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Poetictunes May 2017
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
Richard Grahn May 2017
Curled up by the fire
Mesmerized by its warm glow
Our love is burning
Renae Feb 2017
Be my mind today
Protect me from myself
The threats that atempt
to take away
My sanity
Be my heart
Help me not to sway
This way and that
Protect me from heartbreak
Be my helmet
Let me only look to you
Feed my mind courage
Let my strength renew
Be my shield
Let your word be my guide
Let me listen to songs
Your people sing
Bring out the best inside
Be my sword
The only one I yield
Make me remember
Scripture
Don't  let me listen to how I feel
I know my heart
Treaturous thing
So I know I need your help
In everything
I will ignore this heart
I don't want to assume anything
But you will help me through
Because you are my refuge
No matter what life brings
Ana S Dec 2016
This is my fire range
The place I put my thoughts when they are rearanged.
Yes this is my firing range.
The only thing keeping me partially sane.
When I need to let go I hold on
This page gives me a new dawn
So yes this is my firing range
Where I fire the most hateful words
With a wirl in my brain.
Welcome to my firing range.
A metaphors
the joke of spurted *****
sticks to her smooth skin
spider silk waiting for
some long-lost splendour

her eyes puddles of misfortune
full of double layers and his flames
violently demanding refuge spurred
by a heart taking hold of hers

somewhere
behind the human stench
a man must live
to gently grow old with
until nothing but the essential remains
small and slow and helpless
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2016
Her door was the sanctuary to inner peace; a sudden enlightenment
Engaging the candle of lit eyes.
Mindful to the calm hush; Disappearing in self.
Body, Mind, Soul.
Beside her door there was a lake wide awake with open ears.
I stood there Absorbing her wisdom.
A depth of kindness with each interchanging current.
I learned to speak without words. Connecting thine eyes with hers.
All else was swallowed; Exhaling, then breathing again.
Fingers extinguishing all else that threatened a light shone from her.
Her Eyes.
She'd shone me courage, grasping my hand. Entwining her path with mine.
I bowed to her and her alone in guided mediation.
At that moment there was no need for mirrors, realizing that she was my reflection.
My spirit animal, my refugee.
She taught me the language of her heart, being shown in silence.
I journeyed a place ears would have no use, my tongue becoming a stranger.
A total embodiment to the gift of her and her alone.
A beautiful lesson in poverty; Clinching my hands in prayer.
                                                         ­     Blessed in her presence
Migrant refugee
a place of temporary
community is everything for
The Afghan, Syrian, Iranian and Africans of all
from the jungle they came, to The Jungle they go.
A place to pass through hope
to go over to Dover and
beyond. Think so fond
of the other side.
Work, new life, peace
and family they seek.
On a journey to travel, men,
women and kids flee from
an evil chasing their race.
They stare death in its
face the whole way.
To leave it all behind in hope
to find that which is true.
Some French help, some unsure,
others come from afar
to serve and ask
"What can I do?"
to find there is nothing but to see.
Some pray and some say
"I will not stay"
after months of waiting
to leave with no more tricks in
their sleeve, oh Lord when
will they believe in this Jesus
who sets all free.
Calais is a city in France that borders Dover England separated by the English channel. Muslim refugees flee their nation as bombings increase in their neighborhoods from ISIS and other evils. By the time they have traveled through deserts and mountains fighting starvation and exposure to then drift across the Aegean Sea into Athens Greece, those who survive try to make it into the rest of Europe for freedom. Those few hundreds that make it out of Athens find themselves in a place called "The Jungle" in Calais, France. This is basically an old landfill that does not get used anymore, so the generous French government has made use of this space and has made a camp for the refugees in this place. Everyone who is there wants to continue moving to find more work and a better life. Hope and despair are a constant battle in these peoples reality. This refugee camp is called The Jungle because of the diversity of nations and culture represented in this community. What once was an official government camp for 1500 people is now surrounded by 5000 refugees in "tent shacks" and makeshift buildings provided by local ministries because no one plans on staying long term. But after a few years of a growing population, human attributes have made small businesses, shops and cafes with different communities in this vast landscape making every day life palatable for the people living in these  conditions. Every night people are trying to be smuggled across the English Channel on boat in anyway they can find.Hiding in a crate, truck and many others are a passport in their eyes as getting official paperwork in near impossible.
Cynthia Jean May 2016
we are

blessed
forgiven
healed
redeemed
and crowned

we are drawn
with lovingkindness

this day
i will trust

this day
i will pour

He is

my heart's refuge....

cj 2016
blessed beyond what we could ask or think
Kaitlyn V Mcnay May 2016
Dreaming by day
Drinking by night
She grips the bottle, so tight
Tips the bottle a bit higher
Pretending her day dreams are at the bottom
Love by day
Lust by night
Confusing obvious wrongs and rights
She grips his unfamiliar hips,
A drug in disguise
Laced with tattoos and bad intentions
She hopes to find love
inbetween his art and her satin sheets. She'll have him stuck in her head every sunset.
Remembering by day
Forgetting by night
That he nor him
Is not where her salvation lies
Between her own lips
Behind her own eyes
Is where her answers hide
She is too afraid to look inside
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