"queued" poems
Ongoing failures of the Church to act,
will guarantee the sure success of evil;
for faith without works is… still dead
and visible today is spiritual upheaval.
The internal chasm between the members
of both sides -the presbytery and laity-
must be bridged with faithful cooperation,
girded with policies that last permanently.
Even today, God is quietly waiting on the Body,
while the unsaved are queued up for Hell.
Individual Faith is a person’s responsibility,
but the Great Commission impels us to tell…
others about God, His Love and Christ’s Salvation.
After 2000+ years, The World has not misunderstood.
A final solution is required and not yet in place-
each of us must desire to… overcome Evil with good!
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
James 2:14-26; Obad 1:11-15; Gal 6:7-9;
Matt 5:45, 28:16-20
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is
that good men continue to do nothing -Edmund Burke
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
*Moon swept itching dark
Twilight, sunrises curtain
pink lids - open eyes
Crossing the shallows
trout fingerling feed at dawn
White dots steep hill path
My stride increases
a shadow skipping pebbles
lone thoughts dismissed
White dappled ginger
Ungainly long knobbed legs,
rolling - then sitting aware
Midday, pours blue heat
Standing shading their new young,
across clear pebbled flow
Smile’s triumphant glow
rests briefly on sweet green bank
Silver flash of joy
Dusk - apart painted,
eight queued paired mare and foal
Foliage lined dark black*
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC
-10-
Regular Albert Whisker,
FE Squadron,
born 1939,
joined up at 18.
First time away from home and loving it, sir!
-9-
One day,
I’m just minding my own
at the airbase in Stranraer
when two officers appear
out of nowhere
and they ask
they ask if I’d fancy a long weekend?
Why not? I say.
Why not?
-8-
We’re staying at the Governor Clinton Hotel,
It's in New York.
Everything laid on.
Trip to Broadway and all.
Three whole days of paradise
All on the MOD.
-7-
Oh Gor Blimey!
What a sight when we stepped off the flight
onto Christmas Island for the first time.
Crushed white coral dust.
Like nothing I’d ever seen.
-6-
Our job is mainly to just do our job
which is mainly just military driving.
Land-rovers, lorries, tankers and that.
And avoiding the island ***** -
three times a day, they'd all crawl up the beach -
but they didn’t pay us for that.
-5-
Someone showed me their diary today
and it had a letter ‘H’ under today’s date.
So I’m working on the beach
when the tannoi sounds:
“Sit down and cover your eyes.
Testing will begin in five, four…”
-4-
And there was light.
A flash right through your skin and hands.
The biggest bang I’ve ever heard.
A flash.
Through your skin and bones and hands.
The biggest bang I’ve ever heard in all my life.
-3-
Then it was over.
Nothing much changed.
-2-
Except the mushroom cloud was there for quite a time.
And the Canberra bombers, the white ones, they flew through the cloud like little spores.
-1-
Then one day they just said “You’re done”
and we queued up to fly home to England.
Saw the new ones, the ‘moonies’, getting off the plane.
Sad to leave I was, yeah.
It was a good posting.
And nice weather, never rained,
Not rain at any rate.
Then, not long after, I was sent home for good.
They said I’d caught a cancer off a someone and
for me own good
I had to be discharged.
-0-
Sad really.
It was a good posting.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and
Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain.
Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes
As she waited for the barrister to turn his head.
And when taking her cup,
Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs
And Blakey's syncopation.
I fell in love
As I watched her lips purse and
Blow casually at the lid, cooling the
Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine.
I decided to ask what brought her in from the
Rain.
My words queued in my throat as I stood
To speak.
My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them.
My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode
Over to her table.
I could smell spice and ginger of a perfume I knew so well.
Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead.
Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined
Me for a biscotti.”
With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth,
“I am waiting for a friend.”
Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she
Conversed with him she peeked at me
My Calliope
And all was well.
~AD~
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
this mumbling fog lurks tonight
across pointed shadows,
living between triangles of manufactured light,
pivoting between and around one another accordingly,
shaping themselves how they are queued to.
this smoke reflects against unlit windows,
like these dogs that howl in chorus,
breathing a shift of movement into the air,
leaving the city under a bested silence.
a finely tuned design
that these empty streets
may speak without interruption
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
Hot today
Road-crossing slow
Couples snail-walk
Love on show
Buses queued
Shoppers bagged
Cars throb-beat
Traffic drag
Mid-road-island
Man is lost
Tiny dog
Seeks lamppost
Time getaway
Stop revolve
Go home vicar
Mystery solved
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
It has been a year since I first met You—
innumerable changes have been made.
Knowledge You knew before these words I wrote.
Regardless, my gratitude is in this ode:
Two fortnights less five, in the month July—
a night I’ll ne’er forget—in which Your birth was
two thousand and eleven years prior.
Seen in my choice of caravan—car not foot.
Trees in motion around me— rise and dive,
still nature now epic— vast, powerful waves.
An ocean angered, queued by Your great will,
staggered me— I dreamt then to float on that lea.
Now submerged in awe, my lungs fill, I drift.
Thoughts’ vessel stays empty, my mind lost at sea.
The storm passed, all was calm and all was clear-
o’er that water I rose, beached by blue skies.
The shore out of sight, but it I saw.
Blinded I had been. For years I was oppressed—
vogue logic stifled creative free thought.
You needn’t say, I knew then what to do.
I found a pad and inscribed wild scribbles-
what I rendered I knew not, yet I did.
Erratic lines became a map of fate.
Three stood on a gorge tall, I being one.
I found that land within rivers bound
While wading in dialogue I found it.
It being the thought which soon would blossom.
Hardly quick though, Your seeds need time to grow.
Unsure when to harvest, yet I knew then
to appreciate art of prose and verse.
To convey the feelings only I knew.
To know the powers one wields with a pen.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
In a swiveling chair, the black and white images of light to the west, are reflections of mind in a humming machine. Turning a head, there is a closed window, showing an energetically inspired pen the nearing sunset.
Moon swept itching dark
Twilight, sunrises curtain
pink lids - open eyes
With a blink of instaneous awakeness and sleep, the neck turns fast, to look for inspiration.
Dusk - apart painted
eight queued paired mare and foal
foliage lined dark black
Without my sister's presence, the filmed horse's birth is only an image, lost. Indeed, it's the shadows of sunlight that have lit up the southerly tree with darkness!
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC
I'm so tired of walking this tightrope.
I'd rather fall than turn back
Only to be turned around again.
Turned around touched down long long ways from the ground.
I look out the door to a grey sky
Promising rain.
The color of my mood this afternoon.
The very same grey...
The very same rain...
Threatening.
Maybe I shouldn't be listening to this music,
Melancholic as I knew it was before I even queued it up,
Expecting or hoping,..well here I am.
You're a drug I scored this morning and I couldn't wait
To get you my blood.
You're a hard drug, relentless, and now I cannot wait
To get you out.
Who pushed me into this corner?
What made the difference, pulled the last straw?
Closed my eyes? Opened my mind?
Opened my eyes. Closed my mind.
You're a hard God, teasing.
Blessing with confusion and the unknown.
Damning with certainty.
A game for the enlightened who know better
Than to believe it matters.
Anyway our animal souls won't realize
Until it's too late.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust
- you can call her “Godfather.”
The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - think tiger stripes.
Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.
Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.
When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.
Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while on line (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.
Finally, it was my turn. we cheek kissed (fait la bise).
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We la bise again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.
Ooo! Another steward!
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
cherry sweet smoke
drifting slow circles
barely masks the scent of... burned coffee? or is it mold?
it really brings out the apathetic atmosphere
of this windowless waiting room.
dimly lit and dingy
a single bare bulb clinging to life
...and failing -
f l i c k e r s w i t h t h e r a p i d p u l s e o f a h e a r t g i v i n g o u t.
while peeling Mint Green paint adds a sense of despair
("*it smells definitely like **** in here*")
the grout needs a good scrub to remove the flaking brown stains
reminiscent of dried blood and chew spit
This. is. where. My dreams languish
with bloodshot eyes
with cramped backs
awkward and uncomfortable
queued up to to die in some forgotten room
located down that rather unpleasant looking hallway
filed away for a rainy day that will never come ~
one dead dream is a tragedy
a thousand dead dreams are just statistic
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
'
*row upon row
queued up queries
poppering poplars
outstretched limbs
vigilant sentinels
ever watchful of
fickle firmament
Meanwhile
***** bursting
with plaintive
prayers, spy*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
With passing days queued up
for the forecast foreseeable
Tuck into the routines' reserves
deplete when permissible
Shot through the feet
with what we can't forget
run on through the limp
past the end of the sentence
and sit
In the glow
remain undeveloped
stay unreconstructed
drop the curtain
on scenes interrupted
Dot your i's
with up-slanted slash marks
sparks fill my eyes when
I read through your retorts
Blank page.
Blank page.
A waltz through a minefield
reeling jigs over headstones
when digging through
plain white lines
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Here’s where the story begins: One night, feeling empty I called God. Said I wanted a creature embodying all the feminine, an hour later, she walked in.
I watched in disbelief as a step started a lone violin, her walk queued a dozen, amazed by this skill I invited her in.
She put other sad girls to shame, for she had a soundtrack to her walk. Steps accompanied by music is what every girl wants, an orchestra or a live band playing as if directed by her hips. Full lips writing melodies as she speaks.
Ancient profession and she’s a professional, we’re all poets and lovers, a player playing wonderful music as I bade in her thighs, kiss the sides of her wide hips. Fingers running… Down. Her abdomen aching for me to get inside. Tongue barely brushing by. Feeling the pain in your left thigh as I become the passion to the right so I… Stop. You ask why and I say: “Not yet” You laugh it of, grab me and we’re at it again, grab your neck, squeeze those hips, hold your knees, kiss those lips… Pushed you of, said goodnight, left the room.
Caught me quick, with an attitude, said you lost.
Paid for ****
Now I’m the **********
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
despite, weren't we prior
queued up in line to give rise
to some ancient, vengeful choir?
to watch them waken, chant, reprise.
perched in our own ****** pyres,
we many tragic beasts in disguise-
with no true thanks to the liars-
sigh such weathered cries,
'keep fueling your fires.'
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
This is about the frustration of being a father, after a divorce
In between
In-between
These alternating saturdaze
my children whirr . . .
Some telephonic conversation point
They, hazy fantasy . . Half Imagined lives
Now . . Mummy and daddy
Don't play husbands and wives
Anymore . . Each has
Like carrion for seagulls
Stashed Respective Legal beagles
To one side
as incisive as their fickle knives
And Baying for partition
Crave To slice the final pieces
From this pies remaining lives
So . . This is here
where we are now
No more catch up at the days end
Not tucked to bed
Not kissed goodnight
No stories nor
No prayers to send
There's nothing not
Nor can I do
To make this feeling mend . . . .
Since Each has their part
in this narrative marked,
Queued slots in time
All's written down, agreed
Is for the benefit of all
Is legislated for, defined
so . . . . we wait . . . .
Each flicks their counter stick
days become hours as
Slow minutes tick
by and by . .
Then when I see them at the weekend
I tell myself the biggest lie
That some piece of the pie
Is better
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
There’s only a dew of elixir in the bottom of the empty cup sleeping as lamb
Now they call it heart, I call it polluted spirit, and you may call it ruby pomegranate granules
But we the simplest so called human entities jointly may only Love and this is sufficient
To suffer for the thousand years and a day more
The one who cares not is the luckiest mundane ignorant but I’m the one alike who outpours his quintessential not knowing for whom
Not knowing for what reason a purpose never show its glamour in advance
For warning, for love or even for sake of its purest manifestation
In times when words were queued in the thread abundantly curved in bobbin from the human scalp
The necklace of verse is fading its shine no sparkling truths gurgles from its spring to obey our thirsts
We the thirsty souls for divine morsel wandering in here as the spirits of suicide victims
Empty stomachs of enfant terrible only for the grasp of the truth they never hear even as the sound of insect
Never as the sound of falling frozen spirit in jade that you may later see as the Galatea of divine maternal essence
A cornucopia of latent blessings waits
A deficit of Love outbursts proudly displaying its genitalia without a drop of shame
I wander as a working bee searching for the nectar of wisdom to feed my Queen bee
And bestow her eternal life with the royal jelly leaking elegantly from the bottom to the navel
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
The vinyl record just rotates
in circuits of unforseen loops
queued in the unending circles
revolved strains of melodies
Yet every song remains the same stamped of a watered down clef
rooted fragile moments of numbness
gated inside notions with bricks
Even if the sun roars in a trumble
she remains that inhibited builder
a human, that fragile sort of a woman
a protective rooted architect of life
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 11:59 PM UTC
And know that these streets are irresponsible,
and that you are too. And that no matter
how bright your eyes and headlamps may be
you will always find something you didn’t
see before. Life will always be throwing at you
curveballs. And car insurance. And the ungainly heft
of police officers leering in lustily at the watch on your
wrist and the hollowed, hungry eyes of your companion.
Do not answer them, I beg of you, when they ask
you too for your name and your father's,
for they truly care not to hear
its sound. They only want to add to the noise -
continue living beneath its dins. Not after money but the
fear, the control that from you stem. Now, yes
I may be over-exaggerating (after all, it was but one
slight dent in the bumper of the car, but
there is no exaggeration to the voicelessness of they
who queued before me, no companions guiding them,
no voices shouting for them.) He, they, there, by the streets,
only has in his hands a car horn. And so he honks.
And so the siren wails. And so the chaos reigns.
And so do they - officers - living silently beneath it all,
urging us onward to yelling and screaming and shouting.
And yet we can’t. And we don’t. And we won’t.
And yet they, for all their damages, do not - scratch,
refuse not - to do so.
They only can look down at the pavement,
dotted yellow, black and white dashed.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Partially pretending, Pieces previously presented prevailed
because
queued, quiet, quotes & questions, question
my train of thought
O.Q-N
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
There seems to be no escape.
The MAGA cult is all queued up.
Tickets in hand, gathering their baggage -
Prepared to board the leaky ship
For a one-way trip to the bottom of the sea.
Their bags are exceedingly heavy -
Filled with their leader's failures,
Formed of laundered cash, ****
Top Secret document theft, fraud,
Abandoned faithful allies
And defenders of Ukraine's freedom.
There are no first class seats on this ship
Because there are no first class passengers.
They long ago sold off all they should value
To stand by a creepy hotel clerk
Consumed by grift and self - idolatry.
Their hero arrives in a three-piece suit
To escort them to their cabins
As soon as he scrapes the mashed potatoes
From his corruption-soaked vest.
But wait - there seem to be empty seats
Many voyagers are turning away
Tearing their tickets as they go.
They tell how they’re finished
With lies and losing and treachery.
Too bad for them - for you see,
There's no place like the ocean floor
To gurgle on the wrong side of history.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 12:37 PM UTC
On the other side
of my over
thinking
I’ve come to realize I still have
more questions
than answers
The future feels just the same as
it did ten years ago when my now
was my future
then
Friends are more often
thought about
than visited
when later today turns into tomorrow
and tomorrow turns
into this weekend
and then next weekend
once a month
whenever you can
because time pushes us all into
this strange thing
called Life
and it’s full of all kinds of ********
designed to rob you of
your money
your sanity
your time
but don’t let this discourage you
from greeting tomorrow
with open arms
and a head full of more questions
than answers
The magic doesn’t seem
to happen as often,
but on the days it does
You have a good day at work,
you pay all the monthly bills on time,
your schedule syncs with an old
college friend and you meet for
coffee, or street tacos from a
local food trailer, or you shoot
pool and whiskey at a dive bar
early Saturday evening
and it feels like the old times again,
and you learn the things you did
were your first stumblings into
adulthood and even though they
sometimes change the way you walk
forever, it’s those times you discover
again when you start your third game
and the songs you queued on the jukebox
start playing and now that you can enjoy
the taste of good whiskey more than the
quantity of well, and all the loose fragments
of the memories we carry every day, left open
on the table in a journal with more strikeout
lines than unmolested phrases all become
complete with each corner pocket called
shot, each memory recalled and retold with
language alluding Greek Epics and Shakespearean
Tragedies,
It all starts to make more sense in ways
and stops making sense in others,
and the future is the same as it always was
some things
you can change,
some people
you can keep
some days
turn into weeks,
months, and years
trying to make sense
of what’s coming,
of what’s gone,
of just what, exactly,
we have now.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.
My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.
A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.
College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.
College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.
Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.
I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.
Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 7:13 AM UTC