THE LETTERS : Inspirational Poetry

He laid them on the counter, seeing the letters, stopping in hesitations

Should I open them to find another rejection, having read stakes sent to my box

Leaving them unopened, drawing breath through my diaphragm, open them

Get it over, telling myself, preparing my mind for yet another letter of sorrow

Taking over the letters to the living room, I sat them on the couch, let me dream

Another moment, my thoughts wave, give yourself another moment to hope.

Hope once and again, giving myself just a few more moments to relish it’s scope

Of a tiny victory, a letter not rejecting, not thinking for a real moment, a victory

Living in dreams for many decades and finding a road of many sorrows of defeat

The writer begs audience to her mind and dares to have faith, dream, hope.

As I held the letters my mind wondered to the rivers of tears of rejection

The glorious agonies of defeats that made me rise, again and again, hoping

Believing but finding faith un rewarded, relinquishing my spirit fighting faith

In all of humanity, all that is good and holy, finding a world who hates me, for it.

Beaten me to a pulp, ripped all hope in my soul until I find no faith in my purpose

Learning to become satisfied with just writing it, rhyming it, churning it to finite

My hands shaking, my foundation of my being, yearning to once be the winner

Remembering almost throwing the last letters in the garbage, not believing

I won anything, thinking it was all again, just a ploy to peal dollars from my purse.

Then receiving emails, saying please fill out these forms, your getting published.

I opened them, first one and then another to find they say “Editors choice.”

Two awards, tears stream down my face, in total humility feeling unworthy.

Not earning the people choice, but judgment of choice of my peers, which

Is the better reward? To be loved by the judges, or by the people?

Knowing that I was not cast the ballot of the masses, scorned by those whom

I write for. Feeling but a mere moment of elation, facing the words, over and over again.

Until I can write understood, loved by the poets, admired by the people, I still feel a sense

Of defeat. Yet, I will take these prizes of the scholars and humbly say.

I ran around the house all night, screaming, I am published, I am now

A published poet, with papers saying I am admired by those with knowledge.

They who read, every day, scribbles of all of us whom seek to be heard.

Giving me a prize to be heard not only in books but in sound discs of light,

In words, the spoken word, I have now written the spoken word. Of all

The prizes I have one, none mean as much and tears of victory, run down my face

And I taste the salt of the ashes of fires I purged, laying my ego to the floor

Screaming to God, give me the pen of fire, the sword of truth and let me

Be your instrument, your scribe, maid servant. Humbly again, forever, I will cast any

Glory to the Kingdom of God and give thanks to the Angels of God who

whisper his secrets in my ears. And I will long for the day that the public,

The poets, admire my words, praise, psalms, parables, mysteries.

For them I write, but I accept this vast honor and am deeply humbled.

Now if I can just get someone to pay me, then perhaps the world will

Grant me the respect, that is yearn for. When I write, it is the written word, scribed seeking only true approval for my Lord, When they the people accept his

Light in me, then his will, is done unto me and I into you, you into the spirit

And when they believe, all the honors will mean nothing. For you dear public

I write and give you the gift of the letters of the Kingdom, I am blessed

To hear, scribed, written, as a free gift to the world. Yet, it will really be nice

To be paid, humbly I do confess, the merit of accomplishments is dulled by

Doing all the service of a life time of searching and never earning a thin

Babble of copper in dollars non paid, yet. Willing to take crumbs, of no payments to earn my way, keep and prove myself to all, knowing I have proven to the one whom I write for.

Truly I am blessed beyond measure and it is in you I hope to bless you beyond measure for

All I serve him, and he serves you within me.

Praise be to God and thank you angels who guard my gateway on earth and in heaven. Be angels, be ye all living angels in service. --

Entertaining unaware, or aware be manna, of the fruit planted in the blind mustard seeds, planting them in un fertile soil, fertilizing the soil until it grows fruit of the light, the truth, the way.

Your humbled, I rise only thru his will to be your blue rose. Written August 17^th, 2007 7:55am

Scribing- writing the words, I have written thousands of times

VICTORY IS MINE IN THE NAME OF THE LORD

GOD, “IS” OUR, MY, YOURS, ALL POWERFUL OMNIPRESENT

To the victory belongs the spoils. Knock and the door will be opened, seek and you will find

And the door to heaven, was opened, the door to earth now finally opens, to receive his Kingdom.

I lay my crowns, Tiaras, diadems, rewards and bend to the floor and cast my crowns-

To my king of kings, Lord of Lords, God of all Gods

To rise Victor, victorious, the victory is done in the rising of ashes to refine.

Our spirits to platinum, anointed in the oil of the spirit, seeing thru the minds eye, lifted.

Music, mystery, and we he speaks, paradise and when he talks, music, magic, and when he writes through me, wondrous, miracles, to all his beloved! Using me as his instrument

And I truly am BLESSED beyond human measurements. The parable of the time and the time and the half time.

VICTORY

VICTORY

Victor

V I C To me this is an honor of bravery O R Y I S My heart being purged of the fires I N E I N Thy will be done in me Having found the purple heart trails E No, longer seeing with the blind eye A My eye, pupil, lens, seeing refined glorious light. E Oracles of fire you are defeated F God of righteousness, armor of light, pursuit of happiness, angels, cherubim, sapphires. Omnipotent power- Diadem of the crown of light enacted- phase up, shield activated, helmet on, sword in hand, truth! Stop 8:31 am Saturdays Sabbaths child is full of the grace of gift of virtue, candles, spoken in verses.