A Selection of Poems
by Skylar Hamilton Burris

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I Was Not Told

Fated footsteps brought me to a passing party
As the moon began to fade beneath a cloud
Where voices echoed loud
Amid the pounding rhythms.

And there I felt the lacking
Override the mind, beset the head,
And the emptiness, the awful dread,
Once well-sung by J. Alfred.

Drawn in by surface laughter,
I joined the formless crowd
Where voices echoed loud
And I spoke to one,
With cosmetic conversation
And superficial scintillation.

Important words sprang to my tongue,
I swallowed each and every one.

Would it be worth the rising fear,
The hesitation, surmounted by the hope,
The glimmer, the chance to share,
If he, leaning upon his chair,
Should break into a spiteful sneer
And offer me another beer?

I swallowed, all went unsaid,
And Lazarus remained quite dead.

And back into his chair he sat,
And I smiled for awhile,
Until the moment passed.

And how will it lie on me,
How will the censure fall,
If on that final day,
When earth and sky both fade away,
Each could to the Just Judge say--
I was not told,
I was not told at all?

© 1994 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in Wide Awake Vol. 3, No. 1 and in Ancient Paths No. 3

 

Imprint

Why is it that the only words
Christ ever wrote by hand
Were written in the fleeting grains
Of earth’s wind-scattered sand?

His Father once, we’re told, did carve
His greatest laws in stone;
But Christ has left His imprint on
Our yielded hearts alone.

Sometimes we strain to read it there,
But can’t make out a word;
At other times the message sounds
So clearly from the Lord.

And so we live with seeking hearts
We live with pain and joy,
And think, and trust, and pray this earth
Is more than Chance’s toy.

© 2002 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in The Lyric 81.4 and in Ancient Paths no. 9.

 

My Grace

Take the plunge.
Write about something you don't talk about,
They say.
Sex,
They mean.
But this is what I don't talk about:
Grace,
And how sometimes I'm afraid
Because I can't tell it from
Chance.
Because I was born a suburbanite,
Born not knowing what was need.
And someone else was born
A cripple,
A child in a desert
Running sparse with tainted water.
And it was nothing that we did.
It was no worthy deed of mine,
No sin of his,
No desert.
And that desert--
That thirst---
That pain--
For that other child--
Was that chance
My grace?

© 2000 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in About Such Things. 4.2 (Spring 2000): 4.

 

My Mind is a Fine Machine

My mind is a fine machine.
Day and night it labors
Hushing regrets,
Imprisoning memories,
Blotting out those dreams
You burnt to ash
And scattered with your sigh.
This machine knows victory;
It does not neglect its task.
But sometimes, when the dawn is up,
And the sun brushes across my face,
And I awake, a little dazed by sleep,
To gaze out at the dying field
I have left untoiled and untouched
Since last we ran among its golden stalks,
Racing beneath the beating sun,
Collapsing with exhaustion to the earth,
Pulling each other close,
I not knowing you would tell me
It was to be our last embrace...

Yes, even such a fine machine
Must sometimes hitch and sputter
Before it runs again.

© 1993 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in The Ascent.

 

Shadow

Birth does not exist alone.
It dwells with Death and Loss.
As in the humble manger looms
The Shadow of the Cross.

© 1994 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in The Lyric and Time of Singing.

 

Silent Stains

Day drains like a dying ember
On a cold, clouded, damp December.
Silken snow is downward trod
Where men have failed to seek for God.
And darkened dirt, removed, remains
Upon the snow in silent stains.

© 1993 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in Ancient Paths (Issue 2). Previously published in Adoration (Volume 1, Number 3)

 

Thirst

I am sick, my dear God, with a disease
That makes me thirst for more than I can drink.
I can't stop questioning You. Help me, please,
To see the edge of human thought, the brink
Of understanding. Solomon with all
The strength and length of mighty mankind's thought
And every breath of wisdom at his call
Could but conclude that everything was naught.
And here I strive, as if against a wind.
Here I labor, not working with the grain,
Seeking, asking, hoping You will send
A sensible reply to senseless pain.
     Instead You say, "I AM BUT WHAT I AM,"
    And answer with the anguish of a LAMB.

© 1999 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in The Poet's Pen Volume 12, No. 1

 

Westminster Abbey

I stood in awe beside one sculpted wall
And wondered what a faith had fashioned it.
Did divine fire consume them, and in this fit
Did they labour? I looked upward, felt small,
And walked through the entrance, heavy with sighs.
The glory within was more than without;
I think the very angels seemed to shout,
So many visions danced before my eyes.
I strained and listened, hoped His voice to hear;
Felt His presence, and bowed within my heart.
But I awoke from all this with a start.
The people pushed me out by drawing near.
    I ceased my thoughts, as "Onward!" they bade,
    And I saw the awe of the Abbey fade.

I came to the place of tombs, where men lay,
And above all the indifferent clatter,
I heard this one whisper: Death does matter
And all shall stand upon the Judgement Day.
But into all voices, one voice must fade.
Men talked and roamed as if within a store.
The register closed, then opened once more;
The coins fell, they echoed, this plea was made:
"A postcard for your trip?" "The price is high."
"A pen then, with the Abbey pictured there?"
This house, my house, shall be a house of prayer.
"Wait! Don't walk on! There's plenty here to buy!"
    Upon once sacred stones my footsteps fell,
    Like the cling and clang of an empty shell.

© 1999 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in Ancient Paths (Issue 5) and in Adoration (Volume 1, Number 2)

The Wind Swept

The wind swept gently across the fields we'd walked together;
I sat on the porch in our old and creaking swing.
I watched as the morning rose from the slumbering earth,
Shedding silent light across the brilliant green.

The neighbors brought their children to play in the yard;
I looked on as they raced each other to the gnarled oak.
I saw them clasp their hands as we once did,
Telling secrets, lowering their voices as they spoke.

The little girl disappeared somewhere behind our house;
Then she came carrying a flower of the most exquisite red.
She climbed to the porch shyly and placed it on my lap,
And I forgot for a moment that you were dead.

© 1993 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in The Ascent (Fall 1993)

 

What Yet Can You Perceive?

A wise old man stood at the mountain's peak;
The boy beside him was quiet and meek.
The boy gazed down at the valley below.
"It's black and white," he said. The man said, "No,
Child, it's gray." The boy began to speak:
"But I see black there, and then in that streak
I see white." Then the old man, like a sheik,
Grew tall. "It is gray. Did I not say so?
You are a babe. What yet can you perceive?
Do you see those birds, fighting beak to beak?
Both are gray." The boy hoped some truth to seek:
"Sir, one looks black to me. And well I know
One is white. To be a man, must one grow
Blind to all?" The man's voice in awe grew weak.
"You are a babe. What yet can you perceive?"

© 1999 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in Tuccumcari Literary Review

 

Why, Little Boy?

Why do you cry, little boy?
For those who die of hunger?
They will be fed.

Why do you sob, little boy?
For those who die in war?
They will come to peace.

Why do you sigh, little boy?
For those who have left this world?
They will enter another.

Why do you mourn, little boy?
For the living?
Ah, yes. Then hang your head, little boy.
Hang your head and weep.

© 1992 Skylar Hamilton Burris. Previously published in Nomad's Choir Vol. 5 No. 4

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