Best Metanoia Poems
Diffident,tentative unsure
As nothing stays the same;
Restless,flowing with the tide,
As nothing stays the same;
Evolving and revolving
As nothing stays the same;
Endless,everlasting age
Does nothing stay the same?
Metanoia says th sage
I
If he forgave me, I got more than ever
Jesus not only forgave me forever
He loved me from Eternity
(or eternity past, Now, any Future)
He has not just loved me and You
But all Creation through and through
If only we act:. Take what he paid for!
As with any gift, recipient has to accept
So many forget & His gift on tables are left
II
And He was willing (happy) to bleed for me
All of humanity, butt of jokes and profanity
Then he took the nails on hands, feet
Did he still have to? After saving me?
Such love is easy to repeat in word, not in deed -
Jesus knew why I couldn't live & survive Hindu
My sick siblings, troubled dad, failed to
Parrot "forgive them" - leaders & scribes (the ruling Jew)
No concept of "godly repentance" - empty Hindu-Gentoo
Study METANOIA, to change, to turn around
Stop going the old road to THAT fiery underground
III
Jesus did not only live, forgive, die for me
He rose again: We live Resurrection Reality
If we believe His words, John 14, 17
And the signs from David the Good Shepherd
To Boaz, the Kinsman-Redeemer
Or the oldest book, Job, chapter 19,v.25
When I die, I too will be more alive ...
What Lord Jesus did for me
He will do for you, any Creation, humanity:
If only ...
Jesus, the son of God and Christ His heart
Christ consciousness within man yet dormant
Awakens; when all souls one, none apart
He taught - love is our native element
Underlying truth, Perichoresis
God unity, when we be cognisant
His descent into matter, kenosis
Sacrificing his own life, that we may live
Teaching, metanoia in stillness
Shifting to a perception expansive
Joy in heart, hope in mind, each act holy
Purity of being, with no motive
Thought of separation, is mans folly
Steely resolve and faith, imbibes Gods grace
Non-dual awareness, path heavenly
He walked with us, teaching face to face
Seeing with eye of heart, the shift needed
Magnetism real, no puzzles to lace
Oh hermit! Once lower thoughts are weeded
Christ in us awakes, throb of bliss heeded
05-June-2021
(Syllabic Terza Rima)
Jesus poetry contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Using these words once only: holy, life, grace, faith, hope, joy, love
Mea Culpa, but I Plead not Guilty.
Safe at home,
it was an ordinary day.
I was on PoetrySoup,
reading poems, page by page.
And then, the house shook,
I ran outside,
and to my surprise a light,
shining down from the sky,
lifted me off the grass.
Darkness
is all I remember next,
no couch, no text.
And then a Vogon voice
cooing in the black
uttered syllables full of malice
sending shivers down my back:
“Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
Goyn’gone, noi escase ynda Diip’L Space
Fingletipslytch, noilbedrytch, brub brub brub
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
k’Rrak-tothruut, hutdryl-buz riz riz riz
moiff-braq, braq guud, shreemy ynda Diip’L Diip’L Space
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Goyn’gone Goyn’
gentle-nittle
gentle-nittle
expoi
expoi
noi escase”
I needn’t state my fear to you,
nor how my heart turned cold.
I’m sure you understand
how the Vogon stirred my soul,
blended it.
I tried to stay resolute
insouciant to the Vogon’s noisome use
of minatory morphemes, but
I felt them creep in,
crepuscular,
prowling the twilight of my consciousness,
their vowels
staring at me like eyes.
The Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels.
I tried to shut my ears,
tried not to hear
the rhadamanthine trenchant chant,
but my wrists held fast in adamantine bonds,
my ears as unreachable as acnestis.
My thoughts,
my words,
were blurring,
becoming more obscure.
My paranoia pulsed
as my metanoia pushed,
my will to resist seeming fatuous,
as I slowly succumbed to a meretricious delight
in the vile Vogon’s exerable verse.
I would like to tell you that I escaped,
for I am back at home,
on my couch
writing poems, but
there is noi escase
noi escase
noi escase
from the Diip’L Diip’L Space
February 9, 2025
Vogon Poetry Contest, sponsor: Sotto Poet
Delicate in shadowed signs,quiet gentle whispers dispelling fear.Imagined shapes are erased and moods show through.Sudden melancholy ,obscures the ligt,,distracted perceptions &,obssessions deflate in despair and crush unbelief.Mediocrity breaks down with a true change of heart.The imprinted momentum brings pleasure without measure.The empty space ,now filled by life leaves no echos in the heart in this quest to hide delusions.
Erst desires manifest, within this dream
Burst of illusions, befuddling our mind
Thirst within our heart renewing all these forms
Worst are fears we thought we had left behind
Clue to freedom, in each breath pulsation
View void of polarity interchange
Cue, the pause of hearts metanoia
Spew joy oh hermit, in loving exchange
06-June-2021
(Syllabic Lento. Rhyme pattern abcb, defe)
Lento 8-lines poetry contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Gloria, Gloria,
don’t mean to annoy ya;
you seem a voluptuous lass.
Glad that I met ya,
look up ‘metanoia’,
And so thanks, but that’s a hard pass.
----------
Strange phenomenon: profiles with handle have been sending twitter friend requests - of course they are bots, I just wonder who adds these folks...
S Such is our flesh, natural "man"
I In the language of Testaments, we plan
N Not only to enjoy our sins, but confess
sans decorum and plan
NOTE: Norman Grubb on TESTIMONY advises one ought to confess ones hates and lusts, but in general terms, notvso detailed that hearers and confessor, take delight in sin vicariously again. In the original New Testament, the Greek word METANOIA indicates an U - Turn from SIN, as in a 180 degree change of direction. The change is in a heart where God's spirit uses conscience & Scripture (WORD) in silent metamorphosis ( into the New Man Or Woman). Hallelujah
The waves&her
Along the waves she ambles
Prevailing the ocean elysian
The longing feel of a hiraeth
Sensual, her cheeks aflush; An inamorata.
She gently rubs her eyes and sees-
the bewitching phosphenes:
Ludic, And apricate.
Among the waves she stood, in-stillness.
The aurora reflecting on her eyes.
In werifesterias, she questions and halts,
The alexithymia she relishes
Then she ruminates with a glee.
The ocean flows mellifluous-
Dulcet. So orphic.
Away from the waves she walks,
Ephemeral, on the way to her metanoia
Absquatulate.
I
Readers deserve regard respecting questions
Recent query, Would Jesus just forgive?
The answer in the Bible is, it depends ...
Before Jesus, a Redeemer- Savior longed for
John the Baptizer preached repentance
To sinners he labeled, ' Brood of vipers,' John 3:8
II
"Produce fruit in keeping with repentance,"
Said the one who would also baptize Jesus
Jesus warned us, "I will tell you, I knew you not"
To many who at Judgment will call, Lord Lord
See also Luke 13, about Kingdoms Gate
Narrow indeed! Many will fail to enter, he said
III
Forgiveness is always there, but never cheap
For my sins, Someone paid in blood and body
We remember this with Mass, Eucharist!
Forensic justification of crimes, criminals, sinners
He gladly gives: but metanoia means We Change
In tumults of time and forgetfulness, in the hidden frenzy of a heart beating faintly,
Invoke the unseen magic, unravel silk works in the deep night,
Tame as a magus who dares, let fall veils of silence,
Breathe into the heavy air movements of shade, cloak thoughts with your watchful anticipation.
In the pale light that wards off unannounced storms, in the echoes of the chamber where echo is the sole presence,
Breathe with a grace that belongs to the weavings of dream, release dreams with each syllable,
Present the metanoia of the time steed, to crash into stone walls, to sing the thrill of a falling star,
Flick through your hand compendiums of souls, show me in intervals your flawless unfolding.
In a play of shadows and lights, master the fine art of remembrance,
Prefigure in smiles the fulcrum and temper of alchemy, in doses just enough to breathe poetry into me,
Like a weaver of the soul, forge my paths amidst beliefs and certainties spoken in the murmur of clear water,
Deliver my walls from clays and masks, consecrate battleground with your unpolished sincerity.
Not with illusions that once sparkled, but with the mystery that transverses your gaze, the torch that illuminates my inner darkness,
Weave with an artist's hands our story, with tones and gestures converted into icons,
In the fascination from chronicles of vigil, in the sweet toils of a heart catching the vigor of desire,
Set your noble trap, a stage set for the final act of promise,
Where you, within me, extend wings, initiate me in ceremonies of a new day,
Congeal enchantment, let me taste the morsel of infinity that you remain in words, until the last verse of the night.
Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.
And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.
But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.
Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.
The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.
Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—