paradise is lethal
paradise is a set of lethal eyes
hell is a wheel of hell
hell is a wheel of lethal eyes
a woman is a wheel of a woman
a woman is a wheel of hell
a wheel is a wheel of hell
a wheel is a wheel of lethal eyes
a wheel is a wheel of paradise
the time of a wheel is the time of a lethal woman
a wheel is a time of a wheel
a wheel is a time of paradise
a hell of a time is a hell of a wheel
time is a hell of a wheel
self-made is self-man made
self-made is self-man made glory
joy is self-made joy
joy is a joyful self-made
joy is a joyful glory
glory is a joy of glory
glory of joy,glory of self-made
man is man made glory
a mass of glory is a mass of man made
a mass of glory is a mass of energy
energy is a mass of energy
energy is a mass of joy
energy is a joy of energy
mass is a joy of energy
man is a display of man
man is a outer display
space is a outer display of man
space is a outer display of the universe
the universe is a display of the universe
the universe is a display of man
man is mankind display
man of space,man of display,man of mankind
outer space,outer mankind,outer focus
mankind focus on mankind
a focus space is a focus man
a focus space is a focus universe
mankind focus on outer space
time focus on time
“Jessamyn’s Song” is an early poem of mine that I started around age 14 and was substantially complete by age 16.
Jessamyn's Song (circa age 14-16)
by Michael R. Burch
16
There are meadows heathered with thoughts of you,
where the honeysuckle winds
in fragrant, tangled vines
down to the water's edge.
Through the wind-bent grass
I watch time pass
slow with the dying day
on its lolling, rolling way ...
And I know you’ll soon be mine.
17
The Best Poems of Michael R. Burch, Part II
The Most Popular Poems of Michael R. Burch, Part II
She bathes in silver
by Michael R. Burch
She bathes in silver,
~~~~~afloat~~~~~
on her reflections...
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
O pale, austere moon,
haughty beauty ...
what do we know of love,
or duty?
Styx
by Michael R. Burch, age 16
Black waters,
deep and dark and still . . .
all men have passed this way,
or will.
Bound
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14-15
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
Published as “Why Did I Go?” in my high school journal the Lantern in 1976. I have made slight changes here and there, but the poem is essentially the same as what I wrote in my early teens.
mankind evolve into a minute
mankind evolve into mankind
creativity evolve creativity
creation evolve into creation
creativity evolve into creation
beginning with time is beginning with creativity
a minute is a minute with creativity
time is a minute with creativity
a minute of creation is a minute of creativity
creation is mankind creation
creation is mankind creativity
creation is mankind minute of creation
time is a moral standard of time
time is a moral standard of creativity
a global race is a global race against time
the hands of time is the race against time
god is the hands of time
god is the hands of race against time
time is in the hands of god
time is in the hands of a global race
god is a race against the hands of time
time race against religion
religion race against religion
religion is a aftermath of a religion
a aftermath is a global aftermath
a aftermath is a global aftermath of religion
time is a race against time
time is a aftermath of a race against time
These are my modern English translations of poems by Voltaire, one of the world's most prolific, best and most influential writers. Voltaire, born François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), was an amazingly prolific writer who produced works in nearly every literary genre, including poems, plays, novels and novellas, satires, parodies, essays, histories, Bible criticism, and even early science fiction!
These are poems about time, mortality, death, decay and loss ...
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 ravish, dishevel her ...
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
Published by The Lyric, The Aurorean, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and in a YouTube video by Asma Masooma
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