Best Ministrations Poems
Gentle wind, please
Go not from me.
Rather hold me in thine uplifting arms.
For thy tender ministrations are my sustenance
Each satin, sweet caress a blessing.
Bold wind, please
Go not from me.
Rather wrap me in whirlwinds' chaos
That play with my garments and tease at my hair
Flowing over, around and through me like a river
Storm wind, please
Go not from me.
Rather entwine me in thy heart
Let me feel thy power, to lay waste and to rend.
Then, when my body fails, rend from it my soul
That it may fly always with the wind
Held behind cold stone walls,
In silence, marched to work.
The shabby dressed walked prison halls,
Hell waits for those who shirk.
Breaking rocks or picking rope,
Naught to eat save gruel and bread,
Pointless toil, devoid of hope,
Here worked the living dead.
Mornings in the chapel praying,
The gathered wincing at the drops,
The hangman had the condemned swaying,
Yet more unworthy souls now cropped.
The chaplain looking down his nose,
He could better use his ministrations,
The faithless sat in squalid rows,
(As he prayed for a better station.)
Ne'er has a place been so bleak,
Nor seen more fear and woes,
If the Devil sought out company,
It would be here he chose.
I look you up and look you over,
better days have left you far behind,
you're older, but to me you're still appealing,
yet you draw comments that are less than kind.
You're neglected, not consulted,
when an answer is required,
hidden now behind the others,
avoided, disregarded, mired.
I massage your spine with oil and friction,
restoring your luster to cherish and keep,
remembering when you were readily handled,
sought after, popular, top of the heap.
I'm so busy these days with my key restorations,
I scarcely have time, and I don't have a say,
so you'll have to hold on for my deft ministrations,
a labor of love, postponed for a better day.
Eyes are for seeing.
Ears are for hearing.
Noses are for smelling and breathing
both in and out.
Mouths are for tasting
both bitter hard
and sweet soft truths,
trusts and mistrusts,
cooperations and competitions,
cultures of health and pathology,
climates benign and toxic,
and all sensory flavors between
balance and imbalance.
We reseed universal spirits
in remembered knitting materials of forest,
oceans of becoming
sea son daughters of swimming in and out being.
We reweave omnipotent divinity
within recast integrity of biodiversity.
We feed transcendent wealth of Earth's rich souls
and thereby bleed redemption from subliminal humanity.
Only together we heal future's climate of universal Promise
by re-sensing Elder landscapes of symbiotic swimming polypaths.
As one GaiaTribe of dancing spiritual health
we reconceive material wealth
reborn singing nations
corporations
religions
capitalizations
plantations
ministrations
individual imitations,
cultures of health and less pathology
and all enspirited flavors between
trust and mistrust,
truth of and for healing competing dualistic truths
resounding We Are One MindBody
Resonant CoArising Wave
sometimes when you come
and i'm hardly aware of your presence
a warmth that spreads
envelopes me
a well being
in my heart
tranquility transcending
little by little
gentle caresses
bring an awakening
and i know
it's you
i succumb
to your ministrations
feeling the changes
you bring
quiet till you've had you fill
i lie still
feeling your movement inside
content in the knowledge
i will bear fruit
other times you shake me
a forceful wind
you bend and move me and sway
how you play me
want to slay me
i'm helpless in your grip
you rampage and rage
manifesting your power
you make sure i'm aware
you're here
there
your everywhere
you claim as i quiver
all other thoughts cease
as i wait for release
when your done fulfilling your need
and i am left alone
alone to reel, to relive, to reveal
however you come,
inspiration
you leave me...undone
naked
in heightened state of awareness
that only is subdued
when i've fully released
all that's left of you
my life peaks and thrills
with your every visit
be it frenzied or calm
at dusk or at dawn
whenever u come
i live
i live
Eileen Manassian
My master
Your hand around my neck
You tug on my hair
As I moan for more
I've never felt such pleasure
Your tongue and hands
Reaching every inch of my skin
I'm not thinking at all
Your lips on my skin
As you tie me up
Spanked with a whip
As your fingers slide lower
For your in charge
As I beg for you to rub me
Harder and faster
For you are my master
I'm screaming at this point
For the pleasure you again from the pain
Drives you insane in
I can feel it in your ministrations
As you tease
In the hopes to please
Before I realise
You are lodged inside
Our moans mingle together
As our sweet game comes to an end
And slumber takes over
The steps come easy
Almost hurried as I tread
The uneven trail before me
The sun is low in the sky
Distracted by the long
Angled shadows
Before me
Brought back to you
By the rushing sound
Of your breathing
Like a stony brook
I reach for you with
My eyes
My hand
I take hold of your smile
As my groping fingers
Stroke the small of you
We see in us
The other’s lust
Compelled by anticipation
Bottles clank to my side
As we descend the
Bluff above the river
You take my hand for keel
As your other is bundled
With music and quilt
We find our spot
That secret spot
Bathed by the whole day’s sun
There is shade in reach
But it’s the sun we seek
Chilled by the morning mist
As I knelt
We spread our quilt
Cornflower blue
Where clover eagerly grew
Placing my bundle at the head
Our riverside bed
Frames us like a
Masterpiece…
lit by the
Late morn sun
Hours we’ve spent
Upon wine, cheese and laughter
Drunk on smiles and lust
Have us we must
As the breathing grows
Rapid and musical
Moans of hunger
Filling the air around us
Joining the singing birds
And dancing trees
Our bodies move as one
Locked in the rhythm of all
Like pixies of spring
Undressing slowly
Taunting on the breeze
Sunlight hot upon
The angles of us
Soothing deep
Melting into the
Melting of you
Reaching over
My shoulder
Moonlight sonata
Gently echoes across the water
The music enters in
The midst of us
Tickling the ends of us
Driving our dance so smooth
We draw on our wine
Crimson and fine
And merge the delight
With a kiss
I nibble the flesh
From nape to breast
Easing scrapes with
Ministrations… soft and wet
Feel your blades
On my back
Shoulder to thigh
Tickling my eye
So naughty – take
My breath away
Kisses long and deep
Breathing passion
At the others gasp
Feel my hardness trace
Deftly the center of you
Break our embrace
Kissing a trail to
To the scent of you
Hearing our music
As I do… you offer
You to me, frantic
Wet, setting my pace
Grinding the face
That’s grinning through
Your desire
Dripping…
Off of the corners of
Of my thirst
I taste of my wine
And mix it with thine
As we taste us
Upon the Mage’s grape
Flesh quivers and begs
Girded with legs
A tempo in flux
Beethoven conducts
My bow across
Your cello
Sweet medley of
Body language refrain
Haunting and deep
With a key to the keep
Tis a trembling click
The door spasms ajar
It’s heard from afar
As the passion of the meadow screams back.
I look you up and look you over,
better days have left you far behind,
you're older, but to me you're still appealing,
yet you draw comments that are less than kind.
You're neglected, not consulted,
when an answer is required,
hidden now behind the others,
avoided, disregarded, mired.
I massage your spine with oil and friction,
restoring your luster to cherish and keep,
remembering when you were readily handled,
sought after, popular, top of the heap.
I'm so busy these days with my key restorations,
I scarcely have time, and I don't have a say,
so you'll have to hold on for my deft ministrations,
a labor of love, postponed for a better day.
I feel you like a gaping wound,
A great fetid, gangrenous maw
That will never close.
I feel you eating me alive,
Your disease,
Penetrating brain and bone
Psyche and soul.
Leaving me twisted, broken
Decrepit and defiled.
Your love is vile.
You whisper promises
To spiders and flies
Of my stone-dead corpse
Rotting in silence
Amid decaying forgotten things.
Gladly,
I kissed your putrescent lips,
I tasted your sanguine affection,
Ingested your infection.
You have become my drug.
My life.
Loathsome,
Yet I love you still.
Lost in your mephitic grace,
Wasted.
I wait…
You are the shine that blinds
And distracts me from the pain
Of your ministrations,
Your manipulations.
You sing and caress
As your virus oozes through my veins,
Burning away all that I am.
You kiss and cajole me
Into believing that this is love.
Lust.
I feel your desperate hunger
As you burrow deeper inside me,
Hollowing my heart
For your carnal pleasure.
It feels like love.
Your emptiness feels like home.
I look you up and look you over,
better days have left you far behind,
you're older, but to me you're still appealing,
yet you draw comments that are less than kind.
You're neglected, not consulted,
when an answer is required,
hidden now behind the others,
avoided, disregarded, mired.
I massage your spine with oil and friction,
restoring your luster to cherish and keep,
remembering when you were readily handled,
sought after, popular, top of the heap.
I'm so busy these days with my key restorations,
I scarcely have time, and I don't have a say,
so you'll have to wait for my deft ministrations,
a labor of love, postponed for a quieter day.
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
Love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch
She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane;
she nestled my head to her breast
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs,
the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . .
Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . .
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . .
She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night.
The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Star Crossed
by Michael R. Burch
Remember—
night is not like day;
the stars are closer than they seem ...
now, bending near, they seem to say
the morning sun was merely a dream
ember.
The State of the Art (?)
by Michael R. Burch
Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?
Miracles of GrandMother Tree
begin with her purgative peaceful birth.
For at this time,
so long before her cycling rings of time began,
we see her original seed
and this seed's less original composting environment,
and within this brief timeless moment,
before her benign becoming,
these each appear to decompose
into each recomposing other,
beginning GrandMother Tree's long waging of peace-filling rings,
recording recycling time's historic four fractal seasons
of perennial reproduction
Once begun with consilient fertility,
GrandMother revolves through days and nights
relentlessly deepening creolizing root systems
of nonzero co-relational recreation.
For each new ring
another year of cooperative becoming.
Cooperative thrival,
and only as necessary
competitive survival,
or healthy becoming decays to loss of living
Yet even these degenerative transitions
are not equivalent to springing back to prior springs.
She cannot go home again
because she carries her original home
within her still small skeletal seeds
reincarnating past purgations and ministrations
All while extending further rooting down
ever richer deeper cooperative
health-seeking Win/Win system sensors.
And so, at last,
GrandMother Tree begins to fade from Yangish life
toward Yin-emptying death.
Whether fast, through uprooting hurricane,
or slow, through slowing drying aging defense/offense loss of balance,
her woody organs disintegrate
creating compost perfect for her dormant seeds
and, even more richly,
for seeds of her adult children,
now become intrinsic to
her richly interdependent forested environment.
Her forest floor
each spring
producing metamorphic regenerations
of seeds and benign environmental compost
remembering each Win/Win peace fulfilling communication
GrandMother Tree winds and water
reweaving nutrients of time
in economic co-invested
political co-empathic space
Ecosystem rooting for waging peace,
ever more robustly resilient
While waging defensive war
strenuously defeats dynamic balance,
waging Win/Win peace requires root systems
repeating GrandMother's dharma balance.
He was there recumbent like a log
Cancer has culminated,prevailing over him
Enfeebled all his shielding apparatuses
Yet spurned to frolic prolongation
Eschewed palliative care ministrations
He detected the vital prognosis was engaged
He had instead to plough money into God's certitude
For he realized HE implements nothing fortuitously
Could he yet afford to acquit himself otherwise
Engage in a battle lost right from the dawn ?
Conley Pratt slouched over the horn
of a battered and trail-worn saddle,
been on the run for several hours now
after being caught rustling cattle.
His side ached, caked in fresh blood
from where a large bullet had struck,
he heard a gurgling rasp in each breath,
and knew he was running low on luck.
He’d never expected to end up here,
a hunted, desperate, ailing rustler,
but times had been hard, he’d made a choice
and now rode, despondent, for the border.
He saw it ahead, just a small stake
that stuck out of the dull, desert ground.
Then somebody shouted,”Look, there he goes!”
Conley did not even bother turning 'round.
He spurred his old roan, pushing onwards,
each step painfully jarring his wound,
He gritted his teeth, and kept up the gallop,
he would be reaching safety soon.
He crossed over then, be he didn’t stop,
not knowing they’d give up the chase.
Shots rang out, and one caught his arm,
but the posse did not push on his way.
Moaning, and bleeding from a new gash,
he struggled hard to maintain his path,
But he’d reach her, he’d reach his Marlena,
and then there’d be no looking back!
He could see her now in his mind’ eye,
tanned skin, dark eyes, and straight hair,
his Mexican beauty, she had pledged to him,
with Marlena there would be no despair.
And now since he could never go back,
he would take her down before the priest,
But first he would have to heal from these wounds,
by ministrations she’d give tenderly.
Her two-room hut came arose in twilight,
And from within it came a soft glow,
bathing in lantern light an adobe wall,
and a small, rectangular widow.
Conley slumped lower, horse trotting on,
having reached the place just in time,
His stomach throbbed, his lungs labored,
without help he faced the end of the line.
He dismounted slowly, then limped on up
and through the window did he see
Marlena on her back, long legs spread wide
while a tall man thrusted vigorously.
Conley’s strength flagged at the mere sight
and he slumped against the hard wall,
his vision faded out to the sound of her cries,
The fates really had taken it all…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Nourished in the dirt
Poison absorbed
Breathe out number eight
Life from high above
Leaves raised to the sun
Nourished in the Word
All sin absolved
Sing out holy praise
Life through Awesome love
Hands raised to the Son
Planted and grown
For plenty of uses:
Adventure, climb
Quick door decorations
Fire’s fuel from wood
Beloved and known
So no more excuses:
Love-law is prime
Sick, poor ministrations
Prayers oft we should