The Album Poem by Michael Burch

I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane—
and I see how young they were, and how unwise;
and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane,
their blissful flight through alien blue skies...

And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed—
are also wings, but wings that never flew:
like insects' wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed,
their features never changed, remaining two...

And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens
or in shadows where It crept on feral claws
and scratched Its way into their hearts, depends
on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws...

and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise,
who dream, or almost dream, and do not see
how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies,
clutching to Its ruffled breast what must not be.



Final Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

Sleep peacefully—for now your suffering's over.

Sleep peacefully—immune to all distress,
like pebbles unaware of raging waves.

Sleep peacefully—like fields of fragrant clover
unmoved by any motion of the wind.

Sleep peacefully—like clouds untouched by earthquakes.

Sleep peacefully—like stars that never blink
and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.

Sleep peacefully—in your eternal vault,
immaculate, past perfect, without fault.


Keywords/Tags: memorial, album, peace, peaceful