"firstfruits" poems
Sings a small boy whose hair is tousled by the wind,
As too the folds of his mother’s peplos and the robes of clouds,
When Greece gathers in silence like the stillness for a deposed crown,
And all Athens around, the song of eiresione for firstfruits of Autumn,
Singing boys with the olive branches of colored wool and garlanded gourds,
A fall-bird to wander the Ionic sky, foretelling of new sunrise.
How that joyful ancient voice still haunts the songbird of sunset.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 11:21 PM UTC
#
*There is a love, deeply embedded into
fear's reverence.. and what we fear most,
is the threat of annihilation.. yet, is not
that, which is within the deep hooks of
annihilation's looming leer, that which
is also the very seeds sown-- giving way
to the very firstfruits of Life-Anew..
within itself?
So then, is not death's very fear,
in itself, a conceding to the inevitability
of Love's unfolding conquer?
The condemnation-shadow, so unfairly
placed into you, at such a tender
young age, has run amok for so many
unrestrained years within your beautiful
spirit, and body.. is no longer
an end-all..
or catch-all,
But is now, but a spring-board; albeit,
fear-driven.. into that (finally, Beautiful-one)
which brings Life.. directly out of death--
Not with the annihilation of the very Death..
(which gave you Magic) but through its own,
very power to draw us towards Love,
through its own, very fear (respect) of that Love..
does not then, death.. through Love, become upheld?
So how then can the condemnation within you, be bad
except that it be allowed to, for life.. keep you
hidden in shadow? Is not then Love's Light, the
very thing that creates Shadow's, shadow, therefore
exposing Shadow's nature by bringing forth,
its own shadow.. leaving the vulnerable rawness of
condemnation, exposed..
Hence, the horrendous sting of Love's truth.. yet also,
through the Faith-increasing training of experience alone,
is the strengthening into resilience the beautiful, war-torn
Spirit that has become able to begin to finally.. take in, Love.
This is where you are now at, beautiful girl. While under
condemnation's death-hold, you have hated me for so long
that the love.. mixed with fear.. became its own natural
concession into Life, itself-- giving way to the Magical
falling-off of the scales that have covered those beautiful
eyes of yours for so long
Bring your Death, beautiful-one. Through your Faith, it is
established.. and then made, Complete. The giftedness, borne
from the deep, catacombs of Death's Unholy Hold, come forth
in fullness.. into fruition.. as you pass from Death, into Life--
right here.. in the land of the Living.
The Death you have known, does not fall off at the gate
as you pass through it.. but instead, through the newness
of your beautiful eye's, Life View.. Death's previous Unholiness
becomes instantly, Holy.
I am in love with the death that is in you. From its hold,
were born every Magical gift that I love so much, in you..
and while in your presence.. will forever
take my breath away.
Welcome to my life, Beautiful one.*
#
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
**Songs of Zion from the distant shore,
They are pealing , sweetly pealing,
Zion's sons are firstfruits unto God,
In their mouth no murmuring.
They are virgins, holy , undefiled,
See them standing - great high calling,
In their trials they were sore oppressed,
But were dauntless through His grace.
From the heights of Zion they reign,
All their loss has turned to gain,
They shall see His face, they bear His name,
And sing a song unique,
What a meeting over there,
Oh, the glory they do share,
And with Jesus they shall stand on Zion evermore.
Heights of Zion is the pilgrim's goal,
They are shining , brightly shining,
Voices there like many waters sound,
Breaking forth like thundering ,
They are servants wholly sanctified ,
In their counsel , God directing,
They shall ever and for ever reign,
This is Zion's heritage.
Holy Zion is the Father's choice,
God is planning , greatly planning,
City Crystal, richly garnished there,
Perfect rest and harmony.
Where the saints are truly magnified ,
Harps there strung show love prevading,
In that land where love for ever reigns,
All in perfect symphony.
Christ on Zion is the corner stone,
God is building , surely building,
Holy temple with the bulwarks rare,
Zion's work is far reaching .
See the Lord comes amply satisfied,
For our Christ has great discerning ,
Since He has built all her structures fine,
Great this Zion's mystery.**
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Blessed are you frustrated
Blessed are you frustrated
For you know this life is defective.
Blessed are you who resist
For you know that you await a liberator.
Blessed are you impatient
For you have your sights on freedom.
Blessed are you who live in hope
For you will not be thwarted.
Blessed are you dissatisfied
For you know this is but a pale reflection.
And blessed are you who
Despite the fight on your hands,
Despite the yearning on your lips,
Despite the ache in your hearts,
You reach out in love,
You speak in peace,
You bring hope to others;
For with such as you God's Spirit rests.
--------------------------
1 Corinthians 13:12
12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
See Romans 8:19-23
19 For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.
20 For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope
21 that the creation itself will be liberated from its ******* to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.
22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.
23 Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
#Stephan W
*My beauty is resisting the worldly pull-- to
slip into lethargic un-consciousness,
in order to no longer feel the anxiety
brought about by non-response to the
primal-question's asking,
But instead is choosing to feel it all-- and in
doing so- it, is costing her everything.
Everything.
She is showing us all what true courage is about,
suffering for the greater good:
for that which is within herself
for her children
for all womankind-- and therefore, for all of man-kind also.
She is the firstfruits of the Universe's
deepest dream; that of a full restoration,
allowing herself to be cut-open, internal parts, rearranged,
heart regenerated, rebuilt through love's magical ways
her mind, being renewed through understanding,
repetition of love's true ways, washing it clean
from the shame unfairly pressed upon her
by the broken, fallen love of man
She is the new Eve-- this beautiful-one,
free from the need to re-create what love is--
she is open, believing.. her beautiful receptors-
perfectly aligned with the harmonic-tones
emanating from the garden, as she walks.
And I.. Adam, love her deeply.
There is an ache with in my side-- a reminder
of my consent of its removal
so that I would no longer have to be so alone in all this magic
and as I struggle, taking in all that is beautiful about her,
I see now that she was not produced from me,
the man
But that I was the oyster,
and she, the beautiful pearl--
the one beyond all price,
the shimmering diamond-- formed,
within this lovestrong lump of coal;
over millions, and millions of years.
I sit in awe as I watch her
she has been worth every moment
of the wait.*
#
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 8:50 PM UTC
Like watching spring's first bloom open,
You were something to behold.
I was visiting the Windy City;
You kept me from being cold.
Soon enough, I will forget your name;
Your rosebud lips, nonetheless,
And your swaying-boughs voice,
Will yet make my passions bold.
For you have melted through my indifference,
You have thawed the permafrost of my soul.
Though you likely will never settle its valley,
My heart yields to you a tribute of its firstfruits.
With your quiet warmth, you have loosed winter's grip
--you have set me free.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
Caught up inside
a storm,
I whispered softly
into the wind,
"Don't let the
lightening strike
me like it has with
all my friends."
The firstfruits of our
freedom trickled
down from
the oppressor.
I want, so badly,
to make it right,
but I just can't
in this kind of
weather.
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 10:44 PM UTC