"horticulturist" poems
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.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
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…
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
They'll cut off my stalks
if I blow the other way
snip, snip, snip, shorter.
-m.b
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
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
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 7:38 PM UTC
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
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 11:37 PM UTC
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
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC