"transactions" poems
The crown of my unrighteousness pierced Thy skull,
And drops of blood flowed into the veins of Thy brain,
Quite often I please the ruler of the flesh,
But all my ways ripped the heart of the Redeemer.
Thou wert stripped when I am shrouded with iniquities,
Thou wert spit when I choose the fleshly acts,
Thou wert scorned for my fruitless words,
My sins of pleasure nailed Thy palms on the Cross.
Intermittently I let the spirit of evil into my soul,
And how often Thou wert lashed by filthy transactions,
Thou wert kicked with the filth of my boot,
With my heart of pride Thou wert slapped.
Thou hast created me and all within;
Yet Thy Love for Thine made the Way with Thy humility.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...
Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...
Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.
My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!
Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!
Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!
Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, *** orchid, mrburdu
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
Debits on the left credits on the right
balancing such wastefull transactions
debits on the left credits on the right
hating myself for youthful actions
debits on the left credits on the right
Who told you about job satisfaction?
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Torrential rain forms an interference pattern deep within the puddles of the soul, whilst vegetation gains sustenance. Electricity may be a force to be reckoned with because it is a commodity which has monetary significance. Multicultural delicacies are a work of art in La Cucina Toscana, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge your internal drives.
We truly are a deep river which is never the same when it is stepped into more than once. But we can balance it all out, because relativism tells us that there are no rules. How absolutely ineffective is such a position. I am amazed. Just think about how we determine the consistency of seemingly genuine interpersonal transactions. If you want to find healing, then we must look to the howling winds of Siberia, where solitary journeys are sealed with a definite song of permission.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
Where does this zero go?
when is it o.k to say yes or no?
my transactions arent lining up
and my expenses have run amuck
and i think my buisness has gone to ****
i think that i am out of luck
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
The sound of drizzle on the rooftops brings back memories.
Memories of the years
that leave a few tears
beneath your eyes.
Sometimes it is astonishing
when you realize
how quickly time flies.
It takes you on a roller coaster ride
over the sharp edges of life.
Along the way you experience precious moments
that make you appreciate life.
Some moments of laughter,
some moments of tears and
some spent in melancholic thoughts.
These moments often transform into memories.
Memories of the times you spent,
the faces you saw
and the battles you fought.
When you hear the sound of raindrops
drizzling on the rooftop.
Sometimes it brings back memories.
Memories of those years
that often leave a few tears behind.
After all, what are we without these memories?
Mere mortals made of space dust and mundane miseries.
We go through life, dealing with both loss and gain.
All those transactions can't be repeated,
but the memories will always remain.
So rain, fall harder tonight
and bring back those memories.
Memories of the moments
that provide us an escape
from a life of mundane miseries.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 10:51 AM UTC
This cold night, prompts us
to creep closer to each other,
warm ember glow of far away galaxies
pierce through the laden darkness effortlessly
find way to be near us, wink happily.
Love keeps our expectant bodies warm
light years stand sentinel to our transactions.
What a strange contradiction, is this!
but realization dawns in a moment that
it's the cosmic truth, absolute:
an open secret of life,
we straddle both, now and timelessness!
Eternity is in our genes, just the same
that glows in stars, millions of light years away,
we are clothed in transience, at this moment.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
War zone in my brain,
Nothins really the same,
Exepct my heart that’s same,
But my brains not the same,
Sufferin depresseion that I cannot tame,
Losing my mind it feels like everyday,
Drowing in thoughts and my hate,
Gonna have to break the gate ,
The gate of gratification and grace ,
Leave my devil to the grave,
But my devils immortal hes lurkin,
Every corner every crack ready to break out,
Sick of bein called a disappointment and a clown,
Bout to rain havic on this little fuckin town,
But calmdown and open ur 3rd eye and face the light,
But the lights is mine,
But im not mine,
Im my devils,
Forced to do his transactions and his deals,
But its hard to open grace when ur a disgrace,
A outcast from myself and life,
Used to be a angel but now im fallin from grace,
Fallin from grace from this race of pain and change,
Hasn’t been the same since 6th grade,
Alawys bullied pushed and pulled,
But there so much u can pull a anchor by a rope,
Before the rope breaks and the anchor stops,
Like that anchor and my gratification stopped,
And lost my grace,
Open ur 3rd eye and face the light,
But the lights is mine,
But im not mine,
I will never escape this race of anxiety and change…
May 24, 2021
May 24, 2021 at 11:51 AM UTC
I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..
See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.
Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.
In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.
Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Fame and fortune
Wall Street in wealthy being the name
Mansions, clothes and vacation hot spots
Living large and remaining at the top
Life was sweet and filled with promise
Stocks were up 100 percent
Financial Advisors keep careful analysis in where investments go
The accountants keep track of the business transactions flow
It’s where all investments went
But continuing living the life seemingly like Heaven sent
But something went terribly wrong
The Rich man’s health made a negative turn
The investments were seeing anymore earn
The Financial advisor began to steal
This thieve was for real
Suddenly stocks stumbled on down
From riches to rags heading for devastation bound
The Rich man was shocked and couldn’t make a sound
All he could was cry
He no longer wanted to continue to try
Efforts no longer existed
The Rich man was down to being a poor man
Trapped in an uncertain caravan
A Rich man being in a poor man’s sleuth
But what was the former Rich man supposed to do?
Keep living but having a purpose and a vision to pursue.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
Every single day is partitioned fairly, I'd think
amongst us denizens of this uncertain universe,
that makes no loss ever in its unceasing transactions,
as every end is a new begining and also the reverse.
I wonder again on the complex algorithm at play
and demands upon each moment to accomplish it!
With a laugh I just let go the thread of that *****
thought on processors and servors for a humanguous
operation needed for that to go on for ever and aye!
What nonsense! the human logic is hugely flawed
Cosmos has better manuels of operation never
needed to be written down, just like the affairs of heart
of men and woemen that jostle in this planet ,driven
by urges prompted by mind, body and if you'd believe
without any qualms,the spirit, but I wouldn't insist.
Dusk was falling, and I sat smugly on the sugary sands
of the bikiny beach, with a vengence on my face
(but not with the bitterness of one, just now short changed)
And with an adamence to get my fair share of that day's
catch, plucked fruits, harvest,hunted gold or whatever!
I didn't want anyone notice as my exchange was
happening in in silence, on cycles higher without any means
tangible, of communication of any meterial sort.
Then there was a on sand behind me, I felt warmth,
the dog was snuggling closer and closer to me to comfort!
Her liquid eyes said, all that I wanted to hear
She was my solace for the day's battle wound, I reckoned
exuding warmth, she drained my pain like the bad blood
darkly stuck,let out through the cut I just had survived.....
Night was long and the moon anointed us with her balm
on the sand bed a man and a stray dog slept unstirred.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
Transactions have redundant residuals
The remnants of commerce and trade
In pockets the small dust of currency
The left over cash of price paid
The clinking froth of things purchased
The metal remains of exchange
the leavings of costs and desire
the chinking bulk of loose change
It fits in you grasp like genitals
Warm, round with a vague sense of sin
What used to be golden and silver
Is now mainly nickel and tin
We are tired of the weight in our pockets
We are shamed by the drag of its need
For if it should fall from our fingers
We forsake our grace for our greed
For there is something quite reassuring
When you empty your pockets at night
You glimpse a glance of old memories
The sixpence of childhood’s delight
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
A weeping willow near the window,
twins by an arrangement,
none planned
shared now by humans and nature,
evokes associations of many dimensions.
The window broods
over the transactions
across its bars
and when closed
through transparent glass.
The window invites the vista
of willow inside,
it's thankful,
without the window,
willow knows, it has no parallel life,
inside the house of dancing light,
it's human complexities
love and strife, whispers and shouts.
All this go in to the window's account.
At the dead center of night's eerie stillness
the willow wistfully turns
its attention towards the window closed,
with curtains drawn,
no footsteps, whispers
or shouts that terrifies
as happened many times before.
Silence, molten silence
nothing else.But why does the willow
still senses an animal presence?
Suddenly a meaninglessness,
grips the willow near the window;
it yearns to be away from the humans.
Near the open window
a pale lean woman is seen in panic,
a mean looking man frantically tries to kiss her,
the willow howls in pain,
the wind says hush, hush,
willow weeps without tears.
In another night lit by a pale moon,
a jealous lover looks out of the window
for his lady love,
he thinks hiding behind the bushes;
he doesn't know the truth.
With a shudder the willow finds
her corpse below it,
crumpled like a soiled night dress.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
A cactus he loved, all he saw was beauty in her,
the fascinating patterns,were engagingly intriguing,
she sought his thorns, to naturally reciprocate,
to love him, the way she always had known that art.
Never could she find, even one, however she tried,
thorns weren't his attraction, was she disappointed?
she had to learn love transactions, eliminating thorns,
then, everything in place had fallen one by one.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts, objects of stone like me very own heart,
objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
as I was in thought, now lost,
my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.
Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.
When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.
©DWE112013
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
cajun family
personalities
dealing with
alchemical transmutation
transactions
changing of values
history for money..
wildly popular show..
biting humor wraps
sly bidding and exchange
greed rises and falls..
initial bid and response
a scaling gap
startled unbelief..
increments then decide
decisions' sharp edge
money or heritage..
convenience argues
bad choices faced
painful needs are voiced
a values paradox..
microcosm of life now...?
snapshots of our mirror...?
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
I need to write a slam
what about
about people
about places
about money
about faces
I am a human being
not to be judged about my creativity
judged on my productivity
Not an object
I will not be contained by letters on a page
A page written by people who don’t know me
Claim they can show me
a picture is worth a thousand words
they say
Then what is a face worth
Starting at birth
we trap ourselves
limit ourselves to these words crammed together
letters
these small portrayals
to who I am
I stare
stare in a mirror
reflection getting clearer
clarification getting nearer
you’re pretty they say
then they turn around and you hear
‘she’s already classified’
classified as average
nothing special
You’re telling me
I am pretty
I am witty
A 5 letter portrayal
of a person
will not define me
will not make me
show me
who I am
I am not an object
not to be used as a pawn in the
circus we’ve happened to be spawned
into
The way i see it
there are few
few people to realized I am not contained by a page
nor a word
And I will stand up and be heard
I stand to say
Someday
fairness will come my way
When you will not be able to
confine a person in one word
nor a hundred
Someday you will ask yourself
Will I be okay
You will be okay at somethings
great at other things
But you will be outstanding at everything
Stop limiting yourself to a definition
only in words
define your self in actions
pick yourself apart in fractions
Change your life in transactions
and stop worrying about what your new definition is
I hear small voices begging to be defined
Tell me I’m pretty they say
pretty what
Pretty desperate
Pretty pathetic
Pretty separate
separate from those who choose to be content
being undefined
becoming redefined
staying behind
Hiding our plastered on definitions
Plastered to these facades
That become flawed
splitting apart at the seams
limiting your dreams
but brief descriptions
plated to our foreheads
So Pretty
Really Witty
What a Pity
Pity it is to let others define you
Your own self becoming blurred
These small molds called words
Taking you and forming you
into a conveyor belt barbie
The same as her
no different than she
But I will be me
I will be heard
I Will Never Be Defined
By Just Words
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
The spider, in many hues rules.
But I never could understand
The complete operational rules.
Still I have
Unflinching faith,like no other
On the spider, that it knows
The rules of transactions inside out.
I am in the web of a clan of
Spiders, day in and day out.
I just lie supine in comfort
And let my song bird fly high
In the sky blue oblivion
Of my mind, listening to
The singing of the bard of
The absolute, transcending limits.
I am more and more lured
in to his cave where light is present
By its physical absence.More and more
An innerbeing after substence
In the company of this siver luminous.
She comes alive, fire risen from smoke,
Her red hot eyes capture my truth quick!
The spider sitting on top of me
And working on me with
Her oceanic mind that seethes
Agile vaginal muscles, I picture
Is still reading "Every Women"1
From memory; I just feel it
as each of the steps to the
thousand petelled lotus is
left behind one by one.
My silver spider
who flies with me from
the conjoined base of
"Mooladhara"2 at the ****
If she is the fire, I am the sky.
Hear the silver bell she rings,
In mind's eye I see how her
Silver strips gleam, wet with sweat.
As we step out to the garden path
The green spiders of thick foliages
Waved at us.Golden spider of the sky
Hanging low beamed at us.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 3:57 AM UTC
My mother always said:
“Date someone who loves you more than you love him. That way, he will never leave you”
As if, being alone was worse off than being stuck ******* a man I feel nothing for.
As if, I was expected to trade my happiness for stability.
As if, my love was not strong enough on its own.
As if, my worth was something that could only be measured out in transactions—
in dozens of roses
—I hate roses.
But he who loves me more
believes that I am perfect
so its okay
because perfect girls love perfect things like roses
…which are red.
and passion is red, and **** is red
so he measures out his love for me in vases and bouquets of roses
…which are red
and violets are blue,
but so are bruised egos
and mine is too damaged to tell him
that I can’t love him like Im supposed to.
because my mother always warned me not to.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
An international wire transfer was made last Monday.
2,000 dollars were sent to China from America.
I expected the money would arrive in China in 2 days.
Like, how it takes 2 days for my yearly 35,000-dollar tuition
To be sent from China to America.
I continued my week as usual.
I went to Aldi, a German company,
To get some groceries.
It was fast and cheap with good-quality products.
I went to Walmart, an American company,
To get more groceries.
I waited in line for 30 minuets.
It was slow and cheap with known-brand products.
That international wire transfer made last Monday,
Still wasn’t received on next Monday.
It went through an intermediate American bank,
Because my bank itself doesn’t do international transactions.
My money is still on its way to China from America.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
I do not judge you,
for who you are,
or what you do,
for I am not the judge nor the jury,
I am merely the executioner.
Whom everyone knows holds a bit of fury,
although as I look upon your face,
and see the facade melting off it,
your guilt shows your disgrace,
and as my heart judges your actions,
and my soul decides upon your fate,
it is my mind that must do the transactions,
and executing isn't its best trait.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
An irrational animal gets high
From the ravenous pump of its own tongue,
Nursing wounds of a disease untreated.
His fat meat skulks through marbled corridors
Around eyes that assign value to worth,
Fixated on transactions to be paid.
The ring and flash of victory courses
Through his silken veins and opens his mouth
To swallow the pride of the defeated
Reflection in a puddle of his own
Drool, clinging shakily from toothless dogs,
Addicted to the peak and crash of trade.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Crawls out of tree trimming truck
Open windows, vacancy
Passer by calls out, “Home, Sweet Home”
Smile replies “Good morning projects”
Stretch, yawn, alive another day
Stacks in hand, bravado declares
“Hey, it just takes twenty to roll.”
Cars roll up, dealing time
“Mother **** get off my line”
If his head wasn’t cracked like a fish on a hook
He could have made serious book
Screens left in car pockets, empty balloons on asphalt
**** this player’s playin’
Strawberries crawl out of woodwork
Rocks off for rocks transactions—no cash pay
Maybe this one will let you stay
Yo Becky, how are your kids?
**** ups from the past recite their script,
“You going to cop?”
Sprung like a Safeway chicken
You know the drill, just walk it off
Strung out with eyes afire
Well acquainted with your veins
Taking care to bleach needles
What about bloodied syringes, *** brains?
Got in trouble with your boys again
This time there’s no runnin’ anywhere
Pulled you off the top of the fence
Almost left your finger up there
Took a ride in an ambulance
Was it fun?
Your little sister and I flew
Picked you up from County UCLA Harbor
She cried the second she saw you
Don’t know if you even saw her
Since your eye was out of socket
Went up north to heal but started to deal
Big sister’s growing skunk
Little brother’s in Chino with Ming Tai
Big brother’s on America’s Most Wanted
Is this typical projects funk?
Brothers, sisters, homeboys, sensei all had voices
You had talent, promise but made other choices
Maybe now, brother, you can rest in peace
Here lies Shawn
All his heroes were dealers
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC