#lilacs
(...some cherub, that's for certain)
(sonnet #wouldntwholiketoknow)
Wherefore do lilac scents waft on th'exhale
As if to cull to mind how, for intents,
By now, yes, Mother's Day both came, and hence
Tis gone? How every year I'd pile t'avail
The lilac bunches in bouquets, nor fail
To fill the vases with sweet lilac scents
For Mom on Mother's Day. This year my sense
Was far too keen: I could not bear that tale.
Delete all posts which clamor that: for her
You should craft THIS. It's been a decade. Do
The math and see I lost my brother fer
All that how few weeks ere? Oh, I'll tell too:
Two months before this Mother's Day. Is't poor
I hurt too much this year? LORD, I need You.
15May26a
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 12:31 PM UTC
Just this once,
I was standing, facing west,
and in that instance as I saw a lilac,
I smelled all the lilacs in the valley below,
by the grace of Zephyrus, I caught the scent
and I decided to remember to tell the difference,
later as I attempt'd to say yes, I have smelled lilacs,
I recall I was tempted then by remembered
honeysuckle, tempted to think a scent,
and describe it as something airy,
spiritually discerned, remembering a moment,
mentally merely life in an annual purple stage.
But I cannot smell those lilacs,
I remember smelling.
I must still be alive, what ** have we all been mad?
Who has never once been led to ponder, in truth,
not myth, nor mystery in fogs of warring prides,
proud men modeled on boys adventure tales,
brought back from the hunt, alive to tell,
it was as hard as grandma said it is, to tell
the truth as vide licet outside the cone of silence,
between boys and their face to face first ****
from a distance, it was a sparrow… I shot more,
but that first killed sparrow, I was sorrowy for.
All day at thought speed, no speaking,
listening to stirring pollinations processing
passing time in freshest Earth air, lilac scented
Half a time later I was considering urban
input delivered weekly influencing all I know,
about thinking quietly while reading opinions
for all the attention I had to spend on something.
Then, the instantness of now in print opinions,
strikes me as an experience many must feel soon,
as we codepend until we end up in the poor house,
-- better than the outhouse…
comes a holler from across the way… dementia
with peace is the same as godliness with contentment
I caught me not caring.
Not caring if I live or die, and
I found it nice, better than not so bad.
What good would I do if I could?
The old woodchuck tongue twister,
or I could whistle an old radio show tune
or paint grain by grain with gathered sand
me listening to birds I could claim to have
heard, a Western Titmouse, I can say, it may be,
then a trilling response, tickles my conscience,
theory of mind time reflex, every whenever at once.
Aha, as one particular ha, exhalatory equivalent vibe.
Viva ancient whistlesprachen, vibratory excitations, we
became the vast experiment in life lit with electricity, yes.
We were three whole urban generations deep into it,
before it reached Wickiup, on the Big Sandy, in the fifties.
Now, let's
time thicken the plot
slow to gravy consistency the vibrations tending toward,
sceptic consciousness resulting from being robbed too often,
all that I imagined too precious to replace. I lost, time and again.
Eventually, I dare say, it dawned on me, that I have seen many,
beautiful sunrises, but far fewer than sunsets, when I think
and breathe and have my being after any old diligent
Calvinist work ethic, come up short on the balance,
outlaws and inlaws on my heritage to citizenship,
who told us we could take the land, originally?
Hey, cowboy, did you ever play indian? Ask any,
I have asked a few, and I do not remember any,
but, I know indians who played cowboy and got good at it.
Maybe better than any could imagine, on a given day, a chance,
to leave any money there was involved in the catastrophe,
on the table, saying I'm all in, I'll play the next hand
dealt me… and let the winnings ride.
Not often confidence gets such a day.
Peace at any price was the bid,
if I win the *** I'll pay the cost.
If I don't I'll call today the price I paid,
Up right, not illusional delusions, eye to eye, my smile is my tell,
the truth is I won, and time is not what children can imagine, so
should any ask why we died, tell them anything you know is true,
but if you tell them we died for a lie you believe, I will haunt you.
… and that was all we heard of that.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 5:55 PM UTC
last night I laid in bed
calling my gf like I usually did
but yesterday was different
she brought up that one show-
your old favorite show
I couldn't hold back the tears
you ruined it
you ruined everything
you ruined every song I listened to
you ruined my gfs show she wanted to watch with me
you ruined the musical I was waiting to see
you ruined the words I wanted to say
you ruined every form of love I wanted to give
you ruined where my best friend lived
you ruined the idea of long distance relationships
you ruined dying your hair blue
you ruined your favorite animal
your ruined my old favorite flower
you ruined everything
and that night as I sobbed
I hoped my gf wouldn't do the same
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 12:56 PM UTC
Wintertime's hoarfrost, ice and rime
Have gone; departed hath the Gloom.
Make haste, ye maids, in Lilac Time:
Collect your Blossoms whilst they bloom.
What blooms today soon fades away:
Gather ye Lilacs while ye may,
Sith times, like Flying Saucers, zoom.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 10:54 PM UTC
If you miss me,
follow the bees.
If you miss me,
listen to the leaves.
If you miss me,
I'll be beneath
the lilac tree.
I'll wait for you;
come join me.
I'll wait for you;
come join me.
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
Winter days falling near
And pedals dancing upon the rain.
What I wouldn't give to
Have you here,
To the bloom of lilacs
Encased in frosted snow.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 11:14 PM UTC
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me; if you dust off my skin enough, you'll see traces of the sighs we exchange — spilling down gracelessly, they bruise a fragile skin. i have mastered the art of naming them after wild lilacs.
maybe for once, i can say that i am soft enough to grow flowers on my wrists. my lungs. my sternum — all the parts of me that hurt.
but i know too well all about screaming in barren lands. i have thrown my poems in a forest fire. i have forgotten how to breathe without hands around my neck. i have wished to fall on a sword, way too many times to still call these open wounds as bruises — these bruises as flowers — these flowers as soft.
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me — kindly, and yet, how can i tremble over gentle things? maybe pain isn't what it always is, and i wish to unlearn this language — the mother tongue, whose every word i know by heart. and maybe one day, when it sighs my name, i finally will stop sighing back.
but now, this bed is caving in under all these lilacs and glassy, distant eyes. oh, such a classic case of a girl gone mad at the sight of sunbeams on dying flowers — aching in silence, as she watches it all.
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me. and outside, the sun rises in vain.
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 7:20 AM UTC
Poems about Roses, Lilacs, Violets, Orchids and other Flowers
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
leave 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
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.
Deliver Us ...
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The night is dark and scary—
under your bed, or upon it.
That blazing light might be a star ...
or maybe the Final Comet.
But two things are sure: your mother’s love
and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit!
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.
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.
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.
What The Roses Don’t Say
by Michael R. Burch
Oblivious to love, the roses bloom
and never touch . . . They gather calm and still
to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves . . .
They sway, bemused . . . till rain falls with a chill
stark premonition: ice! . . . and then they twitch
in shock at every outrage . . . Soon they’ll blush
a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds,
for they’ll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop,
their petals quickly wither . . . Spindly thorns
are poor defense against the winter’s onslaught . . .
No, they are roses. Men should be afraid.
The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose
by Michael R. Burch
I lead you here to pluck this florid rose
still tethered to its post, a dreary mass
propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned
(what hand was ever daunted less to touch
such flame, in blatant disregard of all
but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose
not symbolize our love? But as I place
its emblem to your breast, how can this poem,
long centuries deflowered, not debase
all art, if merely genuine, but not
“original”? Love, how can reused words
though frailer than all petals, bent by air
to lovelier contortions, still persist,
defying even gravity? For here
beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness!
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
that 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.
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.
Because She Craved the Very Best
by Michael R. Burch
Because she craved the very best,
he took her East, he took her West;
he took her where there were no wars
and brought her bright bouquets of stars,
the blush and fragrances of roses,
the hush an evening sky imposes,
moonbeams pale and garlands rare,
and golden combs to match her hair,
a nightingale to sing all night,
white wings, to let her soul take flight...
She stabbed him with a poisoned sting
and as he lay there dying,
she screamed, "I wanted everything!"
and started crying.
Unfoldings, for Vicki
by Michael R. Burch
Time unfolds...
Your lips were roses.
... petals open, shyly clustering...
I had dreams
of other seasons.
... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming.
Night and day...
Dreams burned within me.
... flowers part themselves, and then they close...
You were lovely;
I was lonely.
... a ****** yields herself, but no one knows.
Now time goes on...
I have not seen you.
... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged...
A fire rages;
no one sees it.
... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain.
Seasons flow...
A dream is dying.
... within parched clusters, life is taking form...
You were honest;
I was angry.
... petals fling themselves before the storm.
Time is slowing...
I am older.
... blossoms wither, closing one last time...
I'd love to see you
and to touch you.
... a flower crumbles, crinkling―worn and dry.
Time contracts...
I cannot touch you.
... a solitary flower cries for warmth...
Life goes on as
dreams lose meaning.
... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm.
What Works
by Michael R. Burch
for David Gosselin
What works―
hewn stone;
the blush the iris shows the sun;
the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.
The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds tick his time away,
his sentence―one brief day in May,
a period. And then decay.
A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s languid as the sea,
seek, striving―immortality.
When gloss peels off, what works will shine.
When polish fades, what works will gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the dying buzzing in the hive
of tedious incessant bees,
what works will soar and wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,
and teach the pallid poem to seethe.
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!
If You Come to San Miguel
by Michael R. Burch
If you come to San Miguel
before the orchids fall,
we might stroll through lengthening shadows
those deserted streets
where love first bloomed...
You might buy the same cheap musk
from that mud-spattered stall
where with furtive eyes the vendor
watched his fragrant wares
perfume your *******
Where lean men mend tattered nets,
disgruntled sea gulls chide;
we might find that cafetucho
where through grimy panes
sunset implodes...
Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads,
the strange anhingas glide.
Green brine laps splintered moorings,
rusted iron chains grind,
weighed and anchored in the past,
held fast by luminescent tides...
Should you come to San Miguel?
Let love decide.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Muddy River Poetry Review
Redolence
by Michael R. Burch
Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.
Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.
And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.
Published by The Eclectic Muse and The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003
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
A Vain Word
by Michael R. Burch
Oleanders at dawn preen extravagant whorls
as I read in leaves’ Sanskrit brief moments remaining
till sunset implodes, till the moon strands grey pearls
under moss-stubbled oaks, full of whispers, complaining
to the darkening autumn, how swiftly life goes―
as I fled before love... Now, through leaves trodden black,
shivering, I wander as winter’s first throes
of cool listless snow drench my cheeks, back and neck.
I discerned in one season all eternities of grief,
the specter of death sprawled out under the rose,
the last consequence of faith in the flight of one leaf,
the incontinence of age, as life’s bright torrent slows.
O, where are you now?―I was timid, absurd.
I would find comfort again in a vain word.
Published by Chrysanthemum and Tucumcari Literary Review
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch
Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”
I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms
this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least...
The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies...
Faint scent of roses, then―a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?"
"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call―ecstatic crew!―
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."
Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch
As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until it sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.
These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.
Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.
God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.
Nightfall
by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin Nicholas Roberts
Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now,
as I await death.
The rain has ruined the unborn corn,
and the wasting breath
of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn
each ear of its radiant health.
As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth.
Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand,
half upright,
and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful,
golden birthright.
I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge
with the rapidly encroaching night.
Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite.
Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within
at the winter solstice?
What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again
from this balmless poultice,
this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands
dark legions of ravens and mice?
And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice?
I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose
and drive.
Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons
it will strive
to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory
of being alive.
Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe?
But Jack had his beanstalk
and you had your poems
and the sun seems intent to ascend
and so I also must climb
to the end of my time,
however the story
may unwind
and
end.
Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch
You come to me
out of the sun—
my dark twin, unreal...
And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel...
And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.
Keywords/Tags: flowers, roses, lilacs, violets, orchids, chrysanthemums, sunflowers, garden, petals, thorn, beauty, roots, mrbrose
Published as the collection “Poems about Roses, Lilacs, Violets, Orchids, Sunflowers and Other Flowers”
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 5:38 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
your violet candle vents
vanilla lilac scents
reminiscent of nights
spent beset by blankets
of silent flower fields
and blinks of fire flies
lighting our landscape love
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 10:44 PM UTC
your violet candle vents
vanilla lilac scents
reminiscent of nights
spent beset by blankets
of silent flower fields
and blinks of fire flies
lighting our landscape love
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
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)
Keywords/Tags: Love, lilacs, hair, wind, secrets, locket, starlight, mystery, heart, beat, tears, sea, despair, crystal, jar, distance, armor, rose, thorns, due, heart, owes
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
lillies
and lilacs
violet
and white
the scent
of sweetness
makes it
alright
bitter
sweetness
coats
my tongue
vines
creeping
with blossoms
twisting
around
the swing
and there
we sat
just you and me
your hand in mine
for eternity
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
slow down
take your time
and realize
that there's more here
for you
sit outside
in the grass
and the let the sun
taste your skin
sometimes it may feel like
you could fly
with the birds
but all you have to do
is breathe
and you'll be grounded
with the lilacs
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC
I walked through
The garden yesterday
And be-headed
The tops of daisy’s
After they repeatedly
called out your name.
I passed by the tulips
And cried with them
Understanding their pain,
I sat by the lilacs
And watched them stare
As they said
Their finally goodbyes.
However,
I passed by the roses
and watched them bloom
And I remembered the time
When the thorns told me
That only roses
Bloom for you
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
His hand clamped around her wrist,
Held firm beneath the tree.
He inhaled the fresh and warm air,
Smelled the lilac and the sea.
She glanced at him so slyly,
Warm lips curled into a grin.
If only she could tell him,
If only she could win.
When he found her in the corner
She warned him of her sin.
He pulled her from the ground then,
Her once full frame now so thin.
She told him he must leave now,
She pushed, a gentle shove.
His red lips met her chapped ones,
"I'll never leave, my only love."
But just then, two weeks later,
He placed a lily on her grave.
A tear rolled down his dry cheek,
The only one he couldn't save.
Still he sits, beneath the tree now,
Smells the lilacs and the sea.
She's just a whisper in the wind now,
"But the only whisper that's for me."
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
Fierce
Lovers
Overpowering
Waiting
Eternity
Radiating
Sorrowful
Lustful
Idealistic
Lullaby
Astonishing
Catastrophic
Sensual
Frustrating
Lonely
Oneself
Wrong
Embrace
Reminiscing
Strangers
Flowers are similar to people,
Each coexisting to brighten one another.
Two lovers locked together.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
Doomsday nurses us from the start, reigning over the watchlist of our lifetimes. I walk through the destruction in my path while ignoring the hand I dealt in it. The disillusionment falls out of your mouth and I weep tears at the sight. The end of a cycle. I nutured you whole and watched the lilacs bloom from your scalp. Started as buds but with the passage of time became weeded. I thought I breathed new life but it stands as just obliteration.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
children's park
two swings
one broken
childhood memories
a desire to time travel
i know i can do it
nightfall
barely any trace of humanity
darkness
cold and clear sky
feet take me to the swing
only now
as an adult
do i feel
the infinite poetry in swinging
swinging alone
in the dark,
head up to the sky,
eyes asking for salvation from the hidden stars
give me your blue peace
take me up forever
breathe your infinite void into my soul
heart keeps hoping for a flight
eyes keep looking at the sky
soul's afraid to miss a second of the infinite silence
even the screech of the old iron swing
can't break the harmony
it's the harmony itself
it's the universal sadness
mind awakens the feet
fears return -
darkness,
aloneness,
strangers passing by
spreading more fear
with their cold eyes-
the swing stops
the illusion of reality returns-
get me home,
i feel belonging in those four walls
only when sleep aggravates on my eyes-
other times it's all about incessant estrangement...
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
He once told me lilacs were his favorite
For such a yellow man to love a purple flower
Dichotomy at its best
But they say opposites attract
The flower of rejection
I miss him
But he was never mine to start with
These days...
He exists in every lilac I see
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
I wish my mind wouldn't run off wild sometimes,
Or at the very least take my heart with it.
There is so much for us to live for.
I truly am sorry for my nasty remarks and
my uncanny ability of slamming the door.
I was triggered by something and cant seem to shake it.
Do you love me any less or am I just crazy?
Are these merely my demons resurfacing?
You probably thought I was all lilacs and daisies.
Well if that's what you thought, you thought wrong.
I lost some control, I'll admit.
But I can only apologize for so long.
Instead of taking your frustrations out on me,
why don't you look to the person who put the damage in me?
I wish I could be different just for you,
Cause you deserve everything under the moon.
I wish for your sake I was all Lilacs and Daisies.
I can think of no one who deserves that more than you.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
The lilacs are blooming spreading their fragrance throughout the air it's scent is fresh and crisp and cheerful.
May we be like the lilacs may our life be pleasant to those around us.
Let us create positive relationships that will inspire others and be like a lasting fragrance that will be remembered long after our season on earth is through. Let us leave those lives that we touch much better off than when we first found them. Let us strive to build each other up on a daily basis and be a cheerful and encouraging presence to those lives that we touch. Be a lasting fragrance starting today!
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Some people want a legacy
like the lion:
its roar is loud and rich in pride.
I want a legacy like the lilacs gracing her neck:
soaked in desire,
and laced with something unmistakable.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
soft light lips
just hanging from a stem
easy smooth rips
from their fresh new hem
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC