"holiest" poems
Nobody chooses a bottle willingly. A pill or a loaded gun, in the end it's all the same.
We're waiting, still, hiding. In our holiest of places:
The kitchen and the office. A quiet sideways-slide into the last available stall in a casino washroom. The seat is still warm.
Teachers don't tell kids that drugs are bad. They told us that we were the evil ones for deep-throating a bottle of ***** every Friday.
They didn't know what we had to go home to.
Cancer sounded better than living past 20, and that's the thing that they'll never comprehend:
There's always a reason underneath overdose.
The only time a drug is bad is when you can't afford it, and you're sitting alone in a fetal position crying in need for a chemical bliss that you've caressed over and over; a blanket covering memories. Feelings. Emotions.
The only time a drug is bad is when you're too **** poor to grab anything better than a box of Benadryl and a dimebag of shake.
The only time a drug is bad is when you're anything but rich an' white and pretty, because then you're not addicted, you're having fun with the price of 1,000 a week at an all-inclusive rehab resort.
Drugs don't discriminate, but people sure as Hell do.
There's always a reason underneath overdose.
There's always a reason underneath.
There's always a reason.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Hidden in the ultraviolet,
Unseen by most yet to be forgotten by both heaven and hell,
Memories from the futures dawn, luxury of darkness,
Spin the wool and weave the fate, this world end's by my own hand,
Break loose of the lies and get lost within legendary illusions
A world so dark, the stars so blind an alluring form refuses to fall,
Rise, from the fire hell can't hold and is afraid of,
Spread the wings and soar beyond the scene, the art of demonicy
The holiest war is waged of what our hearts are made,
Do you nest in what you feel or have felt in this realm of devilry ?
After the mirror shows you all the truths you desire,
Deceived by your eyes, who do you want to trust ?
The last judgement ends with a long journey,
The nights luxury relies within my own hand, take it!
And maybe then, I will lead you to the light your heart cries out for.
After all, the love for it is for all to engage in.
~ Umi
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
Santa's Lazy Elf
Five more days till Christmas,
Santa and his crew
were working overtime making
children's dreams come true .
Singing carols, whistling tunes,
as the hours ticked away,
except for little Edison
the elf that went astray.
Instead of making toys
in Santa's assembly line,
he was hanging out with Rudolph
beneath the snow capped pines.
As Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus took
a look around,
they noticed lazy Edison
was nowhere to be found.
They decided they'd had enough
this elf will surely be fired,
scratched their heads and
realized another must be hired.
Dasher heard them talking
and thought this can't be so,
never in elf's history has
someone had to go.
He searched the winter wonderland
and under the Northern Lights
Edison and Rudolph were
frolicking in flight.
He said "Come down from there
your behavior's a disgrace,
Christmas Eve is almost here and
you're about to be replaced.
Edison soon realized his days
of slacking were done,
that there'd be consequences
for goofing off and having fun.
He knew he had no place to go
if Santa didn't let him stay
his heart began to pound,
as Rudolph ran way.
He hurried as fast as he could
to tell Santa he was wrong,
beg him for forgiveness
and show him he belonged.
As the other elves were caroling
he tried to sneak inside,
but Santa saw him coming out of the
corner of his eye.
He placed his hands upon his hips
and firmly shook his head,
"What shall I do with you
my elf," Santa firmly said.
"I see you when you're sleeping
I know when you're awake,
did you not read your history book
he said for goodness sake!"
Santa soon forgave him cause
his heart is made of gold,
and Edison became the
hardest worker I am told.
The moral of this story is
we all must do our part,
and jolly old St Nick has always
had a heart.
Merry Christmas to all of you
on this holiest of days,
may all your dreams come true
as you gather and celebrate!
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © December 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Neither in the vividness of the arches of a cathedral,
Nor in the dangling bells and echoing rituals of a temple,
Neither on the holiest banks of Nile or Ganges,
Nor among the peaks of the grandest Mountain,
There is no augury, there is no God, is there no God? And if there is,
Why are the eyes of lives haunted by the cruel dreams of disbelief?
Why is banishment tangled around the feet of a truth seeker?
Why the perverse thoughts and deeds ruling the Mankind?
Why the pious body and mind are today full of grief?
If there’s God, Why is this sea of cold blood on a high tide?
If there’s God, Why are the innocent lives being wasted?
If there’s God, Why are the good being handcuffed?
If there’s God, Why the darkness is today the source of light?
The slaps of violence on the face of peace is a sign of doom,
If there’s no God, then these drops of bloods cry for whom?
But GOD is that moment which is beyond knowledge and wit,
That one cipher which has taken centuries and yet not deciphered,
That one point of thought where the minds seize to think,
That one decision which stops a man from giving up,
That one drop of tear from the eyes of an Oppressed,
That one source of energy which makes us to take a stand,
That one voice of truth which demolishes the works of lie,
That one smile of innocence which equals a million shouts,
That one silver lining which makes us believe in ourselves,
Calls Aloud and makes us believe, that there is A GOD,
And He’s Everywhere, With everyone, and Will always be.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
O Golden Hair, My Friend
Kitty kitty
So fluffy
So witty
So unbearably pretty.
Stay away from
The city,
My kitty kitty
It'd be such a pity.
Hussanara
This is my mango.
There are many like it,
But this one is
Mine.
Without me,
My mango is useless.
Without my Mango,
I am useless...
My Sweet Wonderful Mary
Dark dim witty kitty
Trailed into New York City
With bad intents inevitably
Bad.
Through Earth and lake committing
All its great natural giving
Forced utter pain incoming,
Dad.
Lord (Religious readers please take no offense again the writer was not quite there)
God is a champ.
The bearded light upstairs.
He's cold and he's damp
Like fresh lumpy pears.
Won't one, if you dare,
Stick your hand in the air
To clamp
Like bears?
He's a scare of
Puny people
With long ginger hair.
Whose souls the cannot
Go in there,
The holiest of despair.
They all run through his stare
Of bulging eyes he got!
Anyone want to translate that one? I sure couldn't.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The injustice
either hardens or breaks the human mind
The mind
must choose how to fight against the injustice
The choice
of non-violence is not a sign of weakness
The knowledge
of why you fight is more important than the fight
The strength
to suffer is the time between despair and triumph
The ability
to turn the other cheek is the holiest weapon
The act
of vengeance is the weakness of a human being
The love
for the wounded is the reason they follow you
The memory
of the dead is the passion to believe in the vision
The revolution
in you ends when you no longer hate a stranger
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
At Nineteen,
I bore witness to the live Birth of my Son.
He was adopted out via Open Adoption
to a very nice Family a few Hours away in Ukiah.
I'm still in contact with them, I get pictures every six Months
and I'm very happy to also be able to see Him every so many Months.
At Twenty,
I lost my Father. I found him on the floor and called 911. I paid for his Cremation the next day.
It was what he told me he wanted; his ashes are in a box in my room.
Perhaps even moreso than he was my "Father", he was by best Friend;
for better and for worse.
At Twenty-One;
my Girlfriend of Five Years, who was also Mother of the aforementioned Child, and I
broke up on Friendly terms. Now she lives about 200 miles away.
We're still cordial, and I'm glad we still speak.
Eternal Allies are rare to come by,
to say the least.
So far, Twenety-Two has been rather turbulently eventful, as well.
Between Family and their lack, personal choices and relationships,
and the furtherment of my Self as well as my expressive Capacities,
it's been a hell of a Twenty-Two so far,
to say the least.
All of these things leave me with an Understanding
that I cannot ever judge anyone, for I know not of their struggles
and that no One can ever truly judge anyone else,
for the same reason.
Through all of this, I feel evermore
that this Life is ******* great,
and that's no sarcastic remark:
Life
is a trippy and tumultuous Journey
and I'm thankful for this opportunity
to experience this Holiest of Realities, to say the least;
though it is a Lesson in Humility, to say the least.
And thus:
Thank you for reading my writings.
Thank you for taking time out to read what I have to bring forth.
Thank you for existing and expressing.
Blessings upon thy Paths;
wheresoever you've been
wheresoever you're going
thank you just for Being.
Please be your Self; you owe it to your Self,
for that is all you ever have, to say the least,
and so, once more:
Blessings upon thy Path.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
I am an altar boy inside the Church of
Continuous Wasted Opportunities.
Smell that pungent incense?
It is most definitely all that it seems to be.
This God’s gift to mankind is what the three
wise men were really trafficking—bringing
forth a dank Exodus unto the Savior’s parents.
They didn’t inhale the serpent’s lure, of course.
Rejoice, one and all, across the land!
Hallelujah, all ye indigo children of the desert!
Now, a reading from the Book of Wardo,
verse four, passage twenty:
“And it was told that the ancient Aryana region would
offer up such magical wonderment, derived from the
sacred Kush bush, assisting the holiest disciples who
prefer a mystically passive respite—for these blessed
aficionados represent the completely frazzled and yet
cautiously chosen few.”
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;—
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that out of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;—a fairy tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
3.1k
Monkey and goose
Snake and bull
And their friend Tiger Lou
Met at hummingbird's garden
For an afternoon's tea for two
In hummingbird's garden
Raised the most precious flowers
Be they red or blue , pink or white
To all that viewed
It was a dazzling sight
Somewhere between succulent sips
The question of God's existence
Became more than a quip
Where is it that God can be found ?
Is he here upon Earth or some holiest ground ?
Then goose said , "I will fly across this land .
My wings are strong and
When it comes to tiring , I have no end .
From high away I can see . So please ,
For certain , I am the one to send ."
Monkey said ,"I can swing from
Tree to tree all day long .
So high that I can see
Every aspect of the land .
So if anyone goes , let it be me ."
Snake said ,"I will slither , I will crawl
Across the swamp , across the bog .
If this God exists , surely
I will be the one
To bring back a certainty ."
Bull steps in as to be not excluded
"I will cross the plains from end to end .
I will search from dawn to dawn .
If there be such a place
It will be found by me on Earth's green lawn ."
Tiger Lou steps up with a growl
"I will go searching in the fields of rice .
I will go where the sugarcane grows .
I will not stop , so cast my lot .
When I come back , it will be told ."
Then they left , each in a separate way
And they would be gone for many a day
But then there came the day to pass Goose and Monkey , snake and bull and Tiger Lou
Met at hummingbird's with finished task
Goose said "I have found God !
And I know the only way ."
"Say Hey !" said the monkey,"For you are all wrong !
Through the woods have I found God !
It's through the woods all day long ."
"Nay !" snake had to say ,"I found God
And only I know the way .
Across the swamp , I'm here to state
Is the only way to him .
Anything else is tempting fate ."
Bull bellows most loudly of all
"You fools , I have searched for days and days . It's across the fields of grass
That you must go to God . And by the way ,
All of your remarks are so crass ."
Tiger Lou darkened his eyes
"Idiots ! The devil has fooled you all .
If you seek God , I and only I know the way .
To show you let me say .
So apologize or step back away ."
Then there was a vicious roar
Monkey strangled goose , snake bit monkey's knee
Tiger bit snake in half , then bull flung Tiger
High into the sky , breaking his back with a Crack
Bull burst his heart with such strength , and didn't linger
Hummingbird in her garden was saddened
Began humming and humming a song
The song turned into a chant that flew to heaven
Where God was and is today
Waiting for searching souls that he will never abandon
Monkey , goose , bull , snake , and Lou
Before God stood , looking blue
"Have you fools anything to say ?"
But only silence crossed their lips
"Listen closely to what I have to say."
"Only I know the way .
Only I , for I am the way .
Only through me can there be a way .
And only by my gift of salvation
Can you stay ."
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
I am the backs of everything,
bring me out
only in your holiest
of holy moments.
Consistent like middle eastern conflict.
The corner of the pantry holding the infinite consumer
The pound of the waterfall
slow, slow.
This grace is sick like
bringing some dark of disease to
every place God gave me
to escape to.
The Midas of somber sad
begs them all not to come any closer.
Curled up to process, process, its such.
Each cry stops the tracks flat
everyone please remember to remember that you’re forgetting.
and remember too
when you’ve read enough to put the gun in your mouth,
to stop reading.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
These are my knees
Lord
Cracked in a daily attempt to win your affection
These are my hands
Dear Jesus
Callused by one another in an oft futile longing for an answer
This is my throat
All Mighty God
Made rasp and torn from a constant calling of your praises
This is my neck
Oh Holiest of Holies
Strained in a forever upward gaze searching nightly for a sign
And these are my eyes
Son of God
Charged with searching for you in the stars
With directing my feet towards the purpose you have given me
Oh Lord
These are my eyes thought blinded after years of failing to find my path in the constellations
But blind these eyes are not
Oh Sacred Lamb
For these eyes
Creator of all that is good
See the bunions on these feet from a lifetime of walking atop your great magnificent earth
In an effort to survive
And these knuckles Carpenter of Nazareth
Are bloodied by the labors of man, for men, for the service of man's world
And this tongue, not of Satan, but of your creation
Oh Lord
Is twisted in a defense of my undying devotion to your love and to your empathy
And this back
Oh Heavenly Father
Has been made *******
Not from the weight of your cross in an attempt to share the burden of your sacrifice
No Lord
This back is broken from the weight of being a father to man
From the burden of society
And from the weight of the home I keep
Though I would never
Lord
Son of God
Question your ways
As mysterious as they seem
As they are your ways
Creator
Guiding Light of Man
Nor would I have the gal to belittle the accomplishments of our Savior the Lord Jesus Christ
I must ask with my knees planted firmly in the earth
My hands clasped
And my gaze towards you
Oh Lord
Son of God
Holy Shepherd
What good are the golden streets of heaven if my feet can not walk them
And what of the beauty in the pearly gates if my back can not afford the strength to open them
And lord how could I ever face you if my knees
The knees from which I pray
Oh Holiest of Holies
Creator of the moon and the stars the heavens and the earth
How could I ever face you if my knees can no longer kneel before the feet of my King
I could never
I would rather stand in the face of Lucifer himself
Than fail to kneel before the will of my God
For that I could never do
And what then
Lord
What would you have of me then
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
#
*How long wilt thou - this generation of deceit and joy – detain,
Starve, and defraud the people of our holiest reign?
Content ingloriously wasted to pass by as our falling days,
Like the flooding rains, as virtuous fools chase each other’s praise:
Till all thy fleshly allegories, now dimmed once shined so bright
As the multitudes grow stale - tarnished with each day’s new light.
Please believe me, ye youth by whose royal fruit thy must be
Gathered before ripened - else ye rot upon the tree.
Heaven itself must be sufficiently allotted, soon of late,
Like some unlucky youthful revolution born purely out of fate.
This false fate whose notions if we watch with skill,
For does not human good depend on human will?
Fortune rolls upward like lava, smoothly it does ascend,
From its first release, it takes not the bend.
But, if un-seized, it glides away like the wind
And leaves us - a late repenting fool far behind.
Now to meet with you, the you reading of this glorious prize,
As I spread these wisdom words before you as above you he flies.
Had thus Old Noah, from whose ***** we all offspring,
Not dared, when fortune called him to be the lead offering,
At the bottom of the ocean in exile he might still remain
And Heaven's sacred anointing oil would have been in vain.
Let Noah’s successional ages to your heart engage
And not shun the examples of this prophesized declining age.
For behold soon there comes three days of darkness to the skies,
As the shadows lengthen into the airs and then we slowly vaporize.*
#
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
Their relevance has been abducted
excuses stealing dogma’s heart
by the master of this domain
knowing victory is now assured
power given comes with a price
the soul is laid on dark altars
still the theories are put forth
to explain the disconnect
the world is flipped to discern
why good is evil in the mind
asking hearts to then follow
the will-o-wisp of Lucifer
tempting lights for the lost
any harbor in the storm
as the leaders avow the bait
turning from their holy paths
the rugged wood is consumed
no longer standing on the hill
when the pyre demands its fuel
to sustain Satan’s plan
the past reveals the same themes
slavery and civil rights
both supported with the chant
‘complicit sacred rules us all’
now a leader has come forth
supporting hints of the righteousness
while rejecting on the whole
holiest Testaments no longer held
they are nailed to the walls
stored in shrines by sycophants
asking for the crumbs of power
to be tossed from gilded heights
relevance has now vanished
dogma twisted once again
previously found after straying
sacrificed to an Overlord
small victories are assured
with compromise firmly grasped
kneel before a deity
born of Satan instead of God.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180722.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Wow, the weather sure is cold,
Days are short, the wind is bold.
The season isn't a favorite for sure,
Most in the cold, aren't begging for more.
This testament to the winter, is short and is sweet,
Its brutal cold, upon you does beat.
Begs for spring, and longer days,
And new found fun in different ways.
But back to winter, now let's explore,
Its wondrous beauty, many do adore,
The frosty nights, a blanket of snow,
Untouched and ****** a skiing we can go!
Take the kids to the local park,
Sleigh ride with them, a youthful spark,
May be rekindled, inside your soul,
This surely is fun, never is it droll.
Build a snowman, with coal and pipe,
He may come alive, frosty isn't just hype.
The alive that he comes, is not in the snow,
But in the hearts of the ones that help make him grow.
Spending time with the family, this bonding is good,
Feeling alive and well, with your family you should,
The wondrous winter, has the holiest of days,
A time to be kind, and have gentler ways.
The birth of the savior, the greatest of men,
His spirit reborn, and we all know when,
This holiday comes, its time be kind,
Good deeds and good thoughts, cover your mind.
The new year comes in winter, a time to start new,
Cast aside bad habits, and with them your through.
Good cheer and good times, and drinking some wine,
Kissing and hugging, and playing Auld Lang Syne.
Presidents day is a time to give thanks,
Lincoln and the north, and the fighting yanks,
Put an end to slavery, blacks free as whites,
Another century passed to gain civil rights.
Praise to Washington, the first to lead,
Our country from Britain, his troops had freed,
The people of the Colonies, America was born,
Plains full of plenty, many acres of corn.
Valentines day, the time for romance,
Put yourself out there, ask a girl to a dance!
The celebration turns history around,
Originally on this day, many bodies were found,
Dead in a garage, in the Chicago town,
The pictures are gruesome, bloodstains on the ground.
These are the times in winters' cold,
That have special meaning, and memories they hold.
Look kindly on winter, its end will bring,
A time of rebirth, known as the spring.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Seven days spent lost in the rogue North
Octagonal windows framed a snowed in view.
In the kitchen, sun soaking in like honey,
The kids sat eating oranges.
Two cats humming and a sheepdog dozed
Under a thick maple table, flavoured as last nights fresh game
Lullabies deep as eyes were heavy
Fire stoked and a Mickey Mouse Christmas shining brightly,
playing cards, I laughed that it was just November.
Two sets of ice blue eyes, no blood in between.
And six sets, shades of green-blue-brown,
Each the nicest pair you'd ever seen.
I fell in love with the eight,
Always their eyes first I'll admit.
And now my heart lay in
A long house, teepee on the dock.
The purest cold blue I'd ever know
To crash upon iced rock.
All the trees you would ever need,
A conglomerate of green;
Until the day I die, the holiest place I've been
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
These are modern English translations of the "Xenia" epigrams written in collaboration by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller.
#2 - Verse versus Kiss
She says an epigram’s too terse
to reveal her tender heart in verse ...
but really, darling, ain’t the thrill
of a kiss much shorter still?
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#5 - Criticism
Why don’t I openly criticize the man? Because he’s a friend;
thus I reproach him in silence, as I do my own heart.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#11 - Highest Holiness
What is holiest? This heart-felt love
binding spirits together, now and forever.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#12 - Love versus Desire
You love what you have, and desire what you lack
because a rich nature expands, while a poor one contracts.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#19 - Nymph and Satyr
As shy as the trembling doe your horn frightens from the woods,
she flees the huntsman, fainting, uncertain of love.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#20 - Desire
What stirs the virgin’s heaving ******* to sighs?
What causes your bold gaze to brim with tears?
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#23 - The Apex I
Everywhere women yield to men, but only at the apex
do the manliest men surrender to femininity.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#24 - The Apex II
What do we mean by the highest? The crystalline clarity of triumph
as it shines from the brow of a woman, from the brow of a goddess.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#25 -Human Life
Young sailors brave the sea beneath ten thousand sails
while old men drift ashore on any bark that avails.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#35 - Dead Ahead
What’s the hardest thing of all to do?
To see clearly with your own eyes what’s ahead of you.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#36 - Unexpected Consequence
Friends, before you utter the deepest, starkest truth, please pause,
because straight away people will blame you for its cause.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#41 - Earth versus Heaven
By doing good, you nurture humanity;
but by creating beauty, you scatter the seeds of divinity.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keyword/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, epitaph, epigram, German, Germany, translation, love, kiss, friendship, desire, holy, holiness, earth, heaven, beauty, divinity, nature, spirit
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 4:39 AM UTC
if i could find words not in vain to describe her,
verses of her Virtuousness, i would sing
her humble approval in glances so fleeting
her song like a robin’s, beckoning the spring
our friendship, a gentle yet short affair
she, the girl with the golden hair
oh, how i would press softest lips to her own
should she give me a whisper, an answer, a plea,
and yet, from her halo of Heavenly judgement
not once has she cast a soft look towards me
a heart that is wounded beyond repair
she, the girl with the golden hair
through Holiest laughter, i smooth back her tresses
her eyes crinkle up in a bittersweet smile
i murmur, i love you, she tells me, i’m sorry.
we sit in the frost of december a while
warm breath on cold cheeks, puffs of hot air
from she, the girl with the golden hair
winter is breaking, and spring is long gone,
as is her gossamer, dissolute song
our friendship, a tender yet brief affair
me and the girl with the golden hair.
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 12:31 AM UTC
She used to write poetry,
what would make
Morrissey cry?
The one who left
with all his depth,
the holiest ghost
to ever stick
around his bed.
What would you give to me?
French press,
Japanese guitar,
Dominican cigar spark?
Hearts can grow colder
as they try to feel,
try to push it out.
Black haired
Italian marble,
darling,
we are nothing
to nobody now.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.
The kind of **** that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of **** that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.
The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.
Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.
Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.
Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 6:52 PM UTC
The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But what’s the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look
For newer pictures in this book;
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air
With horrid crying of night birds....
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air?
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,
But find no glimpse of your “New Age
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,
Die stillborn, because old men squeal
For something new: “Write something new:
We’ve read this poem—that one too,
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl
Just what I fancy as I strike it,
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl
Across my verse in the classic way.
And, sir, be careful what you say;
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.
1.8k
i woke to your eyes again
the deepest blue
like gazing into the ocean,
seconds before the storm comes in.
the truth is
i find your ghost at every turn
and still feel the cool waters
of your touch
with every whisper of the wind,
each memory a living phantom.
now i know
not even the holiest exorcism
could pull the threads of you
from my mind
you are the bread and wine
the iron in your blood
pulling me in
sweeter than any nectar.
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 5:16 PM UTC
The night you died
I held my breath in your honor
or in anger
I can't exactly remember, only
a dropping of the gut, the swollen amalgamation of numb and comprehension and
more confusion than I have ever swallowed whole before
I hope you cursed yourself when you realized what you did
your hand closing is a picture I played a million times in my head
your eyes rolling back is one I tried not to but
every time my eyelids met
I saw yours gasping for air
Your mother, a glass vase splitting on hardwood floor
I can promise you she is still stepping on your pieces
the truth is I know you never meant to cause damage
the breaking is just what happens when so much is left behind
When the rabbi said your name
I thought about laughing, how
you certainly would be at the seriousness of it all
the level of despondence floating
in the room
the oxygen, thick in its lack of,
a density unlike any other
I remembered the time we got high on one of the holiest days of the year
I thought maybe this
is god playing a joke on us
I thought maybe this is
just his sick revenge, an attempt at humor but
there was nothing funny about your leaving
For the first few months
losing you was drowning every night in my sleep
and waking up alive the next morning
friends asked what it's like
to have this gap of almost stretching inside of me
I asked if they had ever accidentally touched something hot
and to recall how it felt when the burn started setting on their skin
Most days I miss you without trying
some days I don't think about you at all
there is a life that is full without your being in it but
it isn't mine to call my own
I am forgetting your laugh like a song whose words I can't remember
Today is your 22nd birthday,
facebook had to tell me
there are no shots being taken and nobody is making a cake
today you would have been another year older
I wish you could have stayed to be it
-from the one who loved you
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC