775 // agent of grace // #poemoftheday

if you would be
an agent of grace,

you must first receive
what you would seek to give;

so bend the knee,
humble stiff-necked pride –

let Love fill you,
and from the overflow

serve the world.

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774 // dear heart (do not wait) // #poemoftheday

dear heart,
do not wait to create
a beautiful life.

how many waited too long
and found themselves
approaching the end
hobbled by regret,
with hands full of
what-should-have-beens?

begin again in this moment –
where you are right now –
and pay careful attention:

hunt for beauty among the ashes,
uncover the extraordinary
pulsing beneath the wearisome repetition
of your days,
plant hope and joy and curiosity
in the dustbowl of your dreams,
and tend them until they bloom
and your desert becomes a garden.

devote yourself to the
pursuit of wonder,
and let the end find you

fully alive

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773 // depths // #poemoftheday

all you see are waves,
crest and curve
all surface and reaction.

but we are all deep waters,
uncharted terrain
that shifts and changes,
and will remain (for the most part)
unfathomable.

may we have the courage
to explore beyond the surge and swell,
and become acquainted
with the mysterious depths
where true love lies.

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772 // unsurprised // #poemoftheday #christchurchmassacre

when I saw the headline
“49 killed in terror attacks”
it did not surprise me
that a white guy with a gun was responsible.
it’s always a white guy with a gun.

it didn’t surprise me
when the paper’s “exposé” on the killer
used words like “diligent” and “hard working”
like it was some goddamn character reference.
how about we say the truth?
he was a white guy with a gun,
and a toxic sense of entitlement.

it didn’t surprise me
when the privileged politicians
blamed the brown bodies for the violence
inflicted against them.
because the true cause can’t have been
the white guy with a gun who thought
their lives were his to take.

I am tired of being
unsurprised.
tell me, when will it end?

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770 // white girl move over // #poemoftheday

step out of the centre
and let other voices rise unhindered
by your “should’s” and “but’s”

hush yourself and listen
to their freedom song, as they echo
the wisdom of their ancestors,

the wisdom of lives surviving every day
on the frontline of a battle
your skin protects you from

step aside, how can they rise
while you hoard the sun?
make space. make space then listen.

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767 // grace in yellow // #poemoftheday

I run my finger down the row,
seven yellow pills
nestled in individual cocoons;
here is grace in measured dose,
seeds of peace that flower by
hard work and patient faithfulness.

I run my finger down the row,
the tail end of a slow breakup,
as I relinquish the daily communion
that returned me to myself
in a way I never knew
could be possible, until

I was able to breathe again,
even with the world camping on my chest,
and could think in straight lines
instead of the endless loop of catastrophe
that wound me ever tighter.

seven yellow pills,
the remanents of this season’s grace
to bless me, as I walk on

to something
new

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