First They Came For The Muslims Poem by Michael Burch

First They Came For The Muslims
by Michael R. Burch

after Martin Niemoller

First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.

Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.

Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.

Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?

Published in Amnesty International's Words That Burn anthology. My poem was inspired by and patterned after Martin Niemoller's famous Holocaust poem. My poem has been published in Amnesty International's 'Words That Burn' anthology, which is used as a free training resource for young human rights activists. Keywords/Tags: Muslim, Muslims, Islam, Islamic, God, religion, intolerance, race, racism, racist, discrimination, feminism, sexuality



Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.

I pray
each day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.



Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gaza

There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough...
and time? —insufficient to life's brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?



I, too, have a Dream...
written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza

I, too, have a dream...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.



My Nightmare...
written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza

I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing 'You're nothing! , ' so blind.



For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go...
when lightning rails...
when thunder howls...
when hailstones scream...
when winter scowls...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a 'Best of the Net') , The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper) , Siasat (Pakistan) , and set to music as a part of the song cycle 'The Children of Gaza' which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon's table
with anguished eyes
like your mother's eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother's hand
for a last bewildered kiss...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother's lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears...

Published by The Lyric, Promosaik (Germany) , Setu (India) and Poetry Life & Times; translated into Arabic by Nizar Sartawi and into Italian by Mario Rigli

Note: The phrase 'frail envelope of flesh' was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one) . More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza, who know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not 'terrorists' so why are they being punished collectively for the 'crime' of having been born 'wrong'? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such a barbaric system?



who, US?
by Michael R. Burch

jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there's no Room
for the meek and the mild

... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of 'no Room! '
and Puritanical scorn...

under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same—
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:

'who's to blame? '

(In the poem 'US' means both the United States and 'us' the people of the world, wherever we live. The name 'jesus' is uncapitalized while 'Room' is capitalized because it seems evangelical Christians are more concerned about land and not sharing it with the less fortunate, than the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, Jesus and his parents were refugees for whom there was 'no Room' to be found. What would Jesus think of Christian scorn for the less fortunate, one wonders? What would he think of people adopting his name for their religion, then voting for someone like Trump, as four out of five evangelical Christians did, according to exit polls?)



Excerpts from 'Travels with Einstein'
by Michael R. Burch

I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
'Please despise me! I look like a Jew! '

So I flew off to 'Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed 'yellow' foes.
'If we lose this small square, ' they informed me,
earth's nations will fall, dominoes! '

I then sat at Christ's feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: 'Men can enslave their own brothers! '
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)

So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I'm an Arab)
I'm unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.

At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American 'justice.'
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.

Originally published by Café Dissensus



Starting from Scratch with Ol' Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don't bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I'm quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You're one of the Devil's minions.



And a Little Child Shall Lead Them
by Michael R. Burch
written July 10,2016

1.
'Where's my daughter? '

'Get on your knees, get on your knees! '

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

2.
where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
when winter scowls
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
where does the butterfly go?

Four-year-old Dae'Anna Reynolds, nicknamed Dae Dae, loves fireworks; we can see her holding a 'Family Pack' on the Fourth of July; the accompanying Facebook blurb burbles, 'Anything to see her happy.' But perhaps Dae Dae won't appreciate fireworks nearly as much in the future, or 'Independence' Day either.

Diamond Lavish Reynolds, Dae Dae's mother, will remain 'preternaturally calm' during the coming encounter with the cops, or at least until the very end.

Philando Divall Castile, cafeteria manager at a Montessori magnet school, was 'famous for trading fist bumps with the kids and slipping them extra Graham crackers.' Never convicted of a serious crime, he was done in by a broken tail light. Or was it his 'wide-set nose' that made him look like a robbery suspect? Or was it racism, or perhaps just blind—and blinding—fear?

Lavish, Dae Dae and Castile went from picnicking in the park early on the evening of the Fourth, in an 'all-American idyll' celebrating freedom, to the opposite extreme: being denied the simple freedom to live and pursue happiness. Over a broken tail light and/or a suspiciously broad nose.

Castile can be seen sitting on a park bench. Dae Dae and a friend are 'running happily across the grass.' Lavish, wearing an American flag top, exclaims, 'Happy Fourth, everybody! Put the guns down, let these babies enjoy these fireworks! ' Odd to have to put guns down to celebrate a holiday. Only in America, land of the free and the home of the brave?

3.
where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
when the only relief's a banked fire's glow
where does the butterfly go?

... Now the cop's gun is drawn in earnest, four shots ring out, Castile slumps over in his seat, a 'gaping bullet hole in his arm, ' the vivid red blood seeping 'across the chest of his white T-shirt.' The cop continues to point his pistol into the car. His voice is 'panicky.'

'F--k! '

The same curse a Baton Rouge police officer screamed after shooting another black man in a similar incident.

'He was reaching for his wallet and the officer just shot him! '

'Ma'am just keep your hands where they are! '

'I will sir, no worries.'

'F--k! '

'I told him not to reach for it. I told him to get his hand open.'

'You told him to get out his ID, sir, and his driver's license.'

Little Dae Dae, sitting in the back seat, watches it all unfold. So praiseworthy when confronting the unthinkable, she seeks to console her mother, her voice 'tender and reassuring' in marked contrast to the cop's screams.

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

4.
and where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

'Oh my God, please don't tell me he's dead! Please don't tell me my boyfriend went like that! '

'Keep your hands where they are, please! '

Suddenly so polite, perhaps sensing some sort of mistake?

'Yes, I will, sir. I'll keep my hands where they are.'

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

5.
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

More cops appear on the scene.

'Get the female passenger out! '

'Ma'am exit the car right now, with your hands up. Exit now.'

'Keep 'em up, keep 'em up! Face away from me and walk backward! Keep walking! '

'Where's my daughter? You got my daughter? '

'Get on your knees! Get on your knees! '

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

6.
Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

'Ma'am, you're just being detained for now, until we get this straightened out, OK! '

By now the cops realize the severity of the situation and Castile's injuries, which will result in his death within twenty minutes of the shooting.

'F--k! F--k! F--k! F--k! F--k! '

'Please don't tell me my boyfriend's gone! He don't deserve this! Please, he's a good man. He works for St. Paul Public Schools. He doesn't have a record of anything. He's never been in jail, anything. He's not a gang member, anything.'

Lavish begins praying aloud: 'Allow him to be still here with us, with me … Please Lord, wrap your arms around him … Please make sure that he's OK, he's breathing … Just spare him, please. You know we are innocent people, Lord … We are innocent. My four-year-old can tell you about it.'

Lavish asks one of the cops if she can retrieve her phone.

'It's right there, on the floor.'

'F--k! It has to be processed.'

The cop speaks to Dae Dae, who has started heading back to the car.

'Can you just stand right there, sweetie? '

'No, I want to get my mommy's purse.'

'I'll take care of that for you, OK? Can you just stand right there for me? '

The cops continue to treat Lavish as a suspect. She later said that the cops 'treated me like a criminal... like it was my fault.'

'Can you just search her? '

Mother addresses daughter tenderly: 'Come here, Dae Dae.'

'Mommy…'

'Don't be scared.'

Lavish informs Facebook Live: 'My daughter just witnessed this.'

She tips the phone's camera to the side window of the squad car: 'That's the police officer over there that did it. I can't really do s--t because they got me handcuffed.'

'It's OK, mommy.'

'I can't believe they just did this! '

Lavish cries out, sounding 'trapped, grief-torn.' Dae Dae speaks again, 'mighty with love, ' a child whose 'quiet magnificence' commands us to also rise to the occasion.

'It's okay, I'm right here with you.'

7.
And a little child shall lead them.

Amen

NOTE: The quoted parts of this poem were taken from a blow-by-blow account of the incident, 'The Bravest Little Girl in the World, ' written by Michael Daly and published by The Daily Beast.