aging

These are poems about the passage of time, aging, mortality and death. 

The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch

With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.

Published by Angle, Poem Today (featured poem), Heartfelt Death Poems, Girls and Goblins and Madly Jane

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Distances
by Michael R. Burch

These are poems for fathers and grandfathers, written by Michael R. Burch.

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
       
This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

These are poems I have written about time, mortality, aging, death and loss.

Thirty
by Michael R. Burch

Thirty crept upon me slowly
with feline caution and a slowly-twitching tail ...
How patiently she waited for the winds to shift!
Now, claws unsheathed, she lies seething to assail
her helpless prey.

 

Modern Charon
by Michael R. Burch

These are my modern English translations of epigrams by ancient poets like Homer, Rumi and Seneca.

Elevate your words, not their volume. Rain gros flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch

For the gods have decreed that unfortunate mortals must suffer, while they themselves are sorrowless.
—Homer (circa 800 BC), Iliad 24.525-526, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As Fall Begins, I Look Within

Li Yi (746-829)
 
 
Ten thousand fears have come to fix my life,
As on this mirrored shore I gaze uneased—
Here all I see has turned my temples white
And now it’s time to face the autumn breeze.
 
 

Chinese   立秋前一日覽鏡 李益   萬事銷身外 生涯在鏡中 唯將滿鬢雪 明日對秋風

Pronunciation   Lì Qiū Qián Yī Rì Lǎn Jìng

             for Bam at 103

Your ravaged eyes picture librettos
long known by heart,
as you mouth the arias’ words.   
 
Never bored, your
fragile limbs venture on dream trips,
escapades missed in your youth. 
 
Ripe resonant voice   
tells of discussions with Dad,
decades dead, your sweetheart still.  
 
This frail hand I hold  
opens in generosity -
probes toward the void - 
 
could wave in the night
goodbye
and no one see.