They're growing in a window well
where light is rarely seen.
Live on, persist, be bright and green,
or yellow hued for just a spell.
They offer us some hope and tell
us though pigheaded, willful, blind
there's grace abounding, sure and kind.
With thankful blessings everywhere
repent, reform, reach up and there
we'll leave our every tear behind.
Linked to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge where the word “blind” is a rhyme word in the C lines of a décima with rhyme pattern ABBAACCDDC.
Jim opened the certified package from his friend, Steve, whom he had not seen in fifty years. There was a letter and a copy of The Imitation of Christ that Jim gave Steve decades ago. Steve saw the book while sorting through boxes and decided to return it after finding Jim’s address.
A few months before receiving the package Jim wondered how his life veered off course getting lost in a moral dessert. How did he get from being a teenager who could attend Mass with joy to become an old man who barely had a clue?
Jim cautiously opened the worn book and began reading smelling the fresh air of an oasis amidst its aging pages.
Linked to Cosmic Photo Challenge where Dale offers the theme of “low light”. I lowered the light on these, perhaps too much.
Also linked to Trent P. McDonald’s The Weekly Smile. The leaves are gone, but the forest preserve is still a peaceful place to walk conducive to many smiles.
Here is a poem I wrote for Chel Owen’s Christmas Newsletter challenge. The challenge is open until December 11th for any who might want to participate. These poems are supposed to be funny. I am not sure that mine is, but if I did achieve that rare state of humor, that would bring another smile to my face.
Larry’s Earth is on the Moon.
Greg’s might be on Mars.
Lulu’s livid with the news.
Sue shoots shooting stars.
I’m the final one who’s sane.
At least, I can pretend.
I have no time to rush away,
so Merry Christmas, friend!
Their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood: their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in their paths. The way of peace they know not; and there is no judgment in their goings: they have made them crooked paths: whosoever goeth therein shall not know peace.
This tossing makes me wonder why
regrets won't let me get some sleep
without those nightmares from the deep.
I would shed tears. I'd even cry
if that would help. Regardless, I
can't face these twisted memories.
I'd have to run off on my knees,
but could I even find my way,
the one I lost that lazy day,
or days, when I served my own ease?
Linked to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge where the rhyme word “sleep” must be one of the B rhymes in a décima with rhyme pattern ABBAACCDDC.
In case it isn’t obvious, the “I” in the poem is an imaginary character in a mild region of hell trying to get some rest. I pray this “I” would not be me. I pray he not be you either.
I'm thankful for this time to live
and suffer if need be.
There also is a chance to give
and do so generously.
Though it be short or it be long,
though what I do be small,
I offer back a thankful song
in praise and give it all.
Linked to Michael Williams (Farrago Express) poetry challenge on giving thanks. I used a similar common meter to the poem he provided as a prompt.