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T. Birch: Featured Poet
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This is the new century once more




the dead will come, as if we could
prevent them

and children will be born -
it is conception

we should blame, not men
not women

nor all the ones who lie forgotten
in their graves

or those whose words will fly us
into a rage

of purple reds
and shattered widows' pains

for regret is such an ill considered
remedy

for diseases
that outlive the air we breathe

though that is such an ugly word
for what I see, this beauty

that we are compelled to seek
yes, beauty

for consider
the fist made from your hand

is it not lovely
as the deepest red red rose

or tulip, gladiolus
or any other bloom you choose

the fist inspires action
where flowers only transfix the gaze

upon a color
or a form created and now done

that which is made
but not its maker who

waits patiently
for the beauty that is to come

from us, a chaos
for which there is no end

but not an emptiness,
for fragile patterns can be viewed

in random acts
of senseless violence, the

suffering of others
and the suffering of ourselves

the most beautiful we can create -
our most cherished thing

more than happiness
more than imagined paradise

more than all the gods
in all their forever skies

whose artifice we so abused
in making beauty

like the night, walk
into our slender hearts

to grieve for what is yet unseen
and still to be

this small sacrifice for the universe
that brought us to our birth

and some day soon
will oversee our death

and without words will speak
its open gratitude 

© T. Birch 2002
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Featured Poetry

White Rose in a Tumbler
For You and I and Everyone
Humility
Uriel's Keeping
Take Any Word and Follow After It
This Is the New Century Once More
i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix. x.