teapot was whistling

And the TV blared loud

Because his hearing aid was turned down to ‘low.’



These splendid old bean eaters



These God loving fools

Live out their days alone.

She can barely see right

And her hands can’t much hold

The hair brush of hers

he plated with gold.



She’s hardly annoyed by the ways of this world,

She’s seen it all come and go except—

The caller ID is a plain old mystery—



What happened to telegrams?



This lovely of woman

And her lovely old man

Still live out their days as in old,

He goes to the barber and she to salon

To gussy up pretty for the drug store.



Few worries they have

But tonight without fail,

She’ll screech

“Al! What’s the Jeopardy channel?!”



“WHAT!?”

He’ll yell back as he shuffles her way

From the kitchen where

sleep closed his eyes as he waited “all day”

For that “**** coffee ***

that never made good coffee in anyway.”



Then they’ll eat stale chips

And he’ll start to snore

As she turns the TV up to its max;



Shifting thick, horn rim glasses that she’s had since high school

Untill in the blue TV lights her eyes will glow.

She can see her show is over

as the fuzzy credits roll down

She stands up and everything cracks,

Shuffle…

Shuffle…

Step.



She reaches for him

and covers his feet

with a quilt.

Somewhere in the darkest corners
Of a speck of land
Shadowed on a world map,
There is a girl who still believes in wonder.

She is childlike faith vacuum sealed
In pint-sized hope
A revolution craving to be lit up,
A breath of fresh air to anyone who has lived through dirt and pollution,
A livewire of well-kept new ideas.

She is a book.
A good one but a closed one.
A book that sits on the front shelves at bookstores
But nobody dared to read between her lines.

But other than the galaxies of impossibilities she has sketched up in her head,
She is nothing more than short of perfection,
Small
Flawed
Misunderstood
But
Her hopeful whispers needed a microphone.

She believes in the hustle and bustle of success in her little speck of land
Impossible, it may seem
as she IS a speck
in a sliver of land
in a country that is almost always forgotten by anyone who has browsed through a map,
Disregarded by other countries
Abandoned by its own people
But forget the size on a scale of the earth.
Little as she is,
to her, her speck of land is big enough
Big enough to fill with all the love a person is capable of.
Big enough to fill with hands that held each other tight enough to be called unity
Big enough to be filled with more confidence in the country
than pride in personality.
In fact, the word "big" is too little
To describe the way she sees things.

She believes in herself
But she also believes that she is small.
And insanely enough, she believes she can be both
That her individuality for a stand out country
Could not be limited by
A weak immune system
Or the amount of inches she grows in a year
Or the color of her hair.

Yes, when the world gets tough,
And when everything larger
Turns against her
Pressing her into a cage of painful pressure,
She helps herself
By sticking her hand out for the very people who make her weak.
Because courage turns into cowardice
If it is not used to stand up for others.

And though she is small,
That only means she could make her way through
The narrow roads
In a tricky path called life.
Bending when branches of trouble swept above her,
Crouching when the rain poured,
And slipping into deep spaces.

But more importantly,
Overpowering all her beliefs,
She believes in something higher,
In something much stronger than the strength of her imagination,
In something that could turn her plans into a reality,
And the best part of it all is that this "higher force"
Is a He
And He believes in her
Much more than she believes in Him.
She holds her plans for this country in a teapot,
But He is the One who pours it over us
Until this cup, this country, overflows.

She believes this country is ready.
And as for Him, well,
So does He.

But no matter how wondrous she makes the future of this country seem,
We are still everything she didn't say we would be.
So, scavenge your heart for the truth,
Dig around for treasure and hope,
Seek high and low for even the little shards of faith,
Because one day,
We might just find her
In you and in me.

You're small and cute but made to be hot.  filled with warmth, you're a badass teapot.

-for my friend Cara who Is now a teapot in my eyes xD

"You are having a bad day." he said,
looking up from my work i noticed
milky, blue eyes seeping- they were shimmering in the shadows,
of his fluffy spider-legged brows,
and secondary to his stupendous
potato nose. lilies. beep.
my heart may have skipped a beat, wondering if
another patron had taken offense
to a dispassionate expression that wore me more than i, it.
he fumbled with a money clip, already withdrawn. large, arthritic, veiny hands. looked down grappling--with ***** bills, smelling of *******, g-strings and *** sweat. was my mouth open, was i staring? baby pinks and stark white, peppered with
gentle,
fuchsia
explosions.
he tossed down a ten and reached in pockets that seemed too low, contorting into a teapot. short and stout. i heard coins mingling together. a discussion among themselves. hushed metallic whispers, pontificate on
the merits of
coin purse over
pocket travel.
here, reemerged a fist, clenched weakly and shaking, he dropped exact change on the ten,
they hesitated in vibration against the laminate counter, and spun on edge in circles.
"some" he said- my stare averting.
..."some" he repeated, only when i'd managed to meet his eyes with again,through an imagined haze of misunderstanding... sweet scent, shivering orange pistils, raining microscopic yellow dust. stargazers. i shifted the change from the counter to my hand.
"are worse
than others."
i delivered him his change in bills, the familiar clink of coins in my drawer somehow deafening. and i couldn't break my curious stare, he turned sharply, flowers wrapped in pink tinted cellophane, which crinkled in a whimper from his grasp.
he limped away, mud on his heels.
back to the cemetery.

Little high, a little blow.
Rail thin.
Taxidermy.
Image of a scarecrow.

Give me one more dose.
For my health, just a bit to get by,
lips biting teeth,
****** in and strung out,
wide dough-boy eyes.

An infinite list behind her lips,
reasons pour as if she's a teapot tipped out
the half empty cup she sips.

Pinky poised for picking pieces,
these shards of a different kind.
On her skin they gleam like glitter
come to decorate her mind.

I'm a little, little teapot, full of secrets.
I'm a girl, all wet eyed and this morning's
careful ministrations are now my
vengeful war paint - dark eyes
like I haven't slept in days.

Slept till noon in a blue T shirt - it's
so much harder to wake up to an empty bed
even with all my sheets exactly where they belong
Me-*******-ticulous, perfect, all mine, stellar.

I'm a normal girl, a girl, a girl,
a twenty-something brunette who
just doesn't know how to turn off
her ****-off attitude. I'm all flesh
and bone and I just spent 30 minutes
ODing on my own adrenaline,
martyring myself secretly like some
glorified, glamourous ******
trying to stick it to the world that
hasn't done me any favors!
But I don't really believe that.

These days I'm dancing like I fight:
all tight fists and closed, wet eyes.
I'm rage and *** and I'm ****** as ****
and you don't know anything about me.

I'm a girl, a ****** *****, a
twenty-something brunette with
no excuses. I'm sad and I'm angry
and I'm so sick of having absolutely
no reasons why.