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.
Blessed are times we can/
reach back into the past and/
touch where* we came from.
OR
touch who we came from.
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.
They let their angel/
go, that others would be blessed./
May blessings return.
About Agony in the Garden, part of BYU MOA’s “Sacred Gifts” exhibit
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.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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