Complete or not,

It shines through every phase,

What a perfect thing with grace.



Stands tall with its glory,

I am sure it has many stories.



My soul retreats to its wilderness,

When the moon is kissed by the sun.

In the pinkish soft sky of dusk,

Another love story has just begun.



The sun might be too bright to understand the darkness,

The moon, however, celebrates its lightness.

In my prayers, I reminisce,

When I see both with bliss.

It is often said
That living is the rarest thing
Some people merely exist
I can promise myself this
That the rivers will flow
And the trees will bring wood
Fish don't have feelings
But, innocence fades
That is what clears my conscience
The iota of ephemeral contrast
I can sustain a worthy purpose
Which may have a fleeting foundation
One of immense virtue
That a plebeian approach cannot understand
If I take the crooked path
I can walk among my peers
Who have been waiting
For me
To live free as well
But stand strong I must
As I gaze into an abyss
Without purpose
Undoubtedly determined
I can do something, methinks
Instead of doubting my own perception
Yet, I cannot predict
When the diurnal birds will go in abmigration
I simply forget
Some skip south much of autumn
I cannot remember
When will the solitary tree lie bare
The weather behaves like an intelligent child
No one knows where the wind goes
If you ask why, you question your wisdom
Only you and yourself
Can find the purpose
For the phenomena within
That tells you to move on forward
Contrary to popular wisdom
Until the final beat of an unseen presence
Ushers you into its arms
And like an abyss staring back at you
Tells you there is no rainbow down there
To confirm your fears
Or affirm your immense virtue
Your glory fades
When death holds you closer

I was sinking in the cloud
searching for you
The birds were chirping
Wait, could it subdue?

I glimpsed you once or twice
in all your glory
I was sure it was love -
like a happy ending story

You poured on warmth on me
Wrapped me up with affection
Us lying, you made the confession

We danced all night
and told our stories

I woke up falling
Hit the ground
It hurt a lot, but I stood up

I saw you there,
at the end of the street
it seemed you had fallen
even harder than me

I approached you slowly,
fixed you with a gaze
I tried to touch you,
but you ran away

She stood there
Like the sun sits in the sky
Blank and waiting
Breathing until the moon arrives
Her dark skin
Is a memory
Of the ash and soot she trudged through
Just to get to the battlefield
Just to say, 'I told you'
Her hair is weeping in the wind
A matted mess of former glory
She wonders would she have ever been
What she wanted if she had the chance too
But alas this girl was strong and wise
A memory of days gone by
Remembered only by the past
A memory that is bound to last

Our English Rose
by Michael R. Burch

for Christine Ena Burch

The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.

NOTE: This is my translation of a Sappho epigram. It was originally titled "Sappho's Rose" before I chose to dedicate it to my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was born and raised in England. Keywords/Tags: Rose, ornament, glory, nature, archetype, flowers, blush, meadows, flash, beauty, lightning

As sun sets over the mountain,
crowning this miraculous country,
wreathing it in purest gold,
visions of absent glory
cleave to the luster hanging,
suspended above the contours
of this majestic empire,

and by the light of that brilliant corona,
enduring the blameless and bitter dusts of time,
a delicate mirage emerges,
chronicling the last vestiges
of the valorous heroes who came before,
who influence our proud and dignified march.

And where a ceremony awaits -
beyond the scope of that western realm,
beyond the reach of that bleeding sun
into which silhouettes now fade -
to laurel today's new hero with a crown
of golden light,
so too awaits the ecstatic promise
of a brand-new, untamed world.