Children's Poem VIII

Children's Poems VII These are poems for children and poems about children and their mothers, fathers, grandmother, grandfathers and extended families. Sailing to My Grandfather, for George Hurt by Michael R. Burch 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. Reflex by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy 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. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. —Michael R. Burch The Watch by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy I have come to watch my young son, his blonde ringlets damp with sleep... and what I know is that he loves me beyond all earthly understanding, that his life is like clay in my unskilled hands. And I marvel this bright ore does not keep— unrestricted in form, more content than shape, but seeking a form to become, to express something of itself to this wilderness of eyes watching and waiting. What do I know of his wonder, his awe? To his future I will matter less and less, but in this moment, as he is my world, I am his, and I stand, not understanding, but knowing— in this vast pageant of stars, he is more than unique. There will never be another moment like this. Studiously quiet, I stroke his fine hair which will darken and coarsen and straighten with time. He is all I bequeath of myself to this earth. His fingers curl around mine in his sleep... I leave him to dreams—calm, untroubled and deep.