The Poetry Of.
Michael Todd Burns...................
Norfolk Revisited
I can feel you sometimes gracefully move
so painfully on the edge of my scars
The unwanted wishes waking above
my convoluted heart still held ajar
A long silent hungry stasis that sees
in mysteries- raven black and hollow
I only wanted reciprocity
you wanted only something more shallow
I tried to make you a god, and you tried
to oblige, and both were disappointed
Sometimes the easiest answer is tied
to hearts held still, and by time corrected
I came back because I needed closure
I left again because there is no cure
Knowing My Place
By the fire they share quilts
and from my place I watch them write
She makes words that easily
break any imagined idea
that I could ever write
She's unaware of her grace
and of the angel at her side
scribbling sonnets
in her mother's wake
To the merry-go round with you
dance on sunny porches
and let love ache
or wind blushed cheeks.
Laugh and look tiny poetess
before your brow sweat
steals kisses from the ground
Black Train
In the winter light of an old farm town
Iron Mountain railroad cars infiltrate
the night. Consanguineous cars coupled moan
like giant kings above me on the bridge.
From a gravel bar in the river I
employ an artist's technique and I dream.
I see the black train in my mind and dream
of the mountains, and all of the ocean towns,
and the thousands of people with their eyes
fixed- watching me close while I infiltrate
their closed community's still burning bridges.
"Look at that hobo riding free," they moan.
Roaring like an oak on fire the train moans
like a lonely darkness descending dreams.
Enjoying the prospect of new bridges,
I am the prickly Lucifer of town's
like these. They don't want me to infiltrate
their space. They call me a drunk with their eyes.
"Were it not for the grace of God go I
in his stead," come the whispers and the moans,
and I don't think so. I just infiltrate
futher into their analogous dreams.
Although I don't know them, I like their towns,
with a little wait time may build a bridge.
Who knows what lack of interest guards that bridge?
Who knows? Even a vagabond has eyes
that want. Something like his very own town?
Poverty's ravenous wallet bemoans
all vacuums, especially those in dreams.
What possibilities to infiltrate!
Racing too fast away time infiltrates
that American faith's still unabridged
truth. Lets all work hard so that we can dream
of fleeting bank accounts and with fool's eyes
we can only see gold without the moans
of our empty souls echoing downtown.
The black train pulls away as I reel in my last fish.
My mind infiltrates the dream.
And I moan for my town.
