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To Flower by Michael R. Burch We are not long for this earth, I know— you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world? The agave knows best when it’s time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind, she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow? When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the bacchae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry on Demand, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada). Keywords/Tags: Moonflower, cereus, agave, flower, Illustrious, Pentheus, grief, Dionysus, maenads, Euripides, Ovid, mrbch, mrbroses, mrbflow, mrbflower Day, and Night by Michael R. Burch The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters; her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms. And we who rise each day to grind a living, dream each scented night of such perfumes as drew us to the window, to the moonlight, when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue― an eerie vase of achromatic flowers bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue. The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise― adagio, the music she now hears; and we who in the sunlight slave for succor, dreaming, seek communion with the spheres. And all around the night is in crescendo, and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form, and here we hear the sweet incriminations of lovers we had once to keep us warm. And also here we find, like bled carnations, red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies, that touched us once with fierce incantations and taught us love was prettier than wise. Mayflies by Michael R. Burch These standing stones have stood the test of time but who are you and what are you and why? As brief as mist, as transient, as pale... Inconsequential mayfly! Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope? Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see? Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea? Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars regret the glowworm’s stellar mimicry the day it dies? Does not the world grind on as if it’s no great matter, not to be? Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose. And yet somehow you’re everything to me. Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for my mother 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/interpretation of a Sappho epigram. First and Last by Michael R. Burch for Beth You are the last arcane rose of my aching, my longing, or the first yellowed leaves― vagrant spirals of gold forming huddled bright sheaves; you are passion forsaking dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose. And still in my arms you are gentle and fragrant― demesne of my vigor, spent rigor, lost power, fallen musculature of youth, leaves clinging and hanging, nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour. Fairest Diana by Michael R. Burch Fairest Diana, princess of dreams, born to be loved and yet distant and lone, why did you linger―so solemn, so lovely― an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone? Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions? Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows! Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming a pearl of enchantment cast before sows? Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac, as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose; how did a stanza of silver-bright verse come to be bound in a book of dull prose? Sweet Rose of Virtue by William Dunbar 1460-1525 loose translation/interpretation 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. Lady’s Favor by Michael R. Burch May spring fling her riotous petals devil- may-care into the air, ignoring the lethal nettles and may May cry gleeful- ly Hooray! as the abundance settles, till a sudden June swoon leaves us out of tune, torn, when the last rose is left inconsolably bereft, rudely shorn of every device but her thorn. Published by The Lyric, Poem Today, Deviant Art and Suravejiliz (Tokelau) The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses― the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer― images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and gray, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames' exhausted, drifting ash, and petals falling from the rose,... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast― to joys set free, and those I fled. 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 forgot, will I recall your words―barbed, cruel? I don't remember the exact age at which I wrote this poem, but it was around the time I realized that "love is not a bed of roses." I wrote it after breaking up with my first live-in girlfriend, in my early twenties. We did get back together, before a longer, final separation. The poem has been published by The Lyric, Trinacria, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse and Glass Facets of Poetry. It has also been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro and published by La luce che non muore. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch You are too beautiful, too innocent, too inherently lovely to merely reflect the sun’s splendor... too full of irresistible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses... 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―nude, forlorn. Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed and as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly Sunset by Michael R. Burch This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998. Between the prophecies of morning and twilight’s revelations of wonder, the sky is ripped asunder. The moon lurks in the clouds, waiting, as if to plunder the dusk of its lilac iridescence, and in the bright-tentacled sunset we imagine a presence full of the fury of lost innocence. What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, we recognize at once, but cannot name. ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped— life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? What Would Santa Claus Say? by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava gimME that ol’ time religion! by michael r. burch for tom merrill fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, jesus loves and understands ME! safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell— the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel, the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall! let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall, ’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . . jesus loves and understands ME! The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate's bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title "The Pain of Love" was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called "The Pain of Love." I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines to be very depressing. Lean Harvests (II) by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body's lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* " But almost no one took note. 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 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." Chloe by Michael R. Burch There were skies onyx at night... moons by day... lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds ********** tall elms;... she would say that we loved, but I figured we’d sinned. Soon impatiens too fiery to stay sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned; things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray... all the light of that world softly dimmed. Where our feet were inclined, we would stray; there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed, distant mountains that loomed in our way, thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned. What I found, I found lost in her face while yielding all my virtue to her grace. Mending by Michael R. Burch I am besieged with kindnesses; sometimes I laugh, delighted for a moment, then resume the more seemly occupation of my craft. I do not taste the candies... The perfume of roses is uplifted in a draft that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans which spin like old propellers till the room is full of ghostly bits of yarn... My task is not to knit, but not to end too soon. This poem is dedicated to the victims of 9-11 and their families and friends. Let Me Give Her Diamonds by Michael R. Burch for Beth Let me give her diamonds for my heart's sharp edges. Let me give her roses for my soul's thorn. Let me give her solace for my words of treason. Let the flowering of love outlast a winter season. Let me give her books for all my lack of reason. Let me give her candles for my lack of fire. Let me kindle incense, for our hearts require the breath-fanned flaming perfume of desire. To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl translation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful by Michael R. Burch She was very strange, and beautiful, like a violet mist enshrouding hills before night falls when the hoot owl calls and the cricket trills and the envapored moon hangs low and full. She was very strange, in a pleasant way, as the hummingbird flies madly still, so I drank my fill of her every word. What she knew of love, she demurred to say. She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow, as the sun must set, as the rain must fall. Though she gave her all, I had nothing left . . . yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Geode, a Resemblance by Michael R. Burch Take this geode with its rough exterior— crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ... a diode of amethyst—wild, electric; its sequined cavity—parted, revealing. Find in its fire all brittle passion, each jagged shard relentlessly aching. Each spire inward—a fission startled; in its shattered entrails—fractured light, the heart ice breaking. Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, Poetry Webring, Poetry Life & Times and The Eclectic Muse Memento Mori by Michael R. Burch I found among the elms something like the sound of your voice, something like the aftermath of love itself after the lightning strikes, when the startled wind shrieks . . . a gored-out wound in wood, love’s pale memento mori— that white scar in that first heart, forever unhealed . . . and a burled, thick knot incised with six initials pledged against all possible futures, and penknife-notched below, six edged, chipped words that once cut deep and said . . . WILL U B MINE 4 EVER? . . . which now, so disconsolately answer . . . —————-N- —EVER. Published as the collection "To Flower"
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Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
To Flower
To Flower by Michael R. Burch We are not long for this earth, I know— you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world? The agave knows best when it’s time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind, she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow? When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the bacchae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry on Demand, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada). Keywords/Tags: Moonflower, cereus, agave, flower, Illustrious, Pentheus, grief, Dionysus, maenads, Euripides, Ovid, mrbch, mrbroses, mrbflow, mrbflower Day, and Night by Michael R. Burch The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters; her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms. And we who rise each day to grind a living, dream each scented night of such perfumes as drew us to the window, to the moonlight, when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue― an eerie vase of achromatic flowers bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue. The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise― adagio, the music she now hears; and we who in the sunlight slave for succor, dreaming, seek communion with the spheres. And all around the night is in crescendo, and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form, and here we hear the sweet incriminations of lovers we had once to keep us warm. And also here we find, like bled carnations, red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies, that touched us once with fierce incantations and taught us love was prettier than wise. Mayflies by Michael R. Burch These standing stones have stood the test of time but who are you and what are you and why? As brief as mist, as transient, as pale... Inconsequential mayfly! Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope? Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see? Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea? Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars regret the glowworm’s stellar mimicry the day it dies? Does not the world grind on as if it’s no great matter, not to be? Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose. And yet somehow you’re everything to me. Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for my mother 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/interpretation of a Sappho epigram. First and Last by Michael R. Burch for Beth You are the last arcane rose of my aching, my longing, or the first yellowed leaves― vagrant spirals of gold forming huddled bright sheaves; you are passion forsaking dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose. And still in my arms you are gentle and fragrant― demesne of my vigor, spent rigor, lost power, fallen musculature of youth, leaves clinging and hanging, nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour. Fairest Diana by Michael R. Burch Fairest Diana, princess of dreams, born to be loved and yet distant and lone, why did you linger―so solemn, so lovely― an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone? Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions? Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows! Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming a pearl of enchantment cast before sows? Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac, as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose; how did a stanza of silver-bright verse come to be bound in a book of dull prose? Sweet Rose of Virtue by William Dunbar 1460-1525 loose translation/interpretation 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. Lady’s Favor by Michael R. Burch May spring fling her riotous petals devil- may-care into the air, ignoring the lethal nettles and may May cry gleeful- ly Hooray! as the abundance settles, till a sudden June swoon leaves us out of tune, torn, when the last rose is left inconsolably bereft, rudely shorn of every device but her thorn. Published by The Lyric, Poem Today, Deviant Art and Suravejiliz (Tokelau) The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses― the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer― images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and gray, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames' exhausted, drifting ash, and petals falling from the rose,... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast― to joys set free, and those I fled. 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 forgot, will I recall your words―barbed, cruel? I don't remember the exact age at which I wrote this poem, but it was around the time I realized that "love is not a bed of roses." I wrote it after breaking up with my first live-in girlfriend, in my early twenties. We did get back together, before a longer, final separation. The poem has been published by The Lyric, Trinacria, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse and Glass Facets of Poetry. It has also been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro and published by La luce che non muore. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch You are too beautiful, too innocent, too inherently lovely to merely reflect the sun’s splendor... too full of irresistible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses... 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―nude, forlorn. Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed and as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly Sunset by Michael R. Burch This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998. Between the prophecies of morning and twilight’s revelations of wonder, the sky is ripped asunder. The moon lurks in the clouds, waiting, as if to plunder the dusk of its lilac iridescence, and in the bright-tentacled sunset we imagine a presence full of the fury of lost innocence. What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, we recognize at once, but cannot name. ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped— life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? What Would Santa Claus Say? by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava gimME that ol’ time religion! by michael r. burch for tom merrill fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, jesus loves and understands ME! safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell— the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel, the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall! let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall, ’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . . jesus loves and understands ME! The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate's bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title "The Pain of Love" was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called "The Pain of Love." I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines to be very depressing. Lean Harvests (II) by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body's lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* " But almost no one took note. 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 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." Chloe by Michael R. Burch There were skies onyx at night... moons by day... lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds ********** tall elms;... she would say that we loved, but I figured we’d sinned. Soon impatiens too fiery to stay sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned; things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray... all the light of that world softly dimmed. Where our feet were inclined, we would stray; there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed, distant mountains that loomed in our way, thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned. What I found, I found lost in her face while yielding all my virtue to her grace. Mending by Michael R. Burch I am besieged with kindnesses; sometimes I laugh, delighted for a moment, then resume the more seemly occupation of my craft. I do not taste the candies... The perfume of roses is uplifted in a draft that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans which spin like old propellers till the room is full of ghostly bits of yarn... My task is not to knit, but not to end too soon. This poem is dedicated to the victims of 9-11 and their families and friends. Let Me Give Her Diamonds by Michael R. Burch for Beth Let me give her diamonds for my heart's sharp edges. Let me give her roses for my soul's thorn. Let me give her solace for my words of treason. Let the flowering of love outlast a winter season. Let me give her books for all my lack of reason. Let me give her candles for my lack of fire. Let me kindle incense, for our hearts require the breath-fanned flaming perfume of desire. To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl translation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful by Michael R. Burch She was very strange, and beautiful, like a violet mist enshrouding hills before night falls when the hoot owl calls and the cricket trills and the envapored moon hangs low and full. She was very strange, in a pleasant way, as the hummingbird flies madly still, so I drank my fill of her every word. What she knew of love, she demurred to say. She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow, as the sun must set, as the rain must fall. Though she gave her all, I had nothing left . . . yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Geode, a Resemblance by Michael R. Burch Take this geode with its rough exterior— crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ... a diode of amethyst—wild, electric; its sequined cavity—parted, revealing. Find in its fire all brittle passion, each jagged shard relentlessly aching. Each spire inward—a fission startled; in its shattered entrails—fractured light, the heart ice breaking. Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, Poetry Webring, Poetry Life & Times and The Eclectic Muse Memento Mori by Michael R. Burch I found among the elms something like the sound of your voice, something like the aftermath of love itself after the lightning strikes, when the startled wind shrieks . . . a gored-out wound in wood, love’s pale memento mori— that white scar in that first heart, forever unhealed . . . and a burled, thick knot incised with six initials pledged against all possible futures, and penknife-notched below, six edged, chipped words that once cut deep and said . . . WILL U B MINE 4 EVER? . . . which now, so disconsolately answer . . . —————-N- —EVER. Published as the collection "To Flower"
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Irrita la garganta y daña el hígado, que bastante ya se ha visto machacado por años de prácticas funestas. El más ****** líquido, encuentra camino en mi esófago, repleto de falsas esperanzas, va camino abajo y patea mis entrañas encargándose de dejar escapar la cordura. Menos por menos es más, y aquello que te vuelva inestable en una casa sin columnas ni vigas, seguro te hará sentir a salvo. Fuerte aroma y tacto cuestionable, aunque lo conozcas desde siempre, todas las veces se siente como el primer beso pero con mordida. Como champaña descorchada, hace florecer cualquier pensamiento, entre palabras que escapan a duras penas de la lengua envenenada y adormecida. El que lo niegue no lo ha probado, y si lo probó y lo negó, tiene ante usted a un ángel limpio y puro, puesto que ésta es la poción de los pisoteados.
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Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC
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Irrita la garganta y daña el hígado, que bastante ya se ha visto machacado por años de prácticas funestas. El más ****** líquido, encuentra camino en mi esófago, repleto de falsas esperanzas, va camino abajo y patea mis entrañas encargándose de dejar escapar la cordura. Menos por menos es más, y aquello que te vuelva inestable en una casa sin columnas ni vigas, seguro te hará sentir a salvo. Fuerte aroma y tacto cuestionable, aunque lo conozcas desde siempre, todas las veces se siente como el primer beso pero con mordida. Como champaña descorchada, hace florecer cualquier pensamiento, entre palabras que escapan a duras penas de la lengua envenenada y adormecida. El que lo niegue no lo ha probado, y si lo probó y lo negó, tiene ante usted a un ángel limpio y puro, puesto que ésta es la poción de los pisoteados.
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