Olive

Olive
by Gideon Burton

in memory of our first grandchild, Olive Burton,
who came to us, and left us, on March 25, 2012 

The ultrasound technician didn't know
the baby couldn't stay. Her mother, close
to dying, wouldn't last to keep the flow
of growing until safety interposed.
"And that's her arm, and here's her beating heart.
She's healthy, normal, right on track with growth."
We watched my son with tender groaning start
their child-grief, Adam clutching Eve and both
a witness to the miracle, the spike
of seeing such divinity in reach
that in our darkness nothing seems more light,
more fleeting-weighty than a parent's weeks.
     Oh, little Olive, here and gone again;
     we'll dance with you when time at last unbends.

A Drowning

Some friends of ours lost two adult children to drowning not so long ago. I still can't wrap my head around it all. It is haunting.

A Drowning
by Gideon Burton

you wake you gulp slap surface sink you kick
just why the dark the salt the cold the cramps
you bend below cough up the sand the prick
of sickness seizes cloudy pressures clamp
and shake you kick and sink and slap you tire
how long remains how long so far no fight
no shore no more you cramp convulse the mire
of melting mud and muck ascends to bite
your numbing limbs slow treading sink and churn
the froth and seaweed strands that slide and wrap
what's left you choke you heave the throaty burn
and just how you got here what ship what map
you are that distant dimming swimmer tossed
to fetal fatal falling chilling loss

Photo: flickr - andy castro

Encore No More

Encore No More
by Gideon Burton
at the passing of the family dog

Sometimes you lay paws forward, like a sphinx,
the living room your Egypt to command.
The other dog would wait for second drinks;
you were the alpha canine, small, yet grand.
With springing leaps you stripped the trees of birds,
whose siblings chirped in anger at the kill.
Your midnight barking prompted naughty words;
your shedding made our vacuuming a thrill.
You were a runner, worming under fences,
who cost us money at the city pound;
a fugitive who loved repeat offences --
that is, until that auto mowed you down.
     Despite the bites, the barking, and the mess.
     Your liveliness we'll miss, I do confess.

On News of a Child's Death

On News of a Child's Death
by Gideon Burton

For decades now, unraveling the tight,
The winding ball of this our spinning home,
And still I wake with shudders, sweating, fight
To feel, to know, to have it to the bone.
And yet, in sudden thieving, children pass
Unshriven, hardly catching breath from birth.
The purest cries, the cleanest giggles last
But seconds, robbing innocence from earth.
I know of God, I trust in Him, and yet
His summons come too harsh to tiny limbs,
Before the fall in them has even set
They spring to death who leaped with playful grins.
       Forgive me, sons, I hold too tight, too long
       Your cries are joys, your tantrums angels' songs.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Photoholic1

Mourning

Mourning
by Gideon Burton

Severe with clotting time, the hours limp

uneven. The ragged mesh of grief

constricts in webbing layers. Pressures crimp

and bind, directionless and blind. A steep

crevasse engulfs and swallows, rough with black

and icy bouldered walls. A grizzled foam,

pollutants heavy in its vaporing cracks,

pours in its choking mass of poisoned loam.

A time is fixed to our arrival, days

to count as child and spirit meld their breath.

But time unhinges, lost within a maze,

when soul from body's ripped in sudden death.

     The time is out of joint and bent askew,

     its weight outweighed in weighing days too few.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Southside Images

On the Passing of a Friend

Today I was stunned, deeply, to learn of the passing of a friend and fellow professor, Gary Hatch, whom I have known close to 30 years. He was only 46. A pulmonary embolism took his life suddenly last Saturday. It is eerie to me that on that very day I was researching embolisms and other pulmonary problems as I was writing another sonnet. The casual tone of that poem is far from my feelings today. Gary and I shared many interests, and I deeply respected the way he conducted his life with so much enthusiasm, kindness, and interest in the well-being of others. Thank you, Gary. We won't forget.

in memory of Gary Hatch (pictured here with his wife, AnneMarie)

On the Passing of a Friend
by Gideon Burton

We live our lives with confidence that some
are living better. You were one of these
for us, alive to books and language, done
with lesser things, with better things more pleased;
a man of curiosity who shared
enthusiasms freely with us all,
whose even-tempered spirit never flared,
but steadied many far more apt to fall.
Somehow you stayed untouched by all the death
in life, untroubled by uncertainty,
devoting freely hand and heart and breath
to neighbor, colleague, student, family.
     We mourn and wonder, prizing fresh your time,
     while through the skies your gentle spirit climbs.