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Sonnets LII-LX
Sonnets LII-LX The Endeavors of Lips by Michael R. Burch How sweet the endeavors of lips: to speak of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak: for there is no illusion like love... Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days, for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways that curled to the towers of Yesterdays where She braided illusions of love... "O, let down your hair!"?we might call and call, to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall... but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl like a spidery illusion. For love... was never as real as that first kiss seemed when we read by the flashlight and dreamed. Sonnet published by Romantics Quarterly Loose Knit by Michael R. Burch She blesses the needle, fetches fine red stitches, criss-crossing, embroidering dreams in the delicate fabric. And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, she tells herself reality is not as threadbare as it seems... that a little more darning may gather loose seams. She weaves an unraveling tapestry of fatigue and remorse and pain;... only the nervously pecking needle pricks her to motion, again and again. Free verse sonnet published by The Chariton Review as “The Knitter” 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 breasts... 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. 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 minions of 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. Sonnet published by Chrysanthemum Chloe by Michael R. Burch There were skies onyx at night...moons by day... lakes pale as her eyes...breathless winds undressing 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. Sonnet published by Romantics Quarterly Aflutter by Michael R. Burch This rainbow is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh.?Yahweh You are gentle now, and in your failing hour how like the child you were, you seem again, and smile as sadly as the girl (age ten?) who held the sparrow with the mangled wing close to her heart. It marveled at your power but would not mend. And so the world renews old vows it seemed to make: false promises spring whispers, as if nothing perishes that does not resurrect to wilder hues like rainbows’ eerie pacts we apprehend but cannot fail to keep. Now in your eyes I see the end of life that only dies and does not care for bright, translucent lies. Are tears so precious? These few, let us spend together, as before, then lay to rest these sparrows’ hearts aflutter at each breast. To Flower by Michael R. Burch When Pentheus "grief' went into the mountains in the garb of the baccae, his mother Agave and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart. The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate. We are not long for this earth, I know? you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world? The Agave knows best when it's time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind, she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow? Sonnet published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Flight 93 by Michael R. Burch I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked why existence felt so small, so purposeless, like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp... vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch to OFF... I heard the klaxon-shrill alarms like vultures’ shriekings...earthward, in a stall... we floated...earthward...wings outstretched, aghast like Icarus...as through the void we fell... till nothing was so beautiful, so blue... so vivid as that moment...and I held an image of your face, and dreamed I flew into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew such comfort, in that moment, loving you. Free verse sonnet published by The Lyric
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