"begotten" poems
She covers for God
Not you
Are you worthy
Of her will to be true?
To the word
As it is written
Not of man
But begotten
Into the cradle
Of our existence
Heard by those
Who lower their resistance
To what is holy
Not on earth
But in heaven
Where a woman’s worth
Is measured
By the blessing
Of her womb
Life-giving and supporting
Each new creation
Equally touched
By the unseen
But untouched
By sin
Until the apple is offered
By the bare flesh
To our sons and daughters
Yes she suffers
Behind the cloak
Of piousness
Wearing its yoke
Until the strength
Of one man’s soul
Reveals itself
To make her whole
As it was intended
For man and woman
But not before
He has proven
His understanding
That a hijab
Is not weakness
But God’s robe
Which he dare part
To find paradise
In the strength
He saw in her eyes
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Cast a Vast Million Colored Words, a Canvas of Solace
Dedicated to Tajudeen Shah
who wrote those words,
a fellow poet, a comrade in words.
----------------------------------------
With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,
So,
Before you pen words of
Lost love, woe begotten troubles,
Nature's royal blues and purples,
Spirits, demons, speeches, mumbles,
First
Write the uplifting sounds,
Cast a million colored words,
Upon a canvas of solace,
Bring one molecule of comfort
To the misbegotten, to the downtrodden,
In any way you can, form matters not,
But let this be our mantra shared,
Let this be our only morning prayer,
A prayer we are obligated to utter,
A prayer we are obligated to fulfill.
Solace, given,
Solace, granted.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Constricted in the tiny ***
this plant has lost it’s will to grow
The lightness fades inside the room
the curtain shades the greenish brown
I forgot that i was more,
than this room. this house, this place
I forgot how to transplant.
I forgot how to grow
Don’t let me wither.
Don’t abandon me in the cold.
How can i survive this potted life,
this winter,
It was easy to love me when the spring was here, and i was bright and full of wonder.
I could fill a room with bright vernal sweetness.
And then i began to blend into the wallpaper.
a perfect little wallflower.
Tendrils constrict,
and branches droop.
flowers swept away,
and bark begotten by dust and moth
Who will inherit me?
Or perhaps just an empty ***
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips—and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words—
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy—
Of the baubles that it may.
3.7k
In a perfect world, equal opportunity would be a facet of every society, not just a promise made and then recanted.
In a perfect world, fixed annuity would be given out with staunch sobriety, and the cries of poverty would cease being chanted.
In a perfect world, the disparity of race would be forgotten, replaced with celebratory practice of traditions, preserved.
In a perfect world, discrimination would no longer be begotten, and nothing but compassion and kindness would be reserved.
In the perfect world, medicine would work like magic, with disease being left as a thing of the past.
In the perfect world, a diagnosis of cancer would no longer be tragic, and our bodies would be engineered to last.
Yet, the future’s uncertain, and the past’s all but gone
So the present must be where our battles are won
If a perfect world is what we desire
It must be done now
Where our bones are unweary
And our minds shall not tire
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
They took you from the hospital
They didn’t know why you had died
They wanted to do an autopsy
It took 3 weeks
We couldn’t see your body
It wasn’t fit they said
And eventually we got
A Report
Brain - 2 and a half pounds
Body - healthy, unmarked - not emaciated
No needle marks on the arms
Liver - taken for analysis
Traces of Tuinal and Physeptone
They cut, weighed and analysed you
But couldn’t find the reason
Why you had died
Drowning on your own *****
In a mental hospital
My mother took you to her hometown for burial
To the cemetery hedge where you were conceived
Later she told me that whenever you cried
She shoved a dummy covered in malt into your mouth
And then she would leave you
Her bundle of idle words, looks and *****
Poor Dorothy looking for escape
The war child who knew no softness or comfort
Poor John a quick coupling in the dark beneath the cemetery hedge
Begotten from chocolate, stockings and a Burslem teapot
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
3.2k
You think the red lines you always wear,
Will create a better tomorrow?
You think that just by wasting away,
You'll end all the pain and the sorrow?
You think that it's just too hard to live,
And now you are bidding your goodbye;
You think that it will all be better,
If you'd just depart from us and die.
Well, quit it, shut up! You do not know!
You don't think of what happens after!
You think once you're dead, the pain is gone,
And all that you leave us is laughter?!
You're selfish, you are! Did you not think,
Of what happens when we hear the news?
That your mother, upon your bedroom door,
Would scream, seeing you tied to the noose!
Your brother would just stay in his room,
And would listen to your playlist then;
Your father would keep up his face at work,
But would weep thinking of way back when.
Your friends would cut all their classes just,
To go back to the places you've marked
Your boyfriend would cry at your picture,
And would sulk with a stone-heavy heart.
The neighbors too would pay their respects,
And would send flowers upon your wake.
Your mother would just stare at the wall,
Waiting for you to come back someday.
And they'll all think that it was their fault,
As to why you left them this sorrow.
You think that it's just you who'd be hurt,
If you were but a corpse tomorrow?
The people you know, the things you've done,
The relationships you've begotten,
The love you've made us feel and cherish,
Don't think that it was all forgotten!
So please, my friend. Don't think it will end,
If you would leave this world forever.
Don't ever think it's just you, because--
All of our hearts are tied together.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Maiden crowned with glossy blackness,
Lithe as panther forest-roaming,
Long-armed Naiad when she dances
On a stream of ether floating,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Form all curves like softness drifted,
Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling,
Far-off music slowly wingèd,
Gently rising, gently sinking,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf,
Cloud high born in noonday spotless
Sudden perfect like the dew-bead,
Gem of earth and sky begotten,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Beauty has no mortal father,
Holy light her form engendered,
Out of tremor yearning, gladness,
Presage sweet, and joy remembered,
Child of light! Child of light!
Child of light, Fedalma!
3.1k
The whole city is full of it – in the squares,
The coffee shops, the ‘blogs, the op-ed pieces
The emails, the news sites, the grocery stores
They are all busy arguing -
If you ask someone to give you change
He says the President is the Begotten One
If you inquire about the price of a croissant
You are told by way of reply that he is not
That the Supreme Court is greater, and that
The President is inferior; if you ask
“Is my cup of Blue Mountain ready?”
The barista answers that Congress is nothing
In the squares, the coffee shops, the ‘blogs,
The op-ed pieces – the whole city is full of it
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Rise! Oh, Mighty Jupiter;
Our Father now forgotten.
Come claim your rightful reverence.
Your pagan pedigree misgotten.
You were once our Shining Father;
Great King of all the Sky.
But you allowed your world to set
so a new Son could arise.
Zeus once ruled before you, and
Jesus became your heir.
Today not many realize
how we got from here to there.
I have considered for some moments
how our thoughts of god do change.
Plural notions of so long ago,
today can seem so strange.
We like to think we've come so far,
since those pagan days of yore.
Have we abandoned superstition
or just embraced it even more?
It was millennia ago
that Zeus ruled Mount Olympus.
He, their leader, more than father,
often beaten by hubris.
The Greeks, they worshiped leaders,
seeking standing in this forum.
Such desires, democratic
became their gods that ruled before them.
As the centuries moved on,
your new Latin home was Roma.
Your title too, transformed
to reflect a new persona.
To Zeus we added "Father",
or in Latin, pater, we prefer.
So Zeus, becomes Zeus-pater,
Zupater, then Jupiter.
Our names for gods reveal
exactly how they fill our needs.
Over time our needs evolve
and so a new name supersedes.
As Rome aged, it developed
a need to know god as a man.
To be one of his number.
To see themselves as of his clan.
This zeus, he can be talked to,
can be greeted and be known.
They "Hail Zeus" as HeyZeus.
And now its Jesus on the Throne.
Through such inquests we can see
the needs Gods fill evolving,
from cold, covetous Kings
to a begotten Son absolving.
We imagine in the Heavens
things to help us understand,
how a universe so endless
can be the realm alone of man.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
So seeing at the feet of the cross was Mary Magdalene looking for one last time in her soul lover's eyes before the death of love (Eros?)
But in the distance is the Gnosis Knight Jason watching this scene of utter Substituted Love - (Bearing one another's burdens) this Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) in action?
The death of duality and the unitive power and wisdom of God; yes the bringing together in the bridal chamber of the groom and bride in loves Eros type death in cosmic reality?
The Gnosis Knight Jason comes close to the cross smiles at Mary Magdalene and whispers do you see by my eyes Mary?
I see two Christ's becoming Unitive in Jesus and his body, male and female?
I see Chokmâh (Wisdom) also on the cross in death with her husband part of Christ?
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
So I see Chokmâh with a full Red Rose Crown on the temple of the Christ; this is on the blessed head of Jesus, the son of humanity?
Then Jesus gives up the Eros (Romantic Love and Passion ) and dies?
The sky turns black to say is LOVE (Eros, the Romantic Love and Passion) really dead?
Then they take the body of Jesus to the garden tomb to plant the Rose Bush Seed of Love (Eros, Romantic Love and Passionate Love) in the earth for three days to grow into the fullness of Agape (Universal Love?)
Then Mary Magdalene waits in the bridal chamber (human heart) she keeps the hope and knowing Love's Passion is stronger than death itself?
The Gnosis Knight Jason is waiting to see his Queen Chokmâh (Wisdom) come from the garden tomb as well?
Then on that blessed morning Mary Magdalene says the blessed words my Teacher?
The rest of the story is known.
But Gnosis Knight Jason sees a woman caring for a budding Rose bush and she turn's and smiles; yes Knight Jason; It is I the Queen part of Christ; Chokmâh (Wisdom) Herself?
So The Queen Chokmâh (Wisdom) says to the Queen's Hand; the Knight Jason; it is I, Chokmâh (Wisdom) Herself Again?
Because Her Knight Jason was shocked and never answered the first time?
Because he thought she really is apart of The fullness of Christ Itself?
Then the good Knight Jason answer's; I am not worthy to be your blessed hand my Queen?
But the Queen lets her Knight give her a sweet kiss on her Blessed and Holy lips to make Knight Jason's unworthy lips clean again?
So this sweet holy kiss to make his lips worthy and clean in Cosmic Reality?
The Knight Jason replies - "Thus from my lips by thine my sin is purged."
Then the Knight Jason asks my Queen am I also begotten and reborn by the sweet loves holy kiss in Cosmic Reality?
The Queen Smiles and says that is how the children of Wisdom are begotten in Cosmic Reality.
Then he kneels and she crown's her knight; a king of her unitive gospel of Wisdom and Life?
Then Chokmâh (Wisdom) says She will give you a Red Rose Garland to grace your head and present you with a glorious Red Rose crown.
The Bridal Chamber is now open for unitive Wisdom to enter into the blessed garden of the groom and bride once more in Cosmic Reality?
Now the Knight Jason And King rides from that garden tomb with Chokmâh (Wisdom) before all time in Cosmic Reality?
You see Knight Jason sees Red Rose Petals falling from Heaven before her blessed feet in Cosmic Reality bringing The Love, The Passion Of The Love, Friendship and True Life before Her everywhere She goes in Cosmic Reality?
The Rose Fragrance of Chokmâh (Wisdom) fills Cosmic Reality Itself with the Sweet Fragrance of Love and Life and The Fragrance fill's The Groom's And The Brides of Cosmic Reality Itself?
This adds the sweet Rose Fragrance to the bridal chamber of bridal chambers in Cosmic Reality?
The Knight Jason's symbol of love and romance is a single Red Rose to give this single Red Rose to his sister bride in Cosmic Reality?
But Christ's Passion is this Romantic Love And Passion Overcomes death; this death is not to stop the anger of God falling on humanity from The Father and The Mother parts of God?
But it is a unitive Substituted Love to bring unitive power and wisdom to craft together groom and bride again in Cosmic Reality?
This is to bring unitive power and wisdom and craft together the duel flames of Adam and Eve in the bridal chamber again in Cosmic Reality?
So Chokmâh (Wisdom) Crafts and Sews together The Wedding Garments of the Male and the Female Knights of the Unitive Kingdom of The Single One in Cosmic Reality?
So human wedlock in the flesh is a symbol of a higher Cosmic type wedlock?
So romantic love and human wedlock is the door way to the garden and the bridal chamber of chambers in Cosmic Reality?
So the Romance and Passion of Christ is this,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ.
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 11:01 AM UTC
7/12/12 16:25pm
At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God.
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.
When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.
At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
{Chorus.} Come praise Colonus' horses, and come praise
The wine-dark of the wood's intricacies,
The nightingale that deafens daylight there,
If daylight ever visit where,
Unvisited by tempest or by sun,
Immortal ladies tread the ground
Dizzy with harmonious sound,
Semele's lad a gay companion.
And yonder in the gymnasts' garden thrives
The self-sown, self-begotten shape that gives
Athenian intellect its mastery,
Even the grey-leaved olive-tree
Miracle-bred out of the living stone;
Nor accident of peace nor war
Shall wither that old marvel, for
The great grey-eyed Athene stareS thereon.
Who comes into this countty, and has come
Where golden crocus and narcissus bloom,
Where the Great Mother, mourning for her daughter
And beauty-drunken by the water
Glittering among grey-leaved olive-trees,
Has plucked a flower and sung her loss;
Who finds abounding Cephisus
Has found the loveliest spectacle there is.
because this country has a pious mind
And so remembers that when all mankind
But trod the road, or splashed about the shore,
Poseidon gave it bit and oar,
Every Colonus lad or lass discourses
Of that oar and of that bit;
Summer and winter, day and night,
Of horses and horses of the sea, white horses.
2.7k
The snowy lilies gird her pith - in wake;
bejewelled love reposed in truest sleep
as Floras' wreath outdone by sorrow's make,
then thought; what comfort worth are stems - to weep?
Could petals glint upon her sombre plume
and sorb bereaving rain - of mourning kin,
or priestly Latin's timbre out of gloom
and Schuberts' toned refrain - a lighter hymn.
Although, a striking; flowered plush pervades
as fragrance spliced with copal - yields in heart
and over each an ashing pyre cascades,
begotten times and seasons - death not part.
Embraced the blossoms, now upon her lay;
a sweeten lilly - kissed by loves defray.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
The alarm clock rings
and once again
the rooster sings
the morning new.
Slumbering flowers
lift their petals to drink
the drops of dew.
Reliable Sun
vanquishes the darkness
as he lightens the sky.
I see an honored guest
is in the garden,
his tiny nametag reads... butterfly.
But on the other side of town
someone struggles with
addiction.
Habits grab hard,
break will powers in two.
The will becomes won't
and the power is all through.
Satiated,
temporaneously satisfied.
only till the next time the habit has to be gratified.
The victim moves on trying to reassemble his day
Avoid
a crooked roaded relapse,
along the way.
Oh ghost of the host why must repitition repeat the most
and feel so good in its continuation?
Why must familiarity breed the need
for more familiar feelings?
To the point of killing control, sealing a fate,
dealing defeat,
stifle healing.
If your out there guardian soul, spirit helper, what's your roll, your goal?
Guiding with helping hand or let stand the habitualized
habit man.
Isn't there a self preservation station within?
A gland or impulse control button to switch from sin to win?
Even Edgar Allan Poe stubbed his toe on a ten step program trying to get in the door.
Ill-begotten and craven, drunken and unshaven cried the raven...never more.
Guiding spirit it ends here!
No more slave to the crave
or impulse picking from the addiction tree.
The need to repeat and repeat
the pattern becomes a self fulfilling prophesy.
Back to normalacy, complacency,
it's a moderation that one seeks.
To enjoy the ****** of bells, hallalulah wails,
a babies dimpled cheeks.
Can you do that Spirit helper, please.
Let sing the bodies vibration.
No more internal damnation.
No more self flagellation.
Allow to draw power from these words.
Think of this all as an intervention!
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
*ᚹᚨᛚᛖᛋ - alphabet above the ᚱᚻᛁᚾᛖ... bereft a cleaving for worth of fortitude, or Liverpool: so too the strongman for bow and two finger F; chisel the ******* bracket or ah into stone correctly, or i'll make you stake a thousand men's' worth of dough worthy of death, nation building etc.*
above the Rhine,
at least that's
my Austrian welcoming,
playfriends my beehive
**** the longship.
i said sooth
nearing rune toward Sweden
of Poland or Germania -
ALPHA BETUM, BETUM
try a care begotten a coliseum!
** SALVAGE DIE *** STIRRUP!
TO A *** RIDE! RIDGE A COLLAPSE
OF ROME! salvage it with Bach...
or else, the death-man's symphony,
you Welsh *****
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Chronic, demonic, eccentric, magic, poetic, tragic! Dreams it seems of comical or unusual! Visual sights of many sites! Plenty fights, heights, nights, plights and lights! Dreams it seems of chimes, crime, gleams and grime. Moonbeams, rhymes, screams and times. Dreams it seems as they attempt to tempt with contempt! Some become exempt
and unkempt! Dreams it seems of afros, arrows, buffalos, rainbows
and sparrows! Ample, purple-apples hung from chapels! Dreams it seems of hurdles and simple people as pimples jumping from steeples! Dreams it seems of the begotten, forgotten and rotten. Dreams and themes of cotton candy clouds! Crowds in shrouds! Dreams it seems
of the dandy and handy! Glories and gory stories of the holy or unholy. Dreams it seems of crud and mud! The loud and proud! The
vowed and wowed! Dreams it seems of blood and floods! Dreams it seems of amazing, crazing and gazing! I’m phrasing; “Is this a dream a scheme or hell?” Well I couldn’t tell! As I began to scream and
yell! Those streams of dreams that I dream… Dreams that I may, these dreams that I say. Dreams it seems in dreamy dismay.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
Dear father in Heaven,
Father I come before you as I am
I come before you as a SINNER
Asking for FORGIVENESS
In the name of JESUS,
As I reach to you father
I ask that you reach out to me
In the name of JESUS,
Father you know all about me
You know all about my troubles
You said you wouldn't put
More on me than I can bare
I know YOUR WORD
Doesn't come back void,
So father I WILL
Lay down my BURDENS
And bring my problems to you
In the name of JESUS,
Father I THANK YOU
For sending your only begotten SON
To die on the CROSS for my MY SINS
And for that I am grateful
And I THANK YOU
In the name of JESUS,
You made me in YOUR IMAGE
And I know the way I have
Been going about isn't
Pleasing IN YOUR SIGHT
But yet you still give me chances
And I THANK YOU
In the name of JESUS,
You are with me even when
I'm not with myself
And I THANK YOU
In the name of JESUS,
You do have my heart
I do want eternal life in Heaven
I do want to walk with you
I do accept you as MY SAVIOR
I am Thankful for your HOLY SPIRIT
I do THANK YOU for my kids
I do THANK YOU for my family
I do THANK YOU for life itself
I do THANK YOU for my love ones
I do THANK YOU for the lovely woman you sent me
Most importantly...
I THANK YOU for YOU
In the name of JESUS,
Father I ask you to
Heal my mind
Heal my heart
Heal my body
Heal my kids and their mothers
Heal my SPIRIT
Heal my SOUL
Heal my SPIRITUAL MIND
Heal my troubled ways
Heal my finances
Heal ALL my love ones
In the name of JESUS,
Father I bless your name
In the name of JESUS,
Father I ask you to
Watch over my kids
Their mother's
And their household's
And keep them safe and protected
And COVERED IN YOUR BLOOD
In the name of JESUS,
Father I ask you to
Watch over my love ones
And their household's
And keep them safe and protected
And COVERED IN YOUR BLOOD
In the name of JESUS,
Father I ask you to
Watch over me and my household
And keep us safe and protected
And COVERED IN YOUR BLOOD
In the name of JESUS,
Father I ask you to
Watch over others
As this world continues to unfold
In the name of JESUS,
Father as I end this prayer
I not only want to THANK YOU
For my good days
I want to also THANK YOU
For the worst days I have had
In the name of JESUS,
Father as I close my eyes
I ask that you watch over me
And that NO WEAPON
Formed against me SHALL PROSPER
In the name of JESUS,
In JESUS name I pray
In the name of
THE FATHER
THE SON
AND of THE HOLY SPIRIT
Amen.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Kenya; the begotten daughter of your poor mother
Whose children starve and stave hunger in their tummies
Wallowing in mire of food destitution and diverse others
Wondering where to get victuals from as you have none to tax
Kindly look at your state officers the tummies are bulging
Occupying space all over, suffocating neighbours to the fringe
Tax the commonaplace tummies of your state officers
For them are plenty enough to give you revenue
In combat against hunger unto your children
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC