Wonderland

Wonderland by Michael R. Burch We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test the beatific anthems of the blessed, the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s sincere religion. Magnified, the lens shot back absurd reflections of each face: a carnival-like mirror. In the space between the silver backing and the glass, we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key. We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung. In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one. NOTE: Joan in the poem is Joan of Arc, who was accused of being a witch, jailed, and eventually executed on trumped-up charges. Alice in Wonderland was always the wrong size for either the door or the key. In the "Wizard of Oz," everyone celebrated the death of the Wicked Witch. Nuclear Winter by Michael R. Burch Out of the ashes a flower emerges and trembling bright sunshine bathes its scorched stem, but how will this flower endure for an hour the rigors of winter eternal and grim without men? Keep Up by Michael R. Burch Keep Up! Daddy, I’m walking as fast as I can; I’ll move much faster when I’m a man . . . Time unwinds as the heart reels, as cares and loss and grief plummet, as faith unfailing ascends the summit and heartache wheels like a leaf in the wind. Like a rickety cart wheel time revolves through the yellow dust, its creakiness revoking trust, its years emblazoned in cold hard steel. Keep Up! Son, I’m walking as fast as I can; take it easy on an old man. The One True Poem by Michael R. Burch Love was not meaningless ... nor your embrace, nor your kiss. And though every god proved a phantom, still you were divine to your last dying atom ... So that when you are gone and, yea, not a word remains of this poem, even so, We were One. The Poem of Poems by Michael R. Burch This is my Poem of Poems, for you. Every word ineluctably true: I love you. Peace Prayer by Michael R. Burch Be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height. Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms. Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms. And be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Ultimate Sunset by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. he now faces the Ultimate Sunset, his body like the leaves that fray as they dry, shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?) till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky, ready to fly ... Free Fall by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. I see the longing for departure gleaming in his still-keen eye, and I understand his desire to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves with nothing left to cling to ... Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons . . . and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway --a man as large as I left-- and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim? "My father!" "My son!" NOTE: “Sanctuary at Dawn” was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. All Things Galore by Michael R. Burch for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr. Grandfather, now in your gray presence you are somehow more near and remind me that, once, upon a star, you taught me wish that ululate soft phrase, that hopeful phrase! and everywhere above, each hopeful star gleamed down and seemed to speak of times before when you clasped my small glad hand in your wise paw and taught me heaven, omen, meteor... Attend Upon Them Still by Michael R. Burch for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt With gentleness and fine and tender will, attend upon them still; thou art the grass. Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass thy subtle undulations, nor depress for long the comforts of thy lovingness, nor let the fuse of time wink out amid the violets. They have their use? to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths, to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet. Thou art the grass; make them complete. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment without the sound of trumpets or a shining light, but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist felt more than seen. I was eighteen, my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist. Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant . . . without words, but with a deeper communion, as clothing first, then inhibitions fell; liquidly our lips met —feverish, wet— forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell, in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . . when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Keywords/Tags: wonderland, blessed, lamb, religion