"benefactor" poems
Living in a world of invertebrates
A shadow that reeks cologne
Upon those who reek none
The benefactor of the scent
Is for himself, herself, both, or nil?
A fool in the box
No time to help
But time enough away for a guilt to shine
But outside shines introspection?
A plastic model
No generosity for a spine
Two hands in beyond displace
A smile where it should grace
Asleep in a heart of a child
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
He and I
Are oil and water.
He is cigarettes and ravioli;
I am cranberries and ramen.
The great benefactor?
Yes, a factor
But not the end.
Not the root.
I shall never be a beggar.
Hark, calls reality
Indifference is aching for you.
Threatening, forcing.
Beware, or it shall overcome you.
I was never good at chemistry
And what is painting but a solution?
What are we but unstable?
Perhaps we are just allotropes.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 4:15 PM UTC
His name is Zachary James
But he's shouted at by many names
Running man or crazy jogger
Pushing all he needs in a stroller
Dodging cars like a game of Frogger
His passion for running is a benefactor
Of his compassion for humanity
Running across the country is insanity
Knows politics better than Sean Hannity
A motor city kid and an Eastern Michigan grad
Thought he'd run to correct a world gone mad
Our paths crossed on the vicious highway 322
If you're lucky, fate will send him your way too
I'm proud to host such a fine young philanthropist
But soon he'll run off into the mysterious mist
Yet he will jog on proud and steadfast
With our help reaching his goals at last
Run for the children and for the love of running
Run for life and eternity hereafter coming
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Sometimes he was like f+ck it
just went ahead and stuck em
let em fall where they stood
crack another bottle and brood
hysterically on the ridiculous
he had a meticulous knack for belittling the serious, berating feelings and imposing his will in a furious fashion. He liked knives and passion, and will cash in on your lashings. A vigilante, stealing antes to match the chips. The missing teeth of split lipped grinns bidding his amends to the dense. sent to cleanse, the fences on the perimeter. a distributor of disasters.
contributor to the laughter in the stoical spleens of nerdy teens, always cheering for the away team.
He was the benefactor of traction-less tractors rotting in the mud. He was a slacker, smothering the world in love. He was above all else, on drugs.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
Hanging from the tree
Red berries of winter call,
Suspended from decay
Frozen in life by the cold,
Substance hard to find
Foraging for scraps
Nuts,
Berries,
Leaves,
Are no more,
For trees have shed there coats
Leaves like skeletons,
No life just the remnants of before
In this winter cold,
Where the wind is the enemy,
Howling,
Freezing,
Pulling you closer to deaths door,
But in the sun light
Red berries,
Glisten, life's benefactor,
Hanging there, beckoning
To keep hunger away,
Frozen as if for me, the best tasting
For any animal to feed,
Eating my full, hunger kept at bay,
Still many left,
Will I be the only that is saved from death,
I bury a few more,
May be for a later day,
But for know I must sleep
And be safe from winters chill this day.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Botal Khuli Hai Raqs Mein Jam-e-Sharab Hai
Woh To Khaliq Hai Banda Parwar Hai
The bottle is open and dancing is the glass of wine
He is the Creator and the Benefactor so divine
Sari Duniya Ka Rab-e-Akbar Hai
Mera Sarmaya-e-Hayat Na Pooch
Ek Saqi Hai, Ek Sagar Hai
God of entire creation He is so Great
On source of my life, what can I state?
Cup-bearer is One & Sole, and so is the bowl
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain , Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC
760
Most she touched me by her muteness—
Most she won me by the way
She presented her small figure—
Plea itself—for Charity—
Were a Crumb my whole possession—
Were there famine in the land—
Were it my resource from starving—
Could I such a plea withstand—
Not upon her knee to thank me
Sank this Beggar from the Sky—
But the Crumb partook—departed—
And returned On High—
I supposed—when sudden
Such a Praise began
’Twas as Space sat singing
To herself—and men—
’Twas the Winged Beggar—
Afterward I learned
To her Benefactor
Making Gratitude
2.2k
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.
I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.
I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;
How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.
That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.
My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.
My dad was still living.
That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.
I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.
I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.
I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.
The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.
I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Yea verily
The Movers and Shakers are society’s paveway makers.
They recognise a need, feel a cause and initiate action.
These people make things happen, they are the driving force in our society.
By virtue of their very nature, they are rarely perfect,
they have backgrounds and have, invariably, at some some stage of their life,
trodden on the daisies.
Our society could not do without these people.
They are a rare minority and because of their positivity and momentum
They make enemies.
The enemy of the Movers and the Shakers are the Naysayers and the Finger Pointers.
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are the reactive side of society.
They rarely initiate and rarely expose themselves to the spotlight.
They fester in the shadows in their masses and froth into braying criticism
Which may, or may not, develop into righteous finger pointing and condemnation.
(Depending, of course, on the issue at hand and the degree of hysteria generated.)
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are society’s negatives.
(They would say that they are society’s necessary checks and controls…
Which perhaps, to some degree they are.)
The realm of the Tall Poppy Syndrome is the perfect territory for Naysayer/Finger Pointer operation.
It provides the right mix of avarice, envy and vengeance to blend clandestinely beneath a covering cloak of righteous indignation.
And it provides the symbiotic platform for mass reaction from the great unwashed.
I note that Mayor Bob Parker and benefactor Sir Owen Glenn are the latest recipients of negative onslaught.
The Mayor has just announced that, after many years of public service, he has had a guts full of the braying abuse and is throwing in the towel.
I sincerely hope that he retires with wealth and lovely wife and that he bathes in the satisfaction of his many, many achievements…well away from the accusing crowd.
And if I was Sir Owen Glenn, I would abruptly cancel the offered, generous, $2 million finance for the Anti Domestic Violence Campaign
and with fierce eye tell the Naysayers and Finger Pointers of New Zealand society to go stuff themselves… then turn and walk away, never to return.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
AUCKLAND
5 July 2013
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Nonsense isn’t clear when self-induce becomes derogatory. Switching off claims to promote a zero-questioning start. Only for calamities to raise the bars of victory without circumstance. Pleading you to forget what you saw and repeat after me. Nonsense without structure, is relaxing too much. Does relaxing come after nonsense when zero questioning permits the struggle of structure? I digress for the infinite that is suggesting you relax when it comes to ******* interiors giving no rise to pressure that exceeds balance. Balance in the face of consequence. Consequence in the doubt of honor. Honor in the… WAIT! It’s nonsense, right? ALL OF IT!! EVERYTHING!!! Plain examples of zero switches without direction. Promoting the structure of pleading facts rubbing with calamities. Ruining what shouldn’t have been. Illusions! All of it. Claiming something, which isn’t a benefactor to logic raising circumstances toward rising the bars of victory. Doesn’t make any sense, does it? Any of this ringing a bell people?! Good. Just relax and create your own structure. Even how awfully permitting to other appeals it might seem. Structure is without consequence. Relaxing about regular customs to oneself, permits the desire to act with a calm disposition. Everything being a confused debate of nonsense. Only adding nonsense over something that’s already a relaxing structure. Is structure without relaxation? Enough details… I’m out! Structure your own appeals?!
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 12:48 AM UTC
O’erwhelming sorrow now demands my song:
From death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.
What flowing tears? What hearts with grief opprest?
What sighs on sighs heave the fond parent’s breast?
The brother weeps, the hapless sisters join
Th’ increasing woe, and swell the crystal brine;
The poor, who once his gen’rous bounty fed,
Droop, and bewail their benefactor dead.
In death the friend, the kind companion lies,
And in one death what various comfort dies!
Th’ unhappy mother sees the sanguine rill
Forget to flow, and nature’s wheels stand still,
But see from earth his spirit far remov’d,
And know no grief recals your best-belov’d:
He, upon pinions swifter than the wind,
Has left mortality’s sad scenes behind
For joys to this terrestial state unknown,
And glories richer than the monarch’s crown.
Of virtue’s steady course the prize behold!
What blissful wonders to his mind unfold!
But of celestial joys I sing in vain:
Attempt not, muse, the too advent’rous strain.
No more in briny show’rs, ye friends around,
Or bathe his clay, or waste them on the ground:
Still do you weep, still wish for his return?
How cruel thus to wish, and thus to mourn?
No more for him the streams of sorrow pour,
But haste to join him on the heav’nly shore,
On harps of gold to tune immortal lays,
And to your God immortal anthems raise.
1.7k
Our hands our calloused.
Raised old too young,
Too much, too fast to function.
Beliefs and needs
Underestimated in light
Of the weight of life.
Unenlightened self-importance
Breeds nuisance for intelligence
Struggles are active and bound
Revised, undeniable, retractable,
Forming, foaming at the mouth
We flow truth into new strife.
For those who can see through the plastic,
We made it out alive, with luck.
I try not to think of those days when
Dripping, pouring, outward noises
Made me their benefactor in shaking off
The incandescent light from garages long since passed.
I remind myself to shower, once more
This time, with every small drag I smell Propane...
Like leaves carnivaled in a spiral moth,
But it's just the smoke from my cigarette...
So maybe it is Propane...
I find this world to be quite amusing.
My body is a temple for the act of living once.
I am not concerned with long life, I'm mortal.
Experience all and see all, and thereby
Learn the meaning behind the words
That are written in peoples' eyes
So you can be trusted, too.
As long as you can trust yourself,
You'll see the colors realign
Unlike the mother who spoke before me
I will be the father this time
Swerving, slurring, shivering.
Can you hear me? Are you reading this?
**** not away those shreds of extra skin
Always remember how cold it is for me.
Try to conceive of a place for you and I
I will be sure to be asleep when the clouds
Erupt into showers of our pure enjoyment...
I invite you, too.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
O Lord, how I appreciate having my character,
free from the carnal lust of mammon; for I,
don’t have to be concerned with avarice, greed
or the presence of possessions… that I can eye!
I’m truly thankful for my current circumstance,
knowing that You have promised to never fail me;
therefore, I’ll trust Your continued support-
since I’ve been grafted into… The Living Tree!
Having been comforted and encouraged, with boldness
and confidence, I claim: Christ is my Benefactor!
My spirit won’t be gripped by any dread or fears;
I’m ignoring the silly nonsense of all detractors.
Forged within Life’s, daily crucible of Faith,
inner steel and moral disposition were developed.
From Salvation through Christ, my soul was saved,
and my life by His Grace has been… fully enveloped.
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Heb 3:5-6; Rev 2:7
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
The achiever meets the benefactor.
This can work quite well, provided that Cancer has no objections to the grand projects Capricorn frequently gets involved in and Capricorn allows Cancer to be in charge of their private sector.
Once they become attracted to one another, they're eager to solidify their relation and don't mind the prospect of building a home together. A family is fine, too. They mean it when they commit.
But they continue to compete about the leadership and about whose plans should win when they have conflicting intentions. The relation can be noisy at times, when the two strong wills collide, but they can take it. It's a process by which they improve their relation, even when it seems like the very opposite.
Actually, they are both stimulated by it. A lasting peace would make them confused and worried, sensing that something is missing and worrying that their love is fading.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
A crafty crow
fearlessly alights
on a scare crow;
an old farmer
a benefactor
from the fear factor,
watches in stunned
silence.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 7:36 AM UTC
The invalids,
misanthropes-
Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm ********
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-
So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,
Heretofore-
I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-
I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-
As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
Daffodils honour us with their diaphanous emerging,
familiar old friends, it’s welcome yellow fellows well
met. We greet you gratefully from your submerging
floral heads mutate, from green bud to golden bell.
Nature, benefactor of all provision, gifts indulgence
plays host to these visitors for sadly too brief a stay
endows bright vistas which radiate in rare effulgence
springing in Spring this seasonal and annual display.
Daffodils grow row on row hereabout and all around
a host of them as Wordsworth’s great poem extolled;
flowers that proliferate and thrive upon waste ground
gilding the darkest spaces by their alchemy into gold.
Like gold a noble daffodil yields a treasure for the eye,
an array of optical pleasure then doffs its cap goodbye.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
and only reading, only
input dulls nerves to
the truth in word.
without output, wi-
thout application of
garnered (no, acrrued)
intelligence then wh-
ere can be the soul
to wisdom. and exper-
ience is part found-
ation, and without sec-
ondary support man
shall stand alone his
selful house. and
cries in question of
fairness, the redundant,
as an aspect of Life.
as a driving force,
one that seizes with
each lurch. and those
cries echo from a plane
A to B life when we
are not vertical in Na-
ture, but instead we
slide from top knot
down some rope strung
by supreme benefactor.
to be caught in a noose
on the way down, or
to slip sublime and free
from the burns left
on the palms of existence.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
Round and round we go, two and thrice in throw,
Whilst hand in hand in fairy land.
We dance and prance around the rockpool,
Until the last one cannot stand.
I lay down in that busy rockpool and finally open my heart unto the floods,
This once impregnable fortress finally lowers its rusted and seized port cullis one last time.
With the moss of ages and the barnacles uprooted and torn away it lowers its decaying drawbridge,
To let the tide wash in and carry out on its ebb, all of its ache, sadness and regrets far out into the vastness of the ocean.
The soul and spirit is empty you see,
The heart has now been opened for the waves and tides.
There is no fire nor fuel left in the furnace,
Not even a dying ember nor spark, but only a withered rose stem which finally succumbed to the dark..
All that resides left in incredible depths, Is fine *** ash,
Only good for shovelling up and scattering on the fields to maybe start again.
And those vines of that crop which fed once in abundance will grow strong, tall, fine and straight like youthful men,
Feeding off of the nourishment of past memories.
In time when these mighty vines look back to their roots,
Their hearts will ache to find their mighty benefactor.
Once again they will return to that ancestral home,
To *** some ash and plant a striking red rose in that tended bed.
Without their knowing a buried ember disturbed is glowing,
and forgotten roots, soon shoot and expand.
To once again become the source of wisdom, the all knowing,
Soon to bring life back to this long lost forgotten land.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
I am a hexagon
with a tail
glowing
when you inhale
down the trachea
I go
teasing
my trail
quid pro quo
I split in two
and enter into two
pleura-covered chambers
and this is where
I might cause
unpleasant dangers.
I dissolve
on the membrane
of vitality
and tickle
the red cells
providing warmth
to reality
I leave red puddles
in a white desert
and I make kin care
with grueling effort
The core pumps
scarlet liquid
through upper
and lower
sections
It splits me
carries me
in all
different
directions
I end up
in the cortex
I alter
gray matter
I fumble
with your strings
I am the annex
of your receptors
I am a helpful
benefactor
I control
your flow
of information
your hunger
and your memory
in return
you are
worry-free
I make you happy
to be
I am THC.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
I saw Peter Cottontail.
I swear I did. It was he!
He was in a bar last night,
And he WASN'T drinking tea!
Sitting next to him, I said,
"Hey, ol' Pete, ol' buddy, ol' guy---
You've got time to take a break?
How so? Please, tell me why."
"Cut me some slack," the poor guy said.
"Humans have a nasty habit
Of placing incredible expectations
On this weary, forlorn rabbit.
"Hiding billions of eggs, come on!
I'm not omnipotent, as you must know.
This task has been ****** upon me
Since a long time ago.
"What's more, I find it rather disgusting
And NOT in any manner funny
When I see a kid chomping
On a chocolate Easter bunny.
"Furthermore, to pass on baby
Rabbits as an Easter present
Is NOT from MY point of view
A practice I'd call very pleasant.
"And as to candy resembling chicks,
To me it seems so surreptitious
When you're saying, 'Oh, how cute!'
But really thinking, 'How delicious!'
"I think it's time to pass the baton
To another generous benefactor.
I don't care who it is;
Find a willing, starving actor.
"I suggest an Easter squirrel,
An Easter bear, or Easter goose.
With so much on my plate there's no
Time to even reproduce."
I left poor Peter there at the bar
As he switched to drinking brandy.
I hope that he is able at least
To pass out all of his eggs and candy.
-by Bob B
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
Does the poet live his own words
Measures up to what his verses promise
Strives for the heights his thoughts reach
Plays the part his writings reflect
Goes to any length to be good
Rids himself of all meanness
Is generous kind faithful trustworthy in his personal life
A lover a friend an aide a benefactor,
Or at the end of the day
Just a preacher
Who never is as tall as his sermons
But remains a run-o-mill guy
Who endowed with poetic skill
Spins in self-deceit webs of lies!
Does a poet ever endeavor
To become a poetry in motion?
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC