"beatitudes" poems
in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/11026273_1641865029363011_1932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb069b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
If the White-Washed Tomb our Saviour condemns
Would soil my Beatitudes for your Pleasure
A True Friend I'd Fail. Though your Sense indemns,
Spread by some Hippies who plead my Censure
Fine. Be it so for the Loony I am
Though to Toxic Increments you may succumb
Which, praying deeply, prevent this love enhance
Then flow to where your Best Graces become
There are Fishes, after all, for you to feast
Since your Face hooked as Bait will consider
Which an Episode be careless at least
And leave your Bones nipping one another.
Honestly so, these Words I do evade
Which porns my Intent; And brands me a *****
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
Collages diffuse vanilla vistas
such effulgence waltzing to violet tempos
though the forestalling of waterfalls
evolves into a gargantuan war
weapons whistle from the mountains
beatitudes of mirth shan’t ever be eradicated
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
As I cross this road of dreams and nightmares, I open my eyes.
Filled with sweet goodbyes and sorrowful errs, I leave my abode
I began to code fake smiles and laughters, then I start my sighs.
I began to cry, I began to curse, I then sang an ode.
I then hurried back in my solitude, I have found solace.
Joyful yet soulless, I gave gratitude as my own attack.
I was set aback by beatitudes gone without a trace.
I tried to save face, hide my attitude, deleting my tact.
Buried in my soul a desire untold to die all alone.
So I could condone my death as foretold in ash and coal.
It was my own goal since the times of old to hush my own tone.
As blinding lights shone a path of the cold as death takes its toll.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
God I don’t talk
about you anymore.
But God I think about
you when it’s necessary.
I think about you
every time I drive
by Lourdes.
I do that every day.
They taught you to me there.
I heard your name
more times a day than
I heard my own.
I think about those
poor little Catholic
kids, who didn’t have a
choice in the way they
believed in you.
Nothing was on our
terms.
There were no exceptions
to our thoughts.
Nothing was right
until we found a Psalm
about it.
God
I think about you
in between asleep
and awake.
When part of me
remembers the Sunday
I went to church
only to be force fed
the Pro-Life agenda.
God I respect
humans.
God they didn’t respect
us.
God I was too afraid
to ask questions.
God their eyes
looked like hate.
God I don’t want
to go to hell.
My Bible
has been sitting
on my closet floor
for a year and a half.
I’m too afraid
to open it
for fear I’ll find
fire and brimstone
in between the Beatitudes
and the Passion.
God I believe in you
I believe in love
I believe in kindness
I believe in life
I believe in good vibes
I believe in fate.
God I believe in everything.
I knelt by my bed
tonight
and prayed
for everything little
Catholic girl
who’s thinking everything
I did.
I understand none of it
and I pray that she will.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Egrets stand proud across blue waterways ..
Floridas natural beatitudes flourish as her occidental sojourner travels home , diurnal fauna softly acquiesce , lullaby .. Lailah delivers grace , harmony and benevolence across Gods opus ..
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
Beatitudes.. ( Beautiful Attitudes )
The meek shall inherit the earth.
but not the mineral rights.
Jude 2015
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
And my solitude
Beats me off my beatitudes
Feeds me at all latitudes
And then it passes like winterlude.
Ah winterlude, it’s making me lazy!
It runs and it screams through the night.
And I see it again on this old skyline
But when winter comes it’ll all be fine.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
The ‘Be happy attitudes’ uttered by Christ,
demonstrate a mindset that we need to embrace.
Hungering after God’s divine righteousness,
gives us comfort in His covering of grace.
Be dependent on God, for bearing good fruit;
know that it’s still wonderful to be blessed.
Everyone is important, since we’re His children;
unfortunately, not all will pass the sacred test…
of walking in the principles of God’s love.
Despite our status in life, self-accountability
of how we treat others around us clearly exhibits
the level of our own spiritual responsibility.
Reaching a state of supreme happiness and gratitude,
may be more easily achieved from knowing the Beatitudes.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Matt 5:1-16
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats
The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam
Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven
Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now tumultuous fate in a salted heaven
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled
At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks
The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air
Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted
Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 3:36 PM UTC
Looking out
Around
There is a generation
Not the one with angelheaded hipsters
That were laid infamously famous
But truly a generation that is its own
Cold, calculating, as they, we, must
Be now that there is everything
There is everything here but right now
As we are surrounded by the everything that
Makes up our filled lives, we concentrate on
The nothing.
So we, they, them, I all must be cold, calculating
Networking, meeting, greeting, cheering,
Pleading for work in the everything that is
Nothing.
And as I look out, through the window
Into our generation, my generation
There is a warmness
A kindness once
unfamiliar to coldness and calculating
Where despite distance, time, values, reasons
Nothing
everything
Bonds are made
Is it this cold networking, greeting, meeting that
Allows for the kindness that kindles the fire
That keeps our cheeks warm and glowing
A soft pink in the dead of night
As we stand by kegs, cups, tables, cops, cars, bars,
By girls vomiting on their own volition or not
By boys raising hell as their families admonish but
Their cultures praise
We, Them, I, They, Us, can not know
What we, them, I, They Us are doing
Just as others didn’t know what they
Were doing, and meaning and becoming maryters for
On a clear fall day, when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky
Yet turbulence filled the air, the nation and the world.
They, We, I, Us, Them, do not even
Consider their meaning as they ponder
Fake lives on interposed mediums
Or if they are Jackies,
Or Marilyns or
Audreys
Or if laying down somewhere
just as warm as it is cold
As they touch souls with others
Means anything more than nothing
If they can hold on as they try to let go
When an entire world begs them not to
But the teenage desire to rebel is strong
And the pull of the vast of emotions is stronger
And as we seem to be losing
In clusters
The We.
I.
Us.
They. Them
The fire never dims, and the warm pink glow never flickers
Off our cheeks
And the mix of cold calculations and
Pleasant beatitudes
Combine, like a nights plans
In a gin bucket
And the thought of importance, rarely is thought
Of aside from the few
The brave
Maybe a Marine, but mostly
Those who wish to cure things, change other things
Create things, build things, code things
Things Things Things Things.
T-H-I-N-G-S
For a future of nothing and everything
Everything and nothing
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
To take this tortured, tangled test
Makes me mock my many marks
Leaving loathsome love letters
You yearn, yet yielded your yelping
Words with warnings wearing weapons
Lips like lovely lakes leading lowly leaves
Down doorways, driving dreary dreams
Away and abdicating abrasive accusations
Breaking but bowing breezes bark beatitudes
Simple songs sail seemingly softer seeing such symmetry
Carnage can’t conceal captivating culprits
Even eager enemies envy enormous egos
Fake falling faster from frightening fails
Having heart helps heroes
Greater gears going give gifts
Just jeer, justified
Because none of this makes sense to you anyway.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
Dyslexia, mixed messages
Everything so confusing
Susceptible to misusing;
A 'B' becomes a 'D' instantaneously
And screws things up simultaneously.
A short trip from insanity to inanity.
Fiscal confuses with physical
Turning laudable into laughable
So quickly eyes can't disguise
Whether one means the skies
Or perhaps one means this guy's.
If read, confusion and contusion
Seem like quibbling over siblings
But things like read and read
Only different when they're said
Take un-signalled turns in the head
And instead come out backward,
Which should be spelled backword.
Muddling and confuddling resides
Issuing thundering broadsides,
Rendering and sundering any
Blundering inadept ineptitudes
Like some kind of garbled beatitudes.
Some take hostile attitudes.
Wheedling and wheeling away
Beetling and saying it wrong;
Maybe a song can be written
And some tongues can be bitten,
Taken aback by words taken back,
As the Raven said "Never more!"
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
When down and lonely,
We have an upper.
When unhappy,
We leave a smiley.
When isolated and alienated,
We have fraternity.
If you fear, find peace in readership.
If poor, there's free verse.
If under-appreciated,
We click like.
If under-valued,
We've no price.
If destitute, there's richness in language.
If thirsty, drink.
If hungry, devour.
When you're at loose ends,
We have tight compositions.
When conflicted, find resolutions.
And if you're disenfranchised,
We have a home.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Bring me forth
from that nightflow
magnet for I
have heard the calls
of my guardians
they have beckoned
me into a visionary stupor
pulled my head from the
quicksand's mulch
my daily chores whirling
from my hands
they are spinning me around
like a an electric charged
whirlpool of light
all objects caught up in
its path
be they leaves
or rocks
or household appliances
and I am casting to hell
and highwater
all of those warnings
as sacred adorations
nick into my solitude
I fling my demons to the skies
release them to their
own salvation
I do not wish them before
my eyes
as I work my own deliverance
of beatitudes
my own song of songs
spun into the glowing
Let them sputter and trip
over their words
My inner hearing closes
upon their petty phrases as
they mouth them out of sync
The path opens up before me
as riverflow
in one graceful arc
Here I fight in my own
siege of Orléans
No point in stopping me
because the vestige of
flickering truth is turning
into the solid molecules
of freedom's spark
right before
your very eyes
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
Mother Mary,
The wisdom of a pure beating heart,
To our fledgling souls impart,
When I'm moored atop,
Cliffs of life's vicississtudes,
You inspire me,
With beatitudes,
In her the light,
Of love apace,
Saying "child
be at peace.
In your Heart's
For Gods flame make space.
Which warms the Earth,
From soils to space."
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 1:02 AM UTC
Love’s Extreme Unction
by Michael R. Burch
Lines composed during my son Jeremy’s first high school football game (he played tuba), while I watched my wife Beth watch him.
Within the intimate chapels of her eyes—
devotions, meditations, reverence.
I find in them Love’s very residence
and hearing the ardent rapture of her sighs
I prophesy beatitudes to come,
when Love like hers commands us, “All be One!”
Keywords/Tags: mother, son, love, extreme unction, devotions, meditation, reverence, love’s residence, beatitude, beatitudes, heaven, unity, solidarity, togetherness, oneness, one
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 2:53 AM UTC
My Altar is a table set upon a naked stage.
While waiting for the memorial to begin
I watch from the wings as students and alumni
In clots of twos and threes come shuffling in.
Poor Mary lived just nineteen years.
A dark depression did her in.
She was my student, I knew her well;
These tears I shed are genuine.
Ours is not an age of Faith;
Our thoughts and prayers are platitudes.
I look out upon the faces of her friends
who’ve forgotten the beatitudes.
Her body rests in the cold hard ground,
interred two weeks ago today.
Some claim she is an angel now.
So I do hope but who can say?
What then can I say to salve these souls
who have forgotten how to pray?
What cold comfort is my funereal black
on this bitter grey December day?
Her youth and beauty have been overthrown;
Persephone has been by Pluto wed.
How wise he was, the poet, who observed
The folly of being comforted.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
I reminisce on books I've read,
What, indeed, was the best?
Instead of dull contemplation of the ex,
Consider enlightenment as Buddha's best,
Some hard times put your faith to the test,
Maybe the Beatitudes was the best,
Let's not be drama mamas yet!
Keeping on smiling for a peaceful bless!
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
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Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
They preach to hate and curse the enemy
But this not what He preach in the mount beatitudes
When everyone listens and hear his words
He blessed those who are poor in spirit
And those who mourn and who are meek
Those who are seeking righteousness and merciful
A pure in heart and those peacemakers not peacekeepers
And those who are persecuted because of righteousness
Surely God is with them and theirs the kingdom of Heaven
This is the words the he peached
But others have a different words they teach
Be selfish in your ambition is what they want to reach
To become great and in earthly things they are rich
Fot them help is not an option but it is only for the weak
They dont know the real meaning of how to become meek
Gaining the whole world and losing their soul
They are acting righteous but still a fool
Never accepts a correction from another person
By the end of they day still they will say
All things are vanity and this life is just a temporary
And for the wicked still hell is their final destiny
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Her hands are as skilled as nature and her wits are wry
Forensically examining the world before her eye
I want her to paint me in to her sky
To be one of the divinely wrought creatures sweeping by
There is little that doesn't marvel her mind
Amused and entertained by multitudes
Her love, activity refined
It speaks in beatitudes
I want to rove with her out of my cave
Traverse the wild frontiers
Live together for an age
Before hearts wither and disappear
O Lucia, tell me now
How to soar angelic and fathom hell
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
I write a little dirge -
To sanctify - bless
Adorn the soul in beatitudes,
Smooth her silken dress,
The music - to a paean -
Doth elevate the Heart,
Whose truths become clearer, ever clear,
Which sooth when they impart.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC