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Bhill Sep 10
everyone has heard of the acorn tale
”Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded.”
everyone has listened to the Little Red Hen
”she made the bread herself, she will eat the bread herself.”
not everyone has their hands stained with labor
we all need to work together
stop the bickering and name-calling
stop the delusional thinking and help make the bread
we got this - we have to get this!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 249
Jordan Gee Aug 1
on the day of the double funeral I stand
waiting for the rest of me to die,
I am that I am but I harbor a bad disease.
i should be anywhere and be doing anything other
than what i am.
because before Abraham was i am
standing in the empty quarter
reading a funeral manual on the
day of the double sky burial.
i’m poisoned off my pouch of yesterday’s mana.
gums are bleeding this is yesterday’s daily bread.
men cannot live off bread alone
and the jackrabbit horde is coming home
our own locust plague for a new Sahara.
i stand with a hangman’s fracture
lost on the old sermons in the sand.
following my family’s footsteps sadly in the wrong direction,
lost among the marking rocks.
snow leopards of the black blizzard and
my poison pouch of mana.
drowning in the fires we cook a stray dog
reaping all the whirlwinds I sound a 12 foot Tibetan horn
on the day of a double funeral -
perched in the dwelling of the solitude.
a present day under my armpits –
oh, what a singularity it is not

aluminum ****** out of mother's milk is a spice
from day
     to day
          becomes bread
Anais Vionet Jun 25
American citizens in “bread-lines” to get little boxes of food. How desperate do you have to be to join that line? The sad, generous, little boxes of nutrition. We are all human, we all need our next breath and our children’s next meal. We all need shelter.

It’s a carnival of pleasure to mock human need. Tell me my mistake.

Watch our President’s Daily Briefing. He doesn’t mention bread-lines. He chooses not to. How counterfeit is his competence. No “fire side chat”, no promise of hope. How mean is this fat, grubby, “rich” man who s*s on golden toilet seats and ignores starving Americans’ desperation.

The tyrant’s plea, as the collapse begins, is “I’m not responsible”. Tell me my mistake.

We have lost our immeasurable strength. We are become callous. We are robbed, of our better, more generous selves by narrow focus, by zero sum greed. Our collapse will be just, like verse set down in primitive times when the margin of error was clear and understood.

It’s a calm discrimination to choose carelessness. Tell me my mistake.

This unfolding viral nightmare is but one of the fires along the tree line. The encroaching environmental disaster, the loss of our political system’s integrity, the militarization of police racism.

Maybe China will do better - if I’m reading my score card correctly, it looks like they’re up next as the world’s great superpower.
about the corona virus response - and other things - like Trump
Maria Mitea May 14
At the first encounter, I thought
That he stole my mother’s tablecloth,
And called it Great,
While she turned the flour into bread.

I thought.
What if they were lovers?
And shared the same tablecloth,
While my father was sweating in his fields,
And my mother was sipping wine from her grapes,
And the poet wrote songs of despair, as he could not have her.

I shake away my childish thoughts and doubt even more.

What if they were traders?

trading the tigers, the bread,
the tyrants, the grim teeth,
the wine fields and hard eyes,
the lamb, the onions,
the hunger and the thirst,
the hours of eating the strawberries
and the blossoms on the great tablecloth.

Oh, I am childish, and  jealous, and curious,
And can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloth.

What if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
And used her as a tablecloth for those who never eat,
And those who never loved, for those who never cried,
And those who never turned the flour into bread.
For those who never let their hearts be Neruda's great tablecloth.
Pablo Neruda was a Chilian writer that wrote  "The Great Tablecloth" poem. I have had this poem in my heart for a long time. It feels great to have it written in English. :)
Do not fear tomorrow
for tomorrow will never come
do not fear the past
for the past is already done

do not cry for approval
for approval gives no bread
do not weep for the dying
instead laugh with the dead

follow the path of gravestones
decorated with gold
follow the dark and the light
to see which one takes hold

listen to the bird call
follow the raven's trail
listen to the wolf howl
watch him shake his tail

coo coo
caw caw

run as fast as we can

moo moo
ba ba

back to where it began
Nigdaw Apr 29
the bread you gave us yesterday
was warm and smelt of home
it tasted sweet and comforting
our stomachs full to bursting

the bread you gave us today
was mouldy and hard to swallow
it tasted of bitter memories
of how you loved us once

the bread you'll gives us tomorrow
will be hard and cold as stone
it will taste forgotten like ashes
when the fire has lost it's soul
I guess it is time to find something to look forward to.
I guess it is time to be reminded that not everything is falling off the edge.
I guess it is time to tap into hope.

I Guess... I Guess...

It is more than a feeling that I seek today.
I look forward to the time when I choose to be happy more than I choose to be sad.
A simplistic, cliche statement that speaks dividends to the current mental state of myself and others.
We look inside of ourselves and choose to look at the nuggets of despair that are over there,
Instead of looking at the joy that is on the other side.

I Guess... I Guess...

Life is more worthy of repeating than closing.
Doors that open might be more intriguing, but sometimes revisiting past failures can make you stronger.
But make sure not to dwell too long.
Balance the doors that are new and the ones that used to be present for you.

I Guess... I Guess...

Hope is a choice.
Hope can provide peace.
What do we put our hope in?
Where do our eyes rest upon when we look up to the stars in the sky?

Who provides us our daily bread?
Who irrigates our bodies with life?
Where do we put our faith in when the times decide to derail us off the tracks?
Where does the child go when they no longer have the bread they need?

When we gather up the provisions we need, do we take too much?
When we grab the stars do we take too many?
Are we using hope to fuel the fear that is festering deep inside?
When the stars are shining are we the ones snuffing them out?

I Guess... I Guess...

The time has come to choose true hope over falsified documents.
The time has come to let faith be a guide.
The time has come to stop hoarding the stars and take just what I need.
(I wonder what else I need?)
The time has come to take someone else's hand just to comfort them.
To show love and to choose love.
To choose life over death.
To show hope to choose hope.  

I Guess... I Guess...

I want more than a fine feeling.
I want more than a horoscope peace.
I want more than a past that I'm ashamed of.
I want more than a degenerating hope in things that will never give me joy.

I guess it is time to find something to look forward to.
I guess it is time to be reminded that not everything is falling off the edge.
I guess it is time to tap into hope

I Guess... I Guess...

I am lost, but I am too scared to be found...
Looking for some clarity.
Demi Apr 13
Her hair smelled like strawberry sun,
her skin lightly powdered like a baker’s bun,
you picture her on your luncheon plate.
Being swallowed by your slimy throat
Will never become her fate.
Shaina Apr 9
You long for us to look back
Upon Your great love
The mercy You have shown us
And Your covenant of freedom
Your shield surrounds us
As we mourn and weep
Silently remembering
The hands and feet
Once bowed before
And anointed with oil
Now covered in blood
And like your clothes, soiled
You hang there, a victim
Of humanity’s curse
You pay for the ones
Who have sinned since their birth
Your head bows low, weary
As once ours did for You
And Your brow bleeds from the
thorny crown that marks Your abuse
Your feet bound and broken
With Your arms stretched out
You carry every burden
As we scream and shout  
Shaking our fists
At the Innocent Lamb
”Blasphemous! Hypocrite!”
While you take the punishment of man
You sigh with a grieved spirit
As you bleed out from the holes
And our words continue taunting
Your meek, martyred soul
They echo in Your ears
Our sins final, black “amen”
And Your eyes fill with tears
As you whisper: “Father, forgive them.”
Your scarlet blood seeps down
And touches our ***** feet
Yet still we want more
Crave a delicious defeat
We use You as our mockery
Our Canvas to paint
Our faces filled with scorn and guilt
As we use You as bait
You are like a Lamb
Led silently to the slaughter
And now You hang there
Mourning for Your sons and daughters
Your goodness was shown
In the works You did
Healing the lame, the blind
The ***** and the sick
You brought the dead to Life
Yet we doubted still
Your ability to cleanse us
From the bleak, deadly chill
And, now scanning the crowd
Your eyes fall on mine
But I turn away, guilty
For my rage and defiance
But instead of the hatred
I think the eyes will bring
They are filled with love and grace
Overflowing like a Dayspring
And my spirit is lifted
As my eyes meet the One
Who has suffered for me
While I scorn His gentle love
And His eyes, sharp and piercing
Bring fear to my heart
For who could stand persecution
And still forgive the scars?
Who could hang there looking
At the ones who cause Him pain
And have nothing against them
Not desiring to cause shame?
I am shocked as I return
My gaze once again
And find You’re still looking at me
Your eyes have not left
The love has not ceased
The blood has not stopped flowing
Now pooled at my feet
It’s red radiance, glowing
I gaze down and discover
A golden chalice in my hand
And looking around me there are none
All the others have left
And then You speak Your first words
To me on that cross:
“Drink, child,” You call
“For all is not lost.”
I am shocked at the words
But I kneel in the dirt
Fill my cup to the brim
With the liquid rebirth
I look doubtfully at the cup
And then back at You
You nod for me to do
What You have asked me to
But I shake my head violently
And form the words in my mind
“I cannot accept this offering
My own way I will find.
He has already done
Far too much for me now
And I cannot repay Him.”
So I pour it out
On the dirt it splatters
And makes pathways in the mud
But I look up and His face
Is now grieved for His love
“Child, for this you do not pay.”
And He implores me with His eyes
To try once again to accept
The free gift He supplies.
I shake my head in disbelief
“But, how can this be?
For I have never done anything
To make you love me.”
And still His eyes search me
Waiting for my choice
As I struggle within
And listen again for His voice
But now it is silent
As all Heaven gazes down
The earth holds its breath
The blood thickly coats the ground
I am crushed by the weight
Of this glorious reality
That although I deserve nothing
Still this Stranger gives it all to me?
“I do not know You,” I stammer
“But I do know one thing.
All my life, no one has ever
loved like You love me.”
So I crumble with the weight
Of this realization
And dip the burning gold chalice
Into the crimson oasis
I kneel on one knee
Lift the cup to my lips
And as I drain its contents
He speaks softly: “It is finished.”
Now He takes a deep breath
His body shudders and sighs
And as I watch, trembling
My Savior peacefully dies
I have no words to speak
But the warmth of the blood
Fills my veins with a strength
That I know is His love
And the tears fall silently in the dirt
And mingle with the Red
As I stare at my Lord’s broken body
And think of how He bled
And now every day
I cannot help thinking
Of the death that He died
And the tomb He left singing
And because of the blood
My Lord’s suffering is ended
And His hands pull me in
To the glory of Heaven
I remember His words
Resounding in front of me:
“Drink My blood, poured out for your worth.
Do this in remembrance of Me.”
”In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace.” -Ephesians 1:7
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