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Taru M Jan 2013
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
     and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
     and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames          like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
     fringed in anger
          runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
     blasting from blacked out tints
          weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
     or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds

beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
   where bar tenders play therapists
        and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes

beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels

That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
        your friends
             your country
she challenges you to
Look up Leo McCarthy especially if you're in high school going to college. He was one of the 2012 CNN Heroes and this poem is dedicated to his daughter Mariah.

sloth = group of bears
MADD = Mothers Against Drunk Driving
SADD = Students Against Destructive Decisions
Shashank Virkud Mar 2011
There's a city glowing in my ears,
biting blur of the nightlife.
Figure I've been here for a while.
My supplies were piled high,
now they're in short supply
and I'm high.
The walls of my
apartment are red.

I wait until the streetlights
flick on before I flip into a
somersault, I wait until the
streetlights flick on before
I call you out tonight.
The walls of my
apartment are red.

Dead presidents, don't
answer for me,
I paint the walls red.
Dead presidents couldn't have
seen it coming,
I paint the walls red.
Dead precedents, don't correct me.

Could have been a fool,
could have been a rule
you didn't know, so
when your friends are
wrong sing a song that
won't offend anyone.

You kept me waiting for hours,
you were shining. In a dress like
blood and flowers, you were shining.
You better sell it hard tonight.
The walls of my
apartment are red.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2019
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)

“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally

“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip


the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
           who can grow others       who can feed    
                             who can sustain multiple living creatures

each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code

these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance

this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?

I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom

7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
the dawn here is hours behind their sunsets, this then, a refreshment for the
wisdoms of their evening prayers
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Madison's defense of the establishment clause to the Virginia
Religion both existed and flourished, not only without the support of human laws, but in spite of every opposition from them, and not only during the period of miraculous aid but long after it had been left to its own evidence and the ordinary care of Providence.

                                          May I say
electromagnetic waves. Radiant energy.
Light travels in waves
                                      Waves of what?
Electromagnetic waves consist of electric and magnetic fields
oscillating at right angles to each other
and to the direction of motion of the wave.
                                                           ­             All waves can be described
in terms of amplitude, wavelength, frequency and speed.

Waves of what?
                            Think of a hand waving. The wave itself
is virtual, ideal. The hand and eyes are waves. The wave's
a quantum guess.
                           Religion and electromagnetic waves - visible, audible, ideal
causing real reactions in earth-time (real as it gets). Madison's
               care of Providence
                                               impossible to handle.

Needed is a medium: antenna, cathode ray, page,
          hairy, sweaty
with the capacity to say Providence electromagnetic visible light
element god.
                       Alone in your life and body. Say
the heavy word
weighty word
             charged word (ion god)
the particle physicist and political philosopher have it over the poet
who is sharing ignorance
                                           pretty much all he doesn't know.

Or who stays within a dimension she knows she knows, extrapolating
her hand in a child's hand or husband's hold or nest in a tree hole
limited government
                                  separation of powers
                                                          ­            daily low intensity warfare
light, radio and gamma waves
                                                     Waves of what?
Matter can be treated by both wave and particle theories (the duality of matter) since its convertible counterpart - light - has long been treated successfully by both theories.
convertible counterpart
                                         light matter light

Solutions to the equations are called wave functions, or orbitals.
Religion or the duty which we owe our Creator and the manner of discharging it can be directed only by reason and conviction, not by force or violence. It is proper to take alarm at the first experiment on our liberties. We hold this prudent jealousy to be the first duty of Citizens, and one of the noblest characteristics of the late Revolution. The free men of America did not wait till usurped power had strengthened itself by exercise and entangled the question in precedents. They saw all the consequences in the principle and they avoided the consequences by denying the principle. We revere this lesson too much to soon forget it.

Last night's movie She's No Angel on the Christian channel
begged many essential questions (and had bad music)
                                                          ­                                  why
the loving liberal successful couple should
keep a shotgun in the home (later used per Shakespeare)
                                                    ­                                           what
the community's (authority's) reaction to the violence
and precipitating dissembling might have been (per The Crucible)
                                                       ­                                             whether
the golden spiritual couple would subsequently dissemble lobby or
themselves and the loved one legally and lengthily (per Dostoyevsky)
                                                    ­                                                   where
unclean tragic outcomes end in Death's cleanliness
ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads (per A
      Designer of Systems)

but not I think missing
the deeper lesson

that she is neither her past
nor her wings

but a pure goodness
                                   bone stillness
                                                       ­   potential energy

a light wave
and a particle.
--Madison, James, "Memorial and Remonstrance Against Religious Assessments"
--LeMay, Beall, Robblee & Brower, Chemistry: Connections to Our Changing World, Prentice Hall, 2000
Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found

Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found

Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
Till all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground
Inspired by:
Motion Picture Soundtrack by Radiohead
True Love Waits by Radiohead
Rivers by Tallest Man on Earth
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013

A beam of swirling light in the heart of the city
As families flee for their lives
Lightning, fire and explosions
Cars being flipped, debris everywhere
Lives taken just to be taken
Evil has consumed the city
And its flame seems ever burning


A shock to the corrupted nerves of the city
Goodness and virtue battle the tyranny
But are put in the ground
Left in the rain and forgotten
Why must there be good and evil?
It only causes pain
The division, the knowledge, the temptation and the fear

Holy rain fall on me
On these skid marked streets and grow a rose
Red as the blood we all hold
Push my whispered wishes toward your ear
They're full of desperation and curiosity
I trade you the morals, my honor and all I hold true
For all of this evil to be drained from my home
For without the darkness there’s is no need for light
And the ever spirit can rest and the world can flow as intended
So fly high red rose
Gather energy from the land and sea
Chant the sacred words and flush this place

Flashing implosion of energy silence the streets

The sun in the eyes of the saved
The children can sing once more
And we can all be as innocent as the children
May the sun forever shine

Guilt free and enlightened they give thanks
Their lives renewed and cleared
Praise the rain drop, praise the rose it has cultivated
Hold it high, in the highest power

They give their lives for the flower
The live their lives for the flower
They only know it to be the truth
For security they go to the perennial plant
But now their freedom belongs to it, instead of their own fears and temptations
Freedom taken
Dreams broken
All hope gone
The flower promised to delete all evil
But the flower itself is wicked
Draining lives and giving false hope to those in dread of the world and themselves
Ignorance is all I see
The love of being able to create something and understand it
The hate of being unable to destroy everything you don’t understand
Cry life!
Look at today you’ll soon know
With out the darkness we wouldn't need light to see
Without the light there would be no darkness to hide what must be seen
Without both there is nothing to see
The universe over my head
I see Life grows, flows and goes
Good or bad it pushes through
The pre-approved righteousness should not be your guiding light
Neither should hand-me-down precedents of malevolence  
You yourself must chose your own path for it is your choice and yours alone
And that is what life is about
The choices we make cause the earth to spin and balance perfectly
Do not let anyone or anything dictate your life or the decisions you make
WE sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, "A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, "To be born woman is to know --
Although they do not talk of it at school --
That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, "It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
all my poems are unique general principles

~for Helene Mendelsohn~

“A general principle never comes to life in my mind except by exhibiting itself in various special forms and in
crowds of instances for each form":  
R.G. Collingwood

each a construct - an arch-i-texture,
each a crowd of a single instance
special forum, a dialogue differentiation,
a conjugate particle,
forming up, in marching order,
a singular troop, a base case singular,
a soldier especially demanding,
“Of Me, Write, Write”

for within my insight,
a one-off sighting,
one glinting wave reflecting,
its one millisecond exactitude of existence,
reforming unseemly, a new but not!

a seemingly similar shifted shape,
but no wave is a precision repetition,
perhaps a passing familiarity
of its precedents, antecedents,
at best

an instance borrowed and paid back
to the generosity of time
for a fully developed statement of a
general principle,
even a primary secondary textual emendation,
requires a unique naming definition

being born and dead dying while you are blinking,
does not understate absolute value,
a principle exists to give absolution,
so the moments resets,
but its own resolution is n’err forgotten

do you see the crowd of inferences
herein contained?

the principal unique,
poem plucked from passing sun ray,
a tickling hair of a brazen breeze,
one wave, one wave reconstituting a
millennium of preceding lives,
deriving its abbreviated genealogy
of droplets of prior principles
forever reinterpreted

so I gave you back
words you knew
but in a new combination
establishing this poem,
its constituents,
as a unique general principle

there is a prior poem, new, unique
in everything
7/21/19 10:00 am S.I.
TD May 2016
Lashing out, your anger bears
a striking resemblance
to glitter swirling in an anarchist's globe.
Deafened by your tomb of make-shift glass
a million eyes watch in abject awe.

Earth is a foot in sinking sand
and your livid fists
can only foam at humanity's demise.
Chaos the aspartame for freedom
halts your forward momentum.

They are dying. You watch them drown.
You imprisoned by a plastic sphere.
Eyes are bottomless chasms of fear
with strain carving lines around open lips.
Wind-up teeth chattering in idle repetition.

Are you stronger than dying breaths scented with mistaken liberty?

Are you thicker then the manufactured precedents governments disguise as truth?

Ocean, you pull at my eyes with anxious fingers,
but I have yet to pluck them out.
I have yet to live the dying art that martyrs use so ruthlessly.
So I stand here sinking into my basest desires,
because a fading world accepts what my soul refuses.

There is litter that stains the shores surrounding you.
You are the last hurrah before a retreating sun reveal its moon.
While you still at a sunset, I'm left trembling and bereft.
I shake your liquid pain in my hands.
In my desperation I crack your casing and watch you spill out.

In this most recent attempt to release you
I've discovered we both are given to perpetual mud clotting.
lakej Jun 2013
you are a complex circuitry of veins and arteries
a compendium of extremities and intimacies

you are either a trillion accidents or a single success
a whisper of life or a shattering of precedents

your structure is art
your conception a masterpiece
mechanically, you are beautiful

the core of this existence is uncertainty
does your rib cage shiver around the catechisms?

at your worst, you are
the part that can not be cut open
the part that can die before the body

your existence is a war
a perennial blooming and crumbling
your mind and body's slow destruction
flinging themselves together and apart
That's the thing,
we did it to be free.
We wanted to be liberated,
to not have to take no
for an answer.
We did it
so that we could taste the fruit
without fear.
It was easy.

I can show you.

Others may think it wrong,
but to us they were movers and
The precedents setting standards.
And we wanted to be like them.
We did it for the Innocent and the ******.
We did it for the young and dying.
We did it for the ones who think they're king
and for the rebellion.
We did it in honor of the sinners and the righteous ones.

I did it for you and me.

So call us guilty and we'll face judgment,
but that's why we did it.
We just wanted to be free.
Thank you for the love. Comments and criticism are always welcome and wanted.
Behind the extreme luster of pearl of the orient sea
tons of covenants, precedents, and laws
But why O' why I unfailingly see
the same *pathway to exiguity
I am a concern citizen of the Philippines. We have so many laws.... tons of laws
Dear Jan 2014

meet me at the morphosis
suckin on our cherry pits
sun melted away our icycled veins
clorphylled up minds
unconcerned with measurement
leave our woes behind
to wither with our precedents

our guards are on vacation
changing of a nation
through the power of
this entity of love
my love
it's not for me it seems
not to guide me to prosperity
not to satisfy my wants

give yours away and you'll get more of

the winds of change are blowing here
tell your girl she's not to fear
the ending of a page
the boggling of brains

london bridge is falling down
but we'll make a louder sound
to create a wave

we'll struggle a lot but they'll wash away

we will be the living dream
forever to grow
already blossoming
our hunger will sustain the changing of this game

explode implode cause a scene
ignorance is all they're conducting
the pyramid design was fine
8 billion sheep all fed with lies

but the winds of change are blowing here
tell your girl she's not to fear
the ending of a page
the boggling of brains

london bridge is falling down
but we'll make a louder sound
to create a wave
we'll struggle a lot
but they'll wash away
all the greatest songs start as a great poem
John F McCullagh Feb 2017
With wild teased hair, bright orange, and wearing shoes too big,
The clown abandoned Ringling to take on a new gig.
He was not content to pay his rent, like others of his “race”,
By acting in the remake of “killer clowns from outer space”
Nor would he do kids’ parties although he is no slouch
at raising fears that will take years to solve upon a couch .

With wild teased hair, a bright red nose and makeup piled on thick,
This clown decamped to Washington to try out his new Shtick.
With Eddie Munster as his pal, new laws he would propose,
that Femes, dressed as Vaginas, would vociferously oppose.
He’d surround himself with Sycophants but will not get too far
as, unlike his former colleagues, they don’t all fit in one car.

The clown claims he can build a wall to keep out one and all,
and he has a herd of Elephants at his beck and call.
He rules our land by fiat, as delay he can’t abide
He is a textbook narcissist with an overweening pride.

Minnesota has Al Franken as a Senator of course
And, back in Roman times, the purple was worn by a horse.
So  one might say that precedents exist for this strange thing;
for a clown to wield a scepter and rule over us as king.
The circus comes to Washington D.C. for a (hopefully) limited run.
Luka Love Jan 2013
How long has it been?
Days, weeks, millennia?
Ways speaks to character
Methods of ingress
Or egress
Or regrets about time spent
In the pursuit of something wholly less valuable
Something less palpable
Less tactile
More senile
My words have hit walls at high speeds
Left bleeding on the pavement
Leading on the evening news
Amongst the views of corporate hucksters
And genuine accidents
Dodgy precedents set by corrupt intuition
What am I even saying
These nonsensical ramblings
Born of too much time and too little patience
Have swallowed my cognition
Until I dribble to a halt
The moon is out tonight
Kinyo Poetry Jul 2013
Yesterday I raced to get to the air pregnant,

awoke early to get to the starting line,

vacant pavement.

Today I wanted a new beginning,

to be awake finally,

to the erasure of all things,

precedents, that make desires incredible.

The sun gives light,

like fresh batteries.

Who did fashion who,

sun fashion man,

did man fashion sun,

did man work himself to get grace from the sun,

did sun work sun to be good for man,

or did air work both sun and man,

to be it's good children.

The fashions do change,

but one thing remains the same,

man is in a world well suited

for new beginnings.
She always thinks I'm two steps away from the door
But I'm not.
I'm secure with two feet on floorboards,
Scoreboards painted with permanent scores we forgot.
Permanent residence, precedents set by our parents,
Hesitant pecks on the terrace.
We're all just specks on a Ferris wheel,
Careless, real, with empty eyes, ever open.
Forget the divers;
Empathize with the ocean.
Plagiarize with emotion.
The boy who tells you to stop is more lost than you are,
More Boston, and too far from devotion to breathe.
You don’t need him.

Take my advice,
Like a traveling salesman in a baffling city.
The path isn't pretty,
But the destination is beautiful.
I wrote this maybe four years ago? I cared a lot more about rhyming in any case. And I capitalized the first word of each line.
the keystone walls melting on on its of gold, taking their glistening edges, spreading all over, the foxes dipping in their hands in the outrage chase, dodging the bulders, putting down the poison that looks like the puddy, passing on the next seed, ears perked up, hunger and pity in the eyes, jesus I speak then I speak too quickly then I don’t speak quickly enough, wanting a few words to help me get through, but find that the words fall then the predictable precedents I’ve set for myself come back in a rush, and those who I at once thought were on my side have been injested, and I have become bigger, and even more confused.  The swag is definite, and I have a few directions, then I pull ojn the tabs and suddenly I’m back with some of my pals, hey arnold preaching his word, his riches heir, poetry and padding patty and curly, punching me in the gut, great little suite in a little niche, its the life, what do I compare the next thing to, the abstract seems even more real than any joke falling on an audience, with a dead face that gets a chuckle and the band falls on the downbeat, a dance to distract from the lack of content

where am I coming from?  Complete utter confusion, questions upon questions, leading me with no prejudice, missing the sweetness of pre-judgment, how it helped me get through days and dismiss, where is jesus?  I’m lucifer, pesticide and bourbon and swanky classes sketching hateful remarks into the desk ******* off professor clawson, sent to the office of vice principal dawson, not the alpha but the cronie who worships, trouble with no proper attention, tar with no high, get used to the asphalt,
SassyJ Mar 2016
I sensed your edginess
Clasped in my mind
Drawn with precision
Projection of tides forming
Then rising, falling in sequence
Followed by exhaustive exertions
A strain to calm the storms
All I have sensed in you..........

On the mountains of the unconditional fondness and tenderness, a flag is raised. The brightness of the skies is a continuum.In firm foundations, not withering, but thriving and yielding to the optimum. The connection was like the flickered light Einstein cocooned in. A stream from a dimension another. The  interconnection by the mind, the crown. Merging the locus of focus in consciousness and unconsciousness. A gateway that was beyond comprehension.

My antenna attuned and sequenced in synchronicity. A flow of perceptions vivid and broadcast with clarity. A feel of the web of the universe itself, the oneness of one to one to another. An augury unfolds  and foreseen precedents. The wavering, as you stagger from the solvents that imbue. Your trips suited with restraints of the thought and mind. A floodgate of inconclusiveness.

Why the sudden weigh?  You tremble in fear, wobbling with shilly-shally. Should I........ should I not? My turf lined up in cognisance. What happened to the cardinal we created? The winterly red bloom of explosive and attentive grenades. A silence of the dark permeates. Miles and miles of a mirage of gloomy inwardness.You wax and wane in surveillance. Just like the moon, you revolve in cycles.

Yet, I felt unconditioned and ecstatic. The aliveness in the nothingness. A light in the blackhole. For "romanticism" itself does not exist. It's a notion of owning, inquisition and imprisonment of another being..... never alluring. For you would know my stance of , "structure verses agency". An achievable liberation of autonomy and freedom. Whisper in my dreams as we uncover unseen dimensions.

Do become the presence of my walks. As I reflect alone be audible in the vibration of the air we breath. Trigger a magnetic feel of existence itself.Time and space is an illusion, one that does not exist. A trick of the light that acquiesces you comply. It hoovers with a whisper that 'you are getting older'...... 'you need to do this and that'. If you escape such hallucinations you can regurgitating on more responsibilities and succeed.

All puzzles in the human suffering have already been solved. Why can't you see them? Echoing your name, tapping your shoulder blade as if recognizable. One should never feel as if life is weary. There is always a need to want more, amass and make ones print. Or even depart. But being weary? Any being is able to chew as much, with pride and confidence. An interlude of imbalance will always be an interlude of imbalance.Through the century and ages this never changes. There is nothing to balance, you just need to search it deeper in yourself. Yourself is correcting. .

Irrationality often knocks my door. It seduces me, with sweet sensual word. Cajoling me to embrace normality. If only you knew what I know. A fading magical fantasy is not a fixated ideology. You are my inescapable tie and link.

Reach for your depths,
Inspired by Great Spirit- Nahko
For my essence
Onoma Apr 2016
Laying this head
upon a hillside...
whose nurture
was numberless
How green the
liberties of innocence...
lost in termless growth.
Of whose Age of Joy
could never be qualified.
The yonder yellow of
networking dandelions,
setting sunny precedents.
As raring turtle doves
echo winds that have
already changed.
This season of werewithal,
for the reciprocation
of benediction.
The struggle’s made vivid
Played out in a telecast
The boundaries made rigid
Erecting a minted sociopath

Swallowing sick lies at the mercy of a pint
Regurgitating references made to incite

The warden lost hold
When privatization was sold
The winter ran cold
Captives grew bold

Scratching out eyes for dead presidents
Smoldered in flame
Lost in the mire of false precedents
Monopolizing the game

Hectic self-imposed calamity drawing heavy on the soul
Elitist mentality rips you away from the bowl

Recently paroled
Breathing in the mold
Knocking pawnshops for gold
Adjustments held…cost of being old
NeroameeAlucard Dec 2014
Drawn from the seed
whether that be hurt anger or greed
on life it feeds
punishing misdeeds
it's not a pestilence
but it strangely represents
not dead presidents
but precedents
and the presence of man
comprehends and demands
that we make a plan
to understand
this simple constant
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

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


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.


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 ...
(most probably) below.


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).


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.


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.


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
... 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:


most gracious
& salacious
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
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 ...


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,

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.


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


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.)


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?


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?).


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?


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.


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?


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.


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?


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.


by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of 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.

I desire mercy, not sacrifice.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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!

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!

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!

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?

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!

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?

For God is not a favorer of men.
Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.
white owl breathless beaming
pale is favored ghost
**** how you are feeling
when u feel it **** the most
breed evil when you’re sleeping
ghost finds pale is home
*** life under purple
is bareskin under bleeding vol
while you are wide away
sad poison smiles weeping
lungs sawwed off life precedents
for coffins that they’ll slleep in
Sam Dec 2015
This resident hedonist
is feeding false promises, premises,
had precedents
lacks presence
get off our premises president
our countries bloodied and blemished
supposed genius turned menace
made a promising entrance
now with vehemence, menaces
subverts his messages, sentences
burn our nemesis' edifice
don't hide in the crevices
its prescience
ConnectHook Apr 2019
We soon got wind of of the crime: he wound up with a wound but weathered it fairly well, waiting for the affair to wind down while they wondered whether windy weather had played a role affecting the whole scene. The effect of the hole, (seen in court) was downplayed, read at the hearing as a likely red herring.

The jury, having heard, gave their verdict as a herd; unanimously.
(And, more famously, anonymously.) The infamously failed assassination set precedents for presidents as we asked, as a nation, to have safety take precedence over presidential presence, urging all residents to monitor their residence since shooters deft for lead could leave others left for dead indeed.

The casings were recovered, and the whole case covered by the press (though some journalists, pressed by the particulars of the case, cased out the possibility of covering close-up) until the case closed up.
Barely made it on PROMPT #14:
write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms,
or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2018
My world today is upside down
When truth is lies and cheating;
When the country is run by a clown
Who wants to be beyond defeating.
When robbing the poor is fun
For those who don’t need money.
When taking sick people’s insurance
To the wealthy is something funny.

The world is thinking with it’s ****
If looking back to Nazis is correct.
We have the burden to protest this,
We have a society we must protect.
Some are badly uneducated now
Because we have lowered the bar
On what we teach our children today.
Yes, we have sunk down that far.

As a people, we don’t seem to care
About who is making our laws now.
The law is full of massive restrictions
But most of us have no idea just how.
How did they get there, these rules
That support the rich and corporations?
When did we become this leviathan
Of criminals running our fine nation?

So, what can we do, short of revolution?
Do we all march in the streets and strike?
Do we stop buying cars and houses
And go to work every day on a bike?
Do we boycott spending money at all
Until the crooks are cleared away?
And how do we tell good from bad
In the way things are slanted today?

We all must speak and write and demand
Of the current representatives elected
To look to the precedents we have had
Upon which our great country was erected.
We founded this country on equality
And promised freedom for us all.
We have the burden to see to it
That our government answers that call.
G S Briley Feb 2014
Drib drab syntax;
don’t follow what you’ve been taught.

Dreams flow delicate, and words follow suit.
Precedents only compliment,
the things that should go wrong.
Calamities may seem tragedies,
without the softness of time.
Don’t listen to the music;
you’ll only define your mind.
If you don’t like what’s hidden,
then don’t let it be true.
See the goodness of intention,
notice the sorrow of the action.

Hear the wisdom of ignorance,
See the colour of the dark,
hear the song of the mundane,
know the heart of the timid,
list the parts that make up nothing,
feel the touch of empty space.

Know the difference between a skipped heartbeat,
and the love that takes its place.
Love is a poem that always hurts,
But never when you need it to.
Payal Sharma Feb 2016
I do not ask you for a better life
Neither do I ask you to bless me with all the happiness
I do not crave for the entire wealth of the world
Neither do I have the longing to be a super power
Places I have been to many, things I have seen plenty
I adore all but wish for none…..
All I wish you to give me is the strength to tread a path unchartered
To follow an oft-travelled road is not my idea
I want to sing a song yet unsung
I want to give my soul to dancing
but the dance shall have no precedents
Music, I wish to play
But the notes shall be mine, just mine
All I do-good or bad, pretty or ugly shall be truly unique
Shall be mine……
To step into other’s footprints is not my philosophy
All I dream is to create footprints….
footprints of my own.
M Dec 2014
It's hard to be the fourth child
I cannot meet all the precedents they have set
And I know that
But I hate the fact that it's true
And I hate that no matter how hard I may try,
I will not be a genius/writer,
I will not be a rebellious artist,
I will never be the perfect student with a musical streak who has never failed at anything in his life,
And all that I will be
Is their little sister
Who tried her hardest,
Who must've had a tendency towards masochism,
Because no one sets themself up for failure that many times in a row on purpose
Julian Nov 2018
The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.
Big Virge Mar 20
Now Virgelements' Set Precedents ...
For Sentiments Fit For Regiments ...
Where Expression Deals In LEVELLING ...

Injustices We See ...
Through Poetry and Speech ...

So YES They're Detrimental ...
To Presidential Policies ... !!!

The Type That FEED ... Inequalities ....
That DRAIN and DEPLETE Our Societies .... !!!!!

Well Actually I Really Mean ... " THEIRS " ....
Money Men And Their ... " Lair of Heirs " ...

Who CLEARLY LACK Graces ...
That AIR In Places ...
Where Heads Have LESS ...
But STILL DON'T Stress ...
When They Face PROBLEMS ... !!!

So Virgelements' ... YES ...

Are Eloquent And Relevant ...
Insightful and Intelligent ...
And Looking For Developments ...
That INSPIRE Our Young Gentlemen ...
With LESSONS That Be Telling Them ...
How NOT To Be DEGENERATES ... !!!!!!

Young Ladies TOO ... !!!

But That There Is An Element ...
Where Women Should Be PREVALENT ...... !!!!!

And That Is Just MY VIEW ... !!!

But ... NOT By Certain Feminists ... !!!!!
Because They Have Prerequisites ...
That Seem To Be Quite Prejudiced ...

In How They Believe Most Men To BE ...
Now I Said MEN NOT Boys Whose Heads ...
LACK Minerals And Think In Ways MORE Visceral ...
Than Those Who See .... The PERIPHERAL .... !!!

YES What SURROUNDS ... !!!
How Does That Sound A Man Whose Found ...
That An OPEN MIND Keeps The Mind INCLINED ...
To RECOGNISE That NOTHING In Life Is Cut and Dried ... !!!

It's Better To Keep Your Eyes WIDE OPEN ...
Than Keep Them Closed And End Up BROKEN ... !!!!!

USE Them And YOUR BRAIN ... !!!
Cos' Like ... Sherlock Says ...

... " It's Elementary Son ! " ...

If You DON'T Like Shocks ...
Or Falling Foul of ... MURDEROUS Plots ... !!!

Your Vision Should Position ...
Itself To Be FAR FROM ........................... "Conditioned" .........
Like Those Now On Impossible Missions .....
NO NOT Those On Your ... Tell - Lie - Vision ... !!!!!

Try Asking Mrs. Clinton ...
Cos' Donald ******* Her Wish To Jump ...
And Attempt To Get ... Positioned ...
In A Place That's Been FORBIDDEN ...
From Being Held By WOMEN ... !!!!

So NO ... NOT ONE's Been Sitting ... !!!!!!
Where Donald Will Be Living ...
And Giving Jobs To Minions ...
Some Whose ... " Professionalism " ....
Has Faced ... MUCH Criticism .... !!!!!

But Yet They'll Make Decisions ...
That Will Now Affect MILLIONS ... !!!!!

Which Is Why I Write ... " VIRGISMS' " ... !!!

As Well As YES ... " VIRGELEMENTS' "... !!!

Or Poems YES ....
That Express How I Feel About THEM ...
These Leaders And Their So-Called Friends ... ?!?

Virgelements' Do NOT Defend ...
Their Arrogance And DECADENCE ... !!!!

They Stand AGAINST Societal Trends ...
And Problems Bred From IGNORANCE ... !!!!!!

They Are My Heart And YES My Soul ... !!!
And YES DEFINE ... How Big Virge Rolls ....
With Pad And Pen And Rhyme That FLOWS ...

And As I Said ...

Show Eloquence ... Intelligence ...
And Also Show ... Good Common Sense ... !!!

The Rhymes I Find Inside My Head ...
Which Is Why They're Called ...

.... " Virgelements' " ....
Virgelements I hear you ask ? Well, here are a few explained
Listen Here :

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