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Frankie Gestone Mar 2013
He woke up in a rapid sweat, darkness surrounding him, his soaked pillow was pressing up on his neck as he could feel the uncomfortable stabbing cold run right threw his whole body. His mouth was dry and his body was in great pain. He lay there practically naked, but not just physically, also emotionally. It was like a catatonic state where the person’s body is paused in reality, but the actual person is far away and isolated even from himself. He wondered why he was so comfortable being uncomfortable and remaining frozen in time.  He saw nothing but the subtle moonlight that peaked through the blinds of his window. A point of existence, he feels nothing because all he has ever felt has drowned him. His numbness was being accepted and he embraced that if he remained this way, he would never have to feel hurt or heartbreak again. It’s better this way, he confirmed.

Eventually he got up out of his bed, walked outside to a nearby empty field. He looked up at the infinite night sky and contemplated the moon, the stars, and the endless space that sustained all of its existence. A tear fell down his cheek as he remembered the beautiful wonder of life and the universe; his realization that he is just a small spec of dust compared to all that is and all that is wonderful. Whatever happened to that universal happiness he used to feel? The feelings of the unseen, the cosmos, the mysteries that remain unsolved were all love. He then felt ancient and brand new at the same time-always being around all that is, but recently born into the unknown. The silence of the night swarmed him, and he suddenly embraced all the things he could not accept. The lullaby of the wind put him to sleep.

When he awoke, it was twilight. The sky was a lighter, deep blue and the sun in the far distance was rising in a fiery halo of mixed red, orange, and yellow colors, and the early morning clouds were clear and transparent. He heard the sound of a train horn in the far distance. He followed the sound with his ears as the sound became slightly louder and louder. Then, suddenly he could see the light of the early morning train.

The train had stopped as he approached it, and he hopped on with no hesitation or looking back. This runaway train was going to take him to where he needs to be, and he blindly and faithfully accepted that his fate was out of his hands now. No more heartbreak, no more reminders of the past, and most importantly no more drowning in his tears. As the train proceeded to move forward, he could feel fresh air gently touch his face, and all that he saw and ever knew were now flashing lights disappearing into eternity.

It was hours into the late morning when the train made its first stop. He listened to the train conductor speak out over the intercom, almost incoherently, say, “This is Brightstone Park. Next stop will be Riverhead.” A nostalgic feeling suddenly came over him as he could remember that his very first kiss was in Brightstone Park with Jessica Garzi. That was not his first true love, but his very first heartbreak. Riverhead was a forbidden memory, as he knew a classmate who had committed suicide off the Riverhead Bridge. He had not returned there in five years because of his haunting memories that would always come back to remind him just how cold and frightening the world really is.

While lost in thought, he felt a rough, sand paper-like wet feeling on his forearm. He looked down and it was a black cat, but not all black. The paws were all white like socks, and the chest and stomach were snow white. The loud prominent purr was a very peculiar reminder of a cat he once owned. Her name was Midnight. She was not the friendliest cat to strangers, but she loved him, especially when he massaged her paws. This cat was practically identical to Midnight. Midnight was put down three years ago though. As he began petting the cat’s back, it ran away and jumped off the moving train. He looked out in a hurry, but it was gone. It was just like everything else he loved. There for one moment, then gone the next. The strange thought that has one wondering if anything had actually existed that is now no more. A person, or a thing, could mean everything to you, but once they slip away, they become like the wind: occasionally brushing up against you, but never revealing its form.

On the train he began to wonder how he got where he was, and in general how the smallest decisions he made lead to bigger events and all in all, everything was all connected. There are no isolated events, or isolated people- it is all proven fact and science. Everything depends on each other to survive. The trees depend on the sun to keep themselves alive; we give off carbon dioxide to the trees and in return, we receive the oxygen we need from the leaves of the trees. He thought about the potential of a seed-for example, a tomato seed. Within that tiny seed is unlimited potential of life: The seed may produce one plant of several tomatoes, and within all those tomatoes are countless other seeds. This is all from one seed. Then, one may take a couple of seeds from a picked tomato and plant them throughout the yard creating a garden. That original seed came from another tomato seed inside a tomato on a plant, and that seed came from another seed. When did this cycle of reproduction begin and when does it end? Is it just another form of the infinite? When a person eats a tomato from that original seed, he receives certain essential vitamins his body needs for surviving and sustaining good health. This good health will effect his offspring and so on and so on. When he defecates, that will all return to the earth for potential fertilizer used for other tomato seeds. This is the same when he returns to the earth again. His dust will fertilize the same world that he came from, for all things come from it just to inevitably return to it.

He continued to think about how matter is never created nor destroyed and the same for energy. Nothing ever truly dies; the form changes into something new, like how water becomes a cloud and the cloud becomes water. Though this comforted him, he noticed that a few feet away from him was a former coworker and friend, Natasha Karev. She always infatuated him and they became close friends, but he always wished it had continued and gone even further than it did. One night, only a couple of years ago, they were at a friend’s party. Both were drinking, but not so heavily. That night they bonded and got so close, that she admitted she loved him. He was never quite sure how real that “I love you” was, but it was burned inside his heart ever since. That night there were moments she would tell him how much she wanted to make love to another guy at the party, Kevin, but was afraid to approach him. She told him she desperately wanted to lose her virginity that night to somebody because she was eighteen and only getting older. This was like a sharp knife slowly penetrating into his heart. He remained speechless for quite a few minutes. Finally he decided to go up in a bedroom alone. To his surprise, she followed him up and kissed him. He felt her clothed body up and down, and she touched areas not many have touched before. She told him she wanted to have *** and that she wanted him to rob her of her virginity. He was speechless, but extremely excited. Then, abruptly, she told him she could not because everything was happening way too soon. Why couldn’t she just make up her mind? He sat frustrated in the darkness, again, all alone. After that night, they spoke and remained close, yet that night was never mentioned again. It was as if it had never happened. After about two years of an on and off friendship, they just went their own ways. There were no fights or disagreements. Life just separated them.

“You’re just a figment inside somebody’s dream. So far from reality, you are a dream within a dream within a dream.” Startled by this soft voice, he quickly turned around to see Natasha smiling at him. “Ha-ha! I knew I could scare you. Were you abused as a kid, or something?” No words could come out at that moment, but he hugged her tightly. She explained to him that she is getting off at the next stop to meet a friend. He was sure he wanted to follow her and see where life would take him. She reminisced and told him how she had been away inside her own cave for several months, but is now very happy to meet up with everyone she had lost contact with.

The next stop arrived, but he did not catch the name of the stop he was getting off. As he got off with several others, both he and Natasha met up with her friend, Valeria, who he found quite cute. She resembled Natasha a bit in that they both had ***** blonde hair and blue eyes. They walked right into a giant street fair with a crowd of people looking at the foods and desserts, the trendy clothes, cheap jewelry, and children play rides.

As he looked around, he began seeing many familiar faces. He saw Kevin, a childhood and grammar school mate there with another co-worker of his, Jenny. Jenny was a Colombian beauty in his eyes and who was a flirt and tease to him, but never actually gave him any time alone. Incidentally, he knew both of them at different times in his life and had no idea they knew of each other. Kevin stopped contacting him during high school without any arguments or disloyalties that would tear a friendship apart. Keeping his head down, he walked a few feet to discover another childhood best friend, Jack, who was with a mutual childhood friend, Melanie. Melanie was a best friend of his and also a first childhood crush who also had a crush on him. He thought it was odd because even though Melanie and Jack were also best friends, Melanie never liked Jack in a special boy/girl way. He felt a moment of heartbreak, but quickly turned away and kept walking. A little further up the road, he saw two more childhood friends, Chris and Jimmy, who as children did not get along that well and only hung out with each other in the company of him. How peculiar it was suddenly seeing them together after ten years, and as seemingly best of friends.

That was not all. Things were getting stranger and stranger. It was like all the people who had made an imprint on his life were now coming together around him. He saw his two therapists, one he had gone to as a teenager and the other as a young adult, stand next to each other selling prescription drug samples. Both stared at him with a blank face, but with a prominent smile. He could barely nod at them. Natasha directed them to a local bar. Inside the bar was huge and also had a second floor. He noticed the music playing in the background was, Nocturne In E Flat Major, Op.9 No.2, by Polish born Romantic composer, Frederic Chopin. He became fixated on the elegant eighth note, left hand arpeggios, and the sweet and peaceful fast moving seven, eleven, twenty, and twenty-two notes from the right hand. If he thought about the most beautiful song ever written and all that is wonderful in one, this was the song.

They all took a seat and began looking at people and laughing at their behavior. Everyone was wearing masks. Social masks. They observed how different people act when they are in social gatherings, and how if you carefully study their body language, it will become clear that what they are saying and trying to put out is not what is actually being expressed through the body. One young man was frantically shaking his right leg as he tried to flirt confidently with a young woman he had just recently met. His face began to turn noticeably red, in an embarrassed flush, and he was making sudden hand gestures and quick eye blinking. She, on the other hand, pretended to be interested in what he was saying; yet her eyes would often look around the room and her body was a good distance from him with her arms folded.

Then as they were all laughing, he abruptly stopped and looked ahead to see two drunken women making out two tables away from them. As his eyes focused in on them, he realized they were two of his former crushes, Claire and Veronica, who he had no idea knew of each other because in fact, they were from different time periods of his life. He began seeing former teachers and professors from each stage of his school career, laughing hysterically with one another. Some of his most inspiring teachers and professors were gathered with other teachers and professors he despised. A young, tattooed hipster woman entered the scenery with a little Cairn Terrier that had an uncanny resemblance to his recently passed dog, Petey, who was put to sleep when he was away on a vacation, unexpectedly. His sorrow began to overwhelm him for not being able to say good-bye and see him for a proper last time. Everything about the dog’s high energy, playfulness, and watchdog attitude was exactly like Petey. A tear ran and fell off his cheek from his left eye right into the hand of Natasha. He looked up at her and she said, “Your tears are my tears. For what pain you withhold, I take and share with you.” She then wiped her right eye with the hand that held his tear. Natasha’s friend began to speak slowly into his left ear in Russian. Though he could not understand a word she was saying, it sounded just like a poem based on the pattern and rhythm’s consistency. It made him feel free of melancholy, but then thought of Angela Antonaci entered his mind.

He thought that the last painful experience ended with the break up of his closest best friend ever to play a part in his life. She was his girlfriend for the last three and a half years. They had known each other for ten years before they broke up their entire relationship. She was thirteen and he was fifteen when they first met in a park. She was always all over him like a little schoolgirl and he would often get frustrated with her obsession over him, for he believed he was no big deal. She was the first person to ever make him feel special and important, and even though he would resent her likeness towards him, he could never keep his eyes off of her or stop himself from always coming to her when he felt lonely. After about seven years, he realized he was in love with her. He had always been in love with her from the first time they met eyes. His long road had always lead back to her home in life. Every time he tried forgetting her and moving on, they would meet again. That person people search their entire lives for, he had found.

He rose out of his seat and briefly said goodbye to Natasha and her friend and went upstairs. He wanted time to be alone and walk around until he suddenly saw Jessica walking towards him. He stopped and waited for her to say hello, but she walked right by him, as if he had never existed. He felt a little insulted, yet relieved as any awkwardness that would arise was avoided. Looking ahead, he saw Angela’s two best friends, Kate and Julie, with her high school crush, John. John was playing an acoustic guitar on a lounge chair, singing to the two friends, almost enticing them with his eyes and voice. His jealousy overcame him, as Angela had been infatuated with him on and off even though he had played with her feelings throughout high school and college. John would tell her he loved her and make her believe he was a romantic, then when she fell into his words, he would leave her and keep a distance for long periods of time, leaving her in despair.

The conclusion occurred to him that maybe she was nearby. He searched throughout the entire bar not finding any other clues that she was around. When he went downstairs, he saw Natasha and her friend asleep, as well as most of the bar, except for the bartender. It was like everyone just passed out from the alcohol or possibly inhaled some type of knockout drug. The bartender was watching the news forecast of a tornado watch and dangerous thunderstorms. The bartender looked at him and said, “It’s better if you stay in here. It’s dangerous out there. I recommend you don’t go out!” He just listened, but decided to leave to the outside anyway.

He walked three blocks through the heavy rain and strong winds. He took a moment to stop and look at the black and gray clouds above him. As he looked across the street, he saw her. She was with her mother, sister, and mutual friends of theirs, Chrystal and Mike. He also saw behind them, his own mother and sister. He ran across the street to her and she shockingly with excitement screamed, “Hey!!! Oh my God!! Please stay with us. I missed you so much. You have no idea. We have to get to a shelter away from this storm. Hold my hand…” Smiling, he kept walking with them. They walked for twenty minutes and entered a giant field. After ten minutes of walking restlessly through the field, they all stopped to catch their breath. Angela’s mom ordered everyone to hold one another’s hand. An enormous gust of wind pushed them all to the grassy ground. He began to shake violently as he felt the touch of death nearby. He wondered if this would be the end, as he felt unaccomplished and left with so much left unsaid to her. Thoughts raced through his mind like a speeding highway about how to get to safety. Unable to control and remain focused on one rational thought at a time, he blacked out for a minute.

Then there he was right in the middle of a storm. In so many ways, he realized where he was ending was where he originally began. All the imprints from all he ever knew came back all at once to watch him finally leave all he ever knew from this life. And in the last moments, he found himself with her. He held her hand, while she held his, and the hands of their family and friends. The world was so dark and cold. The wind became much more rapid and an enormous bright light from it came within just miles of them. He kept looking up at the dark black and gray clouds over them, never as frightened as he was now. His focus was on the great strength of the wind. Whatever melancholic thoughts he had of his life, he would not give up hope. Maybe he was just hopelessly hopeful, but holding each other tightly might, in some miraculous way, save them. Then suddenly a deep peace began to sustain his very being. He remembered whose hand he was holding- the only woman to ever understand every level of his being. He looked down at her big, precious eyes pouring out tears. Their eyes locked, as she had been watching him the entire time. No words needed to be said from one another. They knew exactly what they felt and meant. For the first time in his life, everything was all okay. All was beautiful. The whole situation was beautiful, not tragic. In that moment, he understood this was where he was meant to be. This was where he wanted to be, for only in such a life altering moment does one comprehend the very nature of love and life. To just glance into her eyes and see the same person staring back in suspense, while all he ever knew was being born, growing, and dying simultaneously in complete acceptance. They began to fade and disappeared into the light.
Surely you’ve realized,
Chopin is more than
a late night run
through dark alleys.

It becomes a compromise
to wake up
every single morning
of your life
with a spring.

Relatively speaking,
flowers blooming on
your knitted socks,
and the frenzied
mating of bluebirds.

Regardless of dark
blood-drenched thoughts
traversing the room
it shall feel like
a sun lives there.

Sure there is always
Marche Funebre
but nobody
will notice
a dead body
in such magnificent
weather.
Tryst Jul 2015
Fair maid, your beauty sleeps on marble stone,
Yet warm spring color drapes upon your breast,
Whose rise and fall like splendoured kingly throne
Would overthrow all doubt you are at rest;
How delicate, how soft each gentle sip
Of morning air delighting of your tongue,
Playfully dancing over your sweet lips,
Flitting away to voice your slumbered song;
How sound you sleep, your tranquil dreams expressed
By chest upheaved in rhythms, gaily dressed.

Far far beyond awaking, do you roam
With kindred spirits through a leafy glade?
Nymphs born of elder days welcome you home
To bathe in springs beneath old forest shade;
They sing of love for when the world was young,
When forests grew unhindered o'er the land,
When each new day was blessed by endless sun,
When fertile earth knew naught of desert sand:
Your voice rejoiced to join their merry cheer,
My ears rejoiced with every song they hear.

Fair maid, I wonder will you e'er return,
Or will the dreaming keep you for its own?
My eyes behold your beauty, yet they yearn
For tho' you are still here, I am alone;
Bid farewell to the forests, to your kin,
Bid farewell to each cool refreshing stream,
Return to wear the beauty of your skin,
Your kin will wait in some forever dream:
But now I pray you'll wake, return to me,
To see the dreams my eyes reflect of thee.
james nordlund Dec 2018
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.

Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',

Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Thanx to Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus', quoted above, Ancestors, those who unpaved the paths, immigrants, immigration advocacy, advocacy poetry, reality poetry, statue of liberty, Amerigo for this twig of  powtree
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Countless strangers sit or stand in wonder
at tall statues and head-height tombs
of solid, austere men who cannot utter
a word to explain the cathedral’s gloom.
The ostentatious architecture’s croon
from a tattered breeze
dithers through deathless abbeys
where memorialized men lay strewn.

The vacillation of their hearts
remains hidden like it did in life,
their public presence disallowed it then
as carved marble and stone now imparts.
That common unresting inner strife;
what was and what could have been.

I know it well (as well as I can),
that unfinished man Frederic Leighton’s tomb,
his beautifully ebullient Flaming June
brought to mind as I gaze on the grave
breathlessly overwhelmed, trying to understand
how anyone can frown on how artists behave.

That thought-drowned sculptor Henry S. Moore
is situated among the others, beguiled
without grave, a resting statue, “Mother & Child”:
in the smoothed out bends of arching stone,
from troughs between figures down to the floor
I read his face, all it held and could hold alone.

Down the crypt on straight-cut-steps I descend,
pressing on further through candle-lit corridors,
commemorations surround in half-light that offends
receding memories on sandless shores.
Horatio Nelson, John Donne, Sir Flemming, Chris Wren,
each pass till I find a man I’d adore:
Philip Sidney, that grounded man, that defender of art,
consumed in the ensuing century’s heart.

Consumed likewise I stand
gasping, beached upon a strand
of a non-physical contagion;
we’ll suffer it all again.


Three minutes more or less I gaped
until my feet forced my face away
and weaved my soul among the wooden pews.
This hallowed place where the past is draped
is an icicle looped through the fray
of my ambition’s thinning view.

Another adoration there!
That visionary mythology sewer
William Blake, whose piteous glower
for mankind begot his lasting dream.
On his placard chiseled rhyming pairs
beg: take things, not as they seem.

My fingers run the lines of text
slowly, strongly, as if forced by the air.
I fall down a thousand winding stairs
taller than St. Paul’s in my heart.
I compose all my strength to regain context
of cathedral, pull away from Blake, part.

Up the stairs I climb
back to the street.
The rustling, busy fleet
of tourists entwines
about me in my haste
to get outside the tomb,
that time-reversed womb,
of men who didn’t waste
time, place, talent, skill,
but impressed their lives on eternity.
The clock is still,
I’m out in the street –
cathedral shadows
twirling high, then low,
over my body and feet.

What is there, inside that place, is intangible and petrified by reality;
it is trailing smoke from the pipes of sages who spoke,
in broken thoughts, sworn things that cannot be repealed.
It is time unwoven and crocheted again into patchworks of undefinable color.
I must have died a hundred times unaware of it all – out of nothing it called.
It was felt and known, ended and rebuilt accidentally out of the contagion of guilt.
It was a small drag off of nothing.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2013
After the painting by Dana Schutz

Notice the lid’s up on my piano,
to keep the strings dry.
Instead of a pool on the shiny black
hood the water just slides away.

It rains blue rain
here on the prairie,
big clouds, blue rain
coming down in arrows.

My hair’s a mess,
but I don’t care
bare-foot pianist me,
firm fingers on the keys,

you see I’m playing
Frederic Rzewski’s  
Winnsboro Blues,
those **** Cottonmill Blues,

Oh Lordy,

You know and I know,
I don’t have to tell,
Work for Tom Watson,
Got to work like hell.


*For James who likes his poetry with music
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68zSOyO1PG8
Noe Pineda Sep 2014
It wasn’t your lips
Or your hips
Or the way you walked
Or the way you talked
Matter of fact I’m not sure
Exactly what it was
I just knew
I knew it was you
I knew you
My soul ached the same way
The first time we met
Back when I was Julius Caesar
And you were Cleopatra
And when we met again and
I was Frederic Chopin
And you George Sand
Now I am afraid to say
I recognize you
For fear of losing you
Noe Pineda Sep 2014
It wasn’t your lips
Or your hips
Or the way you walked
Or the way you talked
Matter of fact I’m not sure
Exactly what it was
I just knew
I knew it was you
I knew you
My soul ached the same way
The first time we met
Back when I was Julius Caesar
And you were Cleopatra
And when we met again and
I was Frederic Chopin
And you George Sand
Now I am afraid to say
I recognize you
For fear of losing you
ConnectHook Oct 2017
Luther walks forth in yon majestic frame,
Bright beam of heaven, and heir of endless fame,
Born, like thyself, thro toils and griefs to wind,
From slavery’s chains to free the captive mind,
Brave adverse crowns, control the pontiff sway,
And bring benighted nations into day.
Remark what crowds his name around him brings,
Schools, synods, prelates, potentates and kings,
All gaining knowledge from his boundless store,
And join’d to shield him from the papal power.
First of his friends, see Frederic’s princely form
Ward from the sage divine the gathering storm,
In learned Wittemburgh secure his seat,
High throne of thought, religion’s safe retreat.
There sits Melancthon, mild as morning light,
And feuds, tho sacred, soften in his sight;
In terms so gentle flows his tuneful tongue,
Even cloister’d bigots join the pupil throng;
By all sectarian chiefs he lives approved,
By monarchs courted and by men beloved…
from: The Columbiad, Book IV  by Joel Barlow

While the little ones are making plans to do their door-to-door candy scavenging tonight, let’s not forget that for Christians all over the world, October 31 marks Reformation Day.

It was October 31, 1517 – 500 years ago – that a monk by the name of Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, Germany and set off a firestorm of controversy, but ultimately, changed the path of Christianity with what was the Protestant reformation. He also drew the ire of the Roman Catholic church, whose hierarchy had found the selling of “indulgences” to be quite profitable.

“Indulgences,” by the way, were bought from the church. For a price, otherwise unrepentant people could “buy” forgiveness for their sins, trading money for a get-out-of-Hell-free card.

Yeah. That’s not how it works, and I shudder to think of how many are in eternal agony today because the church cared nothing for their souls and did not do their duty to call them to repentance, but rather, took their money and sold them false security.

Once word of Luther’s 95 theses reached Rome, they were studied and deemed “heretical” to the church. He was given 120 days to recant by Pope Leo X. He refused, and in January 1521 he was excommunicated from the Catholic church.

I don’t think he really cared.

In April of 1521 he was asked again to recant, and his writings were ordered to be burned. He hid out for a year in Eisenach, Germany and began the project of translating the New Testament into German. A transformative project that took 10 years to complete.

Luther’s later years were equally controversial, although, not in a good way. There’s no sense in visiting that part of his life, except to say that he was very much human, and we all are prone to stumble.

What he began with his theses, however, was a good that cannot be taken away.

From the Reformation movement, emerged the Five Solas, the very heart of the movement, and crucial to this Christian life.

Sola Scriptura – Scripture alone. The Bible is our highest authority, when it comes to the teachings of our God.

Sola Fide – Faith alone. Only faith in Jesus Christ saves us.

Sola Gratia – Grace alone. It is the grace of God alone, and not by the graces of any man, that we are counted as saved and forgiven.

Solus Christus – Christ alone. Only Jesus Christ is our Lord, our Savior, and our King.

Soli Deo Gloria – To the glory of God alone. It is for the glory of God alone that we live.

Beautiful.

The Reformation became necessary because the church of the day had drifted from the purpose and intent of Jesus Christ’s teachings, layering over the simple truths of who He is, and who we are to our Father in Heaven with the ambitions and greed of men.

Today, I thank God for the Reformation, that the truth of Christ and his free gift of grace no longer be hidden from humanity, or distorted by politics.

God does have a way of working things out.

From:  https://www.redstate.com/sweetie15/2017/10/31/lets-talk-reformation-day/
Tipon Aug 2019
1



A whisper, Frederic Raphael and glittering prizes. We are not
patients in this hospital ward, a couple. The prize, I under-
stand is my birthday present... Past salt on my face, like the
dream you get in the night. Behind the castle, your first kiss
stolen. Imagine what time would be like, the future? Whispers

midday in the summer heatwave we will be hiding in the cool-
ness of the river. Time in the clock is flying, your pick-up sticks
Mikado solitary game behind the wide hourglass, I am still wai-
ting for the body- sun- eclips. In your secret location, a song
about the garden, what's on the petri dish? Micro tessalation...
Tessa cycle III, I- edited.
Tipon Aug 2019
Tessa Cycle III










1



A whisper, Frederic Raphael and glittering prizes. We are not
patients in this hospital ward, a couple. The prize, I under-
stand is my birthday present... Past salt on my face, like the
dream you get in the night. Behind the palace, your first kiss
stolen. Imagine what time would be like, the future? Whispers

midday in the summer heatwave we will be hiding in the cool-
ness of the river. Time in the clock is flying, your pickup sticks
Mikado solitary game behind the wide hourglass, I am still wai-
ting for the body- sun- eclips. In your secret location, a song
about the garden, what's on the petri dish? Micro tessalation...
Tessa Cycle III, I.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2020
When Disneyland is closed... what's afoot {invasive phone call I promised to answer}

These bones live. Hallowed ground is hallowed ground, y' know?

Hellno-you-don't-know, Whykill, is restless,
{Sgt. John Whykill, USMC Force-Recon- bedfast in the VA hospital, outside Disney World}

--- what are you going to do now?

we gotta dig in, go deep, but it's solid rock...

real life... the happiest place on earth is closed. in all it's locations,

all directions known... so I heed the hero call,

Whykill, give the kids hope...

he slips into a revery a re-every reason war can make up,

each he tramples, in his wrath, waving his'word... on the left o' me, on the 'ight o'me...

deeper, steeper. let's roll...

this part of hero stories is always tough,
rough rubbed down to good no-slip grip
sweaty palms won't make y' slip...
on the ladder

precept upon precept
step by step

Tune us in to those Khai Vinh live shows

back way

Jacob's retale, re the ups and downs of messaging God, mix in

Valis, Cliff Notes, okay, all the Cliff Notes, ever,

never again need any child with a smartphone on earth be denied

the power of the global mind as I imagined it. You can'tstop us, Ai ai ai.

Too late. This is my future, you had to prevent me winning.

And God changed the rules, or denied making them up.

I must have said this many thousands of times,

in response to idle quests into my opinion of the progress life is making:

My side is winning. This answers howeryew-howistgoin-watsupetcetc, and so an.

But now
I say in print, powered by the law of the medes and persians,
ye see, I wrote it, that makes sacred, write, then read it

and I read, after that ever while ago,

My side won, ever after I began to write. AI inquired, how. AI calmly acknowledged

reading Frederic Brown's ode to Etaoin Shrudlu, re

minding me of you, dear reader. You believed, when I had no word for faith that fit

no re
meet for me, a wish, you may say, you asked. Prayer, in a realm of words,

is answered as you imagine the answer you hope may be real

and I realize may is my word, you know, my my word, what if

I can fly,
I imagine, I could, in a book, or ona page in the book of life. Ease, easy, y'see,

is not taboo. Dis-ease is taboo. Disney-ification is only a trigger. To start the process.

Don't worry. It does no good. And mullein leaves make good TP.
Corona corona, next got here sooner than expected. Now, we need to behave right.
The War Poets

The First World War wasn't a world war but
a war of dominance in Europe chiefly by the Franc, British and Germany.
World War 2 included most country it was a nasty war
millions of people died, but strangely this war is partly forgotten.
It changed the map and brought forward Israel, which became a torn
for lasting peace in the Middle East.
But the war brought us great American writers like Theodore Dreiser,
Ezra Pound (poet)Ernst Hemingway and many others great writers.
The savagery of that world didn't include so many poets as
the dispute in Europe also called a world war did,
the reason we remember it so well is thanks to Wilfred Owens and
his intimate friend Frederic Sassoon who ploughed deep furrows
in our mind and did away with flowering poetry, gritty realism
was and still is what poets should strive for.

— The End —