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updated 27-3-24
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"Friendship is the only cement that will ever hold the world together..."
(Woodrow Wilson was both a United States President and a world leader)
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Interesting Christian Alinements and Beacons
Jesus before the Council. When day came, the assembly of the elders of the people gathered together, both chief priests and scribes. And they led him away to their council, and they said, “If you are the Christ, tell us.” But he said to them, “If I tell you, you will not believe, and if I ask you, you will not answer. But from now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.” So they all said, “Are you the Son of God, then?” And he said to them, “You say that I am.” Then they said, “What further testimony do we need? We have heard it ourselves from his own lips.” (Luke 22:66-71)
Unlike any other human, Jesus lived in Heaven as a spirit person before he was born on Earth... (John 8.23)
'Only-begotten' Son... (John 1.14)
Soon all human government will end and only those who choose to be ruled by God will inhabit the Earth... (Isaiah 11.9 and Daniel 2.44)
We can reject evil by keeping out of politics and wars... (Job 1.8-12 and Proverbs 27.11)
True followers of God honour his name Yahweh, it will be sanctified or the stamp of approval... (Mathew 6.9) The Jews maybe made an error by changing it to God or Lord and thinking it too holy to utter by 3 A.D.
Pray from the heart to the Heavenly Father, instead of repeating written verses or memorizing... (Mathew 6.7)
Getting close to God is uneasy on Earth as others lack faith and ridicule us, thereby lowering the vibe or positivity... (Timothy 3.1-4 and 2 Peter 3.3-13)
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HYBRID POEMS by me and AI
WINDOW INTO THE BEYOND
Twice, I stumbled upon a window in chamber 216. Its glass was worn, etched with time’s secrets. Through it, a world unfolded—a tapestry of celestial wonders and earthly remnants.
A crescent moon hung delicately, framed by the distant silhouette of Jupiter. Were they conspirators in some cosmic dance? I wondered.
In front of me, crows and gulls perched on the ledge. Messengers, perhaps. They pecked at the glass, seeking entry. Did they carry news from realms beyond, or were they merely scavengers of forgotten dreams?
And there, amidst the debris, rubbish whispered its stories. It bore the same pong as wrongs—the residue of choices made and unmade. Out-of-the-box thinking, perhaps, trapped in purgatory.
Then, unexpectedly, my father appeared. Long passed, yet parked outside my old flat last winter. He looked 28, his face etched with memories. But the engraved stone at his feet declared him 78. Surprise gateways revealed he was now martyr-free, unburdened by earthly woes.
He didn’t recognize me. Perhaps that was for the best. A Kabbalah town mindset—lucky slips within time and space. A second chance for renewal, for grace.
And so, I stood before the window, torn between worlds. The glass cracked, revealing glimpses of eternity. In that moment, I understood: some mysteries are better left unsolved.
STARDUST MUSINGS
In the realm of ink and stardust, where poets tread, Dylan Thomas emerges—a paradox, a blend. Half Christian, half Pagan, his spirit straddles realms, dual like God, perhaps, with cosmic dreams at the helm.
Nineteen lines, a mystical equation—his poem unfurls: “Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.” Here, he clenches his fist, defiant, against celestial might, raging, raging—against the system’s cold, unyielding flight.
Cash eludes him, yet his breath spills generosity, a nomad of verses, wandering free, unchained, an associate of freedom, ink-stained and uncontained, today’s poet, echoing across social media’s vast sea.
Bob Dylan and the Beatles, touched by his cosmic fire, their melodies interwoven with his celestial lyre, yet beyond fame’s glare, appealing to Orion Belt dudes, where a few Dylan and I… hold childhood’s sky in our hands.
Chords resonate, a cupful of stardust and wonder, cheery kids and souls, spinning in circles of light, seeking sense amidst the nonsense, day and night, for in their shared orbits, they find Earth’s true thunder.
And perhaps, just perhaps, a future poetic King, in Godly Eden’s embrace, will weave perfect sense, hence, hence, hence—our celestial sentence, written across constellations, where dreams take wing…