Old 02-15-2007, 06:54 AM
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Smile Poetry

The Wheelbarrow

"You gotta trust God," she said.
"Do you trust God?"
"Oh sure," I said.
"I've always believed in Him."
"Not the same thing," she said.
"Belief's not trust."
"I don't understand."

"Well, look at it this way:
let's say you go to a circus
and it's got the highest tightrope
you ever saw.
And this guy comes out,
and climbs way up there,
and puts a wheelbarrow on the wire
and begins to walk.
You think:
`He's never gonna make it;
the wire's too thin,
the wheelbarrow's too wide,
and besides, it blocks his sight.'
You hold your breath,
and when he finally gets across
the place goes crazy, and you cheer and cry.
So you keep coming back to watch,
until you're sure he's going to make it."

"Yeah," I said. "I trust him to get across."
"No," she said. "You believe he'll get across.
You want trust, get in the wheelbarrow."

But I just kept watching, as before,
and told myself:
"I do so trust Him."

Then one day, I knew she was right,
and I climbed up to the platform.
It was so high and scary, I thought:
"Maybe it counts if I just watch from here."
But of course that didn't work.
So finally I walked over to where He stood.

"Ah, there you are!" He smiled. "Come on then,
off we go!"

So in I climbed.

I can tell you, I had white knuckles
for a while there.
But then I thought:

"Well, all or nothing!"
and just lay back and looked up
into the soft deep dark of the Big Top
where spangles flashed in the spotlight
and notes of bright, proud music
swarmed like fireflies around my toes.
Then the gentle rocking put me to sleep
like a baby in a cradle.

You should see that wheelbarrow now!
It's got a fridge, a little microwave...
it's where I live!

Oh, and on my birthday, He asked me,
"How did you like My present?"
And I, still not too swift on the uptake, said,
"What present?"
"Don't worry," he said, "it'll turn up."

Next day, I found it
under the corner of my sleeping bag.
It's hard to describe...
I guess you had to be there...
but when the lid was off,
a sparkling, flaming, joyous, bubbling Something
entered my fingertips
and coursed all through me,
and I knew what it was... Myself!

The gift of Self I'd been looking for so long.

"Thanks, Lord," I said. "I love my present."

And He said,

"So do I."
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Old 02-15-2007, 07:13 AM
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By Charles C. Finn

Inner Child

Do not be fooled by me.
Don’t be fooled by the face I wear.
For I wear a mask… a thousand masks…
Masks that I am afraid to take off…
And none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that’s second nature with me…
But don’t be fooled.
For God’s sake don’t be fooled!

I give you the impression that I am secure…
That all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well without…
That confidence is my name and coolness my game…
That’s the water’s calm and I am in command…
And that I need no one.
But don’t believe me.
My surface may seem smooth, but my surface is my mask…
Ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion and fear and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don’t want anybody to know it.

I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear being exposed.
That’s why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
A nonchalant sophisticated fašade,
To help me pretend,
To shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation…
My only hope and I know it…
That is, if it’s followed by acceptance…
If it’s followed by love.
It is the only thing that can liberate me from myself…
From my own self-built prison walls…
From the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It’s the only thing that will assure me of what I can’t assure myself…
That I am really worth something.

But I don’t tell you this, I don’t dare. I am afraid to.
I am afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance…
Will not be followed by love.

I am afraid you will think less of me, that you’ll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I am afraid that deep-down I am nothing, that I am just no good…
And that you will see this and reject me.

So I play me game… my desperate pretending game…
Walk with a fašade of assurance without, and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks, and my life becomes a front.
I will chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that is really nothing…
And I tell you nothing of what is everything…
Of what’s crying within me.

So when I’m going through my routine, do not be fooled by what I’m saying.
Please listen carefully, and try to hear what I am not saying…
What I’d like to be able to say…
What for survival I need to say…
But what I cannot say.
I don’t like to hide.
I don’t like to play superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine, and spontaneous, and me…
But you’ve got to help me.
You’ve got to hold out your hand…
Even when that’s the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you’re kind and gentle and encouraging…
Each time you try to understand because you really care…
My heart begins to grow wings…
Very small wings…
Very feeble wings…
But wings!
With your power to touch me into feeling…
You can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.

I want you to know how important you are to me…
How you can be a creator—a honest-to-God creator—
Of the person that is me…if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble…
You alone can remove my mask…
You alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic and uncertainty…from my lonely prison….
If you choose to.
Please choose to. Do not pass me by.
I will not make it easy for you.

A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me…
The blinder I many strike back.
It is irrational, but despite what the books may say about man…
I am often irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger that strong walls…
And in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls…
with firm hands…
but with gentle hands…
For a child is very sensitive.

Who am I you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet.
And I am every woman you meet.
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Old 02-15-2007, 09:04 AM
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I apologize for the NUMEROUS posts here…it’s just that I have about 25 years of things to say, of which I was never able to say before.

I want to tell you all thank you…. Giving me the opportunity to share, and the oppurtunity to read your writings as well. Both have helped me so much--I know I am not alone

“…It is good that you write, dear ones, and we angels bless you who seek to share your writings with others among you! We ask that you wait not upon others who ask for what you want to share, but share it freely so that we all may bask in the glow of God’s glory as written through your hand. You have much to give, and it is true, we wouldn’t want to stop you from this flow that naturally pushes the words through your mind and body and onto the paper. Give, give, and give some more, dear beings! Give your words away, and bless the words as more come freely to you.”

“Never fear that your well will become empty, or fear that others will hurt you if you give them your words. For the words are things of beauty and not of wrestling with the heavens. You needed force them into action, for they set sail on their very own course once they are born from the Mind of all Minds. You share it’s light when you share its offspring in the form of words. Shine the light so radiantly, as one who holds a mirror in the noonday sun. This one gives no thought to where the radiant beams focus, but merely on the joy that holding the reflections of the beams brings.”

Virtue, Doreen Ph.D., Angel Therapy: Healing Messages for Every Area of Your Life. California: Carlsbad, 2005.
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Old 02-15-2007, 09:11 AM
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"God Converses with an Angel"

She looks very young.
She is young.
That is relative. She is old.
There's so much positive, so much happy.
True... that's how it appears.
Not appearances, reality.
But not internal reality.
She is sad?
Wounded. Struggling to heal.
That makes her weary?
The wound is deep. It touched her soul.
Her soul. That's all that she is; her being.
True... that's how it appears.
How it appears?
What she believes. She has forgotten that I am part of her.
She has tried to heal herself, alone. Her soul is weary.
ou can help?
I am help. But she needs to call for me.
Will she?
I call out to her each day, asking that question.
She doesn't answer?
She doesn't seem to hear.
Can you speak more loudly?
She will heal. She will hear Me. She will even love again.
She cannot love?
Not right now.
Someone must be very, very sad about that.
She is most sad. It is herself she must learn to love.
Must she heal first or love first?
She must only be open to My voice and both will come,
quickly and painlessly.
Then she will smile?
Then she will smile and laugh and dance. Then she will be free.
She's pretty when she smiles.
I know. I made her that way.
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Old 02-15-2007, 09:19 AM
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I apologize, it was brought to my atention--the poem above by Charles Finn, is not called "Inner Child". It is called, "Please Hear What I am Not Saying"
-sorry about that :o)
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Old 02-16-2007, 04:31 PM
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I want to live my life backwards....

This is so funny...its not really a poem, but I thought it might bring some laughs! It made me laugh!

I want to live my next life backwards:

You start out dead and get that out of the way.

Then you wake up in an old age home feeling better every day.

Then you get kicked out for being too healthy.

Enjoy your retirement and collect your pension.

Then when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day.

You work 40 years until you're too young to work.

You get ready for High School: drink alcohol, party, and you're
generally promiscuous.

Then you go to primary school, you become a kid, you play, and you have
no responsibilities.

Then you become a baby, and then...

You spend your last 9 months floating peacefully in luxury, in spa-like
conditions - central heating, room service on tap, and then...

You finish off as an orgasm.

I rest my case.
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