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Poems about Things that Break II

Poems about Things that Break II These are poems about things that break and/or shatter. 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, The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times Resemblance by Michael R. Burch Take this geode with its rough exterior? crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ... a diode of amethyst?wild, electric; its sequined cavity?parted, revealing. Find in its fire all brittle passion, each jagged shard relentlessly aching. Each spire inward?a fission startled; in its shattered entrails?fractured light, the heart ice breaking. Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition 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 as 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 husks into some raging ocean and laugh as they shatter, 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. Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse Distances by Michael R. Burch There is a small cleanness about her, as if she has always just been washed, and there is a dull obedience to convention in her accommodating slenderness as she feints at her salad. She has never heard of Faust, or Frost, and she is unlikely to have been seen rummaging through bookstores for mementos of others more difficult to name. She might imagine “poetry” to be something in common between us, as we write, bridging the expanse between convention and something . . . something the world calls “art” for want of a better word. At night I scream at the conventions of both our worlds, at the distances between words and their objects: distances come lately between us, like a clean break. Published by Verse Libre, Triplopia and Lone Stars The Ruins of Balaclava by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades of castles?once your indisputable pride? are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids. Carved into marble, regal boasts were made! Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied! Now shattered splendors long since cast aside beside the dead here also brokenly laid. The Greeks erected shimmering marble here. The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight. The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night. Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer as strange black banners, flapping overhead, mark where the past piles high its nameless dead. Once Upon a Frozen Star by Michael R. Burch Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields and did not know ourselves for weight of snow upon our laden parkas? White as sheets, as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands thrust deep into our pockets, holding what we thought were tickets home: what did we know of anything that night? Were we deceived by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who? And if that night I looked and smiled at you a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand, so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished upon a frozen star . . .  that I could give you something of myself to keep you warm . . . yet something still not love . . . if I embraced the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . . How could I know the years would strip away the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay your heart of consolation, that my words would break like ice between us, till the void of words became eternal? Oh, my love, I never knew. I never knew at all, that anything so vast could curl so small. Eras Poetica II by Michael R. Burch Poetry is the art of words: beautiful words. So that we who are destitute of all other beauties exist in worlds of our own making; where, if we persist, the unicorns gather in phantomlike herds, whinnying to see us; where dark flocks of birds, hooting, screeching and cawing, all madly insist: “We too are wild migrants lost in this pale mist which strangeness allows us, which beauty affords!” We stormproof our windows with duct tape and boards. We stockpile provisions. We cull the small list of possessions worth keeping. Our listless lips, kissed, mouth pointless enigmas. Time’s bare pantry hoards dust motes of past grandeurs. Yet here Mars’s sword lies shattered on the anvil of the enduring Word. Keywords/Tags: break up, depression, divorce, emotions, farewell, goodbye, heartbreak, broken, breaking, shatter, shattered, parting, relationships, heart, heartache, loneliness, sorrow, sad

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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