#cattle
refine, skim
make my fateful mind slim
cut away whatever doesn’t fit
smile is earned
for love you must work
keep my phoenix eerily dim
they can’t love your totality
tone down your duality
focus on what works
ignore what hurts
it doesn’t matter, just shatter
there’s no point in trying
you don’t matter, just cattle
there’s no point in denying
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
The rough draft
Stillborn lies:
Five paragraphs
Fully formed,
Topic
Safely stated,
Three points,
Strung in line
Tense & form
Aligned monotony.
No life here,
Words penned,
Five paragraphs
Double spaced,
Properly indented,
Grammar neatly safe.
Enough, and without risk.
Nothing here to see.
No life here
Nothing here to see
I am twenty-one again,
Standing in a chill March barn,
Steam and blood scent,
Obstetric chains straining
On the winch I crank
To save a calf born breech,
Rear heel pads pointing up.
The strain and pull exhaust me,
Mother staggering in the stanchion,
I wrestle against time, about to break.
The calf’s hips stall against the cable strain
Then slip as something pops...
Whether baby or mother
I am uncertain.
Whooshing, the calf slides out and down,
Cable and chain,
Blood and fluid,
Umbilical stretching,
Last tethering connection.
The newborn lies un-shivering,
Inert upon wet straw.
I slip off the chains,
Grasp the slippery feet above
Jellied hooves,
Hoist the calf,
Hang it head down,
Slap it against the wall,
Chant, “Breathe!”
Breathe!
Breathe!
Breathe!
Desperate miracle!
The lungs gurgle,
Raspy coughing,
Gargling mucous,
Air brings life.
The mother,
Eyes rolling,
Murmurs.
Forty years later I stare:
Stillborn paper
Delivered late and lifeless,
Having form,
Technically correct,
Lying breathless on my desk.
Were I to slap it against a wall,
The lines would still be dead.
So, what to do about resuscitation?
I cannot slap the paper,
Nor the student.
My dry eyes tire
Following inanity.
DB Dec. 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:40 PM UTC
yes, I see it
no, its got to be from the smoke
I know, it does make for some great sunrises and sets
oh, can you hear the cattle mooing this morning?
makes for peaceful coffee time...
Brian Hill - 2020 # 273
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
Chop wood, carry water,
channel Ra.
Overtones over the undulations of Nun,
where the first man stood quite
apart from his father.
The cattle of Ra poured forth from his eyes and
thus he ruled over what he made.
Red frequencies in the dark are
strung outside of time -
the mana by which energy makes art.
I cannot look toward the Black Octave…
bad cymatics in the Red Resonant Year.
I’m barking at the Blue Tetrad.
The indian guides couldn’t tell if it was
Comanche or wolf.
They remained still for quite a long time.
By: Jordan Gee
Sep 15, 2020
Sep 15, 2020 at 4:17 PM UTC
These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems.
The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).
And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.
Not far away a new-born lay,
warm-blanketed in straw and hay,
a lowly manger for his crib.
The cattle mooed, distraught and low,
to see the child. They did not know
it now was Christmas day!
***
Christmas Wishes
by Michael R. Burch
My wish for you, with Christmas near,
is troubles fleeing, fleet as deer,
and peace encompassing as snow,
bright merriment in brilliant flow.
I wish for you, with Christ’s Eve here,
a silver moon should skies seem drear,
white stars to light a festive sky,
sweet warmth caressing from on high.
I wish for you on Christmas day
a tree enchanted, festooned, gay . . .
and Christmas night, as carols play,
bright candles lined in white array.
But most of all, I wish you well,
and so much more than words can tell.
For this and every coming year,
Noel, Noel and Christmas cheer!
***
Late Frost
by Michael R. Burch
The matters of the world like sighs intrude;
out of the darkness, windswept winter light
too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror
resolves the distant stars to salts: not white,
but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness.
I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed
as equally as gray, a faded hardness
too malleable with time to be annealed.
Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color;
which matters not. I did not think to find
a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar
to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined
within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree
that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show
they harbor neither love, nor enmity,
but only stars: insignias I know—
false ornaments that flash, overt and bright,
but do not warm and do not really glow,
and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight:
a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow.
I had Robert Frost in mind when I wrote this poem, and thus the title. Frost was fond of the word “arch,” and it’s here because of that fondness. The poem imagines him as an old man and a skeptic, but one who never really made a complete break from his childhood faith. The rainbow created by the “artificial stars” was not something I had planned ... in fact, I believe I wrote that line before I understood that the Christmas tree ornaments were creating the rainbow.
***
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year
by Michael R. Burch
Merry Christmas!
Best of wishes!
Hugs and kisses,
Carolyn.
Don't do dishes
or eat fishes.
You're delicious,
happenin'.
Happy New Year!
Hope to see yer
'round Springwater
once again.
You're a treasure,
such a pleasure
(that's for sure),
a **** friend.
Now I'm learnin'
all 'bout yearnin',
and I'm earnin'
it, I guess.
I'll be stronger,
live much longer.
If I'm wronger,
I’ll confess.
Had to tell you
that you're swell; you
ought to sell you
for a mil.
If I could,
I'd (knock on wood)
be just as good.
I never will.
Still, I love you,
thinking of you;
I eschew to
tell you why.
If you're ever
in the market
(or hard up)
just call this guy.
***
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end ...
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
***
White Hot Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
I’m back from my jog;
it felt like summer
on Christmas Eve.
What a ******
Forget the sleigh, Santa,
hire a Hummer.
***
Christmas is Coming!
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch
Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!
Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!
***
Trump puts the X in Xmas
by Michael R. Burch
Christmas is coming; the Trumpster’s purse is flat.
Please put a billion in Fat Cat’s hat.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short of cash, well then, the yoke’s on you!
***
Trump’s Christmas Shutdown
by Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”
The Grinch is quite proud of his friend Trump tonight:
To see Whoville shut down? “An enormous delight!”
And old cranky Scrooge approves of Trump’s whims:
“Who the hell cares about all those dark Tiny Tims?”
Meanwhile in the Kremlin a ***** glass clinks
As a pale being smiles at his latest hijinks:
“Merry Xmas to all my AmeriKKKan friends
As the bright lights go out and democracy ends!”
***
Economical Fall
by Michael R. Burch
The time to make love is autumn;
so kiss your sweethearts (if you’ve got ’em).
Seek ways to keep warm
but observe this norm:
by Christmas be sure you “forgot” ’em!
***
Yet Another Unmerry Xmas Poem
by Michael R. Burch
the Shepherds should have tended flocks
of sheep, and not become them.
the Wise Men should have used their heads:
religion numbs and dumbs them.
the Angels should have saved their praise
for saviors who can save us
from ludicrous superstitions
and Profits who deprave us.
***
What happened to compassion;
did it go out of fashion?
Or do Jesus and his Profits
prefer to line white pockets
and colorize dockets?
—Michael R. Burch
***
Malpractice
by Michael R. Burch
“He needs a new nose,”
Ma said, “suppose—
one that glows!”
The doc agreed
and worked with speed
on Santa’s steed.
The surgery done,
Ma told her son—
“It’s posh, and fun!”
But Rudolph wheezed
and cried and sneezed
with disbelief.
“It should’ve been red!”
the reindeer said,
pale and distraught in his hospital bed.
“Doc, what did you do?
Alas, boo-hoo!
It’s K-Mart-special chintzy blue!”
***
What Would Santa Claus Say?
by Michael R. Burch
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?
Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and VYBRANÉ PREKLADY BÁSNÍ Z ANGLICTINY, where it was translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava
“And I will **** her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins [kidneys] 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 putting words in his mouth, vows to personally ****** specific children living at the time for their mother’s sins! To make matters even more macabre, one of the “sins” Jesus vows to ****** children for is eating foods offered to idols, which Saint Paul, author of most of the New Testament, said was fine and dandy! According to the gospels, Jesus himself said that Christians could eat anything they liked, because they were not defiled by what they ate. Was Jesus a murderous Indian Giver, or were the writers of the Bible making things up to suit their beliefs?
***
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
Published by Philosophical Percolations and The HyperTexts
Will Jesus Christ cause or allow Albert Einstein and Mahatma Gandhi to be tortured in an "eternal hell" for guessing wrong about which earthly religion to believe? What about Jesus's parable of the Good Samaritan, who put aside religious differences to practice compassion? Did Jesus, who saved all his sternest criticism for hypocrites, talk the talk but fail to walk the walk himself? Or did Christian theologians get something very, very wrong? And what would Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny say about such intolerance and infinite cruelty?
Keywords/Tags: Christmas poems, Christmas day, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, Bethlehem, Star of Bethlehem, star, lambs, children, cattle, oxen, donkey, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Magi, Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, Revelation, homosexuals, harlots, Christianity, heaven, hell, salvation, Gandhi, Hindu, saint, knees, kneeling, prayer, mercy, compassion, grace, toys, games, candy
Keywords/Tags: Christmas, day, lambs, star, children, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, cattle, oxen, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Bethlehem
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 3:54 AM UTC
Within the stomach of the world
The country stretches its branches, uncurled
Who is the horror of Napoleon Bonaparte?
Who darkens and fools the heart?
Often when man is shaken to the core
Other worlds sneak peeks in his door
And even in the junction of cattle
Metaphysical and mystical truths dazzle
Touched by the sea, a vision came
The pearls of the earth in flames
A jackdaw perches itself on pistons
Radiating heat from all of its mission
His mystic sense stayed tight beneath eyelids
Yet lit the flame in all said and undid
Like a voice in the wilderness
Or even a prophet of old, who might deliver us.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 11:56 PM UTC
Cut off God’s thirteenth finger,
It brings the world bad luck.
At the supper of the twelve,
It traded life with a kiss on the cheek!
A tree held a rope for it,
So it could trade the life back!
Number thirteen of the twelve,
Died in a non-existent hotel room.
The dead speak tales of the one,
Who’s kiss killed the sun.
Blew out the world’s candle,
And slaughtered god’s cattle.
Loaded three long nights into a gun...
And pulled the trigger!
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
Swaying blades of grass
Tenderly await
Grazing cattle
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
Robot noise
Robot noise
The only sounds on Earth
are the stomp of heavy metal,
and the grinding of gears.
"What's worse than this?"
we wondered.
It turned out
we had more to learn.
The pure human had left
at the start of the new internet.
We were hybrid beings
of fleetness deemed cyberspeed.
The faster we learned,
the less we learned about us
as creatures.
As creatures,
we were captured in chains
the day we fully interfaced.
Hammers for nails before,
the sales elite saw this in store:
Stood up sleeping,
cow cattle weak to sweet lies.
Robot noise
Robot noise
The only sounds on Earth
are the stomp of heavy metal,
and the grinding of gears.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
a rider there found the lore
and envision his plan
though surely a wire tell
and fine her in her skull
a minute's worth of plaintiff
while they meet rhetorical
and anchor a horse feather
this bar between hither
with Pegasus dimly lighted
and Chisholm Trail afoot
wholly charm a spirit together
in a kiss of extraordinary measure
that a yellow sky glitter
under the stars tonight
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC
It is the feeling of having previously met,
Not necessarily as a professional vet,
Dairy animals mooing to attract.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
How does the rancher learn to dance
The annual rhythms of the land?
When do we bring the cows, bawling,
From open summer to sheltered winter pastures?
When is it time to bring the stubborn bulls
To the empty, urgent cows,
Or to remove them from contented cows,
Grown placid in the heaviness of calves?
How do we know the time
To round up the sweltering herds,
Bringing the bellering calves to brand?
Or when do we cull the frightened heifers,
Lucky in their selection, but uncertain?
When should we pare the weanlings,
And when call we the buyers?
And, when is the time for hiking forty miles
Of rusting fence,
Replacing posts,
Mending broken wire
Before the changing of pastures?
And when is the time to come to ease,
To sense the satisfaction
In seeing grazing cattle,
Tails swishing away the black flies of June,
Moving through gray-green prairie grass
On their way to cool creek water?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
We used to have a larger group
Ten thousand head at best
Once we had the largest herd
Of Longhorn in the west
But, times got tough, we sold a few
There was the drought back in '11
I didn't know it got so bad
But, now....we're down to seven
Yep, seven steers and cows and calfs
Out standing in our field
There's not a lot of meat out there
It's really a poor yield
The Longhorns down in Texas
Took our football tickets back
They said that our best looking cow
Was like a blanket on a rack
We've done our best to make amends
We'll be on top once more, I'm sure
But, we have to keep the calfs all fed
Or else ....we're down to four
There's lots of land for them to graze
They'll grow big, I am assured
But, now I find it difficult
To call seven head...a herd
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
Shall you forever follow the ways of your selfish desires?
Surely you know where you are leading yourself.
If I had the power I would give you my insight for the toils you shall endure.
We must all learn one way or another.
Although some would choose to continue grabbing the hot stove.
Spiritually Dead
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
I will brand you like a farmer brands his cattle.
My lips will burn marks on your flesh, claiming you as mine.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!
Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!
Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!
You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC