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Wilkes Arnold Aug 13
Lincoln died today
He hustled to an early grave
After patience bore the pain of hell
One final bullet to his dismay
Robbed him of the end he craved
Not of time or the sullen knell
But the kiss of a dagger in his worn hand
A battle lost and a battle won
A perdition purged a new ring rung
He's left this hollowed land
Consecrated by blood and gun
And travels now to songs unsung
Michael R Burch Oct 2020
Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge

Ann Rutledge was apparently Abraham Lincoln’s first love interest. Unfortunately, she was engaged to another man when they met, then died with typhoid fever at age 22. According to a friend, Isaac Cogdal, when asked if he had loved her, Lincoln replied: “It is true―true indeed, I did. I loved the woman dearly and soundly: She was a handsome girl―would have made a good, loving wife … I did honestly and truly love the girl and think often, often of her now.”

Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge
by Michael R. Burch

Winter was not easy,
nor would the spring return.
I knew you by your absence,
as men are wont to burn
with strange indwelling fire―
such longings you inspire!

But winter was not easy,
nor would the sun relent
from sculpting ****** images
and how could I repent?
I left quaint offerings in the snow,
more maiden than I care to know.



Ann Rutledge’s Irregular Quilt
by Michael R. Burch

based on “Lincoln the Unknown” by Dale Carnegie

I.
Her fingers “plied the needle” with “unusual swiftness and art”
till Abe knelt down beside her: then her demoralized heart
set Eros’s dart a-quiver; thus a crazy quilt emerged:
strange stitches all a-kilter, all patterns lost. (Her host
kept her vicarious laughter barely submerged.)

II.
Years later she’d show off the quilt with its uncertain stitches
as evidence love undermines men’s plans and unevens women’s strictures
(and a plethora of scriptures.)

III.
But O the sacred tenderness Ann’s reckless stitch contains
and all the world’s felicities: rich cloth, for love’s fine gains,
for sweethearts’ tremulous fingers and their bright, uncertain vows
and all love’s blithe, erratic hopes (like now’s).

IV.
Years later on a pilgrimage, by tenderness obsessed,
Dale Carnegie, drawn to her grave, found weeds in her place of rest
and mowed them back, revealing the spot of Lincoln’s joy and grief
(and his hope and his disbelief).

V.
Yes, such is the tenderness of love, and such are its disappointments.
Love is a book of rhapsodic poems. Love is an grab bag of ointments.
Love is the finger poised, the smile, the Question ― perhaps ― and the Answer?

Love is the pain of betrayal, the two left feet of the dancer.

VI.
There were ladies of ill repute in his past. Or so he thought. Was it true?
And yet he loved them, Ann (sweet Ann!), as tenderly as he loved you.

Keywords/Tags: Abraham Lincoln, Ann Rutledge, history, president, love, lover, mistress, paramour, romance, romantic, quilt, Dale Carnegie
Heidi Johanna Sep 2020
Know your promises!
Hold them in your heart
Count them by the night
As they shine to the dark

For as many as you can see
All those little stars
Delight in the waiting
For your joy to come
Jordan Gee Aug 2020
on the day of the double funeral I stand
waiting for the rest of me to die,
I am that I am but I harbor a bad disease.
i should be anywhere and be doing anything other
than what i am.
because before Abraham was i am
standing in the empty quarter
reading a funeral manual on the
day of the double sky burial.
i’m poisoned off my pouch of yesterday’s mana.
gums are bleeding this is yesterday’s daily bread.
men cannot live off bread alone
and the jackrabbit horde is coming home
our own locust plague for a new Sahara.
i stand with a hangman’s fracture
lost on the old sermons in the sand.
following my family’s footsteps sadly in the wrong direction,
lost among the marking rocks.
snow leopards of the black blizzard and
my poison pouch of mana.
drowning in the fires we cook a stray dog
reaping all the whirlwinds I sound a 12 foot Tibetan horn
on the day of a double funeral -
perched in the dwelling of the solitude.
#skyBurial
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Mammonite pretender, see the Khazar:
Out of place in the Biblical bazaar;
Fattening his financial calf of gold
Maintaining clueless goyim bought and sold
.

Abram the nomad mixed milk with his meat
Walked the Fertile Crescent on his own feet;
Summoned from the Chaldees, uncircumcised
Long before that temple was realized.
From Babylon to Egypt, passing through,
Jerusalem came briefly into view.
He lived. He walked right out of the Archaic
To shatter every legalist’s mosaic.
Beholding now God’s current Middle East,
(Collective funeral more than wedding feast)
The Bedouin seem to model more the way:
hospitable intents at close of day.

Four hundred years would pass before they saw
That wilderness of Sinai and the Law;
Commandments Moses knew could never save.
We judge them by accounts their Torah gave:
Twelve generations later . . . what a joke.
The righteousness consumed in holy smoke
As Israel descended, worse than Cain,
to civil wars on *****’s fruitless plain.
In Judges we behold the steep descent
Read well the signs. Be warned—and then repent.
A scene for every Judaistic dream:
Depravity is worse than it may seem.
Your concubine, dismembered at your door,
May light the shortened fuse of civil war.
He aquí la Santa Muerte. Adórala:
https://connecthook.net/2020/04/27/abram-the-hebrew/
Ylzm Apr 2020
In the beginning God parted the waters,
     separating heaven and earth
Abraham parted the pieces,
     and a smoking fiery *** passed in between
Israel walked between the waters,
     covered in smoke and fire
So Israel parted in two:
     one remains and the other lost.
TIZZOP Nov 2019
ashima abraham
teenage girl
needed love
desperately

she thought the reason for her
despair might been her longing

while her longing was nothing but
normal and the origin of her
despair might been
fear

one day she met an older guy
his name **** black he a
forensic officer

investigators like him look for
traces under dead body's fingernails
stuff like that

until ashima met **** her
love was exclusively reserved to
her pitbull
his name was branko

a fearsome creature
to be continued
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Circum/stances (slash) foregone
circumvent forebears
circus-schisms of the forefathers
circumferences foreordained . . .

Abrahamic inferences
Feminine foreclosures
Unfabulous infibulations
Equivocating equivalencies . . .

Childbearing foreborne
Preposterous paradigm
Gender agenda return to sender
Hebraic / Pharaonic / Moronic . . .

Abracadabra  
Presto change-o !
One must remain circumspect.
♥ ⚥⛧☭ ✪ ⚢ Ⓐ ❣ ⚧⚩✿ ⚤∅⚧


Haiku wants to say
something in five-seven-five
but now it’s over
nmo May 2017
"Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there’"
that's how a German author defines stress.

I read this quote
and write it down
in that tab I open
secretly at work
to avoid being
seen by my boss.

That tab,
that lives like a refugee,
like everything I like.

Buddha whispers to my ear,
-Attachment is the root of suffering-
with his funny accent
-The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.-

I call into question
my arms race
against myself.
That cold war that started years ago
and never ended.

Yahve sets a
bush on fire
on the park
and talks to me.
He talks about
the promised land.
The same land he once promised
to Abraham,
to Isaac,
to Jacob,
to Moises,
to my grandparent,
to my parents.

And I then remember,
I am also a part of this exodus.

-the end justifies the means-
I repeat this to myself,
like a mantra,
trying to convince myself
as I see the parts of me
being left in the path.
The goal blends
into the horizon
like a mirage.

I see how other boys
come closer.
They are younger,
and run faster,
and better.

And I once was
one of those boys,
ready to run for days.
Privileged.
My parents ensure
my path has less rocks
and that my wall
(that wall people who run long distances know)
was lower and softer.

I see the corpses in the path
of the persons who weren't even able to see
the end.

My life is a constant wanting
to reach those lands
while I hate the desert
under my feet.
mjad Apr 2017
whenever I say it
your name feels
like what I imagine
the drop of water would taste like
to the rich man in hell asking Abraham
to just dip his tongue in
to ease the burning
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