"branding" poems
I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn
That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm
Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch
And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one
That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried
So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived
The package arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed
Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes
Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need
Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown
We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat
But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town
I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound
So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
The anger in them rises
cause they’ve lost their inner Light;
gone are their chances for Love;
so they rail against the night…
without an understanding.
When blinded by defeat’s grief,
they lash out with their hatred.
Jealous of your victory,
their vitriol is blood red-
stuck in misunderstanding.
Serve Christ and His Kingdom, while
covered with His holiness;
please Him during Life’s routines;
shine brightly with Righteousness.
Live your Life with Faith’s branding.
Wear holy armor each day;
let your joy attract the lost;
revel in Faith’s contentment;
remain grateful for The Cross
and show Love’s understanding!
When you really consider it,
there’s no reason for a debate;
Love doesn’t justify itself,
seeing that… haters gonna hate!
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Prov 9:7-12; 1 Tim 6:6
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Let my words trace your silhouette,
a phantom’s caress, lingering yet.
Each syllable a brush of desire,
kindling sparks, igniting fire.
Lines flow like molten gold,
writing secrets your skin won’t withhold.
Every curve, every plane,
etched in whispers that call your name.
They cascade down, slow and sure,
filling spaces you long to endure.
A tempest builds, fierce and untamed,
branding softly, your soul renamed.
Breathless heat, a searing tide,
our untold story where passions collide.
My words, a map, a lover’s art,
binding you fast, heart to heart.
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
Let my words run down your body,
Wrap around you, branding softly.
Fingerprint trails, smoke rising thin,
Sizzling heat under your skin.
Scorching my path, marking the line,
Each touch whispers, "You are mine."
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 7:05 PM UTC
land's moniker
mulls utmost care
Kalinga
branding the ox
of men with glaringly
immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
reticence.
chase angel-ward, the synopsis
of meaningfulness,
jagged, indelible accoutrement
akin to the brand of
chaste heritage,
galvanizing this epitaph
with aesthetic nativity,
gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
carve in me what the rippling
shrill of air has toppled
in the highlands
you have us shaking the blood
of this archipelago like boughs
breaking free from water's ebb,
frenzied by the river-warm
serpentine embellishment
the strike of the thorns
mints in our untouched bodies!
altogether in this numerous hike
we go in pursuit, hunting the
nibble from flesh to bone,
revealing the rebel, body
to soul.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
Good luck forgetting me
Because like the color of my hair
You'll remember me as a flame
That burned a path through your life
Good luck forgetting me
Because like a foreign taste
You'll always remember
My exquisite and lingering flavor
Good luck forgetting me
Because like hot coffee you drink too fast
You'll remember the burn I leave
Every time your tongue touches the roof of your mouth
Good luck forgetting me
Because like the branding animals receive
You'll remember the mark I've left
Claiming that you're my man
Good luck forgetting me
Because like homemade food you're fond of
You'll remember me every time a new girl touches your lips
And reminisce on how I was better
Good luck forgetting me
Because I'm the girl who took you down,
Like no one else could;
I'm the girl you'll never forget
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
The 'D' printed,
with the harsh corners of the-
Ariel in which I lay
dead,
on it's scar-branding curve.
I failed.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
Gebroken
verslonden
kapot
de muren
de vloer
waar ik sta
het is ingestort
buiten
en van binnen
Elke steen ooit gelegd is gevormd door jouw handen
neergelegd met een precisie als geen ander
het cement zo sterk, dat het elk blok omarmde
de muren
de vloer
waar ik sta
niets anders dan puin
buiten
en van binnen
Alles omarmende warmte wat eruit raasde
alsof het nooit zo is geweest, zoekend als dwazen
hetgeen wat we ooit als een rots in de branding voorzagen
de muren zijn weggeblazen
de vloer onder mijn voeten weggevaagd
waar ik sta
niets anders dan puin
buiten
en van binnen
Oorverdovende herrie dat het maakte
toen één voor één de stenen vielen
de hemel brak open
evenals het geluid van binnen, nu buiten, schreeuwend en krakend
geen muren
geen vloer
waar ik sta
niets anders dan puin
buiten
en van binnen
Wat ooit geborgen was, staat nu vrij om te raken
zo geschiedt, het lag immers open voor de gevaren
tot de blik op de edelen haar ***** verraadde
het werd zichtbaar, de klok tegen het geheime wapen
geen muren
geen vloer
waar ik sta
niets anders dan stenen
buiten
en van binnen
Als gegeven lagen ze er voor het oprapen
een voor een tot aan de daken
met eigen handen gebouwen om te bewaken
opende het de deuren tot alle ramen
de muren
de vloer
waar ik sta
niets anders dan stenen
buiten
en van binnen
Het haard inmiddels geladen
wat koud en kil was, is met volle vuren nu rustig aan het garen
tot in elke hoek weer een keer de zachte adem heeft geblazen
lege ruimtes langzaam gehuld in verhalen
de muren
de vloer
waar ik sta
niets anders dan stenen
buiten
en van binnen
Stap bij stap is elk blok aangeraakt, vormend in lagen
van buiten naar binnen en van binnen naar buiten, het is omgeslagen
met stenen, hand gesmeden
opnieuw de warmte in gekneden
van jou overgedragen op mij, een thuis door gekregen
de muren
de vloer
waar ik sta
alleen maar juwelen
buiten
en van binnen.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
I crave your taste upon my tongue. Stinging my senses with the sweetest poisonous honey.
I want my demise at your hands, softly stroking my skin as my sighs fill your ears. As the tingles on your neck send thoughts to me that any father would demand we repent for.
The taste of your fingertips on my tongue, blinding me to judgement and the stories of Greek mythology that end in a demise created from carnal desire. I want you to destroy me in sweetest way.
Falling down a rabbit hole of sin, and reckless abandonment. The taste of you overwhelmingly clogging my senses, and my teeth softly attached to the skin on your neck. Taking over you with abandonment.
I want your marks upon my flesh, branding me and reminding me how long this may last. I am at your alter begging for release. Begging for you, begging to find me. Begging for your peace.
All I want is you on top of me is you free, and your heavy breathing when we send each other to the places we need to be.
Pretty thoughts tangled in ugly sheets.
Take what you need, and I'll keep the memories.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *********
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, Benny, flickas, sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Your eyes-
coal black fire
mirrors of my desire
Your mouth-
warm bath of oaths
bespoken for
Your *******
rouged red-bullet tipped
honeysuckled bliss
Those hips-my reins
move you the way
I need you most
and your kiss-
like a hiss from a dip
of a branding iron
burn me with your lips
and make me yours-
ride me into the abyss
-of sighs.
r ~ 9/25/14
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
As I close my laptop
and it snaps shut
my dog sits up
ears perked,
chest puffed, and
at the ready for
me to stand up
and grab a leash
and a plastic bag
for his ****
And he knows this routine
because it has been seared
into his brain with the white-hot
branding iron
of repetition.
A force of nature.
A category-five hurricane.
We laugh at them
for chasing their tails
when the microwave dings,
for salivating at bells,
but
I am no better than they are.
The same routines
are seared into my brain, too—
stimulus, response
stimulus, response
eat, sleep, **** walk, ****
love, reproduce, etc.
and I will continue to do so
aimlessly
just like Ivan Pavlov said I would.
One day I’ll find myself
like he’ll find himself—
lying on a cold slab
in a sterile room
only half alive
aghast at how quickly youth slipped away
but otherwise numb
as loved ones circle around,
hands over their mouths,
horrified
to press the button.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
%%
It’s about leveraging potential income
to enhance output-maximizing sustainability …
It’s about de-funding unsustainable income outcomes.
It’s about results-based data-enhanced paradigm shifts.
It’s about demobilizing upward mobility:
dis-empowering gentrification
by underfunding the over-entitled.
It’s about de-funding unsustainability
until the immeasurable metric is globally assimilated.
It’s about the designated data-driver.
It’s about memes as theme schemes.
It’s about complicating competence
through collaboration in collusion –
intentionally replicating re-branding –
effectively identifying best practices of the best-dressed actresses
until the girl in the t-shirt says “meh”.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
And then we are called Negro’s
and feel like that is so much better.
As if it’s not the same derogatory word
now its just more “sophisticated.”
Used in lyric like it’s the only word that rhymes with everything.
Since its 2010 you think we are not like Emmett Till, but we are.
The only difference is we shoot our own guns and one by one we make our own selves obsolete.
The “N” word flowing out of the mouths of our newer generations as if it’s the government given name stamped on every black persons’ birth certificate.
Like there was never a revolution
Like there was never a fight to bring us up to what is seemingly equal to everyone else.
You are what brings us down again.
Hearing the yells of one black man to another in conversation “can a ***** get…”
(insert a stereotypical ending here)
No a ***** can’t get nothin’. That is what has been repeatedly told to the race as a whole.
Burned into our minds like the branding of a cow.
Each time the “N” word is uttered out of another’s mouth its like a gravitational pull that scientist have yet to discover.
More powerful than any black hole.
Like ***** in a barrel. We strive to keep the others at our level.
Ask Fredrick Douglas, it’s his expertise…
As he was one of the original ****** Breakers; we have multiplied the frequency and have unknowingly become professionals at something we never strived to be.
The “N” word flows out of our mouths and through the air like the historical dance it took to get us here.
The dance we have long forgotten but our bodies seem to react the same way whenever an Anglo-Saxon uses our coveted word.
Like it wasn’t the word they yelled as they made permanent welts on our backs that would last generations
Like it wasn’t what they yelled at us to strip away every individualistic quality
They referred to us as if we were herds
Like it wasn’t their term to begin with. We should let them have it.
We are like the modern generations of our ancestral princes and princesses of Africa.
As powerful as they once were, we have mastered fields that others wish they had a chance to accomplish in.
We were built to overcome any obstacle.Other than the obstacle of getting out of our own way.
It is no longer like the underground railroad.
There are no hounds chasing us through the waters.
****** should no longer be the tether that holds us down
We have the ability to soar like a majestic bird that shall always remain unnamed.
As ****** we are nothing. As African American’s we are an impenetrable strength.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
Oh Bard, wielding a tool mighty and spiky
Mightier than either the sword or rod,
You reign as monarch in fancy’s domain
Sketching life in all variety and mode
Which with pain and strife fraught
Or bright with gaiety and grace
In finer yarn than the gossamer thread
On a fabric of words in befitting verse
You steal away from the noisy crowd
Into the stillness of the cloistered cell
To dwell with Fancy’s mystic charms
Weaving downy dreams at will
You recount forgotten tales of yore
Of ****** battles won and lost,
Of lovers united, amour defiled,
Conjuring memories from abysmal past
You hearken to the moans of lovelorn souls
And sing of beauty in ditties fine
Triggering sparks into flames grow
In umpteen hearts that pine and whine
Babbling with the brook rushing swift,
Racing with the deer loping past,
You wander into mysterious woods
Where flowers, their richest odors cast
Your ears intent on the song of birds
That comes floating from the far off groves
And the whir of cicadas on the bark of trees
Breaking the calm of twilight eves
Alone you saunter the stretching strands,
Watching virulent breakers in fury heave
Often your heart dancing with the tide
And swinging with the rhythm of rising wave
You feast on the gleam of the auburn sun
And the speckled blue of the infinite skies
Watching the day dying in flame
And the night in a diadem of stars vies
All that’s lovesome meets your eyes
And commune to you in profuse delight
Which you turn into rhyme and rhythm
For the whole of mankind to devour and digest
From your harp flow symphonies sweet
Songs of longing, love and lust
Of idyllic happiness, peace and bliss,
Fuelling hearts with vigorous zest
Though outlawed by the great sage of Greece,
Branding the poet, aberrant and a fool
Oft beneath the façade of his wayward thoughts,
Lie heaps of wisdom for the discerning soul.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
To the shy hamlet vivid are the hardships of last year,
how the brazen river had surged in—ravishing, moulding,
branding beyond repair. And yet, when the summer air hums
in the hush before rain, once again, on the crumbling fields
rancid memories give way to emerald reveries.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
How Sweet yet Sorted your Flavours that Are
Branding each ****** where Lust is the Key
Keeping their Thoughts stalled in Wonder that far
Beheld the Heart's Choice you picked out to be
Now in my Learning from Elders since Time
That People regardless are not Hors d'Oeuvres
Nipping that Spread to where Souls are defined
And acknowledge the Praise they so deserve
These are your Customers; Satisfy them
Yet still keep your Person well and maintained
None do they ask for much Sterlings and Sense
Just that Spark to which your Truth is retained.
That Day will come when no Fish will swim by,
Stressed on their Fins with the Bubbles you cry.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
"DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION?"
her heart was a red
fire alarm
going off
with nobody
paying it
any mind
her heart was
an evening hillside
as the sun went down
the light stealing
into the ground
her heart was a favourite
pair of cufflinks
with one link
missing
or an earring found far
too late many many
years later
her heart was a lute
that was mute
unplayed for
many many moons
her heart
was a house
burningburningburning down
razed to the ground
the sneer of her
pyromanic lover
lost in the shadows
her heart was
the junk mail
that came in one door &
out the other
instant *******
she felt as if someone
had pressed DELETE
her heart was
a crystal ball
that could foretell
nothing....nothing at all
her heart was
a knocked over cheap cocktail
that left a nasty stain
on the carpet...on the wall
her heart was
a tiny torn pink knapsack
that held all
she had known
her heart was
the forgotten iron
branding itself into
her nice new blouse
her heart was
a poppy seen
from a passing train
there&gone again
her heart
full of the perfume
of memories that refused
to ever
...go away.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas
Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas
Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas
Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas
**
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
I sang
The words
Of
Silence
I sang
The words
Of
Pain
I sang
The words
Of
Damnation
I sang
The words
That I
Meant
I remember these words
Vibrating
Inside my throat
Clawing outward
I remember these words
Burns on my arms
Branding me
With names and numbers
Words that soothe
Yet still
Ache
I sang
The words
That
Blind you
© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, and the flickas sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
DEAR JUSTICE,
Every act that day
revealed their involvement,
in their regions, blood pools lay,
as deep dug the predicament,
death and displacement left all awry,
cries of agony crawled, crumbling all.
JUSTICE! They have drawn a blank today,
branding them WAHESHIMIWA, the gall,
visiting us with ‘aid’ and false word, here in the tent,
where they just shove us in the recent,
their dope remains in minds of the awakened,
in those suits we see spooks good at demolishing
stretch your hand and dispense a mete from them
for in you we reckon that they will pay.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC