THE SEVENTH VEIL
She danced upon the seventh veil
A breeze as yet unnamed
Her sacrifice, to no avail
I let her slip away
Now at my feet
Lay seven veils
A sin for every day
I find no ship, needs seven sails
A breeze as yet untamed
My Lord!
I have run a debt that I can never pay.
Forgive me, please, and wash my sins away!
The Seventh Angel, bright and clear,
Draws so close, and whispers in my ear:
"Thy very soul is the debt to Him you owe.
How could I ever let you fall below?
That heavy debt, I shall release you from its woe."
"I welcome now the self that I shall be,"
"In sweat and labor, working wild and free,
With broken back, to serve His majesty."
"I drank no beer, but water pure and bright,"
"Is this not holy water in His sight?"
— Amen —
she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter
this does not happen as often as you think
rare even in the Celtic circles
she was supposed to be clairaudient and clairsentient.
She was neither
no kind of oracle at all
the village came to test her “powers”
she tried her best to explain that she had none
but they took some convincing
once a stereotype always a stereotype I guess
it made her sad that no one believed her
until they finally did.
Smooth and mellow sunday sunrise
Morning edition with first sip of tea
Resting regrouping recharging and reenergizing
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
Empyrean drops,
Monument of July,
The pluvial chapter of life...
O July of enfeebled yolk,
Dispenser of splendour of sempervirence,
God has watered your tongue.
Therefore, pour, July, pour
The essence of life,
The grit of living
Unto the bosom of the
Seventh month and other
Months of parturition.
Let us conceive in July,
To bear in good season,
Sons of courage...
Wearing festal garments
And adorning our heads with sepia cloths,
This shall reinforce hope.
In front of the monument of July,
(A slouching image of sleepy rain)
Right on its wet feet,
Shall we bless the earth abundantly.
O July,
Bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Male and female, dew and fog,
So full of grains of years,
Frenzied and dancing your rites
Together with the age of insistent youth!
Middle age is when neither youth nor old age
Finds you worthy...
They sing:
The perception of the pristine green
Aroma of July
Is often the first of the rites
Of the seventh month.
My eyes caught a white airplane, glowing bright,
Like a bullet left from a missile's flight.
The Seventh District,
The same as before, as if I took flight.
The eternal flame burns as it did before,
Reaching out its arms, calling once more.
But the two white swans on the sea are gone,
Once caressed by hands so gentle and warm.
I recognized Uncle Nick,
no mistake,
But he doesn’t see me, no glance to take.
Awakened, my longing for youthful days,
Pierces my heart with its aching gaze.
My brother's white house still stands in sight,
The stairs, though, no longer feel quite right.
Only the blue sea knows me, still the same,
Its embrace I swam, and played endless game.
As if startled awake
from fitfull sleep
Of dreams both cartoonish
Yet with meaning deep
My life having passed
as this very repose
A young woman
Now grand dame all as I dozed
For I must have been asleep
At the wheel
Alternately engaging
disengaging at will
One eightying along I sped through my life seventh decade now coming to pass
How will I cram in
All this life left to live before I run out of gas
Hey you young motorist
Yes I'm talking to you
I once thought of myself
As Immortal too
One day you'll arrive here as
Sure as night follows day
So listen to the words
I am moved to say
Make it count slay regret at its birth
Live fully and thoughtfully for all that your worth
To arrive at destination (well done)
I met you in seventh grade
In laughter and games our bond was made.
Through every joy and every tear
You’ve been my rock my friend so dear.
We share our secrets dreams and fears
With you beside me I feel no tears.
In sunny days or skies of gray
Together we’ll face whatever may.
So here’s to us through thick and thin
With every loss and every win.
You’re my best friend it’s plain to see
In this journey of life you’re part of me.
In July of 2013, you died and you went to Heaven.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 77.
After taking chemotherapy for months, you died.
You were a good provider and that can't be denied.
When a parent dies, it's always tragic and very sad.
If you were still alive, I'd say "Happy Birthday, Dad".
[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died on July 13, 2013]
The monster carried a copper saber in his left hand, giving me a fright.
He was slashing an imaginary foe with a bronze sword in his right.
Upon closer inspection I saw this skeleton’s all-knowing green eye
For a pirate who was long deceased, he was definitely a scary guy.
I stepped out of the way and watched him run another through.
The guy gave a gasp, collapsed, and fell into a funk of solid blue.
Skeleton pirate heard my gasp and hissed “My name is Hank!”
Within seconds he was making another child walk the plank.
The child was bound and gagged, so I jumped into the water too.
It was the most gorgeous ocean, with ribbons of periwinkle blue.
The child was grateful to be saved, and told his story to the police.
I tried to back him up, but it did not work. He introduced himself as Reese.
Happy is you
who facilitate
to be felicitated
In the future
because
you manufacture
Better things which
will push
some folks
to sing
meaningful
songs
which
they did not think.
I
am in
her way – our
love lost. She’s free –
yours truly, never again. Heart
broken, dreams denied, lesson learnt…unless…
His nails have dug into his palms;
they do that kind of thing.
It's only when he's hearing psalms,
and hearing others sing.
"Oh why, dear God?" he says on Sunday,
knowing there's no lord.
"I do so wish to get to Monday,
feel no longer bored."
Yet he will know, when starting Monday,
working now for six,
the seventh day will be a Sunday -
moods are such a mix.
He therefore holds no sabbath dear
(though nails have pierced the palms);
he's far from cheer, and feels the fear
he'll hear those bloody psalms.
(Oct 2022)
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm } } } } } }
{earl grey is for me such a nice cup of tea} }
{splash of milk or squeeze of lemon} }
{not too weak nor too strong} }
{I can drink it all day long} }
mmmmmmmm } } } } }
a cup of earl grey tea takes me to seventh heaven
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Written 24th February 2021
Contest A BRIAN STRAND VISUAL
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
With purity of soul she transmogrifies into an angel
Without meaning to, without any conscious effort
The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she is a mystic.
Playing a joyful melody, she opens heaven’s gates.
How does she have this talent? It is nothing conscious.
A gift from her subconscious, when she is meditating.
She cannot play the organ at all in her current state.
It was not a talent she received in this lifetime.
The organ’s gorgeous song pranced past moon and stars.
The evening was silent, as moon listened to this melody.
Is it the spirit queen? The galaxy wondered.
No, only a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter.
Is she the chosen one from the prophecy? A star asked.
Moon beams searched for her, but could not find her.
Unsure at this time, but things are in alignment, it might be her.
Unaware of this conversation, or the prophecy, she played on.
The organ sang out with joy, reaching the ends of the universe.
Assuring the mystics, psychics and empaths that all was well.
It matters not whether she is the one, only that she brings this feeling.
Said an empath who was more aware than the others.
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