"burke" poems
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ****** arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.
IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
37k
Ongoing failures of the Church to act,
will guarantee the sure success of evil;
for faith without works is… still dead
and visible today is spiritual upheaval.
The internal chasm between the members
of both sides -the presbytery and laity-
must be bridged with faithful cooperation,
girded with policies that last permanently.
Even today, God is quietly waiting on the Body,
while the unsaved are queued up for Hell.
Individual Faith is a person’s responsibility,
but the Great Commission impels us to tell…
others about God, His Love and Christ’s Salvation.
After 2000+ years, The World has not misunderstood.
A final solution is required and not yet in place-
each of us must desire to… overcome Evil with good!
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
James 2:14-26; Obad 1:11-15; Gal 6:7-9;
Matt 5:45, 28:16-20
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is
that good men continue to do nothing -Edmund Burke
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
.
J o h n
Dillinger
"P retty Boy"
F l oyd "Baby
Face" Nelson
Al "Scarface"
Capone "Ma
c h i ne Gun"
Kelly Charles
"Lucky" Lucia
no B u g s y
Siegel Carlo
Gambino Jack
Diamond Tom
Devaney Jame
s Coonan D a
wood Ibrahcan Kray Brothers
Demetrius Flenory Joaquin Guzman
James Burke Meyer Lansky
Bonnie Clyde
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Ziegfield girls with Gatling guns
in complete synchronization,
decked out in Erté.
Watch your step, soldier,
for what's often considered foreplay.
Much like Peter and the Wolf,
one thing leads to another
on this daisy chain,
and as you know,
Burke's only jealous of Lorainne.
I'll tell you what,
dress warm for the ******* snowstorm,
and there'll be a place alongside
such an ingenue.
But what a terrible let down
it would be to find out
she was always smarter than you.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
The smell of swiss fondue
a chocolate fountain
moist strawberries
angel food cake.
The smell of brunch buffet
apple turnovers
honey sliced ham
bacon and eggs.
The smell of exhaust
as we walk
to the chapel
up Oliver Street.
The smell of flowers
rainbowed daises
heart shaped lilies
a single red rose
on the broach
of your six year old
brother.
The smell of family
friends neighbors.
The smell
of your six year old
sister
beautiful Easter dress
sky blue ribbons
silk bonnet
blonde hair
smooth skin embalmed
because leukemia
doesn't smell.
Today
we will all
believe in God
or pretend
at least
for you, her sister,
her mother,
her father,
her twin brother,
and for Ruthie,
her chest buried
in tear soaked flowers
in a four foot casket.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
professor Burke and professor Lee
two mathematicians who could not agree
loudly voiced their differences at half past noon
having daily lunch at the Greasy Spoon
the subject on the fateful day was Pi
and they could not see eye to eye
a disagreement on the thousandth digit
had Burke turn red and caused Lee to fidget
said Burke “No you are off by one!”
spat Lee “Your math is poorly done!”
Burke shouted, “Lee, you have gone too far!”
reached toward the counter for a candy jar
but his hand instead encountered pie
a hideous gleam sprang to his eye
he flung the pie with all his might
hit Lee full face, eyes wide with fright
but Lee recovered and found more pies
Boston Creme took Burke between the eyes
apple, custard, lemon, berry
pecan, pumpkin, key lime, cherry
pies of every kind were thrown
plates' radius squared remained unknown
the police arrived to break up the fray
took the two meringued men away
many hours later in the quiet cell
with pie for ink and tempers quelled
the two stood looking at the wall
upon which lay their equation scrawled
said Burke, with both their faces long
“Well, what do you know. We both were wrong.”
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:20 PM UTC
Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.
Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79’
Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him “ King Kong”
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.
Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn’t deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.
Glenn Burke rode the pines while in Oakland
Billy Martin never gave him much chance
When Burke injured his leg in Spring Training
That ended his time at the dance.
He drifted, his playing days over,
He used, he stole and did time.
An accident left him a *******
Unprotected *** ended his line.
No shock was the A.I.D.s diagnosis-
His sister had long known he was gay.
When she took him in he was dying
when all others turned him away.
Sandy Alderson, with the Athletics,
took pity on Burke in despair.
The team paid for his A.I.D.S. medication
and covered the cost of his care.
Sad is the fate of the Athlete unsung,
dying apart from his team.
Glenn Burke showed that a gay man could play,
That a Gay Athlete also can dream.
Glenn Burke passed a long time ago
But his story deserves to be told.
He said when your suffering, dying of A.I.D.S.
Even days in the summer are cold.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Today
Sunday
Slows
Today
Apathy
Grows.
Today
Indolent
Desires
Today
Scarecrows
Stand
Today
Talents
Wane
Today
Numbness
Reigns
Today
Sloth
Drove
Today
Just
Froze
Today
Good
Failed
Today
Evil
Grows
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
1.9k
Next week, I’ll be 61 years
working the same 93 acres.
The furthest field back
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours
to cut, bale and wrap.
Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,
with tea and sandwiches;
brown bread and something sweet.
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.
Nearly took my leg off the first time.
When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.
Someone would pull out a fiddle
or a tin whistle, the women would dance
it was beautiful — meaningful.
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.
And us kids allowed to stay up late,
what a treat; a very rich treat.
I never did grow tall enough
to wield the scythe.
When it was my turn,
machines had been invented.
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work
and lessened the men.
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,
there’s always time for tea.
The scythes rotted;
the horses rotted;
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
Master of money motivated murders
plying prostitutes with liquor
You only want them for their bodies
Knee on chest
hand over mouth
look them in the eye
as they die
Slip her in a tea chest
nail shut the crate
ship her off
to Dr. Knox
He never questions how they died
Science requires sacrifice
to satisfy our endless quest
to know what we do not need to know
Cutting up corpses
can't reveal the truth
Flesh is impermanent
Dragging drunks into alleys
Hare helps with the bigger ones
You only want them for their bodies
Swift suffocations secure shillings
for a bottle of whiskey
to help you ignore
your own evils
Killers can't be trusted
Hare gave you up to save himself
they hung you in Edinburgh square
Sold your skin and skeleton
to make little leather book covers
and an anatomy dummy
They only wanted you for your body.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 7:38 AM UTC
Kanye West made me think polos were cool. I thought playing rap music while wearing polos would make me into a rapper. And then I turned into a tennis player. Tennis got me out of the hood. Let it be known. I could have went to court, and instead I chose the Tennis Court.
Tennis is fun. Before it was ratchet. Now it is tennis racket. Rapping was fun. Bernie Sanders liked rap. He liked Killer Mike, and he was a phenomenal rapper. Hilary listened to me. So I don’t know what that means. I should have been a rapper, but when I saw a videotape of Arthur Ashe playing tennis for Wimbledon, I felt a yearning grow inside of my gut, and it grew until I raised my hand to my mouth to smother the scream of nostalgia that I was feeling.
I wanted people to like me so I started rapping at cafeterias and bleacher stands. People drank cola and munched on popcorn as I talked about growing up in the hood of Burke. Real **** went down in the Burke. Like **** you wouldn’t believe. And that’s real.
I hung out on a rooftop overlooking the city drowned in sunshine that was sad as the girl who left me. Kanye West saved me from becoming a piece of **** And even if he’s an ******* now, everyone knows he was the greatest with 808’s and Heartbreak. Robocop used to play from the car speakers, as we rolled spliffs in the front seat, the wind pouring into the windows.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
We shall call his pig Bismarck,
because Grandad's humour was awful dark,two chickens he kept were called,Burke and Hare and a duck he kept was called Guinness.
But the pig got big,a sod of a sow and Grandad tried which way and how but couldn't quite tame it, and was sorry he gave it such a name,
The moniker Bismarck, fit the pig quite well and in this warzone where he dwelt he felt at home,
Grand dad,once a jack the lad devised a plan to get said pig upon the table,with apple sauce and if able an apple or two to stew.
He led the pig, not very far,just to the local abattoir,where Bismarck sunk without a trace and if you'd seen the smile on his face,you'd think that he enjoyed his trip to crackling land,but he looked good sat on my plate and notwithstanding Bismarcks fate he went down a treat.
Next week I hear it's duck.good luck,ducks can fly,Grandma's buying in some pie,just in case,
dear Grand dad falls flat on his face.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
(This poem can be sung to the melody of "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" by Al Dubin and Joseph Burke.)
D.T.:
Tiptoe through my tantrums,
Through my tantrums--my reality.
Come tiptoe through my tantrums with me.
Tiptoe through my chaos,
For my chaos is a guarantee
If you stroll through my chaos with me.
If things do not go my way,
I'll try to ruin your day.
Don't try to boss me, double-cross me
Or defy me, if YOU do you'll be
Wrapped up in my chaos with me.
If you don't like what you hear,
That's tough 'cause I won this year!
Do what I tell you
If you don't you'll be up a tree.
So tiptoe through my tantrums with me.
-by Bob B (12-17-20)
Dec 18, 2020
Dec 18, 2020 at 10:12 PM UTC
Yon painted ***** yet coffin fresh
the taste of death warm on her flesh
against mine own I long to press
in unholy union no priest would bless
the scent of grave and rictus grin
egg on my need my want to sin
fragile as the first spring bloom
I lay her gently in my room
and soft I claim her as my prize
not with my hands but with my eyes
she's somewhat cold yet heats my blood
my freshly plucked from rest Rose bid
with shaking hands I lay her bare
and at her beauty stand and stare
for here tonight before my peers
I'll put to rest such childlike fears
with surgeons fingers such as these
I'll enter her with precise ease
I'll make of her a thing of pleasure
my illicit gift mine stolen treasure
so gentlemen please take a pew
as I perform right here for you
autopsy 101's in session
today the womb's the arranged lesson
thank you Burke thank you Hare
same time tomorrow please take care.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
The real woman who loves the green woman of life is the unit of white light that the great body of the three corpses large head, large and warm, warm night loves the head of the body of the head instead of the United States, the son of the blood of the women of New York. The acid of the redhead is yellow and the appetite of the earth is the queen of cold gold. The power of the power of free life. Eli's Shadow is a person unknown by Joey Christ in the Brown Morning; The story of the birth of Igor Dammad, son of Amor, is the story of children. English Sky's 'R' Ussian ***** A beautiful body beauty, The goddess Devi; The beauty of the hand lost the life of the Goddess IV IVN, the beauty of the beauty, of the wife, the children, the children who walk, walk in beautiful landscapes of the beautiful nature of another Christian nature. The Tennis game of the distant parade is on the first day of the first day of the movement of the fat tongue that can reproduce an image of the brain citing intense feelings of intensive care and quotations of dark suits. Eyes of eyes; The eyes of the club are hidden from the pink zone of Hera, the original dance of the sand beach corridor. Sodoma dressed in toxic birth. Thin white, white couscous flies this message, the ******* the color of the dead fried Chinese monster started. To confuse breast cancer, the police returned the sticks that are experienced mothers. I love **** hair while I talk live with the cover of Ivanka, who is in a booth a lover. The talented foot of the country offers beautiful girls with female ******* military fame, zero green, this order of liberation. To use the magic range of light, I want to prevent the crystal crystals from increasing the heat, the cancer belt, the oven and the Jewish underwear. He said that after China and the expression the daughter of fingerprints, in the air most of the life of the Australian mother's many rulers is a good life for love. Generally, like life, **** is the quality of the prayer of the green trees, which will talk about the negative aspects of the river. Burke plays an important role. The client Torres Mundle and the world name: "Copa de piezas", which serves Greek products in English (in North Korea).
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
i would like to stand beside kathryn burke.
well
only if You
can promise
it wouldn't hurt.
a promise: is a
promise: and You
promised: You would.
i would just be happy
if she would sit beside me
on a park bench
under a sky
as absent, as dark
as the black lace that chased
her skin
and even if You were
really dead and gone,
(or so says Nietzsche,
a fact i still find hard to believe)
even then,
i wouldn't mind.
as long as that rib
was returned to my side.
then i wouldnt be so half-
empty.
so inside:
out.
then maybe the mirror
would bare an image to me.
boy, i'd finally be living!
who would of thought
a sorry lot
like me
would be
a **** worth giving?
surely
none of the Lords
that are still
living?
but a promise: is a
promise:
and she always
promises.
like those pretty eyes of hers
i couldn't keep
in pockets full of posies
kathryn burke?
does it hurt?
to stand, to sit, to lay
beside me?
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 9:28 PM UTC
It's sad your fear
Knowing that death is near
You lay hapless as a newborn
Covered in feces
You tell me you love me
You're so full of ****
You would tell me anything now
To save
Your pathetic life
But I promise to bestow upon you
Something greater
Something
More perspicacious than life itself
With your death
I shall create a symphonic masterpiece
In the uproar
Upon finding you
Naked of flesh
Hanging by your intestines
Will surpass that of Burke and Hare
Killers extraordinaire
I shall become known as
The one
To whom all others pay homage
So pray to me and ask my forgiveness
For even God knows
Not to interfere with that which I create
You see
Crying is futile
Yet your wails
Sounds as beautiful music
Salaciously enticing
Your tongue
I shall keep
As a
Reminder of this moment
So scream my child
Scream
Until your heart's content
And your lungs collapse
For there is patience in dying
And my knives
Are sharper than surgeons steel
So relax
Time
Is not of the essence here
Would you
Care a taste
Open wide and eat of your flesh
For heaven abounds in its delicacies
Do you see how my dogs devour it
Your breast I shall keep for myself
For I find immeasurable pleasure comes
From eating
Chocolate covered *******
The way the areola
Plays upon the palate
Like a child eating Cotton
Candy on a rainy day
I shall relish in it's
Memories forever
Your eyes I will keep as witness
Seeing only unto themselves
Pickled and ****
A perfect noon snack
With crackers and tea
Don't you think
Imagine
Their shock and awe
Visualize the headlines
Monster Stalks City
As if
My monstrosity
They can envision (input demonic laughter)
Monsters all of them
Recycling feces upon the populace
Yet
There's breath in their lungs
to vilify me insane
Insanity could not have created death
So beautifully orchestrated
And demonstrated
As abstract poetry
Beautiful in its fluency
Next only
To the decay of society
Your death
The epitome
The hallmark of all my gatherings
Culminated in your sufferings
Will outlive posterity
And I
Long dead
Shall be resurrected
A copycat a rock star
For you see my dear
It will not end
With you or I
Or the sudden ablation
Of your flesh
No
You will live
Until
The abstraction of your heart
And I promise you
My love
Saved for last
It will be
The best part
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
a few words to
knock my mandible loose
I set it back into place;
she can be sure
my ears are ripe to listen
her nails grew
in her rearing days
clamantly
clawing
'til quiet is connate to me
condign, burke
a silent sting
spoil, spoil, spoil
spare the rod
save a disparate word
and you turn to strike the wind from me with it
snag my heart
on something keen
rip it from my filthy sleeve
cosset my mother when she cries
bleed my wounds to quell her whine
I could never spill enough
to sate that empty barathrum
just waits to lay me in her snare
lets the bile sleep on the tip of her tongue
best to burn the skin that's young
upheave and hurl my cares around
would I wait for your sorrow?
for your penitence?
I long for it
but it would be swallowed up before the moon could set.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
That quote out there, I say
Edmund Burke still true today
Not much you can do about evil, he replies
But like Zacchaeus, give up your money ties
I mention Fr. Greeley and madness
No way to know if he knows my sadness
My mind anxious, troubled, fairy-filled
Illusion? Confusion? Mystery - willed?
Still unsure, but the Book of Kells is divine
Like to think they might give me a sign
☘️
Good luck in rhyme!
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
I grew up moving from place to place,
Usually about once a year.
It is very difficult for a child to form friendships,
When they are never in the same school two years in a row.
Military brats go through this, I'm told.
My childhood was a series of disasters and moves.
Like the apartment building in Alexandria that caught on fire every other weekend.
Where my step-dad lost control of the car and tried to stop by sticking his foot out of the door.
My sister almost died from an allergic reaction to soap.
I fell off the jungle-gym and nearly bit off my lower lip.
We moved.
The townhouse in burke where my step-dad went through the sliding glass door, face-first.
Where he got Tiger, the 75 lb. German Sheppard,
Who was crazy and scared the **** out of us constantly.
Let's see what else?
I knocked my sister out of a second-story window.
We moved.
The townhouse in Fairfax where I first saw my step-dad hit my mother,
Where we lived when they divorced.
This is where we lived when the 300 lb. redneck enjoyed trying to **** me on a daily basis.
Our college student tenant had to stand up for me.
We moved.
Basically to make a long story short, not a lot of ****** stability in my childhood.
Disaster.
Move on.
Every single adult relationship continued this pattern.
Whether this is because I unconsciously seek out these situations, I don't know.
Probably.
I sometimes think that people need their disasters, so they have a reason to give up.
I am sick of disasters.
I am tired of moving on.
I am sick and tired of giving up.
And of being given up on.
*
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 11:58 AM UTC