Michael Burch Poet Rhyme

Heir on Fire

Heir on Fire
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be Shelley’s heir,
Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?

I went to work—pale, laden with care:
why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired,
when I wanted to Keats’s heir?

My “verse” seemed neither here nor there.
How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre?
And why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?

The journals laughed at my childish fare. 
Had I bitten off more than eagles dare,
when I wanted to be Byron’s heir?

My words lacked Rimbaud’s savoir faire.
My prospects were looking quite dire!
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?

At fifteen I committed my poems to the fire,
calling each goddess a liar. 
I just wanted to be Shakespeare’s heir. 
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?

***

The Tally
by Hafez
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lovers
don't reveal
all
their Secrets;
under the covers
they
may
count each other's Moles
(that reside
and hide
in the shy regions
by forbidden holes),
then keep the final tally
strictly
from Aunt Sally!

***

I met her in a stormy bay
by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss aka F. F. Teague aka Felicity Teague

I met her in a stormy bay,
amid dark, clashing thunders,
where sailors wallowed
in cold holds,
so many were their blunders.

I welcomed her like dawning light,
a beacon bright, transcending,
then trimmed my sail,
escaped the jail
and found a happier ending.

***

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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