COWPOKE
Sleep, old man ...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.
You cannot know
just how the Change
will sweep the windswept plains
that you so loved ...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now ...
before you see just how
the Change will come.
Sleep, old man ...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sand
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.
DESPERADO
Have you ridden the fences
of plains never-ending
as the wind sighed for lovers
long past, or long gone?
Have you dreamt of a night
with a pale moon ascending,
as Death stole a kiss
from your lips before dawn?
If love is the gold that you seek,
are you fleeing
for fear that its luster
may blind you again?
Oh, desperate lover, I loved you
not knowing
you would flee from my arms
through this cold, driving rain
to wander alone where the stars do not shine
having stolen the brightness from love — yours and mine.
TWELVE-THIRTY
How cold the nights become so quickly;
now a small fire does little to quench
the winter's thirst for warmth.
Sometimes it seems that all my life
has been an endless winter:
the longer it grew, the more of me it demanded...
and time goes slowly when a man's strength
is not enough to meet his needs.
Tonight I feel an old man
creeping into my bones,
willing to die and sleep and never dream,
and I accept him,
not because I wish to lie and live a life of peaceful ease
until I die,
but because I’m too damn weak and weary
to wish it otherwise...
and a man is so very close to the edge
when he lacks the strength to wish.
Long ago, when I was young,
I would run and fall and cry
and not give up.
But now it is twelve-thirty,
the darkest hour of the night,
and I am at the darkest point
that I have ever known in life.
So even as the frigid winds
pass silently across the hills,
I feel my spirit sigh within
and steal into its cell.
No longer does it venture forth
to dare new feats and find its fate,
but it lies asleep throughout the night
and does not awake except to eat
a little more of my life away.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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