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R.I.P. by Michael R. Burch When I am lain to rest and my soul is no longer intact, but dissolving, like a sunset diminishing to the west... and when at last before His throne my past is put to test and the demons and the Beast await to feast on any morsel downward cast, and the vapors of impermanence cling, smelling of damask... then let me go, and do not weep if I am left to sleep, to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps, only a little longer and more deep. Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Chained Muse. This is an early poem from my "Romantic Period" that was probably written in my late teens. Keywords/Tags: death, funeral, grave, eternity, eternal rest, sunset, west, demons, beast, judgement, sleep, dream, dreams, nightfall, night, throne, vapor, vapors, impermanence Ebb Tide by Michael R. Burch Massive, gray, these leaden waves bear their unchanging burden— the sameness of each day to day while the wind seems to struggle to say something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand. Now collapsing dull waves drain away from the unenticing land; shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray— whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror. Sizzling lightning impresses its brand. Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand. Originally published by Southwest Review Geode, a Resemblance by Michael R. Burch Take this geode with its rough exterior— crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ... a diode of amethyst—wild, electric; its sequined cavity—parted, revealing. Find in its fire all brittle passion, each jagged shard relentlessly aching. Each spire inward—a fission startled; in its shattered entrails—fractured light, the heart ice breaking. Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition Geode by Michael R. Burch Love—less than eternal, not quite true— is still the best emotion man can muster. Through folds of peeling rind—rough, scarred, crude-skinned— she shines, all limpid brightness, coolly pale. Crude-skinned though she may seem, still, brilliant-hearted, in her uneven fissures, glistening, glows that pale rose: like a flame, yet strangely brittle; dew-lustrous pearl streaks gaping mossback shell. And yet, despite the raggedness of her luster, as she hints and shimmers, touching those who see, she is not without her uses or her meanings; in all her avid gleamings, Love bestows the rare spark of her beauty to her bearer, till nothing flung to earth seems half so fair. Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, Poetry Webring, Poetry Life & Times and The Eclectic Muse hymn to Apollo by Michael R. Burch something of sunshine attracted my i as it lazed on the afternoon sky, golden, splashed on the easel of god . . . what, i thought, could this airy stuff be, to, phantomlike, flit through tall trees on fall days, such as these? and the breeze whispered a dirge to the vanishing light; enchoired with the evening, it sang; its voice enchantedly rang chanting “Night!” . . . till all the bright light retired, expired. This poem appeared in my high school literary journal; I believe I was around 16 when I wrote it. Second Sight by Michael R. Burch I never touched you— that was my mistake. Deep within, I still feel the ache. Can an unformed thing eternally break? Now, from a great distance, I see you again not as you are now, but as you were then— eternally present and Sovereign. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. White in the Shadows by Michael R. Burch White in the shadows I see your face, unbidden. Go, tell Love it is commonplace; tell Regret it is not so rare. Our love is not here though you smile, full of sedulous grace. Lost in darkness, I fear the past is our resting place. Something for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba by Michael R. Burch Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which finality swept into a corner, where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. This is the first poem I wrote which didn’t rhyme, and the only one for quite some time. I consider one of the best of my early poems; it was written in my late teens. Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good, half the Bible is libel. This may be the first poem I wrote. I read the Bible from cover to cover at age 11, and it was a traumatic experience. But I can’t remember if I wrote the epigram then, or came up with it later. In any case, it was probably written between age 11 and 13, or thereabouts. Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell? Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell. —Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus Grasses wilt: the braking locomotive grinds to a halt —Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch "Here and Hereafter" aka "Saving Graces" by Michael R. Burch Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ... wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter. I have dedicated the epigram above to the so-called Religious Right and Moral Majority. Keywords/Tags: death, grave, epitaph, funeral, mortality, RIP, eternity, eternal