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Pity Clarity
by Michael R. Burch

Pity Clarity,
and, if you should find her,
release her from the tangled webs
of dusty verse that bind her.

And as for Brevity,
once the soul of wit—
she feels the gravity
of ironic chains and massive rhetoric.

And Poetry,
before you may adore her,
must first be freed
from those who for her loveliness would whore her.

Published by Contemporary Rhyme and The Columbus Dispatch

***

The Poem of Poems

for Beth

This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.

***

The Poet
by Michael R. Burch

He walks to the sink,
takes out his teeth,
rubs his gums.
He tries not to think.

In the mirror, on the mantle,
Time—the silver measure—
does not stare or blink,
but in a wrinkle flutters,
in a hand upon the brink
of a second, hovers.

Through a mousehole,
something scuttles
on restless incessant feet.
There is no link

between life and death
or from a fading past
to a more tenuous present
that a word uncovers
in the great wink.

The white foam lathers
at his thin pink
stretched neck
like a tightening noose.
He tries not to think.

***

Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

I have a dream
(pebbles in a sparkling sand)
of wondrous things.
I see children
(variations of the same man)
playing together.
Black and yellow, red and white,
(stone and flesh, a host of colors)
together at last.
I see a time
(each small child another's cousin)
when freedom shall ring.
I hear a song
(sweeter than the sea sings)
of many voices.
I hear a jubilation
(respect and love are the gifts we must bring)
shaking the land.
I have a message,
(sea shells echo, the melody rings)
the message of God.
I have a dream
(all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone)
of many things.
I live in hope
(all children are merely small fragments of One)
that this dream shall come true.
I have a dream . . .
(but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?)
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!

Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
(i can feel it begin)
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
(poets are lovers and dreamers too)

***

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.
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