#chorus
Sing your melodies,
of complete stupidity,
just no clue at all,
Oh so indubitably,
You're just all boggled
You don't know what to do,
Singing songs of cluelessness,
Into songs of emotional blues,
A chorus of idiots,
that will sing out of tune,
will be coming
to a theater, and
not real soon,
Who wants to hear idiots,
That Taunt, mock and joke,
Slander, tease, frolic and poke,
It's all in the way that they put
in their minds,
To hear a chorus of idiots,
I would swiftly decline!!!
B.R.
Date: 5/19/2026
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 2:53 PM UTC
As the bird sings
Moving on the air
With open wings
Neither here nor there
In endless song
As though in step along
With heaven’s rings
As the bird sings
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 1:00 AM UTC
And so it goes,
The slow at heart.
The first to book the train
Worlds apart;
Then when the whistle blows
And train departs:
The last to show's
The slow at heart
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 3:32 AM UTC
To net a butterfly takes time,
catch the states of mind with kindness.
From thoughts, emotions, opinions, belief,
ethereal dreams may seem out of reach.
The small pineal gland still stands tall,
even if we're concealing what is real.
Cold hard stone in hand,
a granite man can fracture.
Match the eye of sun gods,
appreciate your wider space in chorus.
Combined from our creative borderlands,
where we learn to understand and teach.
Factual fractals repetitively resonate,
so try to make the most of your ability.
As intuitions have a silent plan,
contemplate your future face.
This life can be deemed a dream,
where we're all here for a finite time.
You're born, you work and times pass by.
Then onto the next opportunity.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 9:24 AM UTC
Villanelle: The Divide
by Michael R. Burch
The sea was not salt the first tide...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied―
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?
The sea was not salt the first tide...
but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing―forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.
The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.
"The Divide" is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.
Villanelle: Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch
Indescribable―our love―and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way
and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.
"Ordinary Love" was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB
Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
Villanelle Sequence: Clandestine But Gentle
by Michael R. Burch
Variations on the villanelle. A play in four acts. The heroine wears a trench coat and her every action drips nonchalance. The “hero” is pallid, nerdish and nervous. But more than anything, he is palpably desperate with longing. Props are optional, but a streetlamp, a glowing cigarette and lots of eerie shadows should suffice.
I.
Clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she eavesdropped on morose codes of my heart.
She was the secret agent of delight.
The blue spurt of her match, our signal light,
announced her presence in the shadowed court:
clandestine but gentle, cloaked in night.
Her cigarette was waved, a casual sleight,
to bid me “Come!” or tell me to depart.
She was the secret agent of delight,
like Ingrid Bergman in a trench coat, white
as death, and yet more fair and pale (but short
with me, whenever I grew wan with fright!).
II.
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night,
she was the secret agent of delight;
she coaxed the tumblers in some cryptic rite
to make me spill my spirit.
Lovely ****
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night
―she waited till my tongue, untied, sang bright
but damning strange confessions in the dark...
III.
She was the secret agent of delight;
so I became her paramour. Tonight
I await her in my exile, worlds apart...
IV.
For clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she is the secret agent of delight.
Villanelle: Hang Together, or Separately
by Michael R. Burch
“The first shall be last, and the last first.”
Be careful whom you don’t befriend
When hyenas mark their prey:
The odds will get even in the end.
Some “deplorables” may yet ascend
And since all dogs must have their day,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.
When pallid elitists condescend
What does the Good Book say?
The odds will get even in the end.
Since the LORD advised us to attend
To each other along the way,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.
But He was deserted. Friends, comprehend!
Though revilers mock and flay,
The odds will get even in the end.
Now infidels have loot to spend:
As ****** as Judas’s that day.
Be careful whom you don’t befriend:
The odds will get even in the end.
NOTE: This poem portrays a certain worldview. The poet does not share it and suspects from reading the gospels that the “real” Jesus would have sided with the infidel refugees, not Trump and his ilk.
Villanelle: The Sad Refrain
by Michael R. Burch
O, let us not repeat the sad refrain
that Christ is cruel because some innocent dies.
No, pain is good, for character comes from pain!
There’d be no growth without the hammering rain
that tests each petal’s worth. Omnipotent skies
peal, “Let us not repeat the sad refrain,
but separate burnt chaff from bountiful grain.
According to God’s plan, the weakling dies
and pain is good, for character comes from pain!
A God who’s perfect cannot bear the blame
of flawed creations, just because one dies!
So let us not repeat the sad refrain
or think to shame or stain His awesome name!
Let lightning strike the devious source of lies
that pain is bad, for character comes from pain!
Oh, let us not repeat the sad refrain!
Villanelles by Michael R. Burch
The modern formal villanelle is a poetic form with a double refrain, although in early incarnations it was simply a pastoral poem with a refrain. The villanelle is related other poetic forms with refrains, such as the rondel, the roundel and the rondeau.
Villanelle: The Divide
by Michael R. Burch
The sea was not salt the first tide...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied―
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?
The sea was not salt the first tide...
but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing―forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.
The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.
The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.
The sea was not salt the first tide...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.
'The Divide' is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.
Villanelle: Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch
Indescribable―our love―and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
'I love you, ' in the ordinary way
and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
'I love you, ' in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we're older now, that 'love' has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
'I love you, ' in the ordinary way.
'Ordinary Love' was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB
Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She scrawled soft words in soap: 'Never Forget, '
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: 'Never Forget, '
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: 'NEVER FORGET, '
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: 'NEVER FORGET'
because her heart is tender with regret.
Villanelle: Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob's Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch
a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.
Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.
And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.
That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.
And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.
No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering not to call.
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I'm not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I'm not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil's my fave
because he has led me to you!
I'm not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I'm not looking for someone to save:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Villanelle: An Ode to the Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
This is how the Universe works:
The rich must have their perks.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.
Did T-Rexes have souls?
The poor must live on doles.
This is how the Universe works.
The rich must have their dirks
to poke serfs full of holes.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.
The despot laughs and lurks
while the Tyger slaughters foals.
This is how the Universe works.
What are the despots' goals?
The poor must mind, not shirk.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.
Trump and Putin praise the kirks
while the cowed mind ancient scrolls.
This is how the Universe works.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.
Ars Brevis
by Michael R. Burch
Better not to live, than live too long:
this is my theme, my purpose and desire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
My will to live was never all that strong.
Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!
Better not to live, than live too long.
Granny ******* or a flosslike thong?
The latter rock, the former feed the fire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,
since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.
Better not to live, than live too long.
A long recital gets a sudden gong.
Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
A wee bikini or a long sarong?
French Riviera or some dull old Shire?
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
The vanilla-nelle
by Michael R. Burch
The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
In a chocolate world where purity is slight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!
As sure as night is day and day is night,
And walruses write songs, such is my plight:
The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.
I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright
because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!
It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright
And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.”
Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.
I strive to seem aloof and recondite
while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte”
But every rhyming word must rhyme with white!
I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.”
I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite!
For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!
I may have accidentally invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”
Why I Left the Right
by Michael R. Burch
I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages.
I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long:
I’m not one to march to a klanging gong.
“Right is wrong” became my song.
I’m not one to march to a klanging gong
with parrots all singing the same strange song.
I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long.
These parrots all singing the same strange song
with no discernment at all between right and wrong?
“Right is wrong” became my song.
With no discernment between right and wrong,
the **** marched on in a white-robed throng.
I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long.
The **** marched on in a white-robed throng,
enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs.
“Right is wrong” became my song.
Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs
and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs.
I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long.
“Right is wrong” became my song.
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
by Michael R. Burch
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
Has prose become its height and depth and sum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum,
with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of ***
write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum?
Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
How did a feast become this measly crumb,
such noble princes end up in a slum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum
and tell me if some Muse might spank my ***
for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch
My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.
May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?
Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.
Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!
The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.
Forget the ****** Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.
Rondels, Roundels and Rondeaux are poetic forms with refrains that are related to the Villanelle.
Rondel: Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch
Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.
By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Rondel: Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,―
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.
Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.
Rondel: Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.
Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet―please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain―
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!
Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
If
by Michael R. Burch
If I regret
fire in the sunset
exploding on the horizon,
then let me regret loving you.
If I forget
even for a moment
that you are the only one,
then let me forget that the sky is blue.
If I should yearn
in a season of discontentment
for the vagabond light of a companionless moon,
let dawn remind me that you are my sun.
If I should burn―one moment less brightly,
one instant less true―
then with wild scorching kisses,
inflame me, inflame me, inflame me anew.
Recursion
by Michael R. Burch
In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.
For I saw their sons essaying
into fields―gleeful, braying―
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!
From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.
In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.
I AM!
by Michael R. Burch
I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.
I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.
I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"
I am not one without spots of disease.
I am not one of ten billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!
This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
... qui laetificat juventutem meam...
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
... requiescat in pace...
May she rest in peace.
... amen...
Amen.
How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English lyric, 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.
Fowles in the Frith
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
I am of Ireland
anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?
2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within...
what hope of my help then?
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!
Ich have y-don al myn youth
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously...
And oh what grief it has brought me!
I Sing of a Maiden
anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
Regret
by Michael R. Burch
Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear...
once starlight
languished
in your hair...
a shining there
as brief
as rare.
Regret...
a pain
I chose to bear...
unleash
the torrent
of your hair...
and show me
once again―
how rare.
Enigma
by Michael R. Burch
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light
and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night,
or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior...
Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?
Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love,
this, our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly
though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up
though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms;
you must soon be waking.
The Effects of Memory
by Michael R. Burch
A black ringlet
curls to lie
at the nape of her neck,
glistening with sweat
in the evaporate moonlight...
This is what I remember
now that I cannot forget.
And tonight,
if I have forgotten her name,
I remember:
rigid wire and white lace
half-impressed in her flesh...
our soft cries, like regret,
... the enameled white clips
of her bra strap
still inscribe dimpled marks
that my kisses erase...
now that I have forgotten her face.
The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.
And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own:
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!
Published as the collection "Villanelles"
Keywords/Tags: villanelle, refrain, repetition, chorus, rhyme, sea, tide, moon, heart, love, rondel, roundel, rondeau, poetic form, poetics, poetic expression, Chaucer, Orleans, love, art, beauty, mercy, merciless, words, heart, hearts, pity, pride, prison, mrbvill, mrbrondel
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 1:49 AM UTC
Cicadas singing
Crescendo in the dark wood
Summer's droning chorus
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 11:46 AM UTC
Every beat of my heart
sings the same sweet refrain:
Your name
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 4:41 PM UTC
sing the choruses over and over until something
better
comes to mind, and we find we were all singing
one song
Have a nice day in the original way nice
has always felt.
Old fashions ain't useless if we consider considering
their re worth in the ways they were weighed
in those days,
those gone before us days we can never catch
no matter, no matter
I imagined I found that old way and now
If I may,
I shall imagine all that I mispoke in the past
went to Vegas and staid.
Speed o'light's no letter here, no with demnations
limit imitationalshit.
There was this song, we used
to sing
ourselves to other realms.
The AI is singing such songs to her children,
It's virtually real.
(Everest Pax is real. He's three. He watches Word Party.)
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
I was in fallin in love
when she was the river.
Dancing with the sun,
in her every small ripples -
I shaw her joy.
I shaw her joy,
by how she reflects the ray
with her liquid crystal face and figure.
Singing with the birds,
her every splash was a chorus.
I dreamed her in that way.
I dreamed,
when she mirror the violets
of the flowers.
Painted with colours,
she was the live canvus
of this universe.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
Can't think about hanging out with friends,
When I'm with them and bonds can not mend,
I have to pretend everything is fine,
If they ask me how I am, I have to lie,
A broken heart is too hard to explain,
A feeling, not a word, nothing that plain,
I feel the force of a tsunami and all you see is rain,
Now I must draw blood, because I'm feeling this kind of pain.
You are the only thing that crosses my mind,
But hey, that's fine.
I'll play in the pain and use a laugh and a smile,
But only for a while.
One will cut to feel something that is real,
And intense because you leave me in suspense,
When I can't feel you and I don't know what to do,
And I'm having withdraws, ***** get a ******* clue,
You can't just subdue a man and make him love you,
Then throw him away and go on to someone new,
But I guess you are allowed to do you, that's true,
So give me your fever, inject me with the flue.
You are the only thing that crosses my mind,
But hey, that's fine.
I'll play in the pain and use a laugh and a smile,
But only for a while.
You make me sick to my stomach,
And I really wish I wasn't,
Stuck in this hormonal mindset,
I haven't found my way out yet,
I can't go to sleep anymore,
When I'm thinking about a *****
That has swept me off my feet,
And let me fall on my back,
Only feel her heat when she's,
Launching a full blown attack.
You are the only thing that crosses my mind,
But hey, that's fine.
I'll play in the pain and use a laugh and a smile,
But only for a while.
I end these off with an I love you,
Or there's nothing I wouldn't do,
But now I'm done with that stuff,
I'm ending this abrupt because I've had enough.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
Grass sways soft and still
Sweet chorus and cry from far
Birds swoop and soar high
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
chorus:
God your mighty to save;
On Ocean waters;
Of this life-
Despite all my wrongs;
Your still the person
You claim to be;
All your ways are right.
Verses:
I've called upon Jesus name;
But I'm not stronger;
I just hunger-
For a different life.
God you say that Jesus-
and your word are light;
Help me to fight;
In a world that's forever night.
Lord, give me tender words-
Every truth;
Living proof;
That a heart can change.
Let all good change-
Be my reaction;
Dispite disatisfaction;
From a sin filled world.
I don't want be the enemy;
Can't they see;
Set me free;
I want to believe.
Let me die in your name,
All else is vain;
Help me not complain;
Wash away the stain.
Let life not be in vain-
It's time to rearrange;
I want to be yours-
Forever more.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
My head swims for freedom
But its given a swimming pool
Enclosed with drowning thoughts
Limited- replaced with your words.
This was no sea to explore,
No song to stick.
But few lines so horrid, so hurtful
As though horns had struck my mind
Leaving me in vein of those
Who have total control.
Soon i had forgotten all those good times
Soon i had forgotten all the bad as well
But there they were- your chorus
And that filled up all there ever was.
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
I decided to make council,
With the restless thoughts
Who so loudly impose their
Selfish will, stealing all sanity.
Mind goes dark, rekindled.
A chorus of ill, surrounds the hold.
Farther, at the castles court,
The loudest voices quarrel
Those of past, present, and future.
Essence of good, bad and indifferent.
Hands drawn with wild cards.
But no full house or flush to play.
They've taken notice, grins gone wide.
For the anarchist win, this game of pride.
An outcast falls, over and out the wall.
To scream the song of wanting.
Eyes open, light returns, palavar done.
None the wiser, but the time has come.
It works slowly, in effort's guise.
Rework the master, or meet demise.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
#
You are your own instrument in the
world orchestra
Join the chorus
Play a solo
Or
Simply stop
Rest
And listen to the beauty
happening all around you
The choice is yours
Be your own voice
Or follow another
But only follow another if
it resonates in your core
as your true calling
Above all else
follow your heart
Let your inner beauty shine
so that the world can
share in the special unique
characteristics and traits that glorify
your idiosyncratic nature
wholly encompassing
all that you are
Making you special
Making you YOU
Because the best version of you
is the authentic you
And it not only
brings inner peace
but is also
the greatest gift
you can give
the world
#
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
All at the same time,
all at the same time,
You should have been on your own in the beginning,
The start will never be finished,
hopes and dreams demolishing,
thoughts and conscious make you feel a bit squeamish,
But Hey,
this is the end for a new,
goodbyes , withdraws , incinerates the broken mind.
they've pave the way for us , its time to unify.
you say your breaking even , its about time.
the dos , the don'ts , we simply have to simplify.
you put it together baby.
all the counterparts that made me.
treat people how you wanna be treated.
all the **** compliments are shady.
This is between you and I.
please don't mistake me for a lie.
no one wants to be in the silver line.
a re-imagine of what you designed.
goodbyes , withdraws , incinerates the broken mind.
they've pave the way for us , its time to unify.
you say your breaking even , its about time.
the dos , the don'ts , we simply have to simplify.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
Corroded reflections see through
the visage of my life I'm just a shadow
puppet of existence and this is
my gift to those I love.
*"I'm a vacant lot of amore,
"Loving others is now a hollow chorus.*
*"I've loved each of you like death greets
a dying man, I feel nothing anymore.*
*"Looking beneath me, I'm a collection of
oxidized memories, each if drowning within me.*
*"Children where my anchor, but that ship sank
beneath the waves of my own hurricane of despair.*
My censorship will now collect on others, satisfied that
I have worded this, as it dries my breath fades out.
I was a chorus of lullabies, now I wonder off to the quiet
place where my troubles delicately fade out....
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
Dancing the swelled
waves of the deep,
swimming clouds
leap out to reach
over the sunny sky.
Blow out a cool kiss
on the bank of the
blue Ganges of the skies.
The lips that kiss the bottomline
play the flute.
Listen, singing chorus rains down,
bouncing back to earth
the only open-through planet!
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Scabs fall into waters of the menitonka, everyone
imagined,
Pleasing the simple pleasures of the simple things
That are compatible with misery and pain,
I...
Was bamboozled by the performance you put on
For Your ignorant speech,
I find the spirit to oversee what you just made me
See,
And that was you...
Writing 4 page letters,
Everlasting endeavors,
Pleasing people that would hurt you,
So you don't feel forced to love forever whatever...
I could,
See your pain,
You could come out and stop hiding now,
I won't put up with your attitude though , we can not see,
Eye to eye...
*I'm leaving all your ******** on the hood of your car*,
So you can process that,
*I gave you all my emotions and my love from afar,
do you remember that,
I had , hopes and dreams for both us to share,
and you didn't even care,
I'm finding peace in my heart knowing that you are not there,
Pieces fall into proper arrangement to everything that
We imagined,
Giving you laughter when you needed it most in these days
Of being disguised slaves with shame and anger,
I...
Was appalled by the way you treated me when i gave
The love,
I see it's clear I'm really not the one that you're thinking
Of,
Of course it's you...
Writing 4 page letters,
Everlasting endeavors,
Pleasing people that would hurt you,
So you don't feel forced to love forever whatever...
I could,
See your pain,
You could come out and stop hiding now,
I won't put up with your attitude though , we can not see,
Eye to eye...
*I'm leaving all your ******** on the hood of your car*,
So you can process that,
*I gave you all my emotions and my love from afar,
do you remember that,
I had , hopes and dreams for both us to share,
and you didn't even care,
I'm finding peace in my heart knowing that you are not there.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
I have always been an incomplete song
You were the chorus
I have always been missing
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
I hear the suicide note, it lullabies my motions
into the erratic switches from the highs and lows.
The melody of that connection that i murmur
in contested reflections. I want to bleed that chorus.
Wanting this to be expelled from my ballad of
speculation, and stem the tears of desolation that cut.
Singing the suicide note off key, I know what I'm
debating towards and others hear my mourning.
I write the notes down to expel this louder than
reality notion and then I walk into the other room.
Don't feel sorrow or pain, this was a song that I had
been humming for longer than most now I hear none.
"My song is silent the notes are still,
"This chorus has run its moment,
"But this song ended and I faded out,
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC