"pentecost" poems
Buildings for the most part are boxes square.
But Pentecost circles and spirals,
they turn and burn wild.
Of those who would tame
and make comprehensible any fire--
apt tongues have gone titch titch
and beautiful catch 'til words and music
and parlor diplomacies fortify
much which is untrue.
Fear has no finish, even in our dying.
The path is a cliff edge.
Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves
of civilized persuasions. Usher
Earth's children into primordial worlds.
Water shall love and receive us, as it always has.
The naked ground will speak up,
into our touching feet.
Listen to the tongues of the wind.
Unhinge the body, which is you.
Let all creation fly.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
On that fateful day of Pentecost,
power came down from on high.
For it originated with God’s presence
and His Kingdom, that’s far beyond our sky.
The ascension of Christ had been witnessed,
with Him clearly rising above the clouds;
He was no longer bound by planetary constraint
and the opinionated amazement of the crowd.
Upon the Earth, a violent breeze blew;
it brought forth ‘winds of change’ into the hearts of men.
This first outpouring of the Holy Spirit reinforced
God’s abundant Love, for us all once again.
The power of Jehovah had appeared,
as ‘tongues of fire’ above the people’s heads -
Thus fulfilling an Old Testament prophesy,
as the prophet Joel had previously illustrated.
The spiritual battles are fought today
inside the imagination of our minds;
cleanse your thoughts with The Word
and shift your ideals with His holy paradigm.
God has promised in The Scriptures
that He will never leave us nor forsake us.
His comforting Spirit remains along side
as we now await - the final return of Christ Jesus.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
PENTECOST = PINKSTEREN ( in Dutch )
Especially for Mr. Syd 4ever !! God's greatest Blessings for you.
MIS - understand - in = means stand in another place,
misunderstanding = do not understand each other.
Pentecost is the language that everyone understands,
for they are pentecosted.
An empty sack can not walk right or stand upright (African proverb).
Pentecost means that we are again people
who can understand each other in the Spirit of Jesus,
let us pray to God that He again gives us the spirit of Jesus.
Let us pray singing,
Let us pray singing,
that this Pentecost will give us new strength again,
that this Pentecost may bless us again,
that this Pentecost will give us strength again to forgive our fellow man,
that this Pentecost will breathe again life in us,
with the power that is able to forgive and overcome all the mistakes and misunderstandings,
and we will also experience as such:
Forgive and be forgiven
Do not look whether we are rich or poor,
this Pentecost may allow us to experience
that feeling of complete pleasure
in all total love and peace.
That this cup may always overflow with solidarity, love and care.
Peace of the Lord be upon us
until the end of time.
Amen....
a Dedication to Syd 4ever,
with unconditional love, Sylvia.
Sylvia Frances Chan
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
I recognized her familiar gait
As she left ambulatory care
At Bluewater Health,
Once St. Joseph's Hospital.
I knew her as a devout care-giver.
Her spring showed her hope
In the gods within,
And faith in her God without.
A surety in her higher power.
I share her faith crossing bridges,
Or waiting for autumn's bulbs
To sprout and flower.
The Sisters have retreated
To the Mother House,
Mission accomplished,
No longer caring
For the sick and worried.
The civilians marched in,
Diagnosing annuities,
Giving change.
The Sisters wait for Pentecost,
For the whosh and whirl
Of expectant miracles
They once ministered.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
**Everlasting joys are flowing like a river,
More abundant life, the Comforter has come.
Glory! Hallelujah! He abides for ever,
Spread it far and wide, the Comforter has come.
Comforter divine, blessed Holy Ghost,
Promise of the Father, fill this waiting host;
Overcoming sin, purity within,
Joy to overflowing - this is Pentecost.
Saints of old they tarried in the upper chamber,
Thirsting for the Spirit all with one accord;
Tongues of fire descended , we shall ever remember;
Power of Pentecost that brought the glory down.
So to-day we're waiting , for the gift from heaven,
Send the latter rain, Oh! fill us now we pray,
Purifying Fire now purge us from all leaven,
Comforter divine , descend on us to-day.
When the Holy Ghost makes His abode within us,
All desires for worldly pleasures fade away;
Fleshy lust and anger crucified within us,
Power to overcome,He gives us from that day.**
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
20.
One’s speaking softly in considered tones,
a quietener to his child’s whim. The other’s
sailing the contented seas of early
love. The storms that tried to strike these brothers
down are over now, the bitter taste
has passed, and bells of laughter have replaced
the stones that once we hurled at one another.
Back in the tent, high up on the trapeze,
bracing his body for the triple twist,
the acrobat swings. The great crowd shifts and groans.
He wants their wild applause, but if he’d have it he
must seize the point where his arc has slowed and kissed
the stillness. For this is his gentle Pentecost,
the white dove motionless in zero gravity
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
20.
One’s speaking softly in considered tones,
a quietener to his child’s whim. The other’s
sailing the contented seas of early
love. The storms that tried to strike these brothers
down are over now, the bitter taste
has passed, and bells of laughter have replaced
the stones that once we hurled at one another.
Back in the tent, high up on the trapeze,
bracing his body for the triple twist,
the acrobat swings. The great crowd shifts and groans.
He wants their wild applause, but if he’d have it he
must seize the point where his arc has slowed and kissed
the stillness. For this is his gentle Pentecost,
the white dove motionless in zero gravity
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I dodged a desert eagle bullet and disappeared
As the swan's trumpet rusted
During the Pentecost
As the ordained minister pressed play
Chiang Kai-sheck pressed on against communists
My horse got spooked by some type of anomaly
Making me late for my two o'clock train
So now I have saddle bags of useless words
My cigarette's one giant granny ash
And my bowl is cashed
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Red is a poppy
red is fire
red is love
red is desire
red is the simmer
red is the sun
red is the spark
from a smoking gun
red is the warmth
that fills up
our heart
red is the passion
that tears us apart
red is impatient
red is a sin
red is excitement
whenever we win
red is a pinch
red is a poke
red is convinced
pink is a joke
red is the boil
red is the heat
red is the sizzle
that stops on the street
red is a kiss
red is a hug
red is the good luck
in a lady bug
red is the pulse
red is a blush
red is invigorating
red is a rush
red is God's spirit
living in us
red is the blood
He bled on the cross.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
A book was given,
but the man cannot read.
Another can read,
but cannot understand.
A book of secrets,
in a plain tongue.
A strange tongue given,
secrets revealed.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 10:58 PM UTC
Jagged Edges
Speeding along
500 years a second Passed
Clear Light
Six Sided
Eight remembered
9 finished
12
Perfect strangers all
Known
By the Omission
Carried by the Flame
NOW
Body Complete within
X taken as four Angels LosT
Fuselage of a Rocket
Allowing
Christ Risen Pentecost
Er aven Rose
Language Forbidden
Chalice Returned
Distant Meadows
How We Used to Play
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Uhrde' eahai’ el.
EaShe'sheti... EaShe'sheti Eye...
I're...
Selah... Selase'eye'...
Esh'real...
Esh'uriel... Eshurd-ay-I...
Jamowhe'... Ashanti E'yai...
Ashanti Ashanti Ashanti I...
This daylight does not live in a box of dreams. Selam Malen Kaye'm.
For surely the angel of light worships the dream.
Sela amo' I....
Ashanti I.
The color of feather.
Selah.
In truth (light) of light…
darkness falls.
Crimena is not committed until pentance is revealed.
The spirit of Peter (Pentecost) weighs the salvation of Selah.
Selahse' 'I"
Our King worships life
work for substance at the tree of life.
Shanti Lyre'… Ashanti Lyre’
A shanti... 'I'
The Prayer of Shame...
Our Change.
Azhasurea 'I'
Azhasuras.
For the measure of man has not chalice; the chaste' is not measured in another eye.
It is the spy Gabriel in the urn of the grail.
Uriel…
Gabriel…
Michiael…
Samiael…
Matisyaweih… Ehyre’
Eshre’I el… Eshurdae'i…
Danae'l… Eshurdae'i el
Selah Sela' se' amare' ah.
Amen.
There are two at two chali'. There are two at two chalices. Chali. Cali'. Californiael. The me'rcha'nt of war is walking backward out of the grail for chalice.
Shall I. Make Michiael a sword.
Or shall I make Michiael.
Ashanti I.
Amen.
California= Caliphas. Chi'el.
Ashure'Ire'.
My sword.
The earth found underneath the Prophet Daniel.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
Exiled for three hundred years
Without limbs, missing eyes, and unseen sins
The Church of Jesus Christ had been laid waste
Quietly living under the heavy boot of Roman Persecution
The bloodied Bride standing in Babylon waiting for her Groom
Hundreds of years prior, deep in the memory of the ancient past
Lay God Incarnate, dead in a tomb
Suffering for the sake of His very Bride
So too now does His wife lay dying
The Church being dismembered for His very sake
Three hundred years of darkness and exile
Separated from brothers and sisters by tyranny
Under duress and suffering inflicted by Rome
Until came an Emperor and a vacation home
To defeat the terror and end an exile
Constantine saw the Son of God and was granted victory in battle
Ushering in new peace and edicts to end the centuries of persecution
The Church of Jesus Christ was finally reunited and reconciled
For the Winter had passed, the night was over
The Spring had finally come, and the sun shone like the flaming tongues at Pentecost
Bishops and priests, pastors and deacons, fathers and sons; they descended upon Nicaea
Men with lost limbs and erased eyes, with restless wounds and sinister sins; they came
To reunite the Body of Christ, to define the Church for the life of the world
To remember what had been forgotten, and forget that ought which not be remembered
These men of God came to Nicaea to re-establish that from which they had previously departed
Confirming the core beliefs of the Body of Christ; the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth
The Lord Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, made man Incarnate from the Blessed ******
And in the Spirit of God, the Lord the giver of life
In one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church
Existent for the sake of the life of the world
Broken they came, united they left
Exiled they were, one Church they became
When our spiritual fathers came upon the little town of Nicaea
And remembered the Church they had long forgotten that they were
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
May just be prattling
But I’m still making a sound
Like the tree in the forest
That no one hears falling
I got the intensity
But you’re measuring pitch
These words speak volumes
Keep up with my speed
Embrace the melody
Of wounded lips
May just be a façade
Never wanted to be language
The talk of angels
Or something else heavenly
Could be Pentecost
Could be a tongue roaming free
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
We speak of "truth" and "beauty"
with a savant , knowing air.
We are the keepers of the flame
who formulate the prayers.
We play with your emotions;
we heighten every sense.
We labor at this constantly
with little recompense.
...but...today... today I saw her,
and for words I'm at a loss.
Like Saul approaching Tarsus;
Like a second Pentecost.
Her beauty knows no simile
indeed , and it's a pity
Only George Gordon, at his height,
could , perhaps, describe her beauty.
I saw her but a moments time
and she's not mine to hold.
but from that brief encounter
I can now tell dross from Gold.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
As in the days of Pentecost
when the disciples gathered
becoming on one accord in
the presence of the Lord
I relinquish my soul to seek
a deeper level of worship with
the One who sits Most High
to gain spiritual understanding
UPPER ROOM PRAYER
ultimately losing track of time
to claim peace, clarity and
love in a true clean heart.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
I have a man with a pointy hat
Lives under my desktop lid,
He came for muffins and jam, and that,
I call the Wizard of Did,
His beard got caught when the lid came down
So I had to trim it back,
But he says it’s comfy and warm in there
So he’s turned it into a flat.
I thought at first I would charge him rent
But he wasn’t too keen on that,
So I suggested a garden tent
And he said he’d pass the hat.
I’d try to type in the early hours
But he’d bang up under the lid,
‘How can I get my beauty sleep,’
He said, the Wizard of Did.
‘You’re going to have to pay your way,’
I said, ‘It’s not for free,
‘You’d better come up with something good
That’s of some use to me.’
‘You say you struggle for plots,’ he said,
‘Well I can help with those,
‘I’m full of people I want to be,
I just need different clothes.’
The Wizard was as good as his word
He’d pop up now and then,
Whenever I’d sit and scratch my head
He’d mention Holy men,
Then march along the top of the desk
With mitre, staff and cross,
And make me kiss the pontiff’s ring
On the eve of Pentecost.
He’d play the role of a murderer,
He’d play the role of a clown,
He’d play an old sheep herder-er
With a crook in a shepherd’s gown,
He’d pop up with a pirate’s patch
And ****** pieces of eight,
Or keep me longing for Molly Brown
When my ship came in too late.
Whenever I sat there at a loss
For a line, a rhyme, a verse,
He’d throw a bag on the table top
And say, ‘Now pick a curse!’
He’d turn mine into a haunted house
And he’d stalk me in the gloom,
And have me making a pact with Faust
In a dark and lonely tomb.
And now when I think my muse has gone
That my stories have been spent,
I tap-tap-tap on the table top
And he says, ‘You must repent!
I’m not a bottomless pit, you know,’
Climbs in, and closes the lid,
I say, ‘You promised a constant flow,’
And he groans, ‘I know… I Did!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
They bet me I couldn’t spend the night
Locked up in the Abbot’s loft,
Up where recusants once, in fright
Would wait for the stake at Pentecost.
They’d once piled ******* high in the square
And taunted all night long,
When peasants stood in the firelight
In a massive, cheering throng.
But that was hundreds of years ago
So of course I said I could,
I should have known there was something wrong
When I saw the man in the hood,
The loft was next to the church bell tower
And would creak when they pulled the rope
Of the giant bell that sat in its bower
To wait commands from the Pope.
I climbed the circular, rickety stair
And they came and locked me in,
There wasn’t a spark of light in there
It was dark, as black as sin,
And all there was was a narrow bed
On a hard, old wooden plank,
A single cover to keep me warm
But I knew just who to thank.
They played the silliest games, of course,
They would howl outside the door,
Just as I started to settle down
I would hear this terrible roar,
Somehow the timbers would start to creak
When they put a strain on the rope,
And then the bell with a sound like hell
Would boom, and I’d almost choke.
I lay the night in a fevered sleep
But I swear someone came in,
I felt a breeze from the open door
And that coarse, harsh breath of sin,
But then a gurgling, choking sound
As my hair stood up on end,
I stayed curled up in my dark surround
As the door creaked once, then slammed.
When morning came, a sliver of light
Shone in through a rafter beam,
It fell upon a terrible sight
A nightmare, wrapped in a dream,
A man, whose body lay by the bed
His throat all ragged and torn,
And blood in puddles of horrible dread,
I wished I’d never been born.
They must have rushed on up to my screams
Flung open the padlocked door,
Then stood in silence, staring at me
And what lay dead on the floor,
I saw him then, the man in the hood
He’d wanted someone to blame,
And there I was, all covered in blood
With friends to witness my shame.
They’d bet me I couldn’t spend the night
Locked up in the Abbot’s loft,
Up where recusants once, in fright
Would wait for the stake at Pentecost.
But now my nights are spent in a cell
Dreaming of death and blood,
And why he’d want to send me to hell
That infamous man in the hood.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Oh, what a sweet community
That was built for me
In your captivity
You said God loved me
As much as his son
Thats why he left me to die.
Jan 22, 2024
Jan 22, 2024 at 10:28 PM UTC
There was a man from England
In truth a man of God
Wigglesworth's a funny name
And he was a little odd.
He earned his keep as plumber
Worked hard to learn the trade
But he knew a man named Jesus
So he HEALED and souls were saved!
There were even some occasions
Where he brought folks from the grave.
He was not a man of letters
Could not read till 23
But he always had a love for God
As humble as can be
He had great compassion
Would set the captives free!
Before his ministry began
He wanted to be pure
He would lock himself behind closed doors
The Lord worked out his flaws
He was of a different age
But his memory endures
Everywhere that man went
The people flocked around
The lame could walk! The blind could see!
The meetings holy ground!
He was not a Methodist
Episcopal at all
But he went to those churches
When he received a call
He believed in Pentecost
And he brought a Spirit fall
Everything he did in life
Was for his love for Christ
He gave all his money
For missions - at great price
He couldn't even spell
But no action was a waste
Powerfully written
His books sold round the earth
"EVER INCREASING FAITH"
To this day has worth
Oh! That we'd have his faith now!
Here in the U.S.
But WE worship MONEY
So we are in distress
We worship self and worldly gain
And our lives are a mess
Take me, OH! My precious Lord!
Pull me from this mire!
I want to be a Wigglesworth...
To THIS cause I ASPIRE!
Give me his compassion
The tears! In ME INSPIRE!
For years I have been waiting
You've tried me in the fire!
I want ever more of YOU!
Jesus! Take me higher!
Yes! I have the willingness
Yes! I'll build my faith
But will I stick to it?
For that is what it takes!
There was a man in England
His first name was Smith
And there's scarce a man today
Who can match his gifts.
We haven't the willingness
All WE want are perks
Scarce a "workman of today
*Who'll roll up sleeves and WORK.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/15/2016
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all;
But, like the Ghost at Pentecost,
True love stays when it comes to call.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
For _us_ the saddest words are _not:_
What might have been has been _a lot!_
Jun 12, 2024
Jun 12, 2024 at 4:21 PM UTC
Fog...
From an idea suggested by Pharaohnica
And with a tip of that cat to
Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost
Invisible to radar, mizzle falls
Itself making the distance invisible
Sandburg said that fog creeps in on little cat feet
But rain-fog is sometimes the entire cat
And if you walk outside into the cat
Beyond the cat, the paws, what will you find
Perhaps, like Schrodinger, the cat is not
But then again, like you, maybe it is
The mystery is lovely, dark, and deep
But we have chores to tend, and they won’t keep
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 3:26 PM UTC