Considering my friends, met on this walk.
Some keep in touch, & some hardly reply.
A bit like me, at different times I baulk,
at how to word things, when I'm low, or high.
The thing about a poem (or a prair*),
is somehow wings gain access to this world
of words and mechanisms, 'coz time shared
with the creative love can make folk bold.
And so, not being in control at all,
deploying conduits of creative love,
we function as an umbilical cord
within this womb-world strengthened from above,
or else beyond, somehow we're sheltered, fed;
we didn't delve designs or make the plans,
but simply benefitting, we're not dead,
unless we do decide to join the dance,
and help some others, as we have been helped
ourselves, along the way, as things work out
according to creative love's own shelt-
er and provision, which we will not doubt
but just decide, assume, or more, "entrust"
ourselves to who is bigger, more robust,
and has authority to judge with just-
ice, since he's motivated not by lust,
but by creative love, a higher call,
which can not be appreciated if
to join in we use some, but not our all.
Unless a God would teach me, I'm just miffed!
* prair: just spelled this way to help the reader to pronounce it that way, instead of the occasional variant pray-er.
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