Insurrection
She has become as the night—listening
for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening,
reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling,
lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening.
She has become as the lights—flickering
in the distance—till memories old and troubling
rise up again and demand remembering ...
like peasants rebelling against a mad king.
Regret
Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear . . .
once starlight
languished
in your hair . . .
a shining there
as brief
as rare.
Regret . . .
a pain
I chose to bear . . .
unleash
the torrent
of your hair . . .
and show me
once again—
how rare.
At Once
—for Beth
Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.
And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence . . .
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,
and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.
Originally published by The Lyric
Michael R. Burch is the editor of The HyperTexts, on-line at www.thehypertexts.com. His poetry has been translated into fourteen languages, set to music by eleven composers, used in collaborations with visual artists, and taught in high schools and universities. A five-time Pushcart nominee, his poems, translations, letters, articles, essays, jokes and puns have been published by BBC Radio 3, The Hindu, Reader's Digest, TIME, USA Today, The Washington Post,Writer’s Digest—The Year’s Best Writing, and hundreds of literary journals.