By Michael R. Burch
Lucifer, to the Enola Gay Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower— a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again. Bikini Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye, through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming like tangled hair where cold currents rise ... something lurks where the riptides sigh: something old, and odd, and wise. Something old when the world was forming now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye, and, with tentacles like Medusa’s squirming, it feels the cloud blot out the skies’ ... then shudders, settles with a sigh, understanding man’s demise.
Michael R. Burch has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems have been translated into fourteen languages and set to music by eleven composers. He also edits The HyperTexts (online at www.thehypertexts.com).
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.