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listen to the man who saved the lives of seven men from an ammonia spill without the use of a respirator and pulled them to safety.
listen to the man who single handedly fixed an airplane and saved the airport millions of dollars in cost.
listen to the man with an eight and a half inch **** accompanied by the woman who keeps a ruler in her purse to measure it.
listen to the man who pull shotguns on the high school football team with his mole faced companion for beating up his little brother.
listen to the man who arc welded a kid into a locker for putting his hand down his sisters pants.
listen to the man who pulled the greatest senior prank ever by disassembling a Cadillac and re-assembling it in the school cafeteria overnight.
listen to the man who goes to the bar at seven in the morning and orders a root beer, only to be quickly rejected by the bartender.
listen to the man who beer bongs Dr. Peppers.
listen to the man who has diabetes and self regulates his blood sugar by drinking a six pack of Mountain Dew.
listen to the man who orders an extra large pizza to himself and throws his body over it when you get too close to him.
listen to the man who believes that cold ravioli in a can, not only tastes good but won't make you sick.
listen to the man that claims to be the best singer in the world.
listen to the man who disciplines his step son in the bathroom at the super bowl party.
listen to the man who will dunk a head of lettuce in a bowl of ranch and eat it whole.
listen to the man who eats green bell peppers like Granny Smith apples.
listen to the man who eats bagel sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
listen to the man who walks with his head down and as soon as he looks up his leg submerges into a latex trench.
listen to the man who grabs his fat wife by the dog collar and forces his tongue down her throat in public.
listen to the man who will ****, wipe his ***, not wash his hands and serve you taco dip with his **** fingers.
listen to the man who takes one sip of pbr and screams the he can't handle it.
listen to the man who gets pelted in the back with an ice ball and slowly looks back in disapproval.
listen to the man who won't tell perverted jokes with mixed company.
listen to the man with the wet noodle.
listen to the man who drives down the highway getting road head by his wife and finishes in her mouth right before they get to the toll booth attendant.
listen to the man who warns you that there's a homosexual in the room.
listen to the man that got revenge on an ex-lovers new squeeze by taking the lug nuts off his car and throwing them in the bottom of the pool on a cold November day.
listen to the man who gives himself a nickname that nobody will call him.
listen to the man who pulls away from work to eat a frozen dinner, only to get yell at by his trainer in mid indulgence.
listen to the man who bought a card and flowers for his wife after she found he had been a dating website and didn't get a single reply in the past three years.
listen to the man who has worked every job you every had and always has a story to one up yours.

they will all tell you the same thing:

      .....not now, Kelly might get jealous.
Fabricated stories by an ex coworker that inspired me to write this poem.
Hinata Jan 2014
listen closely,
listen fully.
hear the thrumming of a beetle's wing,
hear the wind begin to sing.
listen to true beauty,
listen to the reality.
hear the story that the trees tell,
hear the history as the leaves fall.
listen to the ancient wisdom given by the sky,
listen to how well the clouds lie.
hear the grass whisper sweet compliments,
hear the flowers present.
listen to the chiming of the water ring,
listen to how well the rock recite tales so amazing.
hear the call of the animals,
hear the bugs begin to crawl.
listen to the screams of the city,
listen to the sizzling of the toxicity.
hear the pounding of footsteps and daily life,
hear the swift sound of a knife.
listen to the cries of hunger,
listen to the tapping of fingers.
hear the screams of anger,
hear the shouts of hate against others.
listen to the crushing of childhood dreams,
listen to the victims screams.
hear the sin as marriage spiral down to hell,
hear the lies that they sell.
listen to the hits of a fight,
listen to the person who turned away from the light.
hear the life slip out of a person,
hear the person within a prison.
listen to the hatred within humans,
listen to the sadness felt by every girl and man.
hear the death of the hope,
hear the imagination begin to choke.
listen to the thrumming of a poets heart,
listen to it tear apart.
hear the suicide of originality,
hear the death of personality.
listen to it all closely,
and write it all down carelessly.
listen to it all,
hear the down spiral of it all.
listen to carefully,
listen to the downfall of humanity.
just listen....
Heretical Poems by Michael R. Burch

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

NOTE: I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions after reading the Bible from cover to cover, ten chapters per day, at age eleven.

###

Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).

###

Multiplication, Tabled
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”

###

***** Nilly
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
by Michael R. Burch

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

###

What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

###

A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please . . .
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

###

gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch

fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!

###

Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch

I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.

I frown as I squelch its **** beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.

###

Enough!
by Michael R. Burch

It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!

Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.

But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go ...
although
(most probably) below.

###

Redefinitions
by Michael R. Burch

Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.
Religion: the ties that blind.

###

pretty pickle
by michael r. burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur God’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).

###

Defenses
by Michael R. Burch

Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.

###

Listen
by Michael R. Burch

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.

###

fog
by michael r. burch

ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?

###

thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by michael r. burch

GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.

by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:

ah-men!

(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)

###

no foothold
by michael r. burch

there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.

so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,

as far as the i can see ...

###

u-turn: another way to look at religion
by michael r. burch

... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...

###

You
by Michael R. Burch

For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though a communion between us.

For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.

For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways and Your distance.
Like a child dismissed,

I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing “mercy” is chance
and “heaven”—a list.

###

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
     And I uphold the Law,
     for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.

I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
     You’re nothing like me,
     so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!

For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
     Eternal fell torture
     in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.

I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
     The "good news" is this:
     soon My vengeance is his!,
for you’re not the lost sheep We sought.

###

jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
    yes, jesus fleeces!
    yes, he deceases
    the bunny and the rhesus
    because he's mad at you!

jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my active brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first priests tell me "look above,"
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

###

and then i was made whole
by michael r. burch

... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...

singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.

###

Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all *******
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.

###

In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up ***, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.

In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.

###

Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch

“what rough beast...slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”―W. B. Yeats

Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.

Brutality is shocking―
tiny orifices torn
by cruel adult lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.

Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . .
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.

###

I AM
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please! "
I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!

###

Snap Shots
by Michael R. Burch

Our daughters must be celibate,
die virgins. We triangulate
their early paths to heaven (for
the martyrs they'll soon conjugate).

We like to hook a little tail.
We hope there's decent ** in jail.
Don't fool with us; our bombs are smart!
(We'll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.)

The soul is all that matters; why
hoard gold if it offends the eye?
A pension plan? Don't make us laugh!
We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.)

###

Unwhole
by Michael R. Burch

What is it that we strive to remember, to regain,
as memory deserts us,
leaving us destitute of even ourselves,
of all but pain?

How can something so essential be forgotten,
if we are more than our bodies?
How can a soul
become so unwhole?

###

Nonbeliever
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub

She smiled a thin-lipped smile
(What do men know of love?)
then rolled her eyes toward heaven
(Or that Chauvinist above?).

###

evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch

does GOD love the Tyger
while it's ripping ur lamb apart?

does GOD applaud the Bubonic Plague
while it's eating u à la carte?

does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?

does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?

###

Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche's sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.

###

Alien
by Michael R. Burch

for  a "Christian" poet

On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices "speech"
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.

And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro―
far colder than Jesus's words
over the "fortunate" sparrow.

And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.

Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.

###

Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch

As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until its sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love's tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.

These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.

Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.

God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem's retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man's beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.

###

Advice for Evangelicals
by Michael R. Burch

"... so let your light shine before men..."

Consider the example of the woodland anemone:
she preaches no sermons but―immaculate―shines,
and rivals the angels in bright innocence and purity,
the sweetest of divines.

And no one has heard her engage in hypocrisy
since the beginning of time―an oracle so mute,
so profound in her silence and exemplary poise
she makes lessons moot.

So consider the example of the saintly anemone
and if you'd convince us Christ really exists,
then let him be just as sweet, just as guileless
and equally as gracious to bless.

###

Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
I'm upwardly mobile; this one thing I know:
I can only go up; I'm already below!

###

Shock and Awe
by Michael R. Burch

With megatons of "wonder, "
we make our godhead clear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The world's heart ripped asunder,
its dying pulse we hear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Strange Trinity! We ponder
this God we hold so dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The vulture and the condor
proclaim: The feast is near!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Soon He will plow us under;
the Anti-Christ is here:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

We love to hear Him thunder!
With Shock and Awe, appear!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

For God can never blunder;
we know He holds US dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

###

Lay Down Your Arms
by Michael R. Burch

Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.
The battle is over and night is at hand.
Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go...
the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.

Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.
Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.
The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin...
lay down your pamphlets; now no one will "win."

Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.
If God was to save us, He waited too long.
A new world emerges, but this world is through...
so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.

###

What Immense Silence
by Michael R. Burch

What immense silence
comforts those who kneel here
beneath these vaulted ceilings
cavernous and vast?

What luminescence stained
by patchwork panels of bright glass
illuminates drained faces
as the crouching gargoyles leer?

What brings them here―
pale, tearful congregations,
knowing all Hope is past,
faithfully, year upon year?

Or could they be right? Perhaps
Love is, implausibly, near
and I alone have not seen It...
But, if so, still, I must ask:

why is it God that they fear?

###

Intimations
by Michael R. Burch

Let mercy surround us
with a sweet persistence.

Let love propound to us
that life is infinitely more than existence.

###

Altared Spots
by Michael R. Burch

The mother leopard buries her cub,
then cries three nights for his bones to rise
clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.

Good mother leopard, pensive thought
and fiercest love's wild insurrection
yield no certainty of a resurrection.

Man's tried them both, has added tears,
chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs'
white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs

where dead men's frozen genes convene...
there is no answer―death is death.
So bury your son, and save your breath.

Or emulate earth's "highest species"―
write a few strange poems and odd treatises.

###

Flight
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry captures
less than reality
the spirit of things

being the language
not of the lordly falcon
but of the dove with broken wings

whose heavenward flight
though brutally interrupted
is ever towards the light.

###

Winter Night
by Michael R. Burch

Who will be ******,
who embalmed
for all eternity?

The night weighs heavy on me―
leaden, sullen, cold.
O, but my thoughts are light,

like the weightless windblown snow.

###

Tonight, Let's Remember
by Michael R. Burch

July 7,2007 (7-7-7)

Tonight, let's remember the fond ways
our fingers engendered new methods to praise
the gray at my temples, your thinning hair.
Tonight, let's remember, and let us draw near...

Tonight, let's remember, as mortals do,
how cutely we chortled when work was through,
society sated, all gods put to rest,
and you in my arms, and I at your breast...

Tonight, let's remember how daring, how free
the Madeira made us, recumbently.
Our inhibitions?―we laid them to rest.
Earth, heaven or hell―we knew we were blessed.

Tonight, let's remember the dwindling days
we've spent here together―the sun's rays
spending their power beyond somber hills.
Soon we'll rest together; there'll be no more bills.

Tonight, let's remember: we've paid all our dues,
we've suffered our sorrows, we've learned how to lose.
What's left now to take, only God can tell.
Be with me in heaven, or "bliss" will be hell!

I do not want God; I want to see you
free from all sorrow, your labor through,
a song on your tongue, a smile on your lips,
sweet, sultry and vagrant, a child at your hips,

laughing and beaming and ready to frolic
in a world free from cancer and gout and colic.
For you were courageous, and kind, and true.
There must be a heaven for someone like you.

###

I, Lazarus
by Michael R. Burch

I, Lazarus, without a heart,
devoid of blood and spiritless,
lay in the darkness, meritless:
my corpse―a thing cold, dead, apart.

But then I thought I heard―a Voice,
a Voice that called me from afar.
And so I stood and laughed, bizarre:
a thing embalmed, made to rejoice!

I ran ungainly-legged to see
who spoke my name, and then I knew
him by the light. His name is True,
and now he is the life in me!

I never died again! Believe!
(Oops! Seems it was a brief reprieve.)

###

To Know You as Mary
by Michael R. Burch

To know You as Mary,
when You spoke her name
and her world was never the same...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

O, then I would laugh
and be glad that I came,
never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

I might not think this earth
the sharp focus of pain
if I heard You exclaim―
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom

my most unexpected, unwarranted name!
But you never spoke. Explain?

###

Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech's brilliant slide, I *****,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear―
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don't quite understand) ,
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).

###

Gethsemane in Every Breath
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, we have lost our way, and now
we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose.
We forgot hope's song―the way it goes.
Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow.

LORD, we have wondered long and far
in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star.
Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp:
our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp

of misspent breath... before we drown.
LORD, help us through this spiral down
because we faint, and do not see
above or beyond despair's trajectory.

Remember that You, too, once held
imperiled life within your hands
as hope withdrew... that where You knelt
―a stranger in a stranger land―

the chalice glinted cold afar
and red with blood as hellfire.
Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember―we are as You were,

but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch

Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember-we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men―
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger's cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright―
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope's long-departed star!

###

Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch

We are learning to fly
every day...

learning to fly―
away, away...

O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination―

graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Let us bear one another up in our vast migration.

###

The Gardener's Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away."

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least...

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies...

Faint scent of roses, then―a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true? "

"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call―ecstatic crew!―
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."

###

Kingdom Freedom
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness.
Let me have none of the lividness
of religious outrage.

LORD, let me not be over-worried
about the lack of "morality" around me.
Surround me,

not with law's restrictive cage,
but with Your spirit, freer than the wind,
so that to breathe is to have freest life,

and not to fly to You, my only sin.

###

Cædmon's Face
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
―perhaps by God, perhaps by need―

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon's ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.



He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike―as father unto son.

But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known:
his father's face becomes his own.



He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker's might, man's lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth

suspended under heaven's roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:

his face was Poetry's, from youth.

###

Listen
by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch)

1.
Listen to me now
and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone,
screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black
and white is white
and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words?
They come to him:
the moon's illuminations,
intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now,
and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell,
and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen,
or cut off your ears,
for I Am weary.

I desire mercy, not sacrifice.

2.
Listen to me now: I had a Vision.
An elevated train derailed, and Fell.
It was the Church brought low, almost to Hell.
And I alone survived, who dream of Mercy:
the Heretic, who speaks behind the Veil.

3.
Listen to me now: I saw an airplane
fall from the sky. And why should I explain?
The Visions are the same. It is my Heresy
that I survive, because I sing of Mercy,
while elevated "saints" go down in flames.

4.
Listen to me now: I saw in Nashville
how those who "soar" will plummet―Fame in flames!―
and fall on those below, as if to **** them.
The lowly, saved, will understand their names.

5.
Listen to me now: I heard another
say, "That which died shall Resurrect and Live."
An angel with a Rose bestowing Mercy!
What can it mean, but that my Visions give
fair warning to the world that God wants Mercy.
My Heresy is that we must forgive!

6.
Listen to me now: she heard god calling―
O, who will love me, who will be my friend?
Does he want Perfect Saints, the whitewashed Purists,
who frown down on their "brothers," without end?

7.
Listen to me now: you are not perfect,
and your "wise counsel" helps no one at all:
unless it's sweetened with the sweetest Mercy,
it's pure astringent antiseptic gall.

8.
Listen to me now, and learn this lesson:
If God wants mercy, why dig at the speck
in your brother's eye, when even now the Beam,
your lack of mercy, spares, no, neither neck,
becomes the Hangman's Millstone. We're all children,
all little ones! Be patient with the fleck!

9.
Listen to me now: for the Announcer
explained that wars have given Presidents
the precedents to soon assume all Power.
Vote, citizens, or be mere residents!

10.
O, listen to me now: I saw the Warheads
stored safely underground, except for One.
A red-haired woman with a bright complexion
seduced the guard. Translucent blouse, red thong,
white bra―these were her fearsome antique weapons.

I saw the Skull and Crossbones! Heed my Song!

11.
O, listen to me now, and hear my Gospel:
three verses of such sweet simplicity!
God is Light: in Him there is no darkness.
In Christ, no condemnation: Liberty!
God want no Sacrifice, but only Mercy.
O, who could ask for sweeter Heresy?

12.
Theology? I swear that I disdain it!
If Love can be explained, why then explain it!
If Love can't be explained why, then, should God,
if God is Love? Nor hell nor cattle ****
is needed, if God's good, and God's supreme.
Ask, children, what "re-ligion" truly means:
"return to *******! " Heed the bondsman's screams!

13.
Heed, children, which Theologies you dream
when Hellish Nightmares wake you, when you Scream
for comfort, but no comforter is there.
Which Voices do you heed, which Crosses bear?
If god is light, whence do Dark Visions come
which leave the Taste of Venom on your Tongue,
with which you **** your brother for one Sin
you do not share, ten thousand underskin
like Itching Worms that Squirm and Vilely Hiss:
"Your brother's sin will keep him from god's bliss,
but You are safe because god favors You! "
If God is Love, how can this voice be true?

14.
For God is not a favorer of men.
Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Listen to me. I mean really listen. Without judging me, without acting bored and not interested in the hope that I'll stay silent. I need you to listen...
Listen to my heart break that little bit more every time I open my eyes in the morning. Knowing that I have to drag myself through another pointless day.
Listen to the sound of my skin tear apart as I slice it with my chosen blade. Excited to feel the adrenaline and euphoria.
Listen at how my blood makes a crimson dotted streak where I have parted my skin. Purposely scarring it for my satisfaction only.
Listen to the tone of my voice when I tell you that I'm fine. Lying to your choosing-to-be oblivious face.
Listen at how I wear long sleeves in the summer. With a red face and sweaty forehead.
Listen to yourself question my wardrobe choice. Then listen to yourself believing my repetitive lies. Once again.
Listen at the way I paint the same smile on my face, over and over and over again. The smile I won't wash off purely for your benefit.
Listen to me when I tell you that I love you tremendously. And truly mean every word.
But listen at how much I think that me dead would be the ultimate act of love.
Listen to my mind as it tells me every second of every day how pathetically worthless, ugly and alone I am. And me believing every word.
Listen to me when I tell you that I can't talk right now, I am with friends. But in reality, I am creating my craved for dotted streaks.

Listen to me. I mean really listen. Without judging me, or acting bored and not interested in the hope that I will stay silent.
Shut up. And listen.......
Heretical Poems by Michael R. Burch

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

NOTE: I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions after reading the Bible from cover to cover, ten chapters per day, at age eleven.



Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).



Multiplication, Tabled
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”



Wlly Nilly
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
by Michael R. Burch

Isn’t it silly, W
lly Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

###

What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to Rage and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

###

A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please . . .
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

###

gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch

fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL send them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!

###

Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch

I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.

I frown as I squelch its loud beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.

###

Enough!
by Michael R. Burch

It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!

Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.

But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go ...
although
(most probably) below.

###

Redefinitions
by Michael R. Burch

Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.
Religion: the ties that blind.

###

pretty pickle
by michael r. burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur God’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).

###

Defenses
by Michael R. Burch

Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.

###

Listen
by Michael R. Burch

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.

###

fog
by michael r. burch

ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?

###

thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by michael r. burch

GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.

by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:

ah-men!

(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)

###

no foothold
by michael r. burch

there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.

so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,

as far as the i can see ...

###

u-turn: another way to look at religion
by michael r. burch

... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...

###

You
by Michael R. Burch

For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though a communion between us.

For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.

For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways and Your distance.
Like a child dismissed,

I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing “mercy” is chance
and “heaven”—a list.

###

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
     And I uphold the Law,
     for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.

I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
     You’re nothing like me,
     so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!

For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
     Eternal fell torture
     in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.

I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
     The "good news" is this:
     soon My vengeance is his!,
for you’re not the lost sheep We sought.

###

jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
    yes, jesus fleeces!
    yes, he deceases
    the bunny and the rhesus
    because he's mad at you!

jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my active brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first priests tell me "look above,"
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

###

and then i was made whole
by michael r. burch

... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...

singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.

###

Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all caught up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.

###

In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up s-x, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.

In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.

###

Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch

“what rough beast...slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”―W. B. Yeats

Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.

Brutality is shocking―
tiny orifices torn
by cruel adult lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.

Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . .
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.

###

I AM
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please! "
I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!

###

Snap Shots
by Michael R. Burch

Our daughters must be celibate,
die virgins. We triangulate
their early paths to heaven (for
the martyrs they'll soon conjugate).

We like to hook a little tail.
We hope there's decent ** in jail.
Don't fool with us; our bombs are smart!
(We'll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.)

The soul is all that matters; why
hoard gold if it offends the eye?
A pension plan? Don't make us laugh!
We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.)

###

Unwhole
by Michael R. Burch

What is it that we strive to remember, to regain,
as memory deserts us,
leaving us destitute of even ourselves,
of all but pain?

How can something so essential be forgotten,
if we are more than our bodies?
How can a soul
become so unwhole?

###

Nonbeliever
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub

She smiled a thin-lipped smile
(What do men know of love?)
then rolled her eyes toward heaven
(Or that Chauvinist above?).

###

evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch

does GOD love the Tyger
while it's ripping ur lamb apart?

does GOD applaud the Bubonic Plague
while it's eating u à la carte?

does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?

does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?

###

Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche's sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.

###

Alien
by Michael R. Burch

for  a "Christian" poet

On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices "speech"
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.

And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro―
far colder than Jesus's words
over the "fortunate" sparrow.

And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.

Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.

###

Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch

As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until its sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love's tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.

These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.

Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.

God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem's retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man's beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.

###

Advice for Evangelicals
by Michael R. Burch

"... so let your light shine before men..."

Consider the example of the woodland anemone:
she preaches no sermons but―immaculate―shines,
and rivals the angels in bright innocence and purity,
the sweetest of divines.

And no one has heard her engage in hypocrisy
since the beginning of time―an oracle so mute,
so profound in her silence and exemplary poise
she makes lessons moot.

So consider the example of the saintly anemone
and if you'd convince us Christ really exists,
then let him be just as sweet, just as guileless
and equally as gracious to bless.

###

Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
I'm upwardly mobile; this one thing I know:
I can only go up; I'm already below!

###

Shock and Awe
by Michael R. Burch

With megatons of "wonder, "
we make our godhead clear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The world's heart ripped asunder,
its dying pulse we hear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Strange Trinity! We ponder
this God we hold so dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The vulture and the condor
proclaim: The feast is near!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Soon He will plow us under;
the Anti-Christ is here:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

We love to hear Him thunder!
With Shock and Awe, appear!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

For God can never blunder;
we know He holds US dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

###

Lay Down Your Arms
by Michael R. Burch

Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.
The battle is over and night is at hand.
Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go...
the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.

Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.
Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.
The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin...
lay down your pamphlets; now no one will "win."

Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.
If God was to save us, He waited too long.
A new world emerges, but this world is through...
so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.

###

What Immense Silence
by Michael R. Burch

What immense silence
comforts those who kneel here
beneath these vaulted ceilings
cavernous and vast?

What luminescence stained
by patchwork panels of bright glass
illuminates drained faces
as the crouching gargoyles leer?

What brings them here―
pale, tearful congregations,
knowing all Hope is past,
faithfully, year upon year?

Or could they be right? Perhaps
Love is, implausibly, near
and I alone have not seen It...
But, if so, still, I must ask:

why is it God that they fear?

###

Intimations
by Michael R. Burch

Let mercy surround us
with a sweet persistence.

Let love propound to us
that life is infinitely more than existence.

###

Altared Spots
by Michael R. Burch

The mother leopard buries her cub,
then cries three nights for his bones to rise
clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.

Good mother leopard, pensive thought
and fiercest love's wild insurrection
yield no certainty of a resurrection.

Man's tried them both, has added tears,
chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs'
white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs

where dead men's frozen genes convene...
there is no answer―death is death.
So bury your son, and save your breath.

Or emulate earth's "highest species"―
write a few strange poems and odd treatises.

###

Flight
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry captures
less than reality
the spirit of things

being the language
not of the lordly falcon
but of the dove with broken wings

whose heavenward flight
though brutally interrupted
is ever towards the light.

###

Winter Night
by Michael R. Burch

Who will be d-mned,
who embalmed
for all eternity?

The night weighs heavy on me―
leaden, sullen, cold.
O, but my thoughts are light,

like the weightless windblown snow.

###

Tonight, Let's Remember
by Michael R. Burch

July 7,2007 (7-7-7)

Tonight, let's remember the fond ways
our fingers engendered new methods to praise
the gray at my temples, your thinning hair.
Tonight, let's remember, and let us draw near...

Tonight, let's remember, as mortals do,
how cutely we chortled when work was through,
society sated, all gods put to rest,
and you in my arms, and I at your breast...

Tonight, let's remember how daring, how free
the Madeira made us, recumbently.
Our inhibitions?―we laid them to rest.
Earth, heaven or hell―we knew we were blessed.

Tonight, let's remember the dwindling days
we've spent here together―the sun's rays
spending their power beyond somber hills.
Soon we'll rest together; there'll be no more bills.

Tonight, let's remember: we've paid all our dues,
we've suffered our sorrows, we've learned how to lose.
What's left now to take, only God can tell.
Be with me in heaven, or "bliss" will be hell!

I do not want God; I want to see you
free from all sorrow, your labor through,
a song on your tongue, a smile on your lips,
sweet, sultry and vagrant, a child at your hips,

laughing and beaming and ready to frolic
in a world free from cancer and gout and colic.
For you were courageous, and kind, and true.
There must be a heaven for someone like you.

###

I, Lazarus
by Michael R. Burch

I, Lazarus, without a heart,
devoid of blood and spiritless,
lay in the darkness, meritless:
my corpse―a thing cold, dead, apart.

But then I thought I heard―a Voice,
a Voice that called me from afar.
And so I stood and laughed, bizarre:
a thing embalmed, made to rejoice!

I ran ungainly-legged to see
who spoke my name, and then I knew
him by the light. His name is True,
and now he is the life in me!

I never died again! Believe!
(Oops! Seems it was a brief reprieve.)

###

To Know You as Mary
by Michael R. Burch

To know You as Mary,
when You spoke her name
and her world was never the same...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

O, then I would laugh
and be glad that I came,
never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

I might not think this earth
the sharp focus of pain
if I heard You exclaim―
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom

my most unexpected, unwarranted name!
But you never spoke. Explain?

###

Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech's brilliant slide, I gr0pe,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear―
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don't quite understand) ,
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).

###

Gethsemane in Every Breath
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, we have lost our way, and now
we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose.
We forgot hope's song―the way it goes.
Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow.

LORD, we have wondered long and far
in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star.
Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp:
our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp

of misspent breath... before we drown.
LORD, help us through this spiral down
because we faint, and do not see
above or beyond despair's trajectory.

Remember that You, too, once held
imperiled life within your hands
as hope withdrew... that where You knelt
―a stranger in a stranger land―

the chalice glinted cold afar
and red with blood as hellfire.
Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember―we are as You were,

but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch

Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember-we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men―
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger's cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright―
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope's long-departed star!

###

Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch

We are learning to fly
every day...

learning to fly―
away, away...

O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination―

graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Let us bear one another up in our vast migration.

###

The Gardener's Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away."

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least...

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies...

Faint scent of roses, then―a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true? "

"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call―ecstatic crew!―
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."

###

Kingdom Freedom
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness.
Let me have none of the lividness
of religious outrage.

LORD, let me not be over-worried
about the lack of "morality" around me.
Surround me,

not with law's restrictive cage,
but with Your spirit, freer than the wind,
so that to breathe is to have freest life,

and not to fly to You, my only sin.

###

Cædmon's Face
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
―perhaps by God, perhaps by need―

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon's ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.



He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike―as father unto son.

But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known:
his father's face becomes his own.



He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker's might, man's lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth

suspended under heaven's roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:

his face was Poetry's, from youth.

###

Listen
by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch)

1.
Listen to me now
and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone,
screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black
and white is white
and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words?
They come to him:
the moon's illuminations,
intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now,
and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell,
and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen,
or cut off your ears,
for I Am weary.

I desire mercy, not sacrifice.

2.
Listen to me now: I had a Vision.
An elevated train derailed, and Fell.
It was the Church brought low, almost to Hell.
And I alone survived, who dream of Mercy:
the Heretic, who speaks behind the Veil.

3.
Listen to me now: I saw an airplane
fall from the sky. And why should I explain?
The Visions are the same. It is my Heresy
that I survive, because I sing of Mercy,
while elevated "saints" go down in flames.

4.
Listen to me now: I saw in Nashville
how those who "soar" will plummet―Fame in flames!―
and fall on those below, as if to k-ll them.
The lowly, saved, will understand their names.

5.
Listen to me now: I heard another
say, "That which died shall Resurrect and Live."
An angel with a Rose bestowing Mercy!
What can it mean, but that my Visions give
fair warning to the world that God wants Mercy.
My Heresy is that we must forgive!

6.
Listen to me now: she heard god calling―
O, who will love me, who will be my friend?
Does he want Perfect Saints, the whitewashed Purists,
who frown down on their "brothers," without end?

7.
Listen to me now: you are not perfect,
and your "wise counsel" helps no one at all:
unless it's sweetened with the sweetest Mercy,
it's pure astringent antiseptic gall.

8.
Listen to me now, and learn this lesson:
If God wants mercy, why dig at the speck
in your brother's eye, when even now the Beam,
your lack of mercy, spares, no, neither neck,
becomes the Hangman's Millstone. We're all children,
all little ones! Be patient with the fleck!

9.
Listen to me now: for the Announcer
explained that wars have given Presidents
the precedents to soon assume all Power.
Vote, citizens, or be mere residents!

10.
O, listen to me now: I saw the Warheads
stored safely underground, except for One.
A red-haired woman with a bright complexion
seduced the guard. Translucent blouse, red thong,
white bra―these were her fearsome antique weapons.

I saw the Skull and Crossbones! Heed my Song!

11.
O, listen to me now, and hear my Gospel:
three verses of such sweet simplicity!
God is Light: in Him there is no darkness.
In Christ, no condemnation: Liberty!
God want no Sacrifice, but only Mercy.
O, who could ask for sweeter Heresy?

12.
Theology? I swear that I disdain it!
If Love can be explained, why then explain it!
If Love can't be explained why, then, should God,
if God is Love? Nor hell nor cattle ****
is needed, if God's good, and God's supreme.
Ask, children, what "re-ligion" truly means:
"return to *******! " Heed the bondsman's screams!

13.
Heed, children, which Theologies you dream
when Hellish Nightmares wake you, when you Scream
for comfort, but no comforter is there.
Which Voices do you heed, which Crosses bear?
If god is light, whence do Dark Visions come
which leave the Taste of Venom on your Tongue,
with which you **** your brother for one Sin
you do not share, ten thousand underskin
like Itching Worms that Squirm and Vilely Hiss:
"Your brother's sin will keep him from god's bliss,
but You are safe because god favors You! "
If God is Love, how can this voice be true?

14.
For God is not a favorer of men.
Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Listen.
The night is the time.
When one finds the key.

The key to locks of life.
The key to never ending strife.
The key to unheard cries.
The key to unsaid words.

The key to the lost treasure.
The key to the broken measure.
The key to unsolved mystery.
The key to unseen misery.

And it is the key to..
the Realization

Tonight i find another one.
Its Listen.

My friend Listen.

Listen to understand.
Listen to be listened.
Listen to be loved.

Listen to everything around.

Listen to the voice of you.
Listen to talks of two.

Listen to the wind.
Listen to the sun.

Once you understand.
It will be fun.

Listen to the people.
Listen to the old.

Don't be afraid of being sold.

Listen. Don't hear.
Listen is love
Hearing is the opposite.

And in the vastness of this sea.
Listen is another key.
A broken attempt
Pete Badertscher Jun 2015
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen

The sun dapples in adjectives
in a language without words.
The movement of the leaf
like the dance of the honey bee.
Through a turmulent stream of hellos
they talk to each other.
Can you hear them my darling?
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.

Not many can, anymore.
If ever they could (which I doubt).
Ancestors of flat grey we paint
with colorful commentary,
but it's too much to hold.
It's too much to believe.
Their ears-- closed as their scions.
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.

You can train yourself--
your ears, your eyes.
to catch the whispers of
nightlace and dayfire.
Like the small entices of
old friends-- long lost.  
Forever there.
The Chopin of the rain,
the Dead Kennedys of  
eyes in the night.
Just listen to.
Just listen by
Just listen, just listen.
paper boats Aug 2018
Draw the curtains, blow out the candles,
We are shy things, harmless shy things,
Who live in quiet, quiet places,
Like the sleeping pages of a dog eared book,
Or floating in an old lover’s new perfume.
But don’t go now, listen first,
Don’t you want to know where you’ll go?
Listen, listen, listen close.

The sound of drizzle on Monday mornings,
Is the soul of a bearded man who died alone,
Waiting in a hospitable bed near the window.
And the careful drops falling from your leaky faucet,
Are elfin souls of children born too soon.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Every wrinkle on the hands of an arthritic woman,
Is the soul of a struggling artist
Who left without a penny to his name.
And when the sunlight filters through the leaves,
On an especially windy afternoon,
You can hear the snores of a resting Kamakazi,
Who died during some World War many decades ago.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

In the shuffle of sheets strewn across an abandoned desk,
You might find strange numbers and words,
Scribbled down by an absent-minded professor,
Who shot himself during an experiment.
In the tiny sting of an unexpected paper cut,
You might find the letters of every forgotten word,
Like the souls of the great Greek heroes
Who lost their way to Elysium.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Near the restless moon on a drowsy summer night,
Before you go to bed with the blankets by your side,
You’ll hear the ‘click, click, click’ of a busy keyboard,
And in the ‘click, click, click’ you’ll find,
The coffee-drenched soul of a writer you didn’t know.
So listen, listen, listen close.
saun hutchings Apr 2018
Listen to the words that slip from my lips
Listen to the way my breath escapes
Listen to my heart pound
Listen

I listen to your words
I listen to your emotions
I listen to your wind
I listen to your pounding drum

But you say I don't hear you
I don't hear your cry
I don't hear that breath escape
I don't hear you beating heart

But in reality it is you
You who doesn't listen to my words
How selfish are you
You who can't hear my breath escape
Why do suffocate me

My heart pounds in my chest worrying about you about my job
Because you don't care if you tell the world about our frowned upon relation
You want the world to know of the things we've done

But what I want is silence
I don't want to hear the things you have to say
I don't want to listen to your breathing
I don't want to hear your heart beating
Because I need to listen

I need to listen to my heart
I need to listen to my breath
I need to listen to my emotions
I need to listen to the most important person
I need to listen to me
tina lombardo Nov 2018
listen to the moon
for it knows all your secrets
listen to the moon
for it knows your dreams
listen to the moon
for  it knows your pain
listen to the moon
for it knows how you feel
listen to the moon
for it knows you cried
listen to the moon
for it knows how hide
listen to the moon
for it knows  all your memories
listen to the moon
for it can follow you
listen to the moon
for it understands you
listen to the moon
for it knows how to handle
listen to the moon
for it will never leave you
listen to the moon
for it can do no wrong
listen to the moon
i no it sound so stupid but
listen to the moon
Rangzeb Hussain Mar 2010
Who is that rides so late in the forest so dark and wild?
It is but a helpless father and his frightened and lonely child,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The father cradles his lovely son gently in his arms,
He keeps him snug and he keeps him warm and he keeps him calm,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My son, why do you wrap your radiant face in such dread and fear?”
“Mine father, can you not see the Erl-King? He draws ever so near!”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O father! The Erl-King with his weedy crown and thorns of pain is here!”
“My son, it is nothing more than mist and rain on the plain over there.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Sweet lad, O come into my jolly lair and join me, do!
Many pretty and joyful games do I promise to play with you.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

On the forest floor the autumn flowers die in the suffocating cold.
“O you dreaming lad, I have for you garments of red silk dyed in gold.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Mine father, mine father, can you not hear my rising fear?
The Erl-King drips dark promises and breathes in my ear! Help me, father dear!”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Be calm, stay calm, rest my child, stay easy and keep your head low,
In these withered leaves it is only the night winds that creep and roar.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My rosy lipped lad, will you come take a merry stroll and dine with me?
My daughters three shall care for you and many wonders will you see.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My silky daughters of darkness live in yonder castle in shadows deep,
They three will dance and sing and cradle you to the sweetest of sleep.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Mine father, mine father, O can you not see the red eyes in his fearful face?
The Erl-King’s misty-eyed daughters live in that haunted place!"
The wind blows icy cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My son, my son, I see the frozen milky moon very clear
And how the ancient weeping willows like castles in the dark do appear.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O how delicious you smell, my tender innocent succulent boy!
Come off that horse and take these wonderfully coloured bright toys.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O father, my father, the Erl-King has seized me by the arm!
His long bony claws crawl toward my heart to do to me hungry harm.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The father whips and rides fast but his warm cottage is away by a mile,
In his arms he holds the groaning, twisting, shivering child,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The horse halts outside the family home and the father looks with dread
For his son, his only child, he holds in his arms is now dead!
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Weep quietly as this tragic tale is now all told.
Inspired by the work of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Franz Schubert.
Bill Johnston May 2019
Listen to the wind speak.
Listen to the rain patter.
Listen to the heat hiss.
Listen to the falling leaves.
Listen to the ice crack.
Listen to the ground shift.
Listen to the tides pull.
Listen to the fauna run.
Listen to the plants grow.
Listen to the stones vibrate.
Listen to the humans utter.
Listen for the silence.
Listen to it if you can.
Listen to the Eternal.
Fizza Khan May 27
Listen.
Listen to the words I speak.
Listen to my broken heart as it still beats.
Listen to the anger this girl has inside her, anger ready to erupt like a volcano.
LISTEN!

America, why do people become hashtags?
America, why are You blind to injustice and deaf to our cries?
America, LISTEN!

Hate is on the evening news
for one night and then we
act like things are fine. NO!

Gun-violence.
Police brutality.
School shootings.
America, Listen!

Listen to this girl you call a child.
Listen to the words she speaks from her heart.
Listen as she cries and screams like a child having a tantrum.
Right? Because I am a child. Isn’t that what You taught me? I’m a mere child who should be seen and not heard?

America, You might keep me silenced,
but the words in my heart are like caged butterflies. They will find a way to fly again.

So Listen.
Listen to the words I speak.
Listen to my broken heart
as it still beats.
Listen to the anger
this girl has inside her,
anger ready to erupt
like a volcano.
LISTEN!
There's a monument outside of town
I go there when the sun goes down
And I listen....

The names upon that granite slab
Are worn and rusted, slightly drab
Still  I listen

There's a silence hanging in the air
Hiding the thoughts of those not there
And I listen

I sit upon the steps below
In rain, or sun, and even snow
And I listen

Thirty men remembered here
Though none of them are buried near
So I listen

I've met others beneath this pigeon roost
Whose spirits I have tried to boost
As I listen

I wait to hear them from the grave
The voices of the dead, the brave
And I listen

None has spoken out to me
I know they watch and they see
As I listen

I keep watch throughout the night
I head home when it is daylight
And I listen

During the day there's too much noise
To hear the voices of these boys
But, I listen

So each night as the sun goes down
I venture once more out of town
And I listen

I listen.....
Listen to me...
Listen to me, when my voice no longer travels with sound..
When the language of my body is telling you, I can no longer breathe.
Listen to me...
When the words cannot manage to escape, but the tears have no problem running away.
Listen to me, when my smile is lying to you, and the sparkles on my eyes are telling you "there is no reason why you should let Heaven and Hell get in the way because, we are living in the now...
and it's all worth it in the end."

Life, is beautiful!
Full of enchanted mysteries and tragedies, and learn that you can't have one without the other!
They merely coexist.
Maybe an oxymoron, but maybe you're a ***** if you think a fist-full of Oxycontin will turn you into anything more than rotten.
No! You don't need a hand up your stockings to prove to yourself that "Maybe this time, I won't be forgotten..."

Listen to me...
When my heart is drowning in quicksand, going down, dipping under, asphyxiated. But, I know that trying to listen for a sinking soul is tough because those are the times we decide to "hold, mute" rather than "turn up."

Listen...  
to the beauty in the wind, the beauty of the wind because most of the time we are too caught up in why it turns twenty degree weather into ten below.
EMBRACE the wind, it will be there to sweep you off your feet when prince charming is "stuck in traffic."
When he is not around you will always have the skies to serenade you and the trees breathing love and hope into your life.

Listen...
to the pride in mans' voice
Don't judge.
Maybe, he is just wanting to make his daddy, proud.
Listen...
to the rejection in womans' voice
don't become angry with her.
Maybe, she has had her heart broken too many times and doesn't know how to disinfect her wounds.
Listen...
to the rumors, but don't spread them.
Find a way to make them beautiful!

Smile at the old man in the supermarket walking with nothing but a basket full of microwavable foods in his hand.
He is too afraid to turn the stove on.
Maybe, he lost everything in the fire
Maybe, he lost Her in the fire.
And no matter how crooked your teeth are, there is something magical in the crescent shape on your face that means forever!

Hug your mom and dad as often as you can, because one day they won't be there to hug you back... or you won't be there to hug them back.
Dance! in the moon light, because it's the only time you'll experience the sun and the moon in the same place.

Listen, in math class.
And I mean listen...
Because, you're going to need to add and subtract people from your life.
And most of the time you won't find x, but x is what we live to find.
So whatever you do,
**KEEP UP THE DETERMINATION
lex Dec 2018
I fall prey to the creases in my cranium
as I’m destroying from the outside in -
inside out.

Listen.
Listen.
Do you think the moon ever fears the darkness?

Slices on my hips
silence on my lips
as grey matter turns against itself -
worthless. waste. not. enough. never. enough.

Listen.
Listen.
Do you think the moon ever fears the darkness?

I’m a person I do not know anymore
maybe I never did,
the voice inside my head is not my own
but my skin will not separate enough,
tear deep enough,
to extract it from my soul.

Listen.
Listen.
Do you think the moon ever fears the darkness?

It’s two a.m. and I’m staring at my ceiling
begging the sun to rise faster
or not at all
because it’s two a.m. and the night hides no one.

Listen.
Listen.
Do you think the moon ever fears the darkness?  

Tonight
the ticking of the clock conspires with my heartbeat and I
cannot
escape.

Listen.
Listen.
Do you think the moon ever fears the darkness?

My thoughts come in waves
so I am neither drowning nor afloat
trying to make it to tomorrow but
hoping I won’t.

Listen.
Listen.
The moon and I have grown close now and tonight
she fears the darkness.
Hinata Jun 2014
my love, listen to me,
can you hear my silent agony?
my heart and soul, listen to it,
can you hear my very world go down to ****?
my soulmate, listen to it hard,
cant you hear my heart breaking into shards?
my companion, listen to the sound of my voice,
cant you hear the chaotic noise?
my lover, listen to my heart,
can you hear the choking back of tears?
my dear, listen to it beat,
can you hear the endurance it takes to stand back on my own feet?
my sweet, listen to it,
can you hear the abyss-like pit within it?
mi amor, listen to me,
can you hear the passing of time around me?
my honey, listen to my mind,
can you hear the answer that i can never seem to find?
my pumpkin, listen to that sound,
can you hear the solution i have found?
my biscuit, listen to me,
can you hear the sound of me leaving?
love, listen,
this is the end.
meh i think it could have been better, tell me what you guys think
Listen, listen, listen
You dig your graves with your ignorance
Listen, listen, listen
You hide the truth from your ears


You fools


Listen. Listen. Listen.


Listen to my Spirit capture your house
Is your attention mine?
You think this is just another poem
Then you are another loss

Listen to me!
You naive travelers!
You wander into land with no food or water!
And you welcome the drought of your soul

I beg you,
Listen
Welcome not drought
But instead welcome righteousness
And mercy, and unconditional love


Hear me


Do not close your mind to what is coming
You face death because of your charade
This is the end if everything.

As you know it.

Be pure and listen to my words
This is your crossroads
This is the end of everything
as you know it

You must


Listen.
The issue isn't that you react with perfection.
It is that you listen and you act
Bhakti Lata Nov 2016
Listen to thy heart, my dear!
Heed what it says !
Listen to it despite the din and the noise.
Listen to it even if sometimes it may make you lose your poise.
Listen to it when it cries out loud and clear.
Listen to it when it palpitates in fear.
Listen to it when it wants to dare and enjoy.
Listen to it when it wants to just play coy.
Listen to it to get a clue and to find who you are.
Listen to it to get closer to dreams that seem so afar.
Listen to thy heart, my dear!
Heed what it says!
Lauren Feb 2015
baby, please listen to me

listen to me at 3 in the morning when im falling out of control
listen to me when its 9 at night and im begging you to stay just a bit longer
listen to me when i run away and call you with my last bit of change

my love, listen to me

listen when my anxiety spirals out of control
listen when my flashback tears me away
listen when there are too many people around me

baby, listen to me

listen when the razor is on my skin and the smoke is in my lungs
listen when i have no where to go and the pills are so nice
listen when i dont know where i am and i love that with a hateful passion

listen to me.
Karen Apr 2016
Some say I am a good listener.
Some say I am too quiet and reserved.
Some say I am judgemental,
but I say that's absurd.

I do like to listen
For the shear fact of listening
shows people I care.

But the truth of the matter is:
I like to listen to the song birds as morning sun rises,
I like to listen to my sons contagious laughter,
I like to listen to my cuddly cats purr,
I like to listen to my favorite songs,
I like to listen to the gentle breeze of summer.
I like to listen to the waves hitting the shoreline,
I like to listen to the loud pipes of my motorcycle.

I do not like to listen to meaningless chatter
I do not like to listen to gossip
I do not like to listen to negativity
It gives me a head ache and throws me into despair.
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Listen carefully, as though to a prophecy
Candles burning in background pose - prose - close the door,
Leave nothing unopened - not mind, not heart, not soul, not eyes, not love, not love
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Listen to the prophet scream obscenities in the face of God -
Screaming law to children in the playground,
Waiting for dawn to **** night, and say hello to never -
Leaving nothing unopened - not the door, not the door,
Like never before - except now, no, because because...
If an angel rode in midnight, wings out full-flight -
Would they be invisible to the mortals of planet Earth?
Or would they become best-friends with the lowest of the low?
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
The door speaks sudden truths to the ears of the heart of wisdom and desire,
Wisdom holds no desire, just as desire holds no wisdom -
Both polar opposites in the city of Being,
Rising like smoke in the collapse of nations and culture -
No tears shed for the loss of men, in the war of knowledge,
of pride and territory and fortune and remembrance -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
For the sake of living forever right now in this moment -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob -
Leaving nothing unopened -
Not the past, not the present, not the future, not the never forevers,
Like the wars being fought for oil and money and cheap gratification -
Short lived egos, going down in history books,
For the children to read while being screamed at with obscenities from the prophet above,
And the angels below, and the ground and sky and earth and stars and gravity and all -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Please, for the sake of living forever right now in this moment, or never
Right now - because now is forever - cheap cheap poetry, meaning nonsense
Just an escape...just an escape from the turning of the doorknobs,
For a minute or two or three - just a longing to be free,
And no one can be free when they’ve been ****** to mortality -
Oh sincere mediocre heartfelt dribble - just turn around, door and all -
Fall out the sixth floor window and don’t look back - never again forever again -
Right now in this moment, forever and never and back again - looking up,
Singing to the screaming prophet, blocking the door on accident - there are no accidents in life -
So, listen to the turning of the doorknob,
Listen to the turning of the doorknob,
For the sake of your own existence and place in these here cosmos -
Listen to the turning of the doorknob.
lize kingston Oct 2013
Everybody listen to the rain comin down
Its going tap tap tap
all around the Town.
And im standin here watchin it pour all around
Watchin it soak and renew this
broken ground.
And each drop is a renewing sound
breaking the chains of the trapped
and bound.
The weather mans calling for more
dark skies
and i know each drop comes when
an angel cries.



So world stop whatcha doin
and listen to the rains
tap tap tap renewin'.
Its washing away all the pain
the tap tap tap is bringing sanity to he insane.
So world stop watcha sayin'
and listen to what Mother nature is
playin'.


Everybody stop and listen the the
thunder crash
trying to put an end to all the
selfish bash.
Watch as the lightining lights up
the sky
trying to scare all this sin
goodbye.
Are you gettin what im sayin
Stop and listen to what mother
nature is playin.


So world stop whatcha doin
and listen to the rains tap tap tap
renewin'.
Its washing away all the pain
the tap tap tap is bringing sanity to the insane.
So world stop whatcha sayin'
and listen to what Mother nature is
playin'.



The rain is pourin now
trying to wash this earth clean
some how
its going taptaptap tappin all around
pooling up all over the
ground.
Some many drops trying to wash
away
all the hurt,brokenness and the
pain.
When Mother nature sees all this it
drives her insane.
So she sends the rain (tap tap tap)
but is t all in vein?
She sends the rain (tap tap tap) Are you gettin what im sayin'.


So world stop whatcha doin
and listen to the rains tap tap tap renewin'.
Its washing away all the pain
the tap tap tap is bringing sanity to the insane.
So world stop watcha sayin'
and listen to watch Mother nature
is playin'.
Stop.
Tap tap tap
tap tap tap
Listen to what its doin'
TAp tap tap
Refresh and Renewin'.
xmxrgxncy Oct 2016
listen to the rushes,
they wait for you above.
listen to the rushes,
the wind blows with no love.

listen to the reeds, dear,
for they have known your pain.
listen to the reeds, dear,
and be yourself again.

listen to the leaves now,
and forget how to live.
listen to the leaves now,
and remember you can give.

listen to the grass blades,
that tell you not to feel.
listen to the grass blades,
that make your life unreal.

and listen to the waves, child,
that call you from the deep.
listen to the waves, child,
and meet your endless sleep.
i'm liking my plant imagery lately.
Listen for the silence
That's when you know you have been heard
Listen for the silence
Then you dare not speak a word
Listen for the silence
As they think of a reply
Listen for the silence
But, don't confuse it with a sigh
Listen for the silence
You got your point across
Listen for the silence
You know you have them at a loss
Listen for the silence
It's when they're backed up to the wall
Listen for the silence
You know they are about to fall
Listen for the silence
You know the arguement is won
Listen for the silence
Say no more, the fight is done
Jumai May 2019
Listen to the wind: it plays a soft tune of hope.
Listen to life: it has many lessons to teach.
Listen to the rhythm of your heart: it guides you to light.
Listen to the leafless tree during fall: for it blooms in spring.
Listen to the dried leaf on the ground: for it was once fresh and green.
Listen to an old man speak: for there is wisdom in his words.
Listen to the words of a weak aged woman: for she was once full of life.
Listen to your mistakes: for mistakes carry a lesson to be learnt.
Listen to the quietness of the night: it's a time for reflection.
Listen: for there's a voice inside of you which shows you how to navigate through life.
But you'll only find that voice if you truly
Listen...
Semaj Brown Oct 2018
There are times that I wish I was dead there are times when I ask god why did he make me. Was it just to make me cry every night. Make my own mother hate and blame me. Well then maybe I should let her **** me maybe I should run way maybe I disappear for goodness sake then someone said to me i know you hurt but you don’t how strong you really are so listen just listen


-Mia


I looked into my father’s eyes and saw the hatred...when he said I was no longer his son I pulled knife to my neck and said “devil have me” but god said wait don’t you let him take you away from me don’t you let him have my child just wait and listen


-Nick


I heard my mother cries saying she was sorry that she couldn’t afford the life we deserve. She was sorry that my father wasn’t around. She was sorry that my sister, her daughter might be stuck in a wheel chair for life. So I got down on my knees begged god to save me please and he said your greatness is coming my child just wait and listen


-Lorenzo


I heard the whispers that was a b*d child, that my mother slept with  married man. I heard the rumors that i wasn’t gonna go anywhere that I was just gonna end up like her a desperate soul. And that’s when I lost control. My mother died as I laid in her arms 16 & pregnant I was mad at the world but god was telling me to listen. Just wait and listen not to them but to me your greatness is coming your greatness is now


-Camille


He died in my arms blood everywhere, my mother left, my father was in Jail i was left by myself had this gun in my hand put it to head ready to pull the trigger but god said wait you have purpose open your ears and listen. He said boy don’t you do it don’t let the devil make you into something your not don’t let his demons break you like this. Just listen


-Malik
this is a poem I wrote based on a book I wrote about 5 teenagers going through it
The Terry Tree Jan 2015
You are the piano in my throat
You are the harp in my hands
You are the drum in my heart
You are the tune that understands
You are the violin in my mind
You are the theremin in my third eye
You are the whisper of an ultrasound
You are the chorus that never sings goodbye
You are the sacred note I've found

Listen, listen, listen
To your sound

O how marvelous you are
Like lightning against the sky
The music of your soul echoes
Against all of creation
Nature looks back at you
Her breeze is her hands
That comfort your anger
Her thunder is a smile
That soothes your pain
Her rain is there to
Teach you how to
Forgive yourself
Again and
Again

My sweet Music Box
You don't ever have to leave me
You will never forget how to sing
Like a bee on the seashore
Crawling towards the never ending ocean
The impossible salty sea
I will be here to guide you
Towards the light
Back to your life

Let me be your sonic boom
Let me be your favorite room
Let me wind your Music Box
So we can sing your
Favorite tune

You are the piano in my throat
You are the harp in my hands
You are the drum in my heart
You are the tune that understands
You are the violin in my mind
You are the theremin in my third eye
You are the whisper of an ultrasound
You are the chorus that never sings goodbye
You are the sacred note I've found

Know this by heart and
Listen, listen, listen
To your sound

You are the Music Box that I designed
Sing along with me
Listen to our chime
Listen to our bell
Listen to the psalm
That together we unveil

We are the sheet music of ravens
Perched like notes on wires
Across the skies as the
Sunrise inspires
Our call

We run with the magic
Of a brilliant ballad
We vibrate
We shake
We earthquake
Through it all
In between rocks
We are meteors and comets
My Music Box
We rock and roll
In this canticle

We are the original
The golden oldie
Of the galaxy

Be my anthem
I'll be your hymn

Listen, listen, listen
To your sound again

You are the piano in my throat
You are the harp in my hands
You are the drum in my heart
You are the tune that understands
You are the violin in my mind
You are the theremin in my third eye
You are the whisper of an ultrasound
You are the chorus that never sings goodbye
You are the sacred note I've found
You are the fire of a thousand choirs

You are the ecstasy
The Universe
Desires


© tHE tERRY tREE
robert boldon Jul 2013
Listen / By Robert Boldon  
Listen my life depends on you hearing me
My soul echo out the words I love you into the endless frame of space ,traveling the speed of light, breaking down into atom waves molecules transform into tiny dew drops of dust evaporating into the lungs of insects that need it for survival itself water. That the breath of me be used to breathe out the words I love you.
Listen my life depends on you hearing me
    The very wind that comes from the creator of all righteousness   God almighty Himself, has bestowed  the thoughts’ of eternal life after death onto who ever should believe in hem and have faith                 onto the morning light that brighten you day the sun. At night the moon that lights your way, cascading off the mountings illuminating trails unseen by the naked eye reflecting your way home.
Listen my life depends on you hearing me  
Dreams of warriors winning the battle, returning back home to the ones that truly love them for who they really are, not just some sadistic man, woman , child  killer that roams  the earth looking for unarmed innocent bystanders that fit the description of so called terrorist,hiding weapons of mass destruction that are never found.      
                                                                                            Listen my life depends on you hearing me
Rivers ran red that will take years to purify dew to the fact that there were no weapon’s found. But still bodies found floating with no head no limb’s, no description of male or female, ground soaked with blood so thick it turn to mud ,crud . As far as the eye can see there is no love, help that will never come screams of the wounded that will never be heard, waiting their turn to die, As their villages burn down disintegrating into ash , The animals from the nearby jungle pick through half alive bodies on their last breathe, too weak to scream, fade away like a bad dream.
Listen my life depends on you hearing me
The ones that get away seek revenge, holding the last laugh in knowing they’ve lost their mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers infants ,cousins the whole dozen/memories ricochet off of fractured skulls from renegades  in today’s time would be on the front page, Captured -Rage.
Listen my life depends on you hearing me
Even now as I come to a close saturated tears, socket your makeup stained face’s, under garments’ laced with pity and shame taking place of pride and joy, waves of emotion tug at your heart in soul thinking this isn’t the way the story was supposed to be told, nor the visions that have taken hold of your reality of unseen grief, Bodies on the ground bodies on the street.  
Listen my life depends on you hearing me

— The End —