The notes like angels fall upon the
         paper submissive on the lines.
As if they were meant to mean more
                   than just a ceremony
of notes.
Giving a eulogy to
                                 my own request.

But even though cherubs grace my
         thoughts, divine interpretation
of an ending as this quill of white,


           gracing every imprint..



Perfection is blotted, the lines will
            never grace this reflection again.

An orchestra of hand gestures play,
         as if  I see ever instrument grace
the air in synchronized perfection.

I realise that I may not be a pauper,
        or one of riches and fame..

But I have a feeling that I'll live on
           within the lines of my creations.

A eulogy of my sound vibrating though
the halls of time, my eulogy is
           the sound I left behind never words.

Currents
by Michael R. Burch

How can I write and not be true
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?

Originally published by The Lyric. Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, write, writing, rhythm, meter, motion, ocean, tide, wave, waves



Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch

after William Blake

O little yellow flower
like a star ...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!

Poetry is not these words;
Its the breath we live by.
Its not the ink that kisses each heartbroken thought with fullness,
But the way we choose to see,
the way we choose to breathe,
the way in which we reside:
A love given unable to return
A song that cannot be unsung
and praise that requires no song to dance.
This is life.
This is worship.
This is love.
This is poetry.