Tag: death

Two Poems by Michael R. Burch

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Sunset

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr., on the day he departed this life

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.

“Sunset” first appeared in Contemporary Rhyme.


Man at Sixty

after Donald Justice

Learn to gently close
doors to rooms
you can never reenter.

Rest against the stair rail
as the solid steps
buck and buckle like ships’ decks.

Rediscover in mirrors
your father’s face
once warm with the mystery of lather,
now electrically plucked.




Michael R. Burch‘s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into 19 languages, incorporated into three plays and four operas, and set to music, from swamp blues to classical, 57 times by 31 composers.

“Past Death” by Stephen Kingsnorth

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee
2021 Best of the Net Nominee

I did not know her, here laid out,
a careful combing of the hair
not as I’d known it set before –
forehead laid bare, cleared silver strands;
not of my choosing, frame beside.

But father told he wanted this,
a final farewell to his wife,
though he knew, as did I, full-well,
she long had left; this trolley bare,
enforced that spirit flown the room.

By absence seeping beads drawn down –
the knowledge that we paused alone,
skeletal cage deserted now.
And since, the question posed myself –
should I dissuade through queries raised?

Poor memory’s now fixed in place –
this mask should not replace her face;
some say dread visit reinforced
that shock fires mould of empty clay –
unnecessary proof for me.

For him, for his, I dare not say;
the sixty years entitle him
to linger, lose, yet loose again
the bond and knots that tied them close.
And sons accompany past death.




Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 180 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, including Sparks of Calliope, printed journals and anthologies.

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“Miss Marietta” by Stefanie McCleish

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Miss Marietta sits on her front porch
smoking a cigarette,
talking to her boyfriends–
the matriarch of White Oak Estates.
As she flicks the ash into her water bottle
a makeshift tray,
Blair zooms by on her scooter
hollering, “Hiiiiiiii Miss Marietta!”
Marietta cocks her head back
releases her mystically hoarse laugh
returning the greeting with an effortless and joyful,
“Hi honey!”
Her perfectly placed curls
barely waiver as she smiles
from her throne.

Miss Marietta appears on her stoop
her foot casted and trapped,
her spirit unchanged–
the epitome of resolve
as she details her plan
to heal from the fall.
Blair chases lighting bugs
on the front lawn
appearing inattentive
but yelling, “Get well soon, Miss Marietta!”
Always sitting on the porch,
always the gracious beneficiary
of a little girl’s warmth.
Blair and Marietta,
each a beacon for the other
illuminating what just a little
tenderness
can do for a person.

Miss Marietta doesn’t emerge
onto the vacant porch.
It’s been a few days.
Even five-year-olds notice
these things.
The rumors are swirling
and we hear enough to know
Miss Marietta isn’t well.
Kindergarten Blair has heard about
filling other people’s buckets.
She knows what to do.
An avalanche of art supplies
dumps onto our well-loved kitchen table.
She is determined to fix it all,
relentless hope inside,
with the crooked letters
she is just learning to make.

It doesn’t matter how little we know
about the beautiful stories
or the wondrous adventures
of Miss Marietta’s life.
A person doesn’t need to be
well-known
to be cherished.
Blair taught me that.

Miss Marittea’s spot on the porch
remains empty, unoccupied.
the silence,
deafening
her absence
palpable.
A visual for a conversation about loss
that will soon need to occur.
The house next door searches
for peace and comfort
juxtaposed with ours,
full of cartoon characters, giggly squeals
and storybook dreams.
Blair’s encounters with death are limited
to angels and pets crossing rainbow bridges.
And I’m thinking about how
I don’t know how to even begin
to parent through this,
but each night
she says a prayer for Miss Marietta,
never wavering in her unending support.
Stating, that if she needs
to go,
she will watch over us all
and always be
our great neighbor,
our friend.

Miss Marietta,
the Matriarch of White Oak Estates.
She watches over us all
from her front porch throne.
A beacon for Blair,
a light in the clouds.
A person doesn’t have to be
well-known
to be cherished.
And I just try to remember
what a little tenderness can do for a person,
because Miss Marietta taught me that.




Stefanie McCleish is a high school English and Multimedia Communications teacher in a suburb of Illinois. Although a voracious reader and lover of the humanities, she is new to the poetry scene. She is excited to grow as a poet and show her students that it is never too late to become a writer. The mother of two inquisitive children who keep her on her toes, she lives in Frankfort, Illinois with her supportive husband and dog Archie.