by Prasanta | Jul 30, 2014 | Laundry, Poetry
(1) Laundered Spin away stains Wash away witnesses Mud and spilled coffee– Leftovers from heavy duty, Normal, or delicate days. Forget what you saw, What I tried to hide. Toss into heated tempest. Fold. Prepare to get dirty again. Repeat the cycle. Repeat. A...
by Prasanta | Jul 24, 2014 | God's love, Home Education, Work
I sat beside him with a ruler and showed him how small a millimeter is, and how many of them it takes to make a centimeter. I thought about what it means for me, and for him, to know this, and why? I called out spelling words for a test, reviewed vocabulary...
by Prasanta | Jul 22, 2014 | God's love, Jesus, Learning, Love
“God’s love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic, His purpose titanic, his verdicts oceanic. Yet in his largeness nothing gets lost; Not a man, not a mouse, slips through the cracks. How exquisite your love, O God! How eager we are to run under your wings, To eat...
by Prasanta | Jul 16, 2014 | Five Minute Friday, Holy Spirit, peace, Prayer, Rest, Stillness
Sometimes a person just needs to be bathed in it… drenched and soaked. I close my eyes and hear it all around me… the incessant murmur of the sounds that make up my days. And while those can get truly get loud, it’s the ones in my head that are truly...
by Prasanta | Jul 11, 2014 | Bear One Another's Burdens, devotional, Friend, Friendship, Jesus, Unconditional Love
They are the ones. You know them. The ones who stand by you, stand with you. They tell you when not to give up, and when it’s time give it all up. They are the ones who love you, no matter what, and through all kinds of matters. Their gift is that unconditional...
by Prasanta | Jul 11, 2014 | Poetry, social media
Internet Tea I can’t tweet on the phone anymore, I’ve got a date with my mouse; must let my fingers do the typing (not walking, that was the Middle Ages), while I sip tea and eat blackberry and apple pie I can’t face this book, I’ve got to digg in deep, since...
by Prasanta | Jul 6, 2014 | Poetry
Red Barnhouse Worn, weathered, smothered, soft As if hands had been smoothing Down its surface for ages We ran our fingers on the planks No splinters, no splinters The porch invited us to sit And live and rock a while We obliged the empty chairs You and me, we...
by Prasanta | Jul 3, 2014 | Poetry
Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889 *** Streams of Amber When love’s fingertips brush against straw streams of purple, amber and golden tears flow trickling down to hungry souls and dripping into an earth permeable to tears of human feet and...
