Birthday Poem to Myself

Birthday Poem to Myself by Michael R. Burch LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence, Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous, but come! Come live among us; come dwell again, happy child among men— men rejoicing to have known you in the familiar manger’s cool sweet light scent of unburdened hay. Teach us again to be light that way, with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above. Be to us again that sweet birth of Love in the only way men can truly understand. Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve, but remember the child you were; believe in the child I was, alike to you in innocence a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense. Let us be little children again, magical in your sight. Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright— just to know you, as you truly were, and are? Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope’s long-departed star! You Never Listened by Michael R. Burch You never listened, though each night the rain wove its patterns again and trembled and glistened... You were not watching, though each night the stars shone, brightening the tears in her eyes palely fetching... You paid love no notice, though she lay in my arms as the stars rose in swarms like a legion of poets, as the lightning recited its opus before us, and the hills boomed the chorus, all strangely delighted... Time Out by Michael R. Burch Time is running out, no doubt. Time is running out. I don’t know what the LORD’s about, since Time is running out, the Lout!, and leaving me with gas and gout. I don’t know what the LORD’s about; still, it does no good to grouse or pout, since Time is merely running out, like quail before a native scout. ’Twill do no good to shout or flout: Time’s running out, I have no doubt, though who knows what the LORD’s about? No need for faith or even doubt, since Time is merely running out, like water from a rusty spout or mucous from a leaky snout. Yes, Time is merely running out, and yet I feel inclined to pout and truth be told, sometimes to doubt just what the hell the LORD’s about. Pointed Art by Michael R. Burch The point of art is that there is no point. (A grinning, quick-dissolving cat from Cheshire must have told you that.) The point of art is this— the hiss of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss, is bliss compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss. Keywords/Tags: birthday, star, light, life, death, bitter, sweet, rain, darkness, love, fire, art