#lilac
I was reading in the library and I began to have imaginations of jazz, deep conversation and talking about the beauty of lilac and powder blue colored flora, I want to muse about Monet with someone and share our emotive thoughts that could be like spoken poetry arriving from the unsaid within as streams of sunlight coming from our lips, and perhaps, the art of genuine, truthful love would also return like falling stars in our palms.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 4:24 PM UTC
The world will not still itself
for you my #lilac.
But I will.
As the earth revolve
around the sun;
As the ants store food
for the rain;
As the birds migrate
to warmer places;
As the tulips wake
to the hymn of spring;
There we shall be, twined,
frozen in space and time.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC
lilac skies dancing over her eyes
and now she’s blinded by hope again
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 4:34 PM UTC
The color of Lilac,
is like a lavender dream,
the feeling of youthfulness,
like a flowing Lavender stream,
a world of Peace and Harmony,
Innocence and Tranquility,
A calmness of pure,
Life's amazing Imaginary,
It's in how you live, and
It's the love you give,
a beautiful Serenity,
Is fantasize Plenty,
Lilacs that Fall,
Deep within the valley
Is where the lilacs dwell,
So, come along and just see,
A world of Lilac Fantasies!!!
B.R.
Date: 8/6/2025
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 7:59 PM UTC
There is a fragrance
Remembered in its bloom time
Lilac yet made whole
May 11, 2024
May 11, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
lavender, lilac, and strawberry
I taste energy like yours rarely
make my cheeks redder than cherry
you have an essence, it is a blessing
you taught me lessons, such a blessing
I thought I was unlovable you showed me the contrary
make me sing like the giddy canary
was too used to solitary
read my feelings like a library
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC
breath of solstice breeze
lilac tipped with sun dried grass
cicadas sharp chant
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 5:22 PM UTC
I lay next to you in a field of lilacs and lavenders.
The beautiful floral scent fills my senses
I am surrounded by all that is purple.
I watch as the brilliant blue sky is filled with gorgeous violet hues.
I listen to the birds as they soothe my anxious mind.
I put my hand into yours.
Our hands intertwine.
My left hand held by your right.
The strands of purple in my hair cascade around my face,
I am surrounded by purple.
A crown of purple flowers rests on my forehead.
I am surrounded by all that is purple.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 8:27 PM UTC
Mellow,/
good riddance,/
no lyrical sides/
their call, heaven/
fall,/
with cigarette word-
lapping,/
boat too close to the wall/
circumcising by verbals done/
up dying,/
Child us a sandbox of sense/
stretching holding/
out on a ghostly hand/
We are the walls/
place Poetry finds acute vivid lining/
verses, our eyes meshing/
hole unclenching/
Killing lectures about it, how dictionarising/
And Le Clézio’s wing alive/
abide/
Taking flight/
~
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 7:11 AM UTC
Soft iris.
Lilacs in your eyes,
You use this to your disguise.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 7:24 AM UTC
There is a memory I keep circling back to
during hours of soft, smiling silences.
It is rather incomplete, just a piece really.
A single shard of shattered years I hold dear.
In this memory, I am on a hill just before it descends
holding an ice cream cone that once held a vanilla scoop.
My hand still sticky where the dessert dripped down
as I sought refuge in the shade of a lilac tree.
Late Spring's sun ceded to the blooming lilacs,
I could breathe in the perfumed air with an ease
of those with lungs that worked consistently.
And I could hear bees,
buzzing overhead, pollinating the light purple flowers,
going about their work at an unbothered pace,
like they too were soothed by the lilacs.
Content with what they already had
unhurried to gather more than they need.
I took my time munching on the wafer cone
unbothered like a bee.
And I thought to myself at the tender age of seven,
I'll remember this.
I just didn't realize at the time
how important that promise would be.
This memory is a shard, a piece,
it was jagged and hurt to squeeze.
Because it was brilliant simplicity
just before the concept of breaking touched me.
But the years I've cared for it
receiving cuts from how much I despaired
that it was gone, I'd never feel it again,
my care to return to this piece smoothed its edges.
I know now that there was no use clinging so tightly
leaving a mark in my hands as if it was proof
to be read in my palms that I had happiness.
Because I haven't lost it.
I will always enjoy the memory
of eating ice cream beneath my lilac tree
and smile at that simple piece.
I remembered it because I said I would.
I remember it now to experience it again.
It is a memory of happiness.
A promising peace.
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 1:31 PM UTC
Little flower behave.
You’ll get your turn,
your chance.
Just wait until the sun rises,
then you can dance.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 9:24 AM UTC
Lady lilac,
reserved,
modest,
shy.
You don’t need no guy.
Live and point your dreamy pearlescent petals to the sky.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 9:18 AM UTC
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
###
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
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 7:14 PM UTC
Whispers heard through out the night
Saying that they know all the truths
Don't let their lilac tongues fool you
They know of nothing
For their merely voices
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC
it came in a flurry of pink and blue
my cotton candy days
of swirling colours down the length of my spine
down the length of my throat
pooling at the base of my feet
lilac tears and a blurry violet haze
puffing like smoke before my stinging eyes
and disappearing without a trace.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 4:46 AM UTC
Two winged tiny seed
I wish I could be
To make the aroma
Of summer and spring
Died away broken
Came back strong
Surprise you with
Beauty of paints
Dripped from above
A whole parade for just you
So beautifully hued
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
Fall in to where it can begin.
Moon phase,
Orchid days.
Sweet bliss,
Wanting nothing more than to try your American kiss.
Heatwave.
Scorching skies,
White clouds in my love disguise.
I lay wanting to heal my pain.
Moon phase.
You cry,
Tears drowning flowers that lay nearby.
You stay,
Most don’t know why.
You live a lilac lie.
You take my Moon phase,
And I want to know why.
My tides,
My waves,
Reach my shoreline.
My sand was empty,
Completely still.
Now,
The grains of sand stand by me,
Pulling me at the knees.
Moon phase,
This night.
Emptying myself solemnly to the dark starlit night.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 7:40 AM UTC
You used to mean
E v e r y t h i n g
To me
Now you’re just lilac petals
Crushed under my
Heel
-over you
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
my body is your canvas
lather lavender bites along my collar
leave lilac and imprints upon on my legs
press your lips to mine
and leave me blind
your love is artwork
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
I started the scarf
That I'm making for you
I **** at knitting
So don't be surprised
If the whole thing unravels
In your gentle hands
Just like I did
When we first met
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
A composer
of the stars,
& astronaut
of dreams,
the unsung
swan of the
night, who
draws the
paintings
of her
thoughts,
the clouds
of dandelions
fields forever
in reverie,
her sigh settles
the seas of
lilac dreams,
as music
plays, she
enjoys the
indigo hues
of a bohemian
way of life,
and every
person
on this
earth is,
in their own
way, an
eccentric
of their
own hue,
upon the
painting of
life in the
microcosmos
to the lights
beyond, one
possesses
the traveler
in the chest,
a seeker of
the secret,
unrevealed
revelations,
a hidden
lover of
truth,
a flower
always
in perpetual
rebirth,
the secret
dancer
of the
night,
musing
upon the
wisdom
of how
every
human
holds the
aubade
within the
intricacy
of their
silver
scales,
in the
deeper
tides
of eyes
meeting
to become
one in the
balladry
of being
within each
other’s gaze,
for eyes reveal
the drifters,
who sail in
the ocean
of words
and catch
her star-dew,
where she
hears the
hidden,
secluded
symphonies,
they reveal
the lights
of their
own as
time, the
mysterious
one, flows
her fabric
and they
grow closer
to one, she
watches
upon them
unfolding,
as she
opens
her wings,
they close
their eyes,
when two
had once
seeked
to be other
than the
truth of self,
from their
chests are
opening
butterflies,
they awaken
in their
cocoon,
awaiting
the voyage
to the
moon,
the poet
sits by his
window,
and softly
sung “all of
what the
eyes see
in bloom
is poetry”
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC