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pray GRACE prayers

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pray GRACE prayers

..entertain ludicrous hope
….(with absolute abandon)
……dash all doubt
………………..and whirl reckless
……where ul(time)ately
….(worlds twist down)
..everyone standstills to

look at LOVE incarnate

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NaPoWriMo 
Day Five

The Prompt: This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem.

Without even thinking, I reached for my volume of cummings. Thank you, dear e e cummings, for your playful yet serious weaving of words! I chose cummings’ plant Magic dust.

plant Magic dust

..expect hope doubt
….(wonder mistrust)
……despair
……………….and right
……where souless our
….(with all their minds)
..eyes blindly stare

life herSelf stands

Grace

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The blood-stained stone
sits silently
midst shards of glass –
a cold testimony
to death
ripping through a father’s heart,
crushing a mother’s soul.

Numb.
Lost.
Angry.
Enraged.
Helpless.
Grieving.
Isolated.
Alone.

WHY ricochets off the walls:
WHY       WHY       WHY

Grace watches from above,
perched on ceilings,
dangling limbs from branches,
hovering overhead like a cloud

softly sprinkling drops of dew
which over time
evolve into a torrent of peace.

And in the fullness of time,
release.

Never forget,
but fully forgive.

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Paul’s Poetics prompt over at dVerse is “GRACE.”
My reading for today was from Ephesians and I summarised the passage like this:
“Let GRACE be on my tongue and every time I speak let it flow from my mouth and cover those who hear.”
But life has been challenging today.  And it is difficult to be gracious in the face of wrong.
It often takes time for grace through my life — like the working of yeast throughout the dough.

 

Grace

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To breathe
To see
To stand

To touch
To bleed
To run

To sing
To laugh
To love

To dance
To dream
To die

Like a number in an Einsteinian equation
Like a drop of water in the sea
Like a brick in a building
Like a cell inside of me

am I given
grace
to be.

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DAY SEVEN:   Write a poem about luck and fortuitousness.

 

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Pere(grin) Took

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Today (indeed, most days) I am a Took.
Ramble and bamble, I recklessly roar
through cavernous quiet, serious score,
swallowed by Willow who grows by a brook.

Today (in fact, always) I am a Took.
Bumble and stumble, throw pearls before swine,
bellow at fellows about when to dine
“borrow” the palantir to have a good look.

Today I am a Took (if truth be told).
I poke and I prod and try to disguise.
I query and question and challenge the wise.
My lack of forethought is thought to be bold.

Despite all the blunders, the Almighty still
uses my errors to accomplish His will

 

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NaPoWriMo — Day Twenty-Three: Write  a sonnet.

What can I say?  I am reading LOTR again.
I really identify with Pip.  He is impulsive and rash, but good-hearted.
I am eternally grateful for grace (which redeems even us Pippins!).

 

Who Will Serve?

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NOT I.

and so the day
and the week
and the month
went.

NOT I.

But the end of term was
ME! and
ME! and
ME!

Who can judge
to determine when mercy’s meted out
and when eviction’s apportioned?

Sometimes I think
there are too many ants feeding grasshoppers.

And then I see the fiddle I hold
behind my back
and am thankful
for
grace.

Hannah

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Nearly a quarter,
but not quite yet,
I waited,
waited,
waited,
anticipating.

A mystery,
a gift,
a blessing
which we’d only know,
really know,
as the years wove intricate patterns
of colour and rhythm.

On this side of time
I celebrate with joy
the woman who sings the Maker’s song
and like her Father
creates beauty
with her hands,
her grace
full
hands.

 

Gravity

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Steadily pulling,
you drag us to our graves.

What delight springs forth at birth:
a hope,
a dare,
a laugh in the face of newton.

But each skinned knee
is a reminder
of mortality.

With time
(which you also bend to your whim)
we learn to stay aright
and even use attraction to suit our wiles.

As I go
I will sing a song
of invincible grace.
And by that grace
I will thank you very kindly
for recycling these bones.

For the more you claim
the more love
will create.

Fatally Flawed

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We’re sick unto death.
Born broken,
we spend our short-wick lives
trying to fix it.

But it’s inoperable
and we’re doomed before we start.

Only grace can redeem us.
And there is no recognition of grace
until there is concession of weakness.

Falling on mercy
we have hope.