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Word farer Jun 19
Closing the hurting eyes
Forgetting all the fights and byes
Standing soo close to each other
Mesmerised in that situation heart decided not to bother
Leaning against the wall
With a heartclutch and a great fall
Wrapping each other in their blanket of love
Leaving behind all the other stuff and a months bluff
Engrossed sooo much in each touch
Wanting more and more was a wish such
Grabbing the waist tight with no air to enter
There was a vacuum of their breath in centre
Playing with her entangled hairs that lay on shoulder
All these evocation was sure to be preserved in their hearts folder
Girl placed her arms around his neck without any regret
Which was found to be the best addiction than any smoking cigarette
Slowly and gradually they touched each others lips
Not leaving any chance to skip
Their heart's beating sound was heard amidst their vaccum
They had created their own world with affection and warmth as whirling perfume
Their kiss after kiss grew deep and passionate
Both were stuck to each other just as a magnet
Wet lips, tired eyes and messy hairs
Were the symbol that love was in the air
And there is no such satisfaction anywhere
This city is lost in the wilderness
Our Trappist souls to discover
Our billowing needs stripped down to less
A chance inwardly to recover.

Let us not lay waste this time to reflect
Let the sigh of the wind lift our thoughts
Let snippets of kindness expand and collect
Let us love, for our time here is short.
Mable Erina Apr 28
I remember this day pretty well.
I remember this was the day that I knew you were the best decision of my life.
That we did it.
That you were mine and I was yours.
I remember every time I kissed you felt especially magical that night.
I remember you waltzing out of the bathroom.
I remember I felt invincible.
Like anything could happen and nothing could break us.
Like we were flying through galaxies at the speed of light,
but time was still.
Your eyes, forever the perfect color.
Your laugh, forever my favorite memory. Chicken-chicken a hilarious late night.
Dancing in the kitchen to no music.
Walking down the street in the darkness.
Falling off scooters.
Riding one two many on one.
Telling me I have the body of a Goddess.
Making love all day, only to cuddle in between. No food needed. Just love. All day. Every day.

I’m sorry if I ruined it. But all I want Is so have it back.
Dennis Allen, I love you with my whole heart. I want this to work. You’re love, your cricket, your cielo.
My most popular poems on the Internet, according to Google ...

A number of my poems and translations have gone viral, according to Google, and some have been copied onto hundreds of web pages. That’s a lot of cutting and pasting, which suggests someone likes the writing enough to take the time to share it …

This translation returns over 1,000 results, according to Google:

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


This translation of a Sappho epigram returns more than 500 results, according to Google:

Sappho, fragment 42
translation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains
uprooting oaks.


This original epigram returns more than 400 results:

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

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


My translation/interpretation/modernization of Robert Burns’s “To a Mouse” also has more than 400 results.


This epigram returns more than 300 results:

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus


This poem, based on a phrase I found in a comic book as a boy, returns more than 300 results:

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her Tears ...

Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe."


Others with more than 100 results:

by Ko Un
translation by Michael R. Burch

At Auschwitz
piles of glasses,
mountains of shoes ...
returning, we stared out different windows.


by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards


Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato


The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
―Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Teddy Roosevelt spoke softly and carried a big stick; Donald Trump speaks loudly and carries a big shtick.—Michael R. Burch


How Long the Night
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.


The Burning of the Books
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.

Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he’d been excluded!

He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven’t I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!


Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and extend this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles!
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all.

Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."


Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch

are not for excesses!


Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.


by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
And so mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!


Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch

Like angels—winged,
shimmering, misunderstood—
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.

They are as they are ...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full;
they dream of us by day.

Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring—
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ...
to see, to touch, to feel.

And in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, grown old,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.


Pale Though Her Eyes
by Michael R. Burch

Pale though her eyes,
her lips are scarlet
from drinking of blood,
this child, this harlot

born of the night
and her heart, of darkness,
evil incarnate
to dance so reckless,

dreaming of blood,
her fangs—white—baring,
revealing her lust,
and her eyes, pale, staring ...


by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs departing ...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our "effort,"
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.


Sappho, fragment 155
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!


Sappho, fragment 156
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.


Sappho, fragment 58
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.


An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


Postcard 1
by MiklĂłs RadnĂłti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders,
resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence
while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase;
the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops;
and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos,
glowing within my conscience — incandescent, intense.
Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever —
still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death
or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree.


Postcard 2
by MiklĂłs RadnĂłti
written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A few miles away they're incinerating
the haystacks and the houses,
while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow,
the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes.
Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl
sets the silver water a-ripple
while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep
seem to swim like drifting clouds.


Postcard 3
by MiklĂłs RadnĂłti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The oxen dribble ****** spittle;
the men pass blood in their ****.
Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages,
adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench.


Postcard 4
by MiklĂłs RadnĂłti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I toppled beside him — his body already taut,
tight as a string just before it snaps,
shot in the back of the head.
"This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here,"
I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread.
"Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered;
I could only dimly hear
through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear.


This was his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary. "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching."


Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation 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 that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

Keywords/Tags: most popular poems Google social media viral copy paste replication
clever Feb 12
i know how your love feels.
i know how much i want you.
most importantly, i know where i am not wanted.

and i beg that you do not forget.
set out to absolutely demolish any sense of security that i ever had.
afiifa Jan 30
In days like this
I see your love the best.

In days like this
You make me happy
The most
In days like this.
Happiness comes from within but it can also come from the world, nature or even seeing someone else happy. It made me happy and I hope it makes you too 🤗.
Love is not blind
Love has eyes
a face, heart and ability
to feel and touch
your deepest inner….

Accessible, not for everyone
like you, there is only one
i came, i saw nothing but i conquered
my fear phobia
mental inability
ego my person everything i do is ever
i look in the mirror i am not there
can you tell me where i am
that i don't even know myself anymore?

My girl the name is Love
your sweetest place on earth
you know that like no other
it's worth the most to you
you travel in many countries
you have roamed everywhere on this globe
you will always find the same Country, i hope

My girl really doesn't know where that is?
take a look in the mirror
do you see that Country?
that Land is called Love
Love is not blind, has
a face, heart and ability
to know and know it
look longer in this mirror
you will see that Land rise
that Country where you stay in more often
than you ever expected
your deepest inner…..

©Sylvia Frances Chan
The Land called Love, our true conscience
Colm Istoirm Jan 19
The end
A poignant secret

You're my type of breeze
The height of trees
Whispering in the arms of wind
I can't wait for the beginning. Not the end.
She awoke that morning, just a little bit *****.
Though coitus slept aside her, to awake for sure.
Connected deeply, they concocted within her.

They loved in waiting. Nurturing mating.

She broke down in mourning.
Just two months early, was an end surely.
Suddenly it’s over, he can’t see but sober.
Schism in grief, surely gave them no peace.

The only thing birthed, were fraternal twins of pain.
Both of the same origin, but fertilized within a different sane.

He can’t vicariously be her, his lack of expressed emotion erode for sure.
Blocked empathy, sat in store to mold.
Building within, and different but akin.
Grew a pain far to much to hold.

Losing someone for they share, and held endless care.
Made of her hair, and his eyes.
Lost to a stolen breath, for which the thief was not in ties.
Drove her into confusion, just another word for her delusion.
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