"ordains" poems
XVIII
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
2.8k
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
“But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’),
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
This poem comes from a dream.
Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap
An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle
As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song
They have their audience
Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile
And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush hush hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
old warrior
now, restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him
“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”
“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
XXI
Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounced and in his volumes taught our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
1.6k
*goodbye, my sweet angel
you and I now must part;
the sun sets gently
and so it does too in our love*
goodbye, my sweet angel
the ocean waves come
to play along the beach
but soon they retreat;
and so too now we go in our love
goodbye, my sweet angel
the gentle breeze comes in the grove
and cools and kisses
the birds and the earth
and soon it is gone;
and likewise,
O gentle love,
we have done
with each other
goodbye, my sweet angel
you see the clouds merge
and play in the sky
and gladly we two have mingled
but now we break like the clouds
goodbye, my sweet love
we’ve seen the merry bird descend
on a fruit tree branch and rest awhile
and feed itself
and then it flies;
ah, so we have been each to the other
and now we find time ordains
it’s the moment to fly
even the stars
that generations use
come to cease one day
and so we too must –
O goodbye my sweet angel,
we too must go like light, like the stars
*goodbye, my sweet angel
you and I now must part;
the sun sets gently
and so it does too in our love*
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 2:59 AM UTC
In-Flight Convergence
by Michael R. Burch
serene, almost angelic
the lights of the city extend
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure
they say:
that nothing is certain
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command
here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one from a distance
descend?
they abruptly
part ways
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of convenience
and man seems the afterthought of his own brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways
Keywords/Tags: city, lights, streetlights, neon, signs, billboards, trucks, traffic, runways, landing, jet, plane, airplane, brakes, screeching, alleys, alleyways
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 12:51 AM UTC
i worship an empty god
who answers no prayers.
a mono-disciple tapered
to heavenly threads without
ever bearing wings of my own,
i have no convictions except
the idle ones he tethers me with:
our shrine is gold and red.
(sometimes i think it is pretty.)
i will follow him with blind eyes,
for there is nothing more sweet
than to be loved for merely existing
and reciting his gospel to the ground.
i grow under his sunlight.
he waters me as he pleases,
but my petals will never be
the colors of the church flowers
from his childhood,
(he doesn't realize they are fable.)
my mind will never be his steeple.
Nazareth needs repairing, but
scripture ordains i cannot bear
the burden of fixing something so bloodied and broken.
i will bleed red wine for him,
i have no doubt he will finish
the glass.
it stains the page. i smile,
yellowed crumpling page.
i write the next verse, in pencil,
heeding my perpetual mistake:
i am immeasurably incorrect,
and no one needs repentance but
the sinner, who is I tonight,
and all nights.
i close the
book. i lay down.
Nazareth
is dark.
so i pray my
bedtime prayer,
that i wish
my god wakes up
with a clearer mind
and a learned heart
tomorrow.
(a fool is a follower,
a fool is the man who
absolves the snake for the sin
and punishes Himself
for not seeing clearer.)
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
History of the before teaches nothing
Civilization is mere normalization adorned
they are the self-appointed Olympians demigods
the pigment-less errants who ran down albino way
to learn from the rebellious Angel his innovative styles
Anointed souls who stayed in the Kingdom of Truth
blessed and sheltered under the light of the True Living King
imbued piously with messages of love unity and salvation for all
are mere weakened fools seeking peace denying heady excitement
for there's power, lust, riches, fame fortune and control to be found
Hence they divided and assigned varying colours
In rebellious mischief call the devoted black in my honour
ordains the leader of Rebels intoxicated in banishment and sin
my fellow ****** followers adorned yourselves as white doves
you will learn great evil, wickedness, bloodlust and utter destruction
We are the masters, the Controllers, there is no God
go forth and populate, ravage and plunder take as you please
subjugate and deceive, lie and **** and drink their blood in victory
fallen from Grace let's go befall woe, pestilence, miseries destruction
In God's made Kingdom we and our children will rule with no mercy
The spawns who know more than God take control
all four corners of the earth sowing fear discontent and discords
hatred, injustices, bloodshed, sorrow, pain abominations galore
thieves and cut-throats merchants in white masks they shower terror
History of the before teaches nothing, the demigods rules
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 4:52 AM UTC
Lucifer’s technocrats, unelected
assume they’re impregnably protected.
But God, from His throne above their earth
ordains conception and commands new birth.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Hildegard,
High priestess of poetry,
Ordains her missives as though they were lambs.
Words her flock,
Poetry her salvation.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers? Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers? Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
.
Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers? Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers? Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers? Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
I know your heart is hurting,
But please try to understand,
That God does have a reason,
And He has you by the hand,
If you run back to what broke you,
Due to stigma, shame or doubt,
You'll sink lower into darkness,
And God wants to pull you out,
The best advice I ever heard,
Was when my grandpa said to me,
Only God ordains a marriage,
And that's what most people do not see,
See, a marriage made in Heaven,
Will protect you at all times,
And no man on earth can combine two souls,
It's only God who will decide,
So if you've prayed and waited,
And your spouse's heart won't change,
No man can judge you for divorce,
If God never ordained.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC