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Hamies 9h
the tapestry that formed around my soul
was made of the eager to please you
now it has sunken in the ground and feeds from pain
narcissistic breeze in the air
and sunflowers slowly dying
it's cold again
here i am
alone again
Cox 1d
You may be human, but you’re also a flower.
You hold so much power as you walk through April,
no avail.
Head risen.
Petals curtly tucked away.
A rush.
Heart closed.
Walking past the naked trees,
you shiver from the Autumn breeze.
You wait for Spring,
although knowing you haven’t met winter.
You think that this year your heart will freeze.
Guntang 2d
my life left far behind
in the bleeding of my mind
what remains
for the sunny vine
to procure?
the bleating winter
shall endure
Marla 2d
Every year we fool ourselves through sayings such as
“We can't leave the house for the weather”
and
“The sun will rejuvenate us”.

When seasons transform it turns into
“We can't leave the house for the demons in our front garden”
and
“It burns, it burns, please make it stop burning”
needles scraping bone,
heel and sole.

sliding cold inside your boots
you bear the weight of all you love,
while inches underneath
the giant gods of other worlds relay
their shepard songs.

empty aqua loneliness.

they disappear,
soaring softly into darkness and
sinking,

willing,

deeper than the sky is wide.

their dreams are of a solid state;
the breath that leaves their backs a
force of nature,

strong enough to rent the field on which you stand that now,
to us,
seems still as stone.
Humpbacks roaming beneath the ice in winter. Hearing and feeling their vastness in the deeps below. An otherworldly experience.
You are the snowflake—

In the sunny afternoon
Where you slowly melts away—
Still, when I look at you,
Pure and clean
Like a waterfall.

Slowly—it crashes
The sound—
The continuous wave
Where the water's steep falls
And down
And deep
And beneath.

You are the snowflake—

In the winter of December
Where you slowly,
And slowly—turns into
A delicate sixfold symmetry

Where you were as beautiful
As white
And as pure—
Just like the winter—
Where the coldness,
Can be the comfort.

In every season
There's you—different from time to time;
Still, when I look at you,
You are as beautiful
As the weather—
Forecasted—bluer than the usual;

And when I look at you,
You will always be,
The snowflake that melts
In the sunny afternoon—
And a delicate sixfold symmetry
In the winter of December.
...and when I look at you, you will always be the snowflake that melts, that transforms, as white, as clearest among the rest.
Winter
by Michael R. Burch

The rose of love's bright promise
lies torn by her own thorn;
her scent was sweet
but at her feet
the pallid aphids mourn.

The lilac of devotion
has felt the winter ****
and shed her dress;
companionless,
she shivers—****, forlorn.

Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts

###

Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?

Published by The Lyric, La Luce Che Non Moure (Italy), The Chained Muse, Better Than Starbucks, Glass Facets of Poetry and Trinacria

###

The Donald Trumps the White House Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow.

###

Isolde’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Isolde and Tristram/Tristan were lovers who died, were buried close to each other, then reunited in the form of plants growing out of their graves. A rose emerged from Isolde's grave, a vine from Tristram's, then the two became one. Tristram was the Celtic Orpheus, a minstrel whose songs set women and even nature a-flutter.

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash,
wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize; since published by Ancient Heart Magazine (Australia), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Boston Poetry Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics, FreeXpression (Australia), Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass Facets of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), The New Formalist and Trinacria

###

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

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?

Published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK), Writ in Water, Jenion, Inspirational Stories, Famous Poets and Poems

###

She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.

She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.

She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.

She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.

She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.

Love!—awaken, awaken
to see what you’ve taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, The Chained Muse, Inspirational Stories and Captivating Poetry (Anthology)

###

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."

Keywords/Tags: rose, roses, thorn, thorns, lilac, lilacs, spring, summer, fall, winter, seasons
Nylee 6d
We fell in love with the October
It rained on us
We drowned in the feeling
Wind chimes tings
But December left us cold
With summer heat wave to follow
.
Elaine Yu May 20
Spring has gone
Summer has come
My heart is still in winter
The freezing wind made me chill,
and froze the memory
so i can search for

Time stopped in this winter
Everyone repeated same scene every day
Everything become static
like pictures in google image
so  i can search for

My steps are slower
but my heart is kept searching
starting from this freezing winter
will go on and on.
the sun (plus all the particles
that make up its purple ghost) rests
over the winter-weary streets
and, seeing all the people walking
with their heads down, recoils
and shivers.

the building (with the glass
all over, exposing tired office
jockeys), even as it looms, shows
sympathy to the mourning cosmos.

there is no sun chicago
there is no glimmer in DC
the lights are out. the grey
days are here.

even in the cold, the boiler
rumbles. the grass
crunches slightly
beneath your shoe.
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