Salvation of a Formalist, An Ode To Entropy

Salvation of a Formalist, an Ode to Entropy by Michael R. Burch Entropy? God's universal decree That I get to be Disorderly? Suddenly My erstwhile boxed-in verse is free? Wheeeeee! Eternal Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? 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. 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. 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. Shock by Michael R. Burch It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom, with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom— that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain... and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane. The Sky Was Turning Blue by Michael R. Burch Yesterday I saw you as the snow flurries died, spent winds becalmed. When I saw your solemn face alone in the crowd, I felt my heart, so long embalmed, begin to beat aloud. Was it another winter, another day like this? Was it so long ago? Where you the rose-cheeked girl who slapped my face, then stole a kiss? Was the sky this gray with snow, my heart so all a-whirl? How is it in one moment it was twenty years ago, lost worlds remade anew? When your eyes met mine, I knew you felt it too, as though we heard the robin's song and the sky was turning blue. Solicitation by Michael R. Burch He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman, and his eyes are on my eyes like a snake’s on a bird’s— quizzical, mesmerizing. He cocks his head as though something he heard intrigues him (although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense; his words are full of desire and loathing, and although I hear, he says nothing that I understand. The moon shines—maniacal, *****—as he takes my hand and whispers "Our time has come!" ... and so we stroll together along the docks where the sea sends things that wriggle and crawl scurrying under rocks and boards. Moonlight in great floods washes his pale face as he stares unseeing into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine, and my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face. He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared. His teeth are long, yellow and hard. His face is bearded and haggard. A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp. My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly. He likes it like that. Songstress by Michael R. Burch for Nadia Anjuman Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart must flutter wildly, O, and always sing against the pressing darkness: all it knows until at last it feels the numbing sting of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes, imposing night on one who clearly saw. Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw– envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe. And yet it was not death so much as you who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing! But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren! Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again. Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace, you climb, skittish kite . . . What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there, so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall, spread-eagled, as the canvas snaps and flaps its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. 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. The State of the Art (?) by Michael R. Burch Has rhyme lost all its reason and rhythm, renascence? Are sonnets out of season and poems but poor pretense? Are poets lacking fire, their words too trite and forced? What happened to desire? Has passion been coerced? Must poetry fade slowly, like Latin, to past tense? Are the bards too high and holy, or their readers merely dense? Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within?