Schoolgirl Poems

Monks

I don't think, I'm a feeler
And I feel heavily for her
A monk grows out his head
And leaves his house,
A patriot would turn for her

I don't speak, I'm a liver
Due to the abstinence 
Of my other parts

The devout preacher
Cuts and pours
His heart onto bathroom sinks
For his house is empty

He, has left his religion
For something more heavenly

The monk grows out his hair for love,
He who is broke in spirit, becomes a believer
Unspoken words flood in open verse,
A schoolgirl becomes a healer.

writing poetry is my mistake

Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to embark on a large cargo ship,
Which will take you to Tahiti or Honolulu,
Better give candy to a blue-eyed schoolgirl,

Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to cook a chicken with lime,
Better to read the confessions of Saint Augustine
Or spend the afternoon at the movies with people,

Sometimes writing poetry is a strange mistake,
Especially never think that we have talent, genius,
Better to visit Lisbon or Patagonia,
Listen to fado with the Big Dipper.





Parfois, écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut embarquer sur un grand cargo,
Qui vous conduira jusqu’à Tahiti ou Honolulu,
Mieux vaut offrir des bonbons à une écolière aux yeux bleus,

Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut cuisiner un poulet au citron vert,
Mieux vaut lire les confessions de Saint Augustin
Ou passer son après-midi au cinéma avec des gens,

Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur bizarre,,
Surtout ne jamais penser que l’on a du talent, du génie,
Mieux vaut visiter Lisbonne ou la Patagonie,
Écouter du fado en compagnie de la Grande Ourse.

Metaphoric Man

I can eat like a pig,

    As well as, drink like a fish.

        I can piss like a racehorse,

            Or even bark like a dog-.

In my youth, I could run like the wind,

    And at times, sting like a bee.

        Yet if I float like a butterfly,

            I might be driving like ol' granny.

Now if I scream like a schoolgirl,

    I might be fearful of an angry God.

        But if I whine like a stubborn mule,

            I could end up on the wrong end of a cattle-prod.

At times, I show the patience of a saint,

    Or being impetuous as a child with new fingerpaint.

        And if I continue this way and act like a child,

            I'll avoid those aging pitfalls, and run in the wild.

A Composition Notebook

Before I had a loose leaf
And no spirals were around,
A composition notebook
Would on classroom desks be found.

With their classic black-white covers
In a marbled-type design,
They were owned by every student
Who would fill in every line.

Now, of course, they’re kind of retro 
And they come in every hue
So the covers have these swirls of white
With red or green or blue.

I’m now writing in a mini-one
Which makes me reminisce 
About my schoolgirl days
When I would print in books like this.

Because In My Mind You'Re a Sunday Drive

Let me be consumed by you
Your song, your soul, your body of work that reads like a road map towards some vague destination
A place in my heart now void of its contempt
This is a long drive for someone who couldn't read traffic signs , smooth sailing under yellow lights into a  city of your grand design
I'm on my way giggling like a lovesick schoolgirl

Schoolgirl Crush

I’m dreadfully angry with Martin
He posted footage of me fartin’
'twas a terrible shock
It’s all over Tik Tok
Guess Martin and I will be partin’

01/29/22

Schoolgirl At the Window

Such a dull life, as permits
One for to dream through!
In budding to be admired
Warmly kissed, desired

Magnolia reflects, wintered
For shut-in worldview
Stilly rapt, what for beauty's
Growing sense does please.

The Prototype

Any schoolgirl in Afghanistan
Makes a target for the Taliban
God gave Eve a brain
But failed to explain
That a brain will backfire in a man!

Head Space

Have you signed the waiver form? 
Safety Induction? Medical? Check… Check… 
Now watch your head on entry…… 
And also watch your step.

Although dimly lit to enter…
Many corridors and levels to explore. 
Like a Willy Wonka experience... 
Not knowing what’s behind the door. 

To the left an Angel, the right a Devil… 
Both dancing to tunes at a compromised level.
Splashes of colour.. blue, black and purple… 
A schoolgirl still learning, sits in a witches circle. 

Up a level, and divulged to allure… 
It's highly X-Rated.. nothing is pure. 
And over there is a beautiful wife… 
Broken by a man that was once in her life. 

Around the corner is the dance floor… 
She’s rocking it loud and wanting more. 
Down the corridor is a mother tending her child…
Always to protect them, a lioness in the wild. 

The corridor leads to a startled crowd… 
Watching her mood swings screaming out loud. 
She’s a worker, a mother, a girlfriend, a hoe… 
She’s a daughter, a sister, a friend and a foe!

Sunflower Schoolgirl

Walking along the path to school
Wondering how others thought of her, 
whether good or ill.

Oh, she wanted to be thought smart in math.
But no~ for her 'twas a blood bath!
Well, perhaps I'll be witty,said she.
Everyone likes a laugh.

Ah, dearest lass!
They did not like her at that.
Bereft on the school steps did
she sit.

And realized suddenly, there was
no need to fit.

She was a bright sunflower gold
and gleaming.
And at a very young age, learned,
It's only your song to be singing.



February 1, 2020
5:45 am PST

The Shrinking Season

The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch 
 
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
 
Originally published by Angle

Keywords/Tags: Time, Year, Years, Weight, Wait, Waiting, Weary, Wearying, Winter, Girl, Schoolgirl, Clothes, Grow, Grows, Outgrows, Outgrowing, Widow, Disappear, Disappears, Disappearing, Age, Aging, Loss, Death

Life Cycles

The mother duck and her ducklings bond tenderly
The mother cat and her kittens purr contentedly
The mother dolphin frolics with her calf ceaselessly---
Instincts axiomatic emerge, so very naturally.

The schoolgirl gives her sandwich to a friend in need
The young boy lends his grandpa a hand so genteely
The donor proudly gives an organ to the amputee---
Altruistic acts of kindness, performed ever so graciously

The newborn babe brings joy and hope to all quite effortlessly
The young adult strikes out on his own undauntedly
The longtime employee retires from his workplace so tearfully---
The Heaven-bound count their blessings as they turn expectantly

To join those who left this Earth before them, proclaiming truthfully
In solemn asseveration: Nearer my God to Thee...

The Inner Workings of a Clock

The Inner Workings of a Clock

My Catholic schoolgirl
Denies my shadowy persona.
Costumed in
A navy blue uniform 
A snow-white blouse,
A chest pocket embroidered
By Saint John Fisher,
Her youthful bearing ticks
Smoothly, quietly, piously.

My Catholic schoolgirl leads
The May Day procession
She crosses herself and genuflects.
Wrapped in rosary beads,
She pushes my golden orb,
Tilted and warped as it is,
Into its preordained trajectory
Toward saintliness.

Starships of jealousy and greed
Some dressed as childish lies
Others as adult deceptions
Pitch me into a blackness
Unnoticed by my angelic clock.
Hands circulate 360 degrees.
Springs unwind.
Inner pendulums
Swing madly.
Simultaneously, I am
Remorseful and gleeful.

Twelve o’clock is
My imagined sanctity of
Honeyed knowledge.
Six o’clock is
My known blasphemy.
I wear my hair shirt with pride.
Tortoiselike, I see only
Darkness or light.

My Catholic 
Schoolgirl’s soul
Refuses to apologize
For my humanity
Nor does she brag.
I am God’s creation,
A jigsaw of sharp-edged pieces.

Rat Trap Rap, Part 1 of 2

I crossed the yard
two-thirds awake,
intent upon 
that coffee break:

young teacher hunk,
one tall, cool stud
(before the Night,
before the Flood,

before the Flight
of all that’s good,
before the Blight
brought down the Wood,

and damned spare tyres
dammed up the Gush),
I waded through
the schoolgirl crush.

Two slinky babes,
real dinky girls,
all legs and lips
and kinky curls

said “Come upstairs,
hang out with us:
we’ve got some ****
we could discuss.”

You think me stupid?
Yes, indeed-o.
They led me upstairs
by the libido.

With limbs so nimble,
movements fleet,
they steered me to
the science suite.

We pushed ajar
the green lab door,
and they weren’t smiling
any more.

They wanted me 
to case the joint.
They’d brought me here
to make a point,

for Tippy Hedren
and Lee Remick
had drawn me in
for pure polemic.

That sterile world
of steel and glass:
that ingrained smell
of Bunsen gas!

You’d keep away 
from high school labs
if you’d seen what
was on those slabs.

My Love

Stunning sunset feeds my soul,
Begins to collapse as night sneaks in.
A shiver dances down my spine
As your warm arms shield from night's chill kiss.

Your laugh rejuvenates my frame
Like the longest, deepest, warm massage
Your wit a challenge to elate
The Sunday crossword I want every night.

I am a schoolgirl once again
Who doodles your name with heart dot i's
Richest chocolate cake, a taste?
But you're trapped by baker's glass for now.

I always thought a fire burns hot
Then slowly dies: warm, cool, then cold.
But forty years and still this moth
Can't fight the attraction of your sensual flame.

If love could heal a broken heart
Your pillow would still have warmth and light.
But instead it catches all my tears
As I await our reunion, my husband, my life.

2/4/2017 140 words

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