Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
There is nothing weaker than water
But none is superior to it in overcoming the hard,
For which there is no substitute.
(Laotse, "Nothing Weaker Than Water", Lin Yutang, trans.)
That weakness of mind and body overcomes strength
And unitarian co-gentleness overcomes universalist rigidity,
No Yang does not know;
No yin can put into practice.
Therefore the Sage Says:
"Who receives unto self the MLK calumny of the world
Is the preserver of an equilibrious state.
Who bears the dissonant sins of the world's living systems
Is the resonantly full-conscious mentor within this NOW world moment."
Straight words seem crookedly dissonant, distorted, unparadigmed.
Evolution's Time seems revolutionary.
(Adapted from "Nothing Weaker Than Water")
Prophecy's weakness is lack of redemptive empowerment.
The strength of prophecy
for redemptive effectiveness
is its weakness
as culturally dissonant.
Too much dissonance is dismissed as insanity
Too little dissonance is not co-prophetic
and therefore not redemptive.
This cutting edge
tipping wu-wei point of rationality
is the weakness of optimally ebbing and flowing water
as ecological synergy
as Positive Yang balancing Negentropic Yin-Yin
Double SpaceTime Binding Teleology.
When Yin-Water absorbs Earth,
then She becomes stagnant entropy,
unable to continue flowing,
A Universalist Yin EcoCenter
evolves as stagnant pond
what were dynamic rivers,
seasonally surfing oceans--
a Holding Space wherein Time stands relativistically
like a vacuum of interior landscaped atmosphere;
more likely to produce a horrific monoculture
of mold and mosquitoes
and revolutionary change.
For this we want Time's river function,
swelling springs of Transmillennial comprehensive consciousness.
Western Business-As-Usual culture
understands love as "kindness."
Eastern permacultural comprehensive consciousness of Time
as panentheistic and teleological "love"
evokes mutual, co-redemptive, namaste--
A Buberian mutually mentored I-Thou bow.
mutual gratitude of synergetic energy,
requires a Bucky Fuller dynamic balance
between freedom to comprehend and embrace
our eco-center in each eternal moment,
as subconscious freedom from awareness of only Ego,
our more limited Left-brain's "small-self" center.
Kindness, and unkindness,
are gratefully, and rudely,
extended, not extended,
to ourselves as empathized "Other."
These are ego-ionic actions
to teach us how to be more mutually generous
in each of our primal relationships
with Love's ecological comprehension
of Time's Yangish and Yinnish rebalancing ways.
What is fair,
within contentious issues,
is found where our mutually held eco-center points,
always wu-wei midway between
the most Yang-power value extreme
and the most Yin laissez-faire "both-and" inclusively unitarian absorbancy.
Nature abhores a perfect vacuum of either Yang or Yin,
Left with Right languaged intelligence.
When we identify with a "downstream" yin position,
our underdog empathy extends to include
reaching toward increasingly marginalized and irrational
"Other" position of empathic identity.
Our eco-centric Right-brain starts from this position,
as a holonic reiteration of "Self's" encultured history,
then flows economic and ecological "generosity"
of loving values
"upstream" toward our mutually mentored,
planted and rooted and trimmed and pulled, and encoded lexicon,
decomposed and empathized,
intuited Yang position,
looking for that tipping point boundary of the unconscious
that is wide enough to capture all synergetically oriented practitioners
racing issues through our surfing moments and lives.
Justice trickles up and out,
as well as down and in,
washing back and forth through fields of unconscious cognitive dissonance,
to emerge toward a consensus of collectively generous,
but not overly generous,
inclusive coredeemer ecojustice.
An enculturation laundry,
but go easy on the yin-bleach.
If I lacked something of the "underdog,"
the "criminal" and "crazy"
within my holonic human nature,
then my nature would be neither holonic nor human.
Yang's "bad boy" universalist megalomania
and sociopathological ego-power
is a challenging competitive dimension
within our ego-centric,
of evolution's meaning;
while Yin's ubiquitous "Other"-love as "Self,"
generosity to the extreme of unitarian self-exiting wishfulness,
is our more primal RNA holonic-cellular intelligence
of generosity's ecological win-win scenario,
devoid of ego's self-distinguishing,
and often dissonant,
and too loud,
and Left-brain dominant,
voice and language.
Kindness and unkindness are transactions between unequals.
Generosity and stinginess of empathy,
and what eco-consciousness invites
as appropriately proportional response,
are transactions between mutual mentors
of gratitude, and lack thereof.
Differences between ego's intended kindness
and eco's well-practiced generosity
include a Taoist position that kindness and unkindness
are not found in nature,
as synergetic mutual gravity,
is the source of natural systems,
of bilateral life and time,
as opposed to the existence of...
nothing; entropic unconsciousness.
Kindness suggests I am extending something to another
that this person has not earned,
does not rightfully and justly deserve
within the normal flow of time's river.
Generosity is a mutually intended practice
of radical equanimity and empathy,
a grateful acceptance of our profound interdependence
of cause and effect,
stimulus and response.
Generosity is about absorbing and hopefully co-redeeming
our mutual assets and liabilities
to resolve an issue
whose outcome can be a mutual win
from a position of profoundly radical
mutual mentorship co-identity.
I show you mine
if you truly swim with me.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Goutam Hazra | Details |
Scent Of Paddy Flower
By Goutam Hazra
My father told me
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”
he would catch
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
“Isn’t it godly!”
Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain
“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”
Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”
Curious was my face,
“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”
“Where these flowers come from?”
Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”
Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.
Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.
Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”
Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
green wind brining life
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”
One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”
my father had asked the rain.
Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”
Who knew, it left for where?
My father cried
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.
My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.
Year passed by,
came back the time,
for green wind to bring kind rain.
Rain came one day.
as a cloudburst
like an unkind monster
in the life of a simple farmer?
Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”
Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life
changed my mind
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.
Does not this civilization
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion?
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.
Scent of life
So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father,
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
I never felt so,
what I smell now
is the scent of paddy flower.
Copyright © Goutam Hazra | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Amrapali Tendolkar | Details |
The Earth dry and bare; waiting eagerly for the drops of care;
Caught in the hot, steaming summer’s snare;
The flowers and creepers decorating window sills; all look desolate and ill;
As the nature withers away in the sun’s merciless glare.
The men and the wives; the kids and the wild;
All are enduring the summer’s waterless exile;
They are waiting for the rain; to relieve them of the heat pain;
And of that life which has become a sweaty turmoil.
The wind strong and gusty; makes the roads yellow and dusty;
And the air around becomes suffocating and musty;
The birds forget to sing; their lilting, musical thing;
Even as the tree leaves wristle and make noise so husky.
Then come the Monsoon showers; falling first on boughs and flowers;
Making the trees and plants glisten and glower;
So the monsoon comes in grace; driving away summer’s trace;
Lashing at window-panes with its all-reigning power.
As the monsoon drives away the summer heat; with its raining rhythm off-beat;
And the flower buds open up to return it’s greet;
And as the water seeps in soil; a refreshing fragrance arise;
While the rain continuous to cool down hot gardens and streets.
The Earth grows green; and water droplets gleam;
On the smooth, waxy surfaces of the leaves;
Everywhere the flowers grow; in pink, red, white or yellow;
While buds make their way blushingly between tendrils.
The wet and soft soil; now grows fertile;
And tender green plantlets push through the Earth in style;
Through soil the tiny saplings peep; as their sown seeds begin to reap;
And the plants and crops shake off the Earth’s temporary curse sterile.
As the raindrops go pitter-patter; water in puddles begins to gather;
And the little birds begin to chirp, twitter and chatter;
The insects begin to hum along; their irritating and happy song;
While due to rain and wind the roofs on houses begin to chatter.
As the showers for some moments cease; after giving Earth life’s new lease;
And the pitter-patter of rain is gently appeased;
The sun coyly shines; a cloud it half hides behind;
While the fluffy clouds move along with the cool breeze.
The fields now green and bright; are an artist’s sheer delight;
Pleasing to the senses of smell and sight;
The fresh air so sweet to breathe; that with pleasure the body writhes;
In the newly born rainy sunlight.
But this sunlight so quickly goes; as thunderstorms blow to and fro;
And Earth engulfs in darkness that now grows;
The wind rises and howls; with a voice that trembles all souls;
And day and night this gale roars.
The trees in fear tremble and shake; as leaves, twigs and branches break;
And the life of these trees is put up at stake;
Birds in nests cower with fright; and due to cold shiver with all their might;
And live in fearful anticipation of what else the storm may rake.
The monsoon now shows its ugly face; gone are its days of grace;
Rainy calamities take its place;
Cyclones and floods destruct worldwide; the raging sea throws up its tide;
“Nature reigns supreme”, we are forced to say.
Same is the life of man; may he do what he can;
But destiny will always play a hand;
What all will man control? So he should let destiny play its role;
And enjoy life and act as the situation will demand.
Somedays will shine the sun; those days life will be fun;
And work will be successful how much ever it’s done;
Somedays by the fun you will tire; and will long to get back into the attire;
Of normal life, however boring or glum.
Sometimes hope will come out; like a tiny plant sprouts;
And will remove from your mind every shade of doubt;
It will be a bright, hopeful ray; but for long it may not stay;
So we must make most of it when hope sprouts.
Just as the shower of joy; after summer comes out shy;
So shower of success will come when you have almost given up the try;
It will wash away your helpless sigh; and will give you a new will to try;
Which will help you succeed by-and-by.
Just as the sun goes behind the cloud; when thunder is heard aloud;
And darkness suddenly falls on Earth all around;
So also failure will touch you once; its upto you to prevent its repeated occurrence;
Or due to failure remain depression bound.
Sometimes through demotivation you will go; sometimes loads of success you'll know;
For we need all types of experience to make us grow;
Like some days it is wet; some days the sun for long doesn’t set;
But then it needs both the rain and the sun to make a RAINBOW…
Copyright © Amrapali Tendolkar | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
You can feel it spinning
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.
By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.
Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexico's greatest and most beloved leader.
Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
kept out of the playground, government buildings, children's games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
seasons, weather, earth.
While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
Food is life and a good study,
The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
who serves the people. Peace out.
Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Diane Lefebvre | Details |
The strong gust of wind was cut off from its source; a frigid early spring blast that swept across a lofty mountain range, high above British Columbia.
It then encircled one of the lesser peaks and swooped down upon the slippery ice pack below, reaching out with cold, airy tentacles to caress the frozen surface, as it skimmed ever downward, dipping its fingers into each crevasse, only to dissipate into nothingness when swallowed by the vast emptiness of the frigid ice chasms below.
The main body of wind rushed on, over the thick, craggy glacier that had recently become an impenetrable shroud for several unfortunate ice climbers, who for one fateful moment challenged the supremacy of the mountain.
The wind now reached magnificent snow fields. Untouched by the imprint of man; it swirled the fresh offering of snow into powder so fine and glimmering, that the human eye left unprotected, would most certainly be blinded by its glare.
The wind was less bitter now. The warmth of the sun at the lower altitude tempered its bite as it continued downward past a small group of skiers, lending sting and color to their cheeks. It exhilarated them and the memory would help bring them back to the mountain again and again, much as the drug addict must return to that which obsesses him.
The wind had now reached the tree line and was met by green, trenchant sentries waiting in dwindling cradles of snowy whiteness. At first they would bend and sway in deference to the wind, as it attempted to bully its way past. Then the trees became the master, slowing and tempering that which so boldly challenged their strength and stamina.
This left the wind transformed once again, now becoming an energetic breeze, reaching out to the upper meadows of the mountain: adolescent fields now alive with the arrival of a warming season and the promise of springtime’s grace.
The breeze was refreshing in the late morning sun. Its welcoming touch stirred everything in sight: rippling through the young grass, now caressing the immature leaves on awakening trees that harbored mating song birds and caustic squirrels.
The high meadow spring flowers swayed beneath its gentle touch and a hare frolicked this way and that in the beautiful moment called ‘spring’.
The breeze then happened upon a flowing stream. Icy cold and gurgling, the brook wended its way down the mountain side, offering a ride to the transient traveler and carrying it along on its surface, just above the ripples and eddies that danced over boulders and foaming white water.
It tumbled along with the stream, as other small rivulets joined in and soon was hitching a ride with a river that had grown more powerful: over falls and through canyons, now widening out as the steep incline of the mountain slowly vanished.
The river grew fat and sluggish in its mighty girth and the wind, with very little propulsion, had no choice but to lessen once more and become a mere whisper of what it once had been.
The scene was no longer recognizable to the errant puff of air. Everywhere was the beginnings of the trappings of man and fearful in its vulnerability, it chose to remain with the river: skimming along under steel bridges, past little towns and eventually a small city.
It dare not leave the river, for it feared dissipation and the river must wend its way to the sea if the little breeze was to survive.
And just when it seemed that all hope might be gone for the tiny little waft, the languid river gulped in its first salty taste of the ocean and the childlike wisp of air was immediately adopted by the offshore breeze, caressing it gently in its more powerful grasp: nursing it back to health, giving it the strength to survive.
Then, into a harbor that was generously sprinkled with small vessels: some with trim masts that invited the puff of air to now come and frolic, if only for a moment or two.
The regenerated breeze felt stronger now, as it playfully sparred with white sails, while tumbling this way and that, tickling and teasing all that it touched.
It had now reached the ocean, where it would once again be renewed: drawn upward far above the clouds and absorbed into the powerful upper level winds, only to begin another long and treacherous journey, fraught with excitement, as well as adventure.
And in the end, there was and still is the vast and powerful sea, from whence all life once emanated and in its own and very special way, so too . . even the wind.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Chantelle Anne Cooke | Details |
I opened the emails: nothing.
I looked through the mail: nothing.
I checked my cell phone: nothing.
The elders always remembered Valentine's Day, but not the children. The youth I had saved from death, spent thousands on to improve their quality of life and gave them my time to ensure a full day of smiles and laughter.
Their Valentine's Day always remembered.
Mine always ignored.
I stood up and threw the computer into the wall and slammed my cell phone into the front door. Tears tackled my face like wet wrestlers. My mood brooded into sheer madness.
I raggedly rushed out the back door, reached for my weapon and shot in several bullets into the ground. Gun shot after gun shot rang out as I cursed my own heart.
Panic pounded me like a drum as all the lights went on in the neighborhood homes. I forgot to drive out to the secluded forest and fire out my fury.
I hid my gun a la James Bond style and whipped down the rest of the whiskey. The hot sauce trailed all over my face and around my mouth.
I stumbled back inside into the living room and collapsed.
Swirling sirens surrounded my home.
I could see all the neighbors outside. Again.
Staring, glaring, leering and sneering.
Oh well I was the Pinstripe Drama Mouse.
Five medical people stormed into my home and found me on the floor, panting, sweating, crying and clutching a Valentine's Day stuffed bear.
“Ma’am, tell us your name please.”
“A, b, c, d, e…”
“We don’t have time for games.”
They looked around my home to see the plethora of medication and alcohol evidence.
“Don’t you realize alcohol is toxic?”
“I’ll show you toxic!” I slammed my right hand into a broken beer bottle. Blood blushed everywhere.
I awoke later in a padded cell in a straitjacket.
My body ached with bruises, dried blood and my brain bubbled. I vomited repeatedly. Insanity played me as if I was his instrument of foolishness. I began body slamming the walls and started screaming.
Black steam surged beneath the door, and I saw the twinkle of white.
My knight in shining bone had arrived. His skeleton shimmered. His ebony robe thick with king authority and his scythe sharp as a sword ready for battle.
“Sh, my mouse, my mouse.”
I crumbled and cried.
His scythe slit through the straitjacket. I stood shaking naked before the Grim Reaper with my body a map of bruises from the Ivs that dug too deep in my skin, vomit crumbling off my face, urine and feces stained my skin. Tears and sweat were rivers running down my being. My hair stank foul. I was humiliated.
His beautiful pearl bony hand stroked my left arm repeatedly. Bones of silk steamed inside and outside of me. I was having a spiritual and physical ballet spa at once. Now, I was dressed in a long white satin gown.
My body healed and my soul resealed.
He clutched me and kissed me passionately. I was his dove in his black tree of the afterlife. I could hear his beating heart.
Yes, Death with a beating heart—for it was the souls reuniting as lovers, families, pets and mother nature re-blooming.
“What is going on in there? Are you trying to escape?”
The Reaper slammed the door open with his scythe. He stood over eight feet tall.
The nurses began crying, “I..I…am not…”
Death remained silent and we floated fast to the nearest window to the left of my holding tank.
“Are any of them…” I whispered to Death.
“Did you make an entrance?”
Death eyed me and smiled, “I am all about the exit.”
With his right skeleton hand holding the large scythe, he smashed the window open and we drifted out. Everyone in the hallway had passed out.
Death threw his sickle into the silvery starry sky where it transformed into a cloud in front of the full moon.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Your favorite!” Death winked at me.
We arrived at Multnomah Falls at in Bridal Veil, Oregon.
“My mouse, you need to re-charge as a Fate. Tonight, I will be with you on Valentine's Day.” Death bowed to me, and his pearl skull grew a dozen red roses. They floated away as Cardinals.
A tear danced upon my heart.
The Grim Reaper and I entwined as lovers. We rushed up and down the waterfall like two crazy partners, laughing and smiling. Full moon winked at us.
Sunrise rose slowly.
Death carried me, and we transported to a different home, my beach home on the Oregon coast. He placed me in my bed, and my three cats curled around me. My lover then steamed away...
Sponsor Broken Wings
Poetry Contest Valentine - Form D
Copyright © Chantelle Anne Cooke | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
randall graves | Details |
Moments to Reflect
Seed of Birth
After a summer shower I watch the wonders unfold Gods truth is being shown. His love for all shall be known to all who have eyes that can see. The miracle of life that is a delight to behold can be seen in a drop of rain on the end of a leaf. Sparkling like a diamond in the light, more precious than gold, a secret is told. The water of life, without it we cannot go on the earth would be has dry has a bone. A desert: a waste land as hot as Hades and not fit to be called home. The water of life He is known.
The air so sweet and clean the breath of life He has been called. A blessing from the father it is a Gift given to us all. When the air can been seen it is unclean and in this state I call it satans breathe, oh so foul and within it only death can be found.
Flower and trees, grass that is so green that there is not any artist in the world that could paint a more beautiful scene. Concrete streets and black top parking lots; progress is what it is called…maybe not. An eyesore, mans’ master piece his legacy, beauty it’s not.
Like a spring rain or after a summer shower; new life does salvation brings. Like the morning dew shining like tiny jewels, in the sunshine they do glow. Flowers blooming and life a renewing, with Jesus this is how salvation goes.
Rain can be seen as the world being baptized and cleansed, purifying it of mankind sins. This is a fresh beginning but it not at its end it only truth starts when you ask Jesus to come in.
After a gentle rain shower our God reminds humanity of His power and His promise: rainbow in the sky a wonderful, magical miracle, truly a delightful sight. His signature written in the sky, proof that He tells no lies; never again with water will He end the world that has bought to Him so much pain. His tears of sadness, never again will the world end with rain.
The evil one try his best with his temptation and his tests to cause us to die and never to rise; humanity he do hate want to take all with him into that fiery lake. These are the tools of his trade war and strife adding in a touch of worldly lust doing his best to kill our trust in the Lord who has given us so much. The spiritual war is what we are in do not fall for satan schemes. Heaven or hell which one will it be? Like the sun gives life to flower, the Son gives life to all who follows. He who is free is free in deed.
Christ the savior God did send, it shows us that satan cannot win. Like a summer day after a spring rain new life will begin. He will pardon us of all our sins but you must ask him to come in His forgiveness know no end. Open your heart and let Him in then and only then can you win. In Him salvation is guarantee and a new life can begin; so you must choose Heaven or hell where will you spend eternity in?
God our Father gave His Son to the world so that we would have a path to the truth a light to shine in the darkest of time. Allow His attributes to shine forth you do not would to lose your soul. Before time ever begin He love us, will you not trust in Him sight unseen, the One who gives all life meaning?
All it takes is faith to bypass that fiery lake, because tomorrow is not promise and another sunshine you may not see. Time is on no one side, so do not go chasing rainbows you cannot fly. Keep what real in your mind the reality is sin must die. God give His Son to pay a price that He did not owe, the cost was high, but gift that is given for those who believe; is to be by His side, salvation is free are you ready to receive?
Summer shower and gentle breeze,
Golden flower and dew drops of leaves.
Soft green grass beneath your feet.
The only thing sweeter is than life is living with Jesus for all eternity.
Copyright © randall graves | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
Fall tumbles relentlessly on our door steps
young winter birds inducing provoking sounds scamper in trees
Watching winter crawling slowly under our feet.
The night rain wet the ground with sadness
washing away the environmental stench
purging the atmosphere of its infectious dew
And I could absorb fresh air in my lungs again.
I fell into a deep sleep shortly after nine but woke up
by my next door neighbor bustling activities.
Nice showers clean fresh air is the perfect night to
be drenched with sleep but instead I was on my knees.
An unknown burden overshadowed me, disturbing my spirit
raising my curiosity, causing me to ponder over unknown mysteries
unexplainable matters that doesn't concern me, yet they troubled me.
I soaked myself in prayer seeking for a plausible answer
And after praying I fell asleep again; a sleep that
I thought would be peaceful but here I am again
on an unannounced journey to the Far East.
I mysteriously found myself on a university campus in the Far East,
no paint, no color, everywhere was deserted, no one was around
except for dry leaves spreading out on the troubled ground
and dull trees astoundingly lingering in the autumn breeze.
I walked propitiously through the front door along a bare corridor
in search of a toilet to ease my body pressure.
A desolated corridor whose hope seemed to be diminished with the passing of time
a million feet must have trodden upon it, feet in search of freedom ,
feet looking for peace, proud feet, dirty feet, bloody feet, stubborn feet.
Feet looking for revenge and feet marching to the destiny of doom.
I moved anxiously from door to door but every door that I opened I saw
Asian toilet embedded deeply in the ground and clean water flooding all around.
I opened another door and found a western bath filled with clean water
I kept walking along the corridor but all the Asian toilets were flood with water.
At the end of the corridor I found one that was completely dry but there was no toilet inside except for PVC pipe fittings planted firmly in the ground.
I tread along the opposite side of the hallway still searching for a toilet
but only rooms whose doors were removed and leaning helplessly
in front of them occupy the other side of the stricken corridor.
I anxiously left the building and a slim young man in his early twenties
wearing shaded glasses ran behind a reception area outside the campus ground
and pretended as if he was at work, but that was only a deception.
As I walked passed him he tried to reached out to me
He complained about someone who has treated him badly
and pointed to a friend who was instrumental in turning his life around.
A sizable crowd gather around him as he illustrates his painful story.
He and his friend took me to the other side of the campus where
a larger crowd of young people had gathered for a wedding
some were sitting under large beach umbrellas
While others congregate in groups all over the campus grounds.
I walked upon a platform where the wedding ceremony
was about to take place but daylight suddenly exploded in my face.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Vic Pister | Details |
It was springtime in the foothills, the air was fresh and clean
The snow pack in the mountains was the most there’d ever been
It was summer in the valleys but above was freezing cold
With every day some inches being added to the snow
A pretty town is nestled in the pretty valley pass
A pretty creek runs through the town through parks of pretty grass
Houses nestled near the creek side to watch the water drain
From the blocks of subdivisions built there on the flood plain
The early summer heat was building up relentlessly
The higher snow was melting off the mountains and the trees
The mountains trapped huge rainclouds, dropped their payloads on the snow
In the hot sun all the water had just one place to go
It was running off the mountains heading for the town
But no one there suspected they were about to drown
They’d build small dykes and thought that they had naught to fear
City engineers had said “It’s safe to build down here”
They went about their business while the water built up steam
Rain still coming down it hit the town along that tiny stream
It was now a mighty river, broke its banks to flood the town
Flooded houses, stores and highways as the deluge tumbled down
They could here the roar and feel it in the middle of the night
Rocks and logs and tons of dirt washed down on everything in sight
Some did not escape for they were trapped there in there bed
There were many hurt and there were others that were dead
It was impossible to imagine such a deadly tragedy
But when you mess with nature you will always lose, you see
For nature is not personal it does what it must do
And when you try to change it its old habits will come through
The houses are in ruins, all possessions were destroyed
Nothing left for them of all their things they had enjoyed
Everything was covered up with grime and filthy mud
From sewer lagoons and septic fields ripped up by the flood
The town was devastated people lost all that they had
The people were upset, they were frightened, they were mad
They moved some out to trailers where they still live today
And now the only issue is who is going to pay?
The insurance companies claim that it was an act of god
That they are not responsible, not prepared to give the nod
The people say the City Hall permitted them to build
It’s their responsibility so they should pay the bill
They were given many promises by governments large and small
Who knew very well that they could not fulfill them all
The people waited for assistance, lived with relatives and friends
Waiting for the time that they could move back home again
The government paid them pennies and that was all they got
Their houses now have just been left to sit right there and rot
Their properties now are worthless for who’ll buy them again
We all have learned the lesson, not to buy on a flood plain
Yes, some buildings were rebuilt because they were high profile
The press had found it handy to make some people smile
But the average guy with just a house will have to stand in line
To get a tiny handout, he’ll have to bide his time
The bureaucrats and officials only seem to pace the floor
The engineers say “Let’s not let them build there anymore”
But the damage has been done and many lives now are in ruin
And no help will be coming for them anytime soon
The valleys and the canyons were all carved out this way
Nothing’s changes if we decide to build a town there today
Nature rolls along like nothing’s changed along its normal route
We must move back for nature is the one that has the clout
Copyright © Vic Pister | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Greg Barden | Details |
One-piece bathing suit
On a perfect petite form.
Very broad vertical stripes,
Just five of red and white.
Water glistening on skin,
Shoulders, damp hair, face,
Lips, eyebrows outlined ...
A faint sparkle in the eyes,
All with a soft blue hue,
Drenched by the full moon.
Your arms circle my neck,
One hand combs my wet hair,
The other frames my face,
Cradling it like a sad child's.
Moon behind you, your
Eyes are hidden from me
But for the soft glint from
Its radiance reflected off the
Surface of the pool's water,
But you fix me with your
Stare nonetheless, and I
Feel your intent draw me in,
Straight to your soul, thus,
And it takes my breath ...
'Tis but one more trance
In a river of spells that you
Have cast on me ... oh,
Since the moment my eyes
Were awakened by yours,
My desires have no longer
Been of my own accord.
You have possessed me,
As surely as an infant
And every breathing moment,
In days or in dreams, has
Been for your indulgence.
This is but the sultry and
Seductive continuation of
Your clear appurtenance of
My being ... but such is the
Flawlessness of your plan that
To everything outward it
Seems to be of MY doing.
Here, now, water to our waists
On this warm summer night,
It is no different ... you feign
To let me take the lead, but
It is I who am at YOUR mercy.
Oh, my hands are the ones
That move, (softly but surely
Over your curving form ...
Tracing the sacred dimples
At your lower back ... down
Over your sublime backside,
Along the length of your legs,
Pulling them up to grasp
My waist in the abiding
Grip of your inner thighs,
Sliding upward to slip off
The straps of your suit,
Attending the soft mounds
That are now revealed and
Left glistening in moon-glow,
Like pure porcelain perfection,
With a soft, slow, deliberate
Adoration of every inch
Of your unblemished skin),
But YOU are at the
Root of their subordination,
As you are at the core of
All that I am and think and do ...
This moment, this calm,
Warm water, reflecting you,
Me, the moon, the stars,
The fireflies of mid-July, this
Gentle Cali-Jazz, drifting out
From the darkened house,
This way you have taken me
Over, body and soul, and
This constant, passionate need
I have for ALL of you, is so
Beyond what I ever expected
To feel for another, yet you
Seem to have known it as
Time knows the Universe.
As I lose myself in those dark,
Moon-splattered eyes, as
Liquid as what surrounds us ...
As I pull your face to mine
And taste deep the tongue that
I crave like sweet nectar,
As our forms fit together and
Our mouths and minds and
Souls and bodies merge,
As I feel myself falling into you,
Like a child falls into the frozen
White to make snow angels,
With careless abandon and
Unimaginably clear ecstasy ...
I hear the one sound and
Single phrase that completes
This incredible moment, and
Sends me into the infinite
Oblivion that will become the
Memory of all we now ARE ...
That will haunt me for all time
To come ... your voice, reaching
From the depths of this perfect,
Priceless, passionate night ...
"Oh ... yes"
Copyright © Greg Barden | Year Posted 2016