Long Waltz Poems

State of the Art (III)

These are my "ars poetica" poems: the ones about the art and craft of writing poetry in a modern world that doesn't always recognize the artists or their work. 



Come Down
by...

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Sonnets LXI-LXX

Erin
by Michael R. Burch

All that’s left of Ireland is her hair?
bright carrot?and her milkmaid-pallid skin,

her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children?some conceived in sin,

the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of...

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Poems about Poems IV

The Toast
by Michael R. Burch

For longings warmed by tepid suns
(brief lusts that animated clay),
for passions wilted at the bud
and skies grown desolate and gray,
for stars that fell from tinseled heights
and mountains bleak...

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Beckoning
by Michael R. Burch 
 
Yesterday the wind whispered my name
while the blazing locks
of her rampant mane
lay heavy on mine.
And yesterday
I saw the way
the wind caressed tall pines
in forests laced by glinting streams
and thick with...

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Juvenilia: Early Poems by Michael R. Burch

In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

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...

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Observance
by Michael R. Burch

Here the hills are old and rolling
carefully in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains...

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have...

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Brilliant writers
have recommended to younger students,
to only write if they cannot live without doing so.

Elder successful icons of artistic expression,
dance,
voice,
drama,
sculptors
have similarly advised apprentices,
do not do as I have done
unless you could do naught else.

But what...

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Sonnet LXXXI-LXXXIX

Day, and Night
by Michael R. Burch

The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters;
her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms.
And we who rise each day to grind a living,
dream each scented night of such perfumes
as drew...

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Juvenilia: Early Poems VII

These are early poems I wrote as a boy and as a teenager.

The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch

The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.

The weak implore Fate;
bold men...

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Merov’s Ghost (1) and Other Shots Across My Bow!

In mid-November of Fourteen, I published my first web verse here, (2)
the earliest spanned sixty years, composed for Senior English class
one night in Nineteen Sixty-One. Assigned just...

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ON MY MOTHER’S PASSING

i wanted to keep my mother physically with me
but it would be like trying to hold the sun
like in life she still shines brighter than any star
is as gentle as the finest...

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Poems about Poets VII

Gallant Knight
by Michael R. Burch

for Alfred Dorn and Anita Dorn

Till you rest with your beautiful Anita,
rouse yourself, Poet; rouse and write.
The world is not ready for your departure,
Gallant Knight.

Teach us to sing...

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Act 2. A dark, empty stage.

Marat
(standing up)

It's all a blur. It’s all a little dizzy. 
I just have dreamed a scary dream as if 
two vagabond philosophers robbed me
and killed. I must admit it's a...

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In the realm of moons and breathless tides,
where promises dance with a serendipitous sonnet of sunrises,
along with morning kisses, unfolds a love story—
a poetic novel etched in the chronicles
within the hourglass of time,
a journey that...

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If you spill your secrets to the breeze,
Don't blame the wind for laying them to light.
Once said, words are disclosed, even to trees.
And claim peace in the leaves that rustle and fight.
Whispered tales of a...

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The Enchanted City of Dual Realms
In the sprawling labyrinth of concrete towers and spectral glass,
where skyscrapers, like ancient obelisks, pierce the celestial veil with unyielding ambition,
serpentine rivers of fortune murmur in arcane tongues, their secrets...

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As I pivot to confront my offspring, I anticipate the sight of terror etched in their innocent eyes, a reflected horror that would mirror the abyssal darkness that has long resided within me.

Instead, I am...

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(oh, mercy ... )

amazing eye whites,
perfect and pure as glacial ice -
they draw me in,
like diving into a clear Caribbean lagoon,
fluid and cool ...
brown iris so dark in contrast,
that they're lost in the inky black...

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My friends have always hated Valentine's Day.
They ridiculed the pimply-faced boys
Whose hormone-infused offerings
Smell of Axe cologne and sweaty palms.

Greater the mocking of pubescent princesses
Who prance and twirl and collect tokens
From admirers like shells on a...

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“Blue Angels, Black Sheep, Monitors and The House of Random Penguins” 

The womb
is scooped like 
an over ripe melon
Time is the incorrigible felon,
the forgotten lost garden explored 
overturned and raked, 
neatly messed, 
in more ways...

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Coffee or tea?

Fragmented frogs frolicking fruitlessly freeing flavoursome fairy freckles,
But what of the speckled hound in the bin?
Well he growled,
He snarled,
The sole paw pilot pivoting,
How interesting was it to note though that the frogs although...

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"A White Sheet of Paper."  Part1

Once upon a time I was a white sheet of paper
Pilled between hundreds on a shelf my neighbor 
For years was an old stapler.

I was full of life yet...

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She is not with me. I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I write, for example: "The night is starry" and the stars shiver, in the distance, and thousands of echoes of silent desires
Find shelter under...

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“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”



The Dilettante Diaries: Avian Notes on the Sensate Slip Stream : The Silent War in 3 Acts

(Part 1)

Starlings singing...

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It seems to me that being born to be first is a long journey course of first an open door of loneliness unsure steps needing to apply to your name first for whatever the worth...

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