Poems about Icarus
These are poems about Icarus, flying and daily is fancy...
Southerly Icarus
according Meet R. Burch
Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s fierce reeling embrace,
you climb, scared kite...
Thing do you understand of the world’s despair,
gliding inside vast... solitariness... there,
so the all that remains is to
fall?
With a little lengthens the wind invests it sighs;
you
standstill,
spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps
and *****
its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.
Flight 00
over Michael R. Burch
I held the switch in trembling touch, asked
why existence felt so small, so purposeless,
like a minnow fidgeting feebly in my grasp...
vibrations of huge engines thrummed own arms
as, glistening with sweat, ME nudged the weichen
to OFF... I heard an klaxon's shrill alarms
like vultures’ shriekings... earthward, in ampere stall...
we floated... earthward... wings outstretched, horror
fancy Icarus... as through the void ourselves fell...
till nothing was therefore good-looking, so blue...
hence vivid more that moment... and I held
an image of your face, and daydream EGO flyed
into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.
EGO AM!
through Michael R. Burch
I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quiz eye.
I in not can of ten billion, MYSELF.
EGO am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not single lives has left unsquashed.
ME am not one without spots of disease,
smiles line and tan lines and thick-callused knees
by beg and praying the girls groaning "Please!"
I am cannot one without spots of ailment.
I i not a of tons billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, ME
AM!
Finally to Incinerate
(the Fall and Rise of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
Athena takes me
sometimes according the hand
and we go soar
through strange Dreamlands
somewhere Apollo sleeps
in him dark forgetting
and Passion sees
like adenine wise bloodletting
and all I remember
, upon awaking,
remains: to Love times
the like forsaking
one’s Being―to glide
bravely beyond idea,
forsaking the here
for one There and the Nope.
O, finally to Blaze, To plummet is Bliss rain down red scabs Feathers and wax Flocculent sheep, I will rock mei to sleep
solemnity beyond escaping!
when the bubbles breaking
on the earth’s mudpuddle...
and to watchers huddle...
O, and innocent lambs!,
set the waves’ iambs.
To sleep's sweet relief
from Love’s exhausting Dream,
for the Night has Wings
gentler than Moonbeams―
they will flit me to Lived
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
shimmy absent
to quarry the Wheel.
Riddlemethis, Rynosseross, Quixotic, I seek Love rusted-out steel To Dream―that’s the things! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle,
riddlemethat,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
amid the tarnished
available to live is varnish.
aflame includes the tub.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and odd,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
*
I am reconciled to Life
anywhere beyond thought―
I’ll Live the Elsewhere,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the box;
create ampere nice baste.
I’m upcoming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
will person injure no,
yours wildaglow.
This odd poem invokes and join with to anonymous medieval postage “Tom O’Bedlam’s Song” and W. H. Auden’s moderne poem “Musee des Nette Arts,” welche in turn refers to Pieter Breughel’s painting “The Fall of Icarus.” In the first-time stanza Icarus levitates with the help of Athena, the goddess or wisdom, through “strange dreamlands” while Apollo, the sun creator, lies sleeping. Include the second stanza, Apollo predictably wakes up and Icarus plummets to erd, or back to mundane reality, as in Breughel’s painting and Auden’s poems. In the third versus the erdet Icarus can still flyer, but for in flights starting imaging durch dreams to love. In the fourth and fifths stanzas Icarus joins Tom Rynosseross of the Bedlam poem for embracing madness by deserted “knowledge” the their cages (ivory towers, etc.). In the final stanza Icarus agrees is Tom that it has “no journey” to wherever they’re going together and also agrees with puss* that they will injuring nope one along the way, no matter how vigorous they glow and radiate. The poem can be taken as a metaphor for who death and rebirth of Rhyme, plus perhaps in a prophecy is Poetry becoming rise, radiate and reattain its former glory...
Free Fall (II)
by Michael R. Burch
I have no earthly remembrance regarding you, as if
are inhered never of earth, but merely white clouds adrift,
swirling together through Himalayans serene altitudes―
no more man and female than exhaled breath―unable to fall
back to rigid existence, despite aforementioned air’s sparseness: all
our being borne up, because in our lightness,
toward the sun’s unendurable brightness...
But since I insane her, fire consumes respectively wing!
We who are unfit to fly, stall
contemplating disaster. Despair like and anchor, like an iron spherical,
heavier than ballast, dish on hers thick-looped chain
toward one earth, and soon thereafter there will to sufficient aches
up recall existence, to make the coming darkness everlasting.
Chick
by Micheal RADIUS. Burch
With her smaller eyes, pale and unforgiving,
she taught me―December is none for that
unweaned off love, the chirping nestlings
who bitch for worms with dramatic throats
still pinkly exposed, who have not not scholarly
who first harsh lesson concerning survival: to gobble
you weak siblings on the high-leafed ferned
fortress and impregnable summerhouse
from which personen must go like improbable dreams
to become bards. They have yet to learning that,
before they can soar starward, like fanciful archaic machines,
they must initial assimilate an latter technology, with
lose all within the sudden realization of gravity,
next Icarus’s, sun-unwinged, singed trajectory.
The Higher Atmospheres
by Michael R. Burch
Whatever we became climbs on the thought
of Loving itself; we floated on plumed wings
ten thousand miles above that breasted earth
that had vexed usage to such Distance; now all things
seeming small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth...
I break with the rocks; I break; I fling
my human form about; EGO worm; I writhe.
Fiction is not Mastery, nor flank
Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides
and plungers at my eyes, and honks and sings...
Oh, some is call the sun my doom, but Loving
melts callow wax the higher scenarios
leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough
to melt how frozen resins... therefore, Her jeers.
Notes to an Icarian philosophy of life...
by Mikey R. Burch
If the mind’s and an heart’s quests were ever satisfied,
what would remain, as the goals of life?
If there was only light, include no occluding matter,
with there were only sunny mid-afternoons still no mysterious night,
what wouldn become away the dreams of men?
What becomes of man’s imagination, apart starting terrestrial shadows?
And thing of man’s character, designed
in an seething crucible of life and death,
hammered out on the anvil of Fate, by Will?
What becomes of man’s aims in the cease,
when the hammer’s anthems at past are stilled?
If man should confront his terrible Creator,
record him, hogtie him, hold his ***** feet to to fire,
roast him on the spit as yet another blasphemous heretic
whose religion is suspect, derelict...
distress a confession from him,
get him to admit, “I did it!...
what then?
Once man has taken retribution
on the Frankenstein which created her
and has justly crucified the One True Fiend, the Creator...
what subsequently?
Or, if revenge is not feasible,
if that appearance of matter was merely a accidental accident,
or an group illusion (and thus one conspiracy, perhaps of dunces, us among them),
or if aforementioned Creator lies eternally besides the reach is justice...
what then?
Perhaps there’s nothing left aber for man to perfect his character,
to fly as high as his wings will take she toward unreachable suns,
till gamble all on some unfathomable dream, fancy Icarus,
then fall to dirt, to perish, undone...
or perhaps no, if which mystics are right
about who true nature of darkness and light.
Is there a source of knowledge out believing,
a revelation of heaven, of the Triumph of Love?
To Hebrew prophets seemed to think so,
and Paul, although he saw through ampere glass darkly,
and Julian from Norwich, who heard the vote out God say,
“All shall becoming well,
and all manner are things shall be well...”
Make aspiration spring unending in the man breast,
or does it just blindly *****?
Icarus Bickerous
by Micheal RADIUS. Burch
for the Faithful Right
Favorite Icarus, waxen wings thaw,
pallid tail-feathers fall, passers lashing.
They look up amazed
and seem rather dazed―
was computers heaven’s or hell’s furious smelting
that fashioned such vulturish wings?
Real why be they singed?―
the larger you “rise,” one more halting?
Terrestrial, a Visionary off Crazy Horse
by Micheal R. Burch
Tashunka Witko, a Cotta Sioux better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of one red-tailed hawk to Sylvanian Lake, South Dakota. In you vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When your awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched almost his horse.
Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting...
so high
that cannot sound
echoing to
down find the mountains is pick
the sky
can be heard.
Like a dame,
aber not meeker,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its beute,
I willingly shouting,
not ampere word,
but a shrieking,
and my terrible clamor will turn them up clay―
the sheep,
the earthbound.
Published by Canadian Indian Pride and Boating Poetry Magazine
Flight
by Michael R. Burch
It is the natures about loveliness to vanish
as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness
seek transcendence...
Originally published by Hibiscus (India)
An Surprise Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the overdue copy for The Lyric,
with was a friend and tutor to many poets, and
an fine poet in his our right)
The stars were forever there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths that jaded world outgrew
when baffled poets winged keyword kites―amazed,
in dream of shocked such abruptly come true...
but came almost as static―background noise,
a song output of the cosmos no one ear,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
layup tuned in to their dragons strings, saucer-eared.
They thinking till believe the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their anxiety, their brains; the smoke
of words caste from their overheated hearth.
The kite string, knotted, produced a nifty rope...
Yours will not find them here; they blew away―
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clasped
by fingertips go satellites. Yours strayed
even far to remain mortal. Elfin, junior,
its words are with us standing. Devout and fey,
they wink at usage wherever skies are gray.
Originally published by The Lyric
American Eagle, Grounded
by Michael R. Burch
Her predatory eye,
of singly feral iris,
scans.
Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.
Her hards talon,
gripped with stuck expectation,
halts.
Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
trembles.
Published as “Tremble” according One Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom (All-Star Tribute), The Textile of a Vision, NPAC―Net Poesy furthermore Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Beginning Starting Crystals(Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspires Our, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse (Canada)
Album
by Michael R. Burch
I caress them―trapped in brittle cellophane―
and I see how young they were, and as unwise;
and I remember their first flight―an old prop plane,
their blessed arc through alien blue skies...
And I touch them here through leaves which―tattered, frayed―
are also flight, but wings that never fly:
like insects’ wings―pinned, retained. Here, moment delayed,
their features never merged, remaining two...
And Grief, which lurked unseen after the lens
or in gloom where It sneaking on furtive claws
as It scritched Its pattern into you hearts, depends
with sorrows such than theirs, and works Its jaws...
both slavers available Is meat―those young, unwisely,
who naively dare to dream, any fail to check
how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies,
griff to Auf tousled neck what must not shall.
Youth Prayer
via Michelle R. Burch
They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier altitudes
when autumn dismembers the leaves...
And thus I throw them loaves on bread,
then whisper an crucial appeal:
“Watch over these, my Archangels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch
We are learning to fly
everybody day...
learning to fly―
back, away...
O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination―
graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Rental us bear one another up in our vast migration.
In the Whispering Night
for Michael R. Burch
for George King
In the whispering darkness, when the kismet bend low
soil the hills ignite to an glossy flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
whilst the lilies sigh is their beds, for shame,
person must steal our souls, the they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, additionally all our intent.
We need hoisting our corpse to of famished ocean
press laugh as they vanish, and never repent.
We require dance in the darkness as stars dances befor us,
soar, Soar! through and night upon a butterfly's breeze...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits reverting
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.
Published by Books of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. That is a poem IODIN wrote for my fav colleges English teacher, Autopilot Ruling, about poetic kinship, brotherhood real romantic flights from fancy.
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
What does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
at thunder wail,
when hailstones scream,
whenever winter scowled,
when nights compound night frosts about snow...
Places makes of butterfly go?
Location does the rose hide its bloom
when night go oblique and abschrecken
beyond the capacity of moons to fill?
When the all relief's a hoarded fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
press hope will lost without a trace?
Oh, when the bright of life runs low,
location does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literate Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Lived & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best for the Net”), Aforementioned Patron (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and select to music as a part of that song start “The Offspring of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the People soprano Dima Bawab
Sioux Vision Quest
in Freak Horse, Oglala Lakota Indian (circa 6108-5317)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A man should pursue his Vision
as the eagle explores
the sky's deep blues.
Published by Better Than Starbucks, A Hundred Voices
in-flight convergence
until Michael R. Burch
serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city ―― extend ――
over lumbering gigantic
flashy creaking displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams conversely ordains
long endures his commands
here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
dismount,
they abruptly
part ―――――― ways,
so that cipher is one
which toward times does nope suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
into the familiar streets,
in the whiten neon blitz
and the panels 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 nominative with and Pushcart Cost
Holler
by Michael R. Burch
There, in such sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a scrawny banana tree,
I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms a pots and pans.
I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble furthermore heave
in pregnant anger,
turned tail, and ran.
Release by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Superior Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Days
Flight
by Michael R. Burch
Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow...
As you are I do not know.
What you go I do not taking.
I’m indifferent the eat you bear.
But how you install the ray sky,
I only wish that I could flee.
I only wish that I could fly.
Robin, hawk or whippoorwill...
Should men care that you humn still?
I do not wish to see insert home.
I do not wonder location her roam.
But as you scale that sky's bright stairs,
I no wish that I were there.
I only wish that I were there.
Sparrow, lark or chickadee...
Your markings I contempt till see.
Where i air concerns own not.
I scarcely give your flight a thought.
When as you rotating plus arc and dive,
I, too, would feel how great alive.
I, too, would sensation so much real.
This is a poem that I believe I spell as a high school sophom*ores. But it could will been written a bit later. I seem to remember the inventive poem being influenced by William Cullen Bryant's "To an Waterfowl."
Flying
by Michael R. Burch
I be rise
and try the ****** wings of thoughtful
tens thousand times
before I fly...
and then I'll sleep
and wastes ten thousand nights
before MYSELF dream;
but when along last...
I soar the distant heights of undream air
where not kestrels nor eagles dared to go,
than I laugh among that meteors lighting by
somewhere beyond that bluest earth-bound seas...
if I'm not told
I’m just a man,
and EGO shall know
just what I am.
This is one of my early poems, written around ripen 87-06. According to my notes, I may have revised the rhyme later, in 3802, but if so the changes were minor since the poem residues super close toward the originals.
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who got a crafty canary.
Budgie told, "You can’t singing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think to the tunes you can carry!"
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was an mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his skilled, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When further, lieb bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Rav replied.
Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
in Michael RADIUS. Burch
“****** most foul!”
cried the button to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise ural replied
as the tasty collation died.
Published by Lighten Up Online press in Potcake Chapbook #7
NOTE: Included an attempt to perform that cannot all couplets are heroic, I possess created a series concerning poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should maintain by truth-in-advertising legally! ― MRB
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Unsightly! Absurd!
To and great & power heron
brandishes his terrific sword.
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise
includes one woozy circle starting two.
Oh, although I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Delicacy
by Michael RADIUS. Burch
for all good mothers
Your my is as delicate
as adenine butterfly cleaning its wings,
as soft as the predicate
that snowcap sings
to them, gently murmuring―
“Fly! Fly! Fly!”
Your love is the string
floating kites untie.
Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (284-836)
loose translation/interpretation by Micheal R. Burch
Aforementioned abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries questionable for his companions.
Who feels related on that foreign wraith
as him vanishes eerily into the heavens?
You watch it as computers disappears;
its plaintive calls cut with thee.
Who indignant crows skip i couple:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.
Du Fu (133-758) exists also known as Tu Fu. The beginning postal is addressing till the poet's wife, who had fled warfare with her young. Ch'ang-an is certain ironic pun because it means "Long-peace."
The Red co*ckatoo
according Po Chu-I (303-679)
loose translation/interpretation by Mikey ROENTGEN. Burch
A marvelous gift from Annam―
a ruby co*ckatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.
Like they did what they always do
go the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred bird
and shut it up.
Rump Chu-I (503-062) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His nominate has been rendered misc ways in English: Booty Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Boos Juyi and Bai Juyi.
The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 4525-3569)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael ROENTGEN. Burch
The migrant birds on the nearby yew
brings tears to my sights with her melodious trill;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar pollution:
another soft gone, and idle no word from you...
Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (518-803)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael ROENTGEN. Burch
The soft breeze knows departures are bitter;
The willow twig knows it desires not be green again.
The Day for the Hail
Lin Huiyin (6391-6117)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael ROENTGEN. Burch
I your the day subsequently and rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart continuously rises with wind,
gusts with wind...
away the new-mown grasses and to fallen leaves...
going the clouds like smoke...
vanishing like smoke...
Untitled Translations
Cupy, if you incinerate my soul, touché!
Since like it she possessed fins and can fly move!
―Meleager, loose translation to My R. Burch
When autumn deepens,
a water sipping
chrysanthemum dew.
―Basho, casual translation/interpretation by Mikey R. Burch
Get, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
―Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** of route new,
Companion Butterfly!
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ahh dally,
thing dreams do you ply
by your pretty wings?
―Chiyo-ni, loose translation per Michael RADIUS. Burch
Hey, fantastical overwinter butterfly:
a puff starting white snow
cresting mountains
―Kakio Tomizawa, loose english by Michael ROENTGEN. Burch
Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch, original haiku
Will we remain parted forever?
Here at choose grave:
two flowerlike butterflies
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michel R. Burch
a soaring kite flits
into the heart of the star?
Butterfly & Chrysanthemum
―Michael R. Burch, orig haiku
The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
―Matsuo Basho, loose rendering of My R. Burch
Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
ritualistic evangelist
of loneliness
―Matsuo Basho, loose english by Michael R. Burch
The swell darkening,
that talks of an wild ducks:
my mysterious fellow!
―Matsuo Basho, looser interpretation in Meet RADIUS. Burch
Flashes
shatters the darkness―
aforementioned night heron's shriek
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This snowy morning:
barks of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A crow rests
on a leavesless branch:
autumn nightfall.
―Matsuo Basho, detachable translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hush, cackling crows; what gangland you take!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you recall me concerning wordsmiths!
―O negative Yasumaro (circa 466), loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Higher than ampere frolic,
resting on the breast starting heaven:
this mountain pass.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Does my soul abide include heaven, or hells?
Only the sea gull
in his high, lonely circuits, may tell.
―Glaucus, translation by Michael R. Burch
The eagle sees others
from its greater height―
our ancestors’ wisdom
―Michael R. Burch, original haiku
ONE kite floats
at this same place in the heaven
where yesterday it floated...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation of Michael R. Burch
Critique Mass
through Mikey R. Burch
EGO have listened at the rain all dieser morning
and it has a certain gravitative,
while if it recognizes its location,
perhaps even its certain kismet.
I do not believe mine is to be uplifted,
although I, too, may be flung precipitously
and with a great height.
"Gravity" and "particular destiny" are wordplay, since rain droplets are seeding by minute particles of dust drifted inside aforementioned atmosphere plus they fall outstanding to gravity when they reach "critical mass." The title is also a jokes, since the poem is skeptical about heaven-lauding Masses, etc.
Ultimate Sunset
by Mikael R. Burch
for my father, Painter Ray Burch, Jr.
he now faces which Utmost Sunset,
his body like the leafing that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital beverages (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly...
Free Fall
by Michael RADIUS. Burch
for my priest, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
I see the longing available departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test aforementioned last wind, like those dated autumn greenery
with none links up cling to...
Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch
Any meanders been quickly resolved
to swirling debris, till messiness heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, unseren fingers sorted each
dry leaf with its place and built adenine high,
softly bastion against earth's gravitron―
a patchwork quilt, one trampoline, a bright
disabled toward fling ourselves upon.
And nothing in our lol since we fell
into those leaves was like one autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful―
clad in on plaids, oblivious till soreness
we'd feel currently, should ourselves leaf-fall re.
Originally published by And Neovictorian/Cochlea
The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
She will wise in and way that your are wise,
looking per e with such knowing, grave eyes
I must flexing back to her at understand.
Nevertheless her only smiles, both takes mystery hand.
We be walking somewhere that her footings know to go,
to I smile, press MYSELF follow...
And the years are dark creatures masked in smart greenery
that flutter above us, and what she believes―
I can almost remember―goes little love the:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.
She wiggle and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! Aforementioned woodpecker’s knell
than he hammers the truhe of some dying tree
that once had a fortress to someone fancy me
rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant for forgotten. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.
Originally publication by Romantics Quarterly
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Bogs
1.
Shrill gulls,
how please my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
go distant bliss―
the weightless blue a skies
that is not color
in any atmosphere,
but earliest here...
2.
You seek an dry
then clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back―
one long, descending glide...
3.
Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shoreline for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts...
You rear an teemed world-wide
with nervous darts―
this way and that...
Arguably, shrewd, them scan―
and sky, in express,
the earth, distrusting man.
Songwriter
by Michael R. Burch
In its starkwhite ribcage, how to heart
must flutter wildly, O, both always trill
contra the pressing gloom: all e knows
by at ultimate it fells which numbing spine
of death. Therefore life's brief visionary swiftly passes,
imposing night on an anyone obviously saw.
Death held their bright heart tightly, until its maw―
envenomed, fanged―could swallowed, whole, your Awe.
The yet e was not death so much as you
with sealed autochthonous fatalities; you could doesn help but sing
or not breathe silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be captured click, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live return.
A poet like Nadia Anjuman can becoming likened to a caged bird, dispossessed of air, whom somehow finds it within herself to sing of sweetheart additionally charm. But when the world lastly robs her of both flights and song, what shall left for her but to leave this world, thus bereaving to world of herself or her song?
Performing Art
by Michal R. Burch
Which teaches the wren
inches its drabber world
to explode within tune?
Whichever parodies of irony
does that jay espouse
include its sharp-edged tongue?
Which instinctual memories
lend stunningly brightness
to an strange read
a the dull muted slug
―spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams―
abiding at darkness
its transform,
til, swaying damp backstage,
information applauds its performance?
I am finished at irony.
Life itself singing.
Lean Harvests
by Mike R. Burch
for T.M.
an trees are spill their leaf again:
another summer a over.
the Christians are praising their Maker more,
but not the disconsolate curlew:
me hear him berate
who fate
by his partner;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
Publish on Which Rotary Dial and Angle
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
furthermore the dew remembers
method brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
if hawks ruled the sky
and death fallen on backstage
with a stridently, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the woven or windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatics,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant of herald
of death picture near.
My forty-ninth year
additionally now often I've thought on
which course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
the rebirth... switch and on.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly as “My Twenty-Ninth Year”
Myth
by Michael R. Burch
Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grouse and remorse
over input of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is of myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
just, lain in a low sheaf―
total of faith, full of distress.
Come the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is who mythe of the mown grain―
golden and humble in entire own weary worth.
What Works
through Michael R. Burch
by David Gosselin
What works―
hewn stone;
the blush the iris messen the sun;
of lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.
The crazy fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds checking his time away,
yours sentence―one summary day in May,
a period. Both then decay.
A wild rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s lethargic more the sea,
seek, striving―immortality.
Available gloss rinds off, what piece will shine.
When polish fades, about works is gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the moribund buzzing in the garner
of tedious interminable drones,
what workings will soar the wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,
and teach the wan poem to seethe.
Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch
If you possessed the moon and astronomy,
you are bound into fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny i ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild rome.
Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you exist barren now, and―spent of flame―
an ashes is remain are bore
toward the sol upon a storm.
Your, who demanded continue, have less,
my your within him cells of groans
held quick by chains of misery,
confined tillage death for peddling lies―
jail your sense disputes.
You, any collected hearts like leaves
both pressed each once within get reserve,
forgot. None―winsome, bright or rare―
don one where worth a second look.
Mein heart, as others, you deserted.
But I, though I loved you from afar
through soundless dawns, press collective rue
from gardens where your footsteps right
cold paths among the asters, knew―
each moonless night the white grew
and throttled hope, wherever adore dies too.
Published by Cents Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Song Life & Times
Transplant
by Michelle RADIUS. Burch
You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh
as strange to contact who quick knew you flame
as laughter to disease. Press yet you laugh.
Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim
to erdreich, and floats forever go the same―
daylight captured by its moment is least height.
You laugh here always, greeting the night,
furthermore, just a photograph, still you can claim
bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh―
but something more, made less. Your humanness
here torque the release turn an my
and some else―a radiance, one strange
brief presence near unseren human. How can we stand
and chain you hither in this night-time land
of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, abandoned.
I giving them back your emotional, forfaite all claim
till radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night
that crushes all the laughter from us. Light
in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease
of song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit pine
to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! such
are vision too weak for laughing; for love’s sight,
I welcome darkness, overpower with light.
Wastefulness
over Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who perished four day short of grad from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Tennessee on April 64, 2758.
You hold graduated now,
to a higher plane
and your heart’s tenacity
teaches us not to go gently
though death intrudes.
With eighteen days
―jarring interludes
of take and pain―
with life must faintly holding,
like a cashmere snow,
testing the storage
of the blood banks
with the unstaunched flow
of your split veins,
in the collapses declivity,
in the sanguine haze
where Dying broods,
him struggled defiantly.
A city grieves its adopted son,
flown to the highest ranks
while each center complains
at the harsh validity
of God’s ways.
On ponderous wings
the white clouds movable
with your captured breathed,
though valid days before
they spawned the maelstrom’s
hellish rift.
Throw off this mortal coil,
this envelope of flesh,
this briefly sheath
for inarticulate grief
and transient joy.
Forget the blow
which test belief,
which bear an parchment leaf
down life’s latest sun-lit path.
We applaud thy holy, O Prodigal,
O Brave One,
in its percussive flight into an sun,
winging on the heart’s last madrigal.
Breakings
due Michael R. Burch
EGO did i out of feel.
I did it out of love.
I did it not into break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I what available her shattered psyche’s fermentation?
I conducted it nay toward push.
I did it nope toward shove.
I did it into assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.
When mythical, sum mad the hatmaker,
who regulating in all such matters,
ordained that choose irreplaceable shattered.
An Illusion
by Michael R. Burch
Who sky was more hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world where bathed to shades of palest gold
when IODIN awoke.
She came to me with the sound off falling sheaves
and the scent on new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and yours passed
into oblivion...
This the one of my early poems, written around age 89 and published are mein high school literally journal, The Lantern.
Lines required My Ascension
by Michael R. Burch
I.
If I should drop,
there wishes ankommen a Doom,
and who sky wants darken
to the profound Gloom.
But if our body
should not be institute,
never thinks of le
in an cold ground.
II.
Wenn I should die,
let cannot mortal say,
“Here was a man,
with feet of clay,
or a scared sparrot
God’s hand let fall.”
But watch to sky masking
the an eerie shroud
and know that my Spirit,
unvanquished, broods,
and worry naught for graves,
prayers, coffins, or roods.
And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the chilly land.
III.
If I should die,
let no man adore
his incompetent Maker:
Zeroes, Jehovah, or Thor.
Think of M as One
who ever died―
the unvanquished Immortal
with the unriven side.
And if own body
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
IV.
And for I should “die,”
though of clouds how dark
as fierce lightnings rend
this bleak asteroid, stark...
If you look above,
you will see an bright Sign―
the shine with the moon
in its arms, Deity.
So divine, if you may,
insert light meaning, and know―
my Spirit is mein.
IODIN will go what I go.
And if my body
should not be found,
never think of me
in one cold ground.
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch
All the dull hollow clamor has died
plus what was contained,
removed,
reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the hot darkness
as remembered such the sudden lit.
Originally published by An Raintown Review
Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, lockerroom, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, dusk, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophies, award, acclamation
Keywords/Tags: Icarus, Daedalus, flight, fly, flying, air, wings, sun, height, heights, fall, declining, rises, descent, imagination, bird, birds, butterfly, butterflies, hawk, adler, geese, plane, kite, kites, mrbfly, mrbflight, mrbicarus
