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Jeremy Betts Mar 10
I should probably introduce myself
My name is Anyone Else
It'd be old news to state I'm a mess
Even though I do try my best
Well, maybe not every time
But I toe the line
I'm not sure it's the right one
Can't know that 'till my times done
Attempted some revision to the predestined
To storyboard my own end
Frankly, I couldn't manage
My baggages baggage had to much baggage
Overwhelmed seamlessly flipped to defeated
A weak will finally and now fully depleted
Note beforehand, this is beyond making a statement
My name is actually, probably, most likely, irrelevant
Knowing me will only be watching me come and go
That's best case scenario

©2024
022724

I found no butterflies when I’m with you,
But there is peace and silent thumping
As I see the calmness of your face.
And your so, so sweet smile
Radiates from the core of your spirit —
Eradicating every pain my heart has.

I don’t shiver when you hold my hand,
And it no longer bothers me
When you ****** me from my old self.
Neither got no goosebumps when you speak.
But when you lead me to the One I love —
That’s when I know I love you the most.

And when my eyes can’t see you,
When I no longer blink as I count one, two, three.
That’s when I know I’m at the edge of my own cliff
And I’m ready to dive and submit
Where the Spirit ignites my vision —
Bringing me to a great heights of my faith renewed.

I don’t make every second count itself —
But I can simply put the verses of my heart
To the invisible jar of hope and start praying…
And never lean on my own understanding,
Never place myself in the drowning emotions
But to bring praise and melody in such harmony.

I won’t deal this this pace
But I won’t shut my doors too.
When the time comes, I will understand
That the best version of me can lift up another soul.
Maybe when I’ll cross this road again,
There’ll be flowers everywhere.

I hope and pray —
But His will be done! The glory is His!
Àŧùl Jan 31
You missed meeting me on May 7 in 2010,
You're one special memory among my men.

I rang you up before that accident,
And I knew not that I would fall then.

But you were depressed,
I looked to cheer you up addressed.

You were too gloomy,
You refused to accompany me.

I met with that accident,
And the rest is a historical dent.

The education system,
Me and you it did stem.

You found your calling,
Switched to highschool tuting.

I parried forward,
Kept crawling.

Though you gave up on your graduation,
I parried forward,
Yes, I carried my graduation forward.

A Bachelor of Technology degree takes 4 years,
I took 6, but it's fine, it's fine.

I'm proud of myself for not giving up,
When even bright students like you quit.

You kept your parents in the dark,
Never told them your true marks until they found it out by themselves.

Buddy, you could've just told me instead of quitting on it,
I could've made you study and work on yourself.

Look at me,
Just look at me.

I completed my B.Tech Biotechnology degree,
Instead of giving up even when my mother was not sure.

The whole world thought I could not complete my graduation,
But I even went to graduate school and obtained a postgraduate degree.

After I met with that accident, people suggested my parents,
To help set up a small shop for me to support my life beyond them.

But I never gave up,
I never gave up.

I can visualize Death waiting for me by my ICU bedside,
And I can also see it in anguish after getting defeated by my resilience.

Although I failed to obtain a PhD as COVID made me change my plans,
I bounced back in full glory and tasted worldly success.

I cracked not just one competitive recruitment exam,
But I cleared as many as 4 of them.

Now, old friend, I'm happy where you're headed to with your splendid performance at your coaching effort, yes, I respect your decision,
But you used to be smarter than I was at school.

We sang together,
Yes we did.

I played the guitar & sang,
You played the keyboard & sang more melodiously.

Oh, I remember what happened when we covered a popular song,
The Bollywood song is called “To Phir Aao.”

I started playing the riff,
“Tede-dede, Tede-dede,
Tede-dede, Tedede-Tede,”

But then your mobile went off,
“Ting-ding-ding, Tiding-ting,
Ting-ding-ding, Ting-tidingting.”

We had just begun it along my rhythm guitars & Digitech Effects Processor's electronic drums sampler on my Marshal amplifier,
You were prepared to start singing in your melodious voice,
But your phone started to ring as soon as we began.

Still we continued the recording after you rejected the call,
So, brother, did you forget the lesson we both taught ourselves?

Let the world be on fire,
Let it distract you as much as it wants to spend its ire.

I never gave up on my bachelor's degree,
I even went on to get my postgraduate degree,
I could've even achieved a PhD title,
But the COVID19 pandemic made me change my plans.

But bro, why did you forget the lesson so soon?

Anyway, let bygones be bygones.

Now if someone comments that you couldn't complete the graduation you started at a top University,
I tell them that you're happy doing something that pays you well,
You have completed a B.Sc in Math, and an M.Sc too,
Now you are doing your B.Ed,
And you're happily married to a charming woman.
My HP Poem #1959
©Atul Kaushal
Jellyfish Dec 2023
Loneliness is something that I can endure
I don't want you to be my revolving door;
someone I run to for comfort or relief  
When I think of you now I feel worry and ease.

Many different thoughts take a walk across my mind,
You're precious to me and it's hard to hide.
I miss you so much, the term feels overused
When I see friends on the street, I'm reminded of you

We never got to do the things we planned,
So many trips were left in neverland.
It was painful to feel my heart soar with excitement
To be broken constantly through cancelations

I'm trying to understand now,
and leave all these things behind.
It seems my head is stuck in the past,
Pain catches up with me through time

So many unresolved feelings lie within me
Things I wanted to say, hugs I wanted to give
but ignored because of my worries,
how do I let go of these longings?

Revolving doors are for buildings
But I still want to resolve my feelings.
I wish I spent more time doing things with you than just sharing my thoughts.
Jellyfish Nov 2023
Z
With you I was my true self,
Would always chase you around
Never wanted to fall down
But I'd follow you down

The space between you and me
Was always blurry only for me
It seems you never really knew
Just how close I was to you

It was toxic, it was bad
I didn't know it and now I'm sad
Every time I want to talk,
I stop myself and go for a walk

Every thought inside my mind
was yours to hear, I'd never hide
True friends shared everything
Was the message I received

But now everything is twisted
I don't know what was real
And was was scripted
My memories betray the realities
I'll always want the best of things for you and be greatful for the comfort you gave me during the worst parts of my life.
Jellyfish Oct 2023
Thanks to you, I figured out
What true love is all about.
I'll never cry again, the way for you I did.

A string tied you and me,
We were the best of friends and enemies.
We hurt eachother like no other unknowingly.

I've cried a lot in my life,
from laughter and all kinds of strife,
but never the way I've cried because of you.

You've brought meaning to my gaze,
Picked me up and told me it was okay.
I'd cling to you, your words like an embrace.

You've stitched wounds and cut me deep,
I'll always remember the secrets we'd keep, Thanks to you, for all our highs and lows

Because of you I'll always know,
just how far I can go.
The things we learn from relationships
Man Aug 2023
The odd thing
About the constant moving
Of a life grown up on the road

Is the people you meet
Know you will leave
And so you get their best

However brief
Thankful for all of the positive people in my life, and those that have gone
m lang Aug 2023
i’ve been shielding myself endlessly
for an inevitable end— that,
while i knew it was always coming,
eventually,
it doesn’t stop the reality of tomorrow
impaling me, breathless.

on one desperate hand,
i’m begging and wishing
for just one more day.
one more moment before you go.
the other hand holds gratitude.
five years with you was more than i could have ever dreamt.
life went up and down-
and sideways
in every which direction,
but you stood in the middle with me
and we held on to each other.

as the last five years dwindle
through a reel of memories
into our final moments,
i am filled with tears—
pouring from my eyes and from my heart.
love is pouring from my heart.
love for you,
for this lifetime we lived together.

you are my greatest love.
and our love story continues,
even as this chapter is closed.
i wrote this in the early hours of 8/26 and initially wrote tomorrow, and by the time i finished the poem, tomorrow became today- hence the title.
blazingsoul Jul 2023
Come ginger me,
Coz only u feel my pains..
Give me VITAMINS that will take this pains away..
Vitamins like these words dripping from my hypospadias through my finger tips. scribblings have become my vitamins, perseverance my meds,
exercise my up keep, meditation my remedy.
God my stronghold...
Myself .
Michael R Burch Jun 2023
These are my best poems, according to Google. I let Google pick my best poems with the search:

The best poems of Michael R. Burch

The search returns 24 poems but by repeating the search a few times, I managed to come up with 35 poems...



Will There Be Starlight (#1)
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?



I Pray Tonight (#2)
by Michael R. Burch

I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.

I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.



The Harvest of Roses (#3)
by Michael R. Burch

I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.



Because Her Heart Is Tender (#4)
by Michael R. Burch

 for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.



Caveat Spender (#5)
by Michael R. Burch

It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.



Free Fall (#6)
by Michael R. Burch

These cloudless nights, the sky becomes a wheel
where suns revolve around an axle star ...
Look there, and choose. Decide which moon is yours.
Sink Lethe-ward, held only by a heel.

Advantage. Disadvantage. Who can tell?
To see is not to know, but you can feel
the tug sometimes—the gravity, the shell
as lustrous as damp pearl. You sink, you reel

toward some draining revelation. Air—
too thin to grasp, to breathe. Such pressure. Gasp.
The stars invert, electric, everywhere.
And so we fall, down-tumbling through night’s fissure ...

two beings pale, intent to fall forever
around each other—fumbling at love’s tether ...
now separate, now distant, now together.



In Praise of Meter (#7)
by Michael R. Burch

The earth is full of rhythms so precise
the octave of the crystal can produce
a trillion oscillations, yet not lose
a second's beat. The ear needs no device
to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch
drown out the mouth's; the lips can be debauched
by kisses, should the heart put back its watch
and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout.

If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what's been left to chance?
Should poets be more lax—their circumstance
as humble as it is?—or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer?



Moments (#8)
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

There were moments full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.

There are moments strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight—how the cold stars stare!—
when to be without you is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.



Let Me Give Her Diamonds (#9)

for Beth

Let me give her diamonds
for my heart’s
sharp edges.

Let me give her roses
for my soul’s
thorn.

Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.

Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.

Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.

Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.

Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require

the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.



Step Into Starlight (#10)
by Michael R. Burch

Step into starlight,
lovely and wild,
lonely and longing,
a woman, a child . . .

Throw back drawn curtains,
enter the night,
dream of his kiss
as a comet ignites . . .

Then fall to your knees
in a wind-fumbled cloud
and shudder to hear
oak hocks groaning aloud.

Flee down the dark path
to where the snaking vine bends
and withers and writhes
as winter descends . . .

And learn that each season
ends one vanished day,
that each pregnant moon holds
no spent tides in its sway . . .

For, as suns seek horizons—
boys fall, men decline.
As the grape sags with its burden,
remember—the wine!



Wulf and Eadwacer (#11)
(Anonymous, circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different.

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here bloodthirsty men howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different.

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained and I wept,
big, battle-strong arms embraced me.
It felt good, to a point, but the end was loathsome.

Wulf, oh, my Wulf! My desire for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.

Do you hear, Heaven-Watcher? A wolf has borne
our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



A Surfeit of Light (#12)
by Michael R. Burch

There was always a surfeit of light in your presence.
You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world—
a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood.

We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race,
raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s.
Yours was an antique grace—Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s.

We were never quite sure of your silver allure,
of your trillium-and-platinum diadem,
of your utter lack of flatware-like utility.

You told us that night—your wound would not scar.
The black moment passed, then you were no more.
The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star!

The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold.
You were this fool’s gold.



Abide (#13)
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).



Autumn Conundrum (#14)
by Michael R. Burch

It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.



Breakings (#15)
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate such great matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



don’t forget (#16)
by michael r. burch

for Beth

don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved (like your Heart)
and that even Light
is bent by your Gravity.



Enigma (#17)
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth
 
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night, or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior.

Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?

Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love, this—our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking.



Epitaph for a Palestinian Child (#18)
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.




Fahr an' Ice (#19)
by Michael R. Burch

From what I know of death, I'll side with those
who'd like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.



For All That I Remembered (#20)
by Michael R. Burch

For all that I remembered, I forgot
her name, her face, the reason that we loved ...
and yet I hold her close within my thought.
I feel the burnished weight of auburn hair
that fell across her face, the apricot
clean scent of her shampoo, the way she glowed
so palely in the moonlight, angel-wan.

The memory of her gathers like a flood
and bears me to that night, that only night,
when she and I were one, and if I could ...
I'd reach to her this time and, smiling, brush
the hair out of her eyes, and hold intact
each feature, each impression. Love is such
a threadbare sort of magic, it is gone
before we recognize it. I would crush
my lips to hers to hold their memory,
if not more tightly, less elusively.



in-flight convergence (#21)
by Michael R. Burch

serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city                extend
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
                                             they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command

here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one:                from a distance;
                descend,
they abruptly
part              ways,

so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience

and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.



In the Whispering Night (#22)
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some savage ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze ...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.



In this Ordinary Swoon (#23)
by Michael R. Burch

In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.

Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.

I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun

and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.



Leaf Fall (#24)
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron—
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.

And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful—
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.



Once (#25)

for Beth

Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame,
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . .

Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . .

Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . .

Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed—
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.



Ordinary Love (#26)
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.



Piercing the Shell (#27)
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.



Sweet Rose of Virtue (#28)
by William Dunbar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue men hold most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I found flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet nowhere one leaf nor petal of rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair flower and left her downcast;
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



The Divide (#29)
by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
was man born to sorrow that first day
with the moon—a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied—
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
but grew bitter, bitter—man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing—forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.

The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.



The Folly of Wisdom (#30)
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.

We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow ...

And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes—
I can almost remember—goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.

She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me

rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.



The Peripheries of Love (#31)
by Michael R. Burch

Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.

Above us—the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us—rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
grate in the gentle turbulence
of yesterday’s forgotten rains.

Later, the moon like a ******
lifts her stricken white face
and the waters rise
toward some unfathomable shore.

We sway gently in the wake
of what stirs beneath us,
yet leaves us unmoved ...
curiously motionless,

as though twilight might blur
the effects of proximity and distance,
as though love might be near—

as near
as a single cupped tear of resilient dew
or a long-awaited face.



The Shrinking Season (#32)
by Michael R. Burch

With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.



Be that Rock (#33)
by Michael R. Burch

for George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man—
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.



Crescendo Against Heaven (#34)
by Michael R. Burch

As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until it sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.

These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.

Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire ...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.

God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good ...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.



Desdemona (#35)
by Michael R. Burch

Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.

Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and—spent of flame—
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.

You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies—
imprisonment your sense denies.

You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare—
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.

But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew—
each moonless night the nettles grew

and strangled hope, where love dies too.



These are my personal picks of poems not selected by Google ...



Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.

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.



Fascination with Light
by Michael R. Burch

Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,

where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,

a soft blur.

With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato

then flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.

And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns.



I began writing poetry around age eleven, mostly for personal amusement at first, then started to write with larger goals in mind around age thirteen or fourteen (I was very ambitious). This is one of my earliest poems, written in my teens ...

Styx
by Michael R. Burch

Black waters,
deep and dark and still . . .
all men have passed this way,
or will.



This is another early poem, written as a teenager, that made me feel like a "real poet" ...

Infinity
by Michael R. Burch

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity . . . windswept and blue.



This is another early poem, and my first poem that didn't rhyme...

Something
by Michael R. Burch

―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality has swept into a corner ... where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.



This is a very early poem of mine. I believe I wrote the first version around age 14 or 15 ...

Leave Taking
by Michael R. Burch

Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.

But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky ...

Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may

have learned what it means to say—
goodbye.



First They Came for the Muslims
by Michael R. Burch

after Martin Niemöller

First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.

Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.

Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.

Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?

"First They Came for the Muslims" has been adopted by Amnesty International for its Words That Burn anthology, a free online resource for students and educators. According to Google the poem has appeared on a staggering 691,000 web pages. That's a lot of cutting and pasting! It is indeed an honor to have one of my poems published by such an outstanding organization as Amnesty International, one of the world's finest. Not only is the cause good―a stated goal is to teach students about human rights through poetry―but so far the poetry published seems quite good to me. My poem appears beneath the famous Holocaust poem that inspired it, "First They Came" by Martin Niemöller. Here's a bit of background information: Words That Burn is an online poetry anthology and human rights educational resource for students and teachers created by Amnesty International in partnership with The Poetry Hour. Amnesty International is the world’s largest human rights organization, with seven million supporters. Its new webpage has been designed to "enable young people to explore human rights through poetry whilst developing their voice and skills as poets." This exemplary resource was inspired by the poetry anthology Words that Burn, curated by Josephine Hart of The Poetry Hour, which in turn was inspired by Thomas Gray's observation that "Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn."

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