Daredevil
These are poems about daredevils, some of them taking on the daringest feat of all, motherhood.
Love can be a high-wire act, one not for the faint of heart. The photograph above may be may all-time favorite. It inspired the following poem…
Daredevil
by Michael R. Burch
There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were cannon shots’ soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise …
and then … annihilation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were nights our hearts conceived
untruths reborn as sighs.
To dream was our consolation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were acrobatic leaves
that tumbled down to lie
at our feet, bright trepidations.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
There were hearts carved into trees—
tall stakes where you and I
left childhood’s salt libations …
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Where once you scraped your knees;
love later bruised your thighs.
Death numbs all, our sedation.
Daredevil, dry your eyes.
Daredevil (II)
by Michael R. Burch
You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
camouflaged, the whitest dove, as pale ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.
Such a splendid flier, yet so frail, …
you thought to flee the earth and still prevail!
You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
flew high into the fierce December gale’s
diaphanous veils, an angel by earth’s scale ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.
You flew beyond the shivery sleet and hail
until you disappeared. How could you fail?
You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
so high above earth’s lackluster jail,
we thought the clouds themselves became your bail ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.
But who am I to rave and rant and rail
at gods who all agree: frail things must fail.
You hid yourself amid the midday clouds
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.
But the greatest daredevil act of all is motherhood. I am especially in awe of mothers who managed to keep their families together through horrors like the Trail of Tears, the Holocaust, the Palestinian Nakba (now in its 76th year), the United States’ invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, and Russia’s current invasion of Ukraine.
“Sanctuary” by Diane Marsh
Original Haiku
Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness!
A mother’s compassion.
―Michael R. Burch
My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.
―Michael R. Burch
An emu feather
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue!
―Michael R. Burch
The sun warms
a solitary stone.
Let us abandon no one.
―Michael R. Burch
The eagle sees farther
from its greater height—
our mothers’ wisdom
―Michael R. Burch
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere
There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
These are poems about mothers and their children, and poems for mothers and their children and their families…
“Afternoon Nap” by Jan Hargood
POEMS FOR MOTHERS
by Michael R. Burch
In the past I have noted a surprising lack of poems written by great poets for their mothers. And yet mothers love to get poems from their children, so what gives? While not claiming to be a great poet myself, I have at least bucked the trend…
This is a poem I wrote for Mother’s Day. It won a big Valentine’s Day poetry contest sponsored by Penguin Books (UK) and is my most popular poem for mothers on the Internet.
Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and my wife, Elizabeth Harris 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
“A Mother’s Kiss” by Nanette Fluhr
Delicacy
by Michael R. Burch
for all good mothers
Your love is as delicate
as a butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings
to itself, gently murmuring—“Fly! Fly! Fly!”
Your love is the string
soaring kites untie.
The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch
The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.
But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such love
will reach me, underground.
Childless
by Michael R. Burch
How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.
Dawn
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth, Laura and all good mothers
Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.
Amen
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.
Love has a gentle grace
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth on Mother’s Day
Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her
unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes
and seen her faith
—serene, composed and wise—
that you’re the center of her very being
(as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)
Love has no wilder beauty than the thought
that you’re the best of all she ever sought.
(And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song,
can your mother be wrong?)
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.
Heroin or Heroine?
by Michael R. Burch
for mothers battling addiction
serve the Addiction;
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons,
your flesh, their fair feast ...
or rise up, resist
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.
I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.
Frail Envelope of Flesh, from "Poems of the Nakba"
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of 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 ...
The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe." The children of Gaza and their parents know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not "terrorists," so why are they being punished collectively for the "crime" of having been born "wrong"? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such barbarism?
Erin
by Michael R. Burch
All that’s left of Ireland is her hair—
bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children—some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!
How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair ...
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.
All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.
I wrote the following poems from my wife’s perspective for our son Jeremy:
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 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.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, my dear son, how you’re growing up!
You’re taller than me, now I’m looking up!
You’re a long tall drink and I’m half a cup!
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow,
there are so many things that I want you to know.
Most importantly this: that I love you so.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon a tender bud will thrust forth and grow
after the winter’s long virgin snow;
and because there are things that you have to know ...
Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom
and fill all the world with its wild perfume.
And though it’s hard for me, I must give it room.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.
#MOTHER #MOTHERS #MRB-MOTHERS #MRBMOTHERS
I love the pictures you included with this little treasure trove. They add to the sense of a life fully lived in all its joys and wonders and moments of tragedy.
First of all, thank you for this lovely collection. A quick glance at the title "Daredevil" brings so many questions to mind, yet after reading the preface, one understands why it's apt. I enjoyed every poem, especially the set of haiku (I think they stand apart for not only being laconic but also impactful). The longer versions are thoughtful too, especially "Such Tenderness". From what my instincts tell me, I assume Jeremy is your son. Thank you for these.