What if your knickers fell down if the elastic wore out
What if your stockings got pulled off the suspenders?
What if you laddered your stockings
What if you bled through your summer school dress?
What if men looked at your breasts? Not that I had any myself.
What if you forgot to confess the only mortal sin you ever committed– being alive?
Then they say women are not as talented or creative as men
Would men wear suspender belts?
And did you see the sparks of light within
The hidden wood where watches the bright dove
The darkness which to human soul’s akin
God himself was shattered, without skin
Each part a broken light of what was love
But did you see the sparks of light within?
And round the whole world, mystics then began
To seek the little jewels that once were G-d
The darkness which to human soul’s akin
Each fragment was eternal in its span
And yet was helpless as on it man trod
Though some might see the sparks of light within
Hidden from the world of human sin
Afflicted by G-d’s death; now weeps the dove
Why is darkness where we must begin?
Can we bear Reality or Love?
Can we live, survive the coming flood?
Yet we see the sparks of light within
The darkness which to human soul’s akin
From being a cliche, lawn, flowers, boring shrubs
My years of sickness grew the garden wild
Now a meld of birdsong, wind, and wood
I yearn to enter, yes, I am beguiled.
Like an island in the suburb’s sprawl
The penetrating focus of owl’s eye
Into this green dream, its world is hauled
For survival, wildness has turned spy.
Even if, at last, survives one tree
One leaf, one branch, one root, one seeded pod
There a nest of singing birds shall be
There shall be a presence of the good.
Until our world’s destroyed by burning lies,
Poets shall sing and chant until all dies.
![Nuneham_2016-3 1111[800x600]](https://words-cat.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/nuneham_2016-3-1111800x600.jpg?w=1100)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me prov’d, I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
I made a cheese flan Both burned black and undercooked It was edible I guess my knack left Along with my dear husband. All's been cremated! That's why I can't eat I see Auchawitz and Dachau. Christianity. These ring the death knell. That Pope was no kind of star Mechanical thought Christianity Now has come to its ending Crucified itself. Resurrection Will not do us any good. We must start over. But crawling on earth. Kafka made the images Now we must live them
I decided I needed more excitement in my life so I washed my dry clean only trousers.
I am afraid to look now, but at least I didn’t use the 95 deg hot wash.
I have a better idea.Shall I steam them next time. It will kill the germs; I don’t know if they will look any cleaner but it beats playing Patience all day long.
I sent a Christian interpretation of the Bible to a Jew of the Orthodox kind.Did I say “kind” well, he was the opposite..Is it my fault if I am a fat, dumb, unfeeling, unsympathetic, bald cow?
When my husband died, my friend sent me an extract from “The Book of Pure Drivel”.What does it mean?Should I buy the book?
Answers will be useful.Do you wash wool suits in the machine?
h
https://www.gotquestions.org/still-small-voice.html
Question: “What does it mean that God speaks in a still small voice?”
Answer:There is only one place in Scripture where God is said to speak in a “still small voice,” and it was to Elijah after his dramatic victory over the prophets of Baal (1 Kings 18:20-40; 19:12). Told that Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, king of Israel, was seeking kill him, Elijah ran into the wilderness and collapsed in exhaustion. God sent an angel with food and water to strengthen him, told him to rest, and then sent him to Horeb. In a cave there, Elijah voices his complaint that all of God’s prophets had been killed by Jezebel and he alone had survived. God instructed him to stand on the mountain in His presence. Then the Lord sent a mighty wind which broke the rocks in pieces; then He sent an earthquake and a fire, but His voice was in none of them. After all that, the Lord spoke to Elijah in the still small voice, or “gentle whisper.”
The point of God speaking in the still small voice was to show Elijah that the work of God need not always be accompanied by dramatic revelation or manifestations. Divine silence does not necessarily mean divine inactivity. Zechariah 4:6 tells us that God’s work is “not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,” meaning that overt displays of power are not necessary for God to work.
Because He is God, He is not confined to a single manner of communicating with His people. Elsewhere in Scripture, He is said to communicate through a whirlwind (Job 38:1), to announce His presence by an earthquake (Exodus 19:18), and to speak in a voice that sounds like thunder (1 Samuel 2:10; Job 37:2; Psalm 104:7; John 12:29). In Psalm 77:18 His voice is compared to both thunder and a whirlwind. And in Revelation 4:5, we’re told that lightning and thunder proceed from the throne in heaven.
The shadows of the family act alone
They’ve been cut off from consciousness and care
They do bad deeds,attack destroy their own
We cannot reach our shadow on our phones
Nor seem them in the mirror of despair
The shadows of the family act alone
In darkest times when one of them’s in pain
To hold their feelings in seems ever rarer
They do bad deeds, attack, destroy their own.
Yet if they’re questioned, they at once explain
That what they do is really very fair.
The shadows of the family act alone
How hard is it to our own self regain
When feelings sharp have caused a painful tear?
We do bad deeds, attack, destroy our own.
Oh,would we had the strength to suffer, care
And not discharge our rage quite unprepared
The shadows of the family drift alone
Do bad deeds ,show ill will to their own
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/essays/detail/69530
The society whose modernization has reached the stage of integrated spectacle is characterized by the combined effect of five principal factors: incessant technological renewal, integration of state and economy, generalized secrecy, unanswerable lies, and eternal present.
The spectator is simply supposed to know nothing and deserves nothing. Those who are watching to see what happens next will never act and such must be the spectator’s condition.
—Guy Debord
In a political culture of managed spectacles and passive spectators, poetry appears as a rift, a peculiar lapse, in the prevailing mode. The reading of a poem, a poetry reading, is not a spectacle, nor can it be passively received. It’s an exchange of electrical currents through language—that daily, mundane, abused, and ill-prized medium, that instrument of deception and revelation, that material thing, that knife, rag, boat, spoon/reed become pipe/tree trunk become drum/mud become clay flute/conch shell become summons to freedom/old trousers and petticoats become iconography in appliqué/rubber bands stretched around a box become lyre. Diane Glancy: Poetry uses the hub of a torque converter for a jello mold. I once saw, in a Chautauqua vaudeville, a man who made recognizably tonal music by manipulating a variety of sizes of wooden spoons with his astonishing fingers. Take that old, material utensil, language, found all about you, blank with familiarity, smeared with daily use, and make it into something that means more than it says. What poetry is made of is so old, so familiar, that it’s easy to forget that it’s not just the words, but polyrhythmic sounds, speech in its first endeavors (every poem breaks a silence that had to be overcome), prismatic meanings lit by each others’ light, stained by each others’ shadows. In the wash of poetry the old, beaten, worn stones of language take on colors that disappear when you sieve them up out of the streambed and try to sort them out.
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How my heart sings 