Birthday Poem to Myself
Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch
LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men—
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger’s cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright—
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope’s long-departed star!
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch
You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened...
You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching...
You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted...
Time Out
by Michael R. Burch
Time is running out,
no doubt.
Time is running out.
I don’t know what the LORD’s about,
since Time is running out, the Lout!,
and leaving me with gas and gout.
I don’t know what the LORD’s about;
still, it does no good to grouse or pout,
since Time is merely running out,
like quail before a native scout.
’Twill do no good to shout or flout:
Time’s running out,
I have no doubt,
though who knows what the LORD’s about?
No need for faith or even doubt,
since Time is merely running out,
like water from a rusty spout
or mucous from a leaky snout.
Yes, Time is merely running out,
and yet I feel inclined to pout
and truth be told, sometimes to doubt
just what the hell the LORD’s about.
Pointed Art
by Michael R. Burch
The point of art is that
there is no point.
(A grinning, quick-dissolving cat
from Cheshire
must have told you that.)
The point of art is this—
the hiss
of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss,
is bliss
compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss.
Keywords/Tags: birthday, star, light, life, death, bitter, sweet, rain, darkness, love, fire, art
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