She Was Very Pretty

She Was Very Pretty by Michael R. Burch She was very pretty, in the usual way for perhaps a day; and when the boys came out to play, she winked and smiled, then ran away till one unexpectedly caught her. At sixteen, she had a daughter. She was fairly pretty another day in her squalid house, in her pallid way, but the skies ahead loomed drably grey, and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks. She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks. Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set. With streaks of silver scattered in jet, her hair became a solemn iron grey. Her daughter winked, then ran away. She was hardly pretty another day. Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred by liver spots; her heart was scarred; her child was grown; her life was done; she faded away with the setting sun. She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun. Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin; but a light would sometimes steal within to remind old, stoic gentlemen of the rules, and how girls lose to win. Cold Snap Coin Flip by Michael R. Burch Rise and shine, The world is mine! Let’s get ahead! Or ... Back to bed, Old sleepyhead, Dull and supine. Song Cycle by Michael R. Burch Sing us a song of seasons— of April’s and May’s gay greetings; let Winter release her sting. Sing us a song of Spring! Nay, the future is looking glummer. Sing us a song of Summer! Too late, there’s a pall over all; sing us a song of Fall! Desist, since the icicles splinter; sing us a song of Winter! Sing us a song of seasons— of April’s and May’s gay greetings; let Winter release her sting. Sing us a song of Spring! The Unregal Beagle by Michael R. Burch I’d rather see an eagle than a beagle because they’re so damn regal. But when it’s time to wiggle and to giggle, I’d rather embrace an angel than an evil. And when it’s time to share the same small space, I’d much rather have a beagle lick my face! Over(t) Simplification by Michael R. Burch A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful, or comforting, or horrifying. Move the reader, and the world will not reprove the idiosyncrasies of too few lines, too many syllables, or offbeat beats. It only matters that *she* taps her feet or that *he* frowns, or smiles, or grimaces, or sits bemused—a child—as images of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then ... they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen. A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful.