#manna
Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love of my life,
light of my morning,
arise brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.
Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven,
Desirous Presence,
Passionate One.
Keywords/Tags: love, life, passion, desire, dawn, light, sun, heaven, manna, leaven
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:53 AM UTC
How my soul longs to hold
such poetic pearls within its atmosphere
To be free at will,
to cast them on to the masses
as some psudo manna from heaven
Hung on some ethereal frequency
Where the lost wander aimlessly
Waiting for the Glistening words
To breathe new life into a phoenix
Rising from the ashes
In a sea of coalesced stars
To enrich my own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
Behind the lacerated curtain
Assembled in triumph
We gorge on holy manna
Left by those who went before,
Behind the fire and the cloud.
We know one another
By the stone, pure and white,
More precious than any discarded crowns.
And we laugh loud with full mouths
At the names scribed by our Father,
While the angels just shake their heads and smile.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Embers (2).
Can't talk, can't swallow...
there's a block somewhere
i turn to the other side
new fields.....unknown skies
make hands and mind, busy with new chores...new projects
learn to breathe slow...in a rhythmic flow
eyes look up...trying to find my kite among those, flying high,
with a begging glimpse...sent with prayers
the hours go by...so...very...slow
a distraction is most welcome
while waiting, for things to work out on their own.
while...waiting...
trying to be feisty...determined...in exerting efforts
to cleanse a steamy, foggy mind..intoxicated
with highfalutin truths, and plans that come...and go
they surface....then hide....they confuse
affecting those innocent: one, two, three...even more...
deep within are demons that struggle
to overcome each other...
....dancing with the flame...
so untamed
so alive
soaring inside
not at all like embers dying,
they're all fired up, sharp-edged...hurting
singe-ing innards
ahh...still can't breathe...it burns inwards
possessing throat and voice...can't speak
slowly, the airs turn bleak
how i so want to shout to the Heavens
just this once, to beg...for my own manna
to ask for more fresh air
make sure patience never wanes
to bake and strengthen under the hot sun,
the tiles and stones of my concrete wall
i ask for more beams and rays...i don't want to fall
i ask.......for red-orange embers
.......to permanently brighten
my charcoal-black skies...
Sally
Copyright October 9, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
I celebrate this journey in the desert -
I am but a traveler in my time:
in this pasture of my fathers, land,
where stands this miracle of glass
now calling manna down
from the high home of eagles:
I am but a helpless everyman, lost
in the desert, on a journey out
from the clutches of misery, and pain;
The world is making progress.
As I see the oases running farther
away from my sights: on
elevators to the skies, numbers
of the young call on benefactors
across the seas, for a ropeway
across the quagmires: a home, a car
and the family life; saving for a
better day, in the future, while
my home went from mudbrick
to thatched grass, then out on streets
by the gutter with the dogs;
I am a cleaner, cobbler, janitor
in the land where I was the tiller.
Wiping the sweat on my brows
as I loaf on the lawns, awaiting
labour days hyphenated by mealtimes,
there is no witch-doctor now, and
no money to pay up at the hospitals
that the wealthy from afar line up to,
but to die helpless a wretched death,
I celebrate my helplessness!
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
It used to live on the hilltop
where a lone bell tolled
by the temple:
but the Deity is long gone
and the bell mourns
in the valley wind on empty
afternoons, now.
I went searching for it:
in late summer, the koel
would sunder open the vaults
of heaven and bring
some down for us mortals
haunted by death.
The koels are long gone now.
Peace,
peace.
Lady siting silent in the evening
staring vacant into the sky,
after a day of labour:
can you give some to me?
I thought it was in education.
But that is stored now, in
almirahs where moths
eat way what humidity cannot.
I thought it was in a position.
But they don't matter, now
a ladder ascending
to nowhere,
vanishing mid-air.
Old man, smiling past hope
that has broken like
your lost teeth:
can you give some to me?
I asked the urchin
playing in the ditch after the rains,
he said: 'follow me, I know where
it lives', and he led me to
a ***** pond lined with plastic
and all our civilization's refuse,
and jumped in.
I returned, disgusted.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC