The Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form with a syllabic meter of 3/5/3/3/7/5
Thy Peace on Christmas Day
finds me seeking peace
in Your love
surrounding me as refuge
from what is not You
For Cee's FOTD (flower of the day): December 25, 2021
Check out her beautiful Peruvian Lily
Cee says: "Don’t forget that my FOTD challenge accepts gardens, leaves and berries as well as flowers."
Merry Christmas everyone!
Everyone had left for home. Vikram remained standing by the freshly turned earth until high above the stars lit one by one.
He could no more make his legs stir than make the stars fall with his tears.
“A wedding for a first miracle. Ever wonder why?”
Aanya’s voice. Vikram closed his eyes. “No.”
“That day! That wine! Imagine! Rich, savory, fiery with a love stronger than death. You believe that?”
“I do.” His voice shook. “But ….”
“I’m not where you’re standing. The God that turns water into wine, turns mourning into dancing. Vikram, our dance has barely begun.”
Psalm 30: 11-12 You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!
Song of Songs 8:6 Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the LORD.
John 2:1-11 On the third day there was a wedding at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus also was invited to the wedding with his disciples. When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what does this have to do with me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now there were six stone water jars there for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. And he said to them, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.” So they took it. When the master of the feast tasted the water now become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the master of the feast called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and when people have drunk freely, then the poor wine. But you have kept the good wine until now.” This, the first of his signs, Jesus did at Cana in Galilee, and manifested his glory. And his disciples believed in him.
I had never heard this 18th-century Christmas carol until very recently but it has since been playing in my mind, at once familiar & fresh. Penned by Richard Hutchins in 1761, it has inspired music by, among many others, Elizabeth Poston in the last century and another performed by Lee Nelson & the Wartburg Choir in 2013. (I’ve posted both versions below.
The metaphor of the apple tree appears in the Song of Songs, when the bride says of her Beloved: “As an apple tree among the trees of the forest,/so is my beloved among the young men./With great delight I sat in his shadow, and his fruit was sweet to my taste” (Song 2:3).
“It’s just a tire shop, Dad! This can’t be where we’re meeting the rainbow-smuggler!” Inside, a cheerful woman in a colorful sari stood out of the rain, waiting. “I’d like a rainbow,” Retnam said from her wheelchair. “Where are they?” “They’re hiding in plain sight, my dear!” the rainbow-smuggler said, shrugging. “Just reach into a tire.” Retnam did, pulling out a huge rainbow-colored taffy. She laughed, then frowned. “But it’s not REAL!” she cried. “Look up, Retnam!” the woman said, pointing to the rain-cleared sky. “There will always be a rainbow over your head, even when you can’t see it.”
Lisa is today’s host at dVerse’s Prosery, and says: "Your challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to incorporate the quote ["I dress in their stories patterned and purple as nigh" –from “When We Sing of Might,” by Kimberly Blaeser] into a piece of prose. This can be either flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose! Not prose poetry, and not a poem. And it must be no longer than 144 words, not including the title. (It does not have to be exactly 144 words, but it can’t exceed 144 words.)
Their graves are trash bins, medical refuse after each organ is harvested, the doctor careful to preserve the parts but not the whole. There is money to be had. She knew all this. She had worked as one. But the children she had aborted were not real to her.
Until the day she lay dying.
Suddenly they appeared before her eyes, smiling their forgiveness, and she relaxed. They understood! There was a God in heaven after all. Why, she didn’t even have to forgive herself!
She stretched out her hands to them but they stood out of reach midst the children she herself had decided to keep.
Her children saw her eyes widen.
“I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night,” she whispered.
What stories, Mom?
“The ones I took from them. The ones I robbed them of. Oh God! They burn!”
Update: So far this year almost 40 million children have been killed by choice. The leading cause of death is by abortion, far surpassing all other causes. According to data compiled by the Worldometer, a reference website that monitors statistics on health, the global population, the use of resources and deaths in real-time, over 40 million abortions are performed worldwide annually.