"ministries" poems
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Forcing an alignment of corporate resources
for some theory of best fit correlation
doesn't work on Kingdom People
when using an unspoken method of tabulation.
If Life is about true spiritual growth,
then why do ministries attempt to pigeon-hole
not making any allowances for us
to develop, expand and break our current mold?
Despite multitudes of outcome possibilities
the Church seems to suffer bouts of paralysis
from the continued mashing of talents and gifts
resulting from unexplained Presbyterian analysis.
There are many ministry leaders who speak of vision -
Their tone indicates that the laity is completely blind and numb;
their message is clear - the Body is not interested
to reach the Earth before Kingdom Come.
We are souls with great, untapped potential
and not just elements of an array.
Despite our abilities and life experiences,
our dreams and desires we're not allowed to convey.
For a failure of Church motivational tricks
comes from cramming God's People into a human matrix.
Author Notes:
From the book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:19 AM UTC
Prelude PEAVEY you give PEAVEY the splendor
Of the PEAVEY CAN I HAVE AN ‘AMEN’!?
How great is our PEAVEY WOOOOOO! The lion and
The PEAVEY name above all YEAH!!!!!
Age to PEAVEY chorus PEAVEY bridge PEAVEY
You are PEAVEY touching my PEAVEY these
Bones will PEAVEY shout your PEAVEY OH YEAH!!!!
We pour out our PEAVEY WOOOOO!!!!! YEAHHHH!!! An’ Lord
We just wanna PEAVEY you YEAH! And WOOOOO!!!
REPEAT 4X PEAVEY YEAH! WOOOOO!!!! We are
God’s PEAVEY AMEN!!!! CAN I HEAR AN ‘AMEN!?’
Food drive PEAVEY outreach ministries PEAVEY
Love offering PEAVEY I worship PEAVEY
Outreach WOOOOO! And Lord we just offer up our
PEAVEY…!!!
(You can always walk away – and I did)
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Shakespeare made a pair
Of two fine young ladies
They were dressed in white
Lily
Dresses
Both avoiding to call their
Mother Mrs.
Twas a funny kid that shakespeare
He moved in a mute way
Never daring to speak
Never saying
But these two ladies remembered that man
With the long fingernails
And the blurry bleak stringy hair
He spoke to them about Jesibels
And spaces mixed with "my"
Ministries with Queen series
Marooned men with their dogs
They sat and listened and were wishin'
That He'd just take them to bed
But all the while Shakespeare was talking
He was also listening
A brain like that just doesn't know what to do
How to act
Where to break the rules and take a quick smack
But these fine ladies, these fine women that should've been
Movin'
Just kept sippin' on their red Pinot Keruoac's
And memory relapses
******* on the tuna marmalade madness in front of'em
That left them both with a deep kinda' sadness sayin "umm"
They finished their meal, those quick two twins
Went to the girly room to wash up, take a face bath
When they came back to the table everything was in disarray
Shakespeare had left with everything
But being a gentlemen
He left on the table
The dinners' pay
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
I will not hide despite the cameras in the sky, nor will i fear the satellites or Internet spies, and i will fight, and i will fight, as to not comply to the lies that co-hearse the norm, into standing idly by, in malformed, and twisted histories, twisting history, into a pearled vision of ministries giving eulogy, to enemies of the light, using light to blind the masses, before the flashes of infertility begin emanating from the cities, under the unity of, We The People, turned predator, under better sedatives that are better delivered, straight to the dream, or belief, of, or in anything.
Dare to dream, turn a blind eye to everything, or just something else, assigned children, or stolen wealth, while warmly held, in foggy hostilities, of those you rarely see, while soldiers of the peace, protect the streets, with covered faces, and powder burned fingers, lingering just out of reach, from the stones that burn the armored cars SAWing through the crowds, with the pulsing sound, of a million hell hounds, hell bound, machine gunning the bodies on the ground, for the pale riders, feeding on the dark horse, on course for a four course meal, leaving hopeless poses, of crying corpses, ashing in the wind of their trail.
Its our blood of defeat that lines the streets with the feed for the beast, as well as that same blood that feeds our victory, as we shall be exactly on time for the end, and the beginning.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
There is no dust to settle,
Two days from land and we are not ready,
The whole year to prepare- poppy seed afternoons
6:00p.m. morning drunks to corroborate nightmare memories.
Where are the aches and the sick bending bone-like threads of
This corpse who romances sallow and pallid warlocks.
Interior flesh ministries unveil festering ****** horrors.
To not go out means chain smoking reds inside.
Plaster the monster over my face so I cannot breathe.
Then the unabashed words can take to the road with pitch forks and
Long, drawn-out misunderstanding. I eat salmonella for preference.
Ashes and soot and dirt and history sew its film atop every surface.
This is not what I thought they meant by life on a deserted island.
There is only me and I am still curious to see if I am advantageous.
Finally they do not wont of me. This is the sorcery I have been executing
In poor forms until this precise moment of lascivious loathe.
If you cannot understand this I am serving the greater good. It is worse to
Misunderstand than not know at all. Let your small hands to the sides of My face and your eyelashes rest atop my head. Lips inside hair.
With precision I extract pearls from your saltwater tomb.
I set the peas to our bed.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
You left me alone to follow your impossible dream to live in Nashville to become a musician and thatwill never be. You are stay at the Nashville Men's Rescue Mission and sing two days at Clancy;s Cafe and you still have no real work or healthcare I don't understand this impossible dream. Do you like being a vagabond and homeless person. Living off charity of your church of Christ. Panhadling, living off Big John, and associating with white trash what shame!!!! You had a great chance to better yourself at Breakthrough Ministries in Chicago when we first arrived. Oh I like this city better Nashville Tennessee and you blocked me on your facebook because I refused to marry you. All you cared about was your *** life with me but in truth I gave you everything and lost my indentity and sanity. Look into your mirror and who do you see a toothless, pityful, homeless, 58 year old man who blew a good thing.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Night colloquies of heartless
Predatory growls
And the soulful cries of prey .
The shadow between us
raged with hellfire .
Burning fields of voiceless thunder
Unpainted houses,
Ministries of snakes .
Enchanted pond flowers
Ritualistic smokescreens
Put blood in your eyes
Eating songbirds for eternal life .
Saved !
An innocent surrendered
To a shutterless window .
The false fire in your belly
Is speaking in tongues,
Swaying in wraith
To a sermon knocking on
A door forever locked
By ethereal stillness .
Weeping in post ******
Ceremonies of a
Forest with a thousand eyes
Where Everyone is prey .
Feasting on innocence
And ignorance.
Soft wanton evil growls.
The Songbirds shadows drift
Stolen from the souls
Of previous times .
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
It's been a little while since I decided
since I started telling everyone who asked
since I posted it in every corner
since I declared my major.
But what if I don't want to be a teacher?
What if I go off to college,
and I suddenly have the courage to do
what I didn't want to do before?
I'm afraid that it won't work
afraid I can't make it work
afraid to let go and fall
because what if it falls through?
All I want to do is music,
and yes,
I'm minoring in music
and honestly
I could be a teacher
but I'm rethinking that.
I know I don't have to go with the career
that matches my major,
and that I could finish out a teacher's license
and then go on to music.
But I could be so much more prepared!
There's so much more I could do
if I majored in Songwriting, Music Performance, or Worship Ministries.
What should I do?
What can I do?
I can take generic classes now,
ones that can count for any major,
and choose later.
But how long can I wait?
I'll just have to be patient
and wait for His guidance
because He knows what I should do.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
I woke up this morning, and I thought I was in Bethlehem, last night I had a binge in Beijing, I remember breaking my side-mirror, in what seemed to be a steeple-chase, on the derelict boulevards of France, the finish line in Vatican, then made a toast with the dead popes, as the holy grail circulated, we sipped the blood of Jesus, in the process of my anointing, to be the Messiah of Poetry, and give sermons in Shakespearean sonnet, establish ministries, and surpass prevalent religions, till my ordeal they shall crucify me, on a fiery cross.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
She lived in a prison trapped by her own demons
Far away on a land in the vacant city of Past
(This must be a new renaissance)
With its thousand over capacity of memories populating the country
They hiss and snarl and growl and tear at her clothes
Trying to get her to utter something
An apology or a plea, a command or a query
Say a prayer! Say a prayer! little girl in the prairie
Yet she will not break her silence
A stone wall set high above the cement floors of the four walls that were caging her in
She would not give up the strength she found
In the sliver of light that sneakily crept under the tight fit of her window sill
Every afternoon at 3pm when the sun was at its highest
So were her fears and doubts at their lowest
She had the name of Paula given by her ancestors
Who collected flowers of which pollens were distributed by bees
To their own specific ministries that thrived off of generosity and pure need to give
Yet at night the monsters came back to prey on her decaying bones that
Gave a home to the fatigued
Sensitive to every piece of sound she could collect in her ears
Looking around constantly wondering who’s there hiding behind every whisper of the wind
Psychotic laughter ate at her resolve, feeding from the tears they didn’t know will someday
**** them; she killed them with every desperate cry to her King
They knew not of a Prince of peace with glory and power and grandeur and majesty
Her hands grew weake but His remaidn strong throughout the years
They pushed back the walls that were falling
Based on the wrong foundations they couldn’t hold on to the weight on their shoulders
Pressing at every corner, every shoulder blade was a blade on its own, turning on itself
Like a jealous lover, they all fell away pointing their fingers indignantly
With an air of impudence with which they could not see or hear or think or imagine
Surely, they must have known of a God who could do wonders like use a stone as a destructive weapon against a Philistine?
All that was left of the cell where she was so untimely detained was smoke and ashes
Scent of old and Past – a receding memory from a warrior’s victory
It no longer held captive the prisoner it once held
So closely
So dearly
In its arms
Safe and sound she goes back to her Father's arms
Trapped in the embrace where freedom lived
And salvation, and grace, and mercy
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
the poems, the letters, the sculptures
the movements, the sleep, the mute
the deaf the blind- and in the end and the beginning
there is all the art you need
a pounding hammer
the work of small anvils
replacing our arms
able to bruise the sky
just by waving
and there is no line - needing us;
in the end, and when the beginning comes
our blood will break the desert
and our flesh will be the architecture of silence
the proximity of our cells becoming each
season that we name,
ourselves
and the stars are shot faceless
by our days, and even the snoring dogs
will create time, as our hands stop the sun
from landing in our laps and gods are returned
to infants by the muscles of our arms, men
and women dragging carcasses near cave doors
will halt, and sigh at the future-
ticks in pelt and intoxicated elbows
of musicians pulling bow across string
will send perfection insane
once again
like a scream and a kiss landing at the same time
and all the wine of every fruit will not equal
the lone smile of a wrong turn
in the night, in fact- the small ball they crawl from
and make you rock into
will pass, and the partitions
of your faith will open,
tombs will shake
jokingly in the floor boards
friends will smile in the nails
ministries of sermons will ****
and burst out in private flight, when nothing can.
be swallowed anymore, lucky there is
the millennia's that feel the same
just a piece of gin
in a waltzing glass
reflecting your face, wondering
if you're going to stay
here
just a glass watching from the table
taking in your company as the night
becomes honest enough
to rain
and end any distance
that would separate our one
simple
organic
song.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Regret
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
2-25-2010
1:24 AM CDT
Poem 3
I feel no real emotion towards regret.
To me it’s not really an emotion.
It’s merely a darker part of creation.
A darker part of the spirit.
The darker part where only self loathing breeds.
Where all that will destroy feeds.
Not a pretty place.
Regret, if left unattended finds its way to the brain.
Once there it becomes like a fungus.
Hard to ignore, much harder to get rid of.
It penetrates and grows heading straight into the blood stream.
In the beginning when your first in its grasp it feel likes a very bad dream.
I don’t allow any place for it.
There’s simply no room.
If it tries to enter it instantly gets a access denied.
No room for its seed to grow into a bloom.
Like a wound if given no oxygen to breathe.
It will merely just disappears.
Evaporating like the rain left from a storm that ends suddenly dissipating in the sky as it clears.
That is the freedom from regret.
It’s just a word.
It truly holds no real power.
Only those who believe in it allows it to exist.
And when they open the door it becomes harder to close.
I’ve watched as this has happened countless times.
I’ve watched as it has come to haunt those close to me.
The mystery of why they allow this to happen remains unsolved.
Regret in itself should be dissolved.
But, it’s exposure is very much on a wide range.
Reluctant it is of course to merely change.
It’s a part of our human condition.
A part of our governing psyche.
Breathing in its toxic breath.
Following us into our very moment of death.
I refuse its company.
A key it is to the very corer of depression.
An emotion in itself is strong enough to ****
I feel no emotion to this thing called regret.
Complete I become still without.
It’s place within me has no residence.
Look inside and what you’ll find is such clear evidence.
©Ministries of The Chaotic
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
I will not take on the 2012 philosophy
I will not run with bovine stupor
if for one minute of my life
would I light a candle and believe
Better faith of true and light
Illuminati please give me a break
an arm or leg maybe even my neck
would so put me out of my misery
Some live in the ministries of the soul
others bleat on mountain tops
waiting for their saviour
to guide them bleating back to their barns
Don't buy into the lies?
yet if you do go with distraction?
it is warm in the barn
and there is fresh hay.
So Enlightenment or Hay
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Somewhere in the world my loves.
Love is missing.
Missing in ministries, filled with the cry of the heartbroken wenches.
Stuck there perhaps for ever.
Muddy trenches.
Lined with lace.
****** soldiers losing face.
Their whips made of satin strands, taken from chocolate boxes.
Locked up in closets from the school of hard knocks.
Long lost in mines, emptied long since.
Little old ladies, with cute purple rinses.
A receipt signed in dragon's blood for the pain that they gave.
Save for the memories of snowdrops in June.
Once he stood there in doublet and hoes, a classless cavalier, who left much too soon.
At the base of his mountain from where she once fell, lived a tale on a lion and that I can't tell.
Only the lion can, the lion he's the main man.
(C) LIVVI
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
AKELDAMA (THE FIELD OF BLOOD)
If I were Shakespeare
I would say: what hath happened to you mother earth?
Fallen creation! What hast thou done?
Abel’s blood laments from the ground
Innocent streams of blood flow in the swamps
Calling in the deepest seas
Yet creation joys at its screams and groans
Blood and bones spread like a red carpet
Bodies hung like clothes on a washing line
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!
Brothers butchering each other over stolen money
Babies murdered in the name of abortion
Albinos sacrificed in the quest for wealth and good luck
Oceans are dump sites for human carcases
Pastors servicing their ministries with innocent souls
Alters covered with ***** and blood
Bribery has become the order of the day
Akeldama! Akeldama! The world has become!
Authored outside the garden of Eden
Anger and heartlessness have become a burden
The love for money has made hearts to harden
With personal pockets to fatten
Forgiveness and good virtues are forgotten
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!
Shattered into pieces my heart bleeds
My soul weeps tears of blood
Tears that are torn and roasted before they reach the ground
Causing my troubled heart hasten to pound
Just like a floating trophy blood shed circulates around
My voice is bubbling within me
I am like an ant under an elephant’s hove
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!
Judases creeping in the shadows
Like giant monsters
Innocent hearts dripping and drizzling with blood
The guilty jubilantly roaming the streets
The church is silent
A sleeping lion!
A toothless bull dog
Blood stained tithes and offerings
Flesh fuelled businesses crowding the CBD
Deceit and betrayal is a game of hearts
Dead consciences that cannot be resuscitated
Children are fatherless and mothers are childless
The rich are heartless
The heirs are senseless
Crying is useless
They deem Christianity meaningless
Talking about Ubuntu is a sign of weakness
Leaders are foreign to selflessness
Oh Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth has become!
To him who hold the seven stars in his right hand
Who is the first born of all creation?
Turn not a blind eye on our afflictions
For how long will we sing the sour song of Akeldama
A song written by the greedy and blood thirsty
A rhythmless song sung when strings are broken and voices are full of anger
Akeldama! Akeldama! The earth mourns!
Oh Akeldama!
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
One thing for real.
Love will never fade.
For years ministries has been stating the end times is near.
But only God holds that answer.
We visualize constantly about events and things.
And like the changing of Spring to Summer and Fall to Winter.
Many of us seeks that forever love.
One we cherish deeply forevermore.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.
The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.
An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.
Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.
Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.
US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.
While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.
Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar ******* he ignored
He ever had.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
In deep sleep forget
fall into
remembers
shimmer in repose
somehow see the known
like a minaret mimicking
a place
of prayer
a parakeet saying what
excavates our ministries
until a foundation is reached
a truth
build then upon the prayers.
Build then
a truth.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
A Conversion Experience at the Bright Light Free Will Four Square Full Gospel Missionary Temple Outreach of the Lord Jesus Christ 501C3 of the Lamb Ministries the Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Apostle Brother Billy-Bob Hairdo and His Honored First Lady Disciple Irma-Mae a-Brangin’ Messages and a-Suckin’ in Government Grant Money
Here is a list of the thangs we is aginner
If you do any of this stuff, yew air a sinner
Th’ Lord accepts all major credit cards for His work*
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Let us
Let us play with your look
Let us love and sing and wonder
Let us reason ministries
Let us go then you and I
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
Listen to my gospel, listen to me preach
You will be so edified, the truth I always teach
-
Send me money send me cash, send lots and lots of dough
My Ministry will bless you, my Ministry will grow
-
The more you send the more you're blessed, send everything you got
I'll be like Lenny Zin, I'll buy a jet and yacht
-
If you don’t believe like me, you’re going straight to Hell
I’m the only one that knows the truth, and I know it oh so well
-
I can get you saved, today Salvation is on sale
Send $29.95, send it in the mail
-
For an extra $20.00, a magic donkey **** you’ll get
Show it to Saint Peter, all your sins he will forget
-
If you send $100, my blessing you’ll receive
It will make you rich, before tomorrow’s eve
-
Send to: Greggy's ******* Ministries, on Coosa County Road
Send only CASH, to 35010 Zip Code
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC