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Ylzm May 22
A book was given,
but the man cannot read.
Another can read,
but cannot understand.
A book of secrets,
in a plain tongue.
A strange tongue given,
secrets revealed.
Ylzm May 17
in seven of sevens,
in time, times and a half,
from the very first night,
the harvest is completed.

the fruition of the leaven of truth,
once a strange tongue,
coded in familiar languages;
unquenchably burns on altars.

a foreign bride awaits,
the reason a man leaves his family;
love shall be awakened and aroused,
for the time is right!

the light, fully revealed.
a child, a new creation:
King of kings for a thousand years,
then Armageddon!
Lawrence Hall Oct 2016
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]

               Last Sunday after Pentecost

A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer

The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky

Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds

Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Stan Lindsey Feb 2016
To love is to cry.  Beauty made flesh.  It envelopes me leaving my mind untouched.  We build towers in our minds.  All of humanity speaks one language there.  A unified, unidirectional force that makes itself taller than any tree.  From the top, there I rest my eyes.  I sacrifice my sense of vision to gain a better field of vision.  I become a watchman.  A guard of of the precious tower.  A tower with the faces of my memories carved in it.  I am a watchman, a watchman knows no sleep.  A watchman keeps eyes for enemies, and only wants the tower to be higher.

Meanwhile in reality my heart is a priest.  Quick to sleep.  Quick to close it's eyes.  The cross remains at the top of a priest's tower, stopping all movement.  The priest does his living on the ground, next to the dust.  A priest keeps eyes for friends, and only wants to give away all of his building.  A priest cries for those he does not even know.  

Beauty is Pentecost.  The enveloping of the spirit that shatters the tower and turns a watchman to a priest who speaks                           in tongues.

— The End —