As a child growing up with blurred vision I use to wonder…
could anything be worse?
But the older I grew I began to see my blurry vision
as a blessing…not a curse.
When other children called me four-eyes…
I knew that wasn’t right….
but it made me hate to wear the very thing
that would improve my sight.
Looking back…I’d like to thank those kids for calling me that cruel name…
because without my glasses…with my blurry vision
everybody looked the same.
Without my glasses I couldn’t make out details…
who was tall, short, fat or thin…
with all the colors burred together
I could not distinguish the color of ones’s skin.
Which, when it came to meeting people
gave me an advantage right from the start.
I had to watch more closely what a person said or did
which allowed me to see into their heart.
This is why for some people with 20-20 vision
my surprise I cannot hide…
when they concentrate on the details…on the differences in others
and don’t take the time to see inside.
Which makes me wonder who was blessed more in life
those with blurry vision…just like me…
Or those who, despite their perfect vision,
are still unable to see?
I meditate and ponder over the life of Jesus,
As I prepare to celebrate Easter with bunny and eggs;
Sent by Abba for assurance of salvation of humanity,
Jesus, like a faithful steward, lively fulfilled the given duty;
Death did not seem to him dreadful monster,
Though he wished his bitter cup to be lighter;
The body burred was mortal and immaterial ordeal,
Resuscitation was resurrection of the ideal;
Perform each action inspired by love, he said,
Sowing seeds of hope in pessimistic minds, he went ahead;
Life that lived for others does have no end;
Convictions rooted in pure love, to death never gets bend;
There's new hope and new life once the body dies,
With newer beauties unfolding the spring arrives;
There's no life if the seed does not fall and die,
Dwelling within the womb of earth uplifts it so high;
I pray to Jesus to rise like him from each of my fall,
And, ultimately, abide with him at his divine call...!
24 March 2022
Easter Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Long live in halcyon days
of yore the golden age
of my history mysteries
known to none but one.
My inner terminal washed
in ancient memory and gilded
in halcyon rays...
Of a memory remembered differently
known to none!
But one my inner sight encrusted
in a veneer of a golden age,
starting to crack
and
peel…
The Falling Away.
Reflects the truth of a mystery
burred deep in my history
like a corpse of a former life
longed to live in halcyon days...
Gloried in fading gilded rays of memories…
A lone.
Long
live
Halcyon Days!
The child in me stands out, often, rudely,
Shocking me; shaking me; threatening me;
Questioning all foundations and traditions,
Rites, rituals, routines, convictions...
Sometimes like logical philosopher,
Sometimes like ancient saintly foreteller;
Sometimes like wild rough, rude beastly creature,
Provokes thoughts on life with its true feature...
It's in such character transformation,
Assumed the form of child in transition;
Finding enchantments all over the earth,
Felt fascination for her very birth...
This little girl, my inner child, asks me,
To tell stories on butterflies, fancy;
Might be owing my mood, then, anger-filled,
There's once one, I said, it's dead and got burred...
This made commotion on the child within,
Butterflies have appositely term thin;
Why don't we, at least, in our stories give,
Greater life-span and make them to long live...
26 January 2022
adult tamper tantrum
last straw explosions
of pent up emotions
that could no longer
be contained underneath
the surface anymore
had to be released
could not stay burred
any further
emotional cleansing
emotional clarity
emotional closure
every once in a while
even the adult soul
needs to vent
suppress memories
lock them away behind
a steal door that leads
to a hidden room deep
within the subconscious mind
never to be re-opened again
leave them there to rot away
and wither and die
burred underneath years
of regret
Dear murderers,
With tears eroding the pimples of our cheeks
We write again to you heartbroken
In a joyful union we used to live together
With your sweet stories we felt secure
But why now? Why mother Africa
Your minds now corrupted
Hungry for money but no care for life
Our lives have no value to you?
That you switch it off to feed you pockets?
Is it a curse to be deprived of melanin?
What do you harvest from our weak bones?
Does our blood flow inside diamonds?
Darkness has befallen our families
No longer a sweet homeland to us
But a jungle full of hungry lions
But why now? Why mother Africa
How big is our crime that you can’t forgive?
How unforgivable, that you sentence us to death?
Where have you burred your merciful hearts?
Our necks are so heavy with the yoke
This burden is not a joke
With chains you have tied our happiness
Our freedom thrown to grave
To you we look upon
With your love we were born
Our bodies have no gold, but hollow bones
Save us God from these money hungry ritualists
Yours,
Innocent Albinos
Absurd Word Ever Heard That Has Occurred
Trump was worst absurd
Word which has ever occurred
And by us is heard.
Sometimes has been slurred.
While being a nerd.
Were not rest assured
While pot he has stirred.
That we had endured.
Can never be cured.
Looks like lofty bird.
My side has been burred.
Ruffled feathers furred.
Mercy not steward.
Take your pick for the last line.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
Peer inside my soul,it's burred deep within its hole.
looking inside my mind, masked by all the pain and all the crime.
Nothing here to find, seek the new beginning at the end of mine.
There's no shame in crying,it's not as cold as dieing.
I try to mask my grief,by putting all my faith within my feet.
Trying to stand my ground but everything I love comes crumbling down.
My happiness is placed, deep within the surface almost as if erased..
Tear comes streaming out, leaving the trail of self doubt.
Place your hand within the fire, the true fate of desire.
Her smile leaves sparks, burning holes in the dark.
Love is the fire, that fills you with wild desire
Death rips us apart, a condescending art that breaks the heart.
Magic turned to tragic.
Fire turned to ash..we always seem to crash.
The old Scotsman burred loud on the dock:
" Bring along more than tackle and block!
For if yah cast out yer net,
yah might live to regret
bringing ole Nessie up out of the Loch!"
The gala begins words run line for rhyme
Altogether spurring one on to better minds
Some try throwing like green burred blankets
Bucking horse and writer blurred tactics
Mounted again penning whimsical race
On the backstretch of imagination
Circles where all win a destination
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.