"messianic" poems
I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******
More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ********* fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic ***** How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.
4.9k
there’s a semblance
of order
in the pink eye
of the street man
(that messianic soul
caught deep
in the binary)
glancing on
with rose colored glasses
and magical spoons
skimming whimsically
(and cocksure)
dancing on the
crab grass
with his
home grown *****
and cheroot
lost in a dialogue
(complete with
wink and jest)
embracing
the day with
spontaneity and cheer
grinning profoundly
(an incomprehensible grin!)
covering a nicked
and scarred
ear to ear
summer drought
or winter rain
are indifferent
in this mind
(culling on his own terms
with a honed discretion)
pundits would say
that he spoke
in a broken crow
or nigerian slang
(but only he knows
that eloquence)
cloaked, and head steady
behind whispers
of tavener
(he had always
said they were enough)
he gets on
with the rosary
to find
comfort lost
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
The priestly poachers of belief within
The solitudarianism of times wilderness
Laughing at twilight,
Condemning actions purifying justification
The dark ages of Heaven
Reigning Hell amongst men
The mouth the mother of the spiritual pearl
Attributing demonic accepting
Exhaling death upon believing angels
Periodically living bewildered
Reckoning with love the feeling of caring;
Calling the missing, missing the calling
Within ones self forgetting the reasoning
Watching the rain remembering
Crying, over hallowed graves
Collecting ivory teeth.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
my brother is the safe environment I’ve created for the history of my lord. political awareness, I mean, I mean, is a darkness. my eyeglasses tell me you’ve been to see a train station. do animals wait? several impatient years later, two blindfolded mouth-breathers walk cheek to cheek in an Ohio fog that combs forward worms the length of a screen name on craigslist. I am nearly pronouncing krokodil until my tongue disappears so I can pronounce it correctly for my mother’s not frostbit ear. as for the two, they are mistaken by the disembodied poetics of local policing as the trophy nose of an odd-for-these-parts moose. any re-enactment is my father the victim of a spirited birth.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Ms. Miss Me
Messes with the mess
Of Me
Messianic Masonic Messiah
Making mountainous modules
Manufactured from the make-shift
Makings of my soul
Which lifts me
Higher than before
It’s
Mysterious mysticallity
How you made me
After you met me
The misogynistic misogamist misfit
Meets Ms. Perfect
You misled me
You knew I didn’t want to fall in love
I mistreated you
And now
I miss seeing you
Mr. Missed Her
Mistakenly misunderstood
Her magic
For a trick
My mania must mean
I’m
Malevolently maiming my mind
Never mind me
NO!
Forever mind me
You’re forever mine
Even if only in the mind
My metal moccasins
Stump through
The mine field
On my quest to find you
Again
Constant explosions
Milling
A million
M-80’s to make
A metaphor
Of the fire within
The fireworks
I mean
Hopefully the fire works
I destroyed your
Mint commission
I meant condition
Your mint condition
Was devalued
From my mixed intentions
And messages
Monotonous tasks
To get you back
I get your back
And stay forever
In your past
Empty
M.T.
Mt. Empty
You built me
Just to leave me
Empty
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Into the depths of untold depravity,
a perfect creation had fallen away;
unimagined grace poured out from our God above -
As His Hand of wrath was firmly stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
subtly calls for the World's attention.
Since the dawn of everlasting time,
our Savior awaited His appointed day;
despite humanity's race to certain doom -
His Hand of wrath was intentionally stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
continues to demonstrate His gift of Salvation.
The twinkling stars danced across the midnight blue
as songs arose from the angelic array;
quietly the Messianic babe in a manger lay -
As His Hand of wrath was lovingly stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
serves as a testament of Love's perfection.
A carpenter's son? He's just a man!
His godly claim on earth displayed
had believers searching for purest faith -
His Hand of wrath was securely stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
reminds that our debt was paid for sin's violation.
In the face of false accusations,
Christ held His tongue to Pilate's dismay,
for God's plan played out for all to see -
As His Hand of wrath was purposely stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
is a backdrop for a risen Lord calling us with adoration.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
This is a collaboration piece with Mr. Jeffrey Jordan of Wichita Falls, Texas.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC
I read some poems badly and in bad light, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR3w2eHYE5Q
from 12.9.13
messianic allure
my brother is the safe environment I’ve created for the history of my lord. political awareness, I mean, I mean, is a darkness. my eyeglasses tell me you’ve been to see a train station. do animals wait? several impatient years later, two blindfolded mouth-breathers walk cheek to cheek in an Ohio fog that combs forward worms the length of a screen name on craigslist. I am nearly pronouncing krokodil until my tongue disappears so I can pronounce it correctly for my mother’s not frostbit ear. as for the two, they are mistaken by the disembodied poetics of local policing as the trophy nose of an odd-for-these-parts moose. any re-enactment is my father the victim of a spirited birth.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
On late the by-lanes one night,
unusual spot I green, a bottle
like any, but for words, may be,
on the label printed:
'Old wine. Hamlin. Best before: the future'
Scarred, the mouth, to fire
a rocket used, ringing in a day
when celebrating, a hero,
Goliaths thumped by a David new.
Hope, on the horizon, the word rising.
Threw it away, almost I, when
reversed comes, rolled up a parchment,
by ash burned, from the ******* a part:
a mix strange of clippings and retort.
Marked, astonished, the date, I: was it
from today, even of TV, a listings part;
'...mesmerized by the language of hope';
'Parks fill up as people gather to celebrate';
'Our democracy is alive and how'.
Of proportions messianic, news frothing
how new born, a leader is. Familiar all :
myself now, from one such, returning.
But curious, written, the words indeed:
*'Monuments wear and rivers thin,
as boatmen sing the evening song,
miracle-workers and peddlers of
honey and mead, pipers at the gates
of dawn, not men of mettle and deed'*
Of a piper, suddenly, as in a fantasy
a song, and heard I, helpless, wails
of mothers, a hundred .
Strained, to read, further my eye,
when tore up the piece;
Broke up green, a bottle on the street.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Swarms of
Rabid vultures
Flocked in perilous
Formations, plotting
Their descent
Upon fragile, frail, and
Unsuspecting truths,
Blood soaked moons
Wept their regret,
Over a scorched, and
Barren Earth,
Where justice lay
Entombed within
The broken promise of
Its own fulfillment, and
Waited for the glow of
The messianic light
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
A new search is ongoing,
with Israeli chemists on a trek;
they seek find the color of God,
which was formerly called tekhelet.
Is its significance a harbinger
of future Messianic times?
Can the rabbis or scientists
decipher this dividing line?
It’s an enigmatic shade of blue
that represents God’s infinity
caught between the color spectrum
of visible light and invisibility.
Some experts believe the source,
(though the origin is unknown),
may be the secretive creatures
of antiquity called… the hillazon.
Based on some vague descriptions,
its body resembles the ocean;
can Levitical trade secrets be exposed
with the clarity of resolution?
This divine azure is a key color,
of the high priest’s holy vestments;
for this serves as a reminder to keep
and honor God’s law and commandments.
Allow the penetrating light of God
to serve as a transforming catalyst;
though this mystery of life is unfinished,
know that faith is not an accident.
Open my eyes Lord, that I may see
the royal blue of Your sea
and observe Your sea of the sky,
that depicts the colored backdrop
of the holy throne belonging to Adonai.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Num 15:38-39 and an episode of the Naked Archaeologist;
as part of the dye making process, direct sunlight is
required and serves as a catalyst to modify the color
pigment at the atomic level.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
Nihilistic dreams ooze from open sores
Life devoid of purpose leads us astray
Dogmatic faith sparking mental wars
Ignorant prophets will show you the way
Distorted minds
Fall in line
Always seeking something they will never find
Messianic prophecies from the divine
Violently erode whats left of your mind
When you find this worthless *****
Check your brain at the door
****** of the masses
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 8:53 AM UTC
She’s in sequence
She’s jumping off the deep end
She’s the consequence
She thinks the perfect nonsense
She’s sick of hearing everything I have to say about her psychiatric condition
But I’m not on a mission
To bring her down or **** around or even tamper with the sound waves
So it don’t bother when the ground shakes
Its not a medical mystery
Its not a magical cure for inconvenient diseases
She’s in sequence
Defending all her reasons
Incredibly illogical
They cycle with the seasons
She’s terrified of listening to anyone who notices her crumbling psyche
That’s why it is likely
She’s in sequence, there is no real defense
I wonder if I’m right will she confess it in the present tense
I wanna know why its so impossible now
That her disorder is actually still lingering around
But when subjective absolution comes into the picture
Its hard to understand why she’d deny the scriptures
Of the cobweb concrete convex cortex
Infinite contraction of the brain mountain vortex
She’s in sequence
She won’t admit her weakness
She’s in sequence
Aborting the experience
She’s in sequence
There’s nothing left but sickness
She’s in sequence
She’s in sequence
I don’t care if James Joyce forged her polygraph
I don’t care if Andy Warhol wrote her epitaph
I don’t care if there is nothing left
She’s the most complete person I have ever met
Living without undeniable evidence
Sleeping on top of mechanical pressure pins
Learning to vindicate absolute evil
I wonder how long it will take to make medicine
There is no cure for diseases like these
Only research that robs the last shred of my sanity
I could be vivid when I sell my sympathy
Argument solid I’ll sell it as therapy
Insanity, closure, illusions confuse her
A buffer for paranoid silent attackers
Sentient fiction a battle with friction
A story redundant with each new rendition
A messianic prophecy a weight upon her shoulders
She’s trying to be with someone who cannot even hold her
She treats me like I’m just another one in lin
She makes me feel like I’m wasting her time
She’s in sequence
She’s jumping off the deep end
She’s the consequence
She thinks the perfect nonsense
She’s sick of hearing everything I have to say about her psychiatric condition
But I’m not on a mission
To bring her down or **** around or even tamper with the sound waves
So it don’t bother when the ground shakes
Its not a medical mystery
Its not a magical cure for inconvenient diseases
She’s in sequence
She won’t admit her weakness
She’s in sequence
Aborting the experience
She’s in sequence
There’s nothing left but sickness
She’s in sequence
She’s in sequence
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Pain is getting old, nuisance slug
of toothpaste on a morning suit,
crest of daylight over dry eyes
at the first itch of addiction, processions
of commonplace panic begin
before the kettle comes to boil.
Pain ****** me like an alpha,
chained me to the kitchen sink. The brink
of insanity - messianic car-crashes, dead poets,
and cult leaders occupied our lives. Pain
lived inside, petroleum on fish-scale,
bone upon bone, a lie amongst lies.
Pain came to doctor the fairytale,
black-faced censorship, attention to detail
when forcing guilt under hysterical skies,
a cumulus jury, the persecution of 'I'.
Pain came to go over old grievances,
the people I knew, the friends that I missed.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Perhaps mine eyes are the last to see
Summer’s final rays refracted in red tinged leaves
Shimmering awe with messianic gold
Fall is a time of leaving
Before the coming of the cold
Death in all its glory
Its colored banners fan the air
Reminding once again, the cycles all on Earth must bear
Wait awhile, warm mother
Still bath us in your heavenly host
The grass is good with green to tread
And nighttime lingers with lover’s boasts
Birds singing full-throated songs for you
And one can cast all day
For a dream drenched in the streaming sun
Inner Children outside play
Lying on the gentle pond bank slope, feeling the ruffled emerald embrace
The cacophony of a vibrant world surrounds
The summer soul delights in a lengthening of ways
Yet the season turns, and must have a rest
Knowing that in time……nothing lasts
But Summer please, strike up a merry goodbye tune!
To tide the summer soul over
until next May or June
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Blessed be the death of me
The one and only holy thing I will ever do
Grant me the grace to save face
I loved you all but it's just too much
I've never seen divinity in your trinity
There is a holy war being fought inside my heart
There are wicked angels
Wearing fire halos flying around my head
Threatening to crash and
Burn my mind and
Inside out from my chest
An unwelcome spiritual dissent
I have no faith in your god fearing fathers
I will humbly halve my heart
For the lack of all healing
None of us are righteous rebels
We all stab each other with our sins
With grins on our faces
Great gleaming deceptive teeth bite
Tears tear from my eyes like paper
Rip the pages out of your bibles and
Write a brand new blasphemy
Vile sacrilegious lies with sight glaring
Irreverent immoral makeshift innocence
Devout glory for the ignorant many
Forced fury for the unfaithful few
Hallowed be thy name
Messianic pure morality
Saint sacrosanct
I pray to the sun to extinguish
Or explode to end my anguish
The only thing I truly believe
Is blessed be the death of me
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
a lonely figure
in silence appears
each Christmas year..
might we make his
place more secure..?
recall his namesake
in Egypt's deep past..
Joseph the Viceroy
with many travails
observes a descent
with ascent foreseen..
let us then imagine
this newer Joseph
in silent watch
pondering his name..
with swift recognition
of the ancient Formula
which eternally repeats:
our many steps down
are concealed within
that One step up..
energy so flows
hidden messianic
Light...
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
you drank it all.
alone.
even though there's nothing left
in the bottle,
it is you that feels empty,
transparent,
frail,
like an eggshell that your mother found
in the chicken that your father killed,
that didn't have the chance of the frying pan at least.
you drank it all.
alone.
no Juliet around,
no Shakespeare
no talent,
no tale.
you drank it all.
alone.
no strippers,
no angels,
no thieves!
you drank it all.
some may call it
messianic delusion syndrome,
but I call it..
cheap Chardonnay.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbz9rIxZJBw
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
When you look inside yourself you fit the frame just like everyone else.
Cancer and black holes. I am and i never will.
Cancer and black holes. I am and i never will.
It's all politics, it's all poly ticks
Are swarming inside my head, inside my heart, back and back and forth again.
I am and i never will be a prophet because prophets need testing too.
Messianic tendencies have gotten to me.
Seeds we sow.
It's very. it's very, it's extra ordinary when my friends carry their own crosses i carry their crosses too.
Burden, blood is on their sister's hands.
Sisters and her blisters.
We're all exchanging glances for fashions.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sometimes in life, a preference
Is but the lesser of two evils,
Like choosing ***** or Gemorah;
And sometimes it is a sacrifice,
As palpable as Abraham and Isaac's.
Sometimes choosing means
Standing by the roadside
With your thumb straight out,
Your heart a wide open chasm
To swallow the sinner in you whole,
And blank eyes screaming "I don't know".
Sometimes you're a Tamar,
And people, bless their hearts,
Think you're a Sara or Rebecca
And you just feel like a big ol' Delilah.
Sometimes your face feels like the Red Sea,
Only the dry land is wet with snot,
And sometimes despite it all,
You raise your hands up in the air
And the sun stands still
In the valley of Refaim or Aijalon.
Sometimes your Temple burns,
You realize your body is the loot
And you barely recognize the ornaments.
But even when you're exiled
In the solitude of your own mind,
There remains the promise of redemption,
And whether Messianic or romantic,
You must have faith in the intervention
That will guide you towards the future from Isaiah.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
"By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love among yourselves.” (John 13:35) This commandment is The Messianic Dictum. Sometimes I wonder upon how far aloft my flight my zenith may lie. What dost the apex of my pilgrimage bear?
We all have a future. Love is the ultimate religion. Why? Because “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” (1st Corinthians 13: 7, 8) When we love, we taste eternity upon our palates. Love is the elixir of the soul.
When my life is over, I hope to gaze upon the visage of those who I hold dear. I want to know that I’ve made a difference in the lives of those encompassing me. We all carry subjective burdens, subjective blights. This suffering is the commonality of all creation. Whence we ail together, The Catholicon of Ancients exalts us as one.
The Faith of Dreams is a worldwide denomination, within which we need fellowship. The Universe is our temple, our Cathedral of Dreams. Beneath the firmaments, we all have an abode.
We are all Sparks of the Divine. Fulgurant lovelight glistens in each one of us. The most bedarkened soul can house a diaphanous blaze of light. In light, there is darkness; moreover, in the night, there can reside light.
Dreams can still serve a purpose to the entity inhibited by a worldly lusting. Ultimately, desirelessness is catalyzed by cathexis to the Deifically Divine. We must cleanse ourselves of corporeal desires until we wax holy. “I dream; therefore, I am,” said the sage. If this is true, the substance, the essence, the elixir of life is in upon the Dreamscape.
In truth, any temporal expanse spent in The Chrysalis of the Astral is commensurable with augury. A dream is celestial summoning. Therefore, persevere amidst hardship, borne of tribulation is prophetic fulfillment.
(Se' lah)
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 10:57 AM UTC
In order to create
One must have an opinion!
You cannot be content with the
Overwhelming odds oddly
controlling your life
One must open his mind
and
scream
and be mad
that the world
lacks
his touch upon it
In order to be great
one must place
himself
in the world
and reach outward
until each
messianic moment
can be felt
by all
as fuel
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
She's a messianic complex,
She's way too self-absorbed;
She's not the centre of the universe,
Nor the orbit of my world.
She's not lit beneath the spot light,
She's not the colours of a rainbow;
She's not the sun or inconstant moon,
Nor the North Star of my nights.
She's not the compass for direction,
Nor the warm winds of my winters,
Or the cool rains of my summers;
But she's my predilection,
It may sound misconstrued;
It may be a prediction,
It may as well be true:
*It's hard for me to live this life
If life's not lived with you.*
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC