Outpost

I think when I have reached the fabled end of this unbearable beginning
and all my many wounds and scars dissolve
into the blessed crucible of night,
I will if choice is given me forgo a resurrection of the body
for assumption or deserved descent
or any sale of this alleged soul

May the doe-eyed Huris (hidden pearls) not disturb the sweetness of my rest,
nor the clamor of the sexless seraphim
send tin hosannahs to rattle through my dreams.
And keep me, please, from the glare of a hilltop Sodium City,
from all the meccas, temple mounts and churches
in whose names the fervent spill their blood.

No Eden can shelter child of man, nor any love anneal his written Fall
so on my belly let me sleep as I have crawled
in the failing light and unforgiving dust.

Let the rushing wind that swells and soughs across these bony plains
coax my every weary molecule apart
and in the empty darkling night let me be free…
and lay me ‘neath the holy prairie grass
and let grass become of me

Copyright 2009, Thomas J Burbach

much peace

Forms

No wispy strands of cirrus,
or mountain ships of cumulus piled
on a blue, sweltering sea.
Just slate grey skyscape from horizon to horizon,
and wind shaking the jumbled communities
of mismatched sedge and biblical thorns.

Copyright 2009, Thomas J Burbach

much peace

upon departure

Today is heavy upon my shoulders;
it began in disarray, before first light,
struggling back into my defenses from
the supposed sanctuary of your bed

So hard to leave you; almost your warmth had reached me:
In bits and pieces I was comforted until
a chill edge crept into your talk,
within me met an answering cold
and, of a sudden,
we are miles apart in your little
bed

Two penitents at opposite ends of the cathedral,
too proud to kneel in servitude to the one
cause worth serving; and so we lie, stiff-necked
and quite separate, and moving in separate directions:
you to your clandestine loves (a heat I may not touch),
and I to ponder, hands shackled behind my head,
why my own heart is so cold

_______________________

So I am brought unto the morning:
the sun drags behind him a formless morass
of clouds, slow as a funeral procession:
and I a faceless mourner, lacking
the wits to grieve.

Copyright, 2001 Thomas J Burbach

much peace

Untitled

Fragility:
A thinning of skin in the cold light
and Caution:
The keen edges of leaves and
the quiet, lethal blades of barely grass

Intent:
The dark burgeoning river strains
against its banks and bed
and Malcontent:
Simple sots who dreamed the mouth
and once believed it pure

Intuition:
Every shit-filled canal and little creek
knows something of the open sea
and Revolution:
The storm claims corpses to spite the levy
and drums and howls that war is yet alive

(Thomas J Burbach Copyright 2009)

much peace