"consecration" poems
Constitution pollution:
the constable ruining
the ******* consecration
A soluble solution:
grape sipping blood
letting to fully bless
the humors
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Religion’s constant undulation
The ever ‘holy’ consecration
Of the stereotypical faith
Strong but fleeting as a wraith
Ethereal things cannot be seen
And so true love is lost between
Acting it out professionally
Or giving it out abundantly
And genuineness is lost below
The weight of putting on a show
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.
The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.
A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.
Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.
There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.
He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.
That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
1.
Innocent birth destined for a ****** grave,
Quick unplanned for exodus,
Once frolicking before friends,
Events to come, surprises to find,
Now taken in spirit and soul,
Toward creations living will never know,
Crying spawn,
Another lost, another torn,
Eternal black is not hard to find,
Young mind,
I've seen death,
Like an instant,
Like a cruel pursuer,
No reason, no justification,
No right,
Who writes this apt and confused thriller we call life,
Monotonous pain and lies,
Peering through the blood,
Unseeing eyes,
It's all crucifixion with a different face,
Stalking us all,
Hesitating,
Waiting for the right second,
The pounce of a tiger,
The bite of a snake,
The death of an angel.
2.
Voices aloud in eternal consecration,
In it's many forms,
The advice of surprise is not enough to harvest safety,
Among the prey, one of the children,
Behind the fire, one of the seeds condemned to expire,
Snatched from the light,
Arrived to early to feel the wound,
Disparately together with the truth,
And envisaged no sacrifices,
Reunited and peaceful,
Quiet and relaxed,
The death of a young life.
...............................
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 7:36 PM UTC
The makeshift congregation packed into the church.
Hands clasped in broken hallelujahs.
Consecration of this community.
Guidelines for the faithful, faithful for tonight.
At least for now we can be one.
Trascendental divinity, like a silent wind flowing through
Public servants to ourselves.
We are the Church.
Sewn in the fields of the faithful.
Strewn through life like an empty chalice.
Filled with Merlot.
Hear us Father for we have sinned.
Glory to you.
Buffet Catholics asking for salvation.
Forgiveness sandwiched between the bread and pasta salad.
Repentant.
Offering up prayers for the ******
Quick to judgment.
With the ferocity of Charlemagne.
Partial acceptance into our open hands,
You made a valiant effort.
Sign of the cross with water blessed.
Genuflect.
Kneeling on the pews, praying for peace.
External.
Internal.
Oh! My children! God will have mercy.
Part of the flock for once
Maybe twice
A year.
Not even staying for the full length.
The faint smell of frankincense.
We offer you this gift.
Ceremonies steeped in tradition.
Rosebeads hung from the wrist of regulars.
This mass is being said in memory of…
We offer up these prayers for…
The meek will inherit the Earth.
If we leave anything.
Cynics questioning.
We’ve found hope in a paperback on a bookshelf.
Who is our shepherd?
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
The Melody within
No longer reverberates
That beauteous love song
O, that Bountiful Ballad but
My heart sings a brand new paean:
One of creation,
Of Wisdom,
Of freedom,
Of might,
Of consecration.
Yes, sometimes solitude
Heightens our spiritual senses,
Reawakens our provident defences;
O, denudes our vexations.
Know the Sacral Light
Absolving every deathly pang
Is found
By Dovening Divine Aether,
And summoning the Silver Wings
Of the Holy Dove.
Movement is neither peripheral
Nor internal;
Pain is neither deserved
Nor natural;
All things
Are just as they appear
To be
An evident demonstration
Of a
Higher fidelity.
Matter reverberates upon the
Molecular level;
We are, more
Than flesh, bone, and marrow;
We are,
Life, Love, and Liberty;
We are, a
Breathing Song
That exhales edification, inspiration,
Contemplations, and excogitations.
(Se' lah)
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 6:52 PM UTC
Have you ever had an open box of cornflakes
slip out of your hands
(at the precise time you were constructing a poem in your head)
and scatter all over the kitchen
like the fragile egos of self righteous partisans
(creating a bigger mess if you trample them)
and thus, you find yourself on all fours
sweeping a recently swept floor
once more.....
We’re brought up looking for divine expedience in any mishap that happens:
“Maslehat” they say.... there must be a hidden benefit in this!
“it’s a small loss in lieu of a bigger one that it prevented”...
....and we tune our frequencies from ambition to complacency....
year after year,
generation after generation,
till that becomes the default station.....
I even start looking at the benefits hidden in the mess at hand...
I’ve discovered crevices under the stove where my cleaner never reaches,
(now I can prepare an admonition for her
—-wouldn’t have happened without the corn flakes.... thank you!)
I imagine worse scenarios.... it could have been the bag of flour, or the spice jars .... or.... glass bottles.
The work instantly becomes less tedious, as I weigh it against shards of glass and invisible weapons of potential exsanguination....
oh shukar , shukar, shukar..... Alhamdulillah.
It’s ok, it’s only cornflakes....
It’s only cornflakes, and my attitude.... ( that’s in question)
keeping things together, even when they’re crumbling,
cleaning up messes, and counting on second guesses,
Using crafting glue and bluetac to hold up foundations
( this doesn’t merit any recommendation!)
A friend once said, “ sometimes you have to let it break, so that you can build it better....”
but what is better, when each damage is a consecration
that is the conundrum of creation
it’s all a substrate
it’s all a message
its all salvation
I had told my friend, “listen I don’t know how to use metaphors,
and I only have a few of my own,
will you give me some on loan?
I need them to break and remake my ache.... “
The silence meant yes.
I could take all the phrases,
all beautiful words, all dictions, all praises
In these clumsy hands, ( since the heart understands)
And if I spill them like cornflakes,
no matter what it takes,
I’ll find a way, to scoop them in a poem.
A.
20.9.18
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
Two folded sheets of paper
were secreted in his stovepipe hat.
He rehearsed the phrases in his mind
on the platform where they sat.
The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The smell of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.
A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.
Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed sad and grey.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet away.
There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the death.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.
He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.
That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
His words will live forever
Like the deeds of Blue and Gray.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Corona
by Michael R. Burch
There was a moment
without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
felt more than seen.
I was eighteen,
my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.
There was an instant . . .
without words, but with a deeper communion,
as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
liquidly our lips met
—feverish, wet—
forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . .
when the rest of the world became distant.
Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.
With all the understandable gloom, doom and despair over the coronavirus, I was reminded of this early poem of mine that used the term "corona" in a much more positive light. I wrote this poem around age 18 and it has been published by Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Webring. Keywords/Tags: Corona, coronavirus, touch, union, communion, sighs, expectation, unity, trumpets, heart, pounding, *** arousal, union, ecstasy, consummation, consecration, omen, comet, shooting star, talisman, moonrise, moon rising
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
In the threat puzzling me
will grows stronger forgetting fears
I want to see it all
From every angle of the angels
demonstrating consecration even in the ill
and when i DO !
i might go blind overwhelmed
restraint can see such subtle joys
outside of toys and games
tune me to the key of we
and let me be real as well
find me in the right time 3;33 or 11:11
the wishing time
and carve the trees with unspoken vows
recited only by birds
and in a drop of water striking the surface
of silver ponds
wish
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
On Monday, the cattle feed for 50 minutes.
There are nine prostituted crocodile in Honduras
and Greece. Morocco is not only the Moon
and surrounded by it. Diana showed her a time
that God very much understood. Wednesday,
feed the animals for 50 minutes. Honduran Jews,
Greeks and nine animal harlots. Morocco
is not only the moon and surrounded by it,
Diana Harris tried to show them how to show
more more often. Monday it will be your animal
feeding for 50 minutes. Honduras is the first
Greek nurse with nine prostitutes and crocodiles.
Morocco is not only the Moon and surrounded
by it. Diana's customary poison. Gamma,
than that he should limit its action to the use
of the Side of the Moon. But the suspect's Katharian.
Teens go to ask the Queen for their Pomeranian
Gen. lifestyles and wine? In ancient Greece,
Monday and Thursday philosophers and great-grandchildren
Lance's rebellious nephew Henry. God was in hell.
There is a 1 on the Moon to the moon.
Many are very bad. He knows that the day of the sun,
Apollo, and the light of present-day Amazon.
Albert's medical plan, so the Moon. Rome
this month. Women are very popular in the North.
This item can not be deleted. And it was
an abysmal level crisis in Mexico in 1964,
and many people, including "the United States,
William Hill, Europe, and John Green,"
he said, "it is a good game." Two answers:
Igor and William Williams, Vitalemens,
Goldfunts gold and blue ***** of stars and planets,
Canada's forests, hambosomas, marigolds
and two doctors from Africa, Northern consecration,
the rest of the earth, the rest of the city,
the Jupiter Moon Moon we were deceived
illegitimate and illegitimate children
in Tokyo Moon / Sun and the life of their ancestors.
"Age 64 1-9 of blood in men, blood is not bad,
not that of blood in Brazil, the Russian Natural
Qamirate Brazil is the last major climate
change in the world. Julian and animal life
of Ammon, the pad is the poet's life and legend,
history and glory in the United States the blood
of the people of Abu Dhabi.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 12:46 AM UTC
Let me carry Your ark
Let it be on my shoulder
As how You carried the cross
It is mine, but You owned it.
I disowned life,
But You’ve redeemed mine.
I am a Modern Levite
Let me call others
That they’ll know Your vision
Let their ears be open
And hearts be willing.
Oh, hear me, my Lord
In consecration, I allow myself
To submerge in Your eternal grace
In Your presence, make me whole
Shower me with Your anointing.
Oh Lord, pour not the spirit of flesh
But Yours be found in me
Capture me with Your words
My eyes be blind
That I may learn to trust You
And let go completely those trash of the world.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
"they" always remember starting early,
reading aged 4, writing aged 5,
transcripts of encoded spy messages aged 6,
but not one of them remembers
being aged 4, or turning into a mozart;
odd to vainly boast about such early
inquisitiveness perfected to a profession,
without actually engaging in one;
i don't remember when anything happened,
i remember that it did happen,
and was like a perfect mathematics dressed
casual in almost anything equation,
like π, extending to fit a circle's geometry
with an infinite decimal shopping-list
(3.14159... fidgety when approaching
the ~∞ encircling like a strapped to a dying-battery
clock hand of seconds twitching between
some second, 8 or 9)... with an infinite decimal
stress of coercion, giving the 2-dimensional
representation of communication was always
doomed to be strained... strained for paradoxes...
man's entire paragraph of excavated knowledge
was recorded in two dimensions,
not one, not three...
the kings of experience levitate in knowledge
not being encoded in two dimensions, with silence
the vehicle of a loss of conscience, the perfect science,
all a matter of α, rather than μ (the mediator),
in consecration of relinquished gifts via ω (the realist)
of the awaited grave, from erectile phallus
to an equally erectile crux.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
DO NOT BE AFRAID
there is something so
evangelical about fear.
i was raised to be afraid -
it was implicit from my first sunday school and
my first crush and
my first real haircut.
there is a certain desperation bred in youth groups
in local church attics,
in big auditoriums
with looming, radiant stage lights.
perpetual guilt -
perpetual repentance -
perpetual fear.
SACRAMENT
did i think that
baptism would make me feel more loved?
well, that’s between me
and the Good Lord Himself.
but i will tell you
the water was cold and
my father cried.
i received a necklace from
my grandmother and i
haven’t seen it in years.
fear doesn’t drown in cold water.
it crystallizes, it burns.
EUCHARIST
if my mouth tastes like blood,
let’s blame transubstantiation.
if my skin doesn’t fit right,
let’s blame God’s want for the process of creation.
if my heart wears it self thin at the thought of judgement - Death - finality,
let’s blame my Protestant upbringing.
how avoidant am i -
blaming Martin Luther himself
for a menagerie of ****** Georgia churches.
THE BODY AND BLOOD
christ, you people want
to take everything from me.
i can’t go to another easter service
as your daughter.
i never could.
you never seem to realize what
exactly you want from me.
don’t look at me like that -
like this is a resurrection.
i was never crucified. i never died.
it’s no comet, either, though,
i can tell by your face.
this isn’t easter, it’s
a funeral service.
i’m sorry i can’t come
back to life for you.
but what you think is living and
what i think is living are two very different things.
do you know what it feels like when
your own mother thinks you’re
going to hell?
CONSECRATION
i’m sorry i can’t cry
holy water anymore.
but there are good things in becoming.
i remind myself that there is progress- growth -
in transformation.
but i never really liked wine,
anyways.
AMEN
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 5:50 PM UTC
i live in a thousand mirrors of the marvelous
a weightless rhythm
singing like flickering mud
drinking in the lady of the moon
her river of dreams
clothed in conch shells and goat lungs
she loves me against her soft feet
against cotton puffs and the consecration
she consecrates me in spit and blood
rubber throated **** long as a giraffe neck
slum drummers drum
among tin fires and pig guts
thee I invoke thee
shaking the rattle
snake of the spine
angel headed devil girl
treasure trove of phantasmagoria
womb of eternal darkness
the light everywhere with in her
and she speaks in the shadows
language-less
Dionysian belly dancers
weave curving hips
and rise out of masks and ***** hair
out of clouds and rice
i am throat and fist
holy molecules
jumping like a verb
a wing and a heart
crown of life
and
dead to earth
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
I put dates on my wanting to remember my tactile experience at the expense of my memory
"that’s very meta, isn’t it?"
alternation
sublimation
consecration
They have spent their hours wanting for a moment
and They have spent their moments wanting for the hours
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Is the End Near for Religion?
-news item
No one will ever acknowledge a MePhone
As the Lord of the universe, or as
The Creator from before created time
Born of an IBM Selectric
True plastic of true limited resources,
Sing Advent hymns unto an Apple II,
Whisper aves on a strand of transistors,
Or genuflect before a Model T
No consecration will ever obtain
Upon the altar of a microchip
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
Young Music
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Brook Trout Press
Grimsby and Toronto, Ontario, Canada
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 9:55 PM UTC
The New Year looms,
a blank page
awaiting the first
wondrous words of winter.
The poet sheathes his pen.
The poet sheathes his pen,
an instrument of imperfection,
awaiting the first
incisive inspiration
of the looming New Year.
The New Year looms,
the depository of the past,
awaiting activation.
The poet sheathes his pen,
practicing a passive role.
Practicing a passive role,
the New Year awaits
consecration: December 31st
whitewashed of all its sins.
The poet unsheathes his pen.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
there's a certain ice
that runs through my veins
where darkness is a wallow
of remembrance.
chastise holy consecration!
God! Can't you see
that I cannot speak your tongue
for you took the child
out of me?
certainly when saints
gather 'round the abbey,
they hold a circle of thorns
and cry for me,
with understanding.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:34 AM UTC
It was not opulence.
Black widow eats the mate after
the love. Cannibalism has gone very high!
Will you cheat on me?
I ask the moon after the consecration
of a fallen comet on pyre.
A devout was smearing
the dust, after the white elephant
had trampled the clay temple.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 8:36 PM UTC