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With a body wrapped in a crimson dress, she bears a violent temper.
Shining daylight, raging bewitching, captivating cunning.
You arrive with starry eyes and cheeks flushed like a ******.

In her curly hair, autumn curtains hang—roaming rays hot.
She glows in the night like a pictorial wall with hieroglyphics concealing madness.
You step elegantly, but you're a dangerously stealthy predator.

Grassy hills in floating flames burn beneath a voluminous haze.
Her look describes fabulous waterfalls, endlessly flowing and shining in the coming dawn. You associate with robbers and kings, but they do not understand, and no one will save you.

Lovely eyes sprinkle enchanting rays, her lips intertwined like a rose petal.
Her heart enticingly calls with her fruit to be drunk.
You hide in the nightlife, dress up, and do your love magic.

Neck fashioned in autumnal garments, wearing scarlet ruby earrings.
Her pink skin smells of perfume, inviting like a grape on a vine.
You invite visitors with your charm to carelessness, forever forced.

Her lips are flowing bewitching rivers—intersecting strokes of crimson. They bring a dream to taste her deep soils and her artfully carved forms.
You are determined to captivate without marrying— you stay lost in rebellion.
The days I yearn for you
Are like orchids
Without water

Summers burning of heat
Heart lusting none
Burnt through and through

I dare not where you are
In time I’ll find
Our dreams come true

Pumping you of our seeds
Filling baskets
You a father…
I’m conflicted with you…
These are my modern English translations of ancient Greek poems by the immortal Sappho of ******…

With my two small arms, how can I
think to encircle the sky?
—Sappho, fragment 35, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?
—Sappho, fragment 90, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

What cannot be swept ——— aside
must be wept.
—Sappho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What cannot be said
must be wept.
—Sappho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent,
yet here I lie—alone.
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hours drone on
as I moan here, alone.
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are,
of all the unapproachable stars,
the fairest.
—Sappho, fragment 155, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Someone, somewhere
will remember us,
I swear!
—Sappho, fragment 147, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Gold does not rust,
yet my son becomes dust?
—Sappho, fragment 137, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!
—Sappho, fragment 113, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have a delightful daughter
fairer than the fairest flowers, Cleis,
whom I cherish more than all Lydia and lovely ******.
—Sappho, fragment 132, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have a lovely daughter
with a face like the fairest flowers,
my beloved Cleis ...
—Sappho, fragment 132, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Attis, you forsake me
and flit off to Andromeda ...
—Sappho, fragment 131, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He is dying, Cytherea, the delicate Adonis.
What shall we lovers do?
Rip off your clothes, bare your ******* and abuse them!
—Sappho, fragment 140, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Awed by the moon’s splendor,
stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.
—Sappho, fragment 34, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Those I most charm
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Just now I was called,
by golden-sandalled
—Sappho, fragment 15, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean,
intoxicated by lust.
—Sappho, after Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Did this epigram perhaps inspire the legend that Sappho leapt into the sea to her doom, over her despair for her love for the ferryman Phaon?

Sappho, fragment 138, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.

Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.

Look me in the face,
——— smile ———
reveal your eyes' grace!

Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes’ indulgence.

Keywords/Tags: Sappho, translations, ******, lesbian, love, Eros, ******, Greek, Greece
Loving you is like being kissed by the stars
A whole galaxy of experiences,
Caught in between that space,
—legs that are wrapped around a face
Our hair—a complete mess, and I must confess
that the taste of you is a taste of cosmic prowess
And I’m always stuck on loving you for hours

As is our nature, we who dwell on this earth
I’ve now learnt that your natural waterfall flows
After I’ve treated your wet flower source with a timely worth

A slow tease creeps up and down your skin
Your arched knees are a resting ground before another
journey of my tongue. As the sweetest taste is a taste of fun

By the skin of teeth, are the few bite marks
I’ve left here and there. Your digging fingers in my hair,
Is all the pain you and I have to share.

It all seems fair.
You’re lost for words, choked up by fiery passion;
my gentle hand around your throat
And this rule of thumb; is the one you love to bite on
An aggressive action, but never to be passive

It’s 945, and quarter close to ten
Usually the time we should be resting in bed
But instead, I’m resting my tongue in you

                         It tastes like a perfect end
****** Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-

Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch

Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.

by Michael R. Burch

Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...

Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Warming her pearls,
her ******* gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.

Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch

at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found **** on the cover
of some patronizing lover.

In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.

First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch

I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.

Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

are not for excesses!

Less Heroic Couplets: *** Hex
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).

Published by ****** of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online
and Poem Today

by Michael R. Burch

Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your *******’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like *******—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.

Originally published by Erosha

by Michael R. Burch

“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”

It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.

The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.

The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.

Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!

Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.

You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no ****** for the heart.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

by Michael R. Burch

For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,

But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her ******* and hair
are mine alone.

Let the wildflowers moan.

If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch

If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.

If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.

If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.

Plastic Art or Night Stand
by Michael R. Burch

Disclaimer: This is a poem about artificial poetry, not love dolls! The victim is the Muse.

We never questioned why “love” seemed less real
the more we touched her, and forgot her face.
Absorbed in molestation’s sticky feel,
we failed to see her staring into space,
her doll-like features frozen in a smile.
She held us in her marionette’s embrace,
her plastic flesh grown wet and slick and vile.
We groaned to feel our urgent fingers trace
her undemanding body. All the while,
she lay and gaily bore her brief disgrace.
We loved her echoed passion’s squeaky air,
her tongueless kisses’ artificial taste,
the way she matched, then raised our reckless pace,
the heart that seemed to pound, but was not there.

She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch

She was very pretty, in the usual way
for perhaps a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.

At sixteen, she had a daughter.
She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.

She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.
Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.

She was hardly pretty another day.
Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.
She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.

Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.

Cold Snap Coin Flip
by Michael R. Burch

Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!

Or ...

Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine.

Song Cycle
by Michael R. Burch

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!

Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!

Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

The Unregal Beagle vs. The Voracious Eagle
by Michael R. Burch

I’d rather see an eagle
than a beagle
because they’re so **** regal.

But when it’s time to wiggle
and to giggle,
I’d rather embrace an angel
than an evil.

And when it’s time to share the same small space,
I’d much rather have a beagle lick my face!


Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch

“Keep it simple, stupid.”

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.

It only matters that *she
taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then ...
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.
I love you in a warm and fuzzy way inside
You've c*m inside me I feel it inside haha
Styles Jan 11
I feel an eruption building, inside me.
the overwhelming pressure explodes,
shooting streams of emotion through me
touching places I never knew existed.
Kayla Burke Oct 2022
I am Sin
In its purest and rawest form.
& for that, I have no shame
as fire in the bible resembles

And so
as this fire
burns between my legs
flickering images of your full, yet delicate figure
cross my mind.

I turn into myself
& wish me anew.
my fingers cupping and twirling
so gracefully...
as I scream my confessions

I'm born again.
Breaking free of religious constraint. Indulging in pleasure is natural & when wanted, a beautiful thing.
Such vulnerable desire.
Eclipse pupils, wide like the moon.
Corrupted mind, wet with *******.
In this darkness will you know me?
Reach out and feel me, I am here for you.
I cant bother my time with a creature that left me striken.
I want you still even after the vicious pain you put me through.
There’s something in your eyes that I need for myself.
The night is my relief, take me as I am.
Trust for me…feel for me…down on your knees for me.
Claim my name again.
I want to hear it dripping from that perfect mouth of yours.
The wonders ill perform on you.
I want to hear you whining.
I want to taste your disease poisoning my lips.
I want to see deliberate submission.
Having you under me, having you for myself.
To have my way with you, to want you this bad.
Staring into these hollow eyes, you’ll be crawling towards me again.
Begging on the cold floor.
Begging for me.
The view below me so pretty, your body so writhing.  
My mouth on your neck, come weak for me.
Hands on your throat, I feel you.
You are my obsession, release yourself.
You belong to me.
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