#rondeau
I find it truly funny
You were such a dummy
To believe that you'd expect remorse?
Truly funny
Your obituary is truly crummy
With all of the people you loved so dearly, well, now you're a mummy
I touch the ground you were layed and it is coarse
You dying is so comedic
I hear people whisper that they hung around you for money
Truly funny
Your feelings were hoarse
I'd like to reinforce
That your death was completely deserved, and my life is now sunny
You dying is so comedic
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 4:17 PM UTC
A waltz that begins to-and-fro
It moves from step with a graceful flow
The waltz we see seems so sweet
But we don't see them yearn to fleet
Fleet from this love that is so very faux
The love that's shown seems to grow and grow
Till the growing can no longer go
With warm and kind hands they greet
A tiptoed waltz
A love that one must continue to row
The love that truly emanates a glow
To see this love seems as if a treat
It seems so true and seems so neat
But no one could tell that this love was only a show
A tiptoed waltz
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
Another typical bright summer Tuesday,
On the left side of the road, it was my dismay
As we both head north — to bricks you call home
And to bricks no matter, I termed dome
For how long I wish to un-recall
A talk would never bend the wall.
I am not the one who’s standing on thin ice
Moments my heart to explode, I felt the haze
Your palm was covering the west part of your face
Shadows that meant beneath your feet with ease,
Hiding from the sun that has been always in the east.
To whom were your empathy in disguise?
Be one of my achievements — all I asked for
Only to ghost the reflection of good rapport
I never knew you would belong to hundreds I once had;
The revelation I would never be prepared in olympiad
That’s how I conclude during months of my isolation,
One's age does not define one's sophistication.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 2:09 AM UTC
The changing seasons are not more changefull
Then my mistresse; neither more vengefull
Is the wooing autumn wind that seduceth
A singing mood afore it blasteth
With bitter colde, angry and disdainfull.
Her scorne is lyke a scorpion sting painfull
In my sad heart wich bleedeth for banefull
Her who presently nowe observeth
The changing seasons.
Her cruell scorne capricious entiseth
My heart to dispaire; itt dispaireth
Dailye and dieth from disese most carefull.
Her scorne doth make my harte most woefull,
And so my smartyng heart despiseth
The changing seasons.
Oct 12, 2024
Oct 12, 2024 at 12:21 AM UTC
You are the rhyme
that refrains
into
my Rondeau Prime.
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 11:50 AM UTC
Rondels, Roundels and Rondeaux
These are poetic forms similar to villanelles, with refrains (repeated lines) and sometimes double refrains.
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/modernization 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/modernization 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.
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.
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: 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).
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!
NOTE: An eternal hell cannot be justified. Nothing can be learned from eternal suffering except that the creation of life was the ultimate act of evil. The creator of an eternal hell would be infinitely cruel and should never have created any creature that might possibly end up there. That so many Christians do not understand this suggests they lack the knowledge of good and evil and were rooked by their "god" in the Garden of Eden or have been bamboozled by heartless and mindless theologians.
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.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
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.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
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!
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood," facing a similar fate?
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?
NOTE: The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."
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.
Published by The HyperTexts and The Chained Muse
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.
Floating
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs ...
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler ...
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm *******
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
This is one of my more surreal poems, as the sea and lover become one. I believe I wrote this one at age 19. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem may have had a different title when it was originally published, but it escapes me ... ah, yes, "Entanglements."
Sonnet: Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy's a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya(India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times
Righteous
by Michael R. Burch
Come to me tonight
in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,
spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.
Gather your hair
and pin it up, knowing
that I will release it a moment anon.
We are not one,
nor is there a scripture
to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,
but the swarms
of bright stars revolving above us
revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.
Published in Writer’s Gazette and Tucumcari Literary Review
R.I.P.
by Michael R. Burch
When I am lain to rest
and my soul is no longer intact,
but dissolving, like a sunset
diminishing to the west ...
and when at last
before His throne my past
is put to test
and the demons and the Beast
await to feast
on any morsel downward cast,
while the vapors of impermanence
cling, smelling of damask ...
then let me go, and do not weep
if I am left to sleep,
to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps,
only a little longer and more deep.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch
“Burn Ovid” - Austin Clarke
Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.
I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, ************ ******
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.
What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?
“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,
cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,
my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:
all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.
This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. Another poem, *** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year.
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling:
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973.
The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch
The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,
the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,
the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,
the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,
the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,
rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.
The Stake
by Michael R. Burch
Love, the heart bets,
if not without regrets,
will still prove, in the end,
worth the light we expend
mining the dark
for an exquisite heart.
Originally published by The Lyric
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.
in-flight convergence
by michael r. burch
serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city ――― extend ―――
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command
here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
descend,
they abruptly
part ――― ways,
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience
and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.
Originally published by The Aurorean and subsequently nominated for the Pushcart Prize
Absence
by Michael R. Burch
Christ, how I miss you!,
though your parting kiss is still warm on my lips.
Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips
and the dishes are all stacked away.
You left me today ...
and each word left unspoken now whispers regrets.
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 "Rondels"
Keywords/Tags: rondel, roundel, rondeau, villanelle, refrain, repetition, poetic form, poetics, poetic expression, Chaucer, Orleans, love, art, beauty, mercy, merciless, words, heart, hearts, pity, pride, prison
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
Domestic life, wouldn’t it be nice,
wine in hand, topped with ice.
Your hair shining ginger in the sun,
at the BBQ, loading sausages in buns
as our son screams and trips over. Twice!
On Thursday we lounge and eat egg-fried rice,
all we do is laugh and you say: 'This is Paradise.'
Then we shout over cake, it’s overdone!
Domestic life.
You see my tears and hug me, feels nice.
You’re still the man with the best advice.
So take me to Harvester, just for fun,
then we talk in funny voices to our sweet son.
Let’s drink more wine we bought half price.
Domestic life.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 5:17 PM UTC
How can you believe my eyes?
magic seeks the commonplace
morning light has passed us by
bitten tongues will bleed disgrace
All this light is empty space
illumination at a price
I don't care to show my face
how can you believe my eyes?
Left your home seeking the light
tragic, gone without a trace
stars are wandering tonight
magic seeks the commonplace
Host of a forgotten place
lost the vision to your sight
new moon waxing as it wanes
morning light has passed us by
Angels mourn the devil's night
beauty lies in fallen grace
frozen flames are burning bright
bitten tongues will bleed disgrace
Look upon my hollowed face
anemic bones can bear no lies
torn by your spellbinding ways
show me your pale heart this night
Then, I might believe my eyes
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 1:47 AM UTC
One summer day I had a dream
Of cloudless skies and clotted cream
With flowing fields of ripened grain
And you were there, bereft of pain
Your soul not ready to redeem.
Within your eyes a distant gleam
Was speaking more than voice beseem
This fleeting contact 'cross the plain
One summer day
A slip of joy has stitched the seam
That split our lives eternal stream.
Would ever sleeping be insane
Not suffer life's unending bane
To hold the mem'ry of this dream
One summer day
rc
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
It just takes one breath to catch the light
An infant spark beckoning a blaze
The sight of a burning heart never fades
One reaching hand can open more than a door
Guide you to a phase you've never been before
A single step forward to embrace the flames
It just takes one
One foray in darkness to meet with everlasting night
Fumbling through the void of an infinite haze
Without truth to guide nothing will come of your ways
Consumed by the pitch, seeking sparks to ignite
It just takes one
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 8:31 PM UTC
I remember how the sky cried
The mournful day my Nene died.
It sobbed and grieved; thought not prolonged.
Soon sunlight, through the darkness, dawned
As thought the tears had simply dried.
At once I wondered, scornfully, "Why?"
How dare you cease your crying, Sky!
How simply could the world go on?
Then I remembered...
My struggle, isn't her's. It's mine.
I hurt because I'm left behind.
For she, you see, has moved along
A better place she's set-upon.
Therefore, with mourning cast aside,
I'll remember.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
Did you know I wrote a poem yesterday?
I wrote of how a raven flew away.
I think t'was in the morning that it flew.
I don't know why it made me think of you,
But all I can think of is yesterday.
I can't finish it; not to my dismay.
I don't seem to finish many these days.
Every day I seem to think of you...
Did you know?
Even this... I hate it... It's cliche.
Every thought and feeling gone astray...
I keep running from the one thought that's too...
It's nothing that, it seems, I can subdue.
Oh, all the things that I wanted to say.
Did you know?
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
My Mother moon, I pray to you,
Bless this night with your silver hue,
Reveal your light in words I say
And deeds I do along the way
I seek the path that leads me through.
I feel your love in all that’s true,
In lunar light, a clearer view,
To calmly soothe the darkest day,
My Mother Moon.
Giving thanks and blessings too,
For gentle love in which I grew,
And though I often walk astray,
I know you love me anyway,
As I return to be with you
My Mother Moon
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
When the Sun Sleeps (Rondeau)
When the sun sleeps, I close my eyes.
Yet little to my surprise,
my body will not rest, it seems.
And my mind refuses to dream,
no matter how hard I try.
As the moon continues to rise,
bright stars smile down from the skies,
twinkling with a happy gleam,
when the sun sleeps.
Every night, I am mesmerized
when every star does harmonize
to a singular song per diem.
Captivated by every beam,
every star I memorize,
when the sun sleeps.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
His eyes, those sapphire forget-me-nots,
blue like my pen’s bleeding heart, I ought
to drown myself in his floral smile
that curls his tulips in classic style
His cheeks a soft rose, fit for a snapshot.
He sprouts hope, blossoming in my thoughts.
I’m in love with this lily of the nile
and his forget-me-not eyes
His soul down to earth, with roots that cannot
be pulled up or contained by a clay ***
A heart of marigold and mind fertile,
full of wisdom to grow the extra mile.
I love his heart, mind, his smile and whatnot
and his forget-me-not eyes.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
In the aftermath she stays by his side
Willingly oblivious to his misplaced pride
Selfishly ignoring everyone’s despair
Because she doesn’t hear the scream lingering in the air
She’ll fall into routine, hanging on for the ride
Taking anything and everything he says into stride
Until nightmares violate her bedside
And her heart is stripped bare
In the aftermath
Just like the rest of us, she’ll feel cast aside,
Causing her pain to be amplified
Regretting their affair
Because living has become too much to bear
Through eyes that see how the ones before her have died
In the aftermath
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Intentions, aren’t they always good?
You tried to do the best you could.
Though finally it came to naught,
you never gave up, never stopped
saying it’s for the greater good.
Intentions, aren’t they always good?
Seldom taking the path they should.
Noble, with a worthy cause wrought,
intentions rust.
Intentions, quite misunderstood –
even the best ones never could
right any of the wrongs they bought.
The well-meaning battles you fought
hardly could have done any good.
Intentions rust.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
I loved you so, my shining star.
From who you were, to where you've been,
to whom you've met, to what you've seen.
Your shining light is who you are.
From knighted woods to Myanmar,
some only see a lit cigar,
though to me you're a shining queen...
I loved you so.
When you're near or even afar
I'd follow you to all bazaars.
But none could possibly have seen
that something worse was our routine,
that what you'd leave was really scars.
I loved you so...
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC