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aniket nikhade Jun 2016
Action speaks louder than words,
so does confidence,
which speaks for itself as the right thing done at the right moment in time,
enhances the scope of how things will shape in future,
then also at the same point in time it changes the nature of everything in present, which has got do something with regards to future.

Definitely taking a proper line of action speaks for itself rather than stating it merely on a piece of paper or in the form of words.
The shape of Love is not a heart,
but that… of a solitary cross;
the burden of Christ’s sacrifice
was a desire to redeem the lost.

For Him, to reflect the Love of
The Father, is unimaginable to us;
such mercy and grace required God,
Who was embodied by Christ Jesus.

By the actions of one man, sin was
birthed into this world by Adam;
and now, through Christ, its affect
can be diminished, as we imagine

ourselves being made in the image
of God, according to His Holy Word.
Through the crucifixion of Christ,
the power of God in Him was stirred

to raise Christ from Humanity’s grave
in the sacrificial act of God’s Love;
therefore, we should mirror our Lord
daily, pulling down Heaven from above

by living with Grace, Mercy and Love.
.
.
.
Author notes:

Inspired by:
Eph 1:7; Isa 53; John 3:16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
traces of being Mar 2016
.
                  It was the arc
                        of the rainbow
                              strewn above  
                                  thunder showered
                                     dawn;
                                         sun rays
                                           bending  
                                             into another
                                               resurrection
                                                 freshening hope
                                                   ..., or   
                                                      is it only
                                                        flecks
                                                          of colored light
                                                            curving
                                                         ­    in an arch
                                                            ­ your supple
                                                          ­  vestige
                                                            risi­ng to the sighs
                                                           of passionate touch ?
                                                           ..., perhaps just
                                                          leftover stardust,  * * *
                                                        spilled­ from                  *
                                         ­             someone else’s                      *
                                   ­                impassioned twilight ...                     *
                                                 becoming      ­                                         *
                                               nothing more
                                            than a hollow
                                          waning memory,
                                        a yearning ache,
                                    fading
                ­                like a  sunrise
                        daydream’s
                   afterglow



                                        wild is the wind © 2015
                                                ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
while looking out across
the empty silk sheets of dawn,
where you once lay..,
a rainbow filled the sky
the colour & shape,
the memory of moonlight upon
your body's sway....
Loveless Feb 2016
my words take shape of verses while talking to you
My muse. My elsa. She made me a poet
Barton D Smock Feb 2016
it wasn’t
that he’d been
in a terrible
accident
but that
the image
I had of him
hadn’t

sight has a single trick

show me a food
can keep
itself
from being
eaten, one of these

is older
than the other (the hands)

the parents
of touch
JR Rhine Feb 2016
I've never read
                                                            ­                  the same poem twice.

                 Laying in bed,
                                                     words shift in my mind.
                                                           ­         
                                                       ­                                    You hear they've said
lightning don't strike twice.
nate1990 Jan 2016
I
Ts
Jus
Taga
Mewep
Laywith
Ourminds
Combinatio
NsofLetter
Stomakes
ensofita
Llthou
­Ghitn
Ever
Eve
Rw
IL
L
Continuous sentence.
It's just a game we play with our minds. Combinations of letters to make sense if it all - though if never ever will ~
Ciel Jan 2016
Do you ever wish

The bus ride would never
end,

So you could continue 

To stare blankly 

At the boring

Bland

Scenery passing by

On the other side

Of the horrid
scratched up

window

And not have to deal

With all the ******

Depressing

Empty

Thoughts 
in your mind

That contemplate 

Everything 
and
Nothing

All
at
once
?

Because,

Right now
,
I certainly don’t
want this
 boring 

Quiet bus ride
to end.

It’s much
better
than
the 

Noisy

Tedious 

Thoughts
that
keep

flitting
through
my brain.
Austin Martin Jan 2016
A
splash
overtakes
the stern and
rocks grind the
gunwales. Quick to
maneuver, draw draw
draw, easing the boat into
calmer waters; pause. A deep
breath to regain  focus  and  scout
the stream ahead. White water, boiling
foaming writhing as it is forced reluctantly
along. Trout shimmer under the  warm  sun
cutting  effortlessly  through the  brisk  water.
Disrupted and scattering they  flee as a  stroke
breaks the surface, bubbles  rise  off the paddle
ascending like the decent  of  snowflakes  falling
falling falling to the surface above. On this ground
blanketed by freshly  fallen snow, water bugs  dart
back and  forth more quickly than the eye can  see,
disturbing  only a  slight  dimple  below. These  too
flee as the water  is  broken, cut in half, by  the keel
of a slender hull sliding seductively over the surface.
The  pace hastens. Unified, the  paddler and  boat
react  and flow as one. Tipping forward over the
brink, the canoe shoots forward over thrashing
snow. Quick right. Dodging a fallen weathered
tree. Quick left. Swooping past  a  rocky  isle.
Whitecaps breaking and eddies twisting, a
sirens  song,  drawing  the  boat  closer.
Violent spray distracts from the call of
the sirens and the canoe is buffeted
from side to side rocking perilously.
Waves reach up in a welcoming
embrace as the boat quivers.
Regaining balance it soars
onward,  leaving  the
anguished water
with only a
fading
wake.
V

-AM
Trevon Haywood Jan 2016
They say beauty is in the shape of my raindrop, and i always stay warm every single day.
And that's what I realise how beautiful I am just like the others.

Anonymous. 1/10/2016.
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