Posts Tagged ‘blessed’

Prayers For A Friend’s Surgery: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

December 29, 2015

A friend had surgery … and many told her she was their prayers. These are the result
She may not know it,/
But hundreds of knees have bent/
For her to be blessed.

She said: Ok now don’t you make me cry !!
Tears are mere symbols /
that our emotional cups /
are overflowing.

Touching A Father’s Work: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

March 17, 2015

Blessed are times we can/
reach back into the past and/
touch where* we came from.
OR
touch who we came from.

It Could Be Worse: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poem Lament

November 25, 2014

Death
of my
battery.

When your mother
keeps the car trunk light
on
for 2 days,
that’s what happens.

And what Chrysler engineer
had the idiot idea
to put the battery
in the driver’s-side
wheel well,
behind a splash guard,
with no easily-accessible
screws?

Stupidhead.

I was furious.
45 minutes
and 2 screws out,
6 to go,
I was worse.

I walked home.
I was cold.
I was angry.

Then I met the guy
who was a few blocks away
from getting on the freeway.

He stopped at a stop sign,
and his axle on his old van
broke,
and his front wheel
fell off.

And he was grateful.

“It could have been
so much worse.
I was blessed.”

He was right.
And now I’m grateful
and blessed.

Their Angelic Sacred Gift: Revolutionary Written Haiku

May 14, 2014

View of Agony in the Garden, Sacred Gifts exhibit, BYU Museum of Art
Agony in the Garden thank you card from the Sacred Gifts exhibit, BYU-MOAThey let their angel/
go, that others would be blessed./
May blessings return.

About Agony in the Garden, part of BYU MOA’s “Sacred Gifts” exhibitSacred Gifts: Agony in the Garden description, by Frans Schwartz

To a Rose At Last Blossoming: Revolutionary Blogging Improv Sonnet

August 28, 2010

A friend wrote a poem in a new blog, and then wondered about her poetic ability. This sonnet is in response (and is also on the comment page to her poem).

To a Rose At Last Blossoming

Roses don’t blossom
quickly, like the daffodil, tulip,
or dandilion,
only to fade just as quickly away.

Instead, they rise from a bushes,
born years before.
The older the rosebush,
the sweeter and longer lasting the blossom.

People glance at rosebushes in winter,
comment on their plainness;
their brown sticks protruding through dead mulch;
their ugliness, deadness, and thorns.

But when rose blossoms at last spread their color’d fragrance,
Humankind is blessed, touched and inspired by true beauty.