"miraculousness" poems
Passover Moon's
****** hue
eclipses
the ordinary
in veils of
miraculousness
obscure
rouge
halos
illume
elliptical arcs
guiding
footsteps in
a righteous
exodus
across
troubling
waters
forsaking
hovels
with
painted
doorjambs
dripping
lambs blood
Mezuzahs
bleat
memories
holy
murmurs
bespeaking
lamentations
of ancient
hosannas
our
desperate
supplications
flesh out a
distressed
humanity
seeking
deliverance
from the
vengeance
is mine
Elohim
may it
be nigh
we wait
watching for
an always faithful
Good Deliverer
to honor the
covenant
to lift
despair
with a
liberating
yoke
lugging
leaden
burdens
Oh Holy
of
Holies
banished
in the wisp
of a bitter herb
our
distended
bellies
fill with
unleavened
grace
sweet
droplets
of manna
consumed
with extreme
gratitude
arriving
at journeys
end to
promised
lands
fully
satiated
and free
to rest in
sanctuaries
of radical
hospitality
luxuriating
in an infinite
abundance
for all
sojourners
Selah
Music Selection:
Big Mama Thornton
Go Down Moses
Oakland
4/15/14
jbm
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
It’s not singly your jubilantly playful smile
Or eyes that instill faith,
Faith that miracles exist in us
And absolutely not independently
The miraculousness that ever so gently
And tenderly
Sleeps on top of a face to which
No being can compare to, it makes such
Euphoric feelings kiss the world
And my heart, now zapped
By a current of life and flare
This miraculousness fabricates an image of
Your benevolent wind, light and sublime
Rolling softly over the waves and hands
Of the ocean, flowy and ecstatic
And the cause of my enamored state
Is not isolated by
The effervescently sanguine blush
Of your adorable cheeks,
Which regularly has exploded
A nervous, yet amazed smile
Upon myself
No,
Although with the fullest probity
I may spew that these angelic virtues
Have spirited me to a place
Where Zeal is my name
And time with you
Has become my heroine,
It’s your energy, your aura
Your vivacious fire
That so happily bombards me
With laughter and excitement
It’s your poison, your wonderful stain
That’s colored my life
And shocked my heart
It’s you;
You are a poem
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
Dear Lynda, Nov.8, 2001
Hello.
I am sitting here, Thursday evening and have decided to write you a love letter.
Maybe you will receive this letter at a time when you need to hear the reminder that I do love you and I have for over 35 years.
Even during those years when I was pretty mean and called you names but I know you forgave me a long time ago.
Thank you Lynda for never giving up on life. God/fate/genes/self-pity/chemical imbalance or who knows what dealt you with many years of depression and you never let it win!
I love that you are aware of the joys, quirks, injustices, wonders, tackiness, miraculousness, agony, humanity and inhumanity of this soap opera we call life.
You may not know why you are here but you always keep your mind open in order to catch a glimpse of a clue.
Keep seeking.
Keep learning.
Keep experiencing.
Keep loving.
Keep on keeping on.
Dare to love yourself.
You are still here and you are just fine.
You really are doing good.
One life time to live is a gift too precious to take for granted.
Lynda, I love that you have always been introspective.
You have begun a project without knowing the outcome but always believing it to be regarded as a sacred duty.
Never doubt that you are special.
Never suspect that you aren't less than awesome!
I love you, Lynda and I will learn to love you more as the years go by.
You will do many good things and I am patting you on the back in advance.
You possess an irreplaceable essence of uniqueness juxtapositioned with a most common simple humble low maintenance bologna on white bread life.
I love you, Lynda and I love that you love yourself enough to read these words.
I love you when you are too hard on yourself.
I love you when you dwell on your problems.
I love you when you ***** up and take the blame and eat the **** sandwich and face the music and learn the hard way and I love you when you get back up, when you swallow your pride, when you face your fear, when you accept the truth and when you are left with nothing to believe in or nothing left to feel.
I love you despite everything and especially because of it.
I love you, Lynda.
Thank you for being me,
Love,
Lynda
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
You taste the lips of a hundred fragmented men.
Boasting that your divine secularity exalts you a writer of better poetry.
The cries of 12 men are more artistic than the drabness of one.
You forgot to peek in to the kaleidoscope of every angle.
A ravaging between your thighs signals the only sense you have awakened.
It’s bellow so great it drowns out the miraculousness of every other sensation. Stuffing love’s nomothetic void with the resound of the broken cultured man.
Your prowess is not poetry, but the neglect of it.
Your myriad of lovers elicit the lack thereof.
Are you a tormented poet or is this simply a masquerade of whorery?
You drape the silk sheen around your shoulders and dial up the only poetry you have ever come to know.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC