These are free verse poems I have written over the last half century, and also a few rhyming poems about free verse.
Reason Without Rhyme
by Michael R. Burch
I used to be averse
to free verse,
but now I admit
YOUR rhyming is WORSE!
But alas, in the end,
it’s all the same:
all verse is unpaid
and a crying shame.
***
The AI Poets
by Michael R. Burch
The computer-poets stand hushed
except for the faint hum
of their efficient fans,
These are prose poems and experimental poems.
Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets
by Michael R. Burch
This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl went out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because it occurred to her that being plucked might “hurt” them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation!
These are poems about roses, and what they say and don't say to us ...
Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch
When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?
When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?
***
What The Roses Don’t Say
by Michael R. Burch
These are poems about blood roses. The rose is a symbol of love and tendernesss, but it is also the color of blood …
Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy born in Brno, Czechoslovakia in 1930. When he was 11, his family was deported by the Nazis to Terezin, where the SS had created a hybrid Ghetto/Concentration Camp just north of Prague (it was also known as Theresienstadt). Franta lived there under terrible conditions for three years. He was then sent to Auschwitz, where on October 28th, 1944, he was murdered at age 14.
These are early poems of mine, written beginning around age eleven as a boy, then through my high school and college years ...
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.
This is my first sonnet, written as a teen, followed by other early sonnets and sonnet-like poems of mine ...
Sonnet 130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
escape!
by michael r. burch