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Micaela Tennis Oct 2013
you
No, I'm not here to tell you that you're weak.
I'm not going to turn your weaknesses against you.
Just to say you need a God to make you strong.

God transforms you.
I can't tell you that the
alcohol
drugs
***
and cursing
are bad
and that
maybe
you should consider
a God who can
change it.

I'm not going to lure you in by your own demons
Just to make you believe

But let me ask you this,
Do you honestly believe that God can't use you?

Noah was a drunk
Abrahm was "too old"
Jacob was a liar
Leah was ugly
Joseph was abused
Moses stuttered
Gideon was afraid
Rahab was a *******
Jeremiah and Timothy were "too young"
David had an affair and murdered
Isaiah preached the gospel naked
Elijah was suicidal
Naomi was a widow
Job lost everything
Peter denied Christ
All of Jesus' disciples fell asleep during prayer
Martha worried
The samaritan woman divorced
Paul was  "too religious"
Timothy had an ulcer
And Lazarus?
Oh, he was dead!

But Christ used each and every one of the characters of the Bible to bring Glory to His name!
Wade Redfearn Jun 2010
A little known secret of actors:
you can force yourself to cry by
simply thinking about how badly
you want to.

Here's how it's done.

Start with fertilizer. Remember how
you felt that first year you
did so excellently at school, all-year
struggling and so devoted, woke up
Christmas to your mother's purchase,
eager for sugar plums and hedonist
things, ripped merrily into math workbooks.
The seed comes next, budding in the
open tunnels of self-worth - when
he told you that the thing you were
best used for could be done by anyone, really,
the oldest profession, and how you
liberated your oils on canvas long exiled
to make a scene of Rahab and Joshua,
and cried yourself away on alien bedding.

Water it all in whatever leaves the garden hose.

When they whistled without a name.
When your first time hosting supper was a catastrophe.
When you failed to keep certain things alive.
When the housecat burrowed in your warm
motor, and you just wanted to leave so badly.

Funerals of people you never knew, and
bugspray in your eyes.

One neglected message stays: anyone can cry.
courtney jean Aug 2016
i live my life alone, everything around me is so beautiful
yet i hate all of it. nobody gets what they deserve.

laguna beach a place so lovely yet unenjoyable for me,
endless thoughts of a neglected childhood. haunt me.
there is no closure with a lacking family but acceptance with a wiser child.

im turned on and off, seeking a person to fill the void that gradually gets bigger with every disgusting thought

nobody can fill a void quite as big as mine
not my father, a figure who was never there. and doesnt have to be.
who loves his children with doubt theyre his children.
he walks to the bar then goes to his house.
halfway house.
he loves alcohol because it fills his void to the brim.

not my mother, who failed to raise me. who gave me up.
actions speak louder than words, she gave me neither.
back and fourth rahab pulled her in like a rip tide
she stuggles till she gives in.
7 years of my life spent together only to give up again.
she dances around reading the bible
then punches me in the face
i can see her brain tangled in confusion
she loves drugs because it fits her void like the perfect puzzle piece.

not my grandpa who raised me, filling my void a quarter full.
a man of few words
cancer drains the quarter filled
rest in peace, the greatest man i ever knew.

not my grandma who raised me, so compassionate and humble.
she flys as far as she can go
struggling and alone she spends every penny she receives
she cant help it.
she fills my void less and less with every minute she grows older
unable to hold a conversation, she cant remember.
i love her so much.

not my little brother, whos unable to talk to me.
shielded by a thick layer of our moms alcohol induced breath,
he doesnt understand and doesnt have a chance
manipulated
hes dragged out by the rip tide by my moms side.
3 years pass by, not a word spoken, not a picture seen.
i feel his void brewing only to awake
when he is a wiser child

not my bestfriend, who grew up on the sidelines
who does whatever she can to help and comfort me
who shares her house and bed with me.

nothing is ever enough and i hate myself.

my one night stands overfill my void
but i wake up with it stretched out and empty
only to feel sadness roll over my entire body like a soft expected wave of freezing ocean water
i get tense and sick from my recent meal.

i collapse onto my bed, im a wiser child but an empty one
laguna beach am i living "the life"?
i can see the sun set behind the ocean from my bed
a beautiful view but i hate it.

76 degrees and sunny
the weather feels like ****
Renoka McCracken May 2012
Great God of Mine,
How is it that the planets faithfully revolve around Your solar star
How is that the acorn mystically re-fashions itself into the majestic tree
How is it that the monarch finds the flyways and air currents to its winter home

Great God of Mine,
Why is it that babies are being born to immature children who can’t rear them
Why is it that a father takes out his anger on his wife and offspring
Why is it that man is incapable of living peacefully with his neighbor

Great God of Mine,
How is it that Rahab was chosen to facilitate an enemy’s victory over her Jericho
How is that the Samaritan woman at the well claimed Jesus’s living water
How is it that Simon of Cyrene forcefully bore the cross to Golgotha behind Jesus

Great God of Mine,
Why is it that mothers can end the lives of their little ones
Why is it that drug-users and perverts are destroying safe homes
Why is it that political leaders make selfish decisions that harm their constituents

Great God of Mine,
How is it that you created man for relationship knowing his inability to sustain it
How is it that you eternally love mankind in the face of his constant rejection
How is it that you sacrificed your innocent Son to save a sinful people

Great God of Mine,
Why is it that the twelve apostles included a traitor
Why is it that the “rock of the church” denied your Son three times
Why is it that an apostle who walked with Jesus could doubt his authenticity

Great God of Mine,
How is it that You knew me before time began
How is it that You saved me with my not deserving it
How is it that You love me; You LOVE…ME!
Paul A Moon Jun 2016
I. Double edged swords

Every evening, spring keeps its marriage
to winter. Twilight is crazily quilt
in orange as purple with scattering grays, sage

stars calmly coalescing and being built
into constellations… The twilight air
imposed winter’s silence. People slit

these pavements as capricious walkers. There
is a squirrel within and out of trees, or cat
eating a rat in a squeaking swallow. Are

the homeless equal to BlackWater’s scrounging what
state alms exists? No…Night’s misery
is never silent, so unseen more---that

is civilization…****** of industry
are its captains. Blood subsidies, ****
ravage and revile Eve and Mary:

our Mothers in regret over humanity. Keep
Palestine’s Olive Tree in heart…
Eastern Star, and Western Constellations, weep

for the nameless and defenseless ramparts
of refugees: Moses again… Here in Queens,
Manhattan’s gaudy skyline rapports

a look of 11th Avenue’s Rahab’s face. Scenes
of red and blue, white broken teeth buildings
from too many *******, and pained spleens

of her here and there, everywhere, “It’s a living…”
Ugliness has a pretty face, it progresses…
Winter’s chill will soon be here, not forgiving

those who are homeless from God, homeless
from being brethren’s keepers. We are quick
winter. Death is us, and we are death, endless

because of our need for a monied physique .
Poems are for poets, sing. As you were silenced,
your song was written in winters oblique

in their endings, its prayers against the NKVD
KGB and un-repenting CIA, a spoken
covenant to the people, and the words rhymed  

against the powerful from Stalin to Reagan…
We’re blessed for the verbal and intellectual
knife of verse. We must sing against state’s sin.

As you did scrawling on soap bars habitual,
writing, with burnt matches, ritual.

II. Your Legend

Called ***** and nun, there’s a price
for being a poet: never sequestered
in black and white terms, clerk or captain
king or peasant, Christian or pagan:

our stamps earned in civilization.
By seeing things in gray, a poet intuits
monsters we knew as children are
real as warheads once aimed at one another.

Our hands, their lingering fingers and palms,
can either be nailed on a martyr’s arms,
or holding a scythe or Wesson. Your wishes
were fists wounding your heart---your anguishes.

Why did subtle music bloom from your lips?
Why hadn’t your tongue expressed bitterness
from the Muses of lonely Siberia
or **** bombs---destroying statues of Maria

in Saint Petersburg?  Why did your voice remain?
There are only questions about you, for
your  pain and joy seemed the same: you cried.
It surely seemed both should have died.

Drinking ***** was surcease from bureaucrats,
to your son’s exile to Siberia, these cruel cascades
of the state. Watch the platoons, and
see their eyes in long ceremonial parades

for the state’s saints: dying from heart attacks before
your mourned demise. Did one shed a tear?
Only posterity knows. As the present can infer,
veterans are always “was” and “were”, never now here…

In here, where the written word was a noose,
and sentences were genocide, thus a paragraph,
a stanza, or even an essay was inconceivable
horror people receiving an order’s end.

In here, where order promulgates,
where time is counted by snowflakes
where space is counted by snowflakes,
why is never asked, it’s just struck with, “Do.”

But, it was when despair was thick withered
winter branches, without hint of leaves or spring,
love needed anguish to show its strength
love needed this psaltery against death.


III. The seen and unseen

Thinking of you Anna, ah this world.
Then, as the world lives and does
as just bearing witness,
the guts to live and bear pain
is in the poet’s voice,
in the saint
the seemingly graceless soldier
******, Matthew, Saul, Romero.
Song found, song lost
Song of Songs,
the poet names the names
of all to give monsters and empires
a voice
to be seen and unseen,
with a cold lunar heart,
and to let prayer
come as souls decapitated from this Palestine,
this Armenia, this Navajo nation,
with a left-handed signature, tear written.
Rahab
A harlot, a monster
She tears at my flesh
She weeps at my glory.
I am ensnared in her gaze,
enslaved to her power.

Blazing in the sun, shimmering in the moon
Inexplicable, flawless
Her smooth arches have seduced me.

Let me go, I pray
Let me go
And she released me.
But she chased me
She never found me
I am free
I am lost.
Ikimi Festus Jun 2023
In the realm of riddles, I shall weave a tale,
Of women who dared to risk, their spirits unveiled.
They belittled themselves, chained by their own doubt,
But within them, a fire burned, yearning to break out.

A call to action for those who undervalue their worth,
Who think beauty alone can grant desires on Earth.
Fashion's trends may sway, but cannot define,
The essence of a soul, radiant and divine.

Humble yet afraid to take a leap of faith,
They stood at life's crossroads, contemplating their fate.
For life, a game of truth and dare, they knew,
To seek the truth, risk must be embraced anew.

Abigail, the joy of her father, held the key,
When Nabal insulted David, her spirit flew free.
She acted quickly, in desperate times she knew,
Extreme measures were needed, her resolve true.

With gifts offered in secret, she soothed anger's fire,
Submissive and respectful, she fulfilled her desire.
Bowing before David, forgiveness she did seek,
Her courage shone bright, humble yet bold and meek.

Joanna, a name mentioned briefly in holy verse,
Willing to follow her Savior, her faith a rehearse.
Supporting Jesus and the apostles from her own means,
Connections to Herod's palace, where danger convenes.

Her husband Chuza, the right hand of the king,
Yet Joanna chose the path where faith takes wing.
Risking it all for her Lord, she stood strong,
Her dedication rewarded, she witnessed the empty tomb's song.

Rahab, known as a harlot, yet her past did fade,
When she risked her life, her loyalty displayed.
Spying for Joshua's men, hidden on her rooftop,
Lying to the king's men, her family's safety her hope.

Deborah, wise and courageous, a beacon of light,
An influential woman, standing firm in the fight.
As a prophet and priestess, God's voice she would hear,
Leading worship and preaching, casting aside fear.

With Barak and troops, she ventured to the fray,
The glory destined for a woman, prophecies would say.
But not Deborah herself, it was Jael who would stand,
Driving a tent peg through Sisera's head, bold and grand.

Esther, the Queen of Courage, in the palace she dwelled,
Never forgetting her roots, where she once excelled.
A loyal Jew, she held fast to her faith,
Trusting in God's wisdom, she prepared a banquet's wraith.

No blind rush, no heed to doubts and fear,
She approached King Xerxes, her voice crystal clear.
Risking her very life, she yielded to God's might,
Trusting His plan, walking in His guiding light.

Ruth, when her husband died, faced a choice,
To return to her kin or embrace a new voice.
Against doubt's agony, she held steadfast,
Choosing to stay with Naomi, her conviction unasked.

Her influence grew, as others took note,
Admired for her loyalty, a foreigner of note.
Favor gained from Boaz, protection sought under wings,
Her decision stood out, like vibrant colorful rings.

A woman who stood apart, shining so bright,
Impressing the town and elders with her inner light.
May God make her like Rachel and Leah, they blessed,
A pillar in Ephrathah, her name forever impressed.

To the women who ponder their worth and might,
Who belittle themselves, yet yearn to take flight,
I ask you now, in the face of life's glare,
Will you embrace risk's dare and dare to dare?
Babatunde Raimi Jul 2020
Dear God
The Genesis of our problems
Lays in the Exodus of our morals
If we can come together like the Corinthians
With psalms and hymns like David
In the end, we will celebrate like Esther
And also jubilate like Job

After the fall of the First Adam
It had been Chronicled in "The Book"
That our Lamentations will be grave
Just like that of Brother Job
Oh Lord! Please send us "An Isaiah", a Moses
Lead us and cleanse our land Mark, Mathew, Luke and John, please pray for us

We are mystified by these plagues
With the semblance of Revelation chapter 18
Teach us to Number our days oh Lord!
In longevity and peace as promised in Deuteronomy
Judge us not for our sins
Spare us like you did Rahab in the book of Joshua
For we are to you what Ruth was to Naomi

Soon, the King will hear our cries
Swallow up our challenges as the fish to Jonah
Streghten our faith to trust like Daniel
As we contest for the faith of our fathers
We shall bow our kneels like James
That we may all win like the Isrealites...
Oh Father God, deliver us from flesh
May we be always spiritually fresh
Oh Lord Jesus, save us who are like Rahab
Grant us purity and a decent job
Oh Holy Spirit, rescue us from prostitution
Be our guardian against fornication
This we ask in our Almighty God. Amen.

-12/21/2015
(Dumarao)
*Gideons Prayer Poems Against Life’s Problems
My Poem No. 461

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