Check the holy books you preached  many
And swear you haven't breached any

Cogitate the words spilled from your tongue
If truly they could manifest for lifelong

Feel the air you inhale,If truly you merit breathing
Look into the mirror,If sincerely you deserve seeing

Walk in the darkness to find your way
If your pious heart lead not the helpless astray

Pray death never meet your deadly deeds
For the innocents will reap your soiled seeds

Anticipate the leader of the dead bands
Inhumed in the open caskets with your hands

Footprints shall reveal the paths legs treaded
Time shall tell when death killed the dead

Working martyrs of the boulevard un-ring bells
Over bleachers in heaven and box seats in hell
While the simple saints with time to serve
Just hold their hands up on all the curves

My blue Jesus take a look at me
And whisper to me what you see
Bind me up and draw me near
Make me strong enough to hear

I've written and read
poems about the stars
and how they were
so fascinating,
empowering
and ultimately,
unreachable.

I've heard stories
about angels and saints;
Their goodness,
nobility and purity,
serving as epitomes
of what Man could
and should be.

But the saints,
they were once sinners
and there are angels
who fell from grace.
Stars that turned
into black holes,
nothing is safe.

Falling is inevitable,
even for the untouchable,
and what we believe to be
unreal and ethereal.

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

Was a man of the true meaning of love,
Would defy the words of men and god,
In his pursuit to help others be happy,
Hosting illegal weddings for men and women,
Binding them together for life,
Under the cover of night,
In gardens of wealthy friends,
Out of Roman imperial sight..
Once he was caught,
With wrath Claudius was fraught,
14TH of February was the date,
Valentine faced his fate,
Beheaded in front of a crowd,
The people martyred him,
Made him the saint of lovers.
To commemorate this day,
Do just as I say,
He wished for those in love,
Write simple notes as confessions of love,
Give flowers as a token of your affection,
And share your love with everyone dear to you.