"practitioners" poems
☮ ☮ ☮
**Society needs more Social Justice.
Humanity needs peaceworkers.**
Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice.
We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders – through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE. IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE !
WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE !
LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE!
WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE
FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE & EMPOWERMENT !
**POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻
STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻
CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻
SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻
PEACE BRINGS WAR☻
WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻**
(SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
***a morning conversation
with surprising anecdotes
of unique explorations..
reported confrontations
by science practitioners'
sudden dates with death..
now authoring testimonies
of their dimensional truth..
much comfort growing
from ample recordings of
bright tunnel experience..
let us now inquire
are these flashing NDE's
consciousness leaps..?
might they point
to death's vital role..
at last finding
real self-awareness..
life in this moment..?
asking then..
is not each breath
our moment experience
of near death...?***
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
Are humans inherently evil?
Does it go right to the core?
Do we always need to prove ourselves?
Do we need to settle the score?
I watched a documentary
With people doing experiments
On other people just like them
Callous with their detriments
The lower class
The prisoners
The foreigners
By practitioners
And now we have this information
Torture, surgery, chemical weaponry
Some classified, some out to view
Is it their duty of citizenry
To share that information with me?
To tell me how and when and why
To share results of tests gone by?
Do I even want to know?
Do not let them die in vain
Maybe I should share the pain
(maybe you should share it too)
To learn
To see
And
NOT to do
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
The flesh lusts daily against the Spirit
and the Spirit wars contrary to the flesh.
The opposing tenets of grace and iniquity
can never with each other… completely mesh.
For the redeemed sinners operate by grace,
while the practitioners of unrighteousness
prefer the dark, ungodly ways of wickedness
and will not inherit the Kingdom’s fullness.
Fleshly works are clearly evident: adultery,
fornication, idolatry, sorcery, uncleanness,
contentions, jealousies, ****** immorality,
hatred, envy, revelries and evil-mindedness.
Fruits of the sinful flesh are plain to see
and spirits cringe- at their being mentioned.
Can we expect others to pursue God’s holiness,
when people are upset- from being questioned?
For we live under God’s grace and not His Law;
His righteous wrath will be eventually revealed.
Acceptance of His gift of Salvation can insure…
that our lives will have been redeemed and sealed!
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Gal 5:16; Rom 1:18-32, 2:1-16
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
This things are made for idling
transparent in their quotidian splendor:
A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk
golden skin, red robes
welcoming all yogis with its gaze
eyelids closed
The candle, a guardian of an aim
an intention that moves within a flame
over the palms of the wooden hands
Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance
like a dream seen from wakefulness
immersive enhancer of the humor
filling the place with soft calmness
Nag champa smell
and serious air
The bamboo doors
from Monday to Sunday
open the way to Indian sounds
and the voices of blooming teachers
guide the way
until shavasana
when practitioners become gently moving statues
and glowing air goes
breathing in and breathing out
daily efforts and daily hopes.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
beard-red explorers
pillaging-horror practitioners
tribal-family groups
insurgent-nomadic roots
that
trailed wave-rammers across never-ending spans,
continuously-toilfully matters not the demands
women and men side by each
beastly-feasters no table safe
stand up for yourself or be a weak-waif
in the bloodshot soul-panes, fierce
pagan-purveyors by rites
despised-womanizers
siege-setters
monk-murderers
a blood-spilling bee
treasure trove crash n’carry
Thor had his hammer
every wave-rammer had an oar for every
pair of life-stained hands, the stains
were borrowed and the very life-drained out of others
blood-smitten berserkers, heart-stoppers
and yet
discoverer’s children
wandering wet-wilderness
found a Stormy-Stop, a few
actually, and one be Newfoundland
may-haps they settled in peace.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Astutely speaking, we all at some point
Ponder on matters spiritual, the kind
In the realms outside observable phenomena.
Even to some extent, we can’t help
Consulting various spiritual practitioners to
Extrapolate circumstances prevalent in the future.
Otherworldly beauty is not only a matter of
Fascination it’s an obsession too.
Hallowed space in today’s world is
Exceedingly limited, an abundant scarcity
A paucity of meaning attached to it.
Various denominations exist to
Entrench a semblance of piety to counter
A rather stack waywardness.
Neverland, is it real?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
I just go beboping around
happily
until I come
to a dharma gate
which is an obstacle
that can be inside
or it can be outside
and I think
the purpose
of these gates
is to test
us practitioners
to see if we
can continue on,
so this morning
I came to a big, nasty
dharma gate
put there inside
by a pretty lady
and as I have discovered
along the path
the only way
to get through
one of these doors
is with love.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
Blood tests are something I could do without
But they are alas a necessary evil
And though it’s really not a thing to shout about
They haven’t so far (in my case) proved lethal.
However it was with a deal of trepidation
That I presented myself at phlebotomy today.
The result did not match up to my anticipation;
The perfect vein was quickly pierced I’m glad to say.
It did, at least, give some sense of direction
To medical support for my ongoing treatment
Avoiding, to my great relief, any infection
Or disconcerting prospect of impeachment.
While the symptoms are improved by the procedure,
The condition, sad to say, is not remitted,
And the problem, even sadder, gets no easier,
While the health practitioners remain committed
To additional probing examination,
And are calling me for further tests next week,
Despite the blood flow’s vast immoderation
That required a lot of plugging of the leak.
When they put me into my final casket
And thus dispose my bones and body once for all
I can imagine someone there will ask it:
“We wonder why his body seems so awfully pale.”
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle.
A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears.
“I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser.
“You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
Amid the restlessness of a blood enthused crowd
Stood two gladiatorial practitioners both battle proud
From the inner arena a barking summons rang out
Calling the combatants to engage in battle's bout
The blood lust crowd wanted sport without delay
No quarter was ceded in the gladiator's display
Slashing lashing swords flayed high then to the midriff
Shields clanged and clinked in alternate shift
The foot-work of battle was magnificent of flair
Both took the onslaught with a disdainful air
Around the arena walls went a deafening cloud
The performance of the gladiators intoxicated the crowd
While in the bowels of the arena lions and tigers roared
Battle fervour rose to the gladiators they who are adored
Striking like a lightning bolt the victor's sword kills
His opponents chest dies in blood's gushing spill
Enthused by the spectacle of blood the crowd cried for more
Other combatants offered themselves to the gladiatorial floor
Battle Gods gathered at the celestial fray
Sang songs of battle to the arena's clay
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
Ambassadors of peace- practitioners of terror,
Alas, the fighting never will be done!
Their parachutes deployed- the cargo was destroyed,
Too bad there won't be chutes for everyone!
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
when it is
my final time,
i make it here
clear.
for my first choice
my wish,
is to go like
all the critters we see,
lying in the woods,
enjoying a last
long, lingering
Final look.
this body
once warm
slipping into
Mother earth
in its very own
time.
second way
i'd like,
is to go like
the
ancient Zoroastrianism
practitioners
did do.
or the monks
high among the
peaks of the
snow covered
Himalyan peaks
of Tibet
once so
Free.
i'll take a hot
firey burning
if that is what you
must do.
mixed in thoroughly,
with those of
my puppyhead
and her magficient
ancestors.
fling theses ashes
high overhead,
while the winds
are blowing
strongly along.
hike to the top
a high and lonely
peak,
open the little
baggie of plasticky.
release these ashes,
of us who loved
each other So,
to ride the winds
forever together,
throughout all of
eternal time!
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
****** sharp nay! blunt
A sword tamed with cruelty
****** wounding my hand
For five years! I can now let go
Adage!
Blunt the sharp edge
No fear! enough warmth
****** first pretty flowers
****** then adders!
Mine plea
****** out! appease my voice
Adage!
With a trumpet Singing the truth!
****** performed magic
"Paved" the maddened path!, "sobs"
"Lowered" the hidden cut!, "sobs"
"Admonished" false approval practitioners!, "sobs"
"Amused" my growing siblings!, "sobs"
A blossoming flower apprises
Colored with lines of liberty
Preaching smiles! adage!
Breaking the spell of thorny roots
****** gone future
Roots come future
Blood soiled hands gone future
Smiling painted flag come future
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
Take a look at all of you down there
So sure of yourselves
So full of the hustle-bustle of life itself
Never stopping to see what could be
Potentially the greatest things of your lives
Jutting through the stream like hot knives
No all simply let life pass them by
Not seeing all the things
Looking you in the eye
And will watch even when you lie asleep
For the final time
You all think you’re hot ****
All hit and no miss
No questions
All answers
Obsess with self worth
Convinced that you’re dust with a value
Just because a god you’re not even sure exists told you so
When the urge to **** is gone
What’s the difference between you and the dirt you walk on
You all rise and fall like the waves in the oceans
Like a glissando of smoker coughs
New ideas are thrown against the scoffs and scrutiny
Of those obstinate practitioners of organized ignorance
You are the only one who should impose sanction on your life
Not some pretty news anchor
Who nods at the teleprompter with total belief
You all chase after superficiality like a poor animal
At the snap of some fat fingers
Call yourselves Pavlov’s pet
You fattened the hand that feeds you yourselves
Have you met the total of life’s offer
Have you looked at yourself in the mirror
And not seen cheap narcissism winking back
Self-imposed limits are acceptable to live by
A moratorium of thought is not
You have free speech
Now learn free thought
Explain the intricacies of a fast food drive through
To the children of Darfur
Explain how you didn’t want to learn how to finish your schoolwork
To the little girl who can’t afford to buy pencils for hers
She will tell you with chagrin how she aspires to be a writer and a poet
But can’t afford the books to help her help herself
You express yourself by exerting as little effort
While she isn’t able to put in the effort to express herself
It’s the ultimate irony
Religion ceased to be the ****** of the masses
When it got it reached one-million views
You all can ask where do I get off
And I will only smile and tell you how I am just like you
I watch the same TV
Eat the same food
Wear the same clothes
The only difference is you can be different
And by simply choosing to do so or not is a step in the right direction
You are your own Atlas
Carry your own world
Anyone else is just liable to drop it
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
By this time 2019 the onslaught had begun..
devastating attack on mankind not carried out by guns..
just a virus, tiny yet deadly ravaging the world..
not an equal monster in decades, Covid-19 it was called.
mysteriously crept into our world, inexplicable origin..
lurking around rails, trails and air just to gain entry..
wrecking down all systems immune, nervous and circulatory..
sniffles life out of victims at the early stages, men was scary.
left us so terrified in our towns and in our cities..
grounded and brought to a halt economic activities..
built up a partition of no solid material..
amongst us all, rich, poor and even the influential.
Once crowded streets in its wake were lonely and desserted..
nice playground activities and symposiums neglected..
for the dread of the global monsterous virus..
oh! no! never again we hope we beat the virus.
It took from us loved ones both promising and elderly..
frightening mode of operation, collapsing the lungs steadily..
trailing wails world all over from the healthcare facilities..
universal pandemonium, we were overwhelmed seemingly.
Emotionally traumatising was the unpleasant experience..
of watching its victims gasping in the midst of abundance..
I cried like many many others seeing a menace to existence..
and all we did was pray for return of peaceful ambience.
till date still place a limit on human interactions..
medical practitioners working their ***** off..
to get a cure for it although now there's vaccination..
was an era in human history, covid-19 what a distraction!
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 10:39 AM UTC
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *********** There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral regrets.
Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian ***** Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.
This has been a poetic public health reminder.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Dark Blue fingers run wildly
Across my listless chest scratching me mildly
Like an impatient birth, insidious babe
Crawling on fingernails down to stain the rug
In this room nicely snug
Left the husk on the bed to sleep instead
Looks at the books who sit all left unread
The tall fingers wipe across the walls making rhymes
Shouting out the window chimes
Sitting on that window pane making legs out of dust
So the sun set on these larks
And the evening takes its remarks
The city will never likely see
Such grime encrusted treachery
Dark Blue fingers run wildly
Across the wood fence where children cry at me
They long for their mothers who take them indoors
So the fingers ***** the glass of the home
And gaze to see the tomb
Of those who invite the starved fingers in
For some company and mirth over gin
And take in the crooked dark blue smile that stretches
The kids are crying wretches
Drinks are done, no more fun, for the monster's run
Is but only at a start
And the dark blue blood pumps through his heart
The city will never likely see
Such grime encrusted treachery
Dark blue fingers run wildly
Across a mantelpiece quite familiarly
The room is a laughing mad struck sickening
The monster is by the fireplace stealing
The looks of the practitioners and reeling
As the party booms on through the evening
The fingers run across those who are leaving
And wipes his bald and grimy face on their own
Taking all their thoughts they've shown
Until they each subside and then wave goodbye
Leaving the monster all alone
Muttering curses on his own
The city will never likely see
Such grime encrusted treachery
The city will never likely see
These fingers running wildly
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Some para-normal practitioners
Claim to have Out-of-Body Experiences.
They say they're left
Feeling beside themselves.
I concur,
They could be next to an idiot.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
endless miles of dark pavement
hours of white knuckle horror
illegally transporting pounds
processed into oil
curing her cancer –
new age family doctor
with a medical card and an interest in chemistry
distilling Everclear creating hope
1 gram a day
rear-view mirror road-rage
only wishing to be safely home
14 hours to go with a life on the line
watching a plant heal all that ails –
networking growers into family practitioners
dropping the bottom out of Big Pharma
one human being at a time
freely functioning as philanthropists
looking only to see families restored
Robin Hood as a pothead –
nothing could be simpler
than curing cancer
just grind up ****
pour 191 proof over the top
strain and keep the liquid
low heat cook it down
until only oil is left
5 drops of water
and a coffee warmer
decarbonization
then eat it
a grain of rice at first
then increase
to a gram a day
60 grams in 90 days
just try to die –
watching her gain weight and coherence in front of my eyes
seeing it again
knowing the truth
living in a lie
saving lives as I cross them
modern day travelling physician
carded
but unlicensed –
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
What is a doctor to you,
Is he your guru?
Or does he write a script,
Off to the pharmacist,
Symptoms he treats,
Do healers you meet?
Or does he turf and bounce,
Off for pathologist's amounts,
Then back to the doctor to you,
Is this your local guru?
Then does he turf and bounce,
off to a radiologist's amount,
Then it's all clear,
Good photos of your limbs here,
Time for poisoned jellybeans,
Modern medicine, it seems,
All with a copayment fee,
Is he your guru?
What is a doctor to you?
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
_Hire purchase, Hewlett-Packard, hand phones and - just maybe - Harry Potter have got nothing on Hello Poetry. A house party of honey pies, head pixies, and horizontal plotters hot piping their harmonic power from Hyde Park to Hunter’s Point, the High Plains to Himachel Pradesh. Household profilers, home porters, health practitioners and - it may be said - the odd human particulate here to engage in high-priority human performance.
P.S. Heart points and historic preservation aside, what the hoi polloi is up with those hit-by-pitch holding patterns, Eliot?_
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC