The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .

There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.

These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!

Keywords/Tags: Ile Grosse, Celtic, Cross, faith, belief, grief, Ireland, potato, famine

Vampires
by Michael R. Burch

Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . .
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we heed his voice.

Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.

We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us,
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.

Published by Monumental Moments (Eye Scry Publications), Weirdbook, Gothic Fairy and Raiders’ Digest. Keywords/Tags: vampires, fragile, creatures, stake, cross, dark, darkness, light, bat, bat-like, shadows, fangs, pangs, prey, blood, lust, lusts, red, lips, night, voice, sings, darkness, evil, incarnate, soul, hell, tormented, pale, eyes

I plant the last cross in the frosted ground
of winter marching through the leaves of fall.
The last of my coterie I hadst found
I buried, each covered with a singed pall.
Now in the world of cold, I lie in snow,
mourning the loss of everything I was.
Insanity exuding from my woe
and dreadful curses spouting from my jaws.
Thou art a monster corrupting the world
and spreading dreadful lies of the deeds done.
But soon, behold, the truth to be unfurled!
The news spreadest thee from thy serpent's tongue.
I choosest to complete my final hunt
and punish thee for such a great affront.

Thou hearken not to the grave steps upon the earth now beating.
Dost thou not see, contemptuous fiend, the eyes of death upon thee?
Thou takest from the living world the reason for my being.
And by thy hand, destroy my land, stealest everything from me.

My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death

This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received

My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account

A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay

My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession

I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free

My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote

Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire

So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold

He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side

And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!

No.
Not ornamental,
more fundamental.
Not sentimental,
but rudimental.
And when I wear it
it's very much an intentional
statement of who I am,
how I live
and who I worship.
So, no,
not simply pretty,
but pretty much essential.

I could have been your worst nightmare
Creeping in your head while you graciously sleep
Waiting to turn your pleasant reveries
Into blood-chilling screams
You left your wretched marks on my body
Like I wouldn't retrace your steps
You carelessly left with your selfish heart
And vengeance crawled its way into mine
I planned the very moment I would see you again
And unleash the beast I held inside
But I've looked enough times in the mirror
To know that hurting you kills me  
So this vengeance is no longer mine to bear
I'm turning the other cheek
I'm burying the cross I used to bear for you
Because now you are dead to me