Summer Holocaust Poems

When is a house, not a house
but a home, a place to call your own 
a box to fill with treasures 
of heart and objets...

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into the wilderness haunted by ghost-towns 
And ancient bloodstains 
and lost history of scars 
we wander the borderlands 
between the weakening dreams 
and cities a...

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I used to be an archaeologist,
and minored in paleontology,
had a job at a college and tenure,
Dr. Bascomb was what students called me.

I specialized much in...

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A reapers machine
hot white harvest 
bone dry land
years have been spent 
driving this reapers machine 
Across desolate lands
Shifting oblivion sands 
Of some mad American empire
Insanity...

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Where Does the Butterfly Go?
by Michael R. Burch

for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones...

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In these vertical eyed times
you've got to move like a cat
atop a shelf of tiffany glass 
can't release your hobbled mind
stay within thinning, spinning lines
stay...

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First person singular prohibited. In order
to be more crow.
War! war! war! war! war! 

Then there's that lowland wetland bird
around the stunted red pines crying
Birdy, birdy,...

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It began as a lovely September, 2001,  at least, it should have been.....
somewhere lost in the crossfire, between summer and fall
days growing short, and...

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Little birds spill onto the gravel
Chirping with disoriented confusion.
A spindly flock warbling
“Mère! Mère!”
Through cracked lips and bony beaks.
Hawks circle indifferently
Unfamiliar with the call
But acquainted with...

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Southern love,  Southern hate 
they are the opposite of each other 
 I have  memories of both in the State I love dearly.

Going...

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