"rejoin" poems
Even though humans struggle to live and darkness is easier memorized than light..
Moments of bliss and happiness are still likely to occur,
Perhaps not today perhaps it will take a longer time,
That is what I find very beautiful,
The love of life which rarely is set ablaze by events,
Rejoicing, in the truest bliss alike spiders in their tiny dance,
Forgetting the heavy rain and feeling alive on the highest level,
Even though, it is likely to fade as if it was dust carried away by a gentle breeze of the coming spring, far away till the horizon,
A moment of love can change a persons view of the world,
Motivate them to keep on fighting to experience the sheer amount of joy and happiness carried to them by the purest state of the mind,
Until all the shrapnel of their hearts rejoin and shine beyond the scene, with light coming from above the heavens, golden, free of sin,
And when the sunset ends these cheerful moments, their memories live on, reminding, recalling and pointing out to fight furthermore,
Even though humans stuggle to live wretchedly,
Living,
Is what I find very beautiful.
~ Umi
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
There’s love within our family tree
and happiness abound.
Our roots are deeply planted
in rich and fertile ground.
We enjoy the rays of sunlight,
and endure the winds and rain,
and when a leaf falls from our tree,
together we share the pain.
God gave us earthly families
and never did intend,
that bonds of love built on Earth,
upon our death should end.
For when our life is over
and from earth our souls will flee ,
one by one, leaf by leaf
He’ll rejoin our family tree.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:16 AM UTC
A life in poetry, A love in art
Set forth on a path that extends forever.
Though the closest reaches climb high
Over mountain and dale, through ravine and shadow,
The path goes on and as it does, descends into light:
So much light, more light than one can resolve.
It blurs the boundaries of the great valley
Splashes of green, the wonderful glare of richness
A river runs through the valley and nourishes the fruit
The sweetest fruit. It nourishes the body,
Nourishes the soul: renews, enriches, grows, sustains.
The path extends to the horizon. And beyond.
As it grows from the foothills it branches
Forming a fractal road of possibility.
Like roots growing from the mountain,
There appears nothing more natural in the world.
As the paths go on, they passes through diverse landscapes
Some places they make sharp changes in direction,
Some places they pass through further patches of shadow,
Some places they grow wider, Some places they get rocky,
But nowhere does the path narrow, beyond the first stretch,
Where the paths split, and over the mountains rejoin.
Beyond that there is always enough room for two
To walk astride.
Side by Side in Sunlight.
Hand in Hand.
For Maya.
Donald Guy
July 5, 2010.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
to hold a photograph in my hand
and believe what is presented,
take is at it already is – why not?
if I close my mind’s shuttering eye,
will you be as candid as before?
unrestricted, unsorted from the hullaballoo,
you, freer than what is imagined, closing
in like a bullet from yesterday shot out
of the sky’s contrived clearing –
to hold a photograph in my hand
and tug closer by the mouth of the fringe
as if to pour water on a broken glass,
slithering now, a shadow of moon
at the very dull end of my cup;
you are closer than any rehearsed moment
ready to catch the inner canthus of the eye:
this relentless picture-passing, tense and
fervent, avid like bankiva to air,
water to chrysanthemum: behind thick shrub
of crepuscular, an arboreal locomotion
shatters loose, your frantic figure.
to hold a photograph in my hand
and size it down to the dimensions
of this home – there is potential in this
comparison: flaring out like smoke from
where it infinitely burns, I seek an ache
and hence place a finger to shush,
to hold this photograph in my hand
and confabulate a soft blow to the gut
and feel it realer than any dagger or berretta
held at one’s life-edge: this delusory intimation,
a slipshod work of feeling. to feel it rejoin
me somewhere I ought to be back again.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
May the words of my mouth
and the meditation of my heart
be pleasing in your sight, LORD,
my Rock and my Redeemer.
Good Morning Beloved
It is good to be among you this morning.
Let us pray….
Gracious Lord
As we sojourn the pathways of life
You have brought us to the places
Of ecstatic splendorous peaks
You have blessed us with resounding joys
You have filled us with good things
The grace of your unconditional love
Is made manifest in the abundant life
you have promised to all your children
We bless you Lord for your provision
And your unfailing unrequited love
You have also humbled us Lord
With times of perplexing trial,
deep sorrows and pointed loss
Our earthly journey
has led us to places
of dread, devastation
sickness and pending death
Our plans and aspirations
Have turned to dust
Our eyes fill with tears
Our crestfallen hearts
have hardened
We fail to receive the
balm of love
We have been routed
We have lost the battle
We have been conquered
by separation, sin and despair
The spirit of life
Has evaporated
From our bodies
All that remains
Are dry bones
Scattered in the
valley of death
hidden by the shadows
In the nadir of our lives
Yet your abiding love
remains the
strong Present Helper
calling us to your light
May we rise from our
Afflictions as Lazarus
did when called by his
beloved friend Jesus
May your grace anoint
Our ears with the sound of
The Great Resurrectors voice
May you stir our hearts
With the wisdom of your will
May you bless our lips
With the grace of prophecy
That we may
Prophesy to the broken
And brittle bones of our lives
Prophecy to the bones
so they may be joined
With sinew and flesh again
May your words
Become flesh
May we walk again
In the land of the living
And rejoin the beloved
At the table of
Your abundant grace
In The Good Deliver's Name
We pray...
Selah
Music:
Eric Dolphy, Come Sunday
Readings,
Ezekiel 37 The Valley of Dry Bones,
John 11, The Death of Lazarus
Prayer of the Dry Bones
Faith Lutheran Church
Lavallette NJ
4th Sunday in Lent
4/2/17
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
There goes a noble man.
Stepping down from glorious crests
To rejoin thousands in name.
But only in name.
A man of many words
And softly spoken treasures
Of piercing eyes, and deep perceptions.
Though not without his humble admirations.
There stands a secret hero.
No one fully knows the good he's done
The power of the words he's said
Or the strength he's lent to one.
The courage that was never mine to use.
Given, nonetheless.
There speaks a patient knight
With sworded words
He kneels behind his shielded faith
And prays beside the armored horse.
He's always safe from coldest fear,
Safe in his suit of armor,
Armor made of softest black and white.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
500
Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel—
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As ’twere a travelling Mill—
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose—
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,
Till every spice is tasted—
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres—
And I rejoin my Dog,
And He and I, perplex us
If positive, ’twere we—
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity—
But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye—
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!
2.6k
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Let me tell you a tale.
A tale passed down
From mother to son
Father to Daughter.
The tale of Chaos.
Chaos is the beginning and the end.
It was there before and it will be here after.
This is not a story about the Chaos you know,
Not the man-made synonym of mayhem.
This is a tale of Chaos in its purest form
It is everything and nothing at once
Both darkness and light
Pain and bliss
Sanity and madness
Past and future.
A senseless contradiction and the perfect combination.
This tale is one that we all seek,
For it is the answer to all our questions.
And once we finally rejoin the stars,
Greeting death with a smile,
We all become part of it.
So maybe you do not need me to tell the tale,
For you will soon be living it.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
Soon I will be alone.
In my own little cave
I can hide and be regrown;
my own soul I will save.
I will seclude myself from all;
from disappointment, pain, hate
and live behind my wall,
until I've learned to appreciate.
All I want is to be happy,
but, it seems the world is all sad,
I can't help but breathe empathy,
so I am prevented from being glad.
To add to that, I am toxic,
and all I touch turns to dust
until I learn to focus,
I will continue to lose trust.
I must learn to deal with this,
then attempt the world anew.
I need to learn to channel bliss,
then I can rejoin all of you.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
*When my time passes
And there’s no breath left in me,
Take my ashes to the oceans
And set my spirit free.
There I can rejoin my friends
There I will not be alone.
There I can make my amends
There I won’t be unknown.
Far too much blood spilled onto this planet
Makes its way to the sea.
The raining of blood by droplet
Rejoining there finally.
Don’t leave me in the cold, cold ground.
No – No imprisoned tomb for me.
Let the waves be my stone bound
An anxious tide, my cemetery.
There I can float on endless waves
A moving monument to see.
And if you leave a tear on my grave
I can float it away with me…*
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
607
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times—
When Dimness—looks the Oddity—
Distinctness—easy—seems—
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms—
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes—
In just the Jacket that he wore—
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we—old mornings, Children—played—
Divided—by a world—
The Grave yields back her Robberies—
The Years, our pilfered Things—
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings—
As we—it were—that perished—
Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them—
And ’twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
2.1k
In the ash
Burnt pit of despair
I find my fear
Dipped in the blood of my ancestors
My blade greets me
I am whole
a man
amongst men
My bones echo back through the centuries
Through the earth,
Mountains,
Rivers...
Carrying the spirit of the land
To rejoin the souls of old
With those now standing tall.
A robin sings
and moves from branch to ground
Hunts
Fearless
Protective
Arisen from ash
Pit
Harmony
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Under a Celtic Moon Night
Warm breeze blowing in the spring
Two great armies cease their fight
In grassy fields, insects sing.
I walked alone with my thoughts
Looked for peace and solitude
Dreaming of love that was not;
So I calmed my warriors mood.
A sound: Enchanted music
Drifted soft, calling my soul
Older than any Gaelic,
Those words took such a heavy toll.
From the wood something appeared
Like a ghost from ages past
Though tried in battle, I feared
My weapons from me I cast.
A girl clad in moon's soft glow
With grace, like Beren's fair bride
Beauty only elves could know
Tears, like pure silver she cried.
Like two stars her eyes did shine
Hair, as black as the night sky,
I could only wish her mine.
Deep sadness was in her sigh.
She stood pleading with heaven
To rejoin her with her love;
A soldier he once had been,
Met his fate, was now above.
This perfect scene did I watch,
When like a dream was she gone.
Left, just stillness with no match
And that night went ever on.
Now oft' when the night is long
And darkest before light,
Still can I hear her sad song
Under a Celtic Moon Night.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
*Immaculate moments of Mystery,
be my thoughts for me as
I stay motionless in
your Magnificence,
Invisible in your Absence
Please guide my hands
to soothe and to heal,
my heart to know and to feel
with great Capacity
for the Totality in
the Essence of your Presence.
May I live with purposeful intent
beyond the confines of the self
to grasp with great intensity
the gravity of Eternal Love,
binding order in the Chaos,
Cohesion of the One....
Omnipresent Mind....
Incomprehensible Thought,
into You I swear to forever seek,
until Dual is undone and
the Heart shall rejoin,
before the beginning and
back to the One.*
Ishq Noor ~
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
The dead are all around us
they are as alive
in their way
as we are
in ours
We share a world of shadows
with these manes
and step awkwardly
into the light
Every breath of the wind
is a dead soul passing
every autumn leaf that falls
a secret hieroglyph
from the beyond
Beasts in the wild
know this
thus the coyote
sings his mad lament
the raven turns his dull eye
toward the east
expecting not light
but a flight of dark wings
And dark wings
command my attention these days
my eye
turned inexorably toward
the night
Where every word
is farewell
where all commerce ends
and I rejoin the stream of stars
Done with all of this.
And surely
it will be bliss.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
We marvel at
the smell of the white clover.
It is a baked in smell right now,
the heat is oppressive, crushing
The smell of the clover, and this
cigarette are the only reason we’re
out here.
Smarter, healthier people are inside,
in the air-conditioning, nursing a beer or
a lemonade, watching whatever might be on
HBO.
Returning to our respective homes,
we rejoin their much more comfortable
ranks.
(I’m curious what’s on HBO anyway.)
When the need for nicotine rises again;
cigarette in hand, opening the door, seeing
the pavement has darkened with rain.
The smell of the clover has been muted,
replaced with the brassy, metallic breeze
that rises like steam from the hot driveway,
lingering under the nose like a warm childhood
sip from the spigot.
That steam has its own odor,
rich and febrile,
rising from the superheated
surfaces of our cars.
It smells like squirt-gun suicide,
a child’s drink from the barrel of
plastic ordinance.
(Do you remember doing that?
I do.)
How terrifying that must’ve been to parents;
to see their children, in swimwear or skivvies,
******* on the end of a gun.
Perhaps they gave it less of a thought
than I do now.
I’d wager they were inside,
in the air-conditioning, nursing a beer or
a lemonade, watching whatever might be on
HBO.
Out of the early summer heat.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
Jacques and Emile's veins
pounded in their skulls
as they scrambled down the ladder
and through the labyrinth of sewers
to rejoin their fellow assassins
beneath the Parisian thoroughfares.
They'd tracked the **** Captain's moves
for past a week and knew precisely
what he drank and where he ******
They were ready when he
Stumbled down the brothel stairs.
When Jacques stepped left for a clearer shot
he found a bucket with his foot.
The German wheeled and spotted them -
raising his whistle to his mouth,
but before he had a chance to blow,
A silent report from Emile's rifle
crashed into his trachea
And he crumpled like a rag.
Back in the tunnels
Jacques bragged like a circus barker,
"You should have seen the look on
Gerry's face before we brought him down."
Emile had seen his face alright,
but thought only of the whistle
that would have doomed them all.
What do you when the world goes mad
and **** tanks roll into the Champs Élysées?
Who do you **** and why and how?
Jacques was sound asleep
and deaf to his comrades' whispers -
pondering what to do and when.
The decision came quickly and a
different sort of mission was planned
and Emile selected to execute it.
What do you do when the world goes mad?
August, 2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
on a hillside facing north
into an infinite blue Jersey sky
Sarah was laid to rest
on a brilliant crisp
Monday morning
she was surrounded by
loved ones and friendly
Highland Peaks
gathered together this
Thanksgiving week
to praise, honor and
give thanks for the
the life of a beloved
transfigured soul
Sarah entered
the world with nothing
yet departs on wings
filled with an abundance
of riches garnered
from a well lived life
she nurtured generations
of family and fostered
a bounty of diverse friendships
all who count themselves
fortunate to have experienced
the grace of her love
Sarah was a
strong loving matron
of a vibrant clan
her home
filled with
laughter
and the chatter
of children
guests found
a hearty
welcome
and genuine
hospitality
her door, ear
hearth and heart
always open
to anyone
in need of
refuge,
understanding,
a good laugh or
a loving embrace
Sarah's legacy
bequeaths an
extended lineage
of flourishing children
blessedly assuring
her presence
remains a vital
life force in the
spirit of future
descendants
as Sarah was
committed to a
final earthly embrace
to rejoin her
beloved husband
George
white wisps
of gentle
cirrus clouds
gathered to
anoint the brow
of reverent
Highland crests
Well done
Aunt Sally
God bless you
and Godspeed
Fleetwood Mac:
Landslide
Sarah C. Lundberg
Born: August 01, 1933
Died: November 18, 2015
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
A companion through the seasons you welcomes our every phase, From the bittersweet triumphs to the deafening cries,
You stood alongside us through the mayhem.
Whilst mortality is fickle and forevers aren't certain,
You were the constant that prevailed,
Alas at summer's end you submerged with the currents,
Washing away any potential of tomorrow's sunlight,
Basking in infinite radiance you rejoin the promised,
Memories strike annually of your departure,
A forever friend.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:42 PM UTC
Denial is my potion, oh love, why aren't you here
I could show you my garden full of colorful laughs
Glistening sparkles are the petals of my mood
Is there anything to say, darling, when everything is so perfect
When our love will be stronger than the one of those other - pff - pathetic strangers
Come, be joyful with me, even in your absence, will you
Give me the first spin in this magical, merciful (wewillmarry)-go-round
And be there when it ends, let us rejoin for ever and once!
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Don't bother with the politicians, the war men -
For Karma will fulfill the People's ancient justice.
Just say "mu",
And let your soul dance naked down the avenue,
Singing songs,
And carrying on,
From the day you came to Earth
To the day you'll rejoin the Sun,
Peace is what we need -
Peace is everything.
Peace in the mind,
In the body,
In the naked Soul of Infinity -
Let peace ring out in song
And silence the War Man's voice.
For we all have a choice.
Every moment,
Of every day,
We all have a choice -
And our choices are ripples,
Ripples that are endless
And affect the entire universe.
So be well,
And spread your peace.
Don't be swallowed up by greed.
Just be well,
And spread your peace.
This world needs you.
We need your peace.
For if you're not free, no body is free.
Life is a moment,
So seize the day,
Go out and play,
Say what you want to say -
For life is a moment,
And your body won't last forever -
Walk easy, Speak easy, Be easy
Nobody said life would be easy -
But It Is.
So be well,
And Spread Your Peace.
Yes,
Spread Your Peace.
Spread Your Peace.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC