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Crystal Erickson
beyond the veil    Between the tear that falls and the smile that brightens There is a domain I call my own A realm of fantasy and freedom Where …
King of Limericks
M/Remote    A writer without boundaries or borders. Always eager to exchange word magic. kingoflimericks.com
Jeddy El Patricks
M    Dreamer | Programmer | Poet

Poems

Samuel Lombardo Nov 2014
There was once a parable,
an earthly story
portraying a message that would
be told in reference of our life:
A sower goes out to sow some seeds.
However, there were some seeds
fell on the wayside, and
were swallowed up by the birds.
Yet, some seeds fell next to the ricks,
but there was not enough earth
to keep the growth of the plant-
so, when the sun came out
the seeds were scorched from the earth
with minimum growth,
but without the roots
to carry on its growth process.
Yet, some seeds were placed in the thorns;
so, those seeds were choked by its death.
The last sower was able to find good land,
where seeds would grow to a hundred fold.

There is a mission:
When God asks us to plant seeds,
we are asked to have the oil with us.
Without the right concentration,
there are concerns of thorns
who can choke you up.
Because the thorns are sharp and dangerous,
only God has the power to devour
or to destroy them.
A thorn is stubborn, and will continue to process
threats of no promise, but the cuts it can process.

Some thorns can be hidden,
while a red rose blooms beautifully
on the branches of a rose bush,
there is no reason to believe-
the thorn bush wants you
to grab the beautiful rose
to dig into your skin
the anger it holds
for you.

Hence we have the earth to produce God's mission,
but without the oil and concentration,
there are only rocks that will go nowhere.
Yes, unless you plan to move the rocks out
of the way, those things will always remain.
Only God has the power to remove the
blockages out of our lives to make
success in His mission, not our own.
Rocks also causes pain. They are
heavy, stubborn to move, and are often in the way.
When dealing with rocks,
their mission is to block the truth
blind us for which what is said is to be
hypocritical to the naked eye.
However, what the rocks do not know,
they may block our message from reaping,
but God can remove that rock,
placing them where they will work better.
The rocks are the most stubborn for sending
a message when the rock says,
"Here I am try to move me,"
however, if you remove a rock from its place,
they too have a purpose, and knocks the
whole scenario outta-kilta.
The situation is that while seeds could grow,
they die off very quickly without roots.

The question is:
Does it take a brain surgeon
to help us decide where to plant seeds?
Do we need to express the dangers
of rocks and thorns?
Where do we lay our hearts?
Is our hearts in the thorns, being tangled and sliced-
or is our hearts being crushed by rocks?
Is our oil being dripped by the holding back of thorns,
or are the rocks dying the oil up?
Our hearts need to sow where there is promise.
#Sower #Distractions #Plotters #Hypocrisy #Love #Heart #Salvation #FindingtheLight #Promise #Choice #Freedom
Dylan Thomas  Jun 2009
Fern Hill
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the ****** starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
                  take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday--
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle--'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life--
And I see us meeting at the end of a town on a fair day by accident,
after the bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us -- eternally.