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Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Love is her Belief and her Commandment
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love is her belief and her commandment;
in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love;
and Love is her desire and her purpose;
and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love.

There is a tomb in Palestine: for others
the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones),
but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel
where Love was resurrected, where one comes
in wondering awe to dream of resurrection
to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all
with tenderness, with infinite affection.

While some may mock her faith, still others wonder
because they see the rare state of her soul,
and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens
illume more brightly, as if saints concur
who keep a constant vigil over her.

And once she prayed beside a dying woman:
the heavens opened and the angels came
in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones,
to comfort and encourage. I believe
not in her God, but always in her Love.

Keywords/Tags: Love, God, belief, commandment, faith, desire, purpose, tomb, resurrection, soul, heaven, heavens, saints, vigil, angels, tenderness, affection
Isabine Apr 2020
We call it Good
Victory in being vanquished
Daylight in darkness
Bearing a cross

Triumph in a tomb
Three days
And death is doomed
Passing like a night
To laughing day
On Good Friday, people of faith, whatever their religion might be, are uniting together in spirit to fast and pray for relief from the COVID-19 pandemic.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least . . .

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .

Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?

Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You.

NOTE: I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive “god” who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making through a ghoulish "atonement." But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it. Keywords/Tags: Jesus, Christ, cave, grave, tomb, gardener, roses, angels, resurrection, Mary, Magdalene, love, heaven
Justine Mar 2020
The Sun may have burned me,
But it also gave me life.

The Moon could not light up the pit,
But for an hour a day, it shed some light.

The Wind may have hurled me against my will,
But it also lifted my flight.

The Ocean may have drowned me,
But while I drowned, the ocean floor grounded me,
To show me the ocean creatures that thrived in the dark.

I have always dreamt in my dream for God to show me,
What I am and what I have become,
"Tell me why you have made me suffer,"
He gave me His silence,
And I sure did give Him mine.

I have finally realized,
In His own unmerciful way,
He was painfully showing me,
At the peak of my fight, he finally told me,
"My child, you are your own Light."

And so, I thank the Sun for burning me,
I felt the light.

I thank the Moon for not lightening the pit,
I saw my own light.

I thank the Wind for hurling me violently,
It sped up my flight.

I thank the Ocean for drowning me,
It revealed I was drowning out of spite.

I thank God for losing me in the dark,
You gave me the depth of sight,
You deafened me so I can hear the sound of the night.
You disabled me slightly so I can empathize.

Now that I have found my way in the dark,
You have finally returned my dead vessel on the shore,

As the world drink from me,
You have surprised me with an overflowing vessel that fills up night after night,

And so, my fight finally stops on this shore,
I peacefully rest my body on the sands,
I return to you this beautifully painted vessel,
That was never mine.

I grew in it a delicate rose,
That grew slowly in the dark,
I colored it red,
The blood of my plight.

The world continues to sleep soundly,
While the next child cries loudly,
As she falls hard from the sky.
Give to her my vessel,
It may appear broken and worn out,
But it is whole and sound.

I will always dream in my dream,
To wake up forever,
To a blessed vessel that is full of life.
A poem about rebirth, resurrection and accepting one's own faith as a spiritual contract.
Is it a changed world
Or am I a new man?
Finding her at the bedside-
What'd have been only a dream before-
I was elated and made for her cheeks.
The glossy warmth of her flushed skin
Radiated in the yellow afternoon,
Which I reckoned was the kind of my Childhood naps:
Resurrection is not the erasure-
But the totality of memory
In this new world,  reconfigured around My figure,  the Chosen One,
(The choosing by myself through  self-destruction)
She'd left all her men to lead and follow me
With the maturity that comes with sainthood
The bustle of bodies was heard outside,
Waiting to worship the one they'd failed
Let them wait,  I thought, her beatifically beating body in my arms
Endless, the light of darkness,
Rise, again rise 
Who dare to speak out,
life is dust
And there is no stop after a brief rest

Endless, the light of mysterious soul
Rise, and rise again
Why do the shades of melancholy freeze
illuminating the warped convictions of a 
perverted crash?

Light once knocked 
at the stony tomb of your conscience 
calling out your name. 
Light once allowed,
the light of the resurrection,
Travels with velocity at morning silence.

Follow her, please follow her:
Believe, and believe it  into your soul
Nothing to you is lost
Tell her the truth,
there is a real crash.
Resurrection but relise.

What we have for nothing, lived, suffered!
What was created must perish,
What perished, rise again.
By Angel. XJ  13/01/2020

Where have I been?
Why have
NOT I been here?

It's a reason,
an answer,
not simple or clear

Pause and stop for a moment
and try to explain
as I drift off into
the expanse of my brain

Sort of been in a lull
Kind of stuck in a rut
No ambition; desire
Don't want to do much
I’ve been lacking consistency;
without consensus
Once driven and disciplined
Vanished; off they went

Some time I’ve chased after
without much success
If by chance I recaptured;
escaped and they left
Once entrenched qualities;
have transformed into bubbles
Their memories -
a dream
As my life turns to rubble

A child I am
chasing frantically after
while further each drifts
out of reach
as they scatter

Ask,
"Where have I been?"
More like,
"Where am I now?"
‘Cause I live in a world
with a hovering shroud

No persistence of rain
More an absence of sun
There's no presence of pain
But is vacant of fun
Putting paper with pen
Situation is clear
Like a therapy session
Pull curtain;
I peer

Psychotherapy works
Hidden things can appear
Driven crazy;
berserk,
like a ship you can't steer

A continuous game,
one that can not be won
Somewhat hard to explain
Like a program that's run

Piece of clothing that's stained
Been there since time begun
And no way to contain
The past can't be undone
Pulling at it you tear
to remove all the faults
but you never get near;
locked away in the vault

Bang away at the door
Combination is lost
Feel despondent,
defeated,
and just at a loss
Where you give up all hope
There’s no way you can win
Sinking down to the bottom
It ends and begins…

-
-
-

Here alone in the darkness,
at first, you’re afraid
and wallow in pity
this “mess” you have made

While confined in a box
It’s a self-given coffin;
recluse who’s closed off
Made a space can’t get lost in

You wither and rot
in this counterfeit grave
Also, time to reflect
on the choices you’ve made

Loneliness not a friend;
Solitude can be one
Introspective -
a teacher
A valuable one

Near impossible to
fix what can not be seen
Not the visible lines
but what’s hidden between
Archaeologist digging
deep down in the dirt
Resurrecting the fossils
of buried down hurt

Everyone has a closet
with skeletons in
They are not all the same
in their size or within
But ignoring and locking away never works
You must get your hands *****
and dig in the dirt

Facing demons or sitting in darkness for most
conjures feelings of horror
like seeing a ghost
Though denial feels warm
like it might be a friend
Just like 'Brute',
it stabs in the back in the end

So, if life’s got you down
then it’s time to get up
I’m not saying it’s easy
Dig down and get tough
It is known that the night’s
darkest right before dawn
In the moment you’re weakest
you’ll soon become strong

Like a pendulum swing
or the changing of seasons
When pushed to extreme
then it just goes to reason
A rebounding force
very soon will attack
And all battle ground lost;
rightfully taken back

When you’ve given up hope;
just about to give in
At the end of your rope
Feel it’s time to say “when”
Meditate into silence;
cut everything out
Hear that voice from inside
with a WARRIOR shout!

If you listen
the universe will direct you
It has knowledge
and one
most important of clues
Like the phase of the moon
or the flow of the tides
there’s a cyclical pattern
all things must abide

When the mountain top’s reached,
one can only go down
You can swim at the beach
or give up
and then drown


Everything ebbs and flows
It’s the nature of all
So remember this lesson
when you’re feeling small

When that final point’s reached,
only one way to go
Now get back on your feet!
With this knowledge
you know
You will be hurt no more
‘cause that time’s "come and gone"
In the darkness no more

Now it’s time for the dawn!
Written: October 11, 2019 (started) & December 31, 2019 (finished)

All rights reserved.
[Anapestic Tetrameter Format]

For those who may know me or may otherwise be curious or concerned:
I know I have been a little M.I.A. from here recently. I have been busy (and tired) with daily life duties and responsibilities. Just as this poem points out the cyclical nature of things, the "tide of life" has called me away recently and distracted me elsewhere. I hope to change that very soon. I very much miss reading the wonderful poetry that is displayed on this website daily by so many talented people. I also miss interacting with the HePo community and the numerous friends I have made here. I thank those who have taken the time to read my poetry and possibly, 'liked, 'loved', or commented. I apologize if I haven't specifically acknowledged anyone's comments or gestures. I want to get to each and every one of you (and I intend to) but in the meantime I wanted to give a blanket "thank you" to all of you. I hope everyone enjoyed the holidays and here's looking to a joyful and prosperous '2020!  

=^)
Thera Lance Nov 2019
The dead don’t rise, but he does
Like awakening from a dream
And realizing that the only eternal thing
In this decaying universe is himself.

The body looks the same
The ash on his tongue possesses the same flavor as at the time of death,
A goal that will elude him unlike the rest
Who will never be trapped by the fear
Of their actions haunting them forever.
The Downside of eternal life is the haunting nature of all one's mistakes.
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