I’ve been mentally blocked for weeks.

The air stagnant above the oven

as I wait for everything

bagels to prove a second time,

keeping hands busy keeps panic busy

creating scenarios of what I will do

when the writing returns.

Maybe I’ll eat with ink-dyed hands

instead of blank pages.

Maybe, by some miracle,

I won’t have any time

to bake at all.

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Who Gets the Miracle?

It’s a miracle they say.

The treatment healed the scans revealed

All traces of cancer are gone.

It’s a miracle they say.

Despite the wreckage they walked away

From the accident without harm.

But what of those I say

Whose disease consumes their bodies

That fade before their loved ones eyes?

What of those I say

Who don’t survive the accident

And leave this world without goodbyes?

Were they unworthy, did they not pray?

Was God fresh out of miracles that day?

If I were in charge of miracles,

I’d hand them out more freely.

So that everyone got their miracle

Of love or life or healing.

Karri Temple Brackett

May 22, 2023

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as I await a miracle

equal to the

burning bush .

not consumed

by the fire

a voice calling out

from within it

I await this same voice

guiding me to

what is next

but still nothing

what can I do?

my choice

to pray

to study

to grow

it is in that growing

I am gaining sight

at not only

the suffering within me

from too much trauma

but more importantly

the suffering around me

seeing the trauma

and pain

the things that cause us

to look away

I now see

I can truly be

a theologian and scholar

a pastor and priest

a poet and prophet

which are meaningless

unless I am also

the miracle

that sees

those unseen by society

that gives voice

to the voiceless

that empowers

the powerless

that gives dignity

to the outcast

that loves

the "unlovable"

I am to be the miracle

in small ways

every chance I get.

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How many people stand by

waiting for miracles

instead of being

the miracle?


I have heard

that Jesus

built from scratch

healed the sick

fed the hungry

restored life

changed the world -



the hands and feet of Jesus

were never idle

or complacent

or complicit


our very existence

our every moment

is a miracle

and we already

have the power

to build

to heal

to feed

to restore

to create change.


I'm not sure I believe in God

but I believe in us.

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May 22·edited May 22

A staff meeting eavesdrop:


Matt? John? Tom? Judas?

That's the hook I need?"

"Yeah, boss,

Water to wine,

Heal some sick, raise some dead folks.

Cast some demons into pigs.

That'll pack 'em in.

Then you teach.

It'll be great."

"OK. let's roll with that.

Good meeting, guys"

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The beauty of living

is that there are miracles everywhere


In the birdsong I hear

every morning

Bees getting drunk on

various sweet nectars

Bursting deep purples

from the irises in the garden

Trees swaying along with the breeze

inviting me to dance along

Miracles also come in unexpected


In the resilience

I learn with every challenge

The growing capacity to

feel all my feelings without judgment

The willingness to be vulnerable

when I am trying something new

To not hide away under the bedsheets

when I am called to simply love

Then, when I can’t do any of the above

to know that with every tumble there is a rise

Life, creativity, love, breathing…

You and me, this planet…

Numinous miraculous expressions

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Hafiz saved my life

with a poem

no word of a lie it was

miraculous intervention

from 600 years past in a

language beyond comprehension

translated with a

nudge and a wink

waiting in a book on

a coffee table in

my sister's house


picking up "The Gift"

and opening to a

random page 'God's Bucket'

poured out and

doused this utterly

bereft grieving father with

graced hope beyond measure

I caught a glimpse of a

different story than I was

trapped in a world of possibility

when all I saw before me

was impending and expedient



I am here to tell

you this because Hafiz

wrote a poem and

poems create worlds

and I needed a new place

to call home

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Miracles! So many other poems came to me today, but this one kept coming back as we walked along the James River while we visit friends in Richmond, Virginia. Watching my mom watch Oral Roberts on tiny black and white TV in the early sixties, waiting for her miracle but always knowing it would not come through this brand of self-serving spiritual delusion. This is for you, Mom, Mary Carol Fitzsimmons Wood, (1921-1994).


We live in age of miracles,

I have heard it said.

Perhaps it is time to redefine what a miracle is and means.

My mother in the sixties watching smooth tongued slick eyed charlatan preacher,

touch someone on the forehead and have them jump out of their wheel chair,

throw down their crutches, dance a jig for Jesus.

Send money and you too can have this miracle.

I watched my mother look on and wonder “what about me?”

body beaten and battered and crippled by car accident at 16,

pain every day inside and out, waiting for a miracle.

That miracle never arrived, just like God turning away

from the prosperity prophets and artificial healers,

caught in a selfish cycle of me and me,

only able to see the world with “I” at the center.

Our miracles came in waves and wisdom,

The song of the bluebird after my brother died,

A flower blooming in toxic, poisoning soil,

Adversaries laying down weapons saying, “no more.”

I’ve stopped looking for miracles,

and they seem easier to find.

These words on fire lighting up the page,

new friends sharing the center of their hearts,

wisdom poets creating lines of love in every stroke.

What a miracle.

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Our neighbors, the weeds

keep me company as I walk

round and round

the field below our house.

The weeds teach me so much.

Despite attempts at

eradication and


their resilience keeps

them standing.

These wild things

will be walked on,



and ignored;



and even bulldozed over,

but they will come back

when it’s time.

These determined beauties

push their way up

even through cracked walks

and paved paths

and rugged rocks

and hardened soil

and still are able to

hold their heads up high

as if to say,

“We’ll go

and we’ll grow

even where it seems


They’ll turn their faces

to the sun

and do their thing

according to the season.

And whether anyone

truly values what

they have to give,

they’ll keep on giving anyway.

I think the weeds

are the true miracles.

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I could say I have never seen a real miracle -

Water into wine

Calming the storm

Raising from the dead

But I have lost count of the

myriad of minor miracles

of moments of joy

of surprising solutions

of answers to desperate prayers

which for me are the very fabric

of the miracle of life itself

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It’s not miracle,

But miracles

The fact that we can expect them

That we can expect them often

The fact that it’s more than just a phenomenon


But a way of living

The fact that miracles live among us

Doting, waiting, anticipating

The fact that if they come again and again,

They must be alive

Roaming the world far and wide

With minds and ideas of their own

The fact that their abundance makes them a population -

There are dogs, cats, fish, and sheep

And miracles

And maybe,

If they’re alive,

If they have minds of their own

If they are a distinct species,

We can befriend them,

Seriously, attentively, wholeheartedly.

If we can know not to hold anything back,

Maybe they would call us

Miracle whisperers.

It’s not just miracle,

But miracles,

Because you believe,

Because you see the morning dew on little flowers,

Because you see soft noses twitch in slumber,

Because you see round pegs fit into square holes and build castles,

Because you taste fruit so sweet it makes you cry

And you hear music so soulful your own heart bursts to join it.

Because you see how much we love each other.

Because we found each other in the first place.

Because you can be still

And listen.


Even now, perhaps you can hear

The subtle winging of our miracles

As they fly gaily through the air.

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My cat peed inside the litterbox,

My niece rode her bike 3 miles.

I sat in the recliner with a cat,,

And allowed myself a Sabbath rest.

All are miracles.

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I was thinking of this word when reflecting on the word yesterday, Magic, and when I awoke this morning. I like your raising of the everyday miracles that are often sustaning for my total being.

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“The growing capacity to feel all my feelings without judgment “ This is the one . Thank you for adding the “growing capacity “ part.

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Miracles free us

beyond comprehension to

expand in mystery

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Oh Kaitlin, this poem is also incredibly stunning. No words, just thank you, so much <3

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