Juvenilia: Early Poems Vi

Juvenilia: Early Poems VI An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion... I wrote this dream-poem around age 16. Having Touched You by Michael R. Burch What I have lost is not less than what I have gained. And for each moment passed like the sun to the west, another remained, suspended in memory like a flower in crystal so that eternity is but an hour, and fall is no longer a season but a state of mind. I have no reason to wait; the wind does not pause for remembrance or regret because there is only fate and chance. And so then, forget . . . Forget we were utterly happy a day. That day was my lifetime. Before that day I was empty and the sky was grey. You were the sunshine: the sunshine that gave me life. I took root and I grew. Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife, and yet I can bear it, having touched you. This is an early poem I wrote as a teenager after watching "The Boy in the Bubble": a made-for-TV movie, circa 1976, starring John Travolta. All My Children by Michael R. Burch It is May now, gentle May, and the sun shines pleasantly upon the blousy flowers of this backyard cemet'ry, upon my children as they sleep. Oh, there is Hank in the daisies now, with a mound of earth for a pillow; his face as hard as his monument, but his voice as soft as the wind through the willows. And there is Meg beside the spring that sings her endless sleep. Though it’s often said of stiller waters, sometimes quicksilver streams run deep. And there is Frankie, little Frankie, tucked in safe at last, a child who weakened and died too soon, but whose heart was always steadfast. And there is Mary by the bushes where she hid so well, her face as dark as their berries, yet her eyes far darker still. And Andy...there is Andy, sleeping in the clover, a child who never saw the sun so soon his life was over. And Em'ly, oh my Em'ly... the prettiest of all... now she's put aside her dreams of lovers dark and tall for dreams dreamed not at all. It is May now, merry May and the sun shines pleasantly upon these ardent gardens, on the graves of all my children... But they never did depart; they still live within my heart. I believe I wrote this poem around age 15-16. INCOMPLETE POEMS Son by Michael R. Burch An island is bathed in blues and greens as a weary sun settles to rest, and the memories singing through the back of my mind lull me to sleep as the tide flows in. Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, my heart and my home will be till I die, but where you are is where my thoughts go when the tide is high. [the father laments abandoning his son] Son, there where the skylarks sing to the sun as the rain sprinkles lightly around, understand if you can the mind of a man whose conscience so long ago drowned. I wrote this poem in my teens and it is fictitious, since I wasn’t a father and had never lived on an island smaller than England. She bathes in silver ~~~~ afloat ~~~~ on her reflections —Michael R. Burch I liked the line “She bathes in silver” but didn’t have anything to follow it up with, so I eventually opted for a short haiku-like poem, which I rather fancy now. Gone by Michael R. Burch Tonight, it is dark and the stars do not shine. A man who is gone was a good friend of mine. We were friends. And the sky was the strangest shade of orange on gold when I awoke to find him gone ... This is one of my very earliest poems, one that was lost when I destroyed all the poems I had written in a fit of frustration and despair around age 14-15. Excerpt from "Jessamyn's Song" by Michael R. Burch By the window ledge where the candle begs the night for light to live, the deepening darkness gives the heart good cause to shudder. For there are curly, tousled heads that know one use for bed and not any other. "Goodnight father." "Goodnight mother." "Goodnight sister." "Goodnight brother." "Tomorrow new adventures we surely shall discover!" "Jessamyn's Song" was a long poem I wrote in my early teens. Styx by Michael R. Burch Black waters, deep and dark and still... all men have passed this way, or will. "Styx" is a longer poem written in my teens that I pruned to an epigram. Dust (I) by Michael R. Burch God, keep them safe until I join them, as I will. God, guard their tender dust until I meet them, as I must. This was at one time the closing stanza of “All My Children,” written around age 15. Dust (II) by Michael R. Burch We are dust and to dust we must return... but why, then, life’s hopeless sojourn? Dust (III) by Michael R. Burch Flame within flame, we burned and burned relentlessly till there was nothing left to be consumed. Only ash remained, the smoke plumed like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we were left with only a name ever common between us. We had thought to love “eternally,” but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned, the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned, and our communal thought was: flee, flee, flee the choking dust. Sarjann by Michael R. Burch What did I ever do to make you hate me so? I was only nine years old, lonely and afraid, a small stranger in a large land. Why did you abuse me and taunt me? Even now, so many years later, the question still haunts me: what did I ever do? Why did you despise me and reject me, pushing and shoving me around when there was no one to protect me? Why did you draw a line in the bone-dry autumn dust, daring me to cross it? Did you want to see me cry? Well, if you did, you did. ...oh, leave me alone, for the sky opens wide in a land of no rain, and who are you to bring me such pain?... I believe this poem was written around age 16, but could have been written earlier. There was more to the poem, but I decided to shorten it.