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"apostles" poems
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem and he called it "chops" because that was the name of his dog and thats what it was all about his teacher gave him an A and a gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts. that was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo and he let them sing on the bus and his little sister was born with tiny nails and no hair and his mother and father kissed a lot and the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant and his father always tucked him in bed at night and was always there to do it once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of the new paint and the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars and left butts on the pews and sometime they would burn holes that was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames and the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see santaclaus and the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot and his father never tucked him in bed at night and his father got mad when he cried for him to do it once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem and he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl and thats what it was all about and his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her that was the year Father Tracy died and he forgot how the end of the Apostles's Creed went and he caught his sister making out on the back porch and his mother and father never kissed or even talked and the girl around the corner wore too much make up that made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because it was the thing to do and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly that's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem and he called it "Absolutely Nothing" because that's what it was really all about and he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist and he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen----
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Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
The Poem (The Perks of Being a Wallflower)
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem and he called it "chops" because that was the name of his dog and thats what it was all about his teacher gave him an A and a gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts. that was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo and he let them sing on the bus and his little sister was born with tiny nails and no hair and his mother and father kissed a lot and the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant and his father always tucked him in bed at night and was always there to do it once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of the new paint and the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars and left butts on the pews and sometime they would burn holes that was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames and the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see santaclaus and the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot and his father never tucked him in bed at night and his father got mad when he cried for him to do it once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem and he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl and thats what it was all about and his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her that was the year Father Tracy died and he forgot how the end of the Apostles's Creed went and he caught his sister making out on the back porch and his mother and father never kissed or even talked and the girl around the corner wore too much make up that made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because it was the thing to do and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly that's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem and he called it "Absolutely Nothing" because that's what it was really all about and he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist and he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen----
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74
Prayer For Called and Gifted Jesus you are the savior of the world author of salvation and creator of the universe and all good things. We are so small and frail and yet in your goodness you saw it fit to give us so much and to raise us up to more than we can be. You bestowed on your people different, beautiful gifts and call us to use them for others and for you. You have called us each by name and given us unique gifts, each with an integral part to play. You have given us a purpose and a reason. You have given us a passion for life. We are called to be beacons of hope, bearers of light. As wheat only produces fruit once it dies, may we also die to the things that hold us back from experiencing the fullness of your love for us. Help us Lord to be good stewards of the gifts you give so abundantly and so freely that we would be diligent, responsible, and humble as we try to live your love out in the world. You said to your apostles: "Go forth and make disciples of all nations; proclaiming the gospel by your lives and baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit". Lord, bless the people in this room; send your Holy Spirit and let it come to rest in our souls. Guide and lead and teach us along the journey of life to use our gifts that you gave us "for the greater glory of God". Just as we pray for ourselves Lord, we also pray for all those in the church and throughout the world that you would help them realize and utilize what they have been given to make this world a little better and to further your kingdom right here and now. May we all be a "blessing for life and a blessing for Christ"! We ask this and all things in your most beautiful and precious name. AMEN.
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Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
Prayer for Called and Gifted
Prayer For Called and Gifted Jesus you are the savior of the world author of salvation and creator of the universe and all good things. We are so small and frail and yet in your goodness you saw it fit to give us so much and to raise us up to more than we can be. You bestowed on your people different, beautiful gifts and call us to use them for others and for you. You have called us each by name and given us unique gifts, each with an integral part to play. You have given us a purpose and a reason. You have given us a passion for life. We are called to be beacons of hope, bearers of light. As wheat only produces fruit once it dies, may we also die to the things that hold us back from experiencing the fullness of your love for us. Help us Lord to be good stewards of the gifts you give so abundantly and so freely that we would be diligent, responsible, and humble as we try to live your love out in the world. You said to your apostles: "Go forth and make disciples of all nations; proclaiming the gospel by your lives and baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit". Lord, bless the people in this room; send your Holy Spirit and let it come to rest in our souls. Guide and lead and teach us along the journey of life to use our gifts that you gave us "for the greater glory of God". Just as we pray for ourselves Lord, we also pray for all those in the church and throughout the world that you would help them realize and utilize what they have been given to make this world a little better and to further your kingdom right here and now. May we all be a "blessing for life and a blessing for Christ"! We ask this and all things in your most beautiful and precious name. AMEN.
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2
Did we then sit beside Zeus and talk of men was Hera there,when we talked of the ****** Artemis,who with a kiss to thrill, for a kiss to kill,for a fire that Hestia lit upon the mountain top. While Iris painted colours on the rainbow bright,Persephone and Hades lived a permanent night in their underworld,where all mankind would fear to go, and Aphrodite trod lightly among the strewn flowers of love, with beauty and the wisdom of Athena I wish I'd seen her face. Apollo painted her **** on the bed and Ares went to war with that picture in his head and all the Gods said, 'what is but a wonderful sight,that we see our good people being slain in the night',for the old Gods were callous and jealous to a fault,thinking nothing of sending a lightning bolt to destroy what man made. Neptune and Poseidon had tried to be nice but with water in their veins that ran cold as ice,they gave up and went home to the sea,saying, 'the mountain is no place to be for us seafaring deity,and with duty being done at the set of the sun and when the moon crooned slowly against the still of the sky, the Gods slept.
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Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
Apostles
(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)
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Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Poets (A Hate Song)
(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)
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65
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake to take her language for another world visions died with imminence and grandiosity a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins glossy water robs apostles of oxygen filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry & now the god’s live in ignorance and misery crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood confused prisoners gifted with the write to think proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions matter undermined the undefined enlightenment spirals in the light comprise a present tense evanescent destination sensei keep I humble so many stripes up in my wavelengths widowed endorphins scrape the pain away balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
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Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
white skies
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake to take her language for another world visions died with imminence and grandiosity a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins glossy water robs apostles of oxygen filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry & now the god’s live in ignorance and misery crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood confused prisoners gifted with the write to think proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions matter undermined the undefined enlightenment spirals in the light comprise a present tense evanescent destination sensei keep I humble so many stripes up in my wavelengths widowed endorphins scrape the pain away balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
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31
The one created for sabotage Adored by few Abhorred by numerous numbers He treads an eternal sorrow Which tortures his blighted soul Scheming against ingenious blueprints His destiny's been read By gypsy cherubs He's learned the path Trodden by none His predestination Answering to this heavy burden His Father has brought a rebellious notion No other celestial entity has knowledge Except for him and his apostles Agreeing to God's earthly will To be forever cast into a shadow Agreeing through pure love For his Father And sent to tortuous furnace Unbeknowst to mortals of seraphic Lucifer's startling sacrifice God's grievous banishment of his son For he only aspired To become like his Father
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Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
seraphic lucifer
I build my new life over graveyards swollen, each journey stolen on paths walked before; the oak church door, the adolescent postures, first breath of **** first taste of flight amongst grounded freedom, amongst polluted nights. I trade eyes with women over numbered tables, contriving fables from coffee cups, loose-tongued gospels for manufactured apostles, remnants of mistreated advice; last pocket of **** last drink of the night, I have learned when to swallow, I have learned when to fight. I found myself in the ground-zero wreckage, last vestige of meaning and useful obsession, those drunk-dial confessions, aftermath of silence; first smoke of the day, last image of starlight, I have forgiven my failings, I have kept them in sight.
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Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Rugby #1
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye. The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work. Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists. Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
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Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Heavy Petting
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye. The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work. Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists. Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
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4
words at most are sign posts never touching what's real minds watching yearning to feel and at least the beasts of burden I'm sorry i beg your pardon i didn't mean those words that cut to the bone the words said in anguish the words that you moan love has its own language that communicates by touch you speak to me you tell me so much the words I weave are a cry for help please don't leave this is what I felt fault lines through and through cracks in my sentences words no longer the glue the endless relentlessness of thoughts circling like sharks they haunt my deepest parts the weakest heart pumping out words of dread this is what I said you said the words that line our bed sleeping on novels we are apostles of language tell me how you manage all your words how do you discard them with such ease no gratitude no need your smile sells more empty words than I could ever write I'm never right how could I be when words are all I see so please use your lips to silence my sentences wrap your tongue around my words i promise you some you've never heard.
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Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 7:38 PM UTC
words words words
~ Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers His tongue dipped in languages He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life As he folded himself in Egyptian ink He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas He brushed his ivory creme feathers in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern "Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery" Ivory-teal twittered to himself Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body he disappeared into the stars The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing He took the lantern in his gold beak fluttering away into spirals of smoke Toward Mythology mountain Where a storm of butterflies were winging their seasonal weather Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame Flickering in the darkest of moments Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin But his destiny was a bit different He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and sewed neatly in parabolic traditions Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams In a temple of mythical patterns Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales Where he became a bilingual silhouette He was birthed right here on this mountain As he balanced himself on thoughts He had learned to love himself to this point of his life He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world He gently lifted the little lantern It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks The contexts that were inside split sideways Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal As he laughed quietly "Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life" He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern "If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings" But shouldn't he know that language already For it is the language of freedom Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents Of that beautiful language ~
0
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Spirals of Accents
~ Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers His tongue dipped in languages He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life As he folded himself in Egyptian ink He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas He brushed his ivory creme feathers in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern "Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery" Ivory-teal twittered to himself Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body he disappeared into the stars The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing He took the lantern in his gold beak fluttering away into spirals of smoke Toward Mythology mountain Where a storm of butterflies were winging their seasonal weather Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame Flickering in the darkest of moments Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin But his destiny was a bit different He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and sewed neatly in parabolic traditions Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams In a temple of mythical patterns Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales Where he became a bilingual silhouette He was birthed right here on this mountain As he balanced himself on thoughts He had learned to love himself to this point of his life He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world He gently lifted the little lantern It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks The contexts that were inside split sideways Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal As he laughed quietly "Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life" He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern "If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings" But shouldn't he know that language already For it is the language of freedom Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents Of that beautiful language ~
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55
I met an artist yesterday, sat in solitary silence, In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar. And cloaked he was, by babble of students, Boasting of wealth and test results. molested In the attire of a catholic school, His cigarettes born from bible pages; and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ -- surrounded by empty glass apostles, He paints the papers, In a masterful stroke -- Of pointilistic precision -- In a viscous hash oil That he had melted on a crucifix. The artist drunk, and drunk He drowned himself, Deafened by his liver Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey -- It was a miracle that he could walk on it. And began to rack the coke he'd wrapped in a losing lottery ticket -- In plain sight of those 'sophisticated' enough To use a bathroom cubicle. And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril, Through a rolled up scrap of paper -- A letter for an Oxford Interview he could not afford to get to.
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May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
The Artist
The habits of the righteous servant reflect a certain posture of pleasing The Master. Walking in Love is evident, when we recognize what the heart of Christ is truly after. Bearing fruit, living lives in desperate times, becomes much easier when we share our burdens. Let’s practice living harmoniously each day, before joining together in Heaven’s garden. Real Love, always requires acts of action; Even Christ washed the feet of the Apostles to demonstrate that all forms of compassion can vary from the smallest act to miracles. Societal importance is an artificial construct, that demonstrates a poor example of attitude. Christ’s example has been set eternally before us, shining before Man with the mindset of servitude. Author Notes: Loosely based on: Matt 20:25-26; Acts 10:38 Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
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Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Poem: The Ideal Servant
Jesus was looking impatient It was already quarter past nine He was sure he'd sent out invitations And he'd turned all the water to wine He'd promised a memorable banquet As tomorrow he'd surely be dead But the shops had been short of a few things So he'd just had to settle for bread When a knock at the door made him flutter He adjusted his dress and his hair He opened and bid all assembled "Wipe your feet and then sit over there" They shuffled and took to their places But they looked slightly I'll at their ease They could see all the wine and the bread rolls But what of the ham and the cheese? Jesus said grace in his fashion "Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high "But be careful, this bread is my body" "Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?" They tucked in with nervous expressions He'd been guzzling since they had arrived He explained "It's my blood in these bottles" "And without it I'd not have survived" The apostles were forming conclusions Their boss had been ****** all these years But the wine washed away their objections And the music drowned out all their fears So they partied and danced on the table They played twister and tidily-winks Then stumbled off out to a nightclub Because Judas was buying the drinks They caroused and they conga'd till morning Till their stomachs and bladders had failed And that's how young Jesus got hammered And the very next day he got nailed
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Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
The Last Supper (The Directors Cut)
At the end of the road to Damascus There paved a street called Straight Where lay the home of Judas A blinded Pharisee did await For hands layed on by Aranias Saul now Paul the converted Pharisee Again could walk the street of Straight No longer blinded he now could see Returning back to Jerusalem Persecuted by King Agrippa And perform the acts of apostles I still seek to take my first step On my own road to Damascus To walk the street called Straight Find my way out of this blackness r  7Oct2013
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Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
The Road to Damascus
irksome thoughts spin round the moment and they flee to where iv fled to and they tap out strange messages on my head and they gather dust into piles and the piles grow to hills with the passing hours and changing landscapes of the heartstring strings are for kittens to play with chase round and round she lay in the shade of an oak tree by the roadside in the dust hills sipping her long island and watching the road with languid eyes leaf floats down and unattached from the dream she wanders the dust hills wailing for lost loves not her own and berating thouse resposible for every slight ever felt headlights bath the dust hills as eighteen wheelers truck the empire of america ever southward into the cheaply painted tropical sun she is bikini clad and is forever clutching an ice cold drink that eternaly leaves a smile on her forever blemish free smile in the ***** dark dust hills i feel so alone here by her side i want to run away and sleep in a feild with the ****** and the drunkard with the apostles of night
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Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
dust hills
We don’t know whether every angel carries out the same tasks, or whether some of them specialize in certain areas. The Bible does speak about classes of angelic beings like cherubim (Ezekiel 1) and seraphim (Isaiah 6). We also know the names of two notable angels: Michael (Daniel 10:13; Jude 9) and Gabriel (Daniel 9:21; Luke 1:19,26). The unnamed angels who appear most often in Scripture carry out a variety of tasks - all designed to serve God…     Worship and praise - This is the main activity portrayed in heaven (Isaiah 6:1-3; Revelation 4-5).     Messengers - They serve as messengers to communicate God’s will to men. They helped reveal the law to Moses (Acts 7:52-53), and served as the carriers of much of the material in Daniel, and Revelation.     Guiding - Angels gave instructions to Joseph about the birth of Jesus (Matthew 1-2), to the women at the tomb, to Philip (Acts 8:26), and to Cornelius (Acts 10:1-8).     Providing - God has used angels to provide physical needs such as food for Hagar (Genesis 21:17-20), Elijah (1 Kings 19:6), and Christ after His temptation (Matthew 4:11).     Protecting - Keeping God’s people out of physical danger, as in the cases of Daniel and the lions, and his three friends in the fiery furnace (Daniel 3 and 6).     Delivering - Getting God’s people out of danger once they’re in it. Angels released the apostles from prison in Acts 5, and repeated the process for Peter in Acts 12.     Strengthening and encouraging - Angels strengthened Jesus after His temptation (Matt 4:11), encouraged the apostles to keep preaching after releasing them from prison (Acts 5:19-20), and told Paul that everyone on his ship would survive the impending shipwreck (Acts 27:23-25).     Answering prayer - God often uses angels as His means of answering the prayers of His people (Daniel 9:20-24; 10:10-12; Acts 12:1-17).     Caring for believers at the moment of death. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man, we read that angels carried the spirit of Lazarus to “Abraham’s ***** when he died (Luke 16:22).     Executioners - Angels are sometimes used by God to punish sin. An angel of the Lord went forth and smote an Assyrian camp (2 Kings 19:20-34) “behold, they were all dead corpses.” The Assyrian army was annihilated. A destroying angel was sent, but later withheld, to punish David for his vanity in taking a census of the great number of his people. At the time of Moses and the Exodus, the Egyptian firstborn where killed by an angel of death.
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May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Dr. John Bechtle - Angels Tasks
We don’t know whether every angel carries out the same tasks, or whether some of them specialize in certain areas. The Bible does speak about classes of angelic beings like cherubim (Ezekiel 1) and seraphim (Isaiah 6). We also know the names of two notable angels: Michael (Daniel 10:13; Jude 9) and Gabriel (Daniel 9:21; Luke 1:19,26). The unnamed angels who appear most often in Scripture carry out a variety of tasks - all designed to serve God…     Worship and praise - This is the main activity portrayed in heaven (Isaiah 6:1-3; Revelation 4-5).     Messengers - They serve as messengers to communicate God’s will to men. They helped reveal the law to Moses (Acts 7:52-53), and served as the carriers of much of the material in Daniel, and Revelation.     Guiding - Angels gave instructions to Joseph about the birth of Jesus (Matthew 1-2), to the women at the tomb, to Philip (Acts 8:26), and to Cornelius (Acts 10:1-8).     Providing - God has used angels to provide physical needs such as food for Hagar (Genesis 21:17-20), Elijah (1 Kings 19:6), and Christ after His temptation (Matthew 4:11).     Protecting - Keeping God’s people out of physical danger, as in the cases of Daniel and the lions, and his three friends in the fiery furnace (Daniel 3 and 6).     Delivering - Getting God’s people out of danger once they’re in it. Angels released the apostles from prison in Acts 5, and repeated the process for Peter in Acts 12.     Strengthening and encouraging - Angels strengthened Jesus after His temptation (Matt 4:11), encouraged the apostles to keep preaching after releasing them from prison (Acts 5:19-20), and told Paul that everyone on his ship would survive the impending shipwreck (Acts 27:23-25).     Answering prayer - God often uses angels as His means of answering the prayers of His people (Daniel 9:20-24; 10:10-12; Acts 12:1-17).     Caring for believers at the moment of death. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man, we read that angels carried the spirit of Lazarus to “Abraham’s ***** when he died (Luke 16:22).     Executioners - Angels are sometimes used by God to punish sin. An angel of the Lord went forth and smote an Assyrian camp (2 Kings 19:20-34) “behold, they were all dead corpses.” The Assyrian army was annihilated. A destroying angel was sent, but later withheld, to punish David for his vanity in taking a census of the great number of his people. At the time of Moses and the Exodus, the Egyptian firstborn where killed by an angel of death.
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12
O! How the winds cry! O! How the earth weeps! O! How the heavens pour forth their tears! Thy face knows no blemish! Thine eyes rich as diamonds Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne! O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do! No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden. The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare Is apparent to all. O! The thought of not seeing Your impeccable features once again Is maddening!Heartwrenching! But my gaze is like a stain Upon thee. No love is felt But pain is delt Insanity comes upon me. With little hope;much despair For me, I beg, Send a prayer I cannot; WILL not bear the agony Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith." I am such a man incapable of receiving Thine divine compliments Which I save myself from with doubt And questioning;O! the torment! I love thee, I try to show it But I am unable to merit Affection in return Time and time again I exult you my friend, Yet how can you receive my words of praise When your words I do but raze? O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates The need for love, which does not abate How can I love you When the thought of self-love is so new? But I feel like to you I do belong Chose me or deny; the point of my song. Oh! How the crucible of love Causes me pain in the heart Self-love does not endure in part Or in whole, but love for those dear And love for those near Is where true love starts.
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Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
To those whom I care for, but cannot express
O! How the winds cry! O! How the earth weeps! O! How the heavens pour forth their tears! Thy face knows no blemish! Thine eyes rich as diamonds Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne! O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do! No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden. The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare Is apparent to all. O! The thought of not seeing Your impeccable features once again Is maddening!Heartwrenching! But my gaze is like a stain Upon thee. No love is felt But pain is delt Insanity comes upon me. With little hope;much despair For me, I beg, Send a prayer I cannot; WILL not bear the agony Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith." I am such a man incapable of receiving Thine divine compliments Which I save myself from with doubt And questioning;O! the torment! I love thee, I try to show it But I am unable to merit Affection in return Time and time again I exult you my friend, Yet how can you receive my words of praise When your words I do but raze? O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates The need for love, which does not abate How can I love you When the thought of self-love is so new? But I feel like to you I do belong Chose me or deny; the point of my song. Oh! How the crucible of love Causes me pain in the heart Self-love does not endure in part Or in whole, but love for those dear And love for those near Is where true love starts.
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46
Former trier turned friar Storming rage behind fryers World of potential in the inner mental Work ethic impeccable Work conditions unethical Nine hours no lunch or break Better pump the brakes and pull stake Time to get a slice of thine own pie Reach nirvana prime and let the soul fly Soar above money traps and get the bag Lest your future gets clicky clacked And your happiness capped Spinning poverty’s vicious cycle Grinning sharks made me their disciple Life is trifling when your blood leaves Heat stifling as the done deed Has you on your knees begging Lord have mercy please Escape away from hate And let love into your heart Then and only then will you start To understand the holy ghost That is you And the apostles that are your friends Ride or die to the end This ain’t no game of let’s pretend It’s real life Your one shot to drip and ball So don’t let it slip by Or you’ll fall before you walk, y'all.
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May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
Hustling
she lay wreathed only in sunlights warm glow loose strands of her long red straight hair flowed like bountiful silken ribbons of silent beauty's fire i brushed one strand from the velvety skin of her shoulder and there softly laid a single lingering kiss tasting her elegant beauty with my lips ever so quiet ever so soft she murmured a lustful smile she is that faster than light butterfly spinning in the hot winds of timeless dreams a dutchess of the grand a pauper of the sublime regal in her reflections their sweeter wines succumbing to the autumn celebrations the girls in silken white dress the boys in trimmed black cuffs they all stand back bowing heads in humble submission when on the cusp of a light whim she wanders through the gathered and waiting apostles of beauties delight dutchess of the grand pauper of the sublime regal in all her reflections like a warm jewel at the center of all things pretty at the epicenter of all things envied the precise defining of the better universe at her fingertips the dream murmured was just the soft stirrings of her restless soul as she dreamt that all could be hers if she would only reach for my hand take the chance dutchess of grand pauper of the sublime she murmured a lustful smile
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Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
saltwater jewels
What is real and what is not All my life I’ve always had dreams So profound that I find myself stuck. I pray at night that I be given visions, I pray at night that I be given answers to life’s mysteries, And I also pray at night for the path I must follow Be laid out for me like a blueprint. In my dreams I can smell, I can taste I do mathematical problems and the answers are always correct, I tell the truth and I even lie. I dream so much that I’m beginning to think That when you dream that is real life And when you’re awake you’re really in a dream. I had a vision once that Stonehenge isn’t a time piece, It really was doorways for the twelve apostles from the Bible To meet up at the appointed time And then to go be with the maker of it all I had another one before that the asteroid belt Was just like the game children play in the dirt Drawing a circle and then trying to knock each other Out of orbit What I saw it was like two planets smashing like flicking marbles And the tremendous impact caused all the debris To be caught in a gravitational pull between Mars and Jupiter. My visions if written in an earlier time Could have saved the one who was burned At the stake and in return would take us all out of the dark ages. My latest dream last night which caused me to write this was a vision of, I was in the upper parking lot at the Canadian French Club in my town And people were gathering all around in a heavy congregation Next a station wagon pulled up and two medical examiners got out With jump suits on and patches on their backs saying just that As they approached the lakes edge I then knew what time it was And then suddenly a woman with fishing pants on to keep her legs dry Was caring a man who was blue, cold and clammy And looked like a large rubber doll in her arms out of the lake To the shores edge, I then approached and had to have a touch As the body was dripping with cold water The lady than took his right hand and began to Swing his arm fast in my direction flicking water upon my face And then she said to me, now you have been baptized. My favorite dreams are the ones where I pre meditate a plan And then execute it to perfection. (CARSr. 6-28-12)
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Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Stuck in Limbo
What is real and what is not All my life I’ve always had dreams So profound that I find myself stuck. I pray at night that I be given visions, I pray at night that I be given answers to life’s mysteries, And I also pray at night for the path I must follow Be laid out for me like a blueprint. In my dreams I can smell, I can taste I do mathematical problems and the answers are always correct, I tell the truth and I even lie. I dream so much that I’m beginning to think That when you dream that is real life And when you’re awake you’re really in a dream. I had a vision once that Stonehenge isn’t a time piece, It really was doorways for the twelve apostles from the Bible To meet up at the appointed time And then to go be with the maker of it all I had another one before that the asteroid belt Was just like the game children play in the dirt Drawing a circle and then trying to knock each other Out of orbit What I saw it was like two planets smashing like flicking marbles And the tremendous impact caused all the debris To be caught in a gravitational pull between Mars and Jupiter. My visions if written in an earlier time Could have saved the one who was burned At the stake and in return would take us all out of the dark ages. My latest dream last night which caused me to write this was a vision of, I was in the upper parking lot at the Canadian French Club in my town And people were gathering all around in a heavy congregation Next a station wagon pulled up and two medical examiners got out With jump suits on and patches on their backs saying just that As they approached the lakes edge I then knew what time it was And then suddenly a woman with fishing pants on to keep her legs dry Was caring a man who was blue, cold and clammy And looked like a large rubber doll in her arms out of the lake To the shores edge, I then approached and had to have a touch As the body was dripping with cold water The lady than took his right hand and began to Swing his arm fast in my direction flicking water upon my face And then she said to me, now you have been baptized. My favorite dreams are the ones where I pre meditate a plan And then execute it to perfection. (CARSr. 6-28-12)
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43
She is the typesetter’s “e” The once-rounded uncial script, Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk, His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl, Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight. His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground, With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind, That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight. In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls, He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper, Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold, Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold, To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women. So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm. But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,” He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ****** Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore. His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man, Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war. She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
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Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
She is the Typesetter’s “e”
Duke said, “People pray in many different languages and God hears them all.” I’m equally a Jew and Muslim, both living in perfect peace within me. I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal. I yearn to swim in the living waters, and hunger for the cup and bread. I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist. Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet. But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion, illumining my every step in this dark world. I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies and sometimes even druid. The Great Spirit and Tantric arts remain mysteries to me. I only know them by feeling. And yes our Afro Heritage. The drums, the whistle, the dance, synchronizes our heart beat to The Beneficent One’s finger taps. Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit with cymbal, voice and drum. I am a full dues paying member to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively. We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue. We are all apostles and responsible for our small spaces that we rent here on earth. I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian. I am mesmerized by the fire. My heart aches for the light. I tend tiny candles and listen for the lonely fire of Coltrane’s sax. I’m a nun and a Thelonious Monk. We run an inn for weary and lost travelers. We build hospitals to cure the infirm; and schools to teach the golden rule of love. We try to do things differently. Dizzy practiced the Behai faith. “OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray. Music Selection: Dizzy Gillespie, Swing Low Sweet Cadillac jbm Oakland 12/26/98
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Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Is Jazz a Religion?
Duke said, “People pray in many different languages and God hears them all.” I’m equally a Jew and Muslim, both living in perfect peace within me. I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal. I yearn to swim in the living waters, and hunger for the cup and bread. I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist. Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet. But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion, illumining my every step in this dark world. I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies and sometimes even druid. The Great Spirit and Tantric arts remain mysteries to me. I only know them by feeling. And yes our Afro Heritage. The drums, the whistle, the dance, synchronizes our heart beat to The Beneficent One’s finger taps. Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit with cymbal, voice and drum. I am a full dues paying member to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively. We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue. We are all apostles and responsible for our small spaces that we rent here on earth. I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian. I am mesmerized by the fire. My heart aches for the light. I tend tiny candles and listen for the lonely fire of Coltrane’s sax. I’m a nun and a Thelonious Monk. We run an inn for weary and lost travelers. We build hospitals to cure the infirm; and schools to teach the golden rule of love. We try to do things differently. Dizzy practiced the Behai faith. “OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray. Music Selection: Dizzy Gillespie, Swing Low Sweet Cadillac jbm Oakland 12/26/98
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49
And He said to me: “My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.” And so, willingly shall I glory in my weaknesses, so that the virtue of Christ may live within me. Because of this, I am pleased in my infirmity: in reproaches, in difficulties, in persecutions, in distresses, for the sake of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am powerful. I have become foolish; you have compelled me. For I ought to have been commended by you. For I have been nothing less than those who claim to be above the measure of Apostles, even though I am nothing. For what is there that you have had which is less than the other churches, except that I myself did not burden you? Forgive me this injury. Behold, this is the third time I have prepared to come to you, and yet I will not be a burden to you. For I am seeking not the things that are yours, but you yourselves. And neither should the children store up for the parents, but the parents for the children. And so, very willingly, I will spend and exhaust myself for the sake of your souls, loving you more, while being loved less. My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.
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Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
I Have Listened
Saintly cassock, Glittering altar Ornamental pulpit.               Driving the congregants             in a paroxysm of fib, Gullibility enshrines adherents             hearts. Do you know the Messiah more             than the apostles ? Thou traders in the temple. Parrotic tongues set out             commands Loquacious sweet-coated mouths             misdirects faithfuls. But the uncreated Creator who             creates creatures watches Dreadful silence astonishingly             permeates the entireness            of the universe. Do you preach love? Do you follow peace with all? Ye robbers in the temple. Command darkness to produce             light. But you turned moonlight into             tale. Can you display Davidic dance             steps on the road? Profanity of sanctuary with             false homiletics. Merchants of dross in tabernacle Speak. Let us hear you. Preach To the congregants. Righteousness afar from the           apron of faith. Charity locked up in the           tunic of hope. Sanctity of holiness sprinkled           into the tributary of sin. Commanding the stars to turn            to sun, Captains of night in light. Ye robbers in the sanctuary. Pastoral advertisers of chattels            in the tabernacle, Merchandising gold dross in             sermonic hymns. Sugar-coated doctrine wept in              the tomb of Lazarus. Prompting Him to weep again? Ye merchants in synagogue. Disentangle faithfuls from the           webs of worriment. Dislodge congregants out of the           shackles of sin. Deliver ignoramus from the            isle of incendiary. Let the sifter of strength            separate out afflictions from            feebleminded faithfuls. Ye robbers in the temple You love prayers more than God But who answers prayers?
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Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
MERCHANTS IN THE TEMPLE
Saintly cassock, Glittering altar Ornamental pulpit.               Driving the congregants             in a paroxysm of fib, Gullibility enshrines adherents             hearts. Do you know the Messiah more             than the apostles ? Thou traders in the temple. Parrotic tongues set out             commands Loquacious sweet-coated mouths             misdirects faithfuls. But the uncreated Creator who             creates creatures watches Dreadful silence astonishingly             permeates the entireness            of the universe. Do you preach love? Do you follow peace with all? Ye robbers in the temple. Command darkness to produce             light. But you turned moonlight into             tale. Can you display Davidic dance             steps on the road? Profanity of sanctuary with             false homiletics. Merchants of dross in tabernacle Speak. Let us hear you. Preach To the congregants. Righteousness afar from the           apron of faith. Charity locked up in the           tunic of hope. Sanctity of holiness sprinkled           into the tributary of sin. Commanding the stars to turn            to sun, Captains of night in light. Ye robbers in the sanctuary. Pastoral advertisers of chattels            in the tabernacle, Merchandising gold dross in             sermonic hymns. Sugar-coated doctrine wept in              the tomb of Lazarus. Prompting Him to weep again? Ye merchants in synagogue. Disentangle faithfuls from the           webs of worriment. Dislodge congregants out of the           shackles of sin. Deliver ignoramus from the            isle of incendiary. Let the sifter of strength            separate out afflictions from            feebleminded faithfuls. Ye robbers in the temple You love prayers more than God But who answers prayers?
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65
In the early morning of August, We headed off to the Great Ocean Road. The beauty of it all took my breath away. I can still remember the vivid blue Of the Ocean, Of the sky. Cheveux au vent The piercingly cold wind At the Twelve Apostles Swept us away, With grace. In the heart of the Rainforest We made our way through like warriors, With glory. The experience felt like a dream; It was enchanting And I loved it. -12/11/13 © eMs' silent poetry. All Rights Reserved.
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Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
A Road to Remember