oh, these messages, you send,
invitations to a gala, a black tie affair,
but only if willingly pay the exorbitant fare,
your money's no good, you must dare,
find and write the poem hid within
how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem
the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?
there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever, either, extinguish*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
any message you send can and will be turned into a poem
"how cold are the carpenter's hands"... patty m
patty m Divine intervention
extensions of grace
kiss the doubt from the
blind man's face.
Yet all are blind and deaf
so few left who truly believe
when tricksters smile and
cunningly deceive.
Where is the lamb
who died for man
how cold are the carpenter's hands.
Jerusalem where all roads lead
in winter white your sorrows bleed.
Lie still awhile and mull the words
all creatures big and small wo;; be spared
if on they believe, repent, circumvent the globe
frontal lobe what's in this treasure trove? myrrh and frankincense. stabled now in a manger
of hay, Earth Christmas Day.