"permitted" poems
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)
was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation
living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective
we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children
a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands
miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment
stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps
then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:
”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”
bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:
“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”
”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”
write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles
***”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet***”
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
You think I'm oblivious
You tell me I'm stupid
you think it's okay
You think I don't know
what you think of me
to notice what you say
and you leave the words
on display
I don't hear what you say
but I can see the hatred
it suffocates the air
It pollutes me
not only does
it affect me
but it affects others
It mutilates the people
who stay around you
they become immune
to your pollution
They breath in your
hate filled air
and become permitted
to your profanation
You suffocate me
and you don't even
seem to care
Please let me go
I cant bare the words
lingering in the air
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
His blue eyes are like glacial-lakes, wrapping around his heart till he's chilled to the bone from the cold.
A deadly place where treading is no longer permitted.
His eyes are transparent and distant as the impersonal clouds passing overhead.
Even as I stands before him, reflecting off him.
I am still merely a reflection.
He knows my face, I reason silently.
From the hills of my cheeks, down towards the valley separating my lips.
He should recognize it all.
Instead a blank expression greets me.
A look of cold, solid insouciance.
I'm immediately angry with myself for wanting to justify his indifference's.
A reflex I've never been able to expel.
The vestigial limb on a skeleton.
A party favor from another time forgotten for the newly discovered toy.
I twist in the fridged winds wrapping around him.
My force giving under the great pressure magnified by his powers.
I never wanted to dance upon his breeze.
This realization makes me burn hotter.
My anger brighter than the northern star.
I welcome it, my amounting rage.
I embraces it with a raging smile.
His glaciers may be cold, immovable at times.
A pretentious notion I might freeze.
For I am the sun swirling in nova's ring and cannot be affected by his black iced personality.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
444
It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle’s—horrid Bowl?
It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—
6.9k
Who were you?
A foreigner
a mere woman?
Perhaps I valued you
beyond the common measure
I think of the possibility
of lives we have lived
in some past time
some other world
I guess I am a Buddhist
after all.
Because
this fascination
this love
goes beyond my experience
What can I compare it to?
I believe in the potency of desire
that it can manifest itself
across a span of years
a span of lifetimes
I can imagine
that we were
then as now
different in appearance
from cultures widely separated
Let's say that I wanted you
that you wanted me
for so it is today
Let's say that circumstances
kept us apart
or prevented us from meeting
as equals
Let us say, finally,
that this world
in which anything seems to be permitted
was created for us
that we might meet again.
What an absurd
romantic notion!
Tonight the lights are all on.
Other beings surround me.
This world is a different world
for each one of them,
though strangely the same.
Surely this world is ours.
The lights
are brightly lit.
Thousands of insects
cover the glass
dazzled by this light.
We must be dazzled, as well.
For none of us can see.
Not a one of us
can touch the heart
of another.
So since all is permitted
let us permit ourselves this
that we can touch one another
each into each.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
''Tis the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.'
'I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panter were sharing a pie:
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Old had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by [eating the owl.]
5.1k
I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot
Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I **** where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -
The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.
5.4k
A man must be knowledgeable, says God
For him to come in the presence of God,
He who has his male members dismembered
Or his testicles crushed whatsoever,
He shall not be permitted to enter in to the synagogue,
To worship Jehovah God of Israel,
says the deutronomical god of Jews
And today I am ill fated,
my testicles are crushed,
By the grenade thrown by a terrorist,
Here in Nairobi, an Islamic terrorist
Has crushed my testicles, in his guest
For the land of Palestine usurped by Israelis,
How do I worship you God of Israel?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war
don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity
just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice
he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally
it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop
he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England
as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry
he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
4.7k
*Continuation of Life is just a Metaphor*
The wolves sing
Such a lovely song;
Howling, howling,
Calling the pack home.
The lone wolf
Hears the angelic sound,
Despairing, for he is all alone.
He follows the sound,
Remembering his own pack;
So similar, yet so different.
The sounds of playful competition,
The smell of his own kind.
Right in front of him,
Yet so distant,
The pack sees, smells, hears him.
He knows he’s unwelcome;
He feels it.
But the lone wolf
Has been alone for too long.
The wolf pushes forward,
Daring another to challenge him.
The pack doesn’t attack
But the lone wolf’s presence
-Startling and sudden-
Is not acknowledged,
Making it known
The lone wolf is just that;
A solitary, deranged, unwanted wolf.
He stays.
The lone wolf joins the pack,
Unwelcome as he is.
He’s not permitted to join
The hunt, the feast, the camaraderie.
But he knows how to survive on his own.
His lone howl
Calls to the moon,
Calls to his lost family,
Calls to those he’ll never see again.
He’s joined a new pack
But they don’t see him as a pack mate;
“Not yet” he thinks,
“Not yet, but they will.”
The lone wolf goes to sleep
Each and every night,
Waiting, just waiting
For the next day
When the pack will accept him,
Count him as one of their own.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
I saw the familiar
rose-flush dust
shoot from my
fingertips,
the day
I finally
decided
to snap out of it.
I had forgotten what lived inside me.
I snapped again
at the
worrywart hut
I'd created
for myself
to live in.
And again, once more
for all time
gone
to my mind's
incessant banter
and going-on's
with
the
flirty,
too flirty,
doubting Adonnis.
The fog was heavy,
in its resilience against my
needs
to get it right,
overtaking me in confusion,
making me forget
the reality
that lay beyond it.
Its grip was choking,
sending me reeling
through a
soul-tainting realm
I hated
I knew so well,
grasping
for anything
to hold on to,
anything that
looked
like
Life.
So,
with the moon
tonight,
I weep
for the many suns
sacrificed
to
Unbelief
and
the parts of me
permitted to be
plagued
by
poison
and
malpurpose.
Though,
with the same tears,
I will thank my God
that I can at least
see
what lies
within me
and again, once more
while the moon is still bright
for the gift to feel
remorse.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.
With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.
That was easy.
Horribly easy.
But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.
And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...
Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?
And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.
And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you?
I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory
I simply want you to think on
what it is
to live a high-risk lifestyle.
As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing.
Now, isn't that just ******* quaint?
Probability favors a percentile:
That which is unique enough
to leave it's mark
on our realm.
That includes us.
Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability
More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance.
Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties
perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs
unprotected *** or doing psychedelics
but I ask you to ponder
just how high risk Life is to begin with:
Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift
by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs)
but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim.
This Universe was not made for us and us alone
as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on *******
We were not molded after anything intelligent
with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself.
The probability of the Universe existing is not %100.
The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body
are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever.
But they did.
They. Did.
They.
*******
Did.
As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence
and Her Energy is as the water to the roots
and her Chemistry allows it all to happen.
And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen.
On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular!
With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA!
You! Wonderful, temporary you!
Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you.
You exist, if nothing else, in a relative way.
There is no way to be certain.
What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you?
There is no way to be certain.
If you could bet on your existence, would you?
There is no way to be certain.
Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain.
There is no way to be certain.
Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so,
yet, there is no way
to be
certain.
~Addendum!~
Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived-
have died.
Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!
That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
1070
To undertake is to achieve
Be Undertaking blent
With fortitude of obstacle
And toward encouragement
That fine Suspicion, Natures must
Permitted to revere
Departed Standards and the few
Criterion Sources here
3.5k
A 'feeling'
'clouds'
over me
I try to find the words
to match it,
a phrase
that agrees with the emotion
and search the metaphor
to portray the image
It fights for my attention
this 'feeling'
and I battle with it
for a time
It does not waver
until I submit
I slump, defeated sometimes
sitting with my pen
Now may not be convenient
but 'now' is the time,
apparently!!
I offer
'patience'
and the rhyming story
is permitted to unfold
and be told.
As I sit
the words and phrases
are no longer jumbled
they're calm ..
and settle ..
like tiny
white
glittering flakes
within a snow globe
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
~
*She reads the flaxen paper on her wall,
sees its patterns,
touches them.
They project her confusion in cold chamber light.
Stained hands,
convoluted heartbeat,
she creeps into the wall's design.
"Hysteria every time she opens her mouth," said the doctor.
"Rest will cure her."
She is nostrum,
and not permitted
to participate in her own diagnosis.
A man decides how she is allowed to perceive
and speak about the world around her.
Next time you're alone, look quickly at the wallpaper.
Look for the patterns and lines and faces on the wall.
Look, if you can, for her, visible only
out of the corner of your eye...*
~
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 8:08 AM UTC
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
Step by step a kite ascends to the sky
regains memory of transcendence
of once being the echo of a cloud
sailing speedily westwards.
the kite remembers another life
and strays far beyond it's distance permitted,
when the string rudely pulls it back,controls,
the young cloud, narcissistic
still keeps it's love for the echo, in swirling
wisps of vapor as gently caressing wet touch
The lone woman who suppresses deep inside her chest,
the tumultuous waves of love and passion,
imbuing the emotion sunset spews, suddenly breaks down
the startled sea breeze is the only witness to her outburst.
the sky slipping fast in to the gloom of darkness
stands frozen, silent, as if melting in the pain love causes,
when one bids final good bye to the beloved, vowed never to part.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
****
mit ein(e)
gernierung
of... ******
MACDONALDS
for the protestants
MCDONALDS
for the catholics...
and **** the rest of it
whoop di do d'ah
whoopsie!
**** it...
i always called the IRA
the ginger ninja brigade...
******* *****
ha ha!
is that even permitted?
like...
oopsies?!
oh ****
the steam-roller is
giving it a shot at reading
the earth,..
flat...
map on paper?
**** me... no app....
****** you ever navigate a car
through the German Rhine roundabout?
what's in it?
Dortmund.. Essen...
you know that constipated
part of the road map of Europe...
ever navigate that trippy
conundrum ******** of navigation?
beside me...
can't speak german,
won't navigate in german,
no matter how many
Mercedes-Benz they pump out
from the Henry Ford institute of
the reclining chair,
supposing
die krupps to be squidgy clean...
i think the european translation
reads:
die Dortmund Ringe...
das Rhine Ringe...
**** allocating yourself to a rally car...
navigate through that sort
of German ********
achtung achtung...
autobahn ende!
vorwärtskreis
might as well salute for a second
coming of... hítlear!
shaking Stevens?
huh?!
knee on the no contra
the know: bother...
the english won't know...
isn't that nay?
i listen to too much lawyer
jargon...
i'd love to listen to
poetry...
but... i figured...
lawyers play the slight of
the sly of hand that poets
exasperate into toying with words
to accomplish art...
lawyers? the impasse of
judgement?
**** me!
apparently the argument
goes:
down syndrome...
psychopaths...
'ere by god's grace...
much grace, my lord...
too much grace...
two salvation pointers:
(a) i won't drink with them...
(b) i won't eat with them,
(c) there is no "c" that isn't
a "d" that isn't an "e"
"f", etc!
you get a zebra...
you get a null bonus!
a ******* safari of an automated
anti hamster Boston outfit!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
It's Friday
It's pay day
It's time to go get me
Another AR-15
So I can go shoot the breeze
You can't tell me that it's wrong
The 2nd amendment has been around way too long
For you to croon your gun control song
Don't matter what you've got to say
When I've got the NRA on my side
Supporting MY life
But don't worry
If anything, you should be proud
Because the NRA says
No Regulations Allowed!
I don't get why you're so upset
I studied gun safety once
Eight years back
So I got your girl Teresa's back
No, like, I literally just shot her in the back
There's blood everywhere!
Don't scream, I'm telling you because I care
Oh, don't look at me like t h a t
Accidents happen all the time
I'm perfectly capable of handling this gun
You're just out to take me rights
And steal my fun!
Uhm, but forreal could you watch your tone?
I know you care about Teresa
But what about how I feel?
My masculinity isn't set to "criticism permitted" mode
It's on "gun control prohibited" mode
Say anymore and I'll have to go
I'm not gonna lie, the second amendment makes me come alive
Even as other people continue to die
I guess you could say I'm a real guy's guy
Anyways, just because Teresa got hurt
That doesn't mean that gun control would work
Why don't you just consult the CDC
You'll see, they'll side with me
And, no, it's not a funding thing
It's a freedom thing
If anything, you should be proud
Don't be shy, come along now
Support the NRA
No Regulations Allowed!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
"Yoo Hoo! Excuse me!" she said,
Warbling with trepidation,
"I wonder could you help me,
Only I'm blind, you see?"
Her timid voice trailed off,
Lost beneath the majestic roar
Of the waterfall;
"Of course ma'am!" he said,
"Take my arm and pray
Tell me your troubles!"
"Well it's all rather silly," she said,
"But I'm not long now for this
Life, and I so wanted to see,
Or rather, to feel this place again.
I was here as a young girl
You see, and I have such fond memories!
My guide had to take
An urgent call, and now I'm
Afraid I won't have time for the tour!"
"Tell me," he said, "If I may be
Permitted to ask, were you able
To see when you were here before?"
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed,
"It was the most incredible thing
I've ever seen! The destructive
Force of nature, an endless torrent
Of foaming waters cascading down
Sheer cliffs, the living color of
Smooth rocks gleaming in the sunlight,
And oh so many rainbows
Blazing in the spray, Sir I could
Imagine no place more wondrous,
More beautiful!"
"Well then," he said excitedly,
"You'll be pleased to know it
Hasn't changed a bit!"
"Oh thank you, thank you!"
She said, hugging him tightly,
"You've made an old woman very happy!"
The guide returned and he bade them
A fond farewell, and then another
Woman approached him.
"Well there you are darling," she said,
I've been looking for you everywhere!
I've found a guide who specialises
In narrated tours for the blind,
Are you ready?"
He looked at her with unseeing eyes
And smiled, "There's no need my love,"
He said, "I've already seen it and
It's the most beautiful place in the world,
And I want to remember it
Exactly the way I do right now!"
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
The Little Boy child, Sitting in the Dust on the edge of the Porch that protruded from the Leaning shack of a Building. Extended forward his arm, Opened His Hand, Palm UP and Begged for "Just a CRUMB of Bread, Kind Sir? " The Pleading Eyes, Tearing from fear and Frustration, Peered deeply into the Crowds of People as they passed by. Waiting, Just waiting, for ONE to come forward and Place a small Morsel of BREAD or some other Fine Delicacy that would provide the Ultimate delight of Lasting Taste!! " Just a CRUMB of Bread, Kind Lady ? " Still, the crowds as they passed by, would only Stare in Dismay and continue on their way. BUT not without great Pangs of Compassion STARTING to tug on them ! ! The Smirks and Unsavory comments, such as, " Don't go near Him, He might have a Disease", "Make sure it's not a trap", "Don't even look at Him", "Such a disgrace, that child should be put in an Orphanage", " I,can't believe that's Permitted". . . . The SOBBING child only raised His head a Little Higher and Silently Muttered to Himself as the Many crowds of people continued to PASS BY. Perhaps a Hundred people have Passed by today, the Child thought, and not ONE offered even a helpful Smile or provided a Small CRUMB of Nourishing delight ! ! Where were they all going? The Child Mused,,,,,ALL I simply wanted was "Just a CRUMB of Bread" ! Unable to understand His Dilemma, the Child folded His arms across his chest, Hung his head and began to SOB Deeply.,,, SITTING in the DUST, Just waiting for a CRUMB of Bread! " IS there not ONE out there who would but share ONE Portion of their Plenty?" ___ The Sobbing Suddenly stopped! __ A Great feeling of Joy, Peace , Serenity and Comfort Enveloped over the Child's BODY ! AS the LORD took the Child unto HIS ***** and Breathed the Everlasting LIFE INTO him ! From Now on, the child would NEVER again ask______"JUST A CRUMB OF BREAD , KIND SIR ! "_______...
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC