Amputation

Now all of that gouging business
Makes more sense
Now the limb hacking legs off
Of the Sham and Pretence

Now the iconoclasm bears more weight
Now the Cleaving the meat off
Between trust and hate
Is something I can appreciate
Now I see my actual state

When the ship is struggling you unload cargo
Better to survive with a lightened load,
But when the boat is going down, you have to go,
Abandon Ship, Geronimo,

I am lost and without hope
I am dead in the water now
The gangrene has taken hold
This Limb shall no longer slow me down,

It's got to go
It's got to go
It's got to go

It's better to live without
And live
than die
And to die with

I choose without
Because I want to live

More About The Sore

Your remedy contained,
The diagnosis when,
You uttered the words,
You must be born again,

Like the need for a lung transplant,
Tells you a lot about that cough,
Like when the sore on the ankle
Means the leg must come off,

The old me is dead and dying,
It's terminal without remedy,
Riddled with sin and selfishness,
Condemned eternally,

I need a new me,
Now at last I'm sure,
The amputation you prescribed,
Tells me more about the sore,

More than moral philosophy,
More than Political Policy,
More than words of psychology,
More than observed Religiosity,

You must be born again,
The life and death sentence ,
A call to faith and love and life,
To the woken, a call to repentance






If you have a sore on your ankle and after the doctor does his test, he comes in and says "I have some hard news: We have to take your leg off just below the knee," then that remedy tells you more about the sore than many erudite medical words.
So it is with the remedy "You must be born again."~ John Piper (Finally Alive)

What Is Conceived

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

 

 

It lies

Not dormant

Not sleeping

But waiting

Tucked away

Within the folds of her

Growing exponentially

Cells dividing,

Mass expanding

The latent energy

no longer lazing

released and fizzing

reaching, racing

First it will fill her

And for an encore,

It will fill her life

He that filled all

Is undetectable

Invisible

Imperceptible

It is the end inevitable

And it is the beginning

And it is here

And yet it is not yet

A new thing

A no-can-do thing

Done and doing

Without your knowing

 

 

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

This thing should not fill you with fear

You should not fear to feel failure

Nor decline to draw near

Though it is unsettling in the extreme

Though it does not fit in with your schemes

Though it upsets your tray of fresh tarts

Though you had no half baked plans for a fresh start

 

Though you are tempted to recoil in reticence

 

You may, in your dismay, miss the magnificence

 

 

The gold in the gutter

 

The baby in the manger

 

The eye of the angel,

 

In the face of the stranger

 

The doorway in the darkness

 

That opens your world

 

The portal to paradise

 

As true life is unfurled

 

 

There's something happening here

 

 

But

 

All of this

 

You could simply miss

 

If you write it off the list

 

If you just dismiss

 

 

And Joseph, on the night the angel came,

 

Went to bed, In a world of pain,

 

He pulled over the covers,

 

And closed off the world

 

Of unwed teenage Mothers

 

And imaginations of her 'other lovers'

 

The life he'd longed for; up in smoke

 

The taste of hope that had made him choke

 

And tried to shut out those bitter, painful themes

 

By burying his head in sleep and dreams

 

 

 

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

 

 

And in dream's depths amidst these things he feared

 

An Angel of the Lord appeared

 

Joseph, Joseph, David's son

 

Do not be afraid of what God's begun,

 

Yes this thing is not from you,

 

But what she tells you is still true

 

Joseph I know you will struggle to hear it

 

But what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit

 

The son she bears, will bear the Name

 

Jesus, the one who came

 

To save his people from their sins

 

So don't be scared to take them in

 

 

There's something happening here

And what it is becoming clear

 

 

 

And you, you may not perceive what is going on,

 

But it could be something God's begun,

This thing should not fill you with fear

You should not fear to feel failure

Nor decline to draw near

Though it is unsettling in the extreme

Though it does not fit in with your schemes

Though it upsets your tray of fresh tarts

Though you had no half baked plans for a fresh start

 

Though you are tempted to recoil in reticence

 

You may, in your dismay, miss the magnificence

 

Who too lay in a cradle once,

 

Jesus, come to reclaim our innocence,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins.~ Matt 1:20-21

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trouble With Trouble

The trouble with trouble
Is that it can be very troubling
If you worry about your worries
They often end up doubling

Simmering, boiling, spilling out
Spitting, hissing, bubbling
Now they're spreading everywhere,
You struggle to keep struggling,

The trouble with trouble
Is that you cant help but let it trouble you,
Don't pronounce it with an R,
Try instead to say it with a double U

The trouble with Twubble
Is it's hard to let it twubble you
If you can laugh at all your worries
They're halfway turned to rubble too,

And for the other half turn to prayer
Throw God all the balls you're juggling
They wont trouble him like they trouble you
He'll give you peace instead of struggling

Be of good cheer, cheer up, although,
"In this world you will have trouble"
I have overcome the world,
And burst it's little bubble,

Take my yoke upon you,
Don't be overwhelmed by sight,
Because my yoke is easy,
And my 'burden' is rather light,

To deal with life without the worry
Will half the load you were doubling,
And half again, my friend,
Your trouble's not so troubling,

Oh Come On All Ye Faithful

Why so despondent, down cast and downhearted?
O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem,
Come and behold him,
Born the King of Angels,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

God of God, However dark the night,
Look he's not too proud for the virgins womb,
Very God, even in dark places,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

Sing choirs of wasters, Sing in degradation,
Sing all forgotten ones despised and unloved
Glory to God, in the High street,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

Northern Accents

My childhood best friend's family were from Devon,
And my Father's from the North East,
Berwick, and Durham and Newcastle,
And I want to say Whitley Bay,

At Junior School,
My friend and I used to stage mock arguments
About our identities,
Founded in the extremities of the compass,
In which we took imaginary offense at,
And traded in,
Regional based stereo-types and slurs and boasts,

My best boast was that my Northern blood
Enabled me to cope better in the cold,

We were both white middle class kids from Oxfordshire,
And at this point I had never even visited,
The places I alluded to as my ancestral heartland,

But my Dad was from the Northern most town in England,
Where he learnt to swim,
In north sea rock pools, once the tide had been in,
So far north it had a football team in the Scottish league,
It became a point of pride,
With a Dad from Berwick on Tweed,

Although I was only half Northern,
That half was of a superior quality,

My dad would sleep half naked, sheets thrown back,
With the window open,
In December,

Yes,
My half
Was twice as potent
As some people's whole.

I was at least as Northern,
As someone from somewhere like Manchester
Which was basically the Midlands
To someone like My Dad,
Or 'Me Da'
As I started to attempt to call him,

I also adopted the use of the word 'Champion',
Because my Granda' used it.
Because I wanted to be someone,

Anyone,
Who was from somewhere,
Somewhere else,
Anywhere
Other than here,

Because, I suppose
I suspected,
There was nothing special,
About here,
Or me,

So I stole my voice,
I used a borrowed Identity,
I could never hear my Fathers accent,
He was audibly invisible to me,

He had assimilated ,
Capitulated,
Blended,
Osmosis,
Not pretended,

It was not until many years later that I had learnt,
That he himself was being served,
By selective Identity,
He grew up In Newcastle,
Only moving to Berwick
At the Age of 13,
He was gone by 19,

But he never even mentioned Newcastle,
Only Berwick,

And so I settled,
as My Father did,
In my overlooked Mothers lands
Leaving and returning,
And embracing my southern twang,
Apparently there is a trace of farmer,
But I cannot hear it,
It is as invisible to me,
As my Da's Northern accent,

Satan Keeps Score

 

He keeps me looking at myself,
That's one to the devil,
And none to me,

He keeps my resentments on his shelf,
That's two to the devil,
It'll soon be three,...

He presents them to me with an air of stealth,
That's three to the devil,
And none to me,

He keeps note of my sins,
Of which there is a wealth,
That's four to the devil,
And none for me,

He poisons my mind and invades my health,
That's five to the devil,
And none to me,

He tells me I'm worthless,
Not good enough,
That's six for the devil,
now its getting tough,

He tempts me with pride and sexual stuff,
That's seven for satan,
And none for us,

He knows the scriptures,
Quotes it off the cuff,
That's eight for the devil,
And none for me,

He lies about everything,
And inspires lust,
Now that's nine for the devil,
And none for me,

But I trust in the Son of Gods blood,
So,
That's none for Satan,
And its Ten for me,

I'll sing it through the ages,
In eternity,
Its none for the devil,
And Ten to me,
Ten to me,
Praise God,
Its Zero for the devil,
And its Ten to me



M Joseph Burt 10-08-06

Christ On The Village Green

 

On the green,
He clearly has been portrayed,
Crucified,
A Jewish Messiah,
On a Roman cross,
In an English village,
2000 years later,
Whilst the tractors,...
And commuters,
And delivery vans,
Glide by,

His stone eyes,
Are fixed,
Not on the glory that is set before him,
But on,
A silver GT Golf,

A pigeon sits stupidly,
On his crown of granite thorns,
And blinks at the saviour,

An octogenarian wheels by,
Her tartan shopping trolley,
And, once the squeaky wheels,
Have passed from stony ivy'd ears,
He is left alone again,
'Till the VW is moved,

Out of place,
Out of our minds,
Life goes on about,
And without you,

How can you be the background?
What goes around,
Comes back round,
And I have noticed you,

Reach out,
Your stone hand,
Come down from that cross,
Come down,
And talk with us,

Oh preacher of Palestine,
Be mine,

In Islip,
I slip

 

 

 

 

M Joseph Burt

29.06.06 (written in Islip, Oxford, On the village green)

Isaac and Jacob (For My Mother)

 

"The last time I saw you,
You looked so much older",
I said that I loved you,
I wish I'd been bolder,
I gave you a weak smile,
You held my hand,
I felt like Jacob,
Bowed down in the sand, ...

Your hand was like Isaacs,
On top of my my head,
I stole the blessing,
At the foot of your bed,
I was the lucky one,
I caught your eye,
I said fairwell,
Without watching you die,

And you prayed for me,
And blessed my life,
And the desert is bleaker still,
Without his wife,

The last time I saw you,
Your eyes not yet faded,
Through jordans waters,
You had not yet waded,
Your silence oppressive,
Like a storm not yet broken,
But you held my hand and,
I'd barely spoken,

As Jacob I listened,
With undeserved merrit,
To Isaac my mother,
From whom I'd inherrit,

A penchant for sorrow,
And distance and art,
And the blackest of humor,
And a place I can start,

To piece together,
Just who I am,
Out of where I've come from,
And the frailty of man,

Oh Isaac my mother,
Its your Jacob here,
You shouldn't have blessed me,
That much is clear,

The blessing was the beginning,
Of the ending of living,
The grave unyeilding,
The sky unforgiving,

And I wasn't ready,
To inherrit your soul,
Knelt here in the sand,
A small part of the whole,

Take back your words,
Leave them unsaid
I'll gladly return,
To the foot of the bed,

And gaze on you breathing,
And take back the meal,
That I used for decieving,
That I used to conceal,

But now you're gone,
There's no room in the sky,
Agrophobic, the sand dunes,
Where I stand and cry,

All of us sand grains,
All of your children,
All of the sad stars,
All of us pilgrims,

We stand together,
And mourn your passing flight,
Untill Hades,
Or the kingdom of light,
Amen


M Joseph Burt (Somewhere between July 2005 and April 2010)

Fallen States

 

Sweet England,
Faded Beauty,
The prom queen,
Full of punch,
On her back,
In the car park,
Legs apart,
Some wryly amused onlookers gather,...
Chatter,
Feign disintrest,
With just a touch of envy,

Sweet England,
You showed such promise,
And now your roads,
Are track marks on your arm,
Collapsed veign,
Gaunt features,
Opiate eyes,
Dazed,
Our ex-heroine,
Staggers out into the motorway traffic,

Sweet England,
Mascara runs,
You sit amidst the srtreamers,
Of last nights party,
Bottles about you,
Your dress is torn and soiled,
Lost on gin,
Alone now,
As in reality you have always been,
And cry yourself to sleep,

Sweet England,
What have you done to yourself,
You let it go,
Stopped caring,
Chased a pretty rich boy,
Who used you,
Dumped you,
And will call again,
The next time he's at a loose end,
For a shag,
And desperate for old glory,

You'll comply and go along,
For the joyless joyride,
A murderers accomplice,
A whore for the bidder,
Complicit in your silence,
Unwilling to make a change,
You'll die alone,
Sleeping pills next to the phone,
But he wont come,
"Just a pathetic cry for help"

 

M Joseph Burt 03-07-06

The Mundanity of Glory

 

There is glory in every step I take,
There's glory in the words I make,
There's glory in each strand of hair,
There's glory in expelling air,
there's a glory in just standing there,
For heavens sake,
There's a glory,...

There's glory in each fleck of spittle,
In the sting gained from the nettle,
There's glory in an empty kettle,
There's a glory in untested metal,
For Christs sake,
There's a glory,

There's glory in my sucsess,
There's glory in a gory mess,
There's glory when I fail the test,
There's a glory from soiled sunday best,
There's glory when I take my rest,
There is a glory in pants and vest,
for gods sake there's a glory,

There's a glory in a speck of dust,
Sitting there because it must,
In obscure places, barely, just,
Of no significance to us,
But,
It bears the creators glory,
for gods sake,
There's a glory,

The company of heaven sing,
Of the wonders of this thing,
This small speck shall his praises sing,
And to his feet its tribute bring,
This humble feeble offering,
And stars and moon thier rendering,
Of glory, glory to our king,

In a speck of dust,
there is a glory,
A creators glory,
it belongs within his story,
That all his works shall praise him now,
And at last,
All shall bow,
And as one man say,
There is glory


M Joseph Burt 07-11-09

You Walk Away

In my sad musical pondering,
I see you walk away,
I see your figure disappear,

I am transported from this dingy, musty flat,
Behind the butchers.

What a metaphor,
We spent our last year,
Watching carcasses passing our window,
And being awoken to,
The hammering of flesh,

And the only tenderising taking place,
In our cold rooms,
Were the tenderisings of resolve.

I am transported instead,
To a country lane,
There are no cars,
To all intents and pictoral purposes,
 We could be in a novel by Austen,
Or maybe Hardy,

There are boughs of cherry blossom,
Framing your frame,
As you walk away,
It is spring,
And soon your birthday,
You are 29 forever,

The sunlight comes dappled through,
The blossom and the branches,
As you walk away,
Towards the light,
At the end of the floral canopy.

I take you out of these clothes,
I burn every trace,
Of urban wear (you will later adopt),
That's it,
That's better,

I put you in that long dress,
With sun and moon print that you wore in our early days,
A private poem for us,
Day and night,
Wrong and right,
Black and white,

It is deep sea greens,
And blues like your eyes,
Strong like your thighs,
Heavy like my sighs,

Your dark, warm, rich brown hair,
Cascades freely over your shoulders,
(You deserve that much),
That kink I always loved,
(And you always hated),
Is there (or not),
Picture it as you see fit,

And your motion flows, slows,
Your locks bounce to one side,
And your slender shapely neck,
Is revealed one last time,
The tiny blond hairs,
Catch the light like I never could,
I catch a breath,

With dandelion eyes,
You turn and smile,
Its a sad smile,
A giving smile,

It says;
"I'm sorry,
This could not be"
And,
"I love you more than you can know,
And in a way,
I love you and respect you,
Too much to stay,
You walk away.

This is now how you left me,
Not in a cold damp room,
Behind the butchers,
On my birthday.



M Joseph Burt
(06.03.2012)

All Of My Life

All of my life I've been looking for something

Something, somewhere, some place, someone

Something to cling to, somewhere to run to

Some one to love me/live for, some place where I belong

In all of the places, and people I've looked to,

There was something lacking, something wrong

As good or bad as they may have been

They're not the thing longed for, for so long

In the bottom of the bottle, or at the top of the mountain,

Whether I tasted ashes or I tasted air

I listened to voices, in the noise and the stillness

I scoured horizons but it wasn't there,

Down in the valleys I ran with the rivers

I followed the flow of any given stream

I climbed to the source and I swam to the ocean

But it wasn't in any of them, the elusive theme

The theme weaving through each subtle story,

The nuance to the waking dream

The truth behind the myth of satisfaction

The rock of the reality that lies beneath what seems

It's like I've been looking, all my life, for clues,

Behind polite lies and platitudes

The longitude and latitudes, the location of longing

Lay all along to lead to you,

And I'm here in this desert, this deserted wasteland

And I'm so thirsty and I'm still thirsting for more of you

Nothing can quench, No one can extinguish,

Nothing but you Lord, Nothing else will do

I've drank from the wells of the loves of others

Like draughts and gulps of sand they left me dry,

Dying, deserted and gasping for water

I've come Lord to acknowledge, Only you can satisfy

O God, I say, you are my God;

I'm earnestly, fervently searching and looking for you.

My soul thirsts for you; in a parched place with no water

my whole being aches and longs for you too

More than the deer pants for streams of water

So God, for you my weary soul yearns and pants, it's true

Even beneath my consciousness, in the mess and mayhem,

It asks when, oh God, can I meet with you?

When can I meet with you Lord,

When can I go, when can I slip away?

But come away with me my love,

Come away, come away, come away is what I hear you say,

When can I meet with you Lord,

When can I go, when can I slip away?

But come away with me my love,

Come away, come away, come away, I hear you say,

Yes God, I say, you are my God;

I'm earnestly, fervently searching and looking for you.

My soul thirsts for you; in a parched place with no water

My whole being aches and longs for you too

And you alone and only you,

Only you, My God will do

So lets forsake the fractured, cracked and broken cisterns

The ones we dug that cannot hold

And return to the ancient, source of living water

Unblock and dig again the wells of old,

In that day we will say “So here I am in the place of worship

Drinking in your strength and glory,

Your eternal love is better than finite life itself

And your endless mercy stretches out before me,

Oh God you are my God

Earnestly I seek you

(Inspired by Psalm 63, Psalm 42, Jeremiah 2)

An Equal and Opposite Reaction

In the stillness
He moves

In the silence
He speaks

In the resting
He stirs something

In the fighting
He lays down

In the storm
He is still

In the troubles
He says little or nothing,

And in all the rest
Somehow
It works




M Joseph Burt  19.06.2006 (Revised 21/11/2019)

Painted Play

I want to paint not write
I want to convey darkness and light
Colour for the soul caught in night
Images not words/paint not write

I want to be Da Vinci not Lawrence or Keates
I want to be Angelo, not stare at my feet
I want to be Van Gough (with ears complete)
I want to stare at the sun, not hide under sheets

I want to be skilful, catch each detail
Or convey an essence like a scream or a wail
I want to create texture, like a visual brail
I want to be expressive, not an emotional snail

I don't want to be Byron or Dostoyevsky
I want to be a painter, No you cant object, see!




M Joseph Burt (18.06.2006)

The Cruelest Thing

You can survive
Endure
The abuse
Until I promise to stop.

You can live with the pain
In time count it mundane
Until I promise to stop.

You can take
The metaphorical punches
Write off my offensive defensives
Until I promise to stop.

But That is just too much
The dried grass
That broke
The dromedary's spine,

If you know what to expect
You can accommodate
My myriads of faults

But,
If I stop
Where are you?

And I know it is your demon ghost haunting you
With the bed-sheet of deferral
That makes your heart vomit

With hope

Comes possibility of disappointment
And that
Is too much
Worse than the abuse itself

Hope is the cruellest thing.




M Joseph Burt  (18.06.2006)

Echoes

I was there in the garden of Gethsamne
As he wrestled
While they slept
The evening chill, unnoticed
As the blood drop sweats

In essence I was born that night
Concieved as he conceded
The cup of suffering remains
Though the Son of God pleaded

And I was there when the angels came
And ministered to the lamb
And in a sense, I think I knew
Though I never knew the man

Its echoes they reach me still
Down through history
That I was there in essence
That this was done for me

I cannot read of Christ
Or how he hung upon the tree
Without the thought
That I was there
Or that you paid for me

As my sins were the nails
That clawed through flesh to wood
And held you there
Held you for bad and good

Held you there
Like a man hanging from a cliff
By a cotton thread
Oh

Any moment you could have come down
And blackened out the sun
And justly let your kingdom come
And have blown us all to Kingdom come

But that too is an echo
And I will be there
On the terrible day
On the great and terrible day




M Joseph Burt (14.06.2006)

If Hittler Had used A Cross

The offense of grace
If he had uttered
God forgive me
Before the bullet passed through
The troubled grey matter
That passed through a troubled world
Passing as his brain

Diminished responsibility
Would he
Like the thief
Be with Jesus this day
In paradise?

And could we, the faithful
Embrace a blood bought Fuhrer?
As the lion lies with the lambs
And do we really believe
That grace is that amazing?
That it doesn't diminish his justice?

And they still celebrate Buddha
Beneath a swastika
In Korea





M Joseph Burt (14/06/06)

Hold My Beer

Hold my beer, hold my beer,
Hold your cheer for another year,
I've got no beer, No booze; no fear,
There'll be no beer if you come round here

I feel fine, I feel fine,
I can live without the vine
I can have my wine at another time,
In the Kingdom I'll get wine that's mine

It's in the bin, It's in the bin
Its in the trash with the scotch and gin
This temples got another Spirit in
It's a Holy one that's got no sin,

It's the Holy Ghost, the Holy Ghost,
I'll raise my glass, make another toast
To compare the two, well he's got the most,
So I'll take joy in the Holy Ghost

I don't care, I don't care,
I don't care If he comes round here,
I've got no booze, no fear, no beer,
So I don't care if he comes round here,

Hold my beer, hold my beer,
I'm only stuck down here for a few more years,
I'm looking forward to the Heavenly cheers
So hold my beer for a few more years

The Dark Red Tree

Those trees
What are they?
I don't know
I just know that there is one in a churchyard back home,
That overlooks your grave,

Those trees will always make me think of you
And I know
that you loved them too
In the moonlight
They are astounding
Silver leafed
Aglow
Standing out in darkness

In daytime they are mournful
Mournful amongst the greens
Almost black
Almost extinguished
Absorbing most light

I delight

To remember you that way,
Often melancholy
Often gay
And I know you would be pleased I used
That word, that way.
Harkening to a better day
When innocence was protected
As well it could be in cultured thought

Oh God, you loved your art
And I treasure you
In a way no other will

Lie still
In the moonlight
My love

"I'll come to you by moonlight
Though hell should bar my way"





M Joseph Burt 02/02/06 (Revisions 14/11/19)

Trajectories

You have to watch those trajectories
Your heart is out by only a few degrees
But with time you'll find you're lost by galaxies
It's better now to get on your knees
And mind your hearts trajectories

Mums Lost Poem

Of all the things I wrote,
There was that poem Mum,
That poem of my last time with you,
You know, that poem, Mum,

Of all the things I had to go and lose,
It was that poem, Mum,
The one when I remembered how it felt,
Got it?
Yeah, that poem, Mum!

The one where I said that it was the worst day of my life,
You know, that poem, Mum,
But I'd give all I possess to relive it once,
Yeah, that poem, Mum,

With Springsteen and incontinence and hymns,
All hymns were read, not sung,
You know that poem, Mum?
'till I sing it with you in the kingdom,
Yeah Mum, that's the one,

Of all the poems to go and lose,
That was the special one,
Oh that poem , Mum,
Wouldn't mean shit to anyone else,
But now I have a new one, Mum,

A poem to remember a poem by,
A poem to remember my last few hours with you Mum,




M Joseph Burt 02/06/06

Something From Thomas Hardy

I want to be,
Something from Thomas Hardy,
Summer fling,
Flung maybe,
The setting,
Without the tragedy,


Wear a cheese cloth smock,
Sucking a straw of barley,
Pitching into the haycock,
A young peasant Kinski,
A Bathsheba-style beauty clocks,
me swigging cider, thirstily,
From rustic earthenware pots,

To see as he sees,
Nothing but pleasant agriculture,
And find it disturbingly progressive,
And long for better days gone by,

When all was wild,
Free of style,
Natures child,

And maybe if we are lucky,
My grandchildren will long for my times,
As a time when England was,
A green and pseudo-pleasant paradise,
Instead of a post-apocalyptic,
Nuclear wasted series of barren ex-industrial islands,

I wish I was at that sheep dip with thee,
Miss Everdene,
With all ever green,
Bur without the poverty,



M Joseph 02/06/06

The May Queen

Of all I have seen,
She holds the scene,
Sure and serene,
Still as a dragonfly,
Whose wings defy vision to hold her there,
The effortless grace of a swan,
Floating it seems,
Whose feet move swiftly below her, unseen,

The May queen,
Truth and desire,
Between spring and summer,
Ice and fire,
On the cusp yet determinedly placed,
She is the may queen,
She holds the tension,
Tenuous, tenacious, tentative,
She feeds spring into summer,
She slows springs departure,

And she may,
For it is she,

Is Doubt The Hill?

Is doubt the hill,
That faith must climb,
Is fear the reason?
Love; The rhyme?

Is hate the sea,
That love must swim?
(Accept the body,
Regard the limb),

Is lust the storm,
Purity endures?
Unscathed the soul,
Resists the lure)

Is pride the pill,
Humility must swallow?
(But still can show,
Its face tomorrow)

Is sin the war,
The soul survives?
(Scarred and bloodied,
Barely alive)

Is death the end,
We all must face?
(The finish line,
The completed race)

Is the son the one,
My darkness must meet?
(The hours power,
He will defeat)

What doesn't kill you,
Makes you stronger,
Just hold on,
A little longer,

When perseverance',
Work is done,
You'll be mature,
So 'go on my son!'

The Familiar Alien

We gawp in childlike wonder,
At the adults we've become,
Trying to rescue form the fire,
The memory that will tell us what we knew,
And rake from its ashes,
What remains and belongs to the now,

The bones we knew,
Submerged,
Beneath the flesh,
The bones we can now see have emerged,
From flesh that has now retracted,
The same but not the same,
The familiar alien,
The alien familiar,

I was thin then,
And you were not,
I am not now,
And you are more so,
Like we swapped torso,

Like I swapped friendship for curiosity,

And we recede once more from view
Like carp,
Into memory's murkier waters.




M Joseph Burt, 2006
(For Kim)

Ethan and Freedom

My son be free,
Little Beefy,
Be free and happy,
And hug as many trees,
As mummy can see,
And write it in a story,
And bring it home to me,

My son be free,
Little Ethy,
Don't eat your peas,
Don't forget to say please,
Do it with ease,
And run in the breeze,
While you munch on some cheese,
and write it in a story,
And read it to me,

My son be free,
Little binky,
Go travel the world,
Meet lots of girls,
Let them play with your curls,
Dance then, and twirl,
And write it down in a story,
And bring it home to me,

My son be free,
Little monkey,
Don't listen to me,
You are lovely, I'm just your Daddy,
And I want you to be,
Be happy,
But,
Write it in a story,
And read it to me,
Or don't,
No pressure,
I wont measure,
Just be free,
Be free,
Be free.



M Joseph Burt 09/04/2006

Noahs Ark

Though her hull is smitten,
Wave beaten, sea sodden,
Though her decks are windswept,
Rain pelted, well trodden,
Though her portals show cascades of judgement,
An oceanic turmoil,
A fearful dread sea,

All inside shall be,
Saved,

Though the ark herself takes the wrath of The lord,
Her Christ-like walls,
Take all he affords,

And though at times it seems,
She has sprung a leak,
And The boards on her deck and hull alike creak,
It is she who takes the pain and bears it on her prow,
And all inside are saved,

All inside are safe,
In their appointed place,
Little Noah,
And all the others,
While they are warm,
The Ark rides the storm,
And her pregnant hold gives birth on to dry land,
Two (or more) feet in the sand,
all inside shall be saved,

So send out your olive dove,
and watch the horizon my love,
For soon you will hear the flutter of white wings,
And hold the branch that it brings,
To the Ark,
And all inside who are saved.


Matthew J. Burt 24/01/06

This poem came as prophecy, (or rather this prophecy came as poetry) in relation to my then wife's pregnancy with our son who was to be called Noah. It was born from the words that came to me "All inside shall be saved". The prior pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage and she had had a lot of bleeding with our firstborn son too and it was happening again with Noah. It came as a word to me that Noah (we knew his name before he arrived) was safe in the Ark, as we are safe in Christ. I wrote it down in secret and showed her as testimony after his birth some 4 months later, but after this point my confidence wasn't shaken. I just knew he would be fine.

Get On Your Knees (And Fight Like A Man)

Q

Get on your knees and fight like a man,
Fall on your face or you'll fall where you stand,
To gain victory; surrender; hold up your hands,
Satan cant grasp humility, he wont understand,

He won't see it coming, he won't dodge the blow,
Because when you have nothing, when you're bowed low,
He's got nothing to take, he's got nothing to throw,
He's got no target to hit and nowhere to go,

When you're surrendered, and it's all in Gods hands,
He'll give you the ground, he'll give you the land,
Wherever you tread, the dry ground where you stand,
Becomes a place of pools, in place of the sand,

Why fight to hold on, when you let go to win?
Gather the soldiers, get rid of the sin,
Get rid of what hinders and the pride deep within,
Unsheathe your swords, It's time to press in,

You've taken my best years, You've assaulted my kin,
You've laid me lower than I've ever been,
You've stolen my hope, You've tainted everything,
A sword now for Gideon, a sword for my King,

Our weapons aren't carnal, we don't fight flesh and blood
Were pulling down strongholds through the power of God
And every argument or pretension that sets itself up,
Against the knowledge of God, we bring it under the blood,

The Blood of Jesus, The blood of the lamb,
I overcome you in the name of I am that I am,
And the word of my testimony and the sword in my hand,
And the shoes of the Gospel of grace, in which I now stand,

And the blood soaked, battle worn bullet proof vest,
That protects my heart with Jesus righteousness,
And the shield of faith I've held since my youth,
All held together with the belt of God's truth,

Spiritual postures for earthly realities,
Spiritual weapons to fight all of these,
Demons and voices and all enemies,
I'll fight like a man, and get on my knees

Balls to The World

In My heart,
(My secret heart)
And in my mind,
(My sliding scale mind)

I am still ten,
With James Bowden,

The first of my friends,
Whose mothers told them,
They could no longer be,
A friend to me,

Note the first.
Not the last.

James was angly,
All tall and gangly,
A sinewy hawk,
On a couple of stalks,

And a melancholy struck us back then,
Though we were barely ten,
And, I suppose, an inner rage,
And mutual distaste for our educational cage,

And a longing to be free,
I wonder how it could be,
That we'd know all this at ten,
Did we even speak the words then,
Or was it telepathic empathy,
Or a melancholic osmosis from him to me,

Let's go to the fence,
He says, Give up all pretence ,
And shout "Balls to the world" as loud as we can,
And I remember now from a boy to a man,

The chicken wire clutched in our hands,
Too chicken to climb over, and off of the lands,
That belonged to our prison called school,
But it felt totally bloody cool,

To let rip, at the top of our voices,
Lungs open, against the all the closed choices,
Vocal chords stretched out and taut,
Eyes bulging at the unshed tears we'd fought
Back before life or hope had unfurled,
Heads thrown back, held high now,

BALLS TO THE WORLD!!!

The One who gave Me Life Is Dead

The one who gave me life is dead,
The one who rose, from yeast, this bread,
The one whose thoughts had filled my head,
The one whose body, for me, once bled,

The source of life from which I sprung is dried,
The Life-force spirit; gone from inside,
My Mother, who suckled me, has died,
The chief witness for my defence has testified,

The unconditional lover of my whole,
The shameless holder of my soul,
Who plucked the embers from extinguished coal,
Is descended into sheol ,

And the starred ring of thorny crown instead,
The nail marked hands, the spring of red,
So crucified, he bowed his head,
The one who gave me life is dead.

The one who gave me life is dead



M Joseph Burt (01.06.2007)

She Believes In Karma

She believes in karma,
And I in sowing and reaping,
She may hold out for Nirvana,
And I for heaven's keeping,

But we both see the flower
And both dream when we are sleeping,

What you do,
Can haunt you,
Can bless you,

Keep an eye out for life's beauty,

And tread softly,
With each others dreams,
And follow love,
Not duty.


M Joseph Burt (19.06.07)

When I Was a Child

When I was a child,
I knew,
How to protect myself,
In make believe,
In solitary imaginings, new incarnations,
And  beginnings,

A seal.
A tiger.
A polar bear,

Robin Hood,
Mowgli,
Tarzan,

Among other creatures,,
There was no incongruity,
Within this gratuity,
Of pretence,

It was real,
One hundred per cent,

No division between dream and waking,
But now, the nightmare of awake,
Encroaches on boarders that should never be crossed,
Invading my dreams,
Poisoning,

The fantasist, I must insist,
Has tasted the poison,
And there's no going back,
He must die,
(And anyway, who am I?)




M Joseph Burt (13.06.2007)

Catherine Graydon's Hand

I wish I could have held,
Catherine Graydon's hand again,
Stared at Melanie McCloud,
Whilst others read aloud,

One more time,

To sit topless,
Barefoot,
In the Derwent,
With Ruth Gray,
With her went,
My childhood dreams,
Of romance,

She grew up,
Became sensible,
And so should my dreams,

And so,
Should I,

But somewhere deep down,
Childhood refuses to die out,
It holds on to the coat-sleeves of time,
Stamps it's feet,
Incomplete,

The changing of the Guard is hard,
From boy to man,
from was to am,
And the essence of the dream,
Remains a theme,
That refuses to stay out of my story,

Escape,
Into imagined landscapes,
Of love




M Joseph Burt (July 2007)

The Footwasher

I worship the footwasher,


The leper toucher,
The friend of; sinners,
The fatters and the thinners,
The self starvers,
And the self feeders,
The self harmers,
The murderous,
The insane,
The corrupted, corrupters,
Collaborators, abusers,
Dope users,
Traitors,
Makers of documentaries,
Down the centuries,
The self flatterers,
The Nothing mutterers,
The vain,
The same,
Friend of all that's mucked up,
Sucked up,
Sold out,
In it,
But not of it,
walking through it,
Like there's nothing to it,


I worship the one with his sleeves rolled up,
His bread dipped,
With the traitor's,
Same bread, same cup,

I'm with the one,
Who was born on the run,
The calmer of storms,
The stifler of yawns,
The tosser of tables,
And all that's unstable,

The one who said the justified man,
Is the one who beats his breast,
Not the one in Sunday best.

I worship him.
I want to stand with him.



M Joseph Burt (19.07.2019)

Bitter Pill

Like a fool,
I promised you everything,
A lover's declaration at ecstatic breathless heights,
And now I am equally blessed,
And cursed,
Like Jesus,
I thirst,
For the righteousness I wrongly thought was mine to give,
I cannot live,
On bread alone, Father,

Don't give me stone,
Or snake for fish,
I made a vow,
But  I also made a wish,

For you,
To come,
To me,

Daddy,
Don't let me down,
Don't watch me drown,
Mill stone or not,
Your curse is better than your silence,
Your punishment and violence,
(I know you heard my cry once),
Is better than my kindness,

So I eat this stone,
In faith that it is your bread
If my heart be dead,
You can make it live again.



M Joseph Burt (18.07.2005)

I am Icarus

I Cannot fly
I am not Jesus
Or even a bird
I am Icarus

And so it seems
My feathers are lead
Faith cannot breathe
And work is dead

And here is the altar
And these my prayers
That crash to the earth
That you put there

I cannot fly
I am not Jesus
Or even a bird
I am Icarus

From this tower of life
From Worry-Tree's bough
As I hold my breath
I take a leap now

But I fall every time
I land on my head
And a shrill small voice
Cries 'Your God is dead'

So I dust myself off
Don't make a fuss
And climb up again,
I am Icarus

I cannot fly
And I'm not Jesus
But almost an angel
I am Icarus

A falling Angel
I am Icarus



M Joseph Burt (01.06.07 with edits from 09.10.19)

From the Dawn of Time

The time?
Dawn.
The place?
East of Eden.

Who knew?
Caine knew.
Who drew
That hoodoo?
That you do,
You hoo,
You who,
Once slew,
Your brother.

Premeditated,
Or a genesis of jealousness,
And rage?
Off of the page,

The murder weapon?
A rock? A club?
A tool....
You fool!

And there ever after,
Mankind has devised more efficient ways,
To kill his brother.


You no longer have to bash away,
At skull with rock and bare
Blood spattered hands there,

You can instead push someone ,
To push a button,
On your behalf,
And 10 million people you have never met,
Will die,
And your children will be poisoned forever,
we're so clever,

But like Caine,
In absence of pain,
Though it took much of brain (to go nuclear),
We never really thought about it.

Ugly (24.05.07)

It's funny how,
The most beautiful faces,
Are only a touch away from ugly,
That a beautiful girl who knows it,
Is the ugliest of all,
But damn,
You'll want her for it,
And then....
It all gets pretty ugly

The Shelf

Lying in a green and golden haze,
Sandwiched by lazy summer days,
Cushioned and cocooned in time,
The cotton padded walls of sublime,
History: Behind
And future lines,
Neither has a place in this spot,
Just here,
They can come,
So far,
Only so near,
But no further. No
They cannot encroach,
On this perfect moment. So

Just so; This warmth on my skin
             This stubble on my chin
             This breeze across my face
             This cloud of grace
             This meadow. Look!
             This gargling chocolate, babbling brook,
             This life about within,
             This horses hoof,
             This fishes skin,
             This song of songs of summer lark,
             This moment knows nothing of the dark,

And it exists,
All by itself,
It is all I want of wealth,
It is peace and life and health,

It is on the sheer cliff face of time..

A shelf.



M Joseph Burt (28-05-2007)
 

There’s a Numbness

There is a Numbness,
A ‘can’t go’ won’t come-ness,
Can't flick through, can't thumb this,
An eyes open blind, deaf and dumbness,
A disunity in the oneness,
A triple ripple on the still pond-ness,
The mill pond whose stillness begun this,
It's fun, this no fun-ness,
Or at least so funny I shun this,
The swagger might make you think that I won this,
But I spun this,
If it had a tune I'd happily hum this,

But I lie,

This wont come, this,
I made up this abstraction ,
To distract from the numbness,
Like a thawing from eternal winter for Mr Tumnus ,
Squinting I see a human child emerge from the sunless,
Portal, that parts the worlds from their undress,
And clothes you with warm flesh and fresh breath, that tells you 'You've run this',
So breathe, and feel and be,
The real you busting through, breaking back, to out gun this,
More awake in my dreams,

And now I've begun this

Make Me an Offer

I once said to God

Make me an offer

But now I say

God, make me an offering

A lot has changed

'Are you there?'

became

There you are

became

You are there

and

You are here

Do you care?

became

You do care

Can you hear me?

became

I am listening

and...

and on occasion

(In my stubbornness)

Speak no more

And I said,

Ok, speak

Your servant is listening

Make me an offer

And he said

I will make you an offering

Speak no more

and know me.

He made me an offering

But he offered so much more

 

Eggs is Eggs

Eggs is eggs

A glove’s a glove 

Sex is sex

Love is love

God is love 

Sin is sin

Love God: Love love

#GodWins

Trouble Doesn't Have a Sales Pitch

Trouble did not come looking for me
But once he found me he would not let go
His arms enfolded
To surround me
He opened the door to the motel room
He simply opened the door
And down we go

He came with protection
And with the arm
To beat the trick, the threat and me
I could not have no weak ass man
Tho he would not beat me
He would not beat my enemy

He came with the promise
He came with the lies
He came with the back of his hand
And without compromise
He came with the silver lining
He came with pretence
He came with repercussions
And he came
With the consequence

He put the world on hold
He held the concerns it voices
He held my money for me
He held all my choices



When you asked me what he said
To entice me to become his 'bitch'
You thought I was being poetic
When I said ‘Trouble doesn’t have a sales pitch’

But Trouble was his name

his name
Was literally 'Trouble'.



(Written after watching Louis Theroux' Dark States documentary on sex trafficking. The prostitute went by the name Nikki. Her pimp, Anthony Gardener, went by the name 'Trouble') 

Crucifixation

I am fixed
On the Crucifixion
Not fiction
But narrated
I'm fixated
On the cross
Of Jesus Christ
I'm enticed
To my own death
His last breath,
It cannot be missed
He told us all
It is accomplished
It. Is. Finished.
All I hoped for.
All you wished.

I think the devil
Missed  tricks
When he overlooked
The crucifix

Not that it was a deception
But just
Hid from his perception
He could never understand perfection
Was made perfect
Only in connection
With suffering
And God's suffering
Was his own free offering
A cross
Between unquenchable justice
And unstoppable mercy
And in this
They kissed
Son of God
Crucifix
And Gods Justice was sated
And now
I am fixated

The cross before me
Ever before me
The tree of curse
That should have bore me

The state of grace
Is the situation
When your diagnosis is
Cruxifixation.

 

My Song This Morning

My Song This Morning

To My Brothers and Sisters:

If I am killed
Will you please still sing
If I am butchered
Still bring your praise to the king
If I am blown up
Please make much of his name
If I should die during worship
If I am slain

Know that my death
Is not in vain
Know that God is still God
And Jesus still reigns
Know that death is still robbed
It's still lost it's sting
He is risen indeed
And our hope is in him

To our adversaries:

Know that while you still kill us
We will yet live
Know that while we forgive you
Only God can forgive
Know that there is still mercy
It's found in the name
Of this Jesus we worship
The one who once came
To die for your sin
And rose from the grave
And he alone is your hope
Only Jesus can Save.

(Written after news broke about the Jihadist attacks on churches in Sri Lanka killed over 250 people)

Manwomb

As Adam
Asleep in the dust
From
Which he was just
Created
Sedated
Formed as he was
From earth
From him was formed
The first birth

A caesarean
A section of flesh
A humanitarian
Delivery as deliverance
A sample of bone
Flesh of my flesh
No longer alone
And the surgeon
Unmasked
The sculptor unaided
And unasked
Blew life
With his breath
Before things got dark
Before shadows and death

This is now bone of my bones
And flesh of my flesh;
She shall be called ‘woman,’
For she was taken out of man
But all men hence
Will be taken out of her

All That is Within

This is a kind of Psalm
No trumpet
No fanfare
No raised alarm

Just a sinner
Who came to no harm
Reeling from love
Kneeling
With open palms
Open mouthed
Outstretched arms

Yes, this is a kind of Psalm.

Every breath that now comes
In chaos and calm
Sets wind in my praises
Gives sail to my psalm

Your works of wonder
Your awesome power
The detail in
Each fragile flower

The fearful wonder
In the way you made me
The breath of life
The love you gave me

All your works
Shall praise your name
All creation
Screams your fame

I can't promise you
Everything
I'm not even sure you can keep
The gifts I bring
But all within me
Wants to sing
Sing for you now
Sing my Psalm to my king,

You have saved me
And I love you.
Jesus God
No one above you

You know he's done wonderful things
When even your sin makes you sing
Because with opened eyes you can see
He dealt with it so gloriously
In love so superabundantly
His blood still avails for you and me,

Yes
This is a kind of Psalm
No trumpet in this room,
No fanfare
No raised alarm

Just a sinner
Who came to no harm
Reeling from love
Kneeling
With open palms
Open mouthed
With Outstretched arms

see how it has been dealt with so gloriously and so superabundantly

Frozen in (a Hero’s) Death

Sometimes I am envious of those who got to die heroically and be remembered well,
And not to have their long and slow descent to hell
Observed by children,
Who could never tell,
The depth beneath the surface.

To die in some historic just world war,
Fighting for their children in some glorious cause,
Hallowed tones and not metaphors,
Frozen in death at the peak of your,
Good and selfless deeds,
Though they were just the shiny skin,
The sacred and all forgiving covering,
That moment the shutter of history's lens
Closed
And captured
The best side,
They died
And faced no forensics.

Charismatic Kangaroo

Charismatic Kangaroo,
I know just what it is they'll do,
When they're bored and there's nothing new,
Leave their church,  hop right up to you.

Beware their bounce and what they promise you
Cos when it's fresh,  they're stuck like glue,
But when it's old they'll leave the fold,
Jump fence,  jump ship,  hop churches too,
The Charismatic Kangaroo.

Happy campers,  happy shoppers,
Happy clappy, happy hoppers.

His Name (Isaiah 9)

What is his name?
The one who came,
As a baby,
As a man,
God and man the same,

Isaiah the Prophet long ago foretold,
The names of the coming one,
Coming, from the days of old,

The people who lived,
In the deep shadowlands,
The shadow cast by death’s own hand,
Their darkness has ended,
As has their night,
For with his coming,
Comes the great light,

And His Son’s name is wonderful,
Full and filled with awe and wonder,
Filling sight with light,
Near and yonder,
So bright the light,
It makes you stop (in your tracks) and ponder,
What is it’s source?
I wonder?
I wonder?

So wonderful it takes your breath,
So wonderful it breaks the fear of death,
So wonderful it makes you gasp,
So wonderful you may lose your grasp,
On what you once thought was fact,
Once glanced you know there is no coming back,

How can this thing ever be,
That God bestows his love on me?

His name is wonderful, Wonderful Counsellor,
We will wonder at his wisdom,
It makes fools of wisemen,
And all the pride that gives them,
His wise words are life to us,
We will wonder how we missed them,
His words are life itself,
If we listen then and live them,

His name is Mighty God,
This Child in a stable,
He’s powerful, Magnificent, Omnipitent and able,
A Hero here in swaddling cloth,

A Saviour to the world,
Saving us from coming wrath,
And vengeance as it’s unfurled,

His name is Everlasting Father,
He is the Ancient One,
He is Father, yes,
And yet still he is The Son,
He is here by his own design,
Though he cannot speak a word,
This Baby-King, Jesus is,
The Everlasting Lord,

His name is Prince of Peace,
A peace no one else can give,
And his peace will never ever cease,
And In it we’ll truly live,

And of the increase of his reign and peace,
It shall never ever cease.