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This makes me think… about the divine face, the incarnation…

The Divine Image

by William Blake (1757-1827)

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

 

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.

 

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

 

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

 

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

This makes me think… about heaven in this month of holy souls…

There

by Mary Coleridge

There, in that other world, what waits for me?
What shall I find after that other birth?
No stormy, tossing, foaming, smiling sea,
But a new earth.

No sun to mark the changing of the days,
No slow, soft falling of the alternate night,
No moon, no star, no light upon my ways,
Only the Light.

No gray cathedral, wide and wondrous fair,
That I may tread where all my fathers trod,
Nay, nay, my soul, no house of God is there,
But only God.

The F.U.N. Quotient… An Ode to a Bowl of Cereal

 Ode to a Bowl of Cereal

Cereal,
Not just any cereal,
A bowl of cereal.

Not just any bowl of cereal,
A pit crew, ready,
To fuel up the car,
For the big race

A claw game,
Descending upon tiny
Flotation devices.
Giving their bounty to
The lucky winner

Tiny stars floating in the
Milky Way.
Being harnessed by higher beings
As if picking fruit off
A tree,
But picking cereal off a
Cereal tree
They
All band together,
Soldiers mingling in a
Circular expanse.
Collaborating and conversing
With each other,
Waiting,
To see when they will be selected
To fulfill their duty,
And head to the front lines
For battle

 A simple
Bowl of cereal,
A morning ritual, practiced
By millions each day.
Completely underestimated,
But also essential
For everyone

-John Oliveira-

This poem was written by my nephew, a high school freshman. Thanks, John!

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