Come see the Christ, "We have found the Messiah!”
An anxious Andrew hasted with the broadcast -
sharing the good news, long-awaited by Jews.
Would that we Christians today should supply a
message of hope with haste and expectation.
The urgency of the moment (whereby a
first-hand dispatch cannot wait until morning)
inspires us to act, as when King Josiah
discovered the Torah which had been miscast.
Long-awaited by Jews, sharing the good news -
“Return to God, ” the voice of Zechariah.
Out of a manger, one named Emmanuel
for three years sought to show His kinsmen the Way.
The Light of the World, His lips hasted to tell
of sweet forgiveness when men choose to obey.
Away from the manger, do we celebrate
the birth of a Savior angels don’t discern?
We claim Him as our Lord, yet we hesitate
to share His forgiveness so our kinsmen can learn -
the Way in a manger quickly came to a cross;
the Truth, the Life, and the Way - God's master plan.
When we keep Him a secret, earth suffers loss.
Yet His Spirit stays, the yoke of sin to outspan.
November 29, 2022
Sponsor Unseeking Seeker
Contest Name Journey without movement
My last visit home was sad, but true
All weekend I waited, just to see you
But the expectations I held, were much too high
Lowest place on the totem pole, there was I
When finally, we met after a lot of time wasted
It felt like my presence was nothing but hasted
My words, though genuine, read much like a song
Of love, loss, sorrow, and timing gone wrong
Your response to my letter, still I await
Forward motion requires a slow, but steady pace
The absence of you in my day, at times it's still hard
It's easier for you, but you had a head start
Luckily, this visit home was different in nature
A reason to celebrate, made time pass much easier
Still, reminders were there, and felt in my midst
Sending a text to say hello, was hard to resist
So as this week passes, and a new one begins
Seven more days to wonder if or where, I fit in
But the longer I wait, the more healing I do
What matters most in the end, is I get over you
August 24, 2020
@katladyt_
The paedophiliac?
I sat on a park bench beside another old man
we saw a beautiful 17 years old girl walking past
and I said: we can’t get any of them.
The old my smile and said she is my granddaughter
and I sleep with her every night
My God! Another pedo, Got out of my seat and hasted away
in my case slowly.
The old man died, they tend to do so. At the funeral
his granddaughter said to me never liked him much
but he made me do it.
She looked at me with eyes as glacial as the Arctic before it began
to thaw and asked: will you be my Valentine?
Lucifer;
Ho!,peace here
How by far
Will thou tarry with scare?
There in hell,
Lies temprount.
From beyond he fell,
To this lake-y mount.
By what law did you fell?
By law or by spell?
Thou are renown,
Than to be opposite of clown.
Speak,Ho!,to me!
Thy matter i did crave.
'Peace,Ho!,with me!
Afflict not again with whip'.
"By message was i sent,
To beneath the utmost.
To daniel was i sent,
To wroth him a provost.
But beheld as i go,
A fair beauty that held my soul.
By her was i distracted.
Plea the cruel flame,by whom i'm afflicted.
When from ocean of lust,
My mind sail'd back.
Remembered i the law,
And hasted to Daniel with the sac.
As my feet kissed the dust,
Fastened i to him with the tray,
But to my dismay.
Gabriel had replaced my trust.
Then to me,the creator spell;
'Away from my sight,and hence to hell'".
9/07/2017
Globalism
The winter after war was not jubilant
the snow was slushy like the beginning of spring.
A poor street, houses had not been painted
not much food and the ice was reluctant to let
go of its deadly grip.
I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.
In the windows of old houses’ on sills
flower in pots in tins, humanities need for beauty.
I must not forget hasted home find a piece of paper and write it down.
But I didn’t get it down on paper my thoughts that were influenced
by beautiful minds.
So long ago now,
it was 1950 and people were friendly
we had suffered together and survived.
We are not the people of the world we are tribe, however modern,
it is our group's survival that counts.
Tribalism is much stronger than globalism it can never speak our language.
Mom would always tell me don’t be hasted all ways
Listen remember always to put the third on the end
Of your last name think to my self I have political
Correct name and if I don’t say so sound proof
But in to the day I seen man die I learn tie my shoe
Going to funeral after funeral
They just call me the good cousin
Lesson I learn just from cook out family is
Family why not capital that and just listen
I may of struggle but one thing first I always
Ate
Why give up your tray at lunch
Got phone call from Mexican and Italy
They said just listen tell by the way they talk
Must been family think to my self
Ain’t three trey in Italian
Always remember mom said son
Your name tell your hold story
“JASON” and I guess then
Biracial kids was rare from the city I’m from
But now is it a good time to be called by my
Louis Anotino Borgo III
The Good Cousin.
Sleep in the Afternoon
The world he knew is disappearing,
erased, first the afar blue mountain vanished
then the steppe the horses that galloped
to the stream of cold water and freedom
to drink without fear of the lasso.
His village too has been erased, he looks out
sees a blank screen and shudders.
He tried to go out once but when he turned his house
was about to disappear and he hasted indoors, narrowly
reduced to a dot in the landscape of blankness.
He has taken to his bed in a half sleep,
thinks of nothing, his mind is blank, dreams gone
and no religious illusion disturbs him.
On a beam in the barn hangs a rope it was for him
but he lost the strength, his cowardice is absolute.
Fimbul Frost
It was cold in the valley domestic animals were snug in barns even hardy sheep
and goats came indoors. Clear sky and freezing, the moisture in the air turned
into diamond dust flittering in the breeze looking like pulverized rainbows or snow
crystals dipped in jolly paint suitable for a Christmas do at the local bordello.
The frost was deadly for wild animals, whose burrows and lairs were penetrated
by pre-historic frigidity, pale blood, and the utter insipidness of the exhausted.
A flock of wild boars pushed open the hayloft door and found refuge, as did elk,
deer, wolves, hares and their cousin the rabbit. Two tramps also have found
sanctuary here happily asleep in the miasma of animal scent. When they awoke
animals were getting restless, the frost was gone and they reverted back to form.
Noah´s ark had landed and the animals hasted down the ramp to the freedom of
the open . The tramp too fled to avoid being blamed of the chaos on the hay loft.
Thirsty Cars
Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian cane fuel
and flashed their indicators, I ignored this depravity and
hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled up outside,
it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered in manure
of the long eared members of the horse family.
Fifteen centuries ago came a little man with a dream of rolling dough,
in this dream he subsidized pizza for the whole town to enjoy and throw.
Along came this beautiful angel that told him he needed something more,
So he thought deeply about it all day and made it better just like Thor.
This dream of pizzas was so fulfilling that he made the most delicious, and exquisite
pizza that anybody had ever tasted,
Him and everybody lived without being hasted!
Please
sing a song,
sing a hymn,
sing a summer's night.
You
sang it loud,
sang it proud,
bathed in candle light.
A
tainted wretch,
heartless fiend,
yet still a nightingale.
Your
youth wasted,
life hasted,
for what? A passion stale.
In
darkness black,
damp moist green,
you're left wallowing.
A
foolish whim,
pointless sin,
over just a thing.
A
subject old,
valued thing,
In gold and regal power.
Shame
you lack sense,
skilled judgement,
your plan was sure to sour.
So
in this cell,
in this cage,
sing Sir's nightingale.
Watch
your vision's,
rich dreams yours,
blow a fated gale.
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