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These are prophetic poems and apocalyptic poems ... The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand by Michael R. Burch “Dust to dust ...” I stumbled, aghast, into a valley of dust and bone where all men become, at last, the same color . . . There a skeletal figure groped through blonde sand for a rigid right hand lost long, long ago . . . A hand now more white than he had wielded before. But he paused there, unsure, for he could not tell without the whip’s frenetic hiss which savage white hand was his. Originally published by Poetry Porch Man Retreats into Savagery by Michael R. Burch What I ache to say is beyond saying? no words for the horror of not loving enough, like a mummy half-wrapped in its moldering casements holding a lily aloft. No, there are no words for the horror as an arctic wind howls through the teetering floes and the cold freezes down to my clawed hairy toes ... What use to me, now, if the stars appear? As I moan the moon finds me, fangs goring the deer. Milestones Toward Oblivion by Michael R. Burch A milestone here leans heavily against a gaunt, golemic tree. These words are chiseled thereupon: "One mile and then Oblivion." Swift larks that once swooped down to feed on groping slugs, such insects breed within their radiant flesh and bones ... they did not heed the milestones. Another marker lies ahead, the only tombstone to the dead whose eyeless sockets read thereon: "Alas, behold Oblivion." Once here the sun shone fierce and fair; now night eternal shrouds the air while winter, never-ending, moans and drifts among the milestones. This road is neither long nor wide . . . men gleam in death on either side. Not long ago, they pondered on milestones toward Oblivion. Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun. Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life. There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived. The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind. They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life? Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago. Burn by Michael R. Burch for Trump Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation. Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn. This was one of my early poems, written around age 19. I dedicated the poem to Trump after he pulled the United States out of the Paris climate change accords. Evil, the Rat by Michael R. Burch for Trump Evil lives in a hole like a rat and sleeps in its feces, fearing the cat. At night it furtively creeps through the house while the cat sleeps. It eats old excrement and gnaws on steaming dung and it will pause between odd bites to sniff through the scat, twitching and trembling, for a scent of the cat ... Evil, the rat. No One by Michael R. Burch No One hears the bells tonight; they tell him something isn’t right. But No One is not one to rush; he smiles on a bed soft, green and lush as far away a startled thrush flees from horned owls in sinking flight. No One hears the cannon’s roar and muses that its voice means war comes knocking on men’s doors tonight. He sleeps outside in awed delight beneath the enigmatic stars and shivers in their cooling light. No One knows the world will end, that he’ll be lonely, without friend or foe to conquer. All will be once more, celestial harmony. He’ll miss men’s voices, now and then, but worlds can be remade again. Bikini by Michael R. Burch Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye, through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming like tangled hair where cold currents rise ... something lurks where the riptides sigh, something old, and odd, and wise. Something old when the world was forming now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye, and, with tentacles like Medusa's squirming, it feels the cloud blot out the skies' ... then shudders, settles with a sigh, understanding man’s demise. 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. Styx by Michael R. Burch Black waters, deep and dark and still . . . all men have passed this way, or will. Originally published by The Raintown Review Charon 2001 by Michael R. Burch I, too, have stood?paralyzed at the helm watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Keywords/Tags: Apocalypse, Apocalyptic Poems, Prophecy, Prophetic Poems, Proclamation, Future, Futuristic, Broken Future, Vision, Visionary, Omen, Omens, Sign, Signs, Earth, Earth Day, Mother Earth, Humanity, Climate Change, Global Warming, Environment, Extinction, Nature, World

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Apocalyptic Poems I

These are prophetic poems and apocalyptic poems ... The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand by Michael R. Burch “Dust to dust ...” I stumbled, aghast, into a valley of dust and bone where all men become, at last, the same color . . . There a skeletal figure groped through blonde sand for a rigid right hand lost long, long ago . . . A hand now more white than he had wielded before. But he paused there, unsure, for he could not tell without the whip’s frenetic hiss which savage white hand was his. Originally published by Poetry Porch Man Retreats into Savagery by Michael R. Burch What I ache to say is beyond saying? no words for the horror of not loving enough, like a mummy half-wrapped in its moldering casements holding a lily aloft. No, there are no words for the horror as an arctic wind howls through the teetering floes and the cold freezes down to my clawed hairy toes ... What use to me, now, if the stars appear? As I moan the moon finds me, fangs goring the deer. Milestones Toward Oblivion by Michael R. Burch A milestone here leans heavily against a gaunt, golemic tree. These words are chiseled thereupon: "One mile and then Oblivion." Swift larks that once swooped down to feed on groping slugs, such insects breed within their radiant flesh and bones ... they did not heed the milestones. Another marker lies ahead, the only tombstone to the dead whose eyeless sockets read thereon: "Alas, behold Oblivion." Once here the sun shone fierce and fair; now night eternal shrouds the air while winter, never-ending, moans and drifts among the milestones. This road is neither long nor wide . . . men gleam in death on either side. Not long ago, they pondered on milestones toward Oblivion. Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun. Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life. There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived. The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind. They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life? Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago. Burn by Michael R. Burch for Trump Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation. Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn. This was one of my early poems, written around age 19. I dedicated the poem to Trump after he pulled the United States out of the Paris climate change accords. Evil, the Rat by Michael R. Burch for Trump Evil lives in a hole like a rat and sleeps in its feces, fearing the cat. At night it furtively creeps through the house while the cat sleeps. It eats old excrement and gnaws on steaming dung and it will pause between odd bites to sniff through the scat, twitching and trembling, for a scent of the cat ... Evil, the rat. No One by Michael R. Burch No One hears the bells tonight; they tell him something isn’t right. But No One is not one to rush; he smiles on a bed soft, green and lush as far away a startled thrush flees from horned owls in sinking flight. No One hears the cannon’s roar and muses that its voice means war comes knocking on men’s doors tonight. He sleeps outside in awed delight beneath the enigmatic stars and shivers in their cooling light. No One knows the world will end, that he’ll be lonely, without friend or foe to conquer. All will be once more, celestial harmony. He’ll miss men’s voices, now and then, but worlds can be remade again. Bikini by Michael R. Burch Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye, through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming like tangled hair where cold currents rise ... something lurks where the riptides sigh, something old, and odd, and wise. Something old when the world was forming now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye, and, with tentacles like Medusa's squirming, it feels the cloud blot out the skies' ... then shudders, settles with a sigh, understanding man’s demise. 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. Styx by Michael R. Burch Black waters, deep and dark and still . . . all men have passed this way, or will. Originally published by The Raintown Review Charon 2001 by Michael R. Burch I, too, have stood?paralyzed at the helm watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea Keywords/Tags: Apocalypse, Apocalyptic Poems, Prophecy, Prophetic Poems, Proclamation, Future, Futuristic, Broken Future, Vision, Visionary, Omen, Omens, Sign, Signs, Earth, Earth Day, Mother Earth, Humanity, Climate Change, Global Warming, Environment, Extinction, Nature, World