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Thinking Of A Divine Spring

Throughout the coldest days of the mighty winter
Think of a sweet spring and dream of a mild summer
During the harshest hours of the wintry night
Think of flowers and dream of a pleasant sunlight.

Season comes, remains a bit and then flees
Life goes through a circular event like the bees
Like the moonbeams dancing around Mother Earth
In order to charm, embrace and kiss her to death.

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Original Haiku

These are original haiku written by Michael R. Burch, many of them under the influence of the Oriental masters of the form.

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
—Michael R. Burch

***

Silver
by Michael R. Burch

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Middle English Translations

These are my modern English translations of Middle English poems and Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems by Anonymous, John Audelay, Caedmon, Charles d'Orleans, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Cornish, Deor, William Dunbar, Gildas, Godric of Finchale, King Henry VIII, Robert Henryson, William Herebert, Thomas Hoccleve, William Langland, Layamon, John Lydgate, The Pearl Poet, Thomas Phillipps, Richard of Caistre, Richard Rolle, James Ryman, John Skelton, William of Shoreham and Winfred aka St. Boniface.

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In A Hammock

God wants to hear your prayers again, work-worn as you are, the hours so long, yet a quiet respite with Him awaits, sit down for a few minutes- close your heavy eyes, imagine a hammock anchored between two tall, inviting oak trees that have abundant shade on this mid-July afternoon, as you've eased yourself into it, it's slowly swaying, as neighborhood children in the pool next door playing, "Marco Polo", you're drifting over treetops, as crowded thoughts and worries are leaving, sleep arrives with silent celebration, swaying, scent of hydrangea in the aimless breeze, in a hammock, don't rush
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Rain

The air cools and the leaves of the trees lift
And flutter
In the rising wind.
The clouded sky casts no shadows
But gives the light an almost luminous clarity.

I look across the yard, past the trees
And the old wire fence
To the rusted tin shed across the alley.
Barren branches of a pin oak tree
Scratch across its roof as the wind grows.
The neither red nor pink blossoms
Of an untamed Japonica
Float in the air in front of the rusted shed
And glow in the unusual light.

The wind builds and carries the smell
Of rain
And fresh-cut grass
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