When a star dies
It explodes in a pond of colour
It's glow traverses the unforgiveness of time
And a voice pronounces your name

I am far from what I muse live
Haunted by a curse of my fate
But still enchanted by your existence
Never ceasing to burn the candle of my reason

I dream of your famished touch
Your skin labored by perfection
As an artist, you create an ethereal beauty
As an artist, I preserve your beauty with words

You exist only in my lonesome thoughts
My dreams are a bucker
How could you be so far away
If only you are my serenity

Your name is an hymn for love
Star will forever self-destruct
With the hope to become you
The existence of the eternal muse

Nothing happens and as long as I'm sedated nothing can go about it's way blissfully

I can't stand to live another day across from you
But you know where I am if you need a place to stay

I've mistaken my killer for my twin before
And the aftermath is me left alone to answer:
What else have I got to lose?

Dart your eyes to the floor and keep them
there when you see me passing.
I don't bask in your fear, don't misunderstand me, I want the best for you that much has never changed
  nor will it ever

You just owe me as much to carry the burden of knowing me beyond skindeep head on lap fingers claw thru my hair cancelling out the noise nextroom and lets me think I could sleep if I wanted to,

Who'd you think you are to tell others I was never grateful?
My grace is all I've had for a while and that's what's been the matter
With or without you there to add and take away from me in that state
or parading as some other,
We both did it it's only human infact when we stopped imitating it was only right for us to fall apart

You take my silence as anger and consider yourself victorious
Baby I know you as well as you know me
We'd still be best of friends if you'd kept your shoes on,we both know that; but how can you expect forgiveness and for me to be thankful for you
Saying you forgive me
I'd be less stunned if you slapped me baby
I figured you out long before we gave up speaking then became you in your absence just to impersonate your company
Is that not a white flag being swayed by a dying captain?
Shame shame shame cast for all nearby spirits to observe and laugh at
if they so pleased

I bite my teeth and stomp my feet but nothing ever changes

Love given, but not taken, is not love un-received;
You have love to give,
That is something.
Whether their heart is open
To the souls' hymns
Your words sing,
The song is never wasted-
But goes through changes,
As the renewal of spring.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
"I did your sad and weary soul salvage,
lean on me, I did for your freedom pay.
Lean on me, and come to God with courage."
The soft voice of Jesus tenderly speaks,
when in moments of pain, my sadness peaks.
His assuring words give my poor soul rest,
as I lay my wearied head on his breast.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
of the life giving bread he freely gives
to all the redeemed in whose hearts he lives.
I came to him as hungry as I was,
and my spiritual stomach he did sate.
His soft spoken voice always pleads my cause,
his love for me is always up to date;
thus on him only I can hang my fate.

I heard the voice of the good shepherd say;
"I am the only sacrificial lamb,
no one else can duplicate my good role."
I once was lost, but he rescued my soul,
he did protect my fallen soul from harm.
When from his sheepfold I stubbornly strayed,
with no regard for the price he gladly paid,
he lovingly sought me out without delay.

1:38pm Sabbath Mar 25 2023


it was in no vast eternal plan, no signed signal,
that this day, this moment, this infusion of
a hymn would I compose, lyrics praiseworthy,
to my god, my creator…my single life-long companion.

mine hymn of tribute, hymn of mystery,
words of uplift suffusing, abundant abide within,
music straightens my back, eyes tear-glisten,
how come this joy unconstrained, so affecting?

the wonder of this mystery, the wander of soul,
how be it all that troubles retreats, a waving-bye tide taken,
both emptied and fulfilled, in simultaneous simplicity,
I am confirmed, ascertained, relieved, even revived!

at the intersection of rising divinity, insistent human frailty,
at the crossroads of pure perfection, permanent imperfection,
the impermanence of this meeting quickens, gladdens, knowing
a glancing touch of god’s finger both enlivens and yet blankets.

my entire substance, composition, neath a comforter of good,
in a calming restfulness, with the knowing grace that this will pass,
my hymn marks my forehead permanent, that just once I moved in a place, not twixt, not tween, but a perfect firmament nearer my god…

My Lord Jesus Christ is king,
Of him only I will sing.
He loves me dearly I know,
And to him only I'll go.

My Lord Jesus Christ is Lord,
He nourishes me with his word,
He saved my doomed soul from death,
When in sin it lacked good health.

My Lord Jesus Christ provides,
And when I am lost, he guides.
Like a shepherd he leads me,
Even when from trials I flee.

My Lord Jesus Christ is good,
In sad moments, by me he stood,
In my moments of despair,
He does my mood swing repair.

Dunes
fall on
the shore
of skin,
a poet
closes
her eyes,
in a place
beyond
our own,
the sands
felt soft
upon her
hands, her
thoughts
as water,
in wonder
if they
are
here,
or in
dream,
the grains
of time
under
lights
of the
moon
are her
tides
upon the
sand
hills
of the
stars,
the
guides
above
hold the
hidden
songs,
heard only
in silence,
clouds
emerge, the
monsoon
of spirit
chants
the words
of the
writer
painted
in rain
upon
pages,
dew falls
upon the
palms,
the poet
gazes
upon the
skies, her
hymn is
heard,
“are you
near,
or the
breath
of mine?”,
the winds
rise, the
desert
calls,
“are
you I?”

Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”

O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, vaginal,
******, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor

Dry of  heart
thirsting
for love.

By end' land
across
ocean' sand,
on a tiny raft
crafted
by hand.

Singing a hymn
in tongues
only he
can understand

In calm whispers
his head
is on display
like an ornament
for a
Christmas day.

Christ is quiet
and holds
onto his love
man brushes his
dry lips together
crackling loud!

He is about to
starve.

'Are you in
the sky
empty and dry
can I see you
as Sun stabs
at my eye?'

Still a quiet
response.

Soon end of
day slowly nears
vastness of dust
in place of seas.

Cries of man
cracked of voice
humid air holds
onto his
throat.

Heaven heard
children' cries
shedding her tears
ten thousand tears
kissing on land.

Covering all
with neither
a bit of shy
sweet rain, the
sweetest that ever
came.