Unsettled Calm
Why am I writing this,
when they say...
really no one cares?
I don't believe they are right.
The more "they" try to prove themselves,
the more "they" show who they really are,
and their true intentions.
"No one." is out there. Just like me.
Wondering if there is anyone left,
that is still trying to make things
different than they are?
"No one" has not given up.
They are simply feeling alone.
Altogether we are empty,
but as one we are full.
The object lesson is to wake up
and live the time that is passing.
Not just pass through.
Tiny hearts,
courageous, brave souls...
the remnant of the whole,
left behind to remind
others about the coming...
of the Lord
on that day "we" will pray,
thanksgiving at last.
The Object Lesson
Written: By Miracle Man
3/15/2019
In minutes the tornado had abandoned the scene,
Undisturbed, was a borrowed, glass Butter churn.
Still sitting on the treadle of her old sewing machine,
Placed there awaiting an opportune time for return.
In the yard, what remained, of the trunk of a tree,
Bed springs wrapped around it, as if made that way.
As a testament of God's power for the throngs to see,
In nature, HIS power, was once again on display.
Is there an object lesson is to be had,
or story moral to be learned-
from the frightful tale of the
Cuckoo bird?
A bird that neither plans nor toils
its own nest to build, but seeks
the industry of its neighbor to exploit-
and in its nest an alien egg to lay.
An egg that is left by the Cuckoo bird-
to be brooded and hatched by foster parents-
and the illegal hatchling to be reared-
at the expense of the rightful own.
An illegal chick that displaces the rightful-
demanding food unceasingly day and night-
until the exploited foster parents usually die-
their vital resources totally exhausted.
It then leaves the foster nest and flies away-
this cycle of piracy again to repeat.
This room is filled with objects
Many more than I need
All of them inanimate
Or so it's been decreed
Longing for my fingers
Piano sits untouched
Hoping that I will deign
To disturb the lingering dust
My heart is tempestuous
The Walls wail their indignation
As I button my Coat of Discontent
And pray for inspiration
I turn my head and plead
To demigod - Clock of Hours
While Vase waits patiently
For moist, fragrant flowers
But Computer Screen implores:
"Please write for us a poem
So others of your kind will know
That they are not alone"
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