Broken Pleas

Lord, hallowed be your name. Merciful / Lord
                                of reconciliation, hear my / poem as prayer; these broken
pleas in lines,
Lord; /                                        
                                                                             metronomic musings,
unmusical, / heavy with fear.  Lord, hear not my
                                       numb speech /
                                                                                                      but the token−
                                 the meaning.                                                            Take
away / the hindrance of self−
                                the sense of− and leave / with me a greater sense
of your presence; / Your spirit within revealing signs,
                                                                             sight / restored
                                                                       and light.  Within this rare shining, /
shine through
the gift of losing self to You. / This vital understanding
awakened / only in sheets of grace poured out and down /
                                and seen in strips of visibility, / so release me of all pride,
                                                         generate / humility and create connection /
                                                          so I might dine with you in communion /
drink from goblet
                                                                                              of signification /
                                                                                             my sins forgiven
by sipping tipped back / offering and again in harmony / I pray Thy kingdom
come, Thy will be done…. /
                                       Amen.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                                                          

Surrender

I sense the need for strategy, a battle plan, or at very least,
                                    a change.
The inner man is
centering
while appetite of
                                         flesh, unsated
                                                               draws lines.
                       So, I study plot and step,
                                                   a map of curious sorts.
Heat creeps in, elated, breaking
                                    breach of peace
                                         and pursuant, she circles round my frail human variance,
                                                                               exposing weakened will.

To keep within,
                                                  hold fast
to
letting go.
War is a theme, but there are many ways to fight, and
               the true hero, though he
                 evades not danger,
waits for call.
    I crouch and listen.
and when signal sounds,
               shift course,
weave through enemy land.
    Armed at last with quietude, I am unafraid.
                                                  I find victory
                                     
                                       in surrender.

The Mag
Poetry Jam