"psalmist" poems
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
1.8k
The time for decisions is NOW;
for tomorrow is… not promised.
Open up your spirit to Christ;
heed the words of the psalmist
and grow by the tenets of Faith.
Now is the time for Salvation,
which is acceptable in His eyes;
Upon The holy Word’s foundation,
we’re supposed to stand, as we
fight the good fight of Faith;
so press and move forward in Him,
until reaching… Heaven’s gate.
Procrastination isn’t the answer,
for we’ll kneel, before the seat
of Judgment; an accounting of our
time will be presented, complete
with both failures and successes.
Will you be recognized, as one of
those faithful few, who will be…
welcomed into God’s Kingdom of Love?
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
Shoulda gone sooner,
Mighta helped, he said, it's going to all come down,
ground up. All the concrete and asphalt and plastic,
maybe
even leave a little of that won't hurt, could help
build randomness back in the the path of least resistance
But no bigger than the biggest pieces left at Jerusalem,
fill all the holes.
that was a stutter, that double the there, 3 lines up,
I stutter when I write,
not as bad as
some
But I pretty much tamed spelchek when I renamed her.
She likes being thought of as Spelchek, my servant,
as opposed to evil Spellchick who bewitched by keys,
made my tittalk sound plumb dumb.
So Spelchek respects some of my stutters as honest
ensamples of thinking
wait. What am I saying
Selah
Like the psalmist, right? The the thing is
oddly broken lines are part of the meandering
mode of meaning
being
found under rocks, aha
Sisyphus, we're in your book!, Too cool!
Happy whatever, Jah, you, too.
Back to Cousin Kenny, who went to inspect the city,
seeking some good he might do.
He laughed when he got back,
'said maybe we can find them guys that
let on they was able to levitate the Pentagon,
back then, you know, they was steeped in lies,
and they loved to tell 'em, loved to lie,
prospero, ever **** one
prosperous liars. But, now, their old age,
they coulda stopped believin' some big lies
by now.
Who would know? Any way, the cities, as built,
must be un built,
NOT DESTROYED, those are the good hard labour
of good people, doing the best with what they had,
we take apart mistakes, we destroy lies.
Angelic beings, aliens, without papers, if you
would give us half a chance we could show you
what a good idea possessed human can do…
Trust me,
don' laugh
Close your eyes
How would this world look
if it were designed
for life,
and that, more abundantly.
An idea, not a dogma. Life, have it…
how? Lest, now, now is living, and we can do it better
if we find a reason to hope,
which was why cousin kenny went to the city,
in the first place.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
(I) Love Thy Neighbor As Thy
self
~
*how I would
honor this with
joy effervescent,
this simplest of methodologies
if only I,
could permission myself
to love myself
if only I,
knew
how to love*
~~
(II) redemption: the city of man reinventing himself
*busting bursting, this city,
ceaseless change,
old discardation,
how blind am I,
skyscrapers built in a day
how have I failed to notice
the estate changes
a master plan unknown,
the reasoned limits ever stretched.
in defiance of taste and sense,
obedient to Babel tower's net-result,
the miscegenation of language
but this is a ruse issue,
an example of me/man,
this new born spawn,
a wagging tail of
a man I know,
a failed inventor,
nary a patent
to his name
years on years
he patiently awaits
for one true inspiration
a redefinition, a redemption,
a reinvention, a new cornerstone
to lay upon it a new foundation
just a clue, a single block,
he can clean erase
start over, inaugurate
a recommencement celebration
to begin the same mistakes
here be the rub,
the irritation,
the seed comes implanted
and then
wind spread
can be only repaired, replaced
when cross pollinated
with the love of a foreign body
and his only crime, love poetry,
his crime alone, for unopened
it, and he, both-awaiting the time
when others come impatient
to bulldoze him aside*
~~~
(III) Three
three
*an oddity
an uneven symmetrical imagery*
"only love poetry"
*a three sum,
- three legged stool-
there is nothing new under the sun,
whispers the Psalmist
this I whisper
only, alone, one,
be no such!
only love poetry
until*
~~~~
postscript
***if only I,
knew
how to love***
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
The waters rose, and the flood pours
The Spirit stirs, the Soul cannot but sing
The psalmist’s song, for both souls are one
Moved by the same Spirit.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 2:41 AM UTC
"Most men lead lives
of quiet desperation
and go to the grave
with the song still in them.”
Henry David Thoreau
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*this fearsome cursed thought,
rises fresh daily from
under death's precursor,
when sleep crusted eyelids broken
illusions none,
escapes zero,
go to my grave
with no lew'd selfie
foolish proclaiming
I was the greatest,
tho but an itinerant bit, an Internet curio
this so very quiet man,
sings his way every day,
with these worn tools,
dull, yet shiny from loving overuse,
the very things you
are currently grasping,
words,
his words
as you do as well...
each poem,
oil poured annotating
a new poem king anointed,
a psalmist on the lyre composing
of still waters to lie beside,
of valleys where he shall final rest
delusions none,
my bones and words will in dust meld,
ashes, couplets, dried essences,
a scents that is
this beings, his Eau de Cologne alone,
tints and hints of yellowed pixels,
tired bone and the worn flesh of
maybe's too plentiful,
coulda's, shoulda's,
if only
so in quiet desperation,
and human spirit ignited by lighter fluid burning,
write, and write yet thrice more,
that a leaden life be happy soiled,
each singing a freedom breaching birth,
a glorious failure, yet endeavour'd
to let his unique tune be heard
to my grave down, down,
but one contentment proudly, black-bold-etched,
amidst the forest of daily desperations,
protested he, with tunes herein shared,
marked by no copyright,
other than his name plain,
satisfied that his singing was
loudly heard until his voice,
could be, would be,
stilled only by Father Time*
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
~
these words from a friend
jar me from my glass-eyed read
"even if we are not aware,
we live in memories"
and in response i write,
"i often feel watched
by my loved ones passed on,
as though they are aware
of my every movement and deed,
peering over the portals
of a nearby dimension
as one from a portico"
watching what before them lies.
fellow members of a "club"
you didn't volunteer for,
didn't sign your name to,
you know firsthand
the longing, the aching,
the wishing and the wanting,
the praying and the begging,
the "take this cup" imploring,
remove it far from me,
the "i'm down on my knees
begging you please" plea.
grief...
a mournful response
a saudade for
what will, what can
never be again.
a shadowy wood,
where the seekers lie,
where lovers come
when lovers die;
where hope once lost
can still be found,
where signs and wonders
from beyond abound.
where man can touch
the face of God,
where the path to freedom,
with all it twist, its turns,
brings new meaning
and opens new doors.
within this forest
there lies a pool
from which to drink
and be renewed.
healing waters
in abundance here
to wash away
the bitter tears;
the lonely hours
here spent bring peace,
its lovely flowers
are rarest sweet;
the dancer learns
her steps again,
the singer finds
his inner voice;
here hearts unfold
and bare the creases,
here anxious thoughts
and anger ceases;
and psalmist's soul
here finds relief.
~
post script.
*thank you Bala, for stirring my morning contemplation time and helping me to reflect on what i have, as being a part of what i have lost.
"saudade"- though sharing no English equivalent is best understood here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade
as apples of gold are wise words... indeed! my fellow poets, you are a grace to me, a gift i did not heretofore know of; the door to a contemplative.forest i had not previously known. thank you, to each who stops in to make a kind, a generous comment and sometimes add a very thought-provoking word. i am grateful today!!*
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
~~~
Testimony & Majesty: Oh God, Why Do You Inflict Me?
~~~
Morning dawning...
Thickened whitened whipped cumulus
come crossing,
no frenzied froth,
moving slow royal, stately,
as if they are the pride of a
celestial navy,
peaceful ships,
crossing from my portal to your port,
traversing from my shade
of the blues,
over to you, poet,
to your personal screen-adapted
CinemaScope version sights
This wind buffets,
re-directing my
morning~borning hallelujahs
this wind, nameless,
call it chipper, fulsome and volatile,
a proud pusher selling a waking up
near-chill pill,
to accompany the real+imagined
armada of nature
it, near and nearer
to you,
to the sky we inhabit+share,
its ***** stiffening energy,
makes some
hide inside,
not me,
I'm outed by the
harsh welcome~touch of this
realized reminder -
who is the master,
who is but
an obedient servant,
choicelessly writing his
psalmist morning devotions...
another poem of sky, cloud and wind?
*Oh God why do you inflict me?
with this time after time obeisance
when I am
metaphor drained and disabled,
abject of adjectives,
simile frowning upside downing,
have we poets not done our dutiful
illuminating your bountiful works?*
yet here I am,
a soul surviving,
incapable of resistance,
your frosted creatures persistent,
wrest my visions into prose,
to add to your overly full Facebook page,
with more fawning praise...
*Angered have I, you, for now nowhere,
tropical rain squall tells all,
humans are toys,
born to serve,
silence your complaining~explaining,
and from nowhere with
rapido intensity rising,
down pours drops of scornful
water whippings,
demarcating our
incoming existence inequality...*
and yet with your
yang and yang,
a reproach for me,
for as it waterspout pours,
it also pours sunshine,
a mystifying warning
to the put-upon poet,
that in the admixture
of nature and life,
all is conflicted,
all is tremulous beautiful,
and now is the
due time...
*due, you,
to complete this treatise as
testimony to majesty...*
~~~
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
I've always desired to write like the Psalmists,
to give praise to the God who so loves me.
I seem to do better in light-hearted matters
and vulgarity.
But if I could write appropriately,
as if my words were even close to
the fullness of how much I mean them,
I'd say that I'd be nowhere without my true
Father.
The one who resides afar, but so near.
The omnipresent Triune God who loves me
more than I can stand to love myself.
(Notice how easily I make this about me, something I loathe.)
But my God, O God.
Your beauty is deeper than the ocean,
Your majesty stretches across the atmosphere;
nay, it stretches across the cosmos.
But a speck I am in Your glory
yet You love me all the same.
Yet You love me all the same.
The idea of You taking thought to create me,
with purpose no less,
blows my mind;
truthfully, my only hope
is to spread that love that you giveth me.
To reflect you.
To be a light unto others in Your name,
and yours alone.
Though my life feel like a desert,
You are an oasis.
Please fill my thirst.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807—1882~
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
I don't lock glocks
An' I don't ride with a nine
I don't pack Heckler and Koch
But when I step over the line
I'm packin' more heat than a Navy Seal
I got both hands free
Because I gave up the wheel
I got my arms stretched out
So I can seal the deal
He had his life snuffed out
So He could finally heal
Us
The killers and the accomplice
When He said "it's finished"
His plan was accomplished
His face beat and anguished
The Devil thought he'd vanquished
The One by whom he was banished
But he must've been astonished
When the only Lamb unblemished
Made good on His promise
That was given to the Psalmist
Death had been demolished
Its power was abolished
Humanity refurbished
He suffered because He cherished
The impoverished and the ravished
Malnourished and the famished
So I pack heat, but it's a different kind entirely
Not a weapon, not of man that is
I cary knowledge, that His spirit lives inside of me
I cary peace, in the knowledge that I'm his
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
"A Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!A_Psalm_of_Life
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Nothing nears perfection like your smile; it is believed to be the make- up worn by angels,
Your face; ethereally lovely; perpetually graced with the touches of angels.
Your breath- taking beauty walled the template of my thought; enough not to forget how Heaven glows in your radiance,
Life in its erratic form makes perfect sense in the ambiance of your presence.
You are such that the planet is created around your meticulous tenderness,
Waxing strong at your ambiance; such to believe in its ineffable gift of weakness.
When you talk, no bird sings in the planet; every living entity stops to pay attention,
The earth rotates in congruence to the luxuriant wave of your voice; dancing to its sublime perfection.
Your laughter reverberate in such a melodic tune that the angels dance to its rhythm,
Joyfully bonded in congruence with its flow; adoring every tune of its appealing beat like the psalmist hymn.
Your lips deposits sweetness like pollen on stamens and pistils of my lips,
Enough sweetness to inundate my worries and fears at a glimpse.
You look at me with your serene but yet decipherable eyes and mitigates the stillness of loneliness in my opaque heart,
As a lady, you are an ideal sample of perfection; as a human, you are the integral part of Gods finest art.
I just can’t get enough of you; your love blooms with such sweetness like a long fermented wine,
I can drink and drown in its taste of breathtaking sweetness; get tipsy and still feel absolutely fine.
Your allure is offbeat; as indefinable as the coefficient of your inexhaustible beauty,
You are attention calling, extremely attractive to the dense bones of my cardiac cavity.
I love you and every unspoken word that you’ve ever thought of and every inch of flesh that is yours,
Your kiss is life to my cells; no such lips multiply cells in a single touch like yours.
My love for you is as indefinite as the sea; as vast as the galaxy of existence,
My love for you continues to grow just like root of plant grows beneath the soil with sublime resilience.
Like a Heron on fire; like a creeping mountain magma; my love blaze with such realness and sincerity,
And can never seize to end; be conquered by life’s challenges or drown in the depth of eternity.
Am stuck on you forever; forever bonded and inseparable like the Siamese twin for real,
Because baby; my love is forever; always have; and always will be.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
the psalmist cries
by the wonders of your creation
but now we worship you
with half adoration
half obedience
and even half concentration
the Israelites bow down before you
but others take you for granted
the capacity of your power cannot be fathom
neither by a myth nor by a mortal man
you are the Greatest
the kings among all kings
the highest among all kind of Gods
the alpha and omega
beginning and the end
the Just among the guilty
the persecutor within the nation
the yin and the yang
the universe God and the highest father
Yhwh, the purest name above all.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
So many Facts, yet with Tales interpret
Infect this Cause on what we should Believe
The Rector's Bells; Or the Psalmist's Perspect
Preach to Define the Aspartamine's relieve
That this World-on-Swirl base our Morals gauge
And deny the Worthy the Gifts they Deserve
Since Paint their Walls green; Then pause their Smiles fade
To sour the Jellies by their Conserve
At least for your Grace: Breathe your Milestones well
Knowing such Skin beneath a Youthful Orb
Of Smoking Clouds or Rowdy Skies befell
Reap Divine Benefits by your Absorb.
This Speech too Blown - too Televised release
If Words un-reviewed provoke War or Peace.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Before me always
Are the sins of my past
Sins against You (only You)
Things evil in Your sight
You are correct when You condemn
Justified when You judge
I have been diseased since birth
Infected since the moment of conception
The cancer of my soul
Growing, consuming, destroying
Threatening to over take all I am
Cleanse me with Your Love
And I shall be clean
Wash me in Your Blood
And I will be whiter than snow
Wash away my impurities
and cleanse me from my sins
Have mercy on me
O GOD
According to Your unfailing Love
According to your limitless Compassion
Create in me a mended heart
Renew in me a strong spirit
Make me a new creature in You
Let me hear joy and gladness
Do not cast me from Your face
Or remove Your Spirit from me
Restore me to Your salvation
Sustain me with a willing spirit
Have mercy on me
O GOD
Save me from the Fires
The Judgment for my deeds
Save me GOD
And I will teach of Your Ways
I shall sing of Your righteousness
Open my lips
And I will declare praises unto You
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
Psalmist of refuge and timelapse,
Can thou stop the ticking tumultuous hand?
Insidious to dietie's
You've come short of hypothetical stand!!
Provisions make space for new coming shouters,
For lovers and doubters of Napoleon like complex!!!
Wherein grievers grieve,
Where gravestones are scene,
Thy gowned mate gets half their respect!!!!
A selah for every area skipped young founding Father!!!
Can thou brand thine own?
No more broken homes to match beautiful daughters to their monsters!!!
Polaroid imagery seiging the bathing rooms of suited men's palaces,
All chalices tipped,
Finalized,
None more chapping to cocoa tasting lips!!!
Engine made supreme star beings,
Control the blood and flesh,
So what good's left ?
Thou faithful of sighted pics!!!
Art thou choked to thy hold?
Simmered to thy own ***** stated bliss!!!
Hath thou blossomed continually?
Perennially you topple towers of watchers view!!!
Release thy stamen among the grass,
For love is renewed!!!!
Times not through,
Thy hedging was meant to last!!!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
it is the inky, only one, you will ever be gifted,
the others, you will need create from scratch...
In these days where
solving for Self, "Selving," dominates,
a long time,
now-all-the-time work,
this selling
of the cells of sel~awakening.
though, duty insists,
I insert the Psalmist's wise words,
"There is nothing new under the sun'
a cautionary comma to reckless abandonment of senses,
instincts, passed down wisdom.
a hardy learned lesson that's
not needy
for forgetting,
advice offered up with a
compote of temerity, tenderness, timidity.
'tis:
far, far better to fail well than not at all!
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 3:00 AM UTC
#Reflections on Psalm 97
Good Shepherd? He's more a flame-thrower...
this reaper who doubles as sower.
While His psalms hold our gaze
Holy fires will blaze...
He remains an unknown to the knower.
Though the psalmist prophetically blazed,
some residual doubts are still raised:
the good shepherd and sower
now armed with flame-thrower
both scorches—and leaves one amazed.
Our Lord is a reaper and sower
Spreading light via holy flame-thrower.
While His readership gazed
expectations were razed:
there were less burning standards to lower.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
How I wish
To let you sway
Through the red mountain!
An image of yours is not enough,
To get inspired!
And many doves sing
An ancient praise,
Whereas the roses blossom,
To get you crowned!
How I wish,
Calling my dark caress,
To invite you,
To the last banquet!
No more desires will occur,
Before the Great Throne,
And Sensuality will be a psalmist when,
She meets Love;
The beginning of the end is
A promise,
To be someone new,
In which,
Nails and ashes are gotten rid of;
However,
The pleasure will be transformed
In a given when,
Our eyes are willing
To make a tear dance.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise! —Psalm 95:2
Giving thanks after a “Hail Mary” touchdown
or before downing a meal of turkey and all the
fixin’s ‒ not what the psalmist had in mind when
writing about being in His presence.
Here we are – days from the cross – not much
time to rejoice and give thanks for the real story,
the passion play to end all spectacles, worldly
narratives or daily newscasts.
It’s time to set the stage – polish the bells and
warm up the recorders, get out the metronome
and clear your throats – the opening chords of
St. Matthew’s Passion are in the air still.
The celestial chorus has no patent on singing –
the angel choirs we hear on high every Christmas
do accept new members – and going solo on
timpani or viola is pleasing to God.
Many of us – largely children – agree that when
making noise, we should be joyful, loud and
yes, not be afraid to do it in public: sometimes
gangs even march on their way to forgiveness.
As we look around in the confusion of our
world – have you looked lately? – it’s very
helpful to read the psalms, the songs of David,
it is said, can be of comfort and enlightening.
Close your eyes and imagine a mystical figure
playing the lyre and singing the words of this
psalm – give thanks, sing, praise – the words
call us, an invite to worship.
This is the liturgy you can have every waking hour
– in the house of the LORD and in yours: you can
praise the LORD in any key – anywhere – as long as
you practice the steps of faithful allegiance to the one
who gave himself for us. Amen.
Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
flint is abundant in the chalk hills from whence I came from
and here there is no natural deposits
you can find flint though, washed up after a storm on the beaches,
being a heavy stone it was used for ballast in bygone days and leaches from the many wrecks to be found around our archipelago.
My Father built garden walls with the stuff, and many a cottage has flint as building material back in our Shire.
Flint is mentioned in the Psalms, ' I will set my face like flint' says the psalmist, the poet, the songster, the very Human spirit inspired by the Holy Spirit, to be single minded, that mind, of course, being love.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 7:19 AM UTC
You breathe in. Deeply. Slowly.
The air here is still pure.
You can smell the forests.
You can smell the mock orange in the garden,
successor to the lilacs, now faded and brown.
You breathe out. Slowly, with purpose.
Spittles of poison leave you.
The anger. The fear. The uncertainty.
A part of you relaxes. Not enough,
but a start.
You breathe in. Deeply. Slowly.
There is peace in the Vermont air.
This is why you came, though you did not know it at the time.
For the peace. Unable to find your own,
you came to a place where peace is the natural state,
a place where you could breathe it in
with each swelling of your lungs.
You breathe out, slowly, with purpose.
This is what you have learned,
violence in anything, even breath,
is a form of ****** Of spirit, Of your spirit at least.
You have seen enough of it in your lifetime,
and your tolerance is low. The pain and the anger
always lies near the surface. It is an act of will
to keep it at bay.
You breathe in. Slowly. Deeply.
The mountain air fills you.
“I look to the mountains from whence cometh my help”
declares the Psalmist and you breathe his words,
knowing your only real power comes in love,
in peace, no matter the world’s penchant for anger.
You refuse to make that anger your own, and so
you breathe in the morning peace
as you clutch the cross around your neck.
You breathe out. slowly, with purpose.
This time, this breathing, is a girding of arms,
for the anger still lives beneath the surface,
and you will never **** it. It has a life beyond your own.
Your own pain and experiences will never leave you.
No amount of breathing will expel it,
so the trick is to breathe it out, just enough
that it can become a thing controlled,
put to work, harnessed by love, power
to wrestle the darkness around you.
You breathe in. Slowly. Deeply.
Unsure of the battle, but sure of the cause,
sure of the value of every soul you encounter,
even those who weld their swords seeking
submission and blood, blended by their own anger,
unfamiliar with history and gospel. You breathe in strength,
the power of sunshine over the quarry.
You breath in the words of your youth
and they become sinew and muscle.
God in you. finally. Again.
You breathe out, slowly, with purpose.
You need this renewal. Every day you need it.
and that is in ordinary times. Today
you need it more. Your weakness,
your easy anger is not a thing to be purged,
only a thing to be controlled. There is work to be done
and work needs its fuel, it’s passion,
a flame fed, but not too much. You breathe more of it out,
feeling your soul calm, knowing when to stop,
in that place between peace and war inside yourself
where change without carnage becomes possible.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 9:04 AM UTC