Poem | |
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
I do it for fun
Poem | |
confusing, damaging, suffering
armament, strategy, dialogue, harmony
forgiving, respecting, understanding
11th November 2014
Contest: Diamante Poem
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
Poem | |
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
Poem | |
Canvas, calm, grinning. . .blank
Had words screamed, scarecrows trapped on the poles of their creators,
Had words formed psalms that barricaded the strongholds of the heart,
Divine despair would desperately take hold again,
Embellishing the muse
To smile, the impassive smile. . .confuse
Enraptured by your tail,
Coiling, boiling in the hot and hungry sun
The eyes, clouded, caught in a moment of inexorable suffering
Death glistening in the confirmation of tears and groans,
Shading the dialogue that never surfaces
Justice in pale focus. . .constant, still held in out-of-the-blue faith
Do not allow your perspectives to dull
Waiting so long, I deafened the cries
The very cries I so blindly expressed. . .
Words etching existences imagined
I want you to take the hand of uncertainty
For as I have, I forever feel the tremors that have given me shape
Those very hands create what you dream,
And not what you fear
Take that hand,
Squeeze it tightly
I promise you, once you touch. . .I will never let you go
For I love you,
Oh, unexplained hold. . .
Help me escape the newborn deaths of today
Teach me how to step over the carcasses of calamity
Where the innocent die to inspire the remaining
Learn how to lead me into the lights of your eyes
Give me your beautiful hand,
I will take you to places you will never understand
And it will be okay
Because where I go,
The scarecrows roam with the roaring ravens
Making music with the pulse of their wings
With the sharp click of their beaks
Where I go,
Psalms of serenity's back way make love with impending day,
Spinning despair into the golden hairs of suspended May
Where I go,
innocent flowers freely giggle arrays of life
And his tail whips mightily,
His black velvet purrs arousing breaths of caramel verisimilitude
Where we stay,
In the forever grip of the trust you and I made,
Justice is pure water,
Cool and refreshing. . .ever smiling
My love, please
Hold onto this world with me
Give me your needs that I need. . .
And I promise perspective will prosper
The canvas, one blank, filled with detailed destiny of Color Surety
October 19th, 2014
Poem | |
relying on chance
trying to find a needle
inside a haystack
a well-balanced choice
a winner or a loser
you can bet on it
when tossing a coin
the most probable outcome
would be heads or tails
lack of dialogue
increases the probable
failure of marriage
waking up early
does not always guarantee
you’ll see the sun rise
weighing pros and cons
when faced with a decision
between right or wrong
Author: Paul Callus ~ 24th July, 2014
Contest: Haiku on Probabilities
Sponsor: Marvin Celestial
Poem | |
Heavy in the wind,
was sound of a phrase-
Rhett Butler's curse word ~
blew open the door
to eminent change
who could not keep
that door bolted ~
A strong wind ~ ~
swept away ~
For Judy Kono's Contest: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"
Poem | |
When everyone goes east, he heads west
to him, every dialogue is a contest
comes into an interaction as the biggest
then leaves agonisingly as the lowest.
When he speaks, you know he is half-honest
even though he truly knows, but not near the best.
He always end up lost in the forest
this simple fact, he cannot digest.
The moment he shamefully fails the test
he begins to manifest
then becomes far from being modest
and everyone around him, he treats like unwanted guests.
Causing a general unrest
as he unnecessarily protest.
All over his countenance, ignorance crests
not accepting defeat, he holds high his egocentric chest.
Quick to make jest
but correction; he equates to incest
and disagreements, he always detest.
We all have the quest
to know and share the latest
so as to add value to ourselves and self-invest
which can be a cultivation to future harvest.
But knowing it all is impossible
and knowing half, believing to know all is ridiculous.
Admiting not to know it all is the fairest
but this is yet not comprehensible to him,
to whom; to know is like a conquest.
The wise keep quiet lest,
they cause him to become the tempest
and with every word, he neutralizes any palatable zest.
Oh poor child!
change or you'll suffer from everlasting molest
where no one wants to visit your nest
not because you are unblest
but cos of the truth of your infest
which now, is obviously clearest.
It is good to learn my child
and sharing is an attribute of Love.
But run away from half baked lines
or be humble enough to listen
while they become fully whole.
You were given two ears and one mouth
hence talk less and listen more
because an Ignoramus is always not far from becoming a fool!
Poem | |
“Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed –
come to me when I too am on my death bed.”
“Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.”
Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force
this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
-- to be sucked back -- into it?
~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ~
The division should be acute, the before her, the with her, the after her,
Yet there is this constant rattling of doors, though they remain locked,
in theory. I think of her as gone until I turn a page and read a passage
of pompous dialogue and she returns, My Joie de Vivre, entertaining me
with that puckish wit, unabashed. She smiles in the dusk with crusading
colours that bend dark horizons, changing clouds unexpectedly. What was I
before Joy*? Content, pleasant and productive. But was I alive, aware of
Life, its blissful rhythms? Irony defined: the heart which awakened stone
no longer beats. Finally, I understand. Lessons are sharp things which
infect both fresh and aging amputations. What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language that is no longer spoken, a long monologue
unbearably forlorn, painful. Faith dismisses hauntings, yet she does so
in daily degrees, oh, the sweet ghosts that peer from those notes, my name
underscored in margins. Why is there only one glove in the sewing box?
Agony hunts me in the garden. Perfume almost, but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares. I dare not open a kitchen drawer. Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self, a staunch gent, so sure of Heaven's role,
that cold bloke follows me in the shadows, land of man’s rage and despair.
There is no pretty death, no words can comfort the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry in our departing; I only pray there is Godspeed in mine.
*Written Nov 4, 2012
Joy Gresham Davidman, American poet, and C.S. Lewis, English writer and Oxford scholar, were good friends and married solely for the purpose to keep Joy in England (contested). But love came, as it has a habit of doing, when least expected, after Joy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There love was true and deep, and her death shattered Lewis. His book, A Grief Observed explores his anguish and a Christian’s questions which arise during times of suffering. The film, Shawdowlands, is based on the biography, Through the Shadowlands: The Love Story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. Lewis died 3 years after Joy. The above poem is a conjecture on my part, as no one can truly know what lies in another's heart, alive or otherwise.
Poem | |
Heavily tread, are those small fractious steps
On the stairs to my own peace of mind
The sound of transgressions that I'd rather forget
is the pounding of a most clamorous kind
The dialogue I'm having, within my own self
drums on the door of the closed minded truth
I try to rewrite scripts, shoving back on the shelf
But the turbulence shakes them loose
No matter, how buried, how deep I will hide them
My conscience can shovel them out
That child inside me, denies what was done then
But can't deafen the voices that shout
I profess to regret many sins I've committed
The most difficult task is one of admitting
Poem | |
The rich are getting richer
The poor are losing hope
Mother Earth is dying
Is the Garden of Eden gone for good?
It starts with You
And it starts with Me
Dialogue, not Bullets
We still have a chance
But do we have the time?
June 7th, 2013
Poem | |
I have traveled the world rode
the scorching desert on horseback
Dined in Parisian cafes on the
Left Bank repulsing the poetry
of amorous French men and
toasted my toes by a roaring fire
in a chalet high in the Swiss Alps
If you repeat a story until it is absorbed
into the collective consciousness of
enough people it becomes the truth
The world watched TV to see man land
on the moon No one noticed that the space
capsule was an aluminum salt shaker
launched by a slingshot The elaborate
pyrotechnics disguised the truth in the hands
No one knows where the shaker ended up
for the matching pepper shaker was waiting
in the Australian outback resting on dusty ground
Astronauts romped around leaving footprints
that the wind later erased and spouted dialogue
scripted by Tonight Show writers I could divulge
the coordinates for the flag they left
but that would rend the illusion
I could relate the directions
to my hometown of 3,000 souls sister city
to some Swiss town with an unpronounceable name
with the French-like bakery on the corner by the park
where the town council built a sandbox for the toddlers
But people find pride in their ability to know the truth
Who am I to tell everyone that man never left Earth
I never left home
We all settled for less than we deserved
Poem | |
In his stern deep expression
and his tender caring gestures
When he is in silence, also in solitude.
He conceals the mystery of love,
beauty, and the experiences
that he encounters in life.
He reasons as he walks,
and contemplates every epiphany
that had happened in his past and present life.
He laughs and keep walking
as he shakes his head
then retreats as his heart races
panic and fear as his past comes alive.
He ask himself; is it all this true?
What’s going on?
Why are these ridiculous feelings?
He wants to disregard his emotions, but he can not.
Finally …. In his enlighten self debate
He, surrender down at his feet
Astonish at his finding.
Poem | |
Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true
I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black
Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life
Poem | |
for King Wen, circa 1151-1143 B.C.E. – with seven mind-bending kowtows
There where you had no occasion for play
There in your confined Ming I space
Where change wrought no change
In your fate
But for those plagued by your linear grouping games
Where before the fall from your embroidered gardens
The lavender embossed bowl to dip your fingers in
The enamelled daïs that spurned the kowtows
the cloistered summer watering palace
the decorative duck pond
the turtle and dove court
where dainty demure mincing concubines
under dispassionate eunuch eyes
stroked and tickled the mandolin strings of their Lord’s heart
Where time sailed through Flying Dutchman seas
At the serene centre of Qian’s mundane realm
Even what drops from the sky may hit the ocean bed
And so stamped under in your tyrant’s dungeons
With your retinue and court
Where each faked their fate in psychotic delusions
Simulating as it were
The neurotico-schizophrenic passage in another dimension
There where you bought a little time
Time enough to fashion a play
A game of change
A game that never really changes
Even if your son the Duke of Chou
And the Master expositor Kung
Paved your broken and unbroken lines in words
from which no man may return
Where the longest dialogue you began
Becomes seems a polyalogue among some
Who have gone beyond the hexagram wall
And those who await the inexorable call
Where speech is ambiguous
To say the least
In eight by eight cyclic situations
Though someone YOU maybe ME seems to be saying
Take heed ! all this’s a mess
Might not it be hidden in the lines
and in the lines alone
and not in the words
Take them down one by one
And build them up again
Note the beginning and the end
And the correspondances of change
Put the judgments of my son
And the wordy attributions to Kung
Especially those from the young Wang Bi
On either side of the hexagram
What is claimed for the Superior Man
Is within the reach of every clan
Measure the lines in or out of tune
The trigrams from whence
The inner ones note hence
Think on them but once
Or only now and then
for the nonce
This’s all I have to say
Though others may make much of the Way
Think not on what I have said
More than it takes to put paid
O ! Great Royal Sage !
Are there not behind these lines
Three or four bearded lords, nay sages
Who drive terror into those who gaze
Day and night into their wizened faces !
© T. Wignesan, May 20, 1987 (rev. 2011, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)
Poem | |
I am a pacifist I despise war.
It’s the only thing I actually hate.
I’m never able to brace myself for
Diplomacy that deteriorates:
Recriminating dialogue amuck
That results in irrationality.
Adults become intellectual schmucks
Whose mentality in reality
Is equivalent to a chimpanzee
In spite of our advances in science.
Our mentality still swings from the trees
Where once apish self’s had claimed provenance.
We haven’t evolved from our ancient source
Thus war is likely a matter of course.
Poem | |
There is a spirit that watches over you
In the daylight hours, and nightime too.
You may not think that they are there
But there is a way to make you aware.
I learned the name of my angel a long time ago
Because I was interested and I wanted to know.
His name is "Maximus" and is with me here
To learn of his presence once made me fear.
Because what you do is watched all the day
The angel keeps tabs, God finds out that way.
I guess you think I'm being naive
Trust your faith, if you believe.
If you want to know your angel's name
There is a way to find out which is no game.
Say a prayer for three days in a row
And after each time ask him to reveal his name to you.
If you believe in him he will tell you true
If not, he may be silent to you.
I know of others who have tried this I can say
Some, have learned the names of their angels this way.
When you pray for their name do not think it absurd
Some, I know, will hear that singular word.
It won't come as a shout from heaven on high
But rather as a whisper, when your angel is nigh.
These spiritual beings are here for us all
Sometimes they wait just to here us call.
And when you do wouldn't if be grand
If you knew the spirit's name...who behind you stands!
Try it and see if you think I'm fooling around
Be honest with yourself with both feet on the ground.
As someday that spiritual angel you will greet
Wouldn't it be nice to be on a "first name" basis when you meet?
And if you try but do not hear their name
Keep on trying because your conviction was lame.
I know many will think I'm crazy with this
But knowing my angel's name has brought comfort and bliss.
So try it yourself and see if in kind
If your angel will speak to you...they really don't mind.
Because then a dialogue with them you can share,
Even if they never speak again, you'll know...they're there.
Poem | |
The silence is deafening in this house tonight
I sit on the couch pondering something to write
light is dim, kid’s gone to sleep,
nothing creeps as I stare at blank sheets
I keep waiting for a witty dialogue in my head
but instead I’m brain-dead, should I go to bed instead?
Dogs bark in the distance, the instant that happened
My dogs started barking then I started laughing
An uncontrollable urge swept over me swiftly
I looked at the clock and it read 01:50,
I have time to write; the night is still young,
Took a sip of red wine; bitter on my tongue,
Stacked up the papers until they formed a pile
Came up this song though it took a while
Sometimes I see you sitting across from me;
in my mind I smile a big smile;
I should go over there and run my hands through your hair,
my love for you stretches as long as the Nile;
To lose you would be too much to take;
to win your love, just enough
Though my ability to trust has been flawed since birth;
You’re so worth it that this won’t be tough;
Being without you would be like living in a black hole
A spot of infinite darkness in space;
There would be nothing to hide; not emotions nor pride;
I’d ride the rollercoaster of love in a daze.
While you lay asleep, I’d lay awake
Watching you dream your sweetest dreams
I’d like to think we’re walking along the beach;
Hand in hand as a passionate team.
I wish I had known your soul before
I wish I had chose you back then
And with those words I closed my notebook;
I’ll finish this later. The End.
Poem | |
For years, you have been trying to catch that elusive bird.
In your cartoons, we have never heard a single word.
Warner Brothers decided to give the late Mel Blanc a break.
With no dialogue, there were many foolish steps you would take.
That Acme Company must have made a fortune off you.
You failed at every single attempt you would do.
Each fly ball you hit never left the ballpark.
With rockets, catapults, and bombs, you kept missing your mark.
The lousiest luck hit you in each episode.
That roadrunner kept zooming down the desert road.
With each failure, you kept coming back the next day.
Give it up, coyote. Roadrunners do not taste good anyway.
Poem | |
Brothers killing brothers......a field of blood
sisters slaying sisters.......instead of bearing sons.
mothers ,daughters..fathers, sons
all dead and gone, kindred spirits slaughtered one by one
by the hand of those each should love.
I wonder if at the last moment they had second thoughts
Is this the way to go ..isn't there a better way?
Perhaps dialogue or patience would have been better
Less lives could have been lost ..less regrets to bear.....more hearts could have
Yet the war continues unabated..send in more troops is what we say.
Isn't there another way?
Too many orphans left.. ..uncared for and grieving
too many tears have been shed.... hearts harden.
Prisoners of war......wounded and shell shocked veterans....... physically
handicapped....mentally deranged....a terrible plight
both sides share the same fate....pain and sadness is all that's left
no one wins yet the war never ends.
Love's now a thing of the past
only anger and hatred remain
When, oh when will Peace prevail.
Poem | |
Classy thirsty healing posts
Words are just messy
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy
Stainless inks get messy
Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps
Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms
Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps
Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts
Words dig up chaos with no mercy
Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound
(c) Raymond Ngomane
Poem | |
The writer I am in my dreams
is more sophisticated than I am
and sees the world as an untold story
I mainly see the footsteps behind me
Where I stepped softly so as not to call attention to myself
this writer conjures volumes about the man on the bus
who has a scar on his face five inches long
she elaborates on his life with gifted prose
he is a pilot shot down in Vietnam
guerillas gave him a scar and set him free
he used to be a lion tamer
that one is self-explanatory
I simply cannot stop staring at his scar and wonder
does it bother him to have such a mark?
The writer I am in my dreams
has perfect time management
goes to work, attends class
has a beau
moves from day to day
finds time for friends and play
hobbies and exercise
dance class and likewise
the writer I am in my dreams
her words are clear and precise
they don't feel like empty thoughts on a page
they don't sound immature
her words and statements work
they don't get in her way and make her mind spin
and conjure up thoughts of self-worth
they whirl around the room and
whisper about the unimagined
they dialogue with rhyme and wit
and they always converse graciously
the writer I am in my dreams
I wake up and pray to be
and sometimes my prayers are answered
Poem | |
What if I had the power to keep all
Mcees bleeding dreams with no strings attached
Bring all hate into a seed growing dreams
Maybe farm workers would be rhymes
What if rhythms spoke in rounds covered in pounds
What if poets spoke politics faster than gibberish
In jackets group hugging eternal vomits
Activated by stinking guaranteed garbage
What if poets spoke poems in dialogue forums
Better than battles
Born rich in words seeking starvation in the street of poetry
Sensitivity turning hotter than cold days
Stains driven by theories
Uncles to metaphors
In relay race
We chased paper
Made to flame dry wooden spoken knowledge
Throwing words in stones reaching invisible brains
Spirits teaching spirits
Bleeding third legs erected to proof manhood stunts
Pubic-less words aside
What if all mentioned if’s saved all mentors in the eve of our dreams
Poem | |
" Lord I woke this moring with the words lost sheep on my mind "
" OH! what do you think it meant? "
" well I pictured myself as a sheep in the meadow where the grass is dry, patchy and bare "
" Oh! what happened then? "
" well Lord i turned round and all the other sheep were no longer there "
" where did you think they could have gone? "
" I thought they might of been thirsty and maybe went to find a brook
so I thought I would go and take a look "
" thats good what did you find? "
" I found a stream but the other sheep were on the other side
but I could not get across as the stream was far too wide "
" OH! what did you do then ? "
" I began to wonder what to do
then I heard a voice come out of the blue. "
" What did the voice say ? "
" the voice said do not fear don't dispare
I will help you cross over there
then a kind man appeared out of nowhere "
" what did the kind man do ? "
" He gently carried me across to where the pastures are Green
and the other sheep asked me where I had been "
" Thats great! what was your reply? "
" I told them that I was in the meadow
LOST and all alone
then the kind mans voice said
" my lost sheep welcome home "
" Great you have got it "
" Sorry Lord I am lost now"
" Yes dear you were once lost but now you are found "
" You no longer have to wander in the meadow all alone
for I am the good shepherd that always brings my lost sheep back home. "
No matter how bad our life has been the Lord always brings us lost sheep back to where the
pastures are green, never will he leave you never will he forsake you. to anyone who is lost
Just ask the Lord to show the way home he will come and fetch you. Amen. to anyone who
feels Lost God will find you and bring you home.
Poem | |
Argument:Contrary to popular myth The Bible does NOT teach that the wife(woman) is subservient to the husband(man).
upon the other
of we two
he, and she
* submit a physical act- to lean upon - we upon Jesus, in Jesus we lean each upon the other,in marriage the wife upon her husband
** head = source (as a spring is of a river) as Jesus is the head(source) of the body of Christ(the church) and the husband is the head(source) of the wife joined together as one upon marriage.
Poem | |
Once upon a time and sometimes, even still,
Men call him by name and worship him, a god.
Not a God, who demands and receives men's fear,
Their prayers His just payment for paths they trod.
No quivering or terror is desired by he, no fearful pleas,
Prayers with this one are but dialogue with an old one;
Abuelo, Grandfather, Uncle, Sire.. Happy prayers.
Viejo, we pray to thee to return to us, thy lonely ones.
With Thy coming play the sun warm upon thy flute.
Grace us with children and rains and honeybees.
O lover of the singing reed, give us a fecund earth as Mother.
And give unto her womb thy holy cargo, the sacred seed.
Hide not from us, beloved bringer of life, we know thee.
No paint or warbead decorate thee or feathers of Hawk or Eagle.
Wear a crown of ivy leaves and smile as you play to encycle us
Bearer of the sacred seed, player of the singing reed,
To know this of thee is to know all. Yol Bosum!! may there be a road.
By William Kershaw written just for Constance's Tell His Story contest