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Juvenilia: Early Poems VII

Juvenilia: Early Poems VII These are early poems I wrote as a boy and as a teenager. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens. Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees, lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky. Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say goodbye. This poem dates to around age 14 or 15. hey pete by Michael R. Burch for Pete Rose hey pete, it's baseball season and the sun ascends the sky, encouraging a schoolboy's dreams of winter whizzing by; go out, go out and catch it, put it in a jar, set it on a shelf and then you'll be a Superstar. Huntress by Michael R. Burch after Baudelaire Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain. Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane. Rain falls upon your path, and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—"On!" Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch When she was a child in a dark forest of fear, imagination cast its strange light into secret places, scattering traces of illumination so bright, years later, they might suddenly reappear, their light undefiled. When she was young, the shafted light of her dreams shone on her uplifted face as she prayed; though she strayed into a night fallen like mildewed lace shrouding the forest of screams, her faith led her home. Now she is old and the light that was flame is a slow-dying ember . . . What she felt then she would explain; she would if she could only remember that forest of shame, faith beaten like gold. I wrote this poem in my teens. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our husks into some raging ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze: blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. In the Whispering Night (II) for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky, and the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our husks into some savage ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze, blown high, upward yearning, twin spirits returning to the world of resplendence from which we were seized. In the whispering night, when the mockingbird calls while denuded vines barely cling to stone walls, as the red-rocked rivers rush on to the sea, like a bright Goddess calling a meteor falling may flare like desire through skeletal trees. If you look to the east, you will see a reminder of days that broke warmer and nights that fell kinder; but you and I were not meant for this life, a life of illusions and painful delusions: a life without meaning—unless it is life. So turn from the east and look to the west, to the stars—argent fire ablaze at God's breast— but there you'll find nothing but dreams of lost days: days lost forever, departed, and never, oh never, oh never shall they be regained. So turn from those heavens—night’s pale host of stars— to these scarred pitted mountains, these wild grotesque tors which—looming in darkness—obscure lustrous seas. We are men, we must sing till enchanted vales ring; we are men; though we wither, our spirits soar free. Love Unfolded Like a Flower by Michael R. Burch for Christy Love unfolded like a flower; Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky. I came to know you and to trust you in moments lost to springtime slipping by. Then love burst outward, leaping skyward, and untamed blossoms danced against the wind. All I wanted was to hold you; though passion tempted once, we never sinned. Now love's gay petals fade and wither, and winter beckons, whispering a lie. We were friends, but friendships end . . . yes, friendships end and even roses die. Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenilia, child, childhood, boy, boyhood, teen, teenage, teenager, student, 10th grade, high school, college

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021




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