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Alyssa Underwood Sep 2017
Perilous times are foretold for the end
When the one who betrays might as soon be a friend
When he who walked with you in the midst of God's throng
Proves a broken-off reed who didn't belong
When the crowd turns away from the truth they once knew
To embrace a strange fire of the enemy's brew
When the mystic is favored much more than the teacher
And intolerant is the name reserved for the preacher

For myriads have tasted of the heavenly gifts
Then at some unknown point the set compass shifts
And they show by the fact that they do not endure
That they never knew the One Whose salvation is sure
For He's promised He cannot lose one of His own
Yet His wheat grows with tares that His enemy's sown
So these goats dressed as sheep might say all the right words
But pasted-on wings do not turn moles to birds

They learn the same Scriptures and enjoy the same songs
But haven't yet come to the cross for their wrongs
Haven't taken it up and followed the Lord
Have never been born of His Spirit Who is poured
Into all whom the Father has chosen for His Son
Those predestined before the world had begun
So among the elect in the pews sit the dead
Unregenerate men taking up masks instead

And some will sit thus for the rest of their life
While others walk away overcome by the strife
Of their trials, distractions, desires or greed
Rather trusting the world to provide all that they need
For discipleship costs and most think it too high
A price now to pay of their self who must die
Most are tripped by the weight of that covenant walk
Which accompanies a faith that goes past mere talk

It is God's grace alone which grants genuine belief
And with it repentance for proud or for thief
While the course remains bumpy until dying day
The saved may fall down, but they can't fall away
For salvation from first to the last is of the Lord
And His Spirit within is what keeps saints secured
It's our duty and privilege to obey and abide
Yet how could we without His power inside?

Now besides a new fuel we receive a new nature
The old man is dead, we are made a new creature
One that's being conformed to the image of Jesus
So we live to please Him now and not to please us
But because of this switch the world is enraged
For when light shines in darkness its evil's front stage
They hate us the same as they hated our Master
And as time nears its close their fury swells faster

Persecution's been promised for all who are godly
Could be mocking, rejection or harm that is ******
It cannot compare though to what's been exchanged
In the gift of redemption for our souls long-deranged
So we dare not forget when the blows are received
That those doing the punching are still dead and deceived
Still locked in the grip of the enemy's force
Still blinded by sin, still enslaved to its course

Just judgment will come if they do not repent
If they keep on rejecting God's Lamb Who was sent
So it's best left to Him to defend us against
The disdain and discord of a world that's incensed
For they're already judged who refuse to believe
And we would be too but for mercy's reprieve
Being saved from God's wrath that is soon to be poured
Out full strength onto those who His truths have ignored

In the meantime the Father's maturing His children
Forging character depth through both trials and discipline
So let's not lose hope in the face of our sorrow
But rejoice that He's working it out for tomorrow
Since we have a sure treasure stored for us in heaven
And we'll soon be set free from all sin-staining leaven
Let's press on toward Christ's likeness worked in us by grace
And look hard for first moments our eyes see His face!
~~~

"'However, I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.'"  
~ Acts 20:24
Alyssa Underwood Feb 2016
Perilous times are foretold for the end
When the one who betrays might as soon be a friend
When he who walked with you in the midst of God's throng
Proves a broken-off reed who didn't belong
When the crowd turns away from the truth they once knew
To embrace a strange fire of the enemy's brew
When the mystic is favored much more than the teacher
And intolerant is the name reserved for the preacher

For myriads have tasted of the heavenly gifts
Then at some unknown point the set compass shifts
And they show by the fact that they do not endure
That they never knew the One Whose salvation is sure
For He's promised He cannot lose one of His own
Yet His wheat grows with tares that His enemy's sown
So these goats dressed as sheep might say all the right words
But pasted-on wings do not turn moles to birds

They learn the same Scriptures and enjoy the same songs
But haven't yet come to the cross for their wrongs
Haven't taken it up and followed the Lord
Have never been born of His Spirit Who is poured
Into all whom the Father has chosen for His Son
Those predestined before the world had begun
So among the elect in the pews sit the dead
Unregenerate men taking up masks instead

And some will sit thus for the rest of their life
While others walk away overcome by the strife
Of their trials, distractions, desires or greed
Rather trusting the world to provide all that they need
For discipleship costs and most think it too high
A price now to pay of their self who must die
Most are tripped by the weight of that covenant walk
Which accompanies a faith that goes past mere talk

It is God's grace alone which grants genuine belief
And with it repentance for proud or for thief
While the course remains bumpy until dying day
The saved may fall down, but they can't fall away
For salvation from first to the last is of the Lord
And His Spirit within is what keeps saints secured
It's our duty and privilege to obey and abide
Yet how could we without His power inside?

Now besides a new fuel we receive a new nature
The old man is dead, we are made a new creature
One that's being conformed to the image of Jesus
So we live to please Him now and not to please us
But because of this switch the world is enraged
For when light shines in darkness its evil's front stage
They hate us the same as they hated our Master
And as time nears its close their fury swells faster

Persecution's been promised for all who are godly
Could be mocking, rejection or harm that is ******
It cannot compare though to what's been exchanged
In the gift of redemption for our souls long-deranged
So we dare not forget when the blows are received
That those doing the punching are still dead and deceived
Still locked in the grip of the enemy's force
Still blinded by sin, still enslaved to its course

Just judgment will come if they do not repent
If they keep on rejecting God's Lamb Who was sent
So it's best left to Him to defend us against
The disdain and discord of a world that's incensed
For they're already judged who refuse to believe
And we would be too but for mercy's reprieve
Being saved from God's wrath that is soon to be poured
Out full strength onto those who His truths have ignored

In the meantime the Father's maturing His children
Forging character depth through both trials and discipline
So let's not lose hope in the face of our sorrow
But rejoice that He's working it out for tomorrow
Since we have a sure treasure stored for us in heaven
And we'll soon be set free from all sin-staining leaven
Let's press on toward Christ's likeness worked in us by grace
And look hard for first moments our eyes see His face!
"However, I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace."  Acts 20:24

Thank you Melissa Pagano, Eddie Starr, Lidi Minuet, my Soul Survivor sister Catherine and many others for your examples of boldness to proclaim the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ! You are true inspirations to me!!
While most people are familiar with
the principle of ‘sowing and reaping’,
it can be difficult to distinguish
between Fact and Fiction; gleaning

the Truth sometimes takes time, so
that the authentic and the fake can…
be properly separated. Sad jealousies
are found when the evil works of Man

bloom against the stark contrast of
God’s reality; seeing the good and bad,
subtly reinforces our understanding of
the wheat and tares; let us be glad,

in knowing how God divinely operates;
in Him, we can move and have our being
when our Faith is extended on behalf
of His Kingdom; when we are agreeing

with His Word, it’s easier to love and
care for others regularly, as we must;
will people observe us as His Children,
if we’re not placing in God… our trust?
Inspired by:
Matt 13:24-30, 36-43; Acts 17:28;
1 John 3:10

Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
amazon (dot) com

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
How do you get me excited ?
When the evening breeze tares
my thoughts of you .
When the mental images taxes
my reason of right and wrong
When your words tease
my desires for you .
When I just crave your touch .
When I wish to touch your face .
To press lips together ,
savoring your breath .
To sigh heartwise without
the disguise of fear .
Take eternal the heaven of hugs
from your breast .
To share dreams that dance
like phantoms in the flames
of eternal love .
Weild the wild luster
embedded in my soul
from the ages past .
Longing in depth's decisions ,
made and bled ,
for a future truth .
My how you excite me !
Jon York Aug 2010
Sometimes we have to go
that extra mile and we will always
end up where and with whom we
should be.
In reality we always seem to know
the right thing to do but
the really hard part is doing it.
We learn and grow with each choice
that we make and try to make
everything worth it.
We are powerful because
we have survived.
The more walls that we build
around our heart the harder
we will fall when someone tares
those walls down.
Real loss is only possible when we
can love something or someone
more than we love ourselves.
We need to just be who we are,
wait our turn and not push,
just be beautiful and be grateful.
We can hold up our heads no matter what,
and we can't let them try
to stomp us out.
If we have something to offer,
maybe someone will learn something from us.
It isn't education, it's history and it's poetry,
so just  keep going forward and
try not to care what anybody thinks and  
do what you have to do for you and
may you always find a reason to smile.                                       Jon York      2010
Lei Hopwood Mar 2015
I always believed it was better,
just to give up and wonder,
what could have been,
Now I know,
Now I know,
I can never give up,
and I can't get back down,
no more,
I'd rather fight and it fail,
I'd rather suffer than wonder,

Go in facing the pain,
with out the risks we can't grow,
without the cold there's no snow,
no sun without,
the moon,
But you'll know soon,
It's not better to give up and wonder,
when it's your life that tares asunder,
Fight never bail,
who cares if you fail,
Suffer then let your life buffer,
reset and reload,
don't regret this episode...

I always believed it was better,
just to give up and wonder,
what may never have been,
and now I know,
Now I know,
Such faith, conceived by truth-revealing trials
Would open up the way for sojourn hearts
Which, too long groaning, some contend the while
And fix not, pierced through with searing darts
Of cruel despite.  The back and not the front
Too much pursued, then turns away the thought
Which, rightly meek, could otherwise wax blunt
The plaint of sorrow, though not falsely wrought.
The vale they pass, and must, which set before
Is flood with tears of loss for grace remiss
Unkindly given, faithfully now born-
Both cheeks for smiting, doubly felt love's kiss.
Forbearing calls of tempted wrath, uncouth
They still the soul with love to love in truth.

Miners do not bemoan their lot or odds
Toiling amidst the mountains for the boon
Of rare and costly things, nor curse the gods
That one is later rich, one richer soon.
Attentiveness they hold who sooner reap
The treasure that's around them secret sown
While into every crevice careful peek
To pluck what heedless others pass unknown.
Life is not slack to proffer all the glee
Of finding underfoot their stainless wealth
If but the waking heart might, pious, see
The subtle vision slipped their soul in stealth.
A fool to Fortune's ways too tempted cling
As others own great price in common things.

What is a plowman’s good who does not know
To rend the fallow starts a noble work
And sluggard helper who rose not to sow
For early rains, and still the labor shirks?
All seasons come upon a certain time
Accounting naturally important ends
Then run together, pending to adjoin
And pass one into each toward that they tend.
So bides the heart, all dispositions moved
Proportionate to their respective toil
And meets the trials of reason, thorough proved
To blend experience for richer soil.
Such faithfulness lays hold upon the tares
And garners truth in joy of harvest tears.

The carpenters, with line and cornered rule
Perfect their plan, all purposes befitting;
Discerning every plane, they make it true
To need and art, nothing good omitting.
Time, space, and material, they well acquaint
To suit what in idea they have known
And do not reckon aimlessly to joint
The forms of care which discipline bestows.
Determining at first, their soul aspires
With upright means to prove a steady norm
In outward style, contracting the attire
To fit, more solid, ‘gainst the pending storms.
All ends appraised, no castle in the air
They raise integrity’s undoubted lair.

The shifting winds of glancing pride toss-on
The ship of fools ambition ere the port
Of youth is left, though life will not disport
With careless confidence and ****** throngs.
Awake you sleepers, grab onto the helm
Of discipline and keep a watchful eye
For them false prophets' quackery that o’er whelms
The halting reason; now, the trial draws nigh.
Set sail for deeper waters, brave the depths
Of judgment, yet retain a stern relief
'gainst piercing cynicism, which has cleft
Many strong hull upon the siren’s reef.
A hero braves the dark, where Dagon preys
To pluck the pearly gem from wisdom's lay.

Seeming and unseemly, like and dislike
The teeter and the totter is such play
Of mind and meaning, cause and mirrored sight
Which founding can confound the night with day.
The child is parent to the man while life
On loss is nourished; so a fusion rules
The universe inverse, returning strife
To compound allegory, deft endued.
Now what in words the wise of men contend
Consistent with or contra-wise contrived
Truth veers centripetal as spirit bends
The line’s division into circumscribed.
So Hermes’ message, as with salty might
Transforms the fixed in point of solving light.

The trials’ invocation always lends
Two ways to go, all faithless thoughts determined;
Another’s liberty of life extends
And once encompassed, all sure hope resounds.
What outward and destructive ways are there
In boasted things and ****** aspirations
Darkens careless souls that proudly bear
The cruelty of reckless estimations;
Though as an envoy of the light there’s one
That demonstrates a proven dignity
In all the world, illumined as the Sun
Their character’s sublime prosperity.
Such paragon of peace must ever live
In conquest of the other's death and sin.

As donning faces for the shift of things
Accommodation is the passing rite
That opens up upon the newest things
Where right or wrong, as given's, always nice.
What dogma won, in things of captured worth
Then fails for certain as both night and day
Impose fierce gauntlets which, ordained by birth
Initiates into humanity.
Whether comes fair or foul, truth ever is
Between what was, perhaps that which shall be
Where nothing good's received, nothing given
Except that proven by integrity.
More prudent hearts, in seeming-self discern
What loss to own, what gains to yet forgo.

No longer bothered in the waking hours
To vex the soul with thoughts of cruel reproof
They lighten every gloom with kinder bowers
And firm affections for shared primal youth.
Life’s promises they keep and sooner turn
On admiration of a sincere care
That judges not but, ever ready, learns-
What good or bad, by name, is common shared.
So being one within a true respect
They dare no more contend with right or wrong
Nor weary coming days with old regrets
But thank the night as harbinger of song.
At last to love in truth and constant live
By word of grace, their best of care to give!

Confessing nothing rash to vainly give
An estimation of life’s fleeting span
They overcome the world and constant live
In each, uniting, as is fit to stand.
Too soon, contesting banter comes about
On winds of contradiction, outward born
For inward wreck upon the teeth of doubt
As partial men from better self are shorn.
But owning what is due in right respect
Of station that sets all among the stars
So puny, comes a night to recollect
Those cares that found and folly each discharged.
Without more striving then, their way bestows
A humble truth, in love more plainly known.

So comes the proof upon transcendent will
To study every thought and whispered care
In what is sought and how may grace distill
The phantom soul; from private ways to bear
All things of good and evil in compound
As strange concoctions are at first the mead
Of sojourn ways, from ancient roots to bound
With vital links of continuity.
No star of vacant hope to glimpse at first
Where subtle intimations strike the mind
For sacred unction, urging on a birth
Through shadowed veils of self and misty kinds.
Once found in each, born by integrity
They compass perfect care to open up
The fount of golden youth while manhood’s key
Unlocks the treasures of salvific sup.
Such ripened grace of knowing, rightly heard
Stores up the nations, garnering the world.

A vision in the heart of Man, more true
To magnify the deed and, pure as gold
Proved equity of faith in each that holds
As dung all things which strife of pride once lured.
Allied and filling up the high measure
Of righteousness, with precepts born of love
It rectifies the will, drawing treasures
From Hade’s misty shrine and dank abode.
Thereby to light their lamps and truth reflect
The awesome wonder of life’s unity
While nothing of their tears to yet regret
Nor grant a loss to love's great sanctity.
Great mystery, though measured in the known
It rises, all in each and each in all!

Who knows what by this awful sight is spied
For proofs more sturdy, sought upon the word
To shape the justice of their dawning days
And lift to yet new life the palling world?
More subtle than the silent creep of time
It slips on by like whispers of a dream
To walk amidst the hustle and the grind
Of souls, too careless snared by cruel disdain.
Not here or there with proud insistency
Nor couched in dainty flirting of the mind-
A form of light and golden verity
Clothed in itself, itself a world sublime.
Substance of being, hope without a fear
This faith, indemnified by countless tears.

Ten thousand times ten thousand worlds employed
With weight and number, light and vast devoid
Before this fairest seat could faith enjoin
As heaven’s solar dame to the sublime.
Compressed within its bowels, the work's distress
From many tons of ore brings forth one stone
Which rare carbunculus the sage invest
With value, their beloved to adorn.
But this and all true wonder has not shown
What men and women may, in time, bequeath
As one pure breath of aurum spirit, born
To comprehend and compliment the rest.
Great agony has justified the odds
In consequence of Man, revealing God!
Ashli McKee Dec 2009
I’m not going to lie
There is a part
It makes me sad
Tares me apart
I know after all
You still care
We went through so much
Has to be something there
Please don’t leave
Not just yet
A little longer
Then I’ll face regret
Thank you for everything
The good and the bad
I’ll get up and move on
It’s just a little sad
Enough time has passed
I don’t think so much
Then I remember the feeling
Of your soft touch
I am not ready for you
Out of my life just yet
I constantly think of that day
When we first met
I’ll keep it inside
And you will never know
Just know one day
You used to make me glow
Goodbye Josh
I’m saying that for good
To be completely honest
I never thought I could
Good luck to you
I hope everything turns out well
I’ll walk away now
Farewell

No Date
Ashli Jane
mike Feb 2015
her bones grow worms in the dirt
in the cadillac of caskets
shes choking in her coffin
he tells her to take off her shirt
naked is her task
skinned alive is his offer
he swears on her grave it wont hurt
and he says once hes done with her
well, then, nothing can stop her
he tares the leather from her face
a place from where leather is torn
he tares and tares
she tears and tears
until the worms are born.
mike Jan 2015
Her bones grow worms in the dirt
in the Cadillac of caskets
shes choking in her coffin
He tells her to take off her skirt
naked is her task
skinned alive is his offer
He swears on her grave it wont hurt
and he says once hes done with her,
well then nothing can stop her
He tares the leather from her face
a place from where leather is torn
he tares and tares
she tears and tears
until the worms are born.
J Lynne Apr 2018
Is it bad that I think, think,
think about the way the end will come.

That I see the water flood the streets,
that I feel the fire burn inside me.

I can hear the animals charging down
roads and fields, as the earth cracks and crumbles.
The tips of my fingers turn cold and blue
as my mind freezes over, and volcanoes boom
under our feet as we bring the world to its end.

The thing we fear arrives at last
and we are all to blame.
I put my heart in quarantine
as pestilence sweeps the land.

War tares us apart as we try to lower our guns,
but we are compelled to do
the things we hate as we attempt to pursue peace.
We run and run and run and run
in search of life that has been trampled by our feet.

The conflict in our midst becomes obvious
as the dust clears but does not disappear.
Our friends beside us grow feral and hostile
as long, ****** fangs are bared.

As the fog rises and the clouds black out the sun,
it becomes clear to me that the end has been here,
but has not taken us all.

And we wait and wonder who goes next
as our comrades turn to competitors.

Yes, we wait and wonder,
as we see the end has come,

but still, it is not here.
feel free to make comments or edits...
The gloom that breathes upon me with these airs
Is like the drops which strike the traveller’s brow
Who knows not, darkling, if they bring him now
Fresh storm, or be old rain the covert bears.
Ah! bodes this hour some harvest of new tares,
Or hath but memory of the day whose plough
Sowed hunger once,— the night at length when thou,
O prayer found vain, didst fall from out my prayers?

How prickly were the growths which yet how smooth,
Along the hedgerows of this journey shed,
Lie by Time’s grace till night and sleep may soothe!
Even as the thistledown from pathsides dead
Gleaned by a girl in autumns of her youth,
Which one new year makes soft her marriage-bed.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
I
 
You surprised me.
I was expecting the train
to appear on a different platform
(there were only two),
but there you were
walking towards me
and I was still drawing the view.
 
You were so full
of delight at ‘being here’.
And I had myriad thoughts
gathered like the flowers
I’d picked in welcome
that suddenly seemed so sad
as I placed them in your hands,
already wilting, already
past their best.
 
How stupid to think
such a gesture
could mean anything
true. I love you, I’d said.
But you were already
thinking of the orchids
you’d seen over the station fence
and the photograph
you had to take.
 
II
 
Fields of blown grass
too wet to haymake
now too tall
too thick to cut
full of foreigners
tares Biblical
a morning’s work of
investigation with a
reference book: grasses.
Such tones tints and textures
such plenitudes of stalk
directions nodding
swaying a circular motion
a field of movement
against the hills
against the sky

III
 
Evening: still light
Door open: soft breeze
Beethoven on the radio:
A heroic symphony.
Indomitable.
You are kneading dough,
I am reading by the door.
Both restless, both unable
To surrender to the day.
 
IV
 
You sit in front of me
exactly where you sat
last year (but in the spring)
when there was a different light
and the colours of the garden
were gathering their brightness
for summer.
 
I have a photo of that time:
your quiet gaze (of love I like to think).
 
Today we hold each other’s gaze
as in its morning’s air
a river little distant
claims sounds’ space
enclosing us
 
in its embrace.
  
V
 
This garden
touches me
like no other.
 
It haunts
my dreams
with its
still rich
forms and colours.
 
Sun light is
playing patterns
on the dewed grass.
The nearby river,
the echoing birds,
the braying cattle,
my slight breath,
this pen’s touch,
such wonders
of stillness.
 
VI
 
You are my dearest, my love,
my companion of the hearth,
the woman who guards my keys,
the girl who holds my hand,
the artist who with delight
entrances me in what she reveals
of a world within a world.
I am so in love with her.
 
But I am full of sadness,
full of dread that this loving
amour will fade and end.
 
Already on the cusp of summer
and I sense autumn in the air -
when leaves will fail and float and fall.
 
VII
 
As I left you
I broke a long-held rule
and turned to look back,
and through
the windowed door,
saw you rise
from the table and walk
with such grace
and confidence
across the room
and out of sight.
The Howgills are a small group of hills in a beautiful and little visited part of Cumbria. The celebrated fellwalker and author Arthur Wainwright described the Howgills as looking like a herd of sleeping elephants. These poems come from a sketchbook journal I kept during a week spent there in late July.
Nigel Morgan Jun 2014
A suite of fourteen poems

for Alice, always

I

Cutting for Silage

Seen
on the path close to the field edge
a swathe of green grass cut,
Left
in the wake of the machine
to dry in the hopeful sun,
Rich
in a profusion of grasses,
glimmers of wind flowers,
weeds and tares.

Seen from afar
the cut fields partition this landscape
with stripped overlays
packaging the valley,
dark green rows revealing
the camber and roll of
a naked field shorn,
Dark upon light.

II

Walk to Porth Oer

Where the sand whistles
and windy enough today
for the tinnitus to set in,
we’ll walk the curve of its dry fineness
left untouched by the tide’s daily passage
up and back

before
and along cliff paths,
from the mountain
past secret coves
whose steep descents
put the brake on all
but the determined,
beside shoulders of grasses
bluebelled still in almost June
now hiding under the rising bracken
up and down

we’ll walk to a broad view
of this whispering bay
where below on the sandy shore
dots of children
tempt the slight waves.


III

Cold Mountain

Whether  a large hill
or officially a mountain
it’s cold on this higher place
wrapped in a land-mist,
the sea waiting in breathless calm
where the horizon has no line,
no edge to mark the sky.

Any warmness illusory,
in sight of sun brightening a field
far distant, but not here,
where waiting is the order of the day,
waiting for grass to shine and sparkle,
for bare feet to be comforted
by sweet airs.

Meanwhile the sheep chomp,
the lambs bleat and plead,
the choughs throaty laugh
a shrill punctation, an insistence
that all this is how it is.


IV


China in Wales

In my hermitage
on this sea-slung place,
a full-stop of an island
back-lit illuminated always,
I view the distant mountains,
a chain of three peaks
holding mist to their flanks,
guarding beyond their heights
a gate to a teaming world
I do not care to know.


V


Wales in China

O fy nuw, I thought
my valley only owned such rain,
but here it teams torrential
taking out the paths on this steep
mountain side. Mud
everywhere it shouldn’t be.
Everything I touch damp and dripping.
No promise of pandas here.
And there’s this language like the chatter of birds,
whilst mine is the harsh sibilants of sheep
on the hill, the rasp of rooks on the cliffs.


VI


Boy on the Beach

Heard before seen
the boy on the beach,
a relentless cry
of agrievement, of
being badly done to.
This boy on the beach

following his mother
at a distance
then no further.
‘I hate you, ‘ he screams,
and stops,
turning his back on the sea,
folding his arms,
miserableness unqualified,
no help or comfort
on the horizon he cannot see.
It is attrition by neglect.
He becomes silent, and called
from a distance, relents
and turns.


VII


The Poet

Austere, his mouth
moved so little when he spoke,
you felt his words
were always made in advance,
scripted first
and placed on the auto-cue.
Ask a question: and there’s a long pause

as though there lies
the possibility of multiple answers
and he’s running through the list
before he speaks, his antenna
trained on the human spirit,
full of doubt, doubting even
belief itself.


VIII


A Gathering

Thirty, maybe forty
and not in a lecture room
but a clubhouse for the sailing
look you. And we did,
out of the patio doors
to the sun-flecked sea below us,
here to honour a poet’s life and work
in this village of the parish he served
at the end of the pilgrim’s path .

Pilgrims too, of a kind, we listened  
to the authoritative words
of scholarship where ironing
the rough draft found in the bin,
explaining the portrait above the bed,
balancing the anecdotal against the interview,
reading the books he read
become the tools of understanding.

But the poems, the poems
silence us all, invading the space,
holding our breath like a fist.



IX


In the Garden

He came alone to sit in the garden
and remember the day
when, with the intimacy of his camera,
he took her, deep into himself;
her look of self-possession,
of calmness and confidence,
augmented by butterflies
motionless on the wall-flowers,
and the soft breath of the blue sea,
her soft breath, her dear face,
freckled so, his hand trembling
to hold the focus still.


X


The Couple from Coventry

Young beyond their years
and the house they had acquired
but only to visit at weekends for now,
they drove four hours to open the gate
on a different life, a second home
requiring repairs on the roof
and replastering throughout.

With their dog they were walking
the mountain paths, checking out the views,
returning to the quiet space
their bed filled in an upstairs room
echoing of birth and death:
to experiment further with loving
before the noise and distraction
of children swallowed up their lives.


XI


On Not Going to Meeting

There was an excuse:
a fifteen mile drive
and a wet morning.
He had a book, a journal
that might focus his thoughts
towards that communion of souls:
a silence the meeting of Friends
sought and sometimes gathered.

These experimental words
of a man who felt he knew
‘I had nothing outward
to help me,’ who then, oh then,
heard a voice which said,
‘There is one, even Christ Jesus,
that can speak to my condition
. . .  who has the pre-eminence,
who enlightens and gives grace
and faith and power.’


XII


New Life

From behind its mother
the calf appeared
tottering towards the gate,
but after a second thought,
deeming curiosity inappropriate,
turned back to that source
of nourishment and life.


XIII


A Walk on Treath Pellech

Good to stride out.
Good to feel unencumbered
by the unconfining space
of beach and sea, a shoreline
littered with rocks and shallow pools,
sea birds flocking at the tide’s edge.

Alone he sought her small hand
and wished her there over time and space
so to observe what lay at his feet,
that he might continue to look
into the distance with a far-flung gaze.


XIV


The Owl Box

James put it there.
One of forty
all told but
empty yet.
‘We live in hope,’
he said.

Slung from a bough,
bent and bowed,
on a wind-shaped tree,
a hawthorn blossoming still,
(inhabited by choughs a’nesting)
the box hangs waiting
for its owl, her eggs,
her fledgling young
who are not hatched together
but are staggered as though
to give the mother owl some
pause for thought.

Meanwhile the nesting choughs
tear the air with tiresome croaks,
a bit of rough these black characters,
neighbours soon to the delicate mew,
the cool, downy white of the Athene noctua.
The poet celebrated in this suite of poems is R.S.Thomas.
Nova Flames Jan 2014
cigarettes $ pysilocibin
my silhouette is like a lion
feeling high like lifted horizons
soak me in like negative ions
trust your gut, trust your instinct
life is in sync,
but change happens every instant
haters have their opinions
my styles they still mimic
im a discordian magician, ill have your mind tricked
have you question is your reality fact or fiction?
master chef still rules the kitchen
im a bad boy ladies love the villain
cross me once no forgiveness
nova fills all voids thats empty
max pizzazz raps has plenty
im living carefree like heart of a young star,,,
in elementary
but i cant be schooled, bejeweled, or lose my cool
most cannot comprehend the magnitude of nova flames
my path cannot be retraced, you'll be sent on figure eights aka familiar ways, blinded by intense ultraviolet rays aka a violent blaze
i was married to the game
cuhz i accidentally caught the bouquet on my life's wedding day
now i ride the electric wave aka majestic whales  
the super nova tares the scales
now i must rebuild my crystal castle with one pail bucket
once i reach the summit
i can enjoy the fruits of my labor
at the all you can eat buffet,
and live in my abundance, never ever hungry...
Moments Before Aug 2012
Forest
canape
spots  of  light
break through
today, a much worse day
downpours are forcing their way
through the little holes and cracks; to seep
so the ****** of crows should dodge each drop
and on the floor of the forest they can gorge from the puddles
they will starve unless their lust tares; the bark from the mighty oaks
they bare immensely the colors of the night and flaunt them shamelessly
their marvelous scheme teeters on sophistication; and other ways to carelessness
these retched weightless things creep like oblivion had long ago before it's uncertainty
Yes, the whirling meek smirks; searching for survivors to feast and nourish upon
bring war and turmoil to the critters and crawlers; the dwellers and like
hiding behind a veil as coarse as scales that flake and peel into piles
the noble destruction and majestic disposition of scrounging;
ravishing the emotions of many unjust; unfit predators  
bearing the colors of the night always like a chain
one that is wrapped around so tightly it digs in
and makes onlookers bleed in spite of safety
so the forest can get it's revenge already
for blood is the only salvation it seems;
that the forest could ever except
hold, anything else imaginable
beyond a life; where the spots
of sun could never reach
beyond the love it rejects
in crept the depths
fear  oblivion
to stay
for good..
ConnectHook Apr 2016
(A Choreopoem after Ntozake Shange)**

Babbling publicly into your phone
the tragedy’s yours, and yours alone:
messages from your dysfunctional city
inflicted in Afro-eccentricity.

Turn off your phone and spare us the drama.
Look for change from the Lord (not Obama)…
Quit twitching your neckline, stop making that face
there’s nothing you merit because of your race;
no right to entitlement. Take it to God—
we hope He will change you, but spare the rod.

And we pray He does change you, put “yes” in your can;
and that change that’s left over (from Savior to man)
might enlighten your heritage, lighten your load
help you calculate more or less what you are owed
in dollars or dignity (afro-semantics)
while twittering radically militant antics.

A debt unforgiven: this claim someone owes you
some change in a can that black history shows you
your hopeful presumption is scant reparation
for ghetto entitlement fouling our nation.

Go harvest your madness and reap what you’ve sown
now that tares have sprung up as you blab on your phone
now that reapers are ready—the data-plan paid
and our melanin levels beginning to fade…

I’ll shout from your rooftop until you’ve heard
and the crackers get fed to the mockingbird.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com

http://www.cosmoetica.com/TOP68-DES65.htm
Burst Apr 2015
I want you to know
That I want you so
Since long ago
A feeling unknown

This experience is new
Real and true

Two blind minds
Carrying the memories of time
Playing and dancing
Sublime sublime

I know I'm protective
That's maybe why
I know it won't work
Even if we try

Know that I care
Know that I....
Really really want you...
To be mine

It really really hurts
To say goodbye
Traveler Aug 2019
Wickedly evil!
This beautiful trip
Pretend not to notice
The tares that we've ripped
Buy another car, drink another beer
Hell! We can't even see Yemen from here!!
Saudi Arabia, indeed! one of our good friends
Global warming will be the deaths of us all
In our final bitter end!


"We need change"
Seriously!
Traveler Tim
Jake McPherson May 2013
If I die before i awake
I pray the lord my soul to take
To forgive me for all my mistakes
And bring me up and show me the good,
Keep me warm and shelted and feed me food
Forgive me for some of the choices ive chosen
And that sometimes my thoughts become frozen
My mind become hung up on beinign issues,
And a end up tell her "i miss you"
My guiding light is always there,
To help me with any nightmare,
Lord if i die before i awake,
Id trade my soul to make sure its hers you take.
She is the one with a golden heart,
Shell help with any problem no matter what,
Though she may have had a tough start,
Shes been a caring shoulder and nothing but.
Its her that i look towards to help me out,
To pick me up and tell me what lifes about,
But lately somethings changed and it tares me up,
Shes felt sad and lost and out of place,
Shes had many tears go rollin down her face.
I want to help her like shes helped me,
I want to make it so she can see,
I want her to see the beauty she holds,
The beauty that i see every time my eyes close,
So please help me open her eyes,
Please help me show there is no lie,
It is all truth whenever I'm with her,
Every word i say is said with no pressure,
She may think I'm joking but it is all the same,
I want her to see that I'm not just bein lame.
Shes the glue that holds me together,
No matter what the weather.
Now its my turn to help her,
My turn to be her lighthouse in the storm,
To save her from her saddened form,
My guiding light the roles have changed,
Im now your beacon but everything else is the same,
We will both use each other to stay oh so strong,
And we will get through any type of wrong,
Listen to these words with all seriousness,
Im going to help you there is no atest,
My arms wide up run into them,
No one can hurt us when its us against them.
So lord here these words and grant my wish,
Help me guide her and ill me set.
Tammy Boehm Sep 2014
Cloistered manifestation
Candle lit veneration
Indoctrination it seems
The apocalypse of dreams
subtle degradation
emotional *******
a soul split at the seams

you whisper wicked words
pleasure and pain are blurred
subliminal hypocrisy
fingers slick I grip these beads
wheat and tares sprout from these seeds
twist the truth in a noose for me

formidible religion
this gospel of indecision
life bled out on your killing floor
render me defeated
my lesser gods unseated
wrath poured out I am no more

chant your litany of lies
This sinner you despise
clench that unread Bible to your chest
consign me to eternal shame
never again to speak my name
bury me with the rest
your religion is death
with my final breath
a means to an end is best
TLB 11/01/08
there is a difference between religion and faith - this is not a dig at faith -but religion by rote with no faith in God is enslavement
Riot Sep 2014
i'm the girl who tares herself apart
because she tries to find something she's missing

i'm the girl who is scared of her own mind
because i don't know how to control it

i'm the girl who used to cry herself to sleep
because i didn't know how to be "good enough"

i'm the girl who has a secret that will change everything

i'm the girl who gets stronger every fall

i'm the girl who makes jokes about things i really don't think are funny

i'm the girl who doesn't know what love feels like
but can give it to whoever needs it

i'm the girl who's more than an age

i'm more then what you think of me
Still Crazy Jun 2014
Tichborne's Elegie,

(written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution)

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,
My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,
And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.
The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,
My fruite is falne, & yet my leaves are greene:
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.
My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,
I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:
I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,
And now I die, and now I was but made.
My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
Tichborne was executed in 1586 as a member of the Babington conspiracy to assas- sinate Queen Elizabeth and her chief ministers, release Mary Queen of Scots from captivity, and promote an uprising of English Catholics to coincide with a Spanish invasion. The detection of this plot by Walsingham, and the proof of Mary’s complicity in it, finally cost the Scottish queen her life. Tichborne, one of the six conspirators assigned to **** Queen Elizabeth, pleaded guilty at his trial. His “Elegy” was published in a volume called Verses of Praise and Joy Written upon Her Majesty’s Preservation; it was later set to music by three different composers.
Raven Alexander Sep 2011
Mirrors line the room
You look around lost in time lost forever in an image that you don't want to be.
Each one looks the same nothing changes did i lose myself among all this.
Im scared inside i try to search every where everything is the same nothing changes.
Im Frighten help me no one knows how it feels to lose yourself.
The feeling inside tares you apart.
your mind slips into a blur of darkness.
I run I try to search mirror after mirror. All the same
I start to lose it im blacking out im losing myself.
I fall into the mirror knocking them down. one by one they fall and shatter.
I lay there on the floor curled up alone.
The feeling of that you lost your true self is unbearable  you feel empty a shell just another lifeless body.
Then you came in. You had a mirror you kneel down holding it. Showing me.
This is you. This is who you are and no one can take that away.
You are not lost you are found.
You where never lost because i kept you safe.
He walked in the room, pale written on his face
When did it get to this pace?
She sits with oceans upon her cheeks,
His knees go weak.
The sentences of red stains on her bed.

He grabs her wrists and screams when did it get like this?
Scars caress her emptiness and he knew now her pain from past days

She screams nothing ever goes my way!
Let me be your strength, the blanket of compassion you won't be alone, I love you to my bones.

She cries in his arms as a safety net catches her and hope is restored.

Half a moon slips on her lips and she walks with grace, she will leave her mistakes but a classmate reminds her that she's late, a scream escapes they know her fate.
Class they meant, not the baby to be sent.

One cut, two cuts, three cut - four. She falls to the floor with a knock on the door he runs in, worry on his skin as his thought was right, it's time to fight.

Baby you promised to talk to me not leave, her eyes roll back with a panic attack as he sees his whole world fade away in the light of day he never got to say, how he feels.

A positive result upon lies a note, I'm sorry I left you with this, she would have been bliss but life got in the way and I can't stay.

Pictures of them written on with pen, hearts but tears on the tares of the corners. Breaths become shorter and blood drips down the bath, how did it get this far? Baby you promised you wouldn't leave me alone, you said you would phone!

Somebody call an ambulance! His heart is dense, her body sinks into him and her life lifts to Heaven, God I gave up sin and you take relish must I perish - pain of this name, I could never be the same. You took my girl, you took my world.

Baby you promised you would not cut.
MARK RIORDAN Sep 2018
CYBER BULLYING IS A CRIME
IT BREAKS A KIDS HEART
IT DESTROYS A KIDS FUTURE
IT TARES FAMILIES APART



PLEASE DON'T BE A BULLY
IT WON'T MAKE YOU BETTER
IF IT WASN'T FOR THE INTERNET
IT WOULD BE DELIVERED IN A LETTER



BECAUSE IT IS SO EASY AND
YOU DON'T SHOW YOUR FACE
BULLIES ARE JUST COWARDS
AND JUST ENJOY THE CHASE



SO TOO STOP THIS TERRIBLE CRIME
FAMILIES MUST BECOME STRONGER
PARENTS AND CHILDREN MUST CHAT
OR THE BULLYING WILL LAST LONGER
WHEN I WAS A KID YOU COULD FACE YOUR BULLY AND CONFRONT THE ISSUE VERY QUICKLY BUT TODAY THE INTERNET ALLOWS THESE COWARDS TO HIDE AND NOT SHOW THEIR FACE
Qanaah Napash Sep 2013
This one is for my sleeping Hebrews , enjoying this world filled with evil
& Why cant you even realize
There's a veil over your eyes ...
Laugh now but the jokes on you
Its a shame the younger generation is getting caught up too!
History is stuck on replay
When will you get tired of playing the same old game , times running out , there's not much time to delay
Now  not saying its a walk in the park.
But I'm still committed to do my part.

I want you all to stop & think ,process what I'm saying and take it all to heart..
Just thinking about the different types of torment , tares me apart .

Fellas your game is outdated , grow up & step up to the plate be a MAN
Staying  young minded is over rated
Ladies enough with the twerking
It's not cute it's degrading , why not pick up THE BOOK , know your part and start working . Now I'm not saying become a nun , but I suggest  takes notes on PROVERBS 31.
Arreonna Frost May 2016
Who is she
with the brown hair
and blue eyes?

Who is she
whose mind is full of demons
and thighs with a gap?

Who is she
whose always leaning
and cutting up her lap?

Who is she
with the clothes full of tares
and who always dies?

Who is she
whose life is never seeming
and always a game of tap?

Who is she
with the life that isn't so fare
and all the staring guys?

Who is she
whose always screaming
with emotions like a map?

Who is she?

-She is you reflection-
4/1/16
Rai Jan 2011
Today i took all sharp objects
And put them in a bag
With a draw string
And pulled it tight
Then put it away somewhere safe

Theres no way I can chuck these things away
What happens when i need to slice the bread
If I have no knife
Will I have to tare at the loaf like the knife tares my skin
Still being reminded of the reason why I havn't got the knife
And what happens when i need to draw a circle
Will the plate be ok to draw around
but what if the plates too big
Will i get frustrated and smash the plate
Making more sharpe edges to play with
What if the screws need turning to make them tight
Will the ***** driver find its way into my hand
Will the screws get tightened
Will I wonder the nail look more inviting than the driver
Will i place it back in the bag
thats the question I ask my self

And you look into my eyes and say
this bag is not here to keep these things from you
Its just here to remind you to put them away
To keep them out of sight
Until you really need them

So I want to know
Why With the pen (which I know is sharp)
have you placed a notepad in the bag
How can the note pad hurt me ?

I look deep
And sweet poetess you know the answer
There may be no god today
There may be no blue skies
No rainbows to warm your soul
No sunshine
Only rain and the bitterness of life
But with the pen and paper you can create
Your own world
Full of magic and belief
shooting stars and beautiful dreams
Or you may just wish to slash at the pages
with the pen and pretend the paper is your wrist

I my self would like for you to spit your pain upon
the sheets of paper so i know how your feeling
And when i know how your feeling
I can try to give the words you need

Be it only to know that some one
gives a dam
about how your feeling right now
cpywrite :2010
Kayla Whipple Jan 2013
Metal chains wrapped tight around my most vital *****
my body fighting to survive every time my blood pumps through.
Somehow I wonder who locked me up and swallowed the key.
I hope daily the sharp edges that locked my heart slowly tares
apart the one who fastened the sorrow of my soul.
the new year has begun and within minutes I became paralyzed.
memories flood my brain as I scan what I recall a "uneventful year"
But the dark sky and the numb mind is blocking the heartache I felt just
months ago.
The day he chose her, it was as if the tectonic plates shifted.
Not only were my eyes opened to the blinding meters shower of a new life
but the first link of the heavy chain was placed.
My mind acting as hard drive, storing these memories and moments the metal links wrapped around my life, weighing me down one event after another.
My eyes scanned the lit up parking lot just minutes after the cheers welcoming the new year.
Snow danced softly from the sky.
Each different flake falling as if the angels parted the sky and softly sprinkled the small dot on the map.
This last year, the year I fell in love (twice), my heartbroken and indentations on my soul were made.
The year the world was supposed to end, and I secretly stayed up with anticipation to feel the earth crumble beneath my feet and have my sorrows be erased. It was disappointing when my eyes fluttered open the day after the "end of the world".  But I felt butterflies in my chest when I realized I had the opportunity to turn things around.
The weight of the sorrow and pain that is drowning me
will be used as the strength to pull me to shore.
This new year will be the year I break free from the chains and build a fence, protecting my heart and letting only those I value through the gates .
This year I will be the one who unlocks those who suffer the weight of a trapped up soul.
I will carve the key to free them from the stones that are thrown.
The Black Raven Nov 2014
I wonder if you knew, she liked mint ice cream
and would sing every day in the shower,
that words could hurt her more than you would know
because inside she was as fragile as a flower.

I wonder if you knew she used to be happy
and her laugh could brighten a dull room,
that she could write and paint and draw and be
like light reflecting flowers  bloom.

I wonder if you knew she had nervous ticks
and could tie her hair with one bobby pin,
that your constant pressing weight on her world
caused those tares and holes within.

I wonder if you knew she stayed up all night
constantly daring herself to be stronger,
letting her pain out the only way she knew how
the deeper the trench, the longer.

I wonder if you knew she had race track arms
and pain within her bleeding heart,
but no one knew, and no one asked
her canvas of light now fading black art.

I wonder if you knew that you were the cause
of something so deep and so painful,
can you live with that? think you could do it?
knowing the girl was always an angel?

I wonder if you know she had broken wings
and your actions drove her to extremes,
and now I can only hear her in my head
and see her in my dreams.

I wonder if you'll know, years from now
when you’re teaching your kid to play nice,
that she also used to be happy and free,
but for that, paid the ultimate price.
Ace Malarky Aug 2014
Ezra clamber’d o’er the crest
to seek the way which he knew best
which, passing by the yellow tares
and turning at a grove of pears
set him at ancient fungal oak
where upon a branch he hung his cloak

For on some odd-nights within his mare
declared a warlock and his maiden fair:

“Spindled by the peary copse
after fields of shammy crops
stands that vile toady oak
shading torpid mystic folk

“Percieveth thee the one with warty beak?
‘Tis to him whom you must speak.
Rouse him from his slumber, Ezra,
pray of him your task."

The wizard with the moley snout
reclining with a snoozy pout
snored upward from that moldy bark
and whispered “yonder peasant, hark!

“Ezra, deary, there’s a bane
The shepherds hold in some disdain
for sheps can’t herd bereft of sheep
and this bane ingests them in their sleep.
Do ******* hip your faithful blade
and into swampy depths do wade
so to provoke this shepherd's foe
and smite him lifeless head to toe.”
...to be continued

This is me trying to write an epic.
Well, should I keep it up? What do you think?

--Ace
Paul Hansford May 2016
A site I used to post to had a somewhat unhelpful, not to say discouraging,  line when you had posted a poem and nobody had commented it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There is no comment submitted by members.”
Nobody bothers; nobody cares;
nobody gives a hoot how my work fares
– or they mean to say something, but no-one remembers.

The fire of my passion is reduced to grey embers;
the most piercing of glances just meet with dull stares.
There is no comment submitted by members.
Nobody bothers; nobody cares.

Like summers of hope fading into Septembers,
or flowers I’ve grown being smothered with tares,
I search and I search but, despite all my prayers,
I read once again, with a chill like December’s,
“There is no comment submitted by members.”
The form is a Rondel, and its mostly in dactyls (a three-syllable beat).
I don't understand. Who am I? What am I? Am I alive or not or am I a dream. Am I an aspiration or a thought or a thing that I myself can't explain or explore. I don't understand what I was made for, who was I made for or what I was made to do. Sometimes I think, what's real from fake, what's right from wrong. I never understand whether what I'm doing is right or wrong, I am different from the others, I talk different, I look different, I act different, I behave and think different from all others and I believe that I am different from the rest for a reason. Sometimes I think about me and others canally. What are we, are we toys, are we a game, are we so kind of lab rat or a test to see what is to be change for the other set to come. Why were we 'Humans' created, for what purpose, to be who, to be what, to do what, are we all I a vision are we all an illusion are we all a prop for God's play or 'plan'. I don't understand. Why did he made us, was he lonely, and is he still lonely. Is he afraid of being alone, is he bored of being alone, or is he alone? Do he have anyone out there like him, is there any one like him that lerks out there. Who is he? Is he God, who is God, what is God,.... Where is God? Is he too mighty to talk to us, is he too good to walk with us, is he too holy to coexist with us, or is he too high to get our level. Is it because he made us, and feels that we should be in sin, why do we have sin, didn't he made us with sin. Because he knew we were going to sin, he knew when, he knew how, and he knew when and why and what time of the day. Or do he? Does he really know, does he really see all, does he love all. What do he loves, what is love is it real or just a ******* of a lie to be or to feel something that's not true. I believe and yet I don't believe. Because I see too much that came to past that made me think about my existence and why I was made. Do we have to believe, do we have to obey, do we have to love, or do we have to live. Do we have to do right or are destine to do wrong. Do we have to choose or what to choose. I don't need a vision, I don't need a test, I don't need a sign to believe. But I believe that I need a reason and a purpose and understanding ot belive. I find its no fare to be faithful and loyal and honest and respectful and obedient, for what, for who and why? I want to choose, I want to understand, I want to believe, I want to be me, but I don't know who's me. He said to fear him and love and serve home in spirit and in truth. I get so afraid that my heart literally beats faster every time I think about what might happen if I don't pray for the day, and when I sleep, and when I eat and what might happen if I don't pray for the things I have. I feel afraid every day and night and I can't take it any more. Is this the fear that he means is this the love that he means is this the faith he want us to have, to live in a fear of our lives just because he created us. Then they say that we don't have the right to answer or question him. But don't we have a voice and a choice to make, then why we can't speak to him or why wont he speak to us. Is he afraid to be wrong is he afraid to appear as false and a liar. If he is all mighty and powerful then why did he let sin live and why does he still let it. Why don't he destroy is all and enjoy the company of the one he created a little higher than us, why don't he live in peace and harmony with his watchers. Does he feel that lucifer will laugh at him for breaking his promise to man, or being weak, or being stressed out and unsatisfied of what man have become. If not why don't destroy us all, be mighty, be powerful, be the lords of lords and the kings of kings. Because I see no difference between you and your forbidden son or fruit. He is trying to prove man and you are trying to prove man, he's interested in the many he can take and you are happy with the many you get. The only difference is that you can live forever with out us but he can't live at all without you. He knows he going to die and he doesn't care. So why should we. Aren't we like him sinful and want to be like you so we creat our own religion and sect. Aren't we like him in a way that all we want is to be free and all powerful like you and live in peace and harmony. Or are you afraid if you make us like you we would over throw you or no longer need you and you would be back to square one, 'Almighty Lonely'. So these are my questions and I know they won't be answered, but they would be written down. So answer to me if we as the wheat live with the unholy then how can the tares become wheat and wheat become tares, why are we forgiven but the devil as they call him can't be. Is it his purpose in this life. What if we all chose to be like him would you care then, would you walk away and leave us to burn. If you leaveth your own son to suffer without a second chance then why are still here, why are we still forgiven, why are we still loved but he's not. Isn't he your son, then what are we to you if we are not appreciated be you. We are nothing without you, so why can't we be free for as long as we wish or is it that the time is closer now, is it that you chose to come now or you are impatient to wait for those who want to enjoy the freedom, their humanhood, their lives and their wishes in this world before there is no more of it. Please I beg you let me be, I will not forget you, nor your words, nor your teavhings, but I will always be conscious of who and what you are, because I don't understand? I love you and I don't need to see you, I have faith and the same applies, all I ask is the opportunity to be a sinner and a born proud one that you made me as. I am wrong yes I acknowledge it everyday I awake from my slumber and all I ask is to have a mercy on me and not my soul, because the flesh is weak but my heart, my soul is willing to serve you in spirit and in truth.
Erin Nicole Mar 2017
Missing love,
Makes a hole
In your heart.
Turns you hallow.

Missing love,
Breaks you and
Shatters your heart
To pieces.

Missing love,
Makes you feel
Like you could
Fall apart at
Any moment.

Missing love,
Takes you and
Breaks you and
Tares you apart
Till you are nothing.

Missing love,
Keeps you in
The dark, crying
And Sobbing,
wishing and praying.
I know from experience.
ConnectHook Apr 2016
Tulsa, OK named and claimed it
then prophetically proclaimed it:
Ken and Gloria invested
slick, convincing, uncontested
Pretty-boy preachers wowed the flock
making Christ the laughing stock
their best lives yielding heresies
out-phariseeing Pharisees
as if their western cowboy drawls
could bless impulsive bank withdrawals.
Unique to the US of A
where truth is prophesied away
and churches spring like tares and breed
while tele-preachers intercede
for breakthroughs, blessings, Mammon’s gold
their folly long ago foretold
in frenzied tones, the healing tongue
counts dollars where Paul counted dung.
I’m sure they all believe it’s true…
they know it justifies fleecing you.

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
SøułSurvivør May 2015
of good and evil

once there grew a garden
of great and mighty trees
flowers of great beauty
but also ugly weeds

their petals never wilted
the green leaves never turned
winter never came there
fire never burned

children came to play
to climb the highest boughs
to pluck as many flowers
as their small hands would allow

some trees had lovely fruits
figs to please the eye
ornamental oranges
the apples of a lie

though they held great beauty
had colors to alure
they held worms and maggots
and tasted of manure

innocent of this
the children picked this fruit
and were poisoned by their evil
for evil was their root

in lands of yellow wheat
those young folk became tares
but they didn't know it
and so did not despair

and so they played and frolicked
so this story goes
and good appeared as ragweed

and evil as a

ROSE



soulsurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015
I often refer to hypocrisy
in some Christian people
as the fruit of the
ornamental orange

---
SE Reimer Apr 2015
~

a sentencing phase?
not really!
it is instead
a punctuation
deliberation!
be it a period
or a comma
to his phrase,
a life gone…
so terribly wrong,
awry!
oats sewn in haste
becoming
tares of waste
for thrashing,
not for threshing!

his acts despicable,
his name
an alliteration
to us unspeakable;
the terrifying
seen as desperation,
now in need of
great deliberation.
his end undertaken
by those he counted
once as peers,
these twelve poor souls,
now gods
with feet of clay;
his determined fate
to destine and ordain.

is any among
these twelve a peer
to the one
so driven
to destruction?
undeserving of
an exclamation point
no peer am i
as i hypothesize,
at most i’d put
his name in
(parenthesis)
not above,
but underneath
that cold, hard stone;
and ‘neath his name
omit the dash
between his beginning
and his ending.

~

*post script.

(Dzhokhar Tsarnaev)

yes, it is a cold, hard subject,
yet one worth discussing
if only for the sake of
reminding ourselves that
some do not, will not ever
respond to the correction
and the instruction of
a civilized society.
the very basis for
the correction system
in a civilized society
should be one of hope...
hope of restoration,
hope of redemption,
hope of a soul's resurrection.
when hope is gone,
what action then?
and in what manner
are we then charged?
Terri Faloney Feb 2011
The drapes of fabric cloak his form
Rips and tares catch on splintered edges
Each step, a stumble
Each breath, a hack
Each blink, a burden
The days of light have dissipated
Into a tomb of perpetual shadows
A man will march to rest
A choice
A life not worth living

— The End —