Their love to God was
unyielding ,unswerving,
unshakeable.
They suffered martyrdom
for their unwavering, .unremitting
love ,devotion to God
They always forgave their
persecutor.
Their heart was full of love to
their enemies.
Seed waits in the dark,
Slow unfurling to the sun,
Time's gentle lesson.
©bfa032325
The arise of racism is unknown
Maybe due to the historical factors
The first settler factor
The authority and jurisdiction factors
The origin factor
The dispute factor
It needs forgiveness, forbearance and conciliatory if any
But I believe I hope I pray
There won't be racism in the eyes of
God
Am I a day dreamer
soft leaf and a twig
swarms of dragonflies hang on
only shake, don't break
30 August 2021
The finest forbearance is perseverance.
Kindness then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The concept of consistency is of major importance.
Moral qualities are comparable in relevance.
Quietness, not priggishness, is a suitable property.
Individuals akin to this are content with their lifestyles.
Subjectivity reveals resiliency.
Being a significant impact requires being sturdy.
It is critical to maintaining consistency.
Being brave is the path to happiness.
To be halcyon, you must be mindful.
Variety and success are inextricably linked.
Pardoning is common in all dulcet situations.
Persistence is a critical component of significance.
To succeed, the attitude must be idyllic and heroic.
Patience is a crucial ingredient in greatness.
Written: July 1st, 2021
1st place contest win
A Brian Strand July 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
cactus bears tough heat
smiles with ever fresh flowers
embracing the thorns
23 June 2021
All of us
Not just one of us
But each of us.
Is but a tiny droplet on the face of this world.
Wash your face and wash your hands of
Your fears of this.
We will survive
The enemy maybe invisible and has us surrounded
But we are all of us
Surviving each of us together.
This is how we adapt to survive.
We all now are refugees fleeing disaster.
Honeybees circle,
Girl sleeps beneath... soft breaths
They will not sting her
I let a boy, a Roundhead* boy, to live...
I knocked him down, and said, 'stay down my boy!
You're fourteen, and your mother waits to give
You letters** - HEY THEN! THAT is not a TOY!'
(For he'd stuck me a bit wi' a little knife,)
It only hurted summat, so I took it,
And said, 'stay DOWN! THESE words are worth your life!'
He cried a bit -- I took his hand and shook it,
Then, I pulled out the knife, and gave it back.
And knocked him out, then, and left him for dead,
'You'll wake up well alive, lad!' Then a 'crack'!
A Roundhead* bullet took me in the head.
So, I lay down a bit, to rest me eyes,
And I am lying there still, I must surmise...
* 'Roundhead' was the Kingsmen's name for the Parliamentarian forces of Oliver
Cromwell
** it was not uncommon, after a battle, once the boys were furloughed, for
family to send the boys back with letters for the men who still fought
Where was I
when repo men invaded,
possessed,
boxed me up within his cool heart
fragrant in its distaste of warmer climates?
You know,
climates governed by love.
(Daydreaming of knights, that's where.)
Now I have only so much patience remaining
for this slapstick brain-
a nasty reminder, the heckler of my heart,
what spews sensibility
when I simply yearn to err.
And I scarcely have time to mourn
his devil's smile
leaving southward in moving vans
transporting my pieces
(all the valid ones)
with him
as I sit numbed,
next to climbing ivy poisoned by my disbelief,
broken
unpaid for.
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