rein
car
nation
thes a TU
ration
of
know
ledge?
Is reincarnation the saturation of knowledge?
Our Information Age may be
proof positive, if so.
rein
proof positive, if so.
car
Our Information Age may be
nation
Is reincarnation the saturation of knowledge?
thes a TU
ledge?
ration
know
of
Is a new thought breaking
into a place you have not considered?
Is a new choice going AWOL
... to be continued?
Dr. Charlie Barrett speaks today at www.sermonaudio.com. The live webcast from Faith Free Presbyterian Church may be found at 11:00AM Eastern Standard Time, and 6:00PM EST. (I am listening and typing before I get ready for work in an hour.)
Interesting, when I thin-skinned "est", I found
an origin from 1970s and the businessman Werner Erhard.
Through Erhard Seminars Training, individuals were
strengthened to self-improvement through
"intensive group awareness".
Dr. Barrett is speaking of Existing Peace Now,
preaching from Ephesians 5. The Bible
is Simplicity of bearing, a simplicity of baring,
a Bering Straight (or not?) for believers
crossing their days. Dr. Barrett speaks of Christians "doing
things for the wrong reasons."
He speaks of the hard place Greenville is for Believers
to genuinely have gratitude—genuinely live in
Grace. All our wrong reactions to being Alive. "Holiness is so precious," Dr. C. Barrett says. We are liberated.
"Intensive Group Awareness" does not foster self-improvement only. Self-marketing also fosters constant comparison and self-made expectations, mediocrity, and discouragement. Doesn't it?
One Holiness
and One Humanity
is a difficulty
when i reason
it. I want simplicity;
but really, am I saying,
"I do not believe."
I know I do.
Holiness feels
shameful to me
living among
so many theologians,
speechers and speakers
of "This is My Belief."
Let's eat something
knowing God is and always was
our Holiness.
"Intense" nothing—
pass the jelly,
pass the jam,
pass the preserves—
whatever you want to call it,
I am thankful
we can eat together.
Consider the Bering Straight in Russia, the plausible frozen
point where ancient peoples may have simply walked
from one continental region to another, when the oceans
lowered.
Where is our Bering Straight? Where is mine? Have We
crossed it, yet, in our micro-cultural experiences?
I believe it is there. I am considering that perhaps the frozen
ridges of unbending minds--minds and hearts unbending
to Welcome other Peoples; unbending to Walk
with Themselves--are the literal bridges of Our
Continental Divides. Perhaps our sexual divides,
as well. Consider the Bering Straight on the Earth;
Consider the Body of the Planet, how the satellite
view sees the Straight beneath the higher
waters, higher sexual waters floating many
in crafts we fit. These are More
Pro-Re-creation, pro-Creation of micro-cultures
within E-centricity--"E" as the third note in the diatonic
C major. Sea Major, Bering Straight We Are
crossing, having Crossed ourselves, carried
our Crosses, floated our bodies on the now-liquid
waters of our higher oceans. Are We
One Crossing, these Straights: Our micro-cultural
ethnocentriCity.
Answer who Has carried You.
never leave me,
and though the waves roll
high, I know
Thou wilt be near
Me, and whisper,
'it is I.' "
Final sentence of hymn text "I Could Not Do Without Thee" by Frances R. Havergal; anthem music by Craig Curry composed for Paula Williams. Music Copyright 1997.
What surprises me again and again about language and lines and phrases, is that phrasing makes all the difference to the meaning of the words. Music is genius in its ability to phrase meaning.
As I have the words broken here, the word "wilt" changes from Havergal's original intent of "will not", to my question and perception of "Thou Christ wilting."
The Godhead in any Person of Itself cannot be diminished. I am expressing the broken perception I feel and others experience through constant pressing into what cannot be diminished.
There seems a futility in the pressing into the non-diminishing Presence. The futility is in the LACK of perceiving that The Godhead, Thou Christ, non-diminishing Person Whose image we are, is already With Us. His whisper that Fraces B. Havergal wrote in the end--"It is I"--is TODAY heard and spoken to Me.
Thou Christ, Full non-diminishing Godhead in any Person of Itself is with us, non-pressing Peace That Is
"Thou wilt never leave me.... 'It is I.' "
longer You
will not love me;
fundamental
logic blooms dearth
when I am no longer You,
Save You be no
longer Me;
freedom inhales
thee blooming
everywhere;
but fundamental,
logic glares unlovely.
our
hours
coming
going
adding
sub-
tract
in
g
ting
a
CT
ti
I
act
acting
tra-la-lactalbumin
g
ting
sub-
incr.
mental
scales
fall
from our
I's.
23 May 2009 at 7:01pm
dots?
pixels?
without the imagined, understood, or drawn
connection of the dots,
Big Dipper,
Little Dipper, Or-
ion's Belt WouLD not
hold
tung oil
Sten gun
tungsten
Lethal Dose
Learning Disabled
Where would we be
without lines
connecting reason
shapes
sales
ideas
marker of who
was buried there?
22 May 2009 at 10:22am
Secrets are delicious,
and should be kept,
treasured,
only shared with other
secret keepers.
Secrets are not ghosts;
rather, they are ligaments
strengthening joy,
ballasts as the the child's
imagination creates
their day. Secrets enhance
because
Secrets are not ghosts, but True.
Your delicious, private
trust. All yours.
22 May 2009 at 9:55am
, by deletion.
I would hope
my ghosts
do not
make me.
Open the books,
read them, write them,
set them a table,
invite their thoughts,
spread their jams
over toast with tea
keep, give everything.
Because it is
company and family;
Never fear
Greater Peace
carrying the tray, serving,
bussing and clearing
the feasts you are pecking
at. Do not be the ghosts You
believe you must Be.
slipped disk
in the still-forming womb
of Us, front
row to balcony
past the turtle grasses
mufflinggrown
the driving
nothingbreakers
foamingsimply
enter, enter
here the edges of the next
water's salt, the reef
baring the womb's
crest, the reef securing
our tanked oxygen, should
our faces look into
the mirror on the sky
and find the disk slipped
island Belize--
sunken galleons
full of gold.
holding
in my arms my choice
holding me
and there,
what I believed
I had to leave,
still mine.
these extremities of my choices
my leavings, all
are given back to me
i will never release again.
hold, hold
back, held
all, every one I ever
loved.
Renewal.
Re the Egyptian sun god
newel a securing post
as science
new all; renew all
Renewal. Obvious science
bears the conclusions
you are reaching.
... then focusing entirely on
myself trying to get closer--
idiotic and complicated process,
but that's what i do. I actively believe
this world is not far from its original
glory, because each baby is brand new;
each day is brand new--each mercy,
compassion, insistent flower anyway,
unconscious smile, ticklish humor, careful hope
before it shovels itself through anger--all
of this is brand new. And it is ours. I think
we can. I write, "We are, we can, please Let's."
I sleep every day for awhile. I hope to see some
part of the outside, being an interior person who stays
more than goes. I want to find you. I walk and buy clothes
and create things. I LOVE CREATION. I ABORT NOTHING.
I do not and will not abort tragedy. EVER. I want every song
to be sung. I want to find that liberty is like every favorite song
carrying each individual's hope, best, crying, rejoicing, helpless,
nerving heart to the Same Original Self calling our names
and singing, tickling, repenting only that we are afraid to return,
afraid to believe.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 9:42AM
soul is exquisite melancholy,
eons deep, light years black;
his music is The Flood
of the mountain ark
remembering the waters,
the view, the terrible olive
branch that said, “Land.”
Arable mountain the ship
disembarking your soul’s
grief from drowned friends'
laughter, your building while
they whiled and smiled
and said, “Pause for today;
the rain will not be so.”
But his exquisite soul,
melancholy, eons deep,
light years black, felt
otherwise, the design given
him to build,
my husband’s deep worlds.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 12:45AM
of vulnerability
at close range.
It is far harder
than Frost's mending walls
outside, to stay in the house
and not scream throughout the house
or yell out the windows that the cleaning fluid
is suffocating the man. And the career accoutrements
are bludgeoning the woman.
Wires shorted, bulbs out, circuits flipped,
she will not shut up. she will not.
vulnerability during
renovation is going
to the place of reading
the directions out loud
to find the breaker box; all the while
pretending that electricity
was my broken nail and
not electricity stopping
our hearts.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 12:28AM
is held,
its voice gone
long nothing--numb
its cry,
senses
absent,
it only
stares.
when your orphan
stares at me,
I am afraid
I've killed you,
and pick you up
again, feeling prayers and hope
that you will be not harmed by me.
though neither orphans, you nor i,
we live in papers stacked
for processing.
the birthdays are plump,
the holidays are good,
most dinners are enough,
but the orphanage and
our terrible neglect
has ruptured.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 11:39PM
when i hear a sob,
there are many now,
i wonder why i ammm
not swimming, dabbing tears
of yours.
the rain is all for
us to walk, this morning's
side streets around and home,
cold once inside again.
I'm stiff. Cold and firm
and stiff and still
your sobs in tired heaves,
soft sighs from farther corners
in the house
where I have failed,
yet again,
to find you, echoing
our loneliness, this business.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 11:06PM
today's airbag
expectant
she rear-ended the
front of her on the
the hospital to see her
rotator cuff
could speak of
the apple that
from too-
too-fast hands; or the other
getting older in
for mashing into
like the sports
the ground
we believed it would
the moment it
like the
returns with a
could speak of bruises
and soldiers and happy
quiet babies and old
new informants;
television in boxing
fingers caught in small
show immediate
show something has
is worth the body's blood
are tender on people,
fruit, off-putting soft,
soft.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 10:53PM
Like bruising
the mother
when car
in way
to husband
after surgery,
we bruises;
like dropped
accidently full
or fruit
simply places,
good breads;
Bruises magnet
drawing closer
than be
at grabs.
Bruises headache
that thought.
We on
petals babies
and prisoners
and bruises
on rings,
on squishes.
Bruises healing.
Bruises happened
that NOW.
Bruises edible
in putting
soft
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 10:45PM
Like today's airbag bruising
the expectant mother
when she rear-ended the car
in front of her on the way
to the hospital to see her husband
after rotator cuff surgery,
we could speak of bruises;
like the apple that dropped
accidentally from too-full
or too-fast hands; or the other fruit
simply getting older in places,
good for mashing into breads;
Bruises like the sports magnet
drawing the ground closer
than we believed it would be
at the moment it grabs.
Bruises like the headache
that returns with a thought.
We could speak of bruises on
petals and soldiers and happy babies
and quiet babies and old prisoners
and new informants; bruises
on television in boxing rings,
on fingers caught in small squishes.
Bruises show immediate healing.
Bruises show something has happened
that is worth the body's blood NOW.
Bruises are tender on people, edible
in fruit, off-putting soft, off-putting
soft.
1-20-2009
knit one, pearl two.
Soft on skin.
pearls by swine knit
One, pearl Two.
why swine, Say I, except
for the verse of pearls before
swine. And E. B. White's Charlotte
spider, feminine, mothering,
spinning a word at a time
for Wilbur. Knit one, pearl two,
Soft of skin
that cares, that feels, that is
not a will burr sign.
A fat, stay through the
slaughter time, uneaten
though sweet and heedless
of Scarves in cold, needless,
for skin is so thick,
bristled, the speechless
smart, gentle grunts
knit nothing. Give
no words or begging.
Charlatans will burr white's soft.
Knit one, pearl two.
of ants walks out of a cupboard;
like a string of yarn wound between two hands;
like a string of notes connecting a melody;
like a string of gems around a chain;
like a string of hours in an evening;
like a string of steps on a path;
like a string of bait over water;
like a string of fire to a firecracker.
I could write myself, but why?
when the cupboard provides a picnic,
and the hands provide a partner,
and the melody provides a song,
and the chain may be daisies,
and the evening may be round,
and the path may be dizzy,
and the water may be cool, and still
reflecting, answering the Fire's Why?
Monday, May 18, 2009 at 9:06PM
to find the moon's craters not so deep
in places? deeper in others? Did the astronaut's
light, cold from the sun's fixed safety,
flatten the disappointments that surely would have been,
had their been color to see?
Or were the astronauts so grateful for their oxygen
they didn't mind finding anything at all?
Armstrong's breath of oxygen saying, "That's one small step
for man, one giant leap for mankind."
Or was the earth's and mankind's being there everything?
Monday, May 18, 2009 at 8:48PM
Are we the renovation of other lives?
Is Sanctification the Genie of Every soul?
Are you the bruise on One piece of us tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow, healing?
The Tom Glass of Geniality?
The Jay Bopp of Sociality?
The Nancy here of Spirituality
going nowhere, but because She?
Giving this immediate regeneration, seconds
to others? And must The Question
Mark.
Will Camille Stay Marked, Her children, all
of them, cam mill e--all of them logarithms, Save
Those Decided for Another Home,
Unrenovated, un-needing No? Will pro tectum unveil
the tears, tears, tares as food in towers
for cows(?) and will the Hindoo archaic
Have Hebrew liquid capacity, hin their blood,
the Hindu's blood, the cow's blood, the genie's captivity(?)
in our Renovations One Body our nuclear depletions
four stomachs at once of DU? Is One
so powerful, the bovine transformation,
vine's b est o ff er,
our renovations to singular, one of me
several of others before One, the stomachs of
You, this second
coming founts of Many
blessing.
Tune My
heart to sing Thy
praise.
than ourselves behaving,
expressing milk-toast
dunked in the stiffest
of expensive swigs,
asking, begging
your My attentions
"Look at me when I'm talking to you"
crying I can't believe this happened, that
happened, this is happening to Me! Can You
believe it? There is more than your discipline
pleasuring my ears through your fingers, your breath,
the music of Now on the radio, the computer, our lives
Humans blending smarter than animals, the option of leaving
savagery behind the teeth, diversifying every second of our grooving,
incessantly RIGHT, WE ARE humans. We are grooving impossibly,
incontrollably ALL AT ONCE Ourselves. Groove, Groove every unknown
inch your brain must have, will IS, will come, that brain that has
better than animals, the option of making language Singing.
I add this late (21 May 2009), having seen Staceyann for the first time last week on YouTube. At first I had written this: "I don't want to talk of your problems as mine. I don't want to learn your language--your coping slang to bleed you in my mouth. Keep your blood. Pay your doctors. Find your microphones, but do not talk to me. Do not teach me your bad words, because I keep every word. And your problems, your world hurts, and my murders, your rapes, and our criminals will be spoken of, eventually, when someone is bored and has nothing else to say."
But I see that I am pious and refusing to hear; not what I have not experienced or need to experience--my life is very different from yours, and I welcome your life and others. But I see that I am just as full of myself and my own passionate figuring as you are. You are far more free a spirit and talent to stand and express your life, lay it bare in a way that does not denude your dignity, and in a way that gives freedom--gives the reality that WE MAY SPEAK OUR LIFE TRUTH (forgive the all caps; I do not know yet how to italicize in this program). Perhaps you show, "We MUST speak our life truth?" Thank you for that passion.
Still, I believe our passions should incite a deeper giving than validation and argument; deeper than even the outstanding scope and beautiful candor of your example. Please keep pursuing the bedrock of our mixed humanity, but please, speak of boundaries somewhere. They are delicate as a woman, delicate as a man's heart can be.
I'll leave the first end, because I hope to God this is true. I hope to God we may be separately One, without having to be blind or warring, no more secret joys. I hope to God we will not mine our humanity to the degree we have irresponsibly, thoughtlessly, unloved our Earth; my own yard I have not loved.
"Our blood, Family Earth, is in our time. Let us speak of other things, same, same ones of us--We Are One. All I have to share with you is tears. Please do not curse and rage. Family is enough for all the worlds hatreds, hurts, denials, and burials. Teach me your blessings. Let me sing with you."
Saturday, January 17, 2009 at 1:31PM
Intimidating.
Can be.
Very.
The word "my"
creates its logic, whether
acknowledged or desired.
"My" "I" is reprehensible anti-chamber
to nothing. it's the vacuum
of clean
that is its only filth.
Intimacy shares
the nothing. It shares
what will not be clean
by logic. Intimidating
is spaces' uncovered, wound
insides. It is not spaces covered with heated
words or measured stars, that balance
"My" "I" nothing, vacuum clean.
"My" "You"
will make intimate.
The pretension of "us"
is not small light.
It is large.
Specific.
Heat.
Intimidating.
Very.
When considered with One other,
owning unwound "My" "I",
I tremble, sharing the
respect "My" makes.
Fearful. "My Bride."
Intimate God.
"My God"
embracing my vacuum,
making Himself
from my nothing,
purifying the heat
of my filth
to canopies
of stars with names
and parts
that He Himself
shall undo.
Ever.
Such light in a black face
all white in the triangle parts
of the eyes and ready
earnest "It's what we should
do, God is so good to us" to my
saying pretty, "It's what we get to do."
Such willingness in His light to give
the triangle parts of his back to bend
toward the heavy of my pretty
answer, "get to".
Such beauty in the black man
to bear the heavy of even
perpendicular, rough and heavy
everyday I watch un-bared myself.
A pretty cross, great
beauty in my black brother.
love more thinkless
abandon with out love
outside the struck sure
go. love more think less
loving without sure,
collapse may let it
grow.
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:29pm
love more thinkless
grow.
abandon with out love
collapse may let it
outside the struck sure
loving without sure,
go. love more think less
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:30pm
love more thinkless
go. love more think less
grow.
loving without sure,
abandon with out love
outside the struck sure
collapse may let it
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:31pm
love more thinkless
collapse may let it
go. love more think less
outside the struck sure
grow.
abandon with out love
loving without sure,
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:32pm
love more thinkless
loving without sure,
collapse may let it
abandon with out love
go. love more think less
grow.
outside the struck sure
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:33pm
love more thinkless
outside the struck sure
loving without sure,
grow.
collapse may let it
go. love more think less
abandon with out love
Nancy Barber Bopp wrote at 4:34pm
love more thinkless
abandon with out love
outside the struck sure
go. love more think less
loving without sure,
collapse may let it
grow.
25 April 2009 at 9:08AM
we realize our lies,
we realize who it is we love,
and who is loving us—
the ones withholding themselves.
they are the ones. theirs is the strongest love.
it is not judgment or isolation
to hold the truth
together with my hands,
but how much better to see
our hands are held,
just as our hands
are full.
iridescent sun sands
our salting scents mingle
warm shushing waves
12 February 2009 at 9:58AM
I love God in a way
that shows that I think He
might die.
I love my husband in a way
that shows that I think he
will live forever.
That's backward.
Where did I learn that true love is mutually exclusive?
And where am I learning that it is all inclusive?
And who gets to say anything about it all?
Maybe that is why a marriage.
So a man and woman
may together
serve
the death
of themselves,
keep company through
the euphoric lies that feel like forever
is now, and death is just a nuisance of time, a sure rendering
of both to Equal One, surrendering good times, bad times, all times
for the *we* end of will-end time. Will-stop day. Will say No
again, because it is easier and shorter than Yes.
Our marriage is in this time together, and you will die, as will
I in this tired, groaning, reeling dance. God's Forever
is happening and to come. I think that means
that I can really love you as I dream
to love. And you, continue
please. Be Mine.
Happy Valentines Day
Monday, January 12, 2009 at 9:54PM
These matters are done singly, chosen for oneself. Other and Else has little to do with the owners and movers of said choice, space, want, substitute, shape or show of decision.
Slow of decision. Slow love of decision. Concrete perched.
I have wanted a dog for a long time. We have a cat. I wanted her first and, nine years later, got her. This past year, I wanted a dog so badly that I bought a fish. He was living last month when I bought the concrete dog for our front porch. Murray Halfmoon Augustbot, a Three Name fish like a baby or something. The dog's name is Haggai. He is loyal and concrete.
The thing about MHA fish long-name is that I said I wanted him, and so I was expected to keep wanting him--to show it, if that meant my solely taking care of him till death did he part. I didn't know that'd be yesterday or today. I didn't know he'd die on a full moon and half stomach, if he did in fact die yesterday of starvation during the full moon. He didn't look sick or toxic or anything.
I think he was starving, because each time I asked if someone had fed him, they'd say "No." (They had fed him from time to time.) I hadn't fed him (though I did faithfully at first), or when I had, he did not eat. Jay told me that MHA was cold; he was eating the plants I had put into his fishbowl; that's why MHA wasn't eating.
Murray wasn't eating the plants, but he was cold. Fact is, Murray wasn't a dog.
What must a fish day be like--if you're starving and a Halfmoon Beta starving to death during a full moon, when a raccoon is on the deck? (There was a raccoon.) Had he been a dog, Murray would have been impossible to ignore, impossible NOT to have fed. He would have whined or shown he was disgruntled. He would have barked at the raccoon, torn the furniture, pulled on a pant leg or skirt, ripped a shoe apart.
A fish isn't that interested, though. A fish isn't that capable of showing he's starving. Can a fish live long enough to starve? Is starving relative to life expectancy?
Is this why suicide rates are higher among the young? Intense sense of starvation? AS fish?
What is a fish day like? And why?
And it's just a fish.
Still—I’m glad I'm not a dog or a fish, or a raccoon, since I am literally NOT those other lives.
And glad I won't be our next fish or the pet dog we eventually get. God willing we agree to love who's home at the same time. At the same time.
Maybe . . . whining or barking or pulling or ripping or starving, half-whole in a full house. A fish?
My dog is on my front porch. I don't have to feed him. He's concrete. Who am I assuming is concrete that isn't?
Who and what am I not feeding? Is it because of at the same time and the family's got my little guppy covered? Is it because of why a fish in a flower bowl for an idealistic human who wants another species entirely, hoping a fellow same species will be able to pretend to be idealistically caring about totally non-communicative, silent, plant-hidden water filter?
Is a fish more?
Much more. To me.
This fish dying tells me that it IS about Me. What I want, say I want or choose to substitute for what I want, as well as how I choose to own or show or go after some thing (as fish or dog or interest), then reverence having it, is FOR ME to do. Heaven will honor Christ Jesus and redeemed common sense. Responsible—be fruitful and multiply. Babies or not. Be fruitful and multiply.
But for the people's sadness, the LORD destroyed them. Joy above their fellows—This is way more than fish.
off track and stopping
goodnight for now
Monday, January 26, 2009 at 11:03PM
What's in an expression if it isn't the holding of the apple and a sharp knife for slicing care into sweet slivers of conversation. Jay and I held bowls of ground beef and green beans, and together, Dad and we, cushed the comfies of a safe now when we spoke of recent politics and future economies.
What will our future economies?
(eco no mommies)?
is abortion the last revenge women submit to?
If Now the sung less-than-Was
has been allowed to man nip You, late
itself--manipulate a them to Ours; to a
Mine-to-sell You--to save Your day, so
the more Is will be a less Was in its bad, bad day;
If we have breached
our brains for a thought
Less act, will we be forced to Chitty-chitty,
Bang-bang, imagining a story from
dungeons and actors, extras not listed
in history or medicine?
My dad went home, and Jay in his line of work
is designing packaging for paper products.
I wish I were speaking of sunsets
and sunrises, and I am not sad. I am
so glad for my father's hands knowing
how to carefully slice an apple
and share it with me and my husband.
Want your children that show.
Show them how to hold by holding.
And return to them the respect that you
may choose for yourself.
How are these dreams coming true?
They are, and it is marvelous
beyond my understanding.
Choosing auras, sound waves,
combinations of programmed thought
randomly shown--geometry,
genome.
The Institution of Marriage has been robbed.
This robbery, however, has not dishonored or broken the Honorable, to-be-honored, Institution of Marriage. For this reason, all other sexual unions should be given an Institution of their own.
Separate Institutions for heterosexual and homosexual unions, however, will not protect a person's chosen fidelity and the unique credibility of a recognized and legally protected Institution, so long as Online Pornography is allowed to embezzle a partner's sexuality.
Pornography should be blacked out, disallowed with the same furious intention, and in the same sacrificial way that Slavery in the South has been abolished. It is more than a prop and an enhancer of sex between consenting adults. It is a convenience, as methamphetamine, or planned Revivals, or so many gas grills because charcoal is messy and takes too long and doesn't smell so good. Pornography online is a false solution to a long-term Birth Order challenge of two people in the same place for one reason, tired or afraid of their mandate to serve one another. Pornography is a cop-out, embezzling intimacy from the Individual.
The effects of slavery in America are still felt in many, many generations past the captive relatives. This will be true of families robbed and broken up and maimed through Pornography.
We must accept this cost and rise against the willing sharing, willing scientific, protected, disparate and desperate, gratuitous embezzlement of our Sex Drives through online Pornography.
As Mrs. Dale Carnegie challenged in her 1953 book, HOW TO HELP YOUR HUSBAND GET AHEAD, we must ". . . raise the standard of loving." Women sacrificed to each other's beauties are the all-too-visible Schizophrenic of this era, the all-to-visible Abortion of one sex, and the terrible, magnificent Rape of Technological Advancement.
Pornography is the deception; the success of The Machine to murder volunteers, skin them alive. It is a different Robbin' Hood.
A Marriage is an agreement. It is a contract that has no promise of success in the venture. Adam and Eve lived together--in a perfect, new creation, they lived together--and even there, walking with God, knowing God as they didn't, though intimate their knowledge, they still blew it.
The marriage at Canna of Galilee says more about the agreement of Marriage than anything else I know. Christ turned the water to wine. Marriage, every year of it, is water. That is all it is. And it is essential for this earth and for our bodies to have water.
But water is tasteless and free and may become polluted in the environment, as the Prince of the Power of This World wars to destroy this planet God gave to men and women. If a miracle is not done by the Messiah Emmanuel, the young ancient Jesus, at the urging of a mother who knew the ravaging, safe prospects of "water only" in a Marriage; if the water is NOT turned to wine, there may be long life, but there will most likely be little joy.
Fruit, and not merely that of the womb when the water breaks through children, our finest hours, must be liquid. Tangible to our senses, easy in the mouths, make-able in our barrels, growable in our vineyards, serve-able in our Loving, else marriage is mirage. Two may be a natural spring, a Fountain of Youth, but if there is not wine between them--their waters as wine--their lives will remain outside of them, an Act of God, a beautiful, created resource of water only, that may be bottled and sold in emergencies.
A Marriage is not a baby. A baby will grow to adapt to being a human. A Marriage may or may not adapt to being a vineyard, if that is the cost of proving that "water" can be physically vested, grown, worked into barrels and aged to eventually show Wine.
Don't we men and women want the miracle instead? The water turned to a heady, sweet pairing of our senses and sensibilities, instead of cheap whine in the barrels? A Marriage is far more complex than a miracle. It is an agreement to work and stay. A miracle, though, is the stuff of holy writ--an entering of God.
Giving Up
we choose to define ourselves.
Giving Up we
choose to define ourselves.
Giving Up we choose
to define ourselves.
Giving Up we choose to
define ourselves.
Giving Up we choose to define
ourselves.
Giving Up we choose to define ourselves.
Up we choose to define ourselves.
Giving we choose to define ourselves.
Up Giving choose to define ourselves. we
Up Giving to define ourselves. choose we
Up Giving define ourselves. to choose
we Up Giving ourselves. define to choose we Up
Giving
. sevlesruo enifed ot esoohc ew pU gniviG
gniviG sevlesruo ew esoohc ot enifed pU.
Consequences will be what they appear
to be, with every inside sequence plausible.
"Let there be light," God said, and their was
light.
i.
We are the teeth of a straight forest.
Parallel lines, straight, vine-less fern floors.
Limbless, straight, small bushed green tops.
We are the teeth, every day of us, a straight forest.
Good for pictures and screen savers.
Where is the mystery of twisted ancient rhymes
whispering limbs and trickling through waters?
We are the teeth of a straight forest.
Count us, twenty two years.
May 6 2009; 11:27PM
ii.
We forest.
Parallel floors.
Limbless tops.
We forest.
Good savers.
Where rhymes
whispering waters?
We forest.
Count years.
iii.
We are the teeth of a straight forest.
Count us, twenty-two years.
Parallel lines, straight, vine-less fern floors.
We are the teeth of a straight forest.
Limbless, straight, small bushed green tops.
whispering limbs and trickling through waters?
We are the teeth, every day of us, a straight forest.
Where is the mystery of twisted ancient rhymes
Good for pictures and screen savers.
iv.
are the teeth of a straight
us, twenty-two
lines, straight, vine-less fern
are the teeth of a straight
straight, small bushed green
limbs and trickling through
are the teeth, every day of us, a straight
is the mystery of twisted ancient
for pictures and screen
v.
We count parallel
We limbless, whispering
We where good
vi.
the teeth of a
twenty-two
straight, vine-less
the teeth of a
small bushed
and trickling
the teeth, every day of us, a
the mystery of a twisted
pictures and
a two less
a bushed trickling
a twisted and
the twenty straight
the small and
the the pictures
i.
Decomposition is moss on the trees
wrinkling the space before they were
decomposing and housing lifetimes
of once absent, wandering for shelter
animals—finding the soft coverings
green wrinkles in the tree skins
holding them, old tree moss, soft
filled compositions falling back
to give us space
again.
ii.
on trees
wrinkling were
decomposing lifetimes
of shelter
animals--coverings
green skins
holding soft
filled back
to space
again.
iii.
is moss on the
the space before they
and housing
once absent, wandering for
finding the soft
wrinkles in the tree
them, old tree moss,
compositions falling
give us
iv.
is the housing absent
finding wrinkles
old compositions
space again.
ON social sites
smart women
pew the old men,
their old, tried and weary
followers, loyal wives
into disgruntled believers
men could be so powerful,
says the smart women,
finding fault in every page
of history, every effort
of would-be trained preachers
in whatever silly methods may
have been or still be.
It seems trashing the white
men and their pious goings,
earnest as they most likely
were, odd or pointed to women,
overbearing, over-stepping the jewels—;
It seems wrong to trash
these fathers and old men;
wrong to trash the submissive
women wrestling in the Spirit
to obey what they believed they must.
Making white trash, as sepulchers
with dead men's bones, is
no way to swirl our skirts
and strengthen our hands,
our minds, no way to encourage
our hearts that today, our men
would be any different,
same as they are—Men,
following after God's will;
falling however their lives
may.
My word sequences are
void of imagery.
Notations they are,
not sung lines leaned, cooed,
hummed; Rather, they are
sequences of Go Ahead, Girl--
write something to read for your time
here. : ) And a smiley to make it Done.
Some thing I love in the old loves
calls me back, asking for another cat
to make the next 15, the next 18 years
persnickety as a pure breed.
I nip, and love this thing,
my old love.
We chose to drive to ashes the fires
we began in the old chimney.
Jay brought his Rover, and I
brought the s'mores, and together
we breathe, our house the world,
our chimney this free standing
masonry we'll find in any wilderness
where once burned a house.
The land outside is soft from rain.
Dig or walk as far as you can.
Stay a garden! If you just knew how
flowers wanted to grow, how strong their Lord
making their lives not at all depend on your enjoyment,
your sentences, your landings.
Soft or not is God's wanting you.
i. saying "Grace"
He said goodbye.
Today, she packed her bags,
left Missing Him.
His familiar voice
she returned in flowers—
grown by his hand, and bag of food
to cook for himself. Again
He continued as before he was himself,
saying grace
without her.
ii. Saving Grace
She said hello to Grace
today, unpacked her heart—
its Missing, to hear His familiar voice
returned to her in flowers,
in his hand, in grocery bags
of food for them. Again continued
as before she was what she did not see
was Grace.
the small bags
by the rear door
house green peace
from activities like
cutting vegetables,
opening mail, pitching
fast food cups and empty
milk cartons.
Most open the rear door
stands, these small pieces of
today in yesterday's
grocery bags.
altitude thins
the company,
as vegetation goes
from forests
to scruff grasses
and rock.
inside holds
rooms where people
dwell, covering
their cold,
their extreme
frailty with thick,
rising, sheer altitude.
Water that sank them,
their boats at the edge,
churkles as silks
beneath the skirts of the risen
thick and thin our
lungs walking
on water
the mountain holds.
O Dear God
the mystery
of collisions
one coming
out of
its mountain
into thee
speeding face
of another’s
switched tracks
sleeping many
through blood
and broken
bodies to You.
5:21 AM
Trains Two bodies to You
O Dear God
and broken
the mystery through blood
of collisions
sleeping many
at night, switched tracks
one coming
of another’s
out, of its mountain
speeding face
into thee