Here in suburbia - anywhere,
it's easy to be almost happy.
We have time and permission
to talk to neighbors, wave at strangers
as we stroll our leafy streets,
and
just over the county line,
Norman Rockwell is still painting
small town America
with its fields of dreams.
Nice here where folks are nice,
despite the occasional arrest
of a pastor or coach for pedophilia,
or the raids on that home
with its white picket fence,
the one neatly disguised;
that now and again
crack-house.
Peaceful here,
and
often over there
a serial killer sharpens his knives
but quietly,
so as not to disturb the early to bed,
half-dead.
Ince St. Child
by Michael R. Burch
When she was a child
in a dark forest of fear,
imagination cast its strange light
into secret places,
scattering traces
of illumination so bright,
years later, she could still find them there,
their light undefiled.
When she was young,
the shafted light of her dreams
shone on her uplifted face
as she prayed . . .
though she strayed
into a night fallen like woven lace
shrouding the forest of screams,
her faith led her home.
Now she is old
and the light that was flame
is a slow-dying ember . . .
what she felt then
she would explain;
she would if she could only remember
that forest of shame,
faith beaten like gold.
This was an unusual poem, written in my youth, and it took me some time to figure out who the old woman was. She was a victim of childhood incest, hence the title I eventually came up with. Keywords/Tags: Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Depravity, Betrayal, Shame, Humiliation, Evil, Family, Innocence, Childhood, Girl, Memory, Memories, Repressed Memories, PTSD, Shock, Shell Shock
Accursed still, be the cursed rapist
Who in blind pedophilia
Prey upon our little girls.
Condemned still, be the condemned satyr
Who, in sadistic cannibalism
Pounce upon our little sisters!
Alas, the tears!
Bitter salty tears that gulley to waste
The soft cheeks of their innocent faces
Alas the ruins!
The ruins of shattered dreams,
Wrecked ambitions and murdered hopes
Alas, the tears!
But tremble ye rapist, and quack!
For hark, the sound of a bell,
Though not the common one, but a knell
To summon thee to the flames of hell
And by God the truth I do tell
There in the pit you’re sure to yell
Gnashing your teeth in the bowels of hell
No Lazarus, no spring nor well
Only the sear and the roast, till you swell!
Dear heavens!
The bitter tears of the children,
May judgment come!
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