Remembering the instances that my prayers were answered, most frequently they were prayers answered because of my participation.
When I prayed; Dear God, help me to do some difficult deed or overcome some impossibility, my prayer was sometimes answered, and I reveled in the unique power of the proven God.
Of all the exalted deeds or acts of kindness credited to God, one must recognize that the doer is actually man. Charity, forgiveness,care giving and even love are humane acts, not deed of an omnipotent God. That is not to say that a God quality does not exist, inspiring and even instigating those acts.  My easiest conclusion is the God I worship and pray to exists within me.

King Herod's land was richly blessed,
    yet none would see their favors shared.
Help for the sick and poor, unstressed,
    since the Jewish people seldom cared.

The rich more mean and heartless grew,
    captured by their selfish greed
All charity was shed from view,
    ignored to satisfy their need.

When greed ruled all their conscious thought
    concern for neighbors had to die.
From reigning priests, full pardon sought
    with forgiveness, they had to buy.

When Jesus came, one truth he preached,
    through faith, all sins are wiped away.
So few it was, his lessons reached,
    yet his promise applies today.

My life is but a borrowed gift
I must return one day.
With interest harsh, assay my thrift,
do I that debt repay?

I live, I die, it matters not
to those who claim my space.
Returned to earth, my flesh will rot,
while I, due judgement face!

But if some trace I'd leave behind
I'd want well chosen word.
Not marked by stone so few will find
but only words both read and heard.

When blackness of departing night
turned golden with the fresh new dawn,
I watched a single robin light
softly on my dew soaked lawn.

His voice trilled out across the way,
sweet music to my listening ear.
Bright promise of a perfect day
resounding in his song of cheer.

I feared this day when I arose,
surrender loomed as my intent.
Because of prayer to end my woes,
I thought that robin, Heaven sent?

Did my God send that bird to bring
his comfort with transcendent word?
When that Robin dropped there to sing
was it God' s answer that I heard?

There's great soundness in God's design,
    yet I question the porcupine.
Fierce mosquitoes we sure don't need,
    and hungry fleas are tough to feed.
I don't expect he'd plan for junk,
    but then I wonder why the skunk.
Maybe our God makes booboos too,
    so he's patient with me and you.


I thank my God when I arise,
for one more day.

This sweet surprise,
is more than I deserve.

That gift,
I praise most eloquent on sunny days,
but often when the sun is veiled
by clouds of dismal gray,
I've failed to show my thanks,
ungrateful for the lesser day.

My spirits soar
when perfect day replaces night,
but why do I need a day so bright
to know that I've been blessed?

The gloomy day,
presents to me a crucible,
where I can repay creation tax
for one more day.

"Can't I be your little brother Lord, instead of just your son?
We still could build your church, and the world would follow me.
How will mankind look on what these roman troops have done,
if they can brutalize your prince upon a man made tree?
When Judas brings the Legion, and my disciples decide to run,
what yield to us if I'm defamed and hung to die in humility?
If I could be an earthly king because I am your brother,
then all the world's people would elect to be Jews as well.
I think it wrong to come to earth inside a mortal mother
which trivialized me and made your salvation hard to sell.
I'm truly not afraid to die but who is taught to love each other,
If I am disgraced, between two thugs doomed to Roman Hell?

from slatted stoops and hidden crevices
where bleeding saffron stars shed seed
to grow sure proof of sin.

Bright yellow tufts spring forth,
persisting in their proof of shame
while penitent Aryan grounds-keepers
daily sweep away the past.

No detritus
of the subjugated horde remains,
and wasted cigarette butts and gum wrappers
are routinely sent to
politically correct incinerators
to waft a tame trace of penitent visitors.

yellow bloomed weeds
wrap their golden blooms in buds,
shrinking away from the grandchildren
of the first garbage burners,
to escape a little longer and defiantly bloom
as tributes to the fallen and trampled flowers
that came before.