Poetry is not dead
Poetry will never die
Poets do not lie
Poetry is naturally well-fed
With vibrant poems every second
Of the day to make the soil more fecund
The brain is alert and strong
Nothing can possibly go wrong
Poetry is ubiquitous
Poetry is sexy and serendipitous
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These are poems about poetry, poems about writing, poems about the process of composition...
The Composition of Shadows (I)
by Michael R. Burch
“I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats
We breathe and so we write; the night
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My pen writes in English
My pen writes in French
Mon stylo écrit en français
My pen writes in Spanish
Mi pluma escribe en español
My pen writes in Italian
La mia penna scrive in italiano
My pen writes in Portuguese
Minha caneta escreve em portugues
My pen writes in Creole
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In your smile, a sparkling gem, you shone so bright,
A beauty, a vision, a radiant light.
My heart awakened, a poet's dream unfurled,
You, the inspiration, the center of my world.
As friends, together we found our way,
In your laughter's echo, my heart would sway.
In the classroom's embrace, our souls took flight,
I, the master of your emotions, day and night.
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They say, poetry makes you imaginary
Far lost in words... disconnected
When they themselves began their lives
Singing rhymes, poems... twinkle twinkle li'l star
Sleeping to their gran's lullabies
Frolickin' in the farms...to the poetry of tall grasses
Dreaming of nature's poems...its soul rests within you
Growin' up with your beloved alongside
Writing letters to your love... replete with poetry so melancholy...
When thy love jilts you...you weave a song
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These are poems about poetry, poems about writing, poems about the process of composition...
The Composition of Shadows (I)
by Michael R. Burch
“I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats
We breathe and so we write; the night
......
No words shall please my soul,
if not from deep within.
In life we laugh and weep,
as moods with time do spin.
Even a poet does need a flare,
to devise his ringy rhymes.
To sculpt a verse from solid words,
is a masters work, sublime.
When fine words mingle and mix,
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I have dreams on moonless nights,
when violet the skies
with dark complexion.
In some speech,
my words may rhyme,
in lucid dreams I have seen their reflection.
Verses do visit in my sleep,
senseless they are or in forms of perfection.
Just like monuments of saints or priests,
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In you, dear Mother, my pride resides,
No hate could ever in my heart abide.
Nine months within your loving embrace,
You nurtured me with boundless grace.
You taught me to speak, to write, to stand,
Guided me with a gentle hand.
A part of you, you gave to me,
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These are villanelles by Michael R. Burch and and villanelle-like poems, including a new new poetic form I invented, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”
Villanelle: She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch
for my grandmother, Lillian Lee
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
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