There are poems for Donald Trump and poems inspired by Donald Trump.
Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
......
Laying awake in the early hours of the morning and I can’t help but wonder of things I know to be true and right and good. Or do I really know? Cogito, ergo sum _ I think, therefore I am, or so it goes.
For when my thoughts wake in the place where dreams and sleep collide, my questions are eternal and the void never-ending. Yes, I would give my right eye like the All-father to drink from wisdom’s well.
I think about time and chaos and existence and I have more questions and no answers.
For did time exist before the word itself or was it born from chaos as it is said all things were.
Every star we see in the night sky is centuries old, it’s light just a ghost of a flame that burnt hundreds of years ago.
......
Through the eyes of a stranger,
I walk the crowded streets,
My thoughts hidden behind
A façade of indifference.
Always writing under breath
Each step the rhythm of a song
I listen for the murmurs,
The stories left half-told,
And with borrowed breath,
......
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
......
Although
Dipped and merged
In the dire darkness,
He is the one
Who is busy-
Building up a world
Of light and delight,
Pondering over the dreams
That might bring laughter
In million lives,
......
CONSUMMATING THE WORD
In the beginning was
The Word
Consummating it is
becoming Wordless
I fly them through windows
onto tarred roads
where tyres tread them
......
Laying awake in the early hours of the morning and I can’t help but wonder of things I know to be true and right and good. Or do I really know? Cogito, ergo sum _ I think, therefore I am, or so it goes.
For when my thoughts wake in the place where dreams and sleep collide, my questions are eternal and the void never-ending. Yes, I would give my right eye like the All-father to drink from wisdom’s well.
I think about time and chaos and existence and I have more questions and no answers.
For did time exist before the word itself or was it born from chaos as it is said all things were.
Every star we see in the night sky is centuries old, it’s light just a ghost of a flame that burnt hundreds of years ago.
......
Through the eyes of a stranger,
I walk the crowded streets,
My thoughts hidden behind
A façade of indifference.
Always writing under breath
Each step the rhythm of a song
I listen for the murmurs,
The stories left half-told,
And with borrowed breath,
......
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,
......