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Posted on 01/02/2006 7:52:08 AM PST by Soaring Feather
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Oh, so lovely, I am weeping. Thank You so much.
pour the soul out
on the page
often times
the tears stain
a heart wrenches
as memory writes
the hurtful deeds
into the night
with only the silence
for company
the silence a friend
no pinging noises
no distractions
just the muse leading
the fingers recording
the evidence of a life
lived, not so well sometimes
but by all means lived
hurt, laughed, cried, reveled
in a love that would die
but lived in a heart
will warm again to feel
the elixir of bliss
velvet midnight skies
and the wonder of two
being one in soul.
Ambrosia to the lips
of a mortal.
bentfeather (c) 02.28.06
Well, done indeed. I like it.
Would you be so kind as to list the author of the poem you posted earlier.
It's always right to list an author's name.
May I ask how you came upon the Lair?? Did someone guide you here??
THRICE LYRICS
"Image Of The Invisible"
I understand now. These are song lyrics. Please cite a source, okay?? ;)
Another one of those Passion poems:
How slow the moments must have seemed,
there in the garden,
among the olive trees that moonlit night,
as the trees uplifted their branches
in the dappled light and shadow
like arms uplifted in prayer.
Only they managed to stay and watch with you.
The garden grew quiet as your followers fell asleep
one by one,
unable to keep vigil,
even though you asked,
you wanted,
you needed.
Their gentle snoring was almost the only sound.
Did you see Peter
struggling to keep his eyes open,
John nudging him to stay awake,
only to succumb himself?
Was this, then, how it was to begin,
the isolation of the sacrificial victim,
The Father requiring you to give up everything that comforted
as you gazed into the gathering darkness,
even your companions in this long journey,
the witnesses to a loving God's concern.
No crutches or helpers then,
just you and the night.
How quiet it all was.
Did you begin to strain your ears
listening for sounds
of the gathering mob?
Another good poem.
Very graphic in detail.
And then, in another mmode, but on the same subject, there is this:
Song about Gethsemane
Standing in the garden,
beneath the olive tree,
Look at him praying,
alone as he could be
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Standing in the garden,
He fell down to his knees,
"Abba, Father, Abba,"
He cried beneath the trees.
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
"Take this cup away from me,
I do not want its wine,"
He prayed in the midnight,
"Not your will, but mine."
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Then standing in the garden,
He knew just what to do,
and woke the sleeping men up
So they would know it too.
No time left to watch with him,
no time left to pray.
The soldiers take him to the priest,
now time to run away,
Forgive us Lord for standing there
when we should be with thee,
forgive us Lord for failing to
come with you and see.
Help us to follow you,
help us to pray
And keeps always close to you
lest we should draw away.
This poem is heart wrenching.
BTW, I have an oil painting of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. It was done by my Uncle Fran's Father. We was a Minister, as well as a wonderful artist.
This painting hung in my Aunt's and Uncle's home all the years of their life. I inherited the painting when they both went home.
I'll also try to post new stuff at least once a week! ;-)
It's okay, I understand.
Ah, another Dragonfly lover, eh? They are an insect! ;) Well, glad you stumbled into the Lair, home to Dragonflies, dragons and other mythical beings.
Along with a touch of reality.
Oh wonderful, happy to have you here. Post as often as you wish. We limit no one.
Stolen Treasures and Futures Gone
So many today think thoughts crafted by others,
molded in forms by narrowed education,
shaped to fit another’s idea of ideal.
All done by the hand of well meaning mothers,
and good fathers, their goal but elation,
the hard truth would make them reel!
Children, the treasure of the future yet,
denied the skills of imagination,
and the tools to make it on their own.
Teachers who indoctrinate, their value set,
deprive the young of later freedoms elation,
submerging their soul amid another’s drone.
Lost minds and tarnished hearts,
buried in the dumpster of MTV noise,
the future gilded with gaudy nothing.
Girls willingly become Ho’s and battered tarts,
to brutal self-centered ganstas, once just boys,
instead of what they might have been, something!
WOW
Powerful poem there young man. Absolutely true.
So glad my kids are long grown into adults, grands as well.
Different time, different set of values. Well, values they seem to be missing today more often than not.
Do you have any idea how long its been since anyone called me anything but 'degenerate wine-drinking, pipe smoking curmudgeon biker'...especially 'young man'!
Consider yourself well 'smoooooootched' for that!
;^)
LOL! I thought that would get your attention. *Grins*
Blessed Assurance
Good Wednesday, ms feather.
Good morning, to you Kathy.
Thanks for Blessed Assurance. Happy Wednesday to you.;)
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