"pursuits" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
As a child I was taught poetry
the quiet writing of feelings reflections
often in a beat with a rhyme and a few examples of alliteration
I was taught that as a woman my feelings
should be hid and kept quiet
that when I liked a boy it was not my place
to ask him whether he liked me back
I was taught to look out for myself by not dressing slutty
not walking home late at night
I was taught that my curvy figure would make people
question my morals my virginity my character
I was taught that as a girl I won't be as successful in math or science
I was taught to give myself to other pursuits
in liberal arts or domestic dealings
I was taught that even if by some miracle I found success in the fields where I "wouldn't be successful"
that I would and should give it up in a heart beat to raise a family
I was taught that I must share my feelings
my emotions my struggles
but not in a loud and open way
I had to remain quiet cool composed
Poetry was to be my outlet, written in couplets sonnets and verse
quiet and held inside written on paper
stored away from the world
to be read inside the mind
by others- men, teachers, parents
in order to decode me
and learn how to
keep
me
silent
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Puff the magic dragon
Lives by the sea
We know him from our childhoods
Living down in Hona Lee
Little Jackie Paper
He loved that dragon puff
But, he's grown up and he's moved away
He's too old for all that stuff
What happened to the dragon?
What is Puff doing these days?
Few children come to visit him
He's still swimming between the bays
Puff is writing stories
Of his time so long ago
He uses a computer now
For his writing was so slow
Little Jackie Paper
Is a doctor in Duluth
He doesn't think of Puff at all
He won't accept the truth
His imagination
Disappeared as Jackie grew
Puff was not a living thing
As far as Jackie knew
Puff is making money
But, longs for old pursuits
Like sealing wax and other things
And kids in rubber boots
Jackie came to visit
He brought his family to the beach
Puff was there in hiding
And he stayed just out of reach
Jackies son, he saw him
told his dad of dragon Puff
Jackie said, it isn't real
"Of this talk I've had enough"
Puff the magic dragon
heard this and he did cry
He missed his Jackie Paper
He never said good bye
Jackies son kept wanting
To see the dragon by the shore
So, Jackie took him down again
To find the dragon friend once more
Puff, he saw them coming
And he made his way on out
And to his little Jackie Paper
Puff, gave out a shout
He shot fire from his nostrils
He splashed water with his tail
He even showed Jackies young boy
How he could harness wind and sail
Puff the magic dragon
still lives by the sea
One day Jackie will notice him
And his mind will then be free
A child's imagination
Must be nurtured as they grow
Harness it as they grow up
Maybe they'll put on a show
Never, tell your children
to stop playing around
Play along and you will see
Puff is there still to be found
Puff, the magic dragon
Lives by the sea
He still frollicks in the autumn mist
In a land called Hona Lee
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
The Jaguar sits
A regal pose
Even though
All spots exposed
He remains
Throughout—composed
Royalty suits
These kingly throes
Eyes so hungry
Fueled with woes
Darkness caress
His thoughts of more
All small fingers
Jabbing point
Smiles and scream
Not fear—delight
This is not
A place of fright
No place to hide
In broad daylight
Freedom calls
But is not heard
The thought is
Lurking—absurd
Escape has not occurred
Even to the captive birds
The noble Jaguar
Does not pace
He looks upon the crowd
Disgrace—
All those faces
Glass cannot erase
If only he could break
Out of this prison space
His deep imagination
Swirls and swells with thought
If only his true freedom
Could perhaps be bought
The first thing he would do
Is capture one said face
And use it as only
Claws could change—erase
He looks on
With animalistic intentions
Licks his chops
And opens his jaws
The crowd gasps as one
As the noble beast bares his teeth
—And yawns
The jaguar too kingly to stoop
To animalistic pursuits
He knows that he cannot escape
The beast so long ago was tamed
Long ago he lost his pride
On three square meals a day
—Inside
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC
What are we really looking to receive?
Is it: Money, Fame, Success, or Promotion?
Secret lusts of the heart create problems;
are we willing to risk, His Salvation?
Living to get things will never satisfy;
without proper priorities and pursuits,
righteousness, peace and joy isn’t obtained.
Knowing your identity in Him, His fruit,
mercy and grace becomes obviously evident.
Seeking His face will insure that His hand
remains open towards those desiring Him.
However, are we doing what He had planned?
Are we delighting ourselves in Him alone?
Are the goals of God, something we discuss?
He always should be the King of our Life
and the Kingdom that is… inside each of us.
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Rom 14:17; Psa 37:4,145:16
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
It's exhausting being us. Half-lidded
eyes that reflect the darkness
between stars, impedimented acceptance
of where you are in life. Our adventures
are painful pursuits to locate
authenticity in a filtered world that
seems ugly every other day.
We move through life like a slow exhale
of smoke, hurt gathering inside our chests
lasting for months and years. This bitterness,
it burns. But we don't stop because
watching ourselves bleed is just another form
of living.
Life can be so full that it almost
bursts, or it can be depleted as a
vacuum ******* your epiphanies and
inspiration out of your body until
you explode in
self-doubt. You and I, we don't have
time for false apologies
at the rate of our inconsequential
breathing. We are not red-flags
in our own eyes, we are just
impatient for self love
to finally have a meaning.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Like a whirlwind,
you look just right
but think clearly love
Stay out of the way this time.
You can't keep wasting time on trivial pursuits
You ****** yourself into situations you can't handle,
but this is not an endurance test from the future.
Please, just relax.
You're unpredictable and pessimistic,
Though you shouldn't panic.
You keep preparing for the blackout,
But forgetting you're a fire.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
They say that music and maths are the worlds unifier,
its non-barrier standard. All can unite in music and maths.
Yet, they forget the literature form of Poetry.
Poetry its long history, dating back to the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh. Evolving from folk songs such as the Chinese Shijing, or from a need to retell oral epics, as with the Sanskrit Vedas, Zoroastrian Gathas, and the Homeric epics.
Poetry is the history of mankind. Memorable for its form, rhyme,
meter, subject, symbolism, metaphors, similes, hidden meanings,
Truth, fantasy and fable.
All human emotion, no matter what colour, gender, creed, faith or belief system, is welcome through poetry, gains from poetry, learns from poetry and in return is taught by poetry.
Those lines in a myriad of languages, styles, form and content is mankind's story, a poem can feed your soul 'Invictus' taught humankind through one man's struggle. Not music, not maths.
From a Sonnet to Shi
Villanelle toTanka
Haiku to Ode
Ghazal to Narrative poetry
Epic poetry to Dramatic poetry
Satirical poetry to Light poetry
Lyric poetry to an Elegy
Verse fable to Prose poetry.
We write poetry because we are human! filled with passion.
And other pursuits are necessary to sustain human life.
But poetry IS what I stay alive for.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless,
Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated ***
Flex:
Point!
Sit down,
Smoke a joint,
Go to sleep,
Work,
Eat,
Wash
(sometimes, not too often)
Feign attraction
and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside
Darkness outside
Whilst wintery winds whistle,
the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed.
We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow
Or else go,
Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind
Colour-blind
Lost
Trying to find
Be found
My heart beats yet I hear no sound
As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past
Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma
Two mothers
Three brothers
One sister
And a whole load of Misters!
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." - John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)
*As a child I loved you Mork, as an adult you taught me the fine line between laughter and despair.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Yesterday,
Tender pursuits
Ordered
by shortened expression
And personal amusement.
Pleasure was channeled
by uncanny imagination.
Ignorance was developed
with years
of sheltered nurture.
Endeavors were focused
Through heartened dreams
Waiting eternities to age.
Today,
Life is starved of dignity,
Lead by the breath of humanity,
And trailed by my past.
Kindness overshadowed
by needless mockery.
Confidence diminished
Through thoughtless faults.
Purity saturated
with uncertain willingness.
Competence choked
from the flairs of society.
Tomorrow,
Independence is a necessity
Steered by Today,
Speckled by yesterday.
Motivation should dictate
my verdicts,
And challenge perils.
Agonies lifted
Through sanguinity
Virtue grown
Only through praise
From the satisfaction of many.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
Immersed in today
Is the root of my future.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
This night is too long, without you I toss and turn in hope of slumber, finding only isolation and shattering need. I ache, my heart a pulsing bruise, my body weak from all the wanting, my mind lost somewhere between your echo and the closing of the door.
I am barely here, gossamer silence wrapped in satin bows and weeping scars.
I have become my own tragedy, a lost soul wondering through darkness, chasing the fireflies of my imagination but never grasping their glow. My age leaves me weary, too many years have passed unnoticed while your hands dealt passions blows in the name of fun and inappropriate pursuits, but to what end?
My loneliness is a heavy blanket that offers no comfort, our love is a lie without remorse and you, my love, are the noose from which I will hang.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
since I cannot write poetry
which is of the highest degree
forthwith I shall be retiring my pick
to pursue other pursuits
that don't need writing skills
the knitting needles
have lain idle
in the cupboard
for yonks
I must ferret them out
and give them a click and a clack
do a purl stitch
do a yarn forward
increase at the end of the needle
in the following
four rows
that is where my talents lie
in knitting
that I'm sure of
and the quality
of my knitting
has always made par
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.
I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.
I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”
So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?
My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.
I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.
Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?
Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.
As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.
Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.
Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.
2.2k
Ditch diggers don't write poems -
As if there might be found
A single thought profound
Amid the mud they go in;
The pungence in essence released
From trees' roots that are severed
Is never fragrant like lilacs,
And their labor is of purpose,
That dirt removed by aching backs -
Gashed earth becomes the grave
In which our sins can be hidden;
Tomorrow ditches will be filled in,
Restoring peace which land craves,
The simple laborer's work done.
Ditch diggers don't write poetry -
Palms calloused in pick and *****
Too rough when art 's to be made,
Remain convinced by sophistry
They've no true claim to a pen.
Clods of clay always remain
Adhered to heels of workmen's boots,
Becoming my life's defining metaphor.
So we forgo more ethereal pursuits,
Though forever treasuring sweetness
Flowed over soil of our dank holes,
Loving breaths exhaled from souls,
Floral kisses blown across distance.
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
A diagnosis of masturbatory insanity
is the inevitable conclusion
that I, as a fellow onanist,
debaucher of sheep,
and baby goat buggerer
have bestowed upon your befuddled mind.
Your insistence in frequenting
the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution
and self evacuation of one's seed
with mutual onanistic pursuits of sodamistic bed fellows
and other anti Christian pursuits,
have finally brought a visitation of madness
to the perverted soggy mess
masquerading as your brain;
If one may make an
advantageous suggestion
to your befuddled self,
it would be to seek out a restorative nervous elixir
or wrist strengthening electuary,
the former of which would aid in the
"compos mentis" of your good self;
and the latter is extremely efficacious in the
soothing of onanist wrist
and vinegar stroke eye.
but alas; neither is of use against the
" ejaculatio praecox " of foetid poetry..
your Servant, Obadiah Grey.
Secretary for spermatorrhea conservation
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?"
Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Ménage was a clever boy
his
scholarly pursuits
brought us lots
of joy
and
most things being equal
I liked him
e
v
e
n
i
f
h
e
w
a
s
F
r
e
n
c
h
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Exhausted, each letter drops
from my head to my feet
a blank screen behind these eyes
why?
understanding is futile
and wondering is growing weak
wanting, waiting
empty wishes
fall like ash
clouding my judgement.
just a fox and a hound
evading my pursuits
i'm left without your hand
warmth, smile, touch, breath
ingredients to your heart.
Mystified, my haze injects into my mind.
uncontrollable
my blood squirms
with a single thought
her...
polished, porcelain doll
of mocha caramel flavor
painted happiness, internal despair
all i ever think about.
waking moments reflect daydream hopes
dreaming scenes
of tomorrow
a ghost, a whisper on her neck
she'll never know.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
I am like the bicycle you let sit in the rain,
turned sideways, wheels still spinning in reverse--
an abrupt split second call once my small SUV showed
its dull red color and token dents, signs of an irresponsible me
(and a still judgmental you).
Once upon a time you prized me,
snatched me from the wall of Grandest Biggest Rewards
for those who throw their money and efforts into
impossible pursuits.
My hair gleamed. My skin glistened. My eyes glinted.
but my legs would not spread.
they could not for fear of Eyes of a Watchful God.
when the day came, the day that no one believed you would come,
not even me,
you closed your eyes; I squeezed mine shut,
as did my doors, never to let you in.
Not even when you begged, bargained, bribed.
When you flung insults like the beagle's feces,
fresh, frenzied, frantic,
I dodged each smear physically, but let the memories
haunt my fading floral youth.
Now, that the doors have opened
to admit those who may be trusted,
and have closed deep within a secret,
discarded like a rush of blood--
just as meaningless, just as insignificant,
Now, you've found another bike to prop against the cool
sheltered garage wall, newly painted--
both the garage and the bike,
and her arms emerge months from now
with baby and baby and baby.
Brimming with baby.
And I sold that bicycle months ago,
the one I fought so hard to retain.
I was never the material, nor the istic.
Just used goods gone sour.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
My doctor says that I'm too fat
He never stops his barking
He may be right at the end of the day
But despite it all I'm starving
I have a hole inside me
I used to quell with spirits
I stopped but they still haunt me
They'll **** me, so I fear it
******* used to cure this all
but no one could keep up
then one day I felt all yucky
abandoned all pursuits of "love"
I had a year way back when
Where all I did was party
I stuck weird things up my nose
But I ran out of money
When I was a teenager
my dad called me a *****
I got upset and cut myself
but quickly I grew bored
I drove fast around tight corners
to feel the breeze on warm damp nights
but today behind a wheel
I feel paralyzed
My doctor says to stab myself
so I don't eat too much
maybe if I'm smaller
I won't cringe when I am touched
But even as I sit here
and to food I feel averse
I know deep down inside myself
I'll always have this curse
I wonder what I'll crave now
these meds they make me sick
maybe just attention
will be how I get my kicks
I was once the right shape
it wasn't long ago
and even then I noticed
how people come and go
Will I ever feel full
to the wind I'm *******
I take up all this space
and still there's something missing
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 12:50 AM UTC