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Poems about Butterflies and Bees Flight by Michael R. Burch It is the nature of loveliness to vanish as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness seek transcendence... Album by Michael R. Burch I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane— and I see how young they were, and how unwise; and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane, their blissful arc through alien blue skies... And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed— are also wings, but wings that never flew: like Nabokov’s wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed, their features never merged, remaining two... And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens or in shadows where It crept on furtive claws as It scritched Its way into their hearts, depends on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws... and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise, who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies, clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they vanish, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails, when thunder howls, when hailstones scream, when winter scowls, when nights compound dark frosts with snow... Where does the butterfly go? Where does the rose hide its bloom when night descends oblique and chill beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, where does the butterfly go? And where shall the spirit flee when life is harsh, too harsh to face, and hope is lost without a trace? Oh, when the light of life runs low, where does the butterfly go? Flight 93 by Michael R. Burch I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked why existence felt so small, so purposeless, like a Monarch 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's 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. Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring— “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai (701-762) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. Untitled Translations As autumn deepens, a butterfly sips chrysanthemum dew. —Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, 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’s hit the road again, Companion Butterfly! —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ah butterfly, what dreams do you ply with your beautiful wings? —Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly: a puff of white snow cresting mountains —Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Dry leaf flung awry: bright butterfly, goodbye! —Michael R. Burch, original haiku Will we remain parted forever? Here at your grave: two flowerlike butterflies —Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch a soaring kite flits into the heart of the sun? Butterfly & Chrysanthemum —Michael R. Burch, original haiku Performing Art by Michael R. Burch Who teaches the wren in its drab existence to explode into song? What parodies of irony does the jay espouse with its sharp-edged tongue? What instinctual memories lend stunning brightness to the strange dreams of the dull gray slug —spinning its chrysalis, gluing rough seams— abiding in darkness its transformation, till, waving damp wings, it applauds its performance? I am done with irony. Life itself sings. 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. An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion... This is one of my early poems, written around age 16.

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Poems About Butterflies and Bees

Poems about Butterflies and Bees Flight by Michael R. Burch It is the nature of loveliness to vanish as butterfly wings, batting against nothingness seek transcendence... Album by Michael R. Burch I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane— and I see how young they were, and how unwise; and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane, their blissful arc through alien blue skies... And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed— are also wings, but wings that never flew: like Nabokov’s wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed, their features never merged, remaining two... And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens or in shadows where It crept on furtive claws as It scritched Its way into their hearts, depends on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws... and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise, who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies, clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be. In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they vanish, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails, when thunder howls, when hailstones scream, when winter scowls, when nights compound dark frosts with snow... Where does the butterfly go? Where does the rose hide its bloom when night descends oblique and chill beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, where does the butterfly go? And where shall the spirit flee when life is harsh, too harsh to face, and hope is lost without a trace? Oh, when the light of life runs low, where does the butterfly go? Flight 93 by Michael R. Burch I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked why existence felt so small, so purposeless, like a Monarch 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's 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. Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring— “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai (701-762) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. Untitled Translations As autumn deepens, a butterfly sips chrysanthemum dew. —Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, 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’s hit the road again, Companion Butterfly! —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ah butterfly, what dreams do you ply with your beautiful wings? —Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly: a puff of white snow cresting mountains —Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Dry leaf flung awry: bright butterfly, goodbye! —Michael R. Burch, original haiku Will we remain parted forever? Here at your grave: two flowerlike butterflies —Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch a soaring kite flits into the heart of the sun? Butterfly & Chrysanthemum —Michael R. Burch, original haiku Performing Art by Michael R. Burch Who teaches the wren in its drab existence to explode into song? What parodies of irony does the jay espouse with its sharp-edged tongue? What instinctual memories lend stunning brightness to the strange dreams of the dull gray slug —spinning its chrysalis, gluing rough seams— abiding in darkness its transformation, till, waving damp wings, it applauds its performance? I am done with irony. Life itself sings. 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. An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion... This is one of my early poems, written around age 16.