an
instinctive
voice
of
formative
lyricism
with
warmth
&colour
extensive
reflective
phrasing
exemplified
with
wistful
nostalgia
blissful
echoes
of
introspection
in
waves
of
comptemplation
If you could find beauty in a piece of chalk,
Others may not find you worth their talk,
But you know that you are the one,
And like you-there are just a few or none.
The beauty cannot be hidden,
It can create a smile in the face of even the bed-ridden,
All you need is to enjoy it,
And find if it is for your appreciation-fit!
Beauty knows no boundaries,
It is innocent and pure,
If you could understand that,
You won't get into anybody's false-lure.
C CHRIST
H HOLY
R RIGHTEOUS
I INTERVENTION
S SAVIOUR
T TAU CROSS
M MARY AND MERRY
A ADVENT
S BETHLEHEM STAR
The maker of the earth and skies
often used objects of small size
to teach His audience and explain
the deep truths that His Words contain.
One day He used a little child
to teach His students to be mild.
To occupy His kingdom grand
like children they must hold His hand.
The little ants storing supplies
can teach us all how to be wise.
With none to direct or compel
how orderly these creatures dwell.
The mustard seed, though very small
of garden plants they are most tall.
So, like a seed, God’s kingdom grows
exactly how? Only God knows.
A grain of sand tween mantle and shell
spawns pearls that for small fortunes sell.
Faith like a tiny mustard seed
can move mounts that our paths impede.
Small ideas, in curious minds,
have spawned inventions of all kinds.
A tiny thought, sown reaps an act,
that our destiny can impact.
A small act of kindness, heaven knows,
how far that simple action goes.
Only eternity will tell
how many souls it saved from hell.
So, do not despise tiny things
cherish the blessings each one brings.
By doing so the joy you’ll know
upon your countenance will show.
I am insignificant
in the scheme of things
God's world is big and beautiful
and full of wonder
I am none of those things
I struggle with if I am important at all
in the passing of each day
I am kind and I hope that will
change at least a minute of someone's day
I love fiercely, but sometimes love hurts
I feel deeply and in that, I am hurt
I see the hurt in people, because
I recognize the pain in their eyes
I will never change the world in a big way
but I may change the world around me
for the better, and if I do,
that will be my mark on the world!
Significance
In a tiny space,
Words are full of meaning; joy.
Capturing the heart.
"The Significance of a Number"
more than 3
less than 3
more than 1
light and dark
day and night
birth and death
all partners
of significance
hand in hand
dance their dance
‘til kingdoms come
old and young
more than 3
less than 3
more than 1
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Becoming
"Of Awareness aware.."
An often said goal
Of meditative paths..
But seemingly an
Assumptive separation
Bedrocks a story:
A separate individual
Achieving said goal..
However~
As a story it retains
Beautiful significance...
SIGNIFICANCE
an
imperfect
rhapsody
embellish
unforgettable
melodies
venture
forth
heartened
delight
conveniely
exaggerated
compounded
phrased
&
appraised
estimated
&measured
circling
comprehension
in
creative
forces
lapsed
destiny
both
beautiful
&
emotional
SIGNIFICANCE
eruptions
alongside
the representational
for
good measure
teases
the
eye
sees something
completely different
steers
towards a
different
interpretation
with
no straightforward
reading
thereby
enhancing
the value enhancing
of patience
operates
within
to
readily associate
beneath
the visceral
skin
the
unsettling
spectre
to the
insightful
emphasis
on the difference
is blurred
the boundary between
overlaid&
a mere
starting point
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
SIGNIFICANCE
periods of
visibility
a dreamy
scenario
in refined
narrative
a willingness
to explore
beyond
foundational
style
in
abstracted
playfulness
at
significant
moments
I listened
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
When the six days of creation were finished,
God’s vigor was in no way diminished.
But on the seventh day, He rested,
And with Adam and Eve, He feted.
God sanctified the seventh-day Sabbath,
so that man would remember his Maker,
while resting from life’s jostling and jabbing,
and in God’s rest refreshment partaking.
From day one to day six God was working,
So, none of those days could be the Sabbath.
That is why he said man should work six days,
and rest on His seventh-day Sabbath.
The Sabbath reminds us of creation,
the antithesis of evolution.
Sabbath is of all days the chiefest,
its devotees include no atheists.
Man was made in the image of God,
but because of sin, he became flawed.
God has a plan for man’s recreation,
open to all who seek His salvation.
The Sabbath celebrates recreation
and redemption from sin and damnation.
Because Christ completed salvation’s work
Humans can rest from their own worthless works.
Poetry
Poetry is of letters,
Poetry is of words,
Which includes all the happiness and pains,
All the troubles and difficulties of the life,
To show such conditions will occurs in our life,
We can’t share with others,
We will share to papers,
Papers becomes our best friends,
They will neither become sad to us,
They captures all our pains,
Who care like that ?
Not only that when we feel happiness,
We share that to our all friends,
As well as to share that things,
To the whole world,
So, we write poems,
Poems are our good friends,
We can learn other peoples,
As well as we can spread out happiness,
So poetry is the medicine,
Poetry is the key of treasure,
Poetry is the game of words,
Not only that we can imagine,
The metaphysical things and,
We can imagine and become,
Any one in our life,
The letters becomes the word,
And word becomes our voice,
Our voices are in this each letters,
Which makes us alive,
So, poetry is the best thing in this world,
Poetry can be immortal,
Poetry gives justice to the voiceless.
©® Binod Dawadi
Nepal
Over a spooning cup of long dead coffee,
which; isn’t cutting it anymore, I look across the bay,
under the wings of a seabird, and imagine all
count-less names, over the years, written in shore sand,
scrubbed clean by each days, tumbling relentless tide.
There is pink noise swimming in the salted air;
mixed with white noise, hanging in the chill wind!
Together its hypnotic sound, is the morning song of the sea;
as the cooling sun slips into, the horizons crimson pocket,
as it floats far and away, in the centuries of distance.
Then! In an opposing pose of defiance; at a later hour,
the pale part moon looks onto another shore.
The hours have dissolved, like the sugar in my many cups.
And all that’s left are many jumbled words and ideas,
but no tea leaf told future, in this espresso moment !
I read the weeks obituaries closely
saw lines of passing on every page
I wondered who they were and
who were those they left behind.
The names meant nothing to me.
I did not know them.
What did it matter to me they liked golf,
had a love for woodcraft, planted gardens?
What was the meaning of lists of those that passed?
I will never know them
or take the time to categorize
those things they liked to do.
Dark mornings before the birds awaken
I rise like those from other graves
and with the other ghosts stir alone
within our movement
toward the coffee and the light;
pen and pad held ready
to meet the challenge of my words;
to play with fire and golden strands
of filaments of thought.
Today I’ll choose the right combination
of characters in search of that single truth,
lost forever inside a forest of final light
and one day for one moment
someone will cast a casual glance
my way and say, “what did it matter
that he liked poetry?”
I never knew him.
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