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Steve Page Dec 2018
I tell ya.
Angels
are not as much of a flight risk
as you first may think.
The cherubim however
are flighty
and way more likely to fly off
at the baby's first cry
Like they've got somewhere else to be.
Just try. You'll see.
Not even a bye-bye.

But angels, oh man.
Angels -
I'm a fan.

You can set your Sat Nav
on an Angel.
Dreamtime or lunchtime,
they'll be your guide.
- Sublime.

Me and Mary
were fans.

- Jesus!
Put those nails down.
If your mum catches you with those, she'll go spare.
Joseph got used to Angel visitations.
It was
the green
grass there
between dipoles
holes when
bare organic
meat the
harvest begun
their true
rein again
with a
notorious cut
of beef
ribeyes but
ranches nearby
her Swanee
River oak
a ****** in sequence
Maria Etre Aug 2018
There i(s)
a certa(i)n
place for you
(s)ustained
in my heart
by
bro(t)herly lov(e)
that you keep
(r)eplenishing
"If I Could Give You My Eyes" Series
Farzaneh Qaf Jul 2018
I'm not Joseph
no "no" to temptations
thy greatness, O' He
grant me a vision
to interpret
day dreams
may I know
how to sacrifice
me
for her kisses
on my forehead,
flee...
as Potiphar
meets despair
with his
dire wife
but highlight
in this
lustful affair
when her
dream died
and not
well in
court while
her accusations
finish rife
and Joseph's
crown wins
the right
Joseph inhales Egypt
ShowYouLove Apr 2018
Mary holds the lifeless body
As tears flow from her eyes
Does she also know that
Soon her son must rise?
Mary holds her baby's hand
So little and so frail
Does she also understand
That they would be pierced by a nail?
Mary holds her son close to her chest
When they find him teaching
Does she feel so blessed that
Even to death He is reaching?
Mary holds her son to wish him a good day
As he works with Joseph at his trade
Mary holds our hand as we walk the way
God says: see the work my hands have made!
this was inspired by looking at a statue of Mary holding Jesus' lifeless body in her arms during one Adoration. Written during a "40 Hours Devotion" started by St. John Neumann when he came to America.
ShowYouLove Mar 2018
Along the stairway to Heaven
The angels play their harps of gold
They sing hymns of ceaseless praise
To the prince of peace and king of kings.
He came down from Heaven to take his place as man
To pay the cost we could not pay was always the plan.
I walk along the stairway to Heaven
It is a long and challenging climb
But I keep my eyes fixed ahead and I make some progress.
I do not walk alone for there are many here with me
The way we make it up is to help each other.
Mary made a path for us and Jesus paved the way
Joseph walks beside us lending us his strength
Jacob dreams a ladder stretching from Heaven to earth.
The cross became the bridge with which to cross
The Grand Canyon that is between us and God.
Sometimes I feel like I'm close to you
Other times I'm miles away and in the dark.
Be with me Lord and help me on the way
Lord give me strength for the journey.
At times the climb is more like a battle
Fighting just to keep my feet from falling
But when I lose hope I think I feel you calling.
The stairway to Heaven will last a lifetime
There are many gone before us to help show us
To guide and encourage and challenge.
Following their light to the source of all light.
The stairway to Heaven is not always an easy climb
But it has been well worth the struggle every single time.
Anatoly Dec 2017
From nowhere with love, on the teenth of martober.
Dear madam, my darling, my sweet- but of no
Importance that is. For your features no longer,
To tell the truth, can be remembered. Not yours,
Yet no one's best friend. I salute you from one of
Five continents, which rests on the cowboys. Then
I loved you more than angles, and even "Omni...",
Hence, farther I am from you than- both of them.
Far away, late at night, at the bottom of valley,
In the town, where snow reaches the doorknob. I ,
Upon the sheet wringling, at least not as may be
Described somewhere in the further line,
I fluff up the pillow with "you" in a murmur,
Over the mountains, which have no bounds or end,
In the darkness, with the entire body, all your
Features, as would a crazy mirrow, I recreate.
a planter
was vaulted
in Joseph
an architect
with ******
Mary's grace
when their
only secret
in vantage
with antichrist
these sprigs
where she
was Queen
of Plantagenet
and ever
so paramount
hereby in
glamorous rouse
F
Joshua Haines May 2017
White whiskers rooted above the trumpet player's lips;
his body moves like a sci-fi parasite, as he spits out songs
at the big bellied, Skecher-chic, boardwalk children.
The kids give a moment's interest before passing by like
armored flies, if armor were cheap cotton shirts and
helicopter parents.

Sooner or later, the sunset meets the brim of his hat.
It's a mystery as to the speed of the trumpet dropping
from his lips to its case, but you'd have to find someone
who cares about those types of things.

His brown, leather, Payless feet jut outward; away from
one another and towards American stores reflecting themselves:
Italian restaurant, Thai restaurant, Car Insurance, Dollar Store.

Quicker than you'd think, his denim hips are clamped by
the wooden arms of a misplaced deck chair, relocated to
a dining table as small and low-income as the man who
saw the dreamlike orange and purple sky drift away
behind the cemetery gray blanket of smoke, rising from
a fractured ground littered in mud-bathed, leaking bodies.

When the night has only begun to settle in, the man's
thick hands carefully adjust her picture, for he fears
the paleness of his fingers will leave more of a residue
than he is accustomed to.

Kept within the copper and green borders, she has
only begun life; twenty-three and never having to apologize,
there is still so much left to the imagination; her olive grey
cheeks are sided to his eyes, ready to be jammed with
baby, mommy, and daddy fragments of windshield;
waiting for the last embrace of a sturdy steering wheel;
her hair still dry and not dampened by insides coming out
or the flying weaker-than-you-think half-gallon of whole milk
that covered -- or washed, depending on your attitude -- the
back of her fifty-three year old head; the eggs fortunately
missing twelve times, hitting what was left of the windshield,
leaving an image comparable to the wall of a bar that not only
has a dartboard but also a man with terrible aim or who had as
much alcohol as the man who slipped his car into Margaret
and Joseph's life.

Joseph looks away from her picture, as his glass eyes begin
to shatter. Running fat palms and bulbous fingers through
the white, over grown lawn on his scarred scalp,
he says her name three times before retiring to the mattress
Margaret picked out.
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