The Church of Divine Reality, Inc.

by Kevin Brown


There are laws, you know, legal
liabilities that must be
considered. If Jesus shows up
in a vision, and somebody

veers off the interstate into a
telephone pole, who do you
think they’re going to sue?
It’s not going to be Jesus, I

can assure you. Or take the
case from a few years ago:
a man rids himself of all
his worldly possessions (well,

except for a camel’s hair coat)
and goes all paparazzi on
people, getting in their faces
and screaming about repentance.

Lost his head, he did. And
who did the family go after?
It wasn’t the Spirit, as if he or
she or whatever has any type

of representation; he or, you
know, barely has any kind
of manifestation these days.
You see, someone around here

has to store up treasures
and make sure they’re protected
from every bit of rust, moth, or
ne’er-do-well who has the Virgin

Mother show up on a burrito.
Someone has to take responsibility
for God, after all; it’s not like
we want him running wild.

This poem is from KevinBrownWrites.com

Heavy Summer Rain

by Jane Kenyon


The grasses in the field have toppled,
and in places it seems that a large, now
absent, animal must have passed the night.
The hay will right itself if the day

turns dry. I miss you steadily, painfully.
None of your blustering entrances
or exits, doors swinging wildly
on their hinges, or your huge unconscious
sighs when you read something sad,
like Henry Adam’s letters from Japan,
where he traveled after Clover died.

Everything blooming bows down in the rain:
white irises, red peonies; and the poppies
with their black and secret centers
lie shattered on the lawn.


From PoetryFoundation.org

That's right, folks. Poem of the week is back!

If you're interested in sharing your poetry here, send it to me at poetry@saracrawford.net. I always love to share poems with people :-)

Here's a poem I stumbled across on Poet's Haven.


Disappearing on a Summer Morning

by Christopher Fox


I fall down deep through the air
Dipping my fingers in the quiet earth
A small boy with blond hair and blue
Eyes walks outisde and lies on me
Making snow angels all morning
I am born in the winter and
I die in the summer
I lie down quietly on the cold earth
And wait for children to lie down
And make snow angels of me
Through the long afternoons
I fall on the children's heads and
Wait till dawn when it is time to dream
While lying in bed they wonder
When summer will arrive
As I swiftly fall down
Through the cold night air
The earth warms up at last
Light dawns and it warms me up
The morning has come and a small
Boy on a rooftop shouts out
Summer! And slowly day by day
I fade in each morning's light

My intro

by Aria Fiore


Like I've said before
I am not Caucasian,
layin' in the tannin' bed
like some dried up old raisin.
I don't cake my face
with a mask of lined raccoon eyes
and glitter from my forehead
to my toenails
lyin' about my dress size.
I am 36'', 25'', 40''.
Wearin' Gucci shoes,
all hoity-toity,
Shit ain't my style.
I am tatted up
and lovin' how it gets
my professors all riled up.
I can quote Shakespeare
and tell you how carbon and oxygen bond;
Covalently,
to form carbon monoxide.
Yeah, that's me.
Glasses and an eyebrow ring.
You can find me drivin' around
rappin' about that ol' penetration thing.
But who cares about the me, myself, and I?
We were born just to die.
Short lives. Leaves not enough time.
Keeps us wondering about
the when, the where and the why.
Yeah, I got so many questions.
What I wanna know
is where did all the poets go?
All the artists, dreamers, and free thinkers?
I find them sometimes.
Dust covered.
Tarred and feathered.
Persecuted for their words and not actions.
But I guess as a writer
you are taken at your word
as soon as you stand up
and ask to be heard.


Aria Fiore is a poet from Marietta, Georgia.

A Thing of Beauty

by John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

This Be The Verse

by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Full Circle

by Carmen Lamarium

I feel so full tonight.
Almost like I ate too much.
But my stomach is empty,
and my heart is full.
It’s only you in me.

And I can’t explain
why it’s taken so long
to get nowhere.

What have you done
Oh, Midnight Sun?
I’ll dive into the stars
of these old darkened skies
that you opened above me.
in front of my eyes
like a black umbrella.

I’ll don another black dress.
Almost like yesterday's.
But this is a new day,
and another funeral
that you drag me to.

And I can’t explain
Why it’s taken so long.
What have you done
Oh, Midnight Sun?
I’ll dive into the stars
of these old darkened skies
that you opened before me
in front of my eyes,
like a black umbrella.

I can’t explain
why I’m still here
under this black umbrella.

I’ve gone nowhere
In all this time.
In all these years.
I’m still right here.
Just right here.

Carmen Lamarium is a poet and artist from Atlanta, Georgia.

Untitled

by Graeme Goldstein

He travelled alone the road to yonder,
Battered and bruised from all his struggles;
Learning and waking while he wandered.
He discovered his make amid his troubles,
A soul in search of solid ground:
The little boy lost became a man found.

A Poem for the Cruel Majority

by Jerome Rothenberg


The cruel majority emerges!

Hail to the cruel majority!

They will punish the poor for being poor.
They will punish the dead for having died.

Nothing can make the dark turn into light
for the cruel majority.
Nothing can make them feel hunger or terror.

If the cruel majority would only cup their ears
the sea would wash over them.
The sea would help them forget their wayward children.
It would weave a lullaby for young & old.

(See the cruel majority with hands cupped to their ears,
one foot is in the water, one foot is on the clouds.)

One man of them is large enough to hold a cloud
between his thumb & middle finger,
to squeeze a drop of sweat from it before he sleeps.

He is a little god but not a poet.
(See how his body heaves.)

The cruel majority love crowds & picnics.
The cruel majority fill up their parks with little flags.
The cruel majority celebrate their birthday.

Hail to the cruel majority again!

The cruel majority weep for their unborn children,
they weep for the children that they will never bear.
The cruel majority are overwhelmed by sorrow.

(Then why are the cruel majority always laughing?
Is it because night has covered up the city's walls?
Because the poor lie hidden in the darkness?
The maimed no longer come to show their wounds?)

Today the cruel majority vote to enlarge the darkness.

They vote for shadows to take the place of ponds
Whatever they vote for they can bring to pass.
The mountains skip like lambs for the cruel majority.

Hail to the cruel majority!
Hail! hail! to the cruel majority!

The mountains skip like lambs, the hills like rams.
The cruel majority tear up the earth for the cruel majority.
Then the cruel majority line up to be buried.

Those who love death will love the cruel majority.

Those who know themselves will know the fear
the cruel majority feel when they look in the mirror.

The cruel majority order the poor to stay poor.
They order the sun to shine only on weekdays.

The god of the cruel majority is hanging from a tree.
Their god's voice is the tree screaming as it bends.
The tree's voice is as quick as lightning as it streaks across the sky.

(If the cruel majority go to sleep inside their shadows,
they will wake to find their beds filled up with glass.)

Hail to the god of the cruel majority!
Hail to the eyes in the head of their screaming god!

Hail to his face in the mirror!

Hail to their faces as they float around him!

Hail to their blood & to his!

Hail to the blood of the poor they need to feed them!
Hail to their world & their god!

Hail & farewell!
Hail & farewell!
Hail & farewell!

From poetryfoundation.org



"A Poem for the Cruel Majority" By Jerome Rothenberg, from A PARADISE OF POETS, copyright © 1991, 1993, 1995, 1998, 1999 by Jerome Rothenberg. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Auguries of Innocence

by William Blake


To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons

Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare

A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl

Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve

Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf

Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,

Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee

Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.


The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,

Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,

Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;

Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.


He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.

He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.


When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.


The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,

Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.


We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;

But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.