At the very edge of life,
And it’s always near,
Our Hearts look for solace.
For its always clear,
That with all the burgage we bear
We are not at Peace.
Can never find it.
Not even with meditation
No, not even within.
Within us lives nothing,
Maybe wishes And turmoil.
O! Lord, We don’t […]At The Edge of Life, I find You. — Classic Generation©
The heroes of the kingdom,
Seekers of peace and happy living.
The fighters of freedom…
Bleeding red and white for the beauty of the kingdom.
The heroes serve the king,
Seated high and mighty on his molten gold.
He kills and fills and feels.
And he wants more of the molten gold
So he sinks and drowns and drinks.
Then he sends the heroes to get some more..
He drinks the value of maidens,
From their lips he gets the gold.
Through the heroes of the kingdom..
Seeking peace and happy living.
…. For the beauty of the land.
Yet the empire can’t hold…
The vast boundaries of unending peace.
The conquered kingdoms crash and splash.
They have no manners of peace.
So the king adds more soldiers…
The fighters of freedom.
Bleeding red and white, for the beauty of the kingdom.
This is a beautiful poem friends, by David Redpath. Please visit hi site for more.
Can you hear a whisper in the air
with that certain scent the serene
accent of a reality much higher?
Like the clockwork of a Wagnerian
concert upon a flow of celestial
poetry Do you have an ear to hear?
When it comes down to the state of
the heart do you even care? […]The Writing On The Wall
From the beauty of the petals,
To the sweet glowing green.
Then the stalk that channels life…
Comes the thorns that pierce.
To survive the thorns,
To get to the roots,
The source of life…
To get the purpose…
We live to produce our kind.
When you get more seeds from life,
And you scatter them to get more beauty,
The process changes not.
The beauty and fruits and seeds increase.
And so does the thorns.
This is my ride home,
It stumbles and wobbles on three feet.
Yet the rider decided to take the narrow road.
Yesterday, it rolled while ferrying my granny.
And her skirts rolled up to her waist.
This is my ride home,
I heat they imported it from abroad
But the rider next to me won’t let my breasts rest.
His elbows pound them left and right.
I think he does it on purpose
This is my ride home.
My head throbs at the memory.
I have two potato sized bumps on my temple.
My rider said it’s the spice in the safari.
A bump on the road, and a bump on my temple.
Tuku Tuku… The ride goes
And I can’t wait to get home.
Hi, it’s almost end of Saturday here. Describe your day today with an emoji.😊
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May the depth of our song be remembered,
as releasing the wings of our spirits while feathers in the wind recall cloud songs,
the Earth still mourns for her people,
yet the sky whispers for a new day, to awaken.
Poetry Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed, music by Mary YoungbloodMay the Depth of Our Song Be Remembered
We’ve been through tall mountains,
Our feet hurt from the stones that cut,
Yet our souls have healed with the new beginning.
This dawn, let your heart rise.
Keep your lips at a smile till next Christmas.
Be assured that whatever comes…
You can pass through it,
You can win it.
Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay
“How can Life grant us boon of living…
Unless we dare
The soul’s dominion?
Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the restless day,
And count it fair.”
― Amelia Earhart“…Unless we dare”