Long Delegated Poems
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September 23 Faith in God Bible Meditations Based on Amos 6-9
Key Verse – Amos 6:8 The Lord GOD hath sworn by himself, saith the LORD the God of hosts, I abhor the excellency of Jacob, and hate his palaces: therefore will I deliver up the city with all that is therein.
FAITH IN GOD WHO ABHORS OUR PROUD EXCELLENCY
God abhors our proud excellency midst our selfishness
Since He hates transgressions’ filthiness…
His forgiveness is what we need with our repentant earnestness
To cleanse us and our faith in treading upon His righteousness.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our transgression
Since He declares holiness against sin-oppression…
His pardon is what we beg along His compassion
To sanctify us and our faith in beholding His heavenly vision.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our worldly preference
Since He commands us to manifest divine Scriptural obedience…
His correction is what we seek midst His loving presence
To uphold us and our faith in standing for truth with diligence.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our hypocrisy
Since He leads us by His counsel’s consistency…
His guidance is what we beseech as well as His mercy
To keep us and our faith in cleaving to orderliness and decency.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our discontentment
Since He suffices us well, meeting our needs with His fulfillment…
His provision is what we depend on against our lack of commitment
To rebuke us and our faith in complaining along doubt’s engagement.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our covetous heart
Since He admonishes us to give generously our best part…
His satisfaction is what we implore against greediness-dart
To work in us and our faith in sharing blessings with grateful start.
God abhors our proud excellency midst our iniquities
Since He teaches holiness to rule over our carnal infirmities…
His power is what we rely upon always against insecurities
To transform us and our faith in serving Him along delegated authorities.
September 23, 2025
Delegation by Design
Delegation by design, God calls the faithful to serve,
In His house with purpose, with passion and nerve.
To serve the Master is a calling so high,
With honor and joy, with hearts lifted high.
We’re not all called to every task or place,
But each is appointed by God’s perfect grace.
Deacons and deaconesses, chosen to stand,
In service and love, by His sovereign hand.
A life that is holy, no twisting, no game,
Just living for Jesus and lifting His name.
With wisdom and kindness, integrity too,
Reflecting Christ’s image in all that you do.
A role by His choosing, a sacred design,
According to Scripture, it is a divine calling.
To live to a standard both steady and true,
At home and in service—His light shining through.
A deacon, devoted, in covenant stands,
With purity guiding his heart and his plans.
The deaconess also walks each day humbly,
In Christlike reflection along the same way.
Though some may resist or not understand,
Stay faithful and steady, upheld by His hand.
For you are appointed, entrusted, aligned,
Set apart for His glory—delegated by design.
Together in unity, growing as one,
Serving with purpose till the work is done.
For Jesus, our Savior, the perfect example,
Left heaven to serve in humility’s temple.
So walk in compassion, be humble and kind,
In this sacred calling so carefully designed.
Give glory to God in all that you do,
Let Christ be the model reflected in you.
For those who serve well, a promise is given,
A crown of life waiting, a reward straight from heaven.
So be faithful to the end, let your light brightly shine—
A servant of Christ, by delegation divine.
In my hand the ink drips, commotional emotions at large , patches has failed. Nails and swords, pierce the hearing ear, fussed drops of lethal dose, push me to the edge, for adrenaline chokes my conscience, lead tracks, perforation of daunted untrampled dark corners of my mind, diffuse me from this dungeons, let the near and afar witness and preserve my presence for days have surpassed other unrecorded,
I'm poetic ink, unleash and infiltrate the soul for the present to inherit the marks, was just an ink, they said, a Lil to their knowledge, it's a force to be reckoned with, if today imparts none, Tommorow might be in vain, shallow and void, the ink drips, feed the soul for the mind is unguided and clouded by rage, assert the uncertain, pull me closer for the desire is ravenous.
Hand me the cannon, mass distraction at need, I blow the missiles my presence is not for the immediate but the wild and beastly, human essence at awe, look and listen, read and understand, this ink echoes, wisdom and intellectual, breed the inbred,
my crime would not go unpunished, spilling the ink is my servitude, don't wanna account for my silence, for I'm delegated, to empty this ink before my return, dust to dust, ash to ashes, none must pass here before bowing and acknowledging the spillage
#Poetic_Ink
It was an early Christmas present
I was so anxious to give it to him
It was so soft and luxurious
I thought how it would keep him warm
With the winter months ahead
Turned out he didn’t need it
He never saw one flake of snow that year
No more walks across the fields
To his creek over the bridge he built
To the cabin with his woodstove
Where he’d percolate fresh coffee
And toast bread on its hot surface
In a flash it was all delegated to a distant past
How I would treasure that snapped photo
Of my father’s precious smile
As he tried on his new fur hunting hat
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~A SIMPLE MAN~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2020
MY AUTHORITY
Would that they knew the Great I Am,
Boldly there as there is sky,
It is my Father I'm speaking of,
not so much as I.
If only they knew who’s that I am,
by delegated authority,
Not that it's vital that I am known,
than the greater One in me.
By victory wrought on my behalf,
by His own divinity,
His precious blood on mercy seat,
my blood bought victory.
How is it now that I am meek?
With such power within me sown,
It is His glory that I seek,
and no glory of my own.
T'is not my strengths that I delight,
No earthly place of fame,
But that in glory am I heard of,
that heaven knows my name.
It's for this authority, I can rejoice,
Not your typical close, "The End"
In the back of the book, the end of story goes,
Satan's defeated, and I win!
A Father Clock chimes from a wall in the dining room, refreshing the idle couple that waited.
It was not as if they were reminded of some pressing appointment or some devoted chores that was delegated.
The furniture in the room where they sat idle was ancient and concealed with cryptic scratches stimulating memories of a once lively lifestyle.
An arrowhead seat, brown and sagging occupied one corner of the room making an impression on the carpet conceding that it's been there a while.
In other parts of the room, the faded blue cut pile carpet flaunted gummy substances and foot tracks that were desperately in need of a broom.
Chopin's Nocturne, (seeking their memories of the days of wine and roses), smoothly flowed evenly from the highly varnished Philco console radio and turntable, graced the room.
He sat in a high wing chair opposite her steeped in an art and literature magazine.
Occasionally his deep brown eyes circle with a gray arc would give into a burning need to close and he would nod off, which was a daily routine.
In the highlights of his years, he was a successful entrepreneur, delightful, sophisticated, a celebrated man among his race.
That was more than two decades ago, and although he still hungers for those days he knew that he has grown miserably slow and not able to keep up in a modern-day virtual place.
She sat in her favorite chair that had conformed to her weight over the years.
In her lap was a start of a colorful throw, knitting needles, and shears.
Her honey color skin was slightly creased with tiny folds around her lips and neck.
The imagery of her once sleek body and beauty she deeply reflects.
Her curly snow-white hair rests on her curved shoulders.
She wished that she had not lived her entire life crippled to vanity.
Yet she would think that the fact is, that on the days and nights when love was a cold memory she was grateful for the memories that realistically were a safety net for her sanity,
They both were adrift on a calm sea of tedium.
Boredom breeds contempt and the closeness they once shared disappeared unobtrusively and conjointly with the years
All was left was the bitterness between them along with the tears.
copyright 2016 Looking At The Light At The Bottom of The Lake.
Every morning, I work from home
I turn on the radio, if I'm unhappy and alone
You hear so much misery when the car jams are told
Make you feel happier, if you're mean and cold
The outbound George has a disabled tractor trailer
Some drivers now are cursing like a sailor.
On the inbound Holland there is police activity
Imagine all those slowed drivers, it's like captivity.
(chorus)
There are people who like pulling tails of cats
Others freakout Grandma by attaching bells to bats
But me, I enjoy the misfortune of those who drive
Comparing our fates makes me feel more alive.
On the Pulaski skyway it's a waiting game
I bet Mr. Pulaski would have not delegated his name.
Its bumper to bumper after Passaic Avenue
I bet those drivers are steaming too.
At the exit ramp an accident partly blocks
That teen driver just learned life has hard knocks.
Heavy delays, so many drivers annoyed
But the traffic jams give me Schadenfreude.
The Lincoln backs into Weehawken tight,
They’ve been stuck in that tunnel since about midnight
Makes you wonder, and contemplate
Or if you're like me, you feel really great.
Add up all the lost hours of lives
No need for bombs, no need for knives
Time that could have been used for better things
All the waste, we should have wings.
How did he, she, they, and them come to be?
Diminished, reduced, and ignored in society.
Relegated, or perhaps delegated, to busy city streets and desolate byways,
Street souls somberly paint landscapes with a myriad of overlays.
Barely decent soles, or none at all, cover these souls' feet,
Yet they endure daily tramples on sordid sidewalks and weather-beaten streets.
Cold nights meet cold stares in the daytime,
Oftentimes, the human connection is disjointed and can be quite unkind.
How did he, she, they, and them come to be?
No one knows, but compassion and love should be the reality.
1.
observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart
in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes
the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her
the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer
in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing
she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia
2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed
with its dark-room
when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green
the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings
evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta
putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon
there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet
it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms
yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation
3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
Live, Don’t Exist
Written: by Miracle Man
11-16-2019
Sometimes due to age,
I’ve found others to be officious.
In refusing their help,
my refusal is capricious.
Help causes me to feel,
I’ve been delegated to the shelf.
And as long as I’m able,
I like doing things myself.
I’d prefer not answering daily,
just how it is I feel.
My new norm is never good,
so I take my days piecemeal.
Sometimes I feel others,
My condition may amplify.
I appreciate concerned friends,
But want to live until I die.*
*Ecclesiastes 7:17
“Be not over much wicked, neither be thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time?”