The petals of spring sank beautifully in the puddles of rain as she traded her sneakers for heels, entered the back of the black car and drove away for the last time.

At the sin bin
***** windows
Hold the freaks in
Vacant eyes
Conversation
Strange expression
Dark and dimly
Lit the aura
In its sad eyes
Sick and tired
Always sleeping
Ever dire

Hiding away
As the rains run high
Lock me away
No more to run from my mind

In the courtyard
Cobblestones (and)
Brick and mortar
Water falling
To the stone floor
From the brick walls
Trees that darken
Leaves have fallen
To the cold stone
Wilting flowers
Frowning further
With the hour

I’m locked away
As the clouds blow by
Hiding away
No more to run from my mind

In the courtyard
No birds, no bees, no beasts, no life
Dying flowers, dying plants, dying trees, thinning air
Red brick on crooked cobblestones on a poor foundation
Crummy TV showing bunk shows for people with free time
Scratched vinyl floors with water stains breaking apart
Seats taken by empty frames with empty minds
I’m waiting on friends who don’t know their way
If they don’t arrive, the day will remain the same
Nothing
Sitting
Drowning in the grey

www.firesermon.com
by Michael R. Burch

your gods have become e-vegetation;
your saints—pale thumbnail icons; to enlarge
their images, right-click; it isn’t hard
to populate your web-site; not to mention

cool sound effects are nice; Sound Blaster cards
can liven up dull sermons, [zing some fire];
your drives need added Zip; you must discard
your balky paternosters: ***!!! Desire!!!

these are the watchwords, catholic; you must
as Yahoo! did, employ a little lust :)
if you want great e-commerce; hire a bard
to spruce up ancient language, shed the dust

of centuries of sameness;
                                            lameness *****;
your gods grew blurred; go 3D; scale; adjust.

Published by Ironwood, Triplopia and Nisqually Delta Review. This poem pokes fun at several stages of "religion," all tied into Eliot's "Fire Sermon," albeit elliptically. (1) The Celts believed that the health of the land was tied to the health of its king. The Fisher King's land was in peril because he had an infirmity (lameness, infertility, it really didn't matter in those days). One bad harvest and it was the king's fault for displeasing the gods. A religious icon (the Grail) could somehow rescue him. Strange logic! (2) The next stage brings us the saints, the Catholic church, etc. Millions are slaughtered, tortured and enslaved in the name of religion. Strange logic! (3) The next stage brings us to Darwin, modernism and "The Waste Land.” Religion is dead. God is dead. Man is a glorified fungus! Long live Darwin! We'll evolve into something better adapted to life on Earth, someday (if we don’t destroy it first). But what do we have now, except a hangover? Strange logic! (4) The current stage of religion is perhaps summed up by this e-mail: the only way religion can compete today is as a form of flashy entertainment. ***** a website before it's too late!  Keywords/Tags: god, gods, religion, saints, icons, images, imagery, update, scale, adjust

i have come to realize,
one day there will be a final curtain call on Youth,

and that,

the clouds that present themselves as mountains,
on the horizon of colourful life,

are to far for a mortal to touch,
to grasp and to hold,

for the youth that is holding me now;

will soon be like the clouds that possess, themselves as mountains,

on the horizons of life.

for my youth,
will soon be too far to reach,

and that the horizon of colourful life,
will soon be a wretched black sky,

for my youth, is not for me to hold forever.

If thou perchance hast longed for my embrace;
thou felt its spectre linger on thy skin,
thou must unearth a paradise wherein
abundant is the fruit that thou shall taste.
     Its sweetness and perfume will thus invade
thyself, who art perplexed by strident din,
(which one mistakes to be the medicine)
and shall be cured of solitude's malaise.
     And thou may wonder where doth one procure
this nectar so sublime that guarantees
escaping from the claws of loneliness?
    In silence, these empyreal orchards endure
the perturbations of the fleeting years,
and in the fruits they bear - thither I rest.

I know my garden of peace
Will not grow overnight;
Like any fruit worth eating
I will wait for my manifestations
To blossom and ripen
Before I can live them.
But as of today
I vow to plant my seeds of intention,
Water them every day
And to remove any weeds of doubt
That may creep up on me.

Come rain or shine
I await all nourishment for my garden
With open arms