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Alyssa Underwood May 2017
I saw a path and ran ahead
I nearly lost my way
Your mercy caught me by the arm
To Your side You bid me stay

I put my hope in my own plans
Which soon around me fell
You stopped me short upon that road
And said, "Rest and all will be well."

I'd surrendered all, but to my foe
Enticed into the briars
You turned his evil schemes instead
Into refining fires

I couldn't see my helplessness
Until my legs were broken
Till Shepherd's hands caressed my wounds
And healing words were spoken

You picked me up and carried me
And made me feel Your favorite
You held my head against Your chest
Until I grew to savor it

You tended me with gentlest touch
Then soothed all thought of fears
You sang forgiveness over me
And washed away my tears

There is no one like You, Lord
On whom I can rely
In loss, in danger or attack
You hear this poor sheep's cry

It's You Who keeps me from real harm
Who watches my coming and going
You shield me with Your strong right hand
From darts the enemy keeps throwing

You said to all who trust in You
You would give perfect peace
Enough for mind and heart to rest
To let all worrying cease

So, Lord, I trust You with my life
Your Shepherd's heart is pure
Your purpose for me's guarded well
And Your deliverance is sure

Please teach this sheep, Lord, how to wait
And strengthen me to stand
To put my hope in Your desires
And to love Your sovereign plan

You lead me into fields so green
Where streams of life are flowing
Where healing winds blow oft' and strong
And choicest fruits are growing

You set me free to hear Your voice
To follow at Your call
And even through the dark, cold nights
I'll know You've arranged it all

Yes, storms will come with battering rains
With hail and gusts and thunder
But these are meant to beckon me
To Your wings to pull me under

For it's in the darkness of the storm
My grip's most apt to tighten
And when my heart beats next to Yours
All earthly burdens lighten
~~~
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
I saw a path and ran ahead
I nearly lost my way
Your mercy caught me by the arm
To Your side You bid me stay

I put my hope in my own plans
Which soon around me fell
You stopped me short upon that road
And said, "Rest and all will be well."

I'd surrendered all, but to my foe
Enticed into the briars
You turned his evil schemes instead
Into refining fires

I couldn't see my helplessness
Until my legs were broken
Till Shepherd's hands caressed my wounds
And healing words were spoken

You picked me up and carried me
And made me feel Your favorite
You held my head against Your chest
Until I grew to savor it

You tended me with gentlest touch
Then soothed all thought of fears
You sang forgiveness over me
And washed away my tears

There is no one like You, Lord
On whom I can rely
In loss, in danger or attack
You hear this poor sheep's cry

It's You Who keeps me from real harm
Who watches my coming and going
You shield me with Your strong right hand
From darts the enemy keeps throwing

You said to all who trust in You
You would give perfect peace
Enough for mind and heart to rest
To let all worrying cease

So, Lord, I trust You with my life
Your Shepherd's heart is pure
Your purpose for me's guarded well
And Your deliverance is sure

Please teach this sheep, Lord, how to wait
And strengthen me to stand
To put my hope in Your desires
And to love Your sovereign plan

You lead me into fields so green
Where streams of life are flowing
Where healing winds blow oft' and strong
And choicest fruits are growing

You set me free to hear Your voice
To follow at Your call
And even through the dark, cold nights
I'll know You've arranged it all

Yes, storms will come with battering rains
With hail and gusts and thunder
But these are meant to beckon me
To Your wings to pull me under

For it's in the darkness of the storm
My grip's most apt to tighten
And when my heart beats next to Yours
All earthly burdens lighten
Paul Hansford Jan 2018
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
This is at least the fourth major re-write of this poem .  "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."
Juhlhaus Mar 2019
From where the bridge was, after the first plunge
Soothed the sunburnt skin and the hay-splinters
Loosed the straw stuck in ears
After I left you under the porch light
I stood alone on the other side of the night
Where poplars reached for the moon and stars
And the cows chewed on bits of memory from when
In the cobwebs and calf pens
They were brought to life by your gentle hands

You crossed two worlds to find me in the darkness
But I was not the one you were searching for
You prayed for miracles while
God stood by, arms crossed
Taking in the sunset and the clouds
Like an old tree beside a grave carefully fenced
To keep it disheveled amid tended fields
Thus the cancer had its way and I could not
Fill the void left in your heart or mine

With no more tears to soften dry leather
I put both our hearts on skewers and held them
Over the bridge's burning planks
Too close and they were immolated
Not carefully spun to stay golden and warm inside
So I packed my hollow heart full of nothing
Filled the passenger seat, until
There was only room for me and the steering wheel
And no way to turn
Sam Hawkins Oct 2018
Who would have guessed — when I tilted my heart
toward baby lizard, perched on a colored desert stone,
she’d blink one eye at me, turn to smile, it seemed,
and lend a listening ear?

I’d only said in a lizard way
“I love you”.

Who would have thought — when that stone had heard me
loving her, it would, it seem, speak back?
Loving stone too, I was!

Stone, I so admire your villages.
I smile toward your many stone peoples.

I eavesdrop on universal questions posed
around sacred fires carefully tended.

And around one hearth, among
cinder specks scattered – one minute wisp,
one grain of cinder there.

Dare I say I love you too?

For in that cinder grain I hear —
worlds of stars, sweetly singing!

By way of explanation, reader friend,
such is what a practice of
Loving All Beings Equally
has made of me.

A crazy being?
Could be.

But would you nonetheless
accept the possibilities
and likewise go love adventuring?

If you’d prefer, we all could earnestly
and objectivity talk it through.

Or say ~ Love come! Come!

Speak through us.
We are listening.
In Thich Nhat Hanh's book "Present Moment Wonderful Moment" he teaches (among many "gatha" practices) Mindful Eating. With the fourth mouthful one recites in head "I practice equal love for all beings".  This has been challenging for me, this "equal love". I like what has happened to me!
Luz Hanaii Aug 2016
Death is a single lady,
a workaholic,
a professional traveling agent,
who does not delegate her work.

She'll bring you a glass of peace,
to go with the slice you've been handed
each little crumb must
be consumed, enjoyed
and gratefully tended.

She'll blow out
your last candle,
kiss you on the forehead,
unassuming and gentle she'll
cut down the string
and lovingly
tuck you in.

©2014  Luz Hanaii
Saint Audrey Apr 2018
Solvent and solution
Kept assuaged for so long
Treading in the selfishness of my subconscious state
Of barely traceable memories, spurred on by the gravity of time spent
At the briefest hint at past involvement

Each leaf falls, eventually.
Every pristine little well formed tended to.
Each nurtured, cared for, parcel or idea.

I can watch them for hours
Watching them fall, one by one, for hours.
When days start to bleed together, out of the corner of my eye,
I can always see them, marking progression.
Collecting in drifts, then, taken by the wind, then
The rot sets in.

I used to watch this.

I used to find time.

The roof cast me in its shadow, even standing along the banister that runs along the length

Even as the final rays of sun start to vanish one at a time
yuki motokane Dec 2016
heart was the forest
trampled upon on with haste
sawed to halves
now a barren land

you came
watered my saplings
tended the leaves
brought upon me sunshine

with all you could give
like a gardener
had a connection with i
a ferocious fire blossomed

love we called it
but the flames, scattered
like forest fires
destroyed me once again
and yet it didn't matter
Viridian Aug 2018
I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry

I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated

I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.

It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.

It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new

It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious

It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies

It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition

Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart

Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind

Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666

I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires
is this the part where i say that i'm a bit burnt out?
patty m Jul 2019
Fragile normalcy carefully tended
while my off kilter mind
finds a cat and befriends it.
Railroad track thoughts
turn ever grayer as they wind through the past
and peel back the layers
Behind dull facades
and stately mansions
Do You Want to Touch Me
or is that out of fashion?
Blind-sided heart
torn to Bits and Pieces
brings death to romance
and the hate it releases
Trusted friends
turn out to be players
cutting me open
to peel back the layers.
Hallucinations
of a tatooed star
things slightly odd
soon become quite bizarre.
Trips to places I've never been
incriminations whisper again and again.
My lineage soon turns quite exclusive
and I, it seems too reclusive.
FATE pecks at glass, it's shiny frame
it all becomes a silly game,
as life that cruel rapacious slayer
rips out my heart and peels back the layers.
ava Jun 2018
all your books fall apart
and i long to take their place
to be tended to so often
i begin to unfold.
liza May 2015
I planted seeds in you and you planted them in me.
I watered and watered and watered
I think I may have drowned them.
I was never a good gardener.

My mother had a garden for winter, spring, fall, and summer.
I didn't like to get my hands *****
I washed the breakfast dishes on Saturdays and finger painted the printer paper on the back porch.
She tended and weeded and poured love into every leaf.
While I picked blades of grass and made stick families on the porch steps.
I was never a gardener.
But I did watch.
I knew how to water. I knew how to ****.
I knew how to analyze what needs tenderness and what needs grit.
I knew how to water water water
I knew how to drown.

She cooked and cleaned and hid her face when Arthur screamed. She made dinner with the tomatoes she grew and salads with the cucumbers. She loved him with every ounce and never stopped. (she never stopped gardening)

I was never a good gardener. I never learned when to stop. My mother didn't teach me that part.
Skaidrum Jul 2016
...
Drew,
the ashtray is full again


1.)  As I write this to you now, the doves were bleeding diamonds
2.)  And to this very day, I still find your name is in every cigarette the ocean's ever smoked
3.)  I wonder if you remembered the time we realized that flowers preferred the taste of blood over water...
4.)  Or the time we sipped some of the moon's tea; and realized that our teacups were gifts from her lover, the sun
5.)  Distance isn't constant, it's overgrown like the lucid garden that I planted in honor of my wolf girl; yet you were the one who tended it with me as if it was your own
6.)  I know, I know; I didn't thank you enough for all those moments as you held me when time melted into puddles at my feet
7.)  I wrote God a simple letter, still haven't heard from him about how you're doing yet...
8.)  "Unfortunately, on some nights my grief tastes all too silver again"
9.)  You feared all the talents that flowered in the dark and I remember the second you realized I too, was one of them
10.)  Your voice shed sapphire fireworks in my room and what I wouldn't give to see that one more time
11.)  Sleepy roses dribbled down the walls of your hospital room whenever I visited and played with your hair
12.)  The milky way shed it's fickle skins-- and sometimes when the dawn's shoulders snap into place I can hear your laughter echoing along the ribs of the sky
13.)  Your name was a natural disaster born on my pink tongue and delivered by my quaking lips and I can feel the clouds turning in their sleep
14.)  I suppose that you were a cigarette yourself
15.)  And you knew I was the lighter, but you hung around anyways
16.)  Every time I see a shooting star, I'll know that it's you in heaven just throwing away your cigarette so you don't get caught...

I think you were my bad habit
...
You were oh so pretty, smokin' through the canopy


© Copywrite Skaidrum
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours



and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been


blocked

we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
onlylovepoetry;
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:

onlyreproachpoetry

should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine

~<•>~

2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am
Sarah Elaine Jan 2018
life was so much sweeter
when i thought you were gone
when i saw clearly the lines between
you
and
me

fuzzy stars grow between the black night sky
tears form behind my eyes

and i miss you
and i miss the love that grew
and i know it's still there
but i've tended to the weeds,
not the flowers

and i'm paying the price
and so are you

starvation,
and
loss.
Ted Mar 2018
"I awake to
already feeling
heartbroken,

like my body is just
catching up to my mind,

which dreams in
terms of our love.

I wish I could have
these seasons pass,

so the soil of my
upturned field
will have been tended,

so a growth can be
in bloom again,

not just have
a broken heart
that's been mended.
Robert C Ellis Jun 2019
Rising buds suckling Blossom, their bulbous reds,
the thick green shafts conscripted by God's careful notes
on tended growths they fill dresses in salted winds, in bloom, giggling.
Art, du vin, you can taste the rose hips on their lips.
Steve Page Oct 2018
The nice Samaritan meant well
but tended to wait
to hesitate
just long enough
to be too late to make
a real difference
and instead stood
and watched struck dumb
as the world went to ****
in a handcart
There are different classes of Samaritan. Not all are good or timely.
Gerard M Jun 2017
Little one,
broken bodied,
crippled mind,
I took you;

and when the rain kissed your cheek,
I sheltered you with my fingers;
yet I still felt your tears fall to my palm,
and heard the discord in your song;

so I rebuilt your wings
to end your melancholy madness,
but the sky would not have you;
it could not have you

for from 'neath my hand,
you saw bars,
immense and inescapable;
engulfed by a cavern,
tended by echoed lunacy

Your absolution
mine.
Levi Sharpe Apr 2019
I was lured to the garden by the scent of fresh berries

With fruit so fresh as if it tended by faeries

I plucked a morsel from an extending branch

And without hesitation, put the pome to my lips

Savoring it for a sweet moment before devouring it whole

Eagerly lapping at my stained finger tips

So enamored I was by each bright sensation

I was unaware of the nettles, whose spines creeped and settled

Sinking into my flesh, and poisoning the bone

First there was an itch and then a sharp pain

As I was torn away from what I couldn't lay claim

And what at first seemed a garden was but a damp grave

The plant tags were tombstones

Of others who’d strayed

And as I fell prone from my festering abrasions

My eyes becoming dark and my senses dulled

I realized I was but a number in the faeries' death toll
Staci Lee Oct 2018
There is a spark.
All circuits switch to on board.
Awareness & knowing floods your system.
You are now awake.
Shards of lighted pain infiltrate your mind and body.
Nervous system is raw
Joints ache to be flattened, to be healed.
Mind screams to be soothed;to be tended.
Your heartbeat storms like a thoroughbred in a race you never wanted to enter.
That sweet comfort,that you are so mad for.
That agreeable bliss, you held so high,it will not be found,it is not there.
With insides trembling and all help gone - You ask yourself,
“Is this the life that I must carry on?”
A descriptive poem about the intense pain that comes with the changes of ending dependencies and addictions.
Ken Pepiton Jan 2019
There was a day

Yes, we all imagine we remember that day, but

now it is as if it never

really-- every y must be just if ied or it is never
a requirement

it is a re less
quirement

not every story has been pointedly
taken as granted,
even, oddly,
once
Quire a quest is a matter of motion,
hear, and there, time and all that,

Now, next has never, as in non-realized as realizable

up to now.
told ere un. That may, is. law, an untold tale is never twisted.

between the reversible nand gates of our augmented imaginations.

once,
upon a time lonagone, which were common (or come on)
signals scrambled at this depth, but pressure proves

the point. We are past all that for now
by reason of why

curiosus curiosus our imaginary guide, once

all the imaginations in the hearts of men were only evil,
continually

Then Noah or some storyteller, or prophet
caught wind of a sweet savour

roasting on a fire tended by Tubalcain's daughter,

Naamah, last named bearer of Cainish flavored genes
never set, epigenetically beyond the woumb

Mito-mom,
she coulda been, some wombed man was,
you know, we all share mito-mom,

science of some sorts can't lie. Take that as truth.
If I could believe it,
I could swallow it,

maybe
you can, too. Oh, the myth we model on matters little,
the boys and shoemakers who sniffed the glue,

they loosed some wild ideas

got all tngled with stories from ever

where in the world
have you been?

You just got outa jail. I'm right. I can smell

well,
near as bad, but it was then, a mere made up monent
meant now to hold a point

pon which a story longer than I have ever told may stand and

be told, the king
s story teller stutters in his sleep.

haha
that.
okeh, this is not pre posed as funny,
merely odd,
one ish in a realm of twos and threes and fives

spinning into etern naughtity, empt un-null-ift possibles.

Naught me less press on, find a vortex, flow,

we are peacemakers stranded upon a time of war, scabs. we heal.
don't pick on my inflexibility in matters

of duty. Leaven has always been the means of re pair ideology.
Quarkish insistence on duality from the ***.

The augmented ones are getting better,
as a choice, they see how good
ever works,
some fix what evil broke, some make new ways around the lava
and
balance, spin, lean, wobble, no place to fall here

we gotcha. Gravity and light, those are givens.
this is life.
make something of everything you ever imagined possible.
then die to see if it works.

But wait. Don't die early. It makes grief, which is
what fills the slough of despond.

We are draining that. Birds that nested there all died,
it's frogs moved to Florida, bugs and molds say they can make it any where

so, we are watering the desert. We grow Panama Red. Who eats roses?

Critters manifested as ideas that never linger but in the miry clay,

Most of those went north.

Deserts served and deserved have I claimed as mine
from horizon to horizon, all I see is mine to see serve and
de-serve, I served and am served and
sometimes
often,
I de serve and see as free as I may imagine

bodys are not bearers of light. There is hope. Right is known,
you know right, and you know good, and you know evil

Spike Jones had the hermit wiseman say,
Do the right...

self-evidently not a clue. we thought he got on at nano nano

Hung himself. Why do they do that? Why display dis paired
re-alification.

It resonates, dead end. turn back, Sylvia Plath warned you.
Don't die without knowing

we, me and you, we are nothing with out you.
This touch of word to meaning,
this is in time, mate, we
made a ripple in
material reality past all limittions of time and space,
in a word or two packed with ancient ideas,
which always spill,

whenever we open them, dust in the wind , a ditty from
some A.M. experience, on the way to now

we sing a song of six pence worth, and settle
with a jug o'rye.
more in the give me a reason why i believe saga of myth mending and metaphor piece matching for patterns
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