Repent therefore and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out,
so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord,
and that He may send Jesus Christ, who was preached to you before,
whom heaven must receive until the times of restoration of all things,
which God has spoken by the mouth of all His holy prophets
since the world began.                            Acts 3:19,20,21

That one thing we deserve, I dare to name:
Death, and then deathless torment in the flame.

But first, let go of bad theology
(all well-meaning misanthropology)

then send yourself a gentle gift, like this:
click: narcissistic selfie mirror-kiss.

The brightest song a body’s ever held?
The one that that broke your waters where they swelled.

You summon joy; that bitch stayed out too long.
Ashamed, she hastens, staggering along . . .

I’d be content to have (besides some wings),
just this: the Restoration of All Things

And then to you, if it were mine to give,
I’d give forgiveness. Seek the Lord—and live.

What do you deserve? Name it. All of it.
What are you ready to let go of? Name that too.
Then name the most gentle gift for yourself.
Name the brightest song your body’s ever held.
Summon joy like you would a child; call it home. It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.
What would you give yourself, if you could have anything?
What would you give someone else?

PROMPT # 7

If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.

Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.

Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.

If you could let your hatred drop
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .

But you are busy perfecting strife,
Screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.

If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.

Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.

PROMPT #6: write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,”
of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.