Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
galaxy of myths May 2017
They'll cut off my stalks
if I blow the other way
snip, snip, snip, shorter.

-m.b
People wonder, how can Christ, be all things to everyone?
Without the proper perspective, Truth can be missed.
So carefully consider some ideas presented here,
before these spiritual concepts are mistakenly dismissed.

To the BUILDER, Christ is the Sure Foundation.
To the ARCHITECT, He is the Chief Corner Stone.
To the GEOLOGIST, He is the Rock of Ages.
To the SCULPTOR, He is the Living Stone.

To the STUDENT, Christ is the Incarnate Truth.
To the PHILOSOPHER, He is the Wisdom of God.
To the BANKER, He is the Hidden Treasure.
To the PREACHER, He is the Word of God.

To the DOCTOR, Christ is the Great Physician.
To the SERVANT, He is the Good Master.
To the THEOLOGIAN, He is the Author of our Faith.
To the EDUCATOR, He is the Great Teacher.

To the JEWELER, Christ is the Pearl of Great Price.
To the ARTIST, He is the One Altogether Lovely.
To the HORTICULTURIST, He is the True Vine.
To the FLORIST, He is the Lily of the Valley.

To the STATESMAN, Christ is the Desire of all Nations.
To the CARPENTER, He is the Eternal Door.
To the PHILANTHROPIST, He is the Unspeakable Gift.
To the LAWYER, He is the Lawgiver, Advocate and Counselor.

To the BIOLOGIST, Christ is the Life.
To the ENGINEER, He is the New and Living Way.
To the TOILER, He is the Giver of Rest.
To the SINNER, He is the Lamb Who takes all sin away.

Our Christ is a multi-faceted personality,
Who has something for everyone who comes to Him.
Therefore, we should continue to rejoice in Who He is,
by offering heart-felt praise through songs and hymns.



Author notes
Loosely based on:
Col 1:15-18; 2 Tim 2:19; Eph 2:20; Isa 26:4; 1 Pet 2:4-12;
Matt 28:20; Cor 1:24; John 1:1; Heb 12:2; Jer 17:14; Matt 19:16-17;
John 1:3; Matt 16:13-17; John 3:1-2; Matt 13:45; John 15:1;
SoS 2:1; Hag 2:7; John 10:7; Cor 9:15; James 4:12; 1 John 2:1-2;
Isa 9:6-7; John 14:6; Heb 3:1-4:13; John 1:29

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.


This poem is not meant to serve as an all encompassing list of professions; for example, here are a few more viewpoints not mentioned:

To the BAKER, He is the Living Bread.
To the JUDGE, He is the Righteous Judge of all Men.
To the NEWSPAPER, He is the Good Tidings of Great Joy.
To the OCULIST, He is the Light of the Eyes.
To the SOLDIER, He is the fortress.
To the CHRISTIAN, He is the Son of the Living God, the Savior, the Redeemer and the Lord.
Carla Marie May 2013
Cuz there is power in being a woman… power in being the mrs… and
Cuz he is the type of man that will still do it… even if I don’t…
I may one day… on the grounds that he has forgotten to appreciate me… just quit my job… and
refuse to think of anything more strenuous than
How i would love to punch Judge Judy cuz she's rude... I will
Get up each morning… put on my face…and something casually chic…
Fluff out my hair… clip on some earrings… and when I am all dressed...
Sit at the table and drink coffee…
For as long as I feel like it…
Then I will stare at the walls
for so long that I begin to see pictures in the
texture of the paint…
become a closet horticulturist… and grow things…
lots of things… and write poem… after poem… after poem…
until I’m exhausted and have to go to bed… and that will be the only place
that I put in real work… there I will allow him to run his hands over and through my
rolls and creases… lick all the sticky nasty places… that he can’t lick on just anybody… drip sweat
on me…  and ****** loudly…  cuz it’s good… and he can’t help it… and
finally when he has my juices from his eyebrows and his beard… to his chest and his thighs…
he will be snoring… and
my real work will be done…
I may then get up… slip on satin… and fix him one’a those
Spell casting louisiana dinners… if he’s been sweet to me… or
If he has again forgotten to appreciate me… and
Cuz there is power in being a woman… power in being the mrs
I may just sit at the table and drink coffee
For as long as I feel like it…
and grow things…
lots of things...
And write poem … after poem…
Star Gazer Jul 2016
It had watched
her grow in a way
that a horticulturist
watched its own
creation sprout
and blossomed.
She had grown
like a rose; filled
with her own
thorns upon herself
that only came
to hurt others that
got too close but
in her own way,
beautiful.

Before every sunrise
It had opened its eyes
with a clank, like a coin
rattling inside a coin-
filled purse.
It was there to provide
the ambience of peak-
hour traffic; "Get off the
******* road you
******* lunatic. Where'd
you learn to ******* drive?"
would be the sound
that she woke up to every
morning. She has had
guests comment on its
vulgarity; but she defended
that it soothed her every
morning, and though
it was a recording
projected from speakers;
guests and visitors,
would denounce 'it'
as well as refute their
acceptance of 'it'.
She would gently tell it;
you're the best alarm,
and if she did not get up;
it would pull on her arm,
so she was always
moving in accordance to
her schedule.

She had been an orphan;
She still exists and lives,
as an orphan with her
orphan blood running
through her bloodstream;
and those who never
could understand what
it was like to be an orphan
would mutter "so you don't-
have a mum or dad, so what
it's not a big ******* deal;
it ain't like you're going to
be successful even if you did".
So came every night, though
the moon glowed upon her
pretty little face, she had
tears stream down her cheeks
that would reflect the moon's
gentle glow against her.
In a hollow home, nay!
In a hollow house, she
felt as though her sanity
was only stored by the whirring,
the buzzing, the sound that
mimicked a refrigerator from a
time before refrigerators were
considered 'in need of perfecting'.
On every night, it would read to her,
'as a mommy and daddy would'; she'd
use to say. Though it never had
an exciting tone and only ever
spoke in a monotonous way, she said
it had the mechanisms of being
the perfect parent a parent should
pursue to be.
It would read, every night 'Goldilocks
and the three bears' and though she had
grown up and grown old, it would
continue to read the same book and edition
as she had wanted. To her, listening to a
story was less to do with the story but
more to do with the comfort and reminder
that there is normalcy in her life that
mimics those of the child she had envied
at school. It would always after the
monotonous reading of 'Goldilocks
and the three bears', would include
a joke; "Do you wonder why the bears
had beds? I bet they bearly slept on them",
and though the joke was told a couple
thousand times, she had always giggled
at it's little joke. In the night, It would
close it's eyes, clank.

On one evening, she had invited a
male friend over for the night, it
would stand steadily still, inoperable
until commanded by her. It never
understood her connection to the
male friend, but it wasn't built to
understand. It watched as her mouth
connected to the male friend, it was
built with a action deciphering sequence,
so it determined that she was giving
him Cardiopulmonary resuscitation in a
standing position due to her lack of training.
It continued to let off its whirring sound,
an ordinary day ambient to her ears, but not
so much for her male friend. Her male friend,
in a quick procession of pushing her lips away to
saying "YOU'RE A FREAK. why do you have a
killing machine in your house?" He stormed out
before she even had a chance to explain its role
in her life.

In a stern and loud voice she screamed
'I want you to die!' and it responded in a gentle
voice, "what colour did you want to dye it?",
"******* and die!" she shouted with a flaring red face.
It did what it always does, responded to every command;
"There is no king here. That is an impossible request. Do
you have any other queries?" it had said in the most gentle
and softest voice that seemed almost like a whisper had it
not been monotonous. She shouted once again,
"DIE!" and as routine, it responded "A die is a cube
fitted with numbers to arrange a probability situation.
The sample space of a die is one to six".

She, tired of hearing it, muttered the words that
her late billionaire parents and maids regarded
as taboo; "PERMANENT TERMINATION!
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY! I don't need you,
I have a cell phone, it does all that you do."

'My job is done'
Said the android
As it closed its eyes
One final time.
**Clank
An interesting thing happened before the election,
both parties were rooting for their chosen candidate
with fever pitched excitement.
David and I favored the
Biden/Harris ticket.
in fact, first time ever we planted
a sign on our front lawn.

Everyday felt like a horse race.
Then one evening as we went
for a relaxing stroll,
we ran into a neighbor who was
an avid horticulturist,
he was perched on the side
of the road examining wildflowers
he looked at us and
said, "I don't mean to be political
but do you know what this flower is called?"
I said, "Daisy?" It was a small
dainty daisy looking blossom
he said, "It's called the
Biden family Daisy."  
Both David and I gasped with delight
What an auspicious omen,
all was boding well for Biden/Harris.

Then post election, after Biden/Harris
won the presidency
and the fervor and tension calmed down,
I noticed on a morning jaunt
Biden Daisy families exploding in size.
They romped through
urban street meadows, neighborhood lawns
sides of the road,
their jolly miniature white and
yellow pinwheel faces
bobbing in the breeze.

Suddenly my eyes caught
something quite unusual,
the white pearl petals on some of
the Biden family daisies
had transformed into
vibrant purple amethyst petals
"How Royal!" I thought to myself
and befitting our new leaders
I have laid lilies at your door, close your eyes and smell them; there is nothing pretentious about them.

There is no bill enclosed in the greeting card nor needle tucked between  the stems. It has been a gesture of love, simple things that grow
like moss on rocks and pearls in oysters

I have laid them gently, made a horticulturist of myself

I have worn big hats and ventured into my own fields
to snip the loviest of the bunch –and in my basket I always gather for two.

One for my kitchen table and the other one for you
Bryant Aug 2018
These days are for the daisies, accented with juniper and babies breath
A gazebo beneath a tree like shade on a cloudy afternoon

With our glasses more vertical than not; I drink you in and swear away the day

She smiles, because I stare off for long periods of time
Reasoning, that I don't want her to catch me gazing at what I have no right to love

A gardener's guilt
Plucking the ripe and ready
It's the time of season for cessation
The paradoxical harvest
An event of sustenance and death

A consumer has no sensation other than taste
A carnivore only taste one flavor

Your flesh on the vine
A rare and coveted commodity
Past vintages become quartets of meaningless digits, like discarded combinations on a constantly changing tumbler

The fortuitous ones will eventually get their chance, but only after the
horticulturist has gotten his fill

For I have forced breath into you
Developing your unique character
With subtle augmentations to your composition; and experience above all else

Only the most bitterly tortured fruit becomes wine of notoriety
A sadistic vintner periodically sampling the evolution of his wares

Very often the inflictions are bored by both master and slave

I feel it in you
It's the only time I do
Feel
Misery is contingent upon company

A fool's philosopher
With flawless adages and quips

He is no different

Eventually we all will be met with the contradictions of our exasperated convolutions

Then where will you be?

Why, you have been made golden!
A hopewell beacon amongst the treacherous and ******
You are now nebulous and immaculate
Like the figure encased with in the marble

Does the sculpture recall the stripping sensation induced by the artisanal hands of the craftsman?

Or is it's ears filled with the clamoring?

Ingrates and dolts who only appreciate the product rather than the steadfast passions of it's means

Amongst the gawking gazers I am indistinguishable; as you are now to me
RSB Jan 2020
If you bloom as a flower
I will be your horticulturist
If you shine as a moon
I will become a twilight
If you take me in your arms
I will be your heartbeat
If you need fresh air
I will be the fragrance
If you ask to be loved
I will be your lover
Jamie Walker Feb 2020
Waiting for sleep like expecting a train
at an abandoned station,
I wait for it to take me away
to carry me to a better place.

My heart races against the drumming rain
but the rain, it always wins
My eyes are vacant while my head gets heavy
filling up with rain.

Waiting for sleep like waiting
for the solitary mournful whistle
of a distant ship
to become music.

My mind a ****-choked patch of waste ground
that could have been a beautiful garden
but I am no horticulturist
I am only waiting for sleep.

J.Walker February 2020
Dan was the poorest assistant horticulturist in northeast Cleveland who 1 day happened upon Mary, the daughter of the owner of 4 Burger King restaurants. Each time Mary would bend over in black bikini ******* Dan would smile because he knew that after his promotion he'd have enough money to buy black bikini ******* for himself, so he wouldn't have to waste valuable time looking at her anymore.

— The End —