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jia Jul 2016
people shall govern,
as the fools will be burned.
mass will reign and learn.
mula sa masa, tungo sa masa.
Seightan Jul 2020
I will make you remember our first mass in the dark.

I followed you into the shadows, I was lost for a while, but somehow I found you. And we were not ourselves anymore.

Breathing heavily while our eyes were closed,
You kept calling on God's name,
but I know you were not praying.
I heard you singing the psalms while I was worshiping you.

I love the way you pulled my hair as I was taking my communion.
I don't need a bread, because your flesh is more than enough.
I kept on coming back for this until your wine poured

Silence came, and we stood up but then you kneeled... I wonder why, but you just look at me with a smile and said "It's my turn now".
Äŧül Jun 2020
People are dropping dead.

People are dropping dead,
Not many in my town
But in big cities,
They are dying en masse
And the silence is scaring me.

Yet again.

Yet again,
I can hear my own blood
Gushing through my ears,
Silly me, I am scared,
More for my loved ones,
And less for myself.

Will we?

Will we all die soon?
Or shall I survive this?
I hope that if my loved ones die,
I do too.
Because I'm afraid of loneliness,
I have a serious kind of autophobia.

Nay!

Humanity can't go extinct!
Humanity won't go extinct.
It will soon be alright.
Just wait and watch,
How Vishnu takes care of us,
How Shiva takes out the evil,
How the world will turn for good.
My HP Poem #1861
©Atul Kaushal
Äŧül Jun 2020
Robert Clive.
He was an agent of the Brutish British,
And he brought misery to my Bhaarat.
My HP Poem #1854
©Atul Kaushal
a criminal is a dust of ashes
a criminal ash is a criminal dust of ashes
mass is mass of masses
mass is mass of ashes
ash is ash of ashes
ash is ash of masses
a criminal ash is his ash of ashes

dust to mass,mass to dust
dust to mass,mass to ashes
dust to mass,ashes to ashes
beauty is a mass of beauty
beauty is a mass of ashes
beauty beholds beauty to its ashes
beholder of beauty is beholder of a mass criminal

a criminal is a mass criminal of beauty
a mass criminal is a mass of beauty
a mass criminal is a beauty of ashes
a mass criminal is a dust of dust
dust of dust,ash of ash,beauty of beauty
dust of dust,ash of ash,beauty of ash
dust of dust,ash of ash,mass of mass
my writing is called philosophical writing. i only uses middle ages words,words liked gracious,extravaganza,etc… this poem is about a mass of beauty is a mass criminal. i don’t add capitalization’s on my writing.
Nat Lipstadt May 2020
if you don’t know by now,
going to early mass is not my thing,
as I am one of those peeps of the tribe
that for your sins, died and then, again, and again

‘bout 6:00am, exchanging messages with
my fellow Indians (nooo, I’m not Indian) poets
on mundane subjects like tradition, grandchildren,
nagging wives, profits, revenues and earnings, expenses
(of that, more later)

now that we are living on the isle-no-elation,
the distractions are numerous though varied,
so I find myself unloading the dishwasher,
chopping, peeling, red, yellow peppers, cucumbers

then to a puzzle I am sent, how to fit in two
big cases of water into a Manhattan-sized
closet which shall we say, with largesse, isn’t
large-esse, comes pre-crammed from urban foraging

which means it’s coffee prep time so more
cleansing of yet another device, which happily
annoys by providing step by step, non-negotiable demands,
what me, just another human pretense machine, must execute

ménage a trois, three poems are pre-forming in
a mind that says concentrate, please don’t slice a fingertip,
but if you must, that romanesque nose, certainly
could use a trimming, if you are so energized & inclined

and it’s Sundae morning and I deliver the coffee,
making the route I’ve been plying for many morn,
this one is black, this one is oat milk, extra hot,
this one is awake, cause she’s giggling at **** emojis

oh yes indeed, a liturgical motet, a prayer to a lord,
I’ve never seen, but who insists on interrupting me,
when the mood is upon him, as if we humans were his own
coffee machine toys, don’t forget to make him herbal tea

and you say this is not a poem, and you whine,
overly long, and I laugh and say please, please,
don’t read it, I’ve got plenty others that garnered
accolades of multiple thousands and love this one better

feeling so holy, feeling so hollywood, my tasks nearly
completed, return to bed, when the nagging begins,
what have I forgotten, ****, my own coffee hides,
in the microwave and by now needs a reheating twice

and while I must off to write of Indian traditions,^
the gains and losses of grandchildren, grandmothers,
a new debate rages, how shall I end this morning-prayer,
and
I offer myself
three choices,
in a language I speak in the original,
Hallelujah, Amen, and Selah.


8:49am
Manhattan Island
May 17
2020
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

“And I will **** her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.” (So much for grace according to Revelation 2:23, where Jesus, or someone speaking for him, vows to personally ****** children for their mother’s sins!)

Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava

Keywords/Tags: Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, Bible, Revelation, mass ******, serial ******, homosexuals, harlots, hookers, prostitutes, heretics, atheists, agnostics, nonbelievers, non-Christians
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address
by Michael R. Burch

(for the victims and survivors of the Holocaust)

We saw their pictures:
tortured out of our imaginations
like golems.

We could not believe
in their frail extremities
or their gaunt faces,

pallid as our disbelief.
They are not
with us now ...

We have:
huddled them
into the backroomsofconscience,

consigned them
to the ovensofsilence,

buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.

We have
so little left
of them

now
to remind us ...

It was my honor to work with survivors of the Holocaust as we translated their poems and prose accounts into English as a way of preserving them and making them available to larger audiences. Unfortunately, time waits for no one and the Holocaust survivors I worked with are no longer with us. But their words and testimonies remain, if we will only take the time to read and consider them. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, victims, survivors, mass graves, pictures, images, tortured, frail, gaunt, skeletal, emaciated, thin, malnourished, golemic, horror, terror, inhumanity, madness, racism, antisemitism, slave labor, slavery, death camps, concentration camps, gas chambers, ethnic cleansing, genocide, memory, remembrance, memorial, tribute
Hannah Jones Jan 2020
Maybe this
is the look
of fading intimacy--

As we continue
to light candles
gold flickers on
dimly-lit tableware
Bread (the same as always)
still needed
still sacred

Still.

Time is where
the ties that bind
are woven
over and under
a basket
meant to carry
budding life
through denial

--Intimacy faded,
but not away:
rather, blazing affection
morphed into subtlety,
into routine
like breathing:
as you think,
you struggle,
so best to let the body
do the work
it was made for.

To be this close
is to recognize only your body
your breath
your words
for any Other
is close enough
to be completely entwined,
enraptured,
captivated.
To separate
is to die
and this partnership
is life itself.

When passion cools
may strength be seen
in what is not heard.
Sometimes, in the gentle glow of an afternoon mass, I'll get a glimpse of how some people call this relationship "romantic". I want that.
an ocean
side park
duly attract
yet take
the break
surf punk
depth to
its hull
and the
frequency spark
paladin there
yet his
arc afield
in the
streams that
remark in
the night
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