For all the saints, who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Apostles’ glorious company,
Who bearing forth the Cross o’er land and sea,
Shook all the mighty world, we sing to Thee:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For the Evangelists, by whose blest word,
Like fourfold streams, the garden of the Lord,
Is fair and fruitful, be Thy Name adored.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For Martyrs, who with rapture kindled eye,
Saw the bright crown descending from the sky,
And seeing, grasped it, Thee we glorify.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
And singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

[William How 1864]

Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and

Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and

revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial!  Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,

neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ******, exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,

perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and

pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,

song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,

India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.

She was never one to worry
About the rain—
Rather softening her heart
To a hundred lilies
Seemed more worth her while.

Somber alleluias echo
From the garden gates
Offering peace and
Honest praise

Unaccompanied by doubt,
We whisper to the wind,
Let me be like the lilies
—unrivaled by the rain.

Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.

a.k.

Alleluia !
The visions and insights
increase with each passing minute -

whirlwinds of growing wisdom
together with the receiving
of perpetual graces
and eternal values.

All difficulties surrender
and disappear into oblivion
where the horrors
of non-being thrive.

Grandma read her Bible every day. She cherished those words of Psalm Twenty-three. With delight, I find that she provided a way for us to physically cling to those words in the days and weeks and months and years to come.
Grandma loved flowers, she loved her church, she loved her dogs, she loved her family and she loved to sew. For each of her children and their children, and their children, and other family and friends she made dolls, potholders, and… quilts. Each one pieced together by her hand. She worked on her last quilt at age 96.
Into each of those quilts we find the words of that psalm symbolically emblazoned. Those words were part of all she did, as God so lovingly knit them into her heart over the years; with every fresh sunrise and stunning sunset, with each beaming smile and falling tear, every sparkling joy and shadowing sorrow, each blossoming flower and obstinate ****, every delightful birth and parting death, and each victory and defeat.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want”
So she takes some cloth - scraps from favorite dresses of sunshine yellow, powder blue and rose pink, and with experienced hands stitches patches of provision and contentment into the heart of that quilt that is ours.    

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...”
In go some bits of green with a little floral print and we have something to wrap up in for moments of rest in the midst of our tumultuous lives.

“He leadeth me beside still waters...”
She picks up some clear bright blue strips and with them provides some satisfaction amidst all of our frustrations.

“He restoreth my soul...”
She understands that so, she makes sure the quilt is just the right size and lets us know that we are worth the effort and time and love that God focused on her throughout the years.  

She stitches and sews the words...
“He leadeth me in the path of righteousness for His name sake...”
As she joins each piece to another and then to another until they make a square, and one square to another until she has a block, and one block to another until the quilt needs a border; and with that border, she frames for us a picture of what happens when there is a plan. She wants us to know that God has a plan for each of us, that there is a right way.

With the words...
“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me...”
She adds piece upon piece until that quilt is part of who she is, and then she gives it to us, each one, and we have a part of her that tells us who we are. That she is with us, as God is with her. No matter where we go or how far we range, how high we soar or how low we fall, her quilt reminds us that she is part of who we are. She wants us to know that she found her security in her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  Grandma wants each of us to be that secure.

“Your rod and your staff, they comfort me...”
It is amazing how soft and full and pleasant Grandma’s quilts are to the touch. They are quilts of substance.  All those many different pieces of cloth of diverse sources and materials come together to make a quilt that brings us comfort while laying across our lap, or when we curl up in it when a chill is in the air.  Her quilt comforts us because it gives us a boundary that is safe. We are wrapped up safe and warm in here, and the cold world is out there. In the same way Grandma found that God gives that same sense of comfort - boundaries that we are safe within. Comfort comes for each of us when we wrap ourselves up within the boundaries that God has prepared for us.

“You prepareth a table before me in the presence of my enemies,
you anoint my head with oil, my cup runneth over,
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...”
Grandma learned long before she began her hundredth year that, as bad as things often got and as bleak as the future often seemed; in proper perspective, God had abundantly and mercifully blessed her. In all those years that she lived alone and independently, she found that God was ever present with her. He was her constant companion. Her quilt provides us now with that sense of her abiding love and presence in our lives, and points to God’s constant presence in hers.  When we wrap ourselves up in our quilts made by Grandma’s own two hands, we can put things into perspective; realizing anew that we, indeed, have been blessed. If nothing else, we can know that we have been touched in such a special way as to have someone who loves us make us each our own personal quilt.

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Alleluia! To know that Grandma today is safe and secure in the arms of God is a comfort that we cherish. That body, worn down by a century of living here on earth, God will make fit for eternity.
How does that relate to her quilts? It’s all about belonging. She has an eternal home. She belongs there, now. Having been given a quilt by someone who made it especially for you, you can know a little about the sense of belonging that she is experiencing with the saints today. It says that you are part of the person who made it and that they are part of you. You belong.
     There are many, many people in this world who do not know and will never know what it means to belong. Your mama, grandmother, great grandmother has given you that gift; the gift of belonging. She also wants you to know that only God, through Jesus Christ, can give you that gift for eternity.
     More than anything else today Grandma’s prayer for you is that you will find the quilt of God’s love that is found in Jesus Christ. Her hope for you, in the days, weeks, months and years to come, is that you will find contentment, rest, satisfaction, renewal, security, perspective, comfort - and belonging; as you curl up with the quilt she made, just for you.

©2001 Michael S. Davis, An Eulogy by her Grandson
In Memory of Grandma,
Mrs. Beulah Bachman Bradley
December 29, 1901 - August 2, 2001

And after these things I heard a great voice of much people in heaven, saying, Alleluia; Salvation, and glory, and honour, and power, unto the Lord our God:

2 For true and righteous are his judgments: for he hath judged the great *****, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.

3 And again they said, Alleluia And her smoke rose up for ever and ever.

4 And the four and twenty elders and the four beasts fell down and worshipped God that sat on the throne, saying, Amen; Alleluia.

5 And a voice came out of the throne, saying, Praise our God, all ye his servants, and ye that fear him, both small and great.

6 And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunderings, saying, Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.

7 Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him: for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and his wife hath made herself ready.

8 And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints.

9 And he saith unto me, Write, Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb. And he saith unto me, These are the true sayings of God.

10 And I fell at his feet to worship him. And he said unto me, See thou do it not: I am thy fellowservant, and of thy brethren that have the testimony of Jesus: worship God: for the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.

11 And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.

12 His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.

13 And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.

14 And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean.

15 And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations: and he shall rule them with a rod of iron: and he treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God.

16 And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, King Of Kings, And Lord Of Lords.

17 And I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God;

18 That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both free and bond, both small and great.

19 And I saw the beast, and the kings of the earth, and their armies, gathered together to make war against him that sat on the horse, and against his army.

20 And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.

21 And the remnant were slain with the sword of him that sat upon the horse, which sword proceeded out of his mouth: and all the fowls were filled with their flesh.

i.

I shalt venerate her
In all of mine hour's;
Given I was a gift
A rose budded tower.

ii.

She is aloft
The stellar scope;
Prosperous I am
With her as mine hope.

iii.

To live without her
I canst not;
Alleluia I recite
In her quintessence, her spirit I'm locked.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication

Tiny speck with very limited time scale
riding into the future on unstoppable disco ball

living next the sea full of life and plastic
on knees often praying for God knows what

I desire to be an eternal 'alleluia' a thanksgiving
in heart and mind this tiny speck in time and space
, singing 'Alleluia'

God had called us, and we came;
  Our loved Earth to ashes left;
Heaven was a neighbor’s house,
  Open to us, bereft.

Gay the lights of Heaven showed,
  And ’twas God who walked ahead;
Yet I wept along the road,
  Wanting my own house instead.

Wept unseen, unheeded cried,
  “All you things my eyes have kissed,
Fare you well!  We meet no more,
  Lovely, lovely tattered mist!

Weary wings that rise and fall
  All day long above the fire!”—
Red with heat was every wall,
  Rough with heat was every wire—

“Fare you well, you little winds
  That the flying embers chase!
Fare you well, you shuddering day,
  With your hands before your face!

And, ah, blackened by strange blight,
  Or to a false sun unfurled,
Now forevermore goodbye,
  All the gardens in the world!

On the windless hills of Heaven,
  That I have no wish to see,
White, eternal lilies stand,
  By a lake of ebony.

But the Earth forevermore
  Is a place where nothing grows,—
Dawn will come, and no bud break;
  Evening, and no blossom close.

Spring will come, and wander slow
  Over an indifferent land,
Stand beside an empty creek,
  Hold a dead seed in her hand.”

God had called us, and we came,
  But the blessed road I trod
Was a bitter road to me,
  And at heart I questioned God.

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all
  That the heart would most desire,
Held Earth naught save souls of sinners
  Worth the saving from a fire?

Withered grass,—the wasted growing!
  Aimless ache of laden boughs!”
Little things God had forgotten
  Called me, from my burning house.

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all
  That the eye could ask to see,
All the things I ever knew
  Are this blaze in back of me.”

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all
  That the ear could think to lack,
All the things I ever knew
  Are this roaring at my back.”

It was God who walked ahead,
  Like a shepherd to the fold;
In his footsteps fared the weak,
  And the weary and the old,

Glad enough of gladness over,
  Ready for the peace to be,—
But a thing God had forgotten
  Was the growing bones of me.

And I drew a bit apart,
  And I lagged a bit behind,
And I thought on Peace Eternal,
  Lest He look into my mind:

And I gazed upon the sky,
  And I thought of Heavenly Rest,—
And I slipped away like water
  Through the fingers of the blest!

All their eyes were fixed on Glory,
  Not a glance brushed over me;
“Alleluia!  Alleluia!”
  Up the road,—and I was free.

And my heart rose like a freshet,
  And it swept me on before,
Giddy as a whirling stick,
  Till I felt the earth once more.

All the earth was charred and black,
  Fire had swept from pole to pole;
And the bottom of the sea
  Was as brittle as a bowl;

And the timbered mountain-top
  Was as naked as a skull,—
Nothing left, nothing left,
  Of the Earth so beautiful!

“Earth,” I said, “how can I leave you?”
  “You are all I have,” I said;
“What is left to take my mind up,
  Living always, and you dead?”

“Speak!” I said, “Oh, tell me something!
  Make a sign that I can see!
For a keepsake!  To keep always!
  Quick!—before God misses me!”

And I listened for a voice;—
  But my heart was all I heard;
Not a screech-owl, not a loon,
  Not a tree-toad said a word.

And I waited for a sign;—
  Coals and cinders, nothing more;
And a little cloud of smoke
  Floating on a valley floor.

And I peered into the smoke
  Till it rotted, like a fog:—
There, encompassed round by fire,
  Stood a blue-flag in a bog!

Little flames came wading out,
  Straining, straining towards its stem,
But it was so blue and tall
  That it scorned to think of them!

Red and thirsty were their tongues,
  As the tongues of wolves must be,
But it was so blue and tall—
  Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!

All my heart became a tear,
  All my soul became a tower,
Never loved I anything
  As I loved that tall blue flower!

It was all the little boats
  That had ever sailed the sea,
It was all the little books
  That had gone to school with me;

On its roots like iron claws
  Rearing up so blue and tall,—
It was all the gallant Earth
  With its back against a wall!

In a breath, ere I had breathed,—
  Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!—
I was kneeling at its side,
  And it leaned its head on me!

Crumbling stones and sliding sand
  Is the road to Heaven now;
Icy at my straining knees
  Drags the awful under-tow;

Soon but stepping-stones of dust
  Will the road to Heaven be,—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
  Reach a hand and rescue me!

“There—there, my blue-flag flower;
  Hush—hush—go to sleep;
That is only God you hear,
  Counting up His folded sheep!

Lullabye—lullabye—
  That is only God that calls,
Missing me, seeking me,
  Ere the road to nothing falls!

He will set His mighty feet
  Firmly on the sliding sand;
Like a little frightened bird
  I will creep into His hand;

I will tell Him all my grief,
  I will tell Him all my sin;
He will give me half His robe
  For a cloak to wrap you in.

Lullabye—lullabye—”
  Rocks the burnt-out planet free!—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
  Reach a hand and rescue me!

Ah, the voice of love at last!
  Lo, at last the face of light!
And the whole of His white robe
  For a cloak against the night!

And upon my heart asleep
  All the things I ever knew!—
“Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord,
  For a flower so tall and blue?”

All’s well and all’s well!
  Gay the lights of Heaven show!
In some moist and Heavenly place
  We will set it out to grow.

A woman wearing perfect gums holding in place rows of perfect white teeth driving a shiny red sports car down a black smooth tarmac street
smiling as she sped past little houses surrounded by white picket fences
the hood down hair flowing singing alleluia, alleluia , alleluia , I use a toothpaste recommended by the dentists who are being paid for appearing in this advert and saying exactly what you expected them to.

Sublime wonder in wonderland
Coming to glory in glory
Celebrating glory in glory
Bringing home glory in sheaves

Words in thunder
Words with thunder
Words of thunder
Vomiting thunder in thunder

Ah! We've come in glory to glory
To glory in glory
To birth glory in glory
In cataracts of wonders
In thundering flood of glory
In enflorescence of glory

Alleluia!  Alleluia! Alleluia!

deep in time
in mind

hearts beat
their song

on lips
singing

Alleluia!
Alleluia!

i

Her Bayanihan entity, maketh me Muni-muni in the dusk
Her Humaling for me is relishing, alleluia for her, wanderlust;
I wilt court her mine soon, so she shalt knoweth all is bona fide
I'll taketh her hand in courtship, pushing all the past hurt aside.

ii

I wilt Siping with her in the sugar, in the bowl she dip's her hand
I'll dip mine finger's as well deep inside, inside her mind of tan;
I'll draweth her name on cardboard, and use black marker to,
Like bairn's in yard's, with relic yarn, I'll connect to mine muse.

iii

And thus to be fused, from ourn electrical sensual Spark's
Naked in the world's view, just as actor's, playing the stage part;
Though tis no script, this page is written by ourn amorous desire
Indigenous bodie's, to light the torches, love HOTT, all sweet fire.

iv

Mango to be viscid, between me and her's succulent tang
Her arm's wrapped around mine neck, not letting go, she hang's;
She is Makisig in perfect perfection, wearing a domino mask
Ballroom style, she driveth me wild, her love tis free, not a task.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん

Hiroshima Poems

Let Us Be Midwives!
by Hiroshima survivor Sadako Kurihara
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Midnight . . .
the basement of a shattered building . . .
atomic bomb survivors sniveling in the darkness . . .
not a single candle between them . . .
the odor of blood . . .
the stench of death . . .
the sickly-sweet smell of decaying humanity . . .
the groans . . .
the moans . . .
Out of all that, suddenly, miraculously, a voice:
"The baby's coming!"
In the hellish basement, unexpectedly,
a young mother has gone into labor.
In the dark, lacking a single match, what to do?
Scrambling to her side,
forgetting themselves . . .

It appears that my translation above has been used by Hiroshima University in a new field of study called International Peace and Coexistence. I found my translation on the university’s Peace and Coexistence Facebook page. Being a longtime peace activist, I am particularly happy with the name of the course!



Now the remaining Hiroshima survivors are aging, and they must wonder what the world has learned from their harrowing ordeal:

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



We should always consider the fates of innocent children:

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
―Michael R. Burch, "Epitaph for a Child of Hiroshima"



The intense heat and light of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts left behind ghostly silhouettes of human beings whose lives were erased in an instant:

Hiroshima Shadows
by Michael R. Burch

Hiroshima shadows ... mother and child ...
Oh, when will our hearts ever be beguiled
to end mindless war ... to seek peace,
            reconciled
to our common mortality?



Poets remind us that we all share a common destiny:

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Something
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost―
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone―
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past―
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...



Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch

Go then, and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.

Bring back a pretty
flower,
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
although it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.

There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all its pale forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.



The day the Cloud reigned
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was clear on Hiroshima,
sealing her fate.
The report of the weather plane,
neither early nor late,
was certainly plain.

The few innocuous clouds did not refrain
from abandoning the city.
Only the silence, monstrous in its complicity,
regarding man’s error
acknowledged the horror.

Only the small, astonished victims
understood the immaculate heavens:
the inconceivable light
igniting their bones;
the Cloud, all of a sudden,
billowing unbidden,
and then the apocalyptic rain
descending again and again.

So that where white chrysanthemums
had once whispered with bemused tongues
instantly only ashen ruins remained
the day the Cloud reigned.



War Close Up
by Hiroshima survivor Kurihara Sadako
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stirring bugles! Rousing martial music!
The announcer reporting "victory"
like some messenger from on high,
fanning, fanning the fervored flames of battle!

Masterful state magicians materializing
in a wizardly procession,
spreading cleverly poisoned words
to bewilder reason!
Artistic expression abracadabra-ed into state-sponsored magic!

The sound of boots, guns, bombs, cannons
as our army advances, advances, advances toward the enemy!
The thunder of our invincible tanks advancing! Alleluia!
The sudden, sweet gurgles of drowning enemy ships!

The radio broadcasts the sounds of battle:
A war hymn resounding to the skies,
sung by courageous men and women
who worship this cruel idol, War.

Oh, so powerful the merest whiff
addles even the most independent spirit―
the ***** of patriotism!
the religion of race!

While on scenic islands
scattered like stepping stones across the globe,
and on farflung continents,
driven by boundless avarice,
the landlords rage and rave again,
instilling hatred in indigenous populations
then prodding, driving them into battle.
Full of high-sounding pretexts
inevitably adapted to expediency
they raise indisputable banners―
God is on our side!
Righteous war!
Holy war!

"Right" becomes the password of thieves.
They square their shoulders:
"To secure world peace
annihilate
the evil opponent!"

They bark commands:
"For ten years, a hundred years,
fight to the last man, the last woman!"
The master magicians' martial music
resounds magisterially;
fanatic bull-mad patriots
roar and run amok;
completely bewitched, the people carol in unison:
"O, let me die by the side of my sweet Sovereign!"

Keywords/Tags: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, atomic bomb, Japan, Japanese, translation, nukes, nuclear weapons, nuclear war, epitaph, child, children, mother, mothers, father, fathers, WWII, apocalypse, Armageddon

Soon I'll be scaring the Blue Herons
fishing on the shore
as I ride around the lake
at lightspeeds
watching the sunrise
and listening to Zeppelin.
Alleluia...I can't wait...

i.

Alleluia, I proclaim, six month's it hath been, an eternestial
Keep. None need for word's to cometh out of mine mouth and lips, none need for mine sight to peep. For now; soundly do I sleep. Slumbering in mine dulcet Jane's deepest desires and wishes.

ii.

Every fibril of mineself, shalt be tucked away in her niches, warm and cozy therein I wilt abode; I wouldst selleth all possessions, to be next to her, though I knoweth patience hath
Us on hold.

iii.

In the meanwhile, we shalt cosmogyral, ground to air, a many whilsts. Creshinta lovenairs, O' another six month's wilt cometh again. A lifetime I looketh forward to, kindred spirit, best friend.

iv.

I will not cease, from building upon thee ourn bedrock, thus the ticking hand tick's away, and the minutes betray the clock's. In heaven amour, is where we do belong, with melodious angel's singing hymn's; and saint's to play ourn song. We wilt forever be, six month's from now, six year's, six generation's, six hundred fear's, six-thousand kisses, six million glares, six billon glimpses, of thee mine wife and me all ourn lives. In matrimonial bozeere.

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

Hesukristo, ang buhay ko! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Kunin mo ang aking kaluluwa
At ihatid sa nag-iisang Dios Ama
Hesukristo, Vives en Mi! Alleluia! Alleluia!

-11/01/2014
(Dumarao)

The morning came slowly on that third day
The sun wondered how it might be able to shine through such darkness
The tears of the earth came early in the dew that morning
The flowers began to bloom in an open defiance to the earth
Perhaps the decaying body of the Lord gave them new life

The birds sang songs of jubilee that morning, as if there were reason for joy
Did they not know that the Light of the World had been snuffed out?
Did they not know that the one who fed them had gone away?
Did they not know that their creator lay below them dead in the ground?
Or did they sing defiantly knowing what we yet did not know?

Much like it had been in Bethlehem decades before, the world was silent
Breaking the silence like the Divine Child’s cries, somewhere a child cried
As if this child knew that his Lord lay dead below the earth
As if he could feel the thick darkness that surrounded him
But then, in defiance like only a child could bring, the first laughter in days

The new world was cold, dark, and bitter, and a child dared to laugh
While the rest of the world cried and mourned the death of their only hope
This child laughed while the birds sang and the flowers bloomed
It was as if they did not know that the Life of the World was still dead
Rather, though, it was as if they had read the prophets of old, and believed

When the sun finally rose, it could not shine through the thick darkness
We lived in a dark purgatorial world where we awaited the judgement
What a terrible judgement that must be coming toward us
We, who drove the nails into His hands, and gave Him over to death
But then, a glimmer of light comes upon the horizon

The light was not the rising of the sun, but some holy other
Those disciples who had run away while He hung on the cross ran again
This time not away from their Savior, but toward that otherworldly light
When they came to where He has been buried, they fell upon their faces
The brightest light to ever grace this old world poured out of the tomb

Then they heard a voice, the voice of the Risen Lord
‘Rise up you men of earth’ He said to the men lying facedown
‘Rise up oh you sleepers!’
‘Behold the Light of the World is upon you’
It was then that the world began its slow change

The cosmos, which had fractured so long ago in Eden, began to mend
Dead men rose to new life
Dark places were then filled with life
The world became a new place where the old had passed away
Every crack and crevice filled with an uncreated light never before seen

For the Lord has risen from the dead!
Indeed He has defeated death!
And forever, we shall keep the feast !
Alleluia!

Quiet
...resolve
The voices are the tiniest hum-
-clashing as only voices can...
They all lift;
And.
Are.
No.
More.

Thank you, oh sweet Lord,
For your selfless sacrifice,
To expiate sin.

Unworthy we are,
Yet you love us still, each one,
Died that we may live.

You are risen, Lord,
That our souls might rise as well,
Beyond death's dark veil.

The work words have to do, I do as well
leaving being as having been begun
ghabh-
also *ghebh-, Proto-Indo-European root meaning
"to give or receive."
The basic sense of the root probably is "to hold,"

Able comes from this, thus
ability  

8 billions, say
- the ob-servant says,
half are breathing in, as half
were breathing out,

certainly a few were out of sync,
so some of us sneezed, one would think
to effect the fectuality, unawares,

stutter steps, bridge march, aware
smell the honey suckle smell, no,
discern a subtle dif-fer tle,lit-tle
bit
literal not sames, similar sense, smell
seeming
how more aware have we all become,
we who lost taste and smell, while
experiencing a pandemic in our time.
Eventually endemic.
How rare are we in history? First wave.
Mindful, some how, now
my taste and smell
systems are back,
on.

Off, again, try to remember the smell,
of linden trees in Helena,
and wonder, set a mind on wish to know
will wonder, the worth of which we know

but fail to consider until… un til, tilling soil,
un
I think, et I'm y conjoined, to reconsider you.

At my bitterest root,
my jealousy and rage,
- alleluia, you know the drill
my will to act like some ancient god.
Cursing all I ever was.
-disconfabulating my own legend… uses
time, in points made.

May I guess we know each word,
writ and read, in this medium sprouted from
science with held from those
limited access faith confirmations, holy secret
ways out of paying for all the idle words,
never taken for the sense intended,
foremost
sense
posited, as a point in time,
we agree, I can, we did

--plea, please explain, make it seem
as real as any dream, we can't handle the truth.
-pointless-
- why carry the weight of knowing
think of nothing
in a word,
yet
not in time/
-- a spirit from the mortals fearing death
lives in this lie, cultural *******, fear of measure,
spit an image, imagine a nation, from dragon's teeth
spat, shat, splat, all the same, fat rain sound.
-- crack of the gavel, give us rapt attention---
order, order in the court, when, in fact,
judgement begins where Jesus says God is,
in his forever state, in me, of we, who
took him at his word, be true, live.
the way
courtesy commands, as judgment begins
in the spirit
of the man,

The right hand ignores the left hand clapping
-present the feeble fable

Discord sown among brothers-
hate the owning fact of life, only one breath,

- listen to the retold old word tale
- endemic demes enforced knowledge
- from **** to last told tale… we are this
- this is epic in each occurrence… we realize
smoked ribbon winds around in
form,
the long winter mind, all hearing ears, feel
from our gut, we obey. We join image-e- nations.

We dare ante-cipitate the motion in the dance.
All public opinion re
arrives at one point. We have no reasons for war,
we are not the users of others, we give, and
have been given unto, in some inexplicable way,

peace in time to rest in it, dabbling in old lies, left
binding cultural ties, as all reason for stiffness wilts

We listen to the Wendigo,
who wound the ******* greedy winding wake,
when the forest was aflame, and the wind had no cloud
that did not poison rain.
- meandering progress, not steam ship progress
sense posed reason aitia, to the t/
spirit and image in the idiom/
sublime

Now, the teller, looks to me, reminds me
of light perceived as punctual, flashing,
aha, waves in passing
understood.
Effectually.
- we stand as one.
- In the ready written mind.

All but he who takes a knee, ala George Washington,
under the leafless tree, in the olden vale.

The point of any thing, is made for, f-word for or fore
before, forsaking, one must make for some sake,
no relationship to four, for some reason, get
as a service, do what you do. Right.
Why would one enabled to do good,
do otherwise?

Ignor the answers you ask for.
Pretend poetry never makes
sense in terms of poetic good, exhaled, relieved,

passing coolness in the air.
- as gentle spirits some say do
Orderly arrangement, left mind, right or most versatile hand,
point at any thing,
bend that finger,
as on a trigger,
we can, we
know not how, we know, we have, we hold certain
positioning words as one mind may, I know,

I just got my smell back.
Like that, but after using your James Webb visualizing augments.
The wheel galaxy, just as imagined… we see

In effect, this is science, this is history,
this is art and language, holding sway,
we all know earth produces on a cycle, right,
greed breeds and brings forth famine,
famine finds us eating our corporations…
Jubilee, reset
-ship, shape, worth-shape, sense make,
peace where war was, one point
at a time.

Hold that thought, this is intended for

an audience, as the Terminal List,
was made to entertain military minds,
mental peace enforcer traits, keepers
of the secret, duty to the concept,..
live free, or die- for no reason,
save the Platonic essential lie.

Peacemakers were not intended,
we want valient warriors, at the core,
not the passive resistors increasing
capacity
to have the whole world sneeze.
And blink,
To sell words redeemed, mercurial recovery,

as from first people stories, branching away,

chaparral, between the salty sea,
and high reaching pine

fishing in a sea of social forgotten schemes/

Self govern, but in these days, not the future,
self govern now, participate in the present,

NPC over sight, non intervention-invention,
installed when you agreed, you watch,
do not rewrite the ending/

So, story being told.
Story being made up to conserve,

serve a certain truth we know, winter comes
some times for too long,

so we consider the ant, and remember Wendigo.

greedy gut, cheater, long time ago, we know,
we all can be the hungered beast.

Wait, and see, some day, we see the peace pass
for understanding, and we wonder into a we,
state of awe, as a we aware, we think

whole worlds and only words, at once.
Making peace from confused principle things.

We can, others have, agree; we are the best/

--------
Welfare, fare thee well, we said

we are as rich as ever was,
but we live a quiet life.

Pressure from some outside source,
begins be gins beginning to squeeze,

and pull and stretch, who needs the show
shown every where,
there, those other people, who own
no means to make a living form we are
reality personality types, all observants
become familiar with,
predicting winners, if it happens

I coulda been a contender, the audience
always know,
just how it feels, to be on your own,
a compleated unknown enfolding old Dylan licks,

Wendigo, there he go,
lickin' his chops, BG words are all I have
to take his breath away,

soft, and gentle/ sub-tility, wait, as sufficient

seed becomes something, never just a seed again,
and then just a seed a million times, in the wind.

-------------
3:55
I've driven myself to reflection
point,
observation con services ob
scene, objects mis directed, rect-
ify, io I mean, finger mover, on demander
I, free, willing, hunting wendigo from fantacy
conforming to hate manifested, abhor evil,
-never rests, never
rest in stranger's peace of mind,
find plain old apples in the tree, free, no fines,
no charge, non sense, an-tic

click onoma-tope -- under all of history, we know,

scribes, alone, found time to write, after reasoning
in the agora all day… ancient minds, WWSD?

--- listen, I am ashamed to beg, so, what does
your tab say, listen, I'm thinking

that's too much, here, take your ledger, wipe the debt.

Clean, no remnant from which revenant wrongs make claim,

first story told was told as lies, intended to deceive.

Knowledge is truth's gift, we live and learn
and pass it on. One point, inevitably crossing now.
And leaving a ripple, no marks

Yet, behind all that, this peace in mind, as a state, mindstate
timespace space time

taken, for granted bequilement does not disconnect,
knowing from known, and proof from pudding,
true rest,
reason for peace taken, in knowing, some body
had to believe, if it feels good, suddenly,
you know, every thing we eat
turns to ****, unless we learn…

that is good. Deal with it.

attempting to be the giver when there's a Father of all lights to beget all things to His self is fatal.
open up your wonder to give and receive
wake into reality of transparent grace

each word freely given
a voice to sing

Alleluia
rising

from tongue
to wing.

Your heart bleeds,your head aches,
When your bloods,
Misconceive your world

Your spirit dampens, your flesh sores
When friends,
Fathom not,your soul

Your total being,sick and pale
Of the haulage of spits,
Rains by the world.

Your bloods, your friends;
The world,different names
They chorus

Your identity,your person,
To them,total darkness,
The sage sees the light

Though,rejection songs
At its loudest, despair recedes
Hope rekindles

Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Inner muscle revives,
You are uncaged, alleluia!

And now the sacred  
season comes;
pine boughs hang
   heavy
with the snow.
Holly brightens
the winter scene
and mistletoe hints
at a more ancient
   celebration.
Candles light the
frosty windows --
weary travelers
hurry home.
On this most holy
    night
a babe was born
(witnessed by a
   star) --
bearing the angel's
  adoration.
Lo, the baby is
   sleeping;
Alleluia, the angels
are singing.
Peace on earth,
peace on earth!
And now the sacred
season comes...

Lying & kissing,
her tenderness
exposed.

I travel earnestly,
gliding, sliding
north to south,
savoring my
return trips
down to tight-***,
then up swirling.

I nest inside
her flowery-folds,
inhaling beauty,
sniffing
succulent-fragrance,
so raw & inviting.

Boldly
kissing &
push-pulling,
I lick tenderly,
some flick-plucking,
exploring &
now thrusting,
increasing tempo,
I hear her breathing
heighten,
reach a higher level.

O her
intermittent
soft sighs,
she closes her eyes,
thighs trembling!

Her rock-hardened tips
swim her breast-ocean,
& wonderful back rises
up in arched-rainbow
as she reaches
a wild-crescendo.

Shuddering,
flooding &
curling her toes,
she screams, "Good God, Alleluia!"
& I know I've reached Eureka!

We lie breathless,
kissing
in repose,
aglow in a beautiful
sweet-nirvana.

I do not wear religion as a shield,
Nor as a sword.

I wear it quietly in my heart,
A beacon of hope, faith, and love.

I know You love me, Lord,
Despite all my flaws that make me unworthy of Your love.

God made man, the best of us,
Who died to buy redemption for our sins.

You are absent from my Church today,
Three days of absence that mark Your death and resurrection.

Tomorrow you will return in Glory,
We will celebrate your resurrection.

My wife and I may not be at Your home,
Illness may prevent it, not for the first time.

But we are grateful beyond words for Your sacrifice,
And the love that made it possible.

We carry You always in our hearts,
With gratitude, love, and hope.

You have died. You have risen. You will come again.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

I am unworthy, Lord, of your sacrifice,
I am unworthy, Lord of your love,
But through You I am made whole.

My faith in You sustains me in the most difficult of times,
You are the light that shines in the darkest corners of my soul,
You have died. You have risen. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Just in the nick of time,
before we kissed
our gnarly ***** goodbye,
we got a reprieve
from two fast-movers
screaming above us
in a vertical.

We got explosive
snaps,
crackles
& pops,
such deliverance
from the diesel-smoke skies,
some guys got tears in their eyes.

It was a time of holy reverance,
a cause for celebration,
as we thanked God
for those killer
buzzsaws
bringing
total destruction
on our perimeter.
High fives all around.
Alleluia.

you remind me of the first time i saw fireworks

you remind me of things i thought i loved
a purple bunny called Hoppy
a heater on a cold morning
every Alleluia chorus
every Sunday morning.

you remind me of the sun, the moon, the stars,
how i thought i loved them all
and how i thought
they were
so beautiful

you remind me
of songs i used to sing
when i was very young
and
all those fleeting feelings of
what i thought was
untethered joy

oh my love, oh my world,
i never loved till you.

I.

Retournons à l'école, ô mon vieux Juvénal.
Homme d'ivoire et d'or, descends du tribunal
Où depuis deux mille ans tes vers superbes tonnent.
Il paraît, vois-tu bien, ces choses nous étonnent,
Mais c'est la vérité selon monsieur Riancey,
Que lorsqu'un peu de temps sur le sang a passé,
Après un an ou deux, c'est une découverte,
Quoi qu'en disent les morts avec leur bouche verte,
Le meurtre n'est plus meurtre et le vol n'est plus vol.
Monsieur Veuillot, qui tient d'Ignace et d'Auriol,
Nous l'affirme, quand l'heure a tourné sur l'horloge,
De notre entendement ceci fait peu l'éloge,
Pourvu qu'à Notre-Dame on brûle de l'encens
Et que l'abonné vienne aux journaux bien pensants,
Il paraît que, sortant de son hideux suaire,
Joyeux, en panthéon changeant son ossuaire,
Dans l'opération par monsieur Fould aidé,
Par les juges lavé, par les filles fardé,
Ô miracle ! entouré de croyants et d'apôtres,
En dépit des rêveurs, en dépit de nous autres
Noirs poètes bourrus qui n'y comprenons rien,
Le mal prend tout à coup la figure du bien.

II.

Il est l'appui de l'ordre ; il est bon catholique
Il signe hardiment - prospérité publique.
La trahison s'habille en général français
L'archevêque ébloui bénit le dieu Succès
C'était crime jeudi, mais c'est haut fait dimanche.
Du pourpoint Probité l'on retourne la manche.
Tout est dit. La vertu tombe dans l'arriéré.
L'honneur est un vieux fou dans sa cave muré.
Ô grand penseur de bronze, en nos dures cervelles
Faisons entrer un peu ces morales nouvelles,
Lorsque sur la Grand'Combe ou sur le blanc de zinc
On a revendu vingt ce qu'on a payé cinq,
Sache qu'un guet-apens par où nous triomphâmes
Est juste, honnête et bon. Tout au rebours des femmes,
Sache qu'en vieillissant le crime devient beau.
Il plane cygne après s'être envolé corbeau.
Oui, tout cadavre utile exhale une odeur d'ambre.
Que vient-on nous parler d'un crime de décembre
Quand nous sommes en juin ! l'herbe a poussé dessus.
Toute la question, la voici : fils, tissus,
Cotons et sucres bruts prospèrent ; le temps passe.
Le parjure difforme et la trahison basse
En avançant en âge ont la propriété
De perdre leur bassesse et leur difformité
Et l'assassinat louche et tout souillé de lange
Change son front de spectre en un visage d'ange.

III.

Et comme en même temps, dans ce travail normal,
La vertu devient faute et le bien devient mal,
Apprends que, quand Saturne a soufflé sur leur rôle,
Néron est un sauveur et Spartacus un drôle.
La raison obstinée a beau faire du bruit ;
La justice, ombre pâle, a beau, dans notre nuit,
Murmurer comme un souffle à toutes les oreilles ;
On laisse dans leur coin bougonner ces deux vieilles.
Narcisse gazetier lapide Scévola.
Accoutumons nos yeux à ces lumières-là
Qui font qu'on aperçoit tout sous un nouvel angle,
Et qu'on voit Malesherbe en regardant Delangle.
Sachons dire : Lebœuf est grand, Persil est beau
Et laissons la pudeur au fond du lavabo.

IV.

Le bon, le sûr, le vrai, c'est l'or dans notre caisse.
L'homme est extravagant qui, lorsque tout s'affaisse,
Proteste seul debout dans une nation,
Et porte à bras tendu son indignation.
Que diable ! il faut pourtant vivre de l'air des rues,
Et ne pas s'entêter aux choses disparues.
Quoi ! tout meurt ici-bas, l'aigle comme le ver,
Le charançon périt sous la neige l'hiver,
Quoi ! le Pont-Neuf fléchit lorsque les eaux sont grosses,
Quoi ! mon coude est troué, quoi ! je perce mes chausses,
Quoi ! mon feutre était neuf et s'est usé depuis,
Et la vérité, maître, aurait, dans son vieux puits,
Cette prétention rare d'être éternelle !
De ne pas se mouiller quand il pleut, d'être belle
À jamais, d'être reine en n'ayant pas le sou,
Et de ne pas mourir quand on lui tord le cou !
Allons donc ! Citoyens, c'est au fait qu'il faut croire.

V.

Sur ce, les charlatans prêchent leur auditoire
D'idiots, de mouchards, de grecs, de philistins,
Et de gens pleins d'esprit détroussant les crétins
La Bourse rit ; la hausse offre aux badauds ses prismes ;
La douce hypocrisie éclate en aphorismes ;
C'est bien, nous gagnons gros et nous sommes contents
Et ce sont, Juvénal, les maximes du temps.
Quelque sous-diacre, éclos dans je ne sais quel bouge,
Trouva ces vérités en balayant Montrouge,
Si bien qu'aujourd'hui fiers et rois des temps nouveaux,
Messieurs les aigrefins et messieurs les dévots
Déclarent, s'éclairant aux lueurs de leur cierge,
Jeanne d'Arc courtisane et Messaline vierge.

Voilà ce que curés, évêques, talapoins,
Au nom du Dieu vivant, démontrent en trois points,
Et ce que le filou qui fouille dans ma poche
Prouve par A plus B, par Argout plus Baroche.

VI.

Maître ! voilà-t-il pas de quoi nous indigner ?
À quoi bon s'exclamer ? à quoi bon trépigner ?
Nous avons l'habitude, en songeurs que nous sommes,
De contempler les nains bien moins que les grands hommes
Même toi satirique, et moi tribun amer,
Nous regardons en haut, le bourgeois dit : en l'air ;
C'est notre infirmité. Nous fuyons la rencontre
Des sots et des méchants. Quand le Dombidau montre
Son crâne et que le Fould avance son menton,
J'aime mieux Jacques Coeur, tu préfères Caton
La gloire des héros, des sages que Dieu crée,
Est notre vision éternelle et sacrée ;
Eblouis, l'œil noyé des clartés de l'azur,
Nous passons notre vie à voir dans l'éther pur
Resplendir les géants, penseurs ou capitaines
Nous regardons, au bruit des fanfares lointaines,
Au-dessus de ce monde où l'ombre règne encor,
Mêlant dans les rayons leurs vagues poitrails d'or,
Une foule de chars voler dans les nuées.
Aussi l'essaim des gueux et des prostituées,
Quand il se heurte à nous, blesse nos yeux pensifs.
Soit. Mais réfléchissons. Soyons moins exclusifs.
Je hais les cœurs abjects, et toi, tu t'en défies ;
Mais laissons-les en paix dans leurs philosophies.

VII.

Et puis, même en dehors de tout ceci, vraiment,
Peut-on blâmer l'instinct et le tempérament ?
Ne doit-on pas se faire aux natures des êtres ?
La fange a ses amants et l'ordure a ses prêtres ;
De la cité bourbier le vice est citoyen ;
Où l'un se trouve mal, l'autre se trouve bien ;
J'en atteste Minos et j'en fais juge Eaque,
Le paradis du porc, n'est-ce pas le cloaque ?
Voyons, en quoi, réponds, génie âpre et subtil,
Cela nous touche-t-il et nous regarde-t-il,
Quand l'homme du serment dans le meurtre patauge,
Quand monsieur Beauharnais fait du pouvoir une auge,
Si quelque évêque arrive et chante alleluia,
Si Saint-Arnaud bénit la main qui le paya,
Si tel ou tel bourgeois le célèbre et le loue,
S'il est des estomacs qui digèrent la boue ?
Quoi ! quand la France tremble au vent des trahisons,
Stupéfaits et naïfs, nous nous ébahissons
Si Parieu vient manger des glands sous ce grand chêne !
Nous trouvons surprenant que l'eau coule à la Seine,
Nous trouvons merveilleux que Troplong soit Scapin,
Nous trouvons inouï que Dupin soit Dupin !

VIII.

Un vieux penchant humain mène à la turpitude.
L'opprobre est un logis, un centre, une habitude,
Un toit, un oreiller, un lit tiède et charmant,
Un bon manteau bien ample où l'on est chaudement.
L'opprobre est le milieu respirable aux immondes.
Quoi ! nous nous étonnons d'ouïr dans les deux mondes
Les dupes faisant chœur avec les chenapans,
Les gredins, les niais vanter ce guet-apens !
Mais ce sont là les lois de la mère nature.
C'est de l'antique instinct l'éternelle aventure.
Par le point qui séduit ses appétits flattés
Chaque bête se plaît aux monstruosités.
Quoi ! ce crime est hideux ! quoi ! ce crime est stupide !
N'est-il plus d'animaux pour l'admirer ? Le vide
S'est-il fait ? N'est-il plus d'êtres vils et rampants ?
N'est-il plus de chacals ? n'est-il plus de serpents ?
Quoi ! les baudets ont-ils pris tout à coup des ailes,
Et se sont-ils enfuis aux voûtes éternelles ?
De la création l'âne a-t-il disparu ?
Quand Cyrus, Annibal, César, montaient à cru
Cet effrayant cheval qu'on appelle la gloire,
Quand, ailés, effarés de joie et de victoire,
Ils passaient flamboyants au fond des cieux vermeils,
Les aigles leur craient : vous êtes nos pareils !
Les aigles leur criaient : vous portez le tonnerre !
Aujourd'hui les hiboux acclament Lacenaire.
Eh bien ! je trouve bon que cela soit ainsi.
J'applaudis les hiboux et je leur dis : merci.
La sottise se mêle à ce concert sinistre,
Tant mieux. Dans sa gazette, ô Juvénal, tel cuistre
Déclare, avec messieurs d'Arras et de Beauvais,
Mandrin très bon, et dit l'honnête homme mauvais,
Foule aux pieds les héros et vante les infâmes,
C'est tout simple ; et, vraiment, nous serions bonnes âmes
De nous émerveiller lorsque nous entendons
Les Veuillots aux lauriers préférer les chardons !

IX.

Donc laissons aboyer la conscience humaine
Comme un chien qui s'agite et qui tire sa chaîne.
Guerre aux justes proscrits ! gloire aux coquins fêtés !
Et faisons bonne mine à ces réalités.
Acceptons cet empire unique et véritable.
Saluons sans broncher Trestaillon connétable,
Mingrat grand aumônier, Bosco grand électeur ;
Et ne nous fâchons pas s'il advient qu'un rhéteur,
Un homme du sénat, un homme du conclave,
Un eunuque, un cagot, un sophiste, un esclave,
Esprit sauteur prenant la phrase pour tremplin,
Après avoir chanté César de grandeur plein,
Et ses perfections et ses mansuétudes,
Insulte les bannis jetés aux solitudes,
Ces brigands qu'a vaincus Tibère Amphitryon.
Vois-tu, c'est un talent de plus dans l'histrion ;
C'est de l'art de flatter le plus exquis peut-être ;
On chatouille moins bien Henri huit, le bon maître,
En louant Henri huit qu'en déchirant Morus.
Les dictateurs d'esprit, bourrés d'éloges crus,
Sont friands, dans leur gloire et dans leurs arrogances,
De ces raffinements et de ces élégances.
Poète, c'est ainsi que les despotes sont.
Le pouvoir, les honneurs sont plus doux quand ils ont
Sur l'échafaud du juste une fenêtre ouverte.
Les exilés, pleurant près de la mer déserte,
Les sages torturés, les martyrs expirants
Sont l'assaisonnement du bonheur des tyrans.
Juvénal, Juvénal, mon vieux lion classique,
Notre vin de Champagne et ton vin de Massique,
Les festins, les palais, et le luxe effréné,
L'adhésion du prêtre et l'amour de Phryné,
Les triomphes, l'orgueil, les respects, les caresses,
Toutes les voluptés et toutes les ivresses
Dont s'abreuvait Séjan, dont se gorgeait Rufin,
Sont meilleures à boire, ont un goût bien plus fin,
Si l'on n'est pas un sot à cervelle exiguë,
Dans la coupe où Socrate hier but la ciguë !

Jersey, le 5 février 1853.

all night daylight like winter
snuggle up and snuggle down
that kind of weather
a day in bed Alleluia
the world will go on without me
while I lay down talking with Jesus

Watt's Woolgatherings



woolgathering ~indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming; absentmindedness


Watt? Watt you say?

these words of yours,
they are mine own,
but in uterine conceived by you,
yet, birthed canal'd in my mouth,
when spoken aloud

call them the shared
jubilatio of the alleluia,
drink them as gospel bittersweet,
cups of AM coffee,
after midnight dregs

you know that coffee, where

love lies quiet
within the mute caresses
of skin to skin embrace.
the smile of a satisfied lover
and the smell of coffee brewing

for me.

so many of us birth poems in their java,
but only you taste

hints at the totality,
experiencing, rarified, extracted,
dramatic, lofty, brief insights
of being born every morning

with first day's breath,
by dawn's first light hints are provided,
thereafter, homebound, o yeah, mine now,
anew, renewed, kept reheated inside me

Watt? Watt you say?

beware those
the warts, bruises,
pus filled excretions,
(the chamber music accompaniments)
of a complete life?

always the spoilt milk,
reminders of the condition human,
have you not me charged
be thy union
am I not good enough to be
at least this,
at least a confederate,
guardian of your magnificent solitude?

but you are not always alone,
sleep with Jesus, kick him out of bed,
early coffee for him,
he needs to be alert,
finding the next day's
Mary Magdelene...

There are times when you jump a gust flings you into weightlessness and you float in the moment, forgetting about the fall. We all live for those moments; yearn for weightlessness when our souls don’t feel the captured form of our brief, earthbound existence.

Everyone bounces, right?

I chose to jump.
Again.

Watt, please take my small hand,
I want to jump,
fall and rise up,
be resurrected by the holiness of your words,
that you cannot see, self-blinded,
only the-needy-for-saving can

Like children
every poem is unique
I don't choose favorites.

but I am a sinner,
another amputated elephant
forced to choose,
I choose my poets carefully,
particularly the visionaries
in sidewalk cafés, notebook scribblers

Why Watt, Watt you remind me why

I will never be as goodly a poet as you,
but I will try, my birth's condition,
a man needing your permission to be
Resurrected, reimagined, because,

God as ocean deep
takes all, gives all,
caresses the fevered forehead
of brand new earth.

God as dark distance between
holds the lamp in the doorway
providing hope of a return home

God as the fragrant fecund flower
waits in innocent attraction
giving pollen to all who would receive.

God as woman born
took care to adorn the alter in pleasing raiment
exposed enough of the hidden treats
Enticements for the restless wanderer
to stay awhile and tend the hearth
raising a blazing fire.

God as woman born
endured the fear, the pain, the eternal longing helpless wait
mercifully forgotten at the first suckling sound.

God as woman born
slew Cain not
nor the others ever after.

God as woman born
removed the fruit from the soil with a tenderness
that wrung a universal sob
from the heart of creation.

so if woman must be,
resurrected as son of a woman poet,
let it be so,
beside you, you shear
wooly words,
from and for us,
gathering, gathering

~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem is dedicated to, inspired by the compositions here of Harriet Tecumsah Watt
She is one of the best writer and poets on this site, vastly under-appreciated. I proudly accept the title of her follower.  Read her and be infatuated, angry, enthralled and challenged. The words in italics are excerpts from her poems and messages.

Sometimes alleluia
You just don't care
About our father
You hate to hear us
Telling you what to do
With your life
You are right
I am very sorry
But we want you to know
That we care about you
We are not telling you
Any *******
Also we want to see you
Happy
We know that you are
At the end of hope
We are not happy
To hear
That you are
Not happy with your life
Also you written as a suicide note
That we found at you kitchen table
The need day you
Took you own life
We still in shock
We still can't believe
That you took you own
Life

Thank you, oh sweet Lord,
For your selfless sacrifice,
To expiate sin.

Unworthy we are,
Yet you love us still, each one,
Died that we may live.

You are risen, Lord,
That our souls might rise as well,
Beyond death's dark veil.