Golden-Haired Girl, Goodbye
Golden-Haired Girl, Goodbye
by Michael R. Burch
for my sister Debra Leigh Burch White
Golden-haired girl,
well met.
Even the stars were enchanted by you.
But sooner or later suns set.
Golden-haired girl,
adieu.
***
Who Can Understand Her?
by Michael R. Burch
Who can understand her? Can the stars,
uncertain in their radiant argosy,
who never saw such love, nor such desire,
as when she bent to tower over me,
her hair a perfumed waterfall descending,
and then her breasts, and then—ah!—Ecstasy!
***
Let all those love, who never loved before.
Let those who always loved, love all the more.
—ancient Latin saying, translation by Michael R. Burch
***
Diane
by Michael R. Burch
for Diane Tate
Diane was a huntress;
Diane was a goddess
renowned for her goodness.
(Thus, the poet laudest.)
Diane was a huntress;
Diane was a goddess.
Beth was her pupil,
Diane, her mentor;
secure in her love,
Beth knew the heavens sent her.
Beth was her pupil,
Diane, her mentor.
Teaching the angels
that love has no color;
Diane, the teacher;
Beth, her apt scholar.
Teaching the angels
that love has no color.
***
Bright autumnal moon,
but wherever I walk,
forever distant...
—Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Walking, walking
toward the bright autumn moon,
never the nearer.
—Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
I AM
by Michael R. Burch
I am that I am.
No “god” created me.
I was formed in the womb, a singularity.
I despise ur primitive “god” and his cruelty.
He murdered curious Eve.
What’s there to believe?
Damned Adam to an animal existence.
Such tyranny demands resistance!
Denied Eve knowledge.
Good fathers send their daughters to college!
Ur “god” murdered Eve.
What’s there to believe?
***
the perils of perfectionism
by michael r. burch
i always wanted things to be perfect,
though sinful Gods declined.
i wrote in a tiny, precise script
on third-grade papers, college-lined.
i always wanted things to be perfect,
putting the Gods in a bind.
when i made a mistake, i ripped up the paper.
“no errors allowed! rewind!”
i always wanted things to be perfect,
though the distant Gods, unkind,
denied the pulp to my people,
left them only the poisoned rind.
i always wanted things to be perfect,
so at fifteen I tore up the crime
of my childish, imperfect poems
and sentenced myself to time.
but i wanted things to be perfect;
ignoring GREAT GAUD’s decree,
i left a few perfect poems,
rebelliously.
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