The HyperTexts
Michael R. Burch Family Poems
These are family poems written by
Michael R. Burch, an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his
wife Beth, their son Jeremy, and three outrageously spoiled puppies. These are
poems he wrote for members of his family and for friends and other poets who
became like family. Editors, publishers, anthologists and archivists, please
note that this page contains the final, authoritative versions of the poems
included here that do not appear on Mike Burch's main poetry page at The HyperTexts.
I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch
for all my family
and extended family
I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.
I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.
I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.
Beth Harris Burch, the wife of Mike Burch, turned into a work of art by Lauren McCall.
don’t forget ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved
(like your Heart)
and that even Light is bent
by your Gravity.
I have dedicated this poem to the love of my life, but you are welcome to dedicate it
to the love of yours, if you like it. The opening lines were
inspired by a love poem by e. e. cummings.
Jeremy Michael Burch, the son of Michael R. Burch and Elizabeth Harris Burch.
Jeremy Michael Burch on the left, with his uncle William Sykes Harris III.
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.
Here's a "very English" picture of my mother, pushing me in pram down an English
lane.
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!
I think this may have been the family passport picture, made when my sister Debby was a
baby. That's me on the left, Debby in the middle, Sandy on the right, and mom in
the background.
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena
Burch
The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,
his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.
His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.
His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.
Here are pictures of the love of my father's life: his English rose and my
mother, Christine Ena Hurt (Burch), looking very fair, very English, and very beautiful:
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt
Between the prophesies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.
The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,
and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.
What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.
The smiling woman behind my mother is her mother,
Christine Ena Spouse Hurt. The man is
her father, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandparents George Edwin and Christine Ena Hurt
There will be joy in the morning
now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.
For fourteen years,
he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.
Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.
He never lost her;
she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.
Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt
With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.
Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,
nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use—
to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine resplendent glories at their feet.
Thou art the grass;
make them complete.
She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmother, Lillian Lee
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she always grew roses.”
What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes,
fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses—
she always grew roses.”
How does one repent when regret discomposes?
When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes?
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us,
and she always grew roses.”
Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes
its too-patient will as the opened book recloses.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“She always grew roses.”
The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall
because it was in my autumn years that I realized I had written poems for
everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to
repent and correct an old wrong.
Little Sparrow
by Michael R. Burch
for my petite grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang
her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
What did she have? Hardly a thing.
A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring.
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
“Hosanna!” angelic choirs ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
Whence comes this praise, as angels sing
to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting?
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Let others have their stoles and bling.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering
as the harps of beaming angels ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!”
My Touchstone
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr.
A man is known
by the life he lives
and those he leaves,
by each heart touched,
which, left behind,
forever grieves.
Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt
This distance between us
—this vast sea
of remembrance—
is no hindrance,
no enemy.
I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.
I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.
I feel the sea's salt spray—light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.
Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.
Note: Under the Sextant’s Stars is a painting by Bernini.
Our English Rose
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.
This is my translation of a Sappho epigram.
Arisen
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Mother, I love you!
Mother, delightful,
articulate, insightful!
Angels in training,
watching, would hover,
learning to love
from the Master: a Mother.
You learned all there was
for this planet to teach,
then extended your wings
to Love’s ultimate reach ...
And now you have soared
beyond eagles and condors
into distant elevations
only Phoenixes can conquer.
Amen
Here are pictures of my mother and father before their wedding. The boy in the middle picture is mom's younger brother,
my uncle Colin Hurt.
Here are pictures from my parents' wedding in Mattersey, England:
If my parents didn't know what they were getting into with me, they were really
heading into uncharted waters when they had my pesky
sisters! Here I am with Sandra, known as Sandy to everyone but Herself:
Here are we are, hard at play. I believe the third picture is of grandfather
Hurt's vegetable garden in Mattersey, England. He definitely had a green thumb, but I
think his grandchildren were mostly making a mess.
All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are
somehow more near
and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me
wish
that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!
and everywhere above, each hopeful star
gleamed down
and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw
and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . .
Here's my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr., on the left. This picture was taken on the day of his wedding,
July 14, 1956 at the Parish Church in Mattersey, East Retford, Nottingham,
England. Dad looks quite dashing. His best
man, on the right, was Richard A. Allen. According to the marriage
certificate, my future mother was a 20-year-old "spinster"! (My, how times and
the language have changed.) Dad's profession was listed as an airman first
class, and mom's as a "fell-binder." His residence was listed as Sturgate AFB,
hers as her parents' house at 22 Priory Close,
Mattersey. Her father's profession was listed as a railway laborer. There was no mention of her mother in those
chauvinistic times. Robert Wilson was the vicar.
This picture of my father and his best man walking down an English sidewalk on
an overcast, rainy day, depicts something experienced
by thousands of young American men who were enchanted by the English roses they
found, despite the often-dismal weather.
These are my translations of Cherokee poems, proverbs and blessings that I
dedicated to my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr., when he chose to forego dialysis and
enter the final stage of his life ...
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing I
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
I will extract the thorns from your feet.
For yet a little while longer, we will walk life's sunlit paths together.
I will love you like my own brother, my own blood.
When you are disconsolate, I will wipe the tears from your eyes.
And when you are too sad to live, I will put your aching heart to rest.
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing II
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
Happily may you walk
in the paths of the Rainbow.
Oh,
and may it always be beautiful before you,
beautiful behind you,
beautiful below you,
beautiful above you,
and beautiful all around you
where in Perfection beauty is finished.
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing III
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
May Heaven’s warming winds blow gently there,
where you reside,
and may the Great Spirit bless all those you care for,
this side of the farther tide.
And when you go,
whether the journey is fast or slow,
may your moccasins leave many cunning footprints in the snow.
And when you look over your shoulder,
may you always find the Rainbow.
Free Fall
by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to ...
Ultimate Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly ...
My Great-Great Grandmother, Christine Alice Spouse, Actress
Christine Alice Spouse, portrait by Carlo Nieper
In the picture below, Robert Turner Burch is on the left and my grandfather Paul
Ray Burch Sr. is on the right.
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
for 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 weed.
I still can hear his laconic reply ...
“Well, chile, s’m’times them times wus hard.”
In the picture below, left to right, are my grandfather Paul R. Burch Sr.,
William Edward Wilson and Lucille Burch Wilson, my grandfather's sister. The
picture was provided by Bettie Joyce Wilson Childers, the daughter of Lucile
Burch. William was the oldest child in the Wilson family, followed by Bettie,
then their sister Marie.
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
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.
The picture below is of my grandfather riding in a buggy with his father,
the lawyer/judge Jefferson Davis Burch.
My father's father was Paul Ray
Burch Sr. He worked for C. B. Ragland, in Nashville, Tennessee, as a truck
driver.
Paul Burch Sr. is reputed to have once lifted the back end of his truck so that
a tire could be changed, a feat an English relative of the family, Russell
Holland, repeated at the wedding of Sandra Jane Burch. She was named after my
father's sister who died in a tragic accident at age
nine ...
The first Sandra Jane Burch died on March 21, 1955. To avoid confusion with our
living Sandra, I will call her Jane. Recently I came across a folder containing
her schoolwork and certain other of her personal effects. Here's a picture of my
sister, Debby Burch, that I found in Jane's school folder. They look like twins!
Here's a picture of Sandra Jane Burch (Boyte) ...
Here is a picture of our Aunt Jane lying in her casket, surrounded by flowers:
Jane was the
daughter of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch Sr., and his second wife, Darkis Mary
Stepp Burch, also known as Dottie. Here is a picture of Jane's grave in
Nashville's Spring Hill Cemetery:
Here is a picture of Paul Ray Burch Sr. visiting his daughter's grave and
leaving flowers:
Jane was born on December 23, 1945 (a Christmas baby!) and she died on March 21,
1955 at age nine. Her brother Paul Ray
Burch Jr. was born on July 27, 1933 and died on the evening of March 20, 2013
at age 79. So he died just a few hours short of the anniversary of Jane's death.
And when he died, his sister's picture was on the wall at the foot of his bed,
so hers may have been the last face he saw in this world.
At the time of her death, Jane was also survived by her parents, her
other brother, Clint Beavers of Cleveland, Tennessee. She was also survived by
her grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Stepp, also of Cleveland, Tennessee.
Darkis Mary Stepp Burch ("Dottie") on the left, with Chris Burch, on the steps
of the Nashville Parthenon in August, 1957.
The newspaper clippings and photos below were in Jane's school folder,
presumably added by her loved ones after her death.
Here are remembrances from dad's final viewing and funeral:
Before any assumes that Russell Holland got all the muscles in the family,
please allow me to offer the evidence of the "guns" on
"Muscle Beach":
More evidence (and my legs are much more shapely!):
But it seem only fair to note that Russell Holland entered the Guinness Book
of World Records for a feat of strength, as reported by The Retford,
Gainsborough & Worksop Times on Thursday, July 19, 1990, when he tied Geoff
Capses's strongman record in the brick lift, carrying 24 bricks end-to-end, each
weighing three kilos. Yes, but can he write villanelles and sonnets?
Sandra Burch Boyte is the eldest daughter and second-oldest child of Paul Burch
and Christine Burch. She was born on August 17, 1959 in England. She graduated
from Maplewood High School (Nashville) in 1977, and from Tennessee Technological
University in 1981 with a degree in psychology.
Debby Burch White is the daughter of Paul and Christine Burch.
A proud father at the wedding of his youngest daughter, or was he just happy to
be getting rid of her?
Here are pictures of other Burch family members. The first picture below is of
Lillian Lee holding me in May of 1959. The second picture is of Paul Burch Sr.
holding me in May of 1958, when I was a few months old. The third picture, dated
January 1960, is of Eric Lee, Lillian's second husband, whom we called
"Pappy."
The pictures below are of me on the beach with my grandmother, Ena Hurt, and my
Uncle Colin Hurt.
Garrett White, my sister Debby Burch White and Walter White.
Samantha White is the daughter of Debby Burch White and Walter White.
Elizabeth Steed Harris Burch is the wife of Michael Ray Burch and the mother of
Jeremy Michael Burch. She graduated from
Little Rock's Lakeside High School in 1986, and attended the University of
Arkansas (Fayetteville), Belmont College (Nashville) and Middle Tennessee State
University (Murfreesboro), before dropping out to become a full-time mother, her
true calling. She is also an award-winning actress and singer.
Moments
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
There were moments
full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall
of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms
and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.
There are moments
strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!—
when to be without you
is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.
Enigma
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night, or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior.
Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?
Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love, this—our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking.
Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
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.
Paula Hurt Harden is an English first cousin semi-adopted by the Burch clan.
Here is Beth with the newest member of our extended, ever-widening family: Talen
Jace White, the son of Elon Adriel White. Elon has been like a second son to
Beth, and a brother to Jeremy.
Yes, that's an ice pack on Beth's knee in the picture above. Beth is very
accident prone. In fact, I once wrote a short story about her called "The
Hoblitt." Here's
Jeremy with his big brother, Elon White. They look even more alike now that
Jeremy has grown a beard and his hair is longer.
Beth has also decided to adopt Nicole Elizabeth Prince White, also known as
Nikke.
Beth's mother, Susan Elizabeth Johnson, appears in The Razorback, circa
1965. She later changed the spelling of her first name to Suzan.
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.
William Sykes Harris I, affectionately called Paw-Paw, Beth's grandfather on her
father's side:
William Sykes Harris, 89, of Warren, died Tuesday, Jan. 15, 2008, at his home.
The son of V. B. Harris and Luna Sykes Harris, he was born Oct. 17, 1918, in
Bradley County. He received his education in the Warren Public School System. He
attended Arkansas A&M College for two years and was a 1941 graduate of the
University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. He served as a pilot and instructor in
the Eastern Flying Command division of the U.S. Army Corp., stationed at
Moultrie, Ga., until the end of World War II. He worked at Sam Dixon Hardwood
Flooring Co. and Bradley Lumber Co. and founded Wilson Oak Flooring and Sykes
Flooring Co. He served as past president of the American Parquet Association for
17 years. He was past member and president of the Warren Rotary Club, a
recipient of the Bradley County Citizen of the Year Award, a founding member and
past president of the Warren Country Club, a member of the First United
Methodist Church, and past chairman of the administrative board of the church.
He was director of Warren Bank and Trust Co. for 30 years. He served a 10-year
term on the University of Arkansas board of trustees with two years as chairman.
He was named honorary citizen of Fayetteville and presented a key to the city.
He served as director of the University of Arkansas Foundation for 10 years, and
was also a member of the Arkansas Cancer Research Center Board. In 1993, he
received the Distinguished Service Award of the Razorback Foundation. In 1995,
he received the University of Arkansas at Monticello Alumni Award for
Achievement and Merit. He served as a director for the Cotton Bowl Association
for five years, and was awarded the Chancellors Award from University of
Arkansas Medical Center in Little Rock He was preceded in death by his parents;
his wife, Mary Steed Harris; and a son, William Sykes Harris Jr. Survivors
include a daughter, Sally Harris Barnett of Casscoe; a sister, Frances Harris
Hedrick of Warren; five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.
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!
William Sykes Harris III, Beth Harris Burch, William Sykes Harris I, Sally
Barnett (Beth's aunt), and Mike Burch (still the tallest!):
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 able then 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.
William Sykes Harris I (Paw-Paw), with Mike Burch (looking a bit scraggly):
A Star Beyond Eclipse
by Michael R. Burch
for William Sykes Harris the First
Here lies a Man
who forever stands tall
in the eyes of his family
and the world,
and all
the choirs of heaven
now bless his return—
a Star Beyond Eclipse,
forever to burn
at the side of his Father,
the very One
who made him Love’s image.
Now I sing him beyond.
Now heaven afar
draws ever more near,
and the One he loves
with a smile and a tear
of Joy Beyond Measure,
resplendent and sweet,
gathers him up,
her Treasure Complete,
to sip from God’s cup,
to feast at God’s table,
to never know pain,
but only More Joy,
when we see him again.
Amen
Mike Burch reading with Melody, another member of the Burch clan.
Beth looking angelic by our front yard swing, with an American flag in the
background.
Love’s Extreme Unction
by Michael R. Burch
Lines composed during Jeremy’s first Nashville Christian football game
(he played tuba), while I watched Beth watch him.
Within the intimate chapels of her eyes—
devotions, meditations, reverence.
I find in them Love’s very residence
and hearing the ardent rapture of her sighs
I prophesy beatitudes to come,
when Love like hers commands us, “All be One!”
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.
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.
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.
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
bosom;
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?
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch
for my goddaughter, Caitlin Shea Murphy
To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day ...
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."
But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
The Pain of Love
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M.
The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;
the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;
each interstate’s bleak white bar
that vanishes under your car;
every hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;
dear things of immeasurable cost ...
now all irretrievably lost.
The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by Little
Richard, then eighty years old, in an interview with Rolling Stone.
Little Richard said someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” How
could I not obey a living legend? I have always found the departure platforms of
railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines
to be depressing, so they were natural images for my poem. Perhaps someone can
set the lyrics to music and fulfill the Great Commission!
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Moore
1.
Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss—
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here ...
2.
You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back—
one long, descending glide ...
3.
Disgruntledly you grope dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts ...
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts—
this way and that ...
Contentious, shrewd, you scan—
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.
Originally published by Able Muse
Peace Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
for Jim Dunlap
Be calm.
Be still.
Be silent, content.
Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height.
Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms.
Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms.
And be calm.
Be still.
Be silent, content.
The Discovery
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
What use were my arms, before they held you?
What did my lips know of love, before they encountered yours?
I learned I was made for your heart, so true!,
to overwhelm with its tender force.
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.
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch
Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!
Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for him mommies,
one of the SEVEN —
the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.
Amen
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch
for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever
Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.
Amen
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery balls
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Wickett
by Michael R. Burch
Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .
You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed
Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.
Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.
May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold
and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.
Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!
The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch
for Harmony
Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.
Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,
strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move
with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!
*
When autumn came early,
you could not stay.
Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom
and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room
is your resting place.
*
Await by the door
her remembered step,
her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.
Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret
its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,
And when you awaken,
she will be there,
smiling,
at the Rainbow Bridge.
Lady’s Favor: the Noble Ballad of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch
Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?
From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!
When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth
asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother
were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We
rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after
Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a
Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought
it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us
for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a
Scrubbie that it could crawl on like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent
her the message she had requested.
Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.
Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.
And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.
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.”
Melting
by
Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Entirely, as spring consumes the snow,
the thought of you consumes me: I am found
in rivulets, dissolved to what I know
of former winters’ passions. Underground,
perhaps one slender icicle remains
of what I was before, in some dark cave—
a stalactite, long calcified, now drains
to sodden pools, whose milky liquid laves
the colder rock, thus washing something clean
that never saw the light, that never knew
the crust could break above, that light could stream:
so luminous, so bright, so beautiful ...
I lie revealed, and so I stand transformed,
and all because you smiled on me, and warmed.
My English uncle, my mother's brother, George Edwin Hurt Jr., was born on
February 27, 1931 and died on November 24, 2012.
Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch
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!"
NOTE: “Sanctuary at Dawn” appeared in my Just a Dream manuscript, so it
was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. While
1976 is an educated guess, it was definitely written sometime between 1974 and
1978. At that time thirty seemed “old” to me and I used that age more than once
to project my future adult self. For instance, in the poem “You.”
Love is her Belief and her Commandment
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love is her belief and her commandment;
in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love;
and Love is her desire and her purpose;
and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love.
There is a tomb in Palestine: for others
the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones),
but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel
where Love was resurrected, where one comes
in wondering awe to dream of resurrection
to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all
with tenderness, with infinite affection.
While some may mock her faith, still others wonder
because they see the rare state of her soul,
and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens
illume more brightly, as if saints concur
who keep a constant vigil over her.
And once she prayed beside a dying woman:
the heavens opened and the angels came
in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones,
to comfort and encourage. I believe
not in her God, but always in her Love.
Your Gift
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Counsel, console.
This is your gift.
Calm, kiss and encourage.
Tenderly lift
each world-wounded heart
from its fatal dart.
Mend every rift.
Bid pain, “Depart!”
Save every sorrow
for your own untaught heart.
The One and Only
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
If anyone ever loved me,
It was you.
If anyone ever cared
beyond mere things declared;
if anyone ever knew ...
My darling, it was you.
If anyone ever touched
my beating heart as it flew,
it was you,
and only you.
She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.
She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.
She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.
She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.
She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.
Love!—awaken, awaken
to see what you’ve taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her breasts
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund . . .
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Are You the Thief
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
When I touch you now,
O sweet lover,
full of fire,
melting like ice
in my embrace,
when I part the delicate white lace,
baring pale flesh,
and your face
is so close
that I breathe your breath
and your hair surrounds me like a wreath . . .
tell me now,
O sweet, sweet lover,
in good faith:
are you the thief
who has stolen my heart?
She Spoke
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Let Me Give Her Diamonds
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Let me give her diamonds
for my heart’s
sharp edges.
Let me give her roses
for my soul’s
thorn.
Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.
Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.
Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.
Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.
Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require
the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.
Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame,
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . .
Once when her breasts were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . .
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . .
Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed—
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
At Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.
And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence ...
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,
and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.
She is brighter than dawn
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
There’s a light about her
like the moon through a mist:
a bright incandescence
with which she is blessed
and my heart to her light
like the tide now is pulled ...
she is fair, O, and bright
like the moon silver-veiled.
There’s a fire within her
like the sun’s leaping forth
to lap up the darkness
of night from earth’s hearth
and my eyes to her flame
like twin moths now are drawn
till my heart is consumed.
She is brighter than dawn.
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 his neighbor’s yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty “THWACK!”
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
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 dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening,
. . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Precipice
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
They will teach you to scoff at love
from the highest, windiest precipice of reason.
Do not believe them.
There is no place safe for you to fall
save into the arms of love.
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 sucks!
Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch
for 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. Fortunately my father was later stationed at an Air Force base in
Germany and we were able to spend four entire summer vacations with my
grandparents. I was also able to visit them in England several times as an
adult. But the years of separation were very difficult for me and I came to
detest things that separated me from my family and friends: the departure
platforms of train stations, airport runways, even the white dividing lines on
lonely highways and interstates as they disappeared behind my car. My idea of
heaven became a place where we are never again separated from our loved ones.
And that puts hell here on earth.
Men
by Michael R. Burch
for William Sykes Harris the First
There are men who create great nations—
one piece of lumber, one cement block, one immaculate vision
at a time . . .
There are men who carve their image into eternity's limestone,
out of belief, out of imagination,
into the legacy of children,
hamlets, villages, towns, great sprawling cities, fertile states
which revere their step,
which echo their voices,
which remember their stand against insanity and terror
and never forget their sacrifice,
their statutes, or their guidance . . .
So that, no matter the season, or if ever the winds shift or change,
still the eternal mountains will whisper, "These were men."
As the valleys below solemnly echo, "Amen."
Life’s a Ballet
by Michael R. Burch
for Sykes and Mary Harris
Life’s a ballet.
The dancers are those
who gaily sashay
to hold each other close.
Where, in an embrace,
each is lifted, in turn.
Though they stand in place,
together they learn
the movement of hearts
enjoined by life,
and rejoice in their parts
as man and wife.
For love is the act
that never ends
and heaven itself
forever transcends.
Sixty Years, for Sykes and Mary Harris
by Michael R. Burch
“By their fruits ye shall know them”
For sixty years, their love grew like the elm
beneath which children flourish in warm shade.
Like saplings that grow early when the sun
is not too fierce, two children rightly made,
conceived in love, grew straight, and tall, and strong.
And the sun smiled down, that love could last that long.
For sixty years, they watched the world unfold
beneath their outstretched limbs that kept the rain
from sweeping shoots away before they held.
Five saplings more grew, of the same fine grain.
Their world was full of larks’ and linnets’ songs.
And love smiled down, that love could last that long.
For sixty years, they held, and held secure
the ground beneath them, till new growth took root.
Their work was never done; no sinecure
awaited them, but blessings at the foot
of God Himself: five seedlings (wee, but strong!).
And God smiled down, that love could last that long.
I see a forest now—the coming years’—
with limbs entwined, the trunks straight, each to each.
The stamp and grain of love and faith and tears
has made them one. Now nothing dark can breach
their strength, and yet their leaves are bright with sun!
And God smiles down, beside him his own Son.
On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus
Cassidy
Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.
Amen
Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus
Cassidy
With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed ...
My, that last step’s a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!
Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.
The Master Gardener
by Michael R. Burch
for Rex Crawford and Paula
His hands coarse with earth,
his back bowed, but strong,
he helped the young, tender shoots along
till they also grew strong.
If weathered by storms,
if grizzled by time,
if beset by wild floods
in a volatile clime,
still, our hero retained
a boy’s wonder at nature:
for its frailest flower
and most heavenly creature.
Like Adam, he gardened
till out of the wild
he created bright Edens.
Soon the Angels, beguiled,
observing a Rose
slight, delicate and rare
blossoming in Heaven
that wanted special care
declared in One Voice,
“We need Rexy here!”
So the Master Caretaker
sent out a decree:
“We need the very best:
send Nature’s Artist to Me!”
Now the Rose is restored
(this, all the faithful believe)
and a new Master Gardener
awaits his sweet Eve.
Amen
Benji and Miss Beth
by Michael R. Burch
Benji and Miss Beth
have found the source of Love:
It begins with opening the heart,
like the sun, when it blossoms above;
and then there are opening arms
like the sweetest flowers’ petals;
’cause Love gives the greatest hugs
and never with thorns or nettles!
Yes, I’ve heard it’s true that the Angels
are watching and learning above
since Benji and Miss Beth
have found the source of Love!
In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch
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 raging 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.
This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic
kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy.
Lines for My Ascension
by Michael R. Burch
I.
If I should die,
there will come a Doom,
and the sky will darken
to the deepest Gloom.
But if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
II.
If I should die,
let no mortal say,
“Here was a man,
with feet of clay,
or a timid sparrow
God’s hand let fall.”
But watch the sky darken
to an eerie pall
and know that my Spirit,
unvanquished, broods,
and scoffs at quaint churchyards
littered with roods.
And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
III.
If I should die,
let no man adore
his incompetent Maker:
Zeus, Yahweh, or Thor.
Think of Me as One
who never died—
the unvanquished Immortal
with the unriven side.
And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
IV.
And if I should “die,”
though the clouds grow dark
as fierce lightnings rend
this bleak asteroid, stark ...
If you look above,
you will see a bright Sign—
the sun with the moon
in its arms, Divine.
So divine, if you can,
my bright meaning, and know—
my Spirit is mine.
I will go where I go.
And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
Michael R. Burch Related Pages:
Children's Poems,
Doggerel,
Early Poems,
Epigrams and Quotes,
Epitaphs,
Free Verse,
Haiku,
Limericks,
Love Poems,
Nature and Animal Poems,
Rejection Slips,
Romantic Poems,
Song Lyrics,
Sonnets,
Time and Death,
Villanelles
The HyperTexts