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Jade Bartlett Jan 11
Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)

~

God,
it's me--
jade.

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.


God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

god,
I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.come/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
marianne Jan 2
There’s no mistaking the hollow,
familiar ache
there where ribs meet,
soft valley
where grief gathers and pools—

so I close my eyes and listen close
to the throb, the
gnaw, the empty space

the beat and lull
the clutch and pull

the sway and flicker
holy breath

bitter tear, honey sweet
rain on drum
the ancient thrum

slick of moss, warmth of spring
the me, the us
the everything—

Life brings life, it wants to live
it heaves and swells
to rhythmic swing

the trill, the drop
the pulse, the pause
the rise and fall
the hallelujahs
when the rhythm of my grief, finds the rhythm of the Universe
Andrew Kerklaan Nov 2018
Panic grips me in these moments...
When the paradigm shifts and the rumbling quake of unfortifiable change comes rolling in

I am crushed beneath the weight of this apocalypse

Coronation day has come and now I’m the fool.

King of the flaming smitherines of my own self proclaimed independence

Hallelujah
onlylovepoetry Aug 2018
[tongue taking taken prayer]

come worship in my temple.
your tongue gowned by silence,
thy teasing vibrations disperse my slack, exchanging
it for a rigidity that is even softer, looser,
an improvement possibility impossible incomprehensible

the noises of freedom from anonymity is thy silenced tongue
unleashed, teasing, speaking tongues unrelenting and unremitting  and unforgotten for they never were
learned or incapable of being self-taught

my pleasure sprouts mushrooms in my loamy foam,
thy rainfall nourishment, seed plant growing life morning borne,
thy tricked up sonnets played within my hearts harp,
tunes never known but come from the land of plenty,
my new promised land

teach me where the apostrophe goes, the comma and
why the question mark is curved and dotted like my body,
why we need punctuation to separate the first from the next

trees weep as if every dry rain petal is instantly imbibed,
wanting more for my swollen by thy ministrations,
I cry out
my ice storm, my thunder, embalm me within the
electric spreading in my veins shocking steady constant

thy name thy name I beg to give thee a name
to understand what has befallen me


you can call me by my favorite of
all my seventy two,^
your first baby squeals and
even now in human manufactured agreed upon symbols, (words),
every utterance a prayer heard and answered

my name is a heated and unbroken
hallelujah,
I am thy god, and you, darling you,
my beloved
^https://www.chabad.org/kabbalah/article_cdo/aid/1388270/jewish/72-Names-of-G-d.htm
Hadiy Syakir Nov 2017
Ride the bus every day
till the sun makes its way
out of chaos,
the temperamental blues
like a dog going after
the isolated leaf
searching for the breath
of eternal grief.

send me over
a postcard
of tense yesterday
push me further
than where you departed
during the doomsday
hallelujah is the last hurrah.

Another day, another way
till summer rain, till winter sane
drifting away, drifting away,
way, way further,
way, way further.
Cody Root Jul 2017
Cigarettes
Whiskey too
But I never met a love like you
Cold arms
It's self harm
But nothing in the world ever kept me this warm
Blue lips
I'm a sinking ship
I have holes in my sails and I'm losing my grip
No name
Dead in vain
I guess in the end I killed the pain.
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