"reaffirming" poems
I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".
My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.
Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.
"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.
Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.
Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.
When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?
When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.
I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.
Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret
Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing
Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty
When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.
When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"
I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,
When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl
When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.
Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
an old, well known, thought lost, and irretrievable sensation
runs through my soul infecting my body and mind
reaffirming my original slogan, "go big or go home"
fresh 18 year old feeling, but with a touch of maturity
less ambition and exciting-fear
have no idea what i am doing, but this time i know that it is ok not to know
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
By day the fear defines me;
By night it envelopes me,
Perpetually reaffirming it's hold,
Refusing to release me.
Escape would be the sweetest taste,
more so than this surrender
to which I have become accustomed,
and to which I have not the strength to nullify.
We are given this inadequate kit,
of alternate emotions and yoga poses,
with which to fight the fear,
as though we have a chance.
Yet no matter how tense my anger,
how jubilant my happiness,
or how serene my meditation,
this fear has found a forever host.
From adolescence we are told
that this fear is a human construct.
Oh, the absolute worst kind;
this kind has no solution.
As teenagers we are herded into groups,
and told they are what will ease the fear,
and yet, the same emotions exist in all.
So what then is our option?
Is it to find love?
A kindred spirit whose fear mirrors our own?
I do believe so.
Oh, I do believe so.
As young adults we are told this is wrong.
We should be independent;
searching for love will certainly lead to heartache.
We must just live a little longer with the fear.
In our 30's the advice is more rushed,
as though we really do have timers.
We are now told the time spent afraid,
was time wasted.
What a sick joke,
that we are given false testimonies,
and are bombarded with warnings,
all most surely unsolicited.
I will not listen.
This fear is mine, not yours.
It has been my dearest friend for so long,
but it is now my choice to leave it behind.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
I will never be enough of a man
To dowse my saffron robes
In cold gasoline and set it aflame
In buddhistic conviction--
My dreams would scamper
From my burning head to find another,
My flesh would crack and burn
Like old parchment
In rough palms.
I will never be enough of man
To eat buckshot out of
A hollow cold steely gun
My mouth wrapped around the
Reaffirming thickness--
My eyes would dart and then close
My ears would ring and then collapse
Like an old building
Consumed in flames.
I will never be enough of a man
To wrap a rope round my neck
And stare blankly ahead
To seize the day
From God's hands--
My face would bulge
My limbs would twitch
Like a dying rodent
In the throes of cancer.
I will always be enough of a man
To kiss your lips
With my own and feel
Your curves in my hands
And look at the sun--
My trembling hands falter
My eyes can't see to feel for you
Like a blind pianist
Playing the blues.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
we follow the curves of our bodies
with distracted fascination
secretly satisfied by our gifts
outwardly disdaining as if
being confident were a sin
I caught that look in your eye
when I casually undressed
your surreptitiously satisfied smile
at the overall swell of my breast
and I was pleased with myself
a dance as old as the ages begins
again and again, seemingly anew
discovering the lines of each other privately
delighted another shares in our view
reaffirming the laws of nature
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
Purple hair, purple jewellery, and clothes.
Purple everything. The cross between male
and female. Mixed in a painting *** with dried up brush.
The coloured high of the ultimate low, for me.
It has caused me to see, beyond
my own yearnings and see that of more deeply
penetrating needs. Another living in my
soul. Cruel to me. One I couldn’t have fathomed had
I not fallen, into the dark. To see, to
need the pain and crush the happy thoughts.
Crave purple things above all. Crave a taste bitter
only sleep too long can create. Any creation is
hailed, heckled as the act of treason. How dare
you feel anything constructive?! And hide in
a corner till it’s gone. Till the thoughts vapor into
thin air and nothing is left but empty blackness.
Stand up, failing at first two attempts, and gain the
strength to not be ridiculed a third. Falling forward,
hanging in mid air. The wood hits the ribs, and sharp
pain adds to the blunt. The thumping in the words,
the washing of blood in the ears. The whinnying noise, tone
of loneliness reaffirming this connection cut off
felt from birth on. Never able to join the ranks of the
careless. Whether one lives or dies. Afraid to live, stuck
behind a thick glass wall. Alienation from birth, being
addicted to the dark. With purple hue. Purple ledged
in the deep of my soul. Purgatory keeps a flame to warm my
naked arms and legs. Huddled in the moist cold of
the hidden part of the mind. The most fundamental. Foundation
to build a life upon. Not fully corroded but hole ridden and
making for a perfect tomb. When life ends and you are
left with the colour of both male and female the same. Colour
of sadness.
© 2004
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
These words aren’t anything
But blood, sweat, tears
Are closer to the facts
Each passing face and fading day
Bear down upon my soul
Sneering, reaffirming my mistakes
I laugh along, unwittingly
As laughter seeps from pores
And tear glands, and veins
Each fleeting moment
And memory
Bearing down upon my soul
As I smile
Because words don’t mean anything
And our bodies aren’t silent
With craters and harmony
We are celestial
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
Eve convinced Adam
to eat forbidden fruit
in the Garden of Eden
Helen of Troy's face
launch'd a thousand ships,
her lips instigating warfare
Sumptuous curvatures of
women's hips and bossom
lure honorable men to disgrace
How dare that trollop
where a pair of trousers
accentuating her buttocks!
The micro-hemline
corralled a wandering eye
to the elegant calve muscle
The female figure is
warmth and seduction,
yet devilish and misleading
History and myth
reaffirming sweet satisfaction,
but reeking of disaster
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
I held each parcel -
An anxiety in itself
Next to the flame of
Organization calling for
Life to be spared, its spirit
Never to wane
Hot was the heat of
The group,
Their teeth
Glistening like the wild
Hounds of times trampling
The suburban wasteland of
Reaffirming adoration
I told myself lies in the tune
Of pop music, beer, liquor
And cigarettes made of the blood
Of plants and worker's I knew
Not the faces or name or where
They chose to come from
Please let me know
How the snow falls in
America this day, the way
It used to shine like diamonds,
How I used to believe in its
Mystery and its magic
Stories of lore were more
Than just a dream for me
A king of the tide, sand
Entrancing dogs whose paws
Dug at the dirt like friends
Behind their cash registers, on the run
Who make stilts out of willow sap
Swimming in the fortresses of nature
Following the ways of the world as
They heard that it once was there
Believing the present lays in the past
Shackling themselves to rocks
For ravens to pluck out beating heart
Beneath a beating sun that
Swore never to quit
A promise to the sky and
The moon whose nose leaks
Day in and day out
Blessing us with the fortune
Of a quick and easy annihilation
I am not beat, but
I have not won
The battle for my freedom
Can only be won by one
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:51 PM UTC
It started in the night and continued through the day. The wish to find my running shoes and throw it all away. To head towards the setting light in search of a familiar face. Only stopping for a moment to check if my shoes were truly laced. Finding only that my soul continues to wear with every passionate stride. Falling apart to the rhythmic concrete as my laces became untied. Reaffirming my life’s simple intent with every double knot. To find the life my days and nights had truly ever sought. So with tightened lace and replaced tongue, I bandage my blisters and refill my lungs. Hoping their overuse will lead me away, towards life greatest intent found in my nights and days. And as my blisters bleed again and my soul starts to rip, my lungs begin to give and my tongue finally slips. The winding road roughens and the weather begins to shift, as the distance of my journey becomes my life’s greatest shrift. Persevering for the days and nights that I simply would not act, and would only settle willingly on my life's beautiful abstract. And so I struggle through the pain in search of my perfect pace, which could lead me to my destination and the life I seem to chase. But the journey itself does not begin until I abandon my old ruse, and replace them with the souls of my used running shoes.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
The tangible presence of Jehovah,
is an overwhelming ease in my soul;
the wearisome cares of this World
slough off, reaffirming His control
over all of creation, time and space.
His sense of freedom from hardships,
constraints, embarrassments, pain,
and efforts dissipate as relationship
with Him, overpowers Life’s moments
in quick glimpses of divine intimacy.
The peace of Heaven calms my spirit,
whenever I give myself to Him and see
my identity, that’s found in Christ.
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 124:8; John 1:12; Eph 1:5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Sitting in place, watching for each breath to follow. Sitting in place while the pulse of the universe passed through, washing over me like a quilted array of colorful threads.
Waiting, resisting any urge to categorize it while breathing…..
From here to vapor clouds of yellow-green shapes, familiar and yet strikingly new and delightfully unique; letting go of any hold on my place, sitting in place.
Complete stillness in unison with an amplified propulsion of movement, surging through my body while the crafted, colorful texture buffets any notion that it could ever stop.
The fabric woven from strands of green, red, rainbow hues, standing and waving but endless; recognizing its elusive presence. Here, then gone, new forms and ideas.
There, but whipped away in a reality of thought; throbbing back to a joyous cacophony of brilliant cobalt spots melding into pools of glaze and meandering laughter. Rich with a deep knowledge of comfort and creation.
Rolling conveyors of electrified strands in textile grids, carrying me through existence; not away but throughout. Not alone but connected in a field of saturated love and reaffirming energy. Beckoning to participate in a communal array of shared newness and fascinated creativity.
Beating, pulsating, reverberating through my being; lifting and transporting from here to here. Flashing, stunning, gripping yet gently releasing me to a river-stream of floating and mellow current.
Elusive to comprehend yet immediately sure. Breathing with a singular rhythm but bombarded with a magnanimous abundance of photons, blasting through into an ambling state. Smiling, soothing, mirthful but astoundingly reassuring and irrevocably present.
Sitting in place, wanting to stay and receive while being pulled to a new place of possibility and self-perpetuation.
Sitting in place in the middle of nothing. Delirious.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
Tranquillity....
My day begins,
With heat of the morning sun,
The cool wind whispers… goading me back to comfort,
But the praising birds remind me… its time to pray
I wake… from a calm and peaceful death,
And raise my heavy body,
Fighting the chains that hold me down,
I thank God…
Acknowledge His Glorious Majesty,
In whose intense light, my shadow burns.
I praise God as I wash…
In water as calm as my morning thoughts,
Its clarity reflecting my purpose,
Washing away my sins with its purity,
I stand…
In solitude… subservient and serene,
Remembering my purpose, my reason for being,
And quietly… so only myself can hear,
I read…
Revealing the miracle that our hearts conceal,
Verse after verse… I feel my faith grow,
As tears form under eyelashes pregnant with guilt,
I prostrate…
Remembering the promise of my Lord,
I ask for guidance, forgiveness and hope,
A Refuge from a world of uncertainty and doubt,
Ending my prayer I restart my life,
Reaffirming my faith, with each morning light,
As the cool wind whispers… tranquillity
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Is on Her way.
Over hot runs
She lifts off the back of a River
and kisses at salt-water-skin
She pours down Summer showers
Tapped on the shoulder by the breeze of Fall
like orange Leaves
lifting
and settling back down to their Earth
their Dirt
their ground
She slips through October doors
announcing Her soft presence with Wind
and reaffirming Her position through Thunder.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
if you're asking me to be subhuman
give me a plot-line, i'd find one among the Zimbabweans
a minute later, but give me a plot-line,
i just want to know the hierarchy from now on...
a Dutch spat in a Polish girl's face...
give me the ******* plot-line! or is this one of those moments
where you say: ja zapomnieć mówienia po polsku.
oh, you're one of those hybrids?!
should have told me sooner!
how's the Sunday roast treating you?
it's a bit dry, i admit, typical Pole-lack...
fights for independence from the Rus and the Prus
and then gets **** with the **** that pays him...
like some Chilean **** of a fake shaman,
or some Afro, gets ****** on all fours
for posterity being the reasonable standard...
has no pride, no ulterior motive, just sits there
expecting relief without working for it,
what a lucky bunch of beetroots, chequers in cheek,
rosy, the next flush of hope in casual conversation
estimating the standards of non-racial involvement
inside post-Saxony is Ulster -
they really want retards and are anti-bilingual,
the same plague that met the Normans, the Cnut
brigadiers, they want inbreeding, but as the ladies
say: better Paki-pickup-grooming than a white
boy fanciful of romance... ain't that a pretty sight...
had to revolve upon the thick-skinned ones...
the ones who would't sue...
but with us Russia... ***** whipped by Jews and
cinnamon skinned ones are we? ***** - you said it,
i'm reaffirming;
you could have been colonial with them -
i won't let your colonial subjects turn colonial on me!
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
guards up, defenses strong
holding an indifferent glare
treading, walking, running on this path
confidence strongly shielded from attack
charged on the embodiment of strength
adorning armor of pain and feeling
crafted in bitter portrayal and forged
with the much hurt he had caused
presumptuous ego from long nonchalance
a journey coldly carved so clearly forward
time only reaffirming the deepened beliefs
that the unguarded to feeling are indeed weak
unbeknownst to the soldier, a universe
would soon make itself known, inescapable
dawning in the most inconspicuous ways
it would seem as though it were all his doing
creeping in oh so subtly, fear greets the soldier
alas! The enigmatic enemy slipped his defenses
the birth of emotion announces itself gallantly
fireworks shoot through his long barren skies
never anticipating that his ultimate defeat
would be through brown eyes so kind
they bring life to a heart deadbeat
hope illuminating a hallowed mind
by falling into the trap so greatly feared
he found solace within unending chaos
bridging insanity an epiphany so sure
he had lost nothing that was his
in belonging an ego is not owed to man
rather amass the one treasure which he
had long been running from in twisted irony
accepting fate that he, possibly was worthy
After all love, he finally embraced his savior.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
Today I have given you
A beautiful Sunday morning
A sky of topaz blue
The Suns beams adorning
An ever gentle breeze
Passing silently by unseen
Through the leafless trees
And over the blades of green
I give you music along the way
From natures vocal cords
Singers red and blue and gray
Singing without a word
I am ever present in creation
This I am reaffirming
As I walk in revelation
On this beautiful Sunday morning.
RLB
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Wanna Feel
In The Berkeley Hills,
with some different girls,
different Hills different girls,
and different guys as well,
oh well,
different girls,
different guys,
where,
was,
I…
I go out now,
and recognize that I’m recognized,
the written word’s done wonders for me,
thankful without question I don’t need to know why,
have no questions for you,
other than are you ready to ride,
high,
up in the Hills,
of Berkeley reaffirming,
anything that’s real,
wanna feel,
anything that’s real,
don’t tell me that’s cliche,
because I know you feel the same way,
and I told you before I’m trying to stop rhyming,
but then I go and just keep rhyming anyways,
anyways,
where were we,
we were,
are rather are,
in The Berkeley Hills,
with some different girls,
different Hills different girls,
and different guys as well,
oh well,
different girls,
different guys,
where,
was,
I…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
4/17
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Ignore the lyrics.
You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.
Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.
It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,
So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.
Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,
cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,
and we are nothing.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
Can Christianity, be considered, to
be an enigmatic Faith? Doesn’t one’s
thoughts regarding obscurity, relate
directly to one’s lack of personal
understanding? How can a true view
be obtained, without studying… The
Word? Having Christ as one’s Light
of Faith, real living develops with
transparency; when His contentment
and peace resides in one’s heart, a
gentle atmosphere forms and soothes
within the soul, reaffirming Faith.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
Everywhere I go I see
Empty hearts, empty faces
I see empty souls, and deadly traces
Filled with smoke, beer, toxic wasted
Contamination, lethal intoxication
My Lord has set me free
From ******* and misery
In exchange for humility
And benevolent hospitality
I love caring, I love preparing
I love learning, I love reaffirming
My walk with God, the Holy Spirit
My Savior, My Life, My Everything
Luke 4:18
"The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free,",
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
looking to make the jump
from anonymous to influential
based on mad writing skills
and the ability to be rare and unusual –
many long years the daily toil has worn my psyche
now, frayed nerves blend with crippling paranoia
and I peer through bent mini-blinds
at a society devoid of cultural norms
choosing instead to discriminate
against their brothers –
quietly slipping back into the shadow
only the whites of my eyes can be seen in the din
I feel the cold steel leaning gently against the door-jam
reaffirming to myself
I will not be taken alive –
crayon wax candles drip
pooling on matted **** carpet
trapping a flea
and capturing my attention –
we all sit trapped in poisonous wax
floundering against the weight of the next droplet
coated for all eternity –
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Giving pleasure without also giving affection
Giving *** but withholding love,
Reduces the whole to a mechanical exercise.
To love is to take a risk,
The risk of losing oneself,
Yet in the softness of a caress,
A miracle can happen.
The touch becomes dazzling and reaffirming,
The power of the mysterious connection, between human beings,
The long-time proof that they were made for one and other.
Chris Nugent - 1978
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC