Long Chariton Poems

The State of the Art (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?

Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has...

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Sonnets XVII-XXIV

Discrimination
by Michael R. Burch

The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
was ripped from books of "verse" that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
of long-forgotten...

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MODERN SONNETS I

I prefer the original definition of the sonnet as a “little song” of indeterminate form and length. These modern sonnets vary from more-or-less traditional to free verse.


Maker, Fakir, Curer
by Michael R. Burch

A poem...

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Sonnets LII-LX

The Endeavors of Lips
by Michael R. Burch

How sweet the endeavors of lips: to speak
of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak
in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak:
for there is...

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When Pigs Fly
by Michael R. Burch

On the Trail of Tears,
my Cherokee brothers,
why hang your heads?
Why shame your mothers?
Laugh wildly instead!
We will soon be dead.

When we lie in our graves,
let the white-eyes take
the woodlands we loved
for...

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A musical throng of 400,000 strong invaded a dairy farm in New York in 1969,
 which set fire to the 70’s; but there was no chance of me being there; 
I was a good girl,...

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My Fourth of July memories are firmly intact.
We always got together with my aunt and uncle.
Which meant our cousins, and we had so much fun.
The day was about picnics, watermelon, carnival, parade.

Fireworks of course; and...

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1959, Chariton, Iowa, sixty miles south of Des Moines
I was prancing around proudly showing off my snow people pin.
Husband and wife, glitzy with glitter, I was so excited.

I wore it to school on my coat....

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1512 Armory Avenue, prettiest house in Chariton, Iowa
Verdant green ferns and red geraniums in blue pots gracing the porch.
Roof jumps would land her on dandelions, possibly violet rosette.
Front door opened onto spectacularly polished walnut staircase

Front...

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A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s:...

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Basil Huckleberry was an unassuming boy.
We called him boy even though he was in his fifties.
He rode a bicycle around offering rides to everybody
Touched is what grandma called him

He had a low mental IQ I...

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If I as allowed to go back in time to do one re-do, 
Limited to one change in my past.
Which one would I choose? 
There are so many mistakes I would like to correct.
Wait! Here...

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Limited to one change in my past.
Tricky idea
There are so many mistakes I would like to correct.
Wait! Here is the one that started me on my life of crime.
The day I yelled NO in a...

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Small town hospital in Chariton, Iowa, USA
1952
Dr. Yocum had a recurring dream every night for weeks
God was telling him that he had to buy an incubator.

In 1952
An incubator cost $100,000!

He finally broke down and bought...

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My favorite junkyard is in Chariton, Iowa.
A rusty old tow truck at the top of the hill
Painted to look exactly like Mater in the Cartoon.

When I approach the junkyard, I do with anticipation
And there he...

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I rushed into my friend’s office once not realizing she had a guest.
She said “This is Dr. Pat McClintock.”
Dr. Pat McClintock said “You are a Stone Twin from Chariton Iowa.”
This shocked me.

I was forty-four at...

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Discrimination
by Michael R. Burch

The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
was ripped from books of "verse" that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
of long-forgotten volumes...

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The Forge
by Michael R. Burch

To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
 
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arms-length, something...

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Loose Knit
by Michael R. Burch 

She blesses the needle,
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.
 
And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits,
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it...

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