That’s me with my mother, Christine Ena Burch, taking a stroll around the tiny village of Mattersey, England, where we lived with my English grandparents while my father was stationed at an air force base in Thule, Greenland.
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 have been known to observe that, inexplicably, we have few great poems by the great poets about their mothers. While not claiming to be a great poet myself, I have tried to make up for the shortfall…
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.
”Our English Rose” is my translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram.
Delicacy by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
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.
Dawn by Michael R. Burch
for my wife Beth, her cousin 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.
Love’s Extreme Unction by Michael R. Burch
Lines composed during my son 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!”
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.
Beth Harris Burch, the wife of Mike Burch, turned into a work of art by Lauren McCall.
Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch
for all good mothers
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 unfathomable love will still reach me, underground.
The first picture below is me with my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr., then me playing ball outside my grandparents’ house in Mattersey, England, followed by four pictures “I know not where, but wasn’t I a handsome devil!”
Little did my family know they had a budding Shelley on their hands! My devout parents and grandparents would have been shocked by heresies I composed starting around age 11…
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…
I think this may have been the family passport picture, made when Debby was a baby and we were trying to ship her off to parts unknown…
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.
It is hard to believe those little children are now parents and grandparents, and that the mother who watched over us all our lives is gone ...
Final Lullaby by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully—for now your suffering’s over.
Sleep peacefully—immune to all distress, like pebbles unaware of raging waves.
Sleep peacefully—like fields of fragrant clover unmoved by any motion of the wind.
Sleep peacefully—like clouds untouched by earthquakes.
Sleep peacefully—like stars that never blink and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.
Sleep peacefully—in your eternal vault, immaculate, past perfect, without fault.
Amen
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
Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch
. . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . . She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. . . . requiescat in pace . . . May she rest in peace. . . . amen . . . Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager, around age 16 or 17, and chose to incorporate into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
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.
Golden-Haired Girl by Michael R. Burch
for my sister Debra Leigh Burch White
Golden-haired girl, well met.
Even the stars were enchanted by you.
But sooner or later suns set.
Golden-haired girl, adieu.
Dad's mother, Lillian Christine Lee, had a grocery store that she and her second husband, Eric Lee, owned and operated on Sixth Avenue South in Nashville. According to family lore Grandma Lee had Cherokee blood; she was dark-complexioned and was called Gypsy, after the famous Gypsy Rose Lee. In any case, I have included my translations of Cherokee poems, proverbs and blessings that I dedicated to my father when he chose to forego dialysis and enter the final stage of his life ...
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing I loose translation by Michael R. Burch
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.
Here's dad at age 79, shortly before his death, but still brave, still stoic, still smiling.
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing II loose translation by Michael R. Burch
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
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 ...
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 ...
These are poems I wrote for my English grandparents, George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Christine Ena Hurt, and for my American grandparents Paul Ray Burch Sr. and Lillian Lee…
My grandfather Paul Ray Burch Sr. riding in a buggy with his father, the lawyer/judge Jefferson Davis Burch.
Sunset by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
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.
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
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.
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!” angel 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!”
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.”
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 sweet, transient glories at their feet. Thou art the grass;
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. 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.
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 Sr.
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.
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."
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!
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.
One thing I remember vividly about England is picking blueberries and gooseberries while trying to avoid the omnipresent thorns, brambles and stinging nettles. England is mostly free of dangerous animals, but one must always beware of the overprotective vegetation!
alien by michael r. burch, circa age 19
there are mornings in england when, riddled with light, the Blueberries gleam at us— plump, sweet and fragrant.
but i am so small ... what do i know of the ways of the Daffodils? “beware of the Nettles!”
we go laughing and singing, but somehow, i, ... i know i am lost. i do not belong to this Earth or its Songs.
and yet i am singing ... the sun—so mild; my cheeks are like roses; my skin—so fair.
i spent a long time there before i realized: They have no faces, no bodies, no voices. i was always alone.
and yet i keep singing: the words will come if only i hear.
Published by Setu (India)
I became a serious poet at age 14. How serious? So serious that around age 15, I destroyed everything I had written! One poem that I managed to recreate from memory is what I consider to be my first longish poem of some substance, “Playmates.”
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 cookies were our only lusts!
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 the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day, when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things couldn'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.
Originally published by The Lyric
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher, Anne Meyers, called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley!
Around age 14 or 15, I imagined what it must be like for an aging father to say goodbye to his children, forever…
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.
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.
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.
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!
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 is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks ... they splash and they cheer when he tosses bread near because, you know, eating grass sucks!
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?
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!
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.
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.
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—
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.
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!
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).
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 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.
This post is just bulging with splendid poems about family members. Each poem contains many significant details that bring their lives to life again, and most especially their place in the poet's heart and mind. I particularly like "Sunset" and the manner in which the vivid colours of the late evening sky seem to depict the speaker's rage and anger with life and God at the passing of his beloved grandfather. My guess is that the speaker was only a young teenager when this happened.
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
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,
This post is just bulging with splendid poems about family members. Each poem contains many significant details that bring their lives to life again, and most especially their place in the poet's heart and mind. I particularly like "Sunset" and the manner in which the vivid colours of the late evening sky seem to depict the speaker's rage and anger with life and God at the passing of his beloved grandfather. My guess is that the speaker was only a young teenager when this happened.
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
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.