"crisscrosses" poems
One of many apologetic arguments
is an application of Game Theory,
as defined by “Pascal’s Wager”;
ideas of infinite gain make leery
skeptics doubt a likely existence
of an omnipotent and omniscient God,
Who is worthy of our time and talent.
They believe this premise is flawed,
as they willingly bet against Hell,
damnation and its infinite losses;
the discussion, of rational thought
and atheistic stances, crisscrosses
mental boundaries in search of Truth.
Is finite loss of luxury and pleasure
worth the Christian lifestyle today?
Where are you storing your treasures?
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Gen 1; Matt 6:19-20 and
More info on Wikipedia
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
Amazon
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
They call me Subject B.
Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,
legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,
inside a playground
that ignores my miming,
shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.
Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.
Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.
I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
Artist
That’s what you said you were.
But are you really?
Coming to my doorstep with the promise of blues
And reds
And all shades of purple.
With your paintbrushes
Set and new.
You said every stroke
Was me and unique
That every curve was
Drawn
and accentuated
to perfection.
Unware was I to what you were going to steal…
Because what you left me with was raw
Blacks
and reds
in crisscrosses
and arms
legs and
hearts torn apart
with bitter irony.
Every stroke
was inevitable
and laced with
the real scent
of horror.
I was the canvas.
But did that make me a work of art?
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
Day
Crisscrosses
With night,
Somehow manages
To touch the other's hand
Even if
One is allergic
To the heat
And the other,
A fear of the dark.
There's a striking
Balance in the
Muted gray
Of the groggy sky—
A scenery
Not very much unlike
That
Of a slumbering owl
And a waking wren,
One creature
In cahoots
With the darkness
And the other
Perhaps too
With light.
Both,
Sing very
Different songs—yet
Both
Seem to arrive
At the same purpose:
Which is to see
What the other
Really is made of
Beyond the light
And shroud—
Touch maybe even
Forbidden wings and
Quietly
Sing some more;
In this habitat
Of shadows
They—we—will not be bothered.
So sing, wren,
Your truest of songs:
"Good morning,
"Good morning,
"The day is
"But coming,"
So sing, owl,
Your truest of songs:
"Good evening,
"Good evening,
"The night is
"But leaving."
And so now kiss, night,
The plodding day.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
There's a man in a purple shirt
eating ice cream
at eight in the morning,
a lady in a wheel chair
putting on lipstick
& an elderly couple
sitting
across from me
figuring out their smart phone.
Jim Croce croons
about time in a bottle
as the tapping of shoes
crisscrosses the concourse.
A baby screams
and three workers
converse in Espanol.
The ticket-taker types frantically
on her keyboard
as Mr. Nice guy
is longer,
he's ****** about
his missing reservation.
And me,
silent as can be,
sits here alone
banging away on my own cell,
connected to another world,
oblivious to those around me.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
[Amy Wright: Here too there are tears for things]
When asked how to be of use, clenched when the hand
yearns for consumption – nothing was happening and when
you look within the azure you will see the multitude
of sun’s tireless handkerchiefs bleating in the distance.
Today is Saturday, and nothing else was happening.
I used to lament over the cities you have turned over,
and within the same day, found they were susceptible
to consummate within a name – an arena for collision,
of all the crisscrosses and the winds that mark our places,
to all ships making their way, traversing into the lateral voyage,
the undertakings our sure fear: we do not know how to be involved.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
The
trees are gone
the
entrance is covered
by
synthetic lawn,
tech-savvy
codes
crisscrosses
the
dorm.
Should
the
eager beavers
remember a mother's scorn.
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 4:44 PM UTC
Forty tears were pooled in his eyes.
A reality of hardship sunk in
Capsizing a boat of fears.
his parents had left him a penniless bloke
his time would be spent trying to stay afloat
The daily news would house all the jahbs
the other families & friends were pointing him away from trouble
He would meet a new boss.
A stomach never tiring of crisscrosses
When he sat -down inspection began
Was he trusted to be a stan
Finally accepted he began forging minerals
The door closed at the home.
The company issued tools.
Heavy iron forged together with mighty wood.
Clear yellow lights illuminated the mine’s dark
A new spot would be all to him.
He began picking and digging
The earth's rocks, and dirt.
Learning other names was to be his strong suit.
But ability and strength left him with cahoots.
Soon heart's pumped laughs
Sending echo’s down the earth mine's shaft
Curing the ailed eyes
Of a boy with no ties
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
i thank god
for the sideway glimpses,
for the sweet
and the unkind
serendipity
of this moonbeam
peeking through
the blank spaces
of my palimpsest
i thank the universe
for the smoke
of the cigars
and the dreary
of the nights
despite the
loudmouthed neighbors,
of the plethora
of chances,
the crisscrosses
of the ground
and the junctions
where we meet
i thank the heavens
i no longer
have to bleed
an ink,
it’s enough
that you make
me feel
i thank my angels
as they take you
with me
in my dreams
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC