"reproof" poems
When the incendiaries lit the sky
A face smiled its divine calligraphy:
It was Helen crowned with Troy's debris.
Her unmatchable mouth in the roof
Of blood moved in speech like the home of love,
Hanging its moon of reproof:
'My kiss blots history out.
My landslide legend has forgotten
A thousand thousand bones rotting;
'Under the guilty sea
The ships lie; but accuracy
Has been seduced by me.'
Her smile sailed indiscriminately
Among the squadrons of death majestically
And was reflected on the sea.
'The armless Venus carried Pompei's tears
Better than the raided years
Or the cold dances of chameleon stars.'
Then faded. But the rain
Like lovers' seeds that fall in vain,
Warned me of my sin.
3.6k
What am I
A product of what has been
A member of the future to be
A traveler on a desolate street
For what has remained
Stays still inside
Dominant in its home
Awake in my mind
Shattering ever still
As the florescent lights hung above
Alone in my heart ache
As time aggressively slips by this desolate son
Peering through the door
Hoping for a glimpse
Of what strikes by my view
Is surely to be missed
For happiness is a fleeting view which takes hold
So it is tragic as you feel the agonizing departure of your soul
And for what cannot be heard is that which is understood
For what I have felt for a short season is that of my reproof
What I have missed the most has only brought me pain
As I sit alone in the darkness my hands begin to shake
For I have grown old in my youth and not as graciously as I'd hoped
My thoughts feed my own torment like a hand around my throat
For all that I was
In this world of lies
Another product rejection
And an endless defile
Though I wish, it is in vain
And that of nothing new
Crushed under the weight
Of this iridescent blue
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.
It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.
Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.
With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes
You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.
I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.
I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.
Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.
My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain
I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.
A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
In ancient times long long ago,
when Ptolemy looked up into the firmament-
with wonder and amaze, to see the heavens glowing there-
he little knew of how the Gods did sport and play!
When Cassiopeia ope'd her ***** and let forth her music in the heavens, with joy the stars did dance and planets in their fundament strove to eclipse each other vying with all their might to illuminate-the heavens more bright with their ethereal light and splendor.
Andromeda began to dance, then Sirius and Betelgeuse,
Virgo too with Capricorn- Herculese and Aquila-Regulus with Ursa minor, all the planets danced but one,
and that with angry stance, refused to join the dance,
Mars with red countenance stood aloof feigning reproof,
Look carefully, and you will see,
the stars still dance for you and me.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Take the dead Christ to my chamber,
The Christ I brought from Rome;
Over all the tossing ocean,
He has reached his western home;
Bear him as in procession,
And lay him solemnly
Where, through weary night and morning,
He shall bear me company.
The name I bear is other
Than that I bore by birth,
And I've given life to children
Who'll grow and dwell on earth;
But the time comes swiftly towards me
(Nor do I bid it stay),
When the dead Christ will be more to me
Than all I hold to-day.
Lay the dead Christ beside me,
Oh, press him on my heart,
I would hold him long and painfully
Till the weary tears should start;
Till the divine contagion
Heal me of self and sin,
And the cold weight press wholly down
The pulse that chokes within.
Reproof and frost, they fret me,
Towards the free, the sunny lands,
From the chaos of existence
I stretch these feeble hands;
And, penitential, kneeling,
Pray God would not be wroth,
Who gave not the strength of feeling,
And strength of labor both.
Thou'rt but a wooden carving,
Defaced of worms, and old;
Yet more to me thou couldst not be
Wert thou all wrapt in gold,
Like the gem-bedizened baby
Which, at the Twelth-day noon,
They show from the Ara Coeli's steps,
To a merry dancing tune.
I ask of thee no wonders,
No changing white or red;
I dream not thou art living,
I love and prize thee dead.
That salutary deadness
I seek, through want and pain,
From which God's own high power can bid
Our virtue rise again.
1.9k
Another heady day blooms and gathers pace
Spring dawns at 5 a.m. with a gargle and spit in the dark
Big rain drops and falls
Soft blood red wet cherry stones of bath salts
Splayed across my ageing face
Autumn showers then walks
The spiderweb of ragged birdsong feathers and
Threads through the branches
Of just November trees
Autumnal hymnal
Singing through the dying darkness, whispering
Don’t capture the light
And walking jogs thought
Factoring rebuke as Information unwanted
Proof then reproof
The tarmac fields of youth
Tilled by broken hands with
Broken men mending pipes and wires
Time leaves a presage- a butterfly mark
Autumn leaves their signals sending winter’s mark
Beauty colours death
Dec 15, 2009
Dec 15, 2009 at 1:29 AM UTC
Mistrust.
The mistrust in a dying relationship
discolours love's eyes,
feels no reproof from past mistakes,
abuses kindness,
makes of togetherness an irritation,
turns truth to bland lies
and stands aside from communication
when one of two tries.
The breath of dead passion penetrates
beyond depth of ties
and wrecks with renewed realization
of non-compromise
while the mouth of rejection suffocates
taste for testing goodbyes,
not caring what strain lies in isolation.
Regret deeply sighs
when love retreats into disintegration.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
"WHAT have I earned for all that work,' I said,
'For all that I have done at my own charge?
The daily spite of this unmannerly town,
Where who has served the most is most defaned,
The reputation of his lifetime lost
Between the night and morning. I might have lived,
And you know well how great the longing has been,
Where every day my footfall Should have lit
In the green shadow of Ferrara wall;
Or climbed among the images of the past --
The unperturbed and courtly images --
Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino
To where the Duchess and her people talked
The stately midnight through until they stood
In their great window looking at the dawn;
I might have had no friend that could not mix
Courtesy and passion into one like those
That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn;
I might have used the one substantial right
My trade allows: chosen my company,
And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.
Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof,
"The drunkards, pilferers of public funds,
All the dishonest crowd I had driven away,
When my luck changed and they dared meet my face,
Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me
Those I had served and some that I had fed;
Yet never have I, now nor any time,
Complained of the people.'
All I could reply
Was: "You, that have not lived in thought but deed,
Can have the purity of a natural force,
But I, whose virtues are the definitions
Of the analytic mind, can neither close
The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.'
And yet, because my heart leaped at her words,
I was abashed, and now they come to mind
After nine years, I sink my head abashed.
1.4k
Tomes of advice
Let alive, in the room of cares
Vehemence, instinct, attuned sighs
Where the powers that be, continue until fared
Are we the ears of purpose?
Set in sides and meandering light
The skill of another, to share the insight of us
Should we enable a dance, of redoubt for might?
My door of adding, as avarice is...
The truth in long glances, with method to move
Thought, the biding hope of when is, bliss
The turn of completeness, the coping hour we have of use?
Lose me in the fold...
The tooth I invoke, is a creation of voice and tone, to total
A resolve of guidance, of kind come for wishes to hold
The grace of unity, if not unique sense, before legend falls
To reproof...
Time in its steady march to liberty, the devotion of fashion
Though a tarter end to hindsight, may be aloof
We confirm the date of simple alacrity, a host of could lasting...
Be the love, of a lifetime...
Of causes redeemed by a curious share
In the superiority of life, to know a callous friendship worth trying
And the impress of duress, driven to cares we ne'er guarantee...?
Unless the cold turn of truth, is towards waiting love
Done distress, marveling need, the common remark of persuasion
In the name of urges, we attest to passions, we grant another covenant
The decision of a soul to keep, knowing a handheld in something besides here's intrusion
All
A day's lot in the careful wishes we seek, for a nary come dwell
Rhapsody, in a courage's stance, the times to live and know a call
To harmony, the burden of thee, assumes patience is ours to tell...
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
Such a violent world we live in
Hard to know just what to do
For example both my mom and dad
Have slapped and spanked me too
But nowadays some choose a path
That may seem rather odd
To discipline with words instead
Of reaching for a rod
"The rod and reproof give wisdom ..."
What does the Bible mean?
In carrying out that principle
Some have gone to the extreme
The rod of discipline should be
To train towards peace and love
True discipline's tree yields peaceful fruit
The Wisdom from above
The rod of discipline is like
The rod of a caring shepherd
Who wields his rod in a loving way
For the sheep by him are treasured
The best example is God Himself
Before whom we sin each day
Does he beat us with a rod of pain?
No, His Word shows us the way
It's true at times He scourges
Some of those that He holds dear
Even then 'tis done in a loving way
Leaving naught for us to fear
Yes, nowadays some choose a path
That may seem rather odd
To discipline with words instead,
Like the discipline from God
© 2023 Mark Toney
Nov 3, 2023
Nov 3, 2023 at 2:04 PM UTC
A soft answer turneth
away wrath: but grievous
words stir up anger.
2 The tongue of the wise useth
knowledge aright: but the mouth
of fools poureth out foolishness.
3 The eyes of the Lord are
in every place beholding the evil
and the good.
4 A wholesome tongue is a tree
if life: but perverseness therein is
a breach in the spirit.
5 A fool despiseth his father's
instruction: but he the regardeth
reproof is prudent.
6 In the house of the righteous
is much treasure: but in the
revenues of the wicked is trouble.
7 The lips of the wise disperse
knowledge: but the heart of the
foolish doeth not so.
8 The sacrifice of the wicked
is an abomination to the Lord: but
the prayer of the upright is his delight.
9 The way of the wicked is an
abomination unto the Lord: but
he loveth him that followeth
after righteousness.
10 Correction is grievous unto
him that forsaketh the way: and
he that hateth reproof shall die.
11 Hell and destruction are
before the Lord: how much more
then the hearts of the children of
men?
12 A scorner loveth not one
that reproveth him: neither will he
go unto the wise.
13 A merry heart maketh a
cheerful countenance: but by
sorrow of the heart the spirit is
broken.
14 The heart of them that hath
understanding seeketh knowledge:
but the mouth of fools
feedeth on foolishness.
15 All the days of the afflicted
are evil: but he that is of a merry
heart hath a continual feast.
16 Better is little with the fear
of the Lord than great treasure
and trouble therewith.
17 Better is a dinner of herbs
where love is, than a stalled ox
and hatred therewith.
18 A wrathful man stirreth up
strife: but he that is slow to anger
appeaseth strife.
19 The way of the slothful man
is as an hedge of thorns: but the
way of the righteous is made
plain.
20 A wise son maketh a glad
father: but a foolish man
despiseth his mother.
21 Folly is joy to him that is
destitute of wisdom: but a man of
understanding walketh uprightly.
22 Without counsel purposes
are disappointed: but in the
multitude of counsellors they are
established.
23 A man hath joy by the
answer of his mouth: and a word
spoken in due season, how good
is it!
24 The way of life is above to
the wise, that he may depart from
hell beneath.
25 The Lord will destroy the
house of the proud: but he will
establish the border of the
widow.
26 The thoughts of the wicked
are an abomination to the Lord:
but the words of the pure are
pleasant words.
27 He that is greedy of gain
troubleth his own house; but he
that hateth gifts shall live.
28 The heart of the righteous
studieth to answer: but the
mouth of the wicked poureth out
evil things.
29 The Lord is far from the
wicked: but he heareth the
prayer of the righteous.
30 The light of the eyes rejoiceth
the heart: and a good report
maketh the bones fat.
31 The ear that heareth the
reproof of life abideth among the
wise.
32 He that refuseth instruction
despiseth his own soul: but he
that heareth reproof getteth
understanding.
33 The fear of the Lord is the
instruction of wisdom; and before
honour is humility.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
He wears, with me, the charms of love,
exchanging gentle whispers in storms
of fascinated, trembling union.
He shares with me blue velvet nights
of careful and unmeasurable bliss,
and titivates modest morning rebirths.
He cares for me, reproof us not, we make
no show of virtue, or counterfeit innocency,
but partage, in comfort, this open honesty.
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 12:58 PM UTC
In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards…
this is part three under reproof inspection,
we have tools some of us imagined,
perhaps with prodding from what prodded
Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties;
differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible,
Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing
by 1961, the year of the twist,
if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV.
We were there.
There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan
We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon
in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails.
But the one I imagine I remembered reading,
We were there at the battle for Bataan,
that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery
in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road
alluded to in rites of passage,
all roads lead
from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known.
Up on the point,
overlooking my green valley,
if I am an honest man, and I believe I am,
sharp as a tack,
tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop,
sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme,
flash of white,
no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure
that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed,
once the plant impresses your kindness,
adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff
wonder, if we may imagine
and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not.
Or the reader who may write and wishes to be
known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through
changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time
thinking medium
thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be?
the proverb, pre installed, tic
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is sufficient for thee.
see
prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall
eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can
sense the fine-ness of the line
the veil, between useful for imaginary things,
how fine the film discerned, imagine that
scratched
with this
so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness
nought, not infinite, pre-
punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 3:30 PM UTC
THIS poem is number 800
Of poems I've "published" on various sites.
You might golf, play tennis or paint;
Of me they merely say, "He writes."
Eight hundred poems are a lot
Of poems if you are keeping score.
But bear in mind that poets out there
Have written hundreds or thousands more.
Writing can become a passion--
Something that grasps your innermost being,
That vibrantly exposes your heart
When you try to express what you're seeing.
My approach is sometimes light-hearted
And playful if I am in the mood;
And yet I can be quite serious
And muse on something or ponder or brood.
I often write poems that tell a story.
Call them unsophisticated
If you wish, but frankly I say
Sophistication is overrated.
After observing the world around me,
I sit down and roll up my sleeves
To write, often focusing on
Some of my most annoying pet peeves,
Hypocrisy being ONE of them.
Oh, the slimy hypocrites ooze
Flagrant chicanery, fraud, and pretense,
And every day they're in the news.
Some say, "Leave no turn unstoned."
No, wait: I mean "stone unturned."
And no, you can't please everybody;
That's an important lesson I've learned.
If you've read all 800 poems,
I've taken up a lot of your time.
I hope you've found the journey worthwhile--
This journey through my verses in rhyme.
But if poetry's NOT your thing,
Do not worry; I understand.
You'll receive no criticism,
No reproof, no reprimand.
Therefore, if you've read this far,
Celebrate along with me
This little challenge. Raise your glass
And drink a toast to poetry!
-by Bob B (12-27-18)
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Who is this who lies in my bed,
That I don't even know?
Who's so messed up within his head,
With nowhere else to go?
Feeding me breakfast poisoned with dreams,
And singing me hope to sleep?
Who then lies awake concocting schemes,
For with my soul to keep?
A master and a villain he be,
Behind an angel's eyes.
Yet he's the fool...it is not me,
I see through his disguise.
You see perception blessed me thrice,
And now I am full aware.
Fool me once, fool me twice,
But again? You best beware!
For I can also lace the truth,
To cut you down to size;
Use your deceit as my reproof,
And justify the lies.
But use my pillow - I'll play the role,
And take my portion double.
Before I snip your twisted soul,
"My pleasure..it's no trouble."
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
It may hurt to tell ourselves the truth
To seek out our imperfections
And mark them not for reproof
But for the chance to self-improve
It may sting to hear the facts
May cause our spirits to crack
But we can build our foundations back
And be better for the truth
Cause we are never better for its' lack
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
no one this day shall say they stood aloof
when the new rose first came into fresh flower
and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof
we would have faced a certain harsh reproof
no long before but all changed in an hour
no one this day shall say they stood aloof
nor that the entire fabric warp and woof
had stayed the same new blossom in each bower
and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof
for fear of learning just how great the goof
would harm the doer dread would them devour
no one this day shall say they stood aloof
the acts are real we see that there's no spoof
of change or meaning the old world we scour
and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof
today we saw the crowds from every roof
acclaim as honour took the seat of power
no one this day shall say they stood aloof
and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
Poetry that pulls ...
Me to the soils of the earth
Awakening my soul
Giving life, giving birth
Poetry you feel...
I can't see it, but it's real
An invisible emotional force
Raw and filled with discourse
A core of deadly silence
That holds..
Holds forever..
To my heartstrings
To my violence
Forced to observe ..
Never to surrender..
The center of the poet's being
Filled with fire, magma, depth and gleam
A depth that no other force can deter
It grips, aches, symbolizes ...stirs
We know it is there
We know it is true
The core inside the core
Is the core inside of you
Poetry that holds vast ...
Shapes our futures, shapes our pasts ...
This is the strength of verse
To engage, to immerse
In such a way that reality crumbles...
Thus it keeps us rare, keeps us humble
Providing sanity...
..truth?
This is the prevailing darkness, the revelations, the reproof.
Pull me to myself. Keep me close to my identity.
Don't let me slip away . . . . . .
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
A reproof of scarlet riviera
darken its seance that acclaim unforetold entrance
of lactose hence virtual lecture,
edifice with preponderance in guidance if hesitation
ready hinders them entertained by inordinate *** and
whether garish is gruesome for glutenesque and
intricately hard to maintain as their distraction is subliminal
that pain is debilitating and overwhelming in modern lifestyle.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 7:41 AM UTC
You are gathered with your friends
to play a board game
called "What Next"
Four people total, Including you.
First, the person with brown hair
and blue eyes to your right,
filled with HATrEd,
withdraws a card and
deciphers its MYstery:
"You are lost
at sea on a wooden
catamaran. There are others
with you. The phone that shows
where to turn is broken.
How will you unMASK
the land?"
The pitiful one across
from you whispers
the answer: "Unlock
the old, rusted telescope."
It is the pitiful
one's turn, who reads
with self-reproof, "You are on
an island. The boy child
with a broken glass face,
exposing the fire
in HIS head, looks
at you accusingly.
How do you extinguish
the volcano?"
Raising a hand in ANGER
is the disdainful person
with brown hair, who yells,
"Punish the boy child!
His SCARS will never heal!"
The loving soul in red
smiles and says: "Wrong,
you silly creature.
You solve the MYthical puzzle
by joining the flesh
on the boy child's FACE."
It is now THE loving
one's turn to select
a card (the ticket?), done
with a GENTLE flick of the
delicate wrist. One singing
VOICE chimed, "Spoiled farmer
makes you confine the
bamboozled man that names
your strengths. He
SUGGESTS
THAT
the befuddled
has already been put away.
How can you possibly
solve the Conundrum?"
You must answer. Relax!
I order you! Find the solution!
The patriarch has ordered it!
Or else you MUST walk through
a curtain of falling bullets
showering down.
It is the only ESCAPE
back to the beginning.
Kerry Herrmann
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
There was a time when all that I knew was a lie.
But then I started a search for truth.
And I tried to always be honest and good,
So I could live without self - reproof.
And I thought that just by doing so,
That all would be easier to bear.
How could anything ever go wrong,
If all was approached with care?
But it appears that even when open,
Exposing all for others to see,
That, ironically, I can still inflict pain,
Just by being a "better" me.
So, once again, I've been proven a fool,
It matters not whether right or wrong,
Doing my best, has again, failed the test,
Perhaps I was doomed to fail all along.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
Sleepless
by Intoxcy8me
It's just time, one tik, one tok,
a movement of hands-on life's big clock.
As each tomorrow becomes today,
is our destined end on its way.
Shadows forming around the edges of my life.
I've seen enough of pain and strife.
What's to do when sleep refuses you,
night after night devouring time too.
A heavy sigh escapes echos of reproof,
My lids are heavy but my mind is aloof.
A void against the glass the rain did beat and bicker,
driving my taste for some more corn-licker.
To drown my conscience in another batch,
to start the day again from scratch.
Just to sleep if only for a few,
there's only so much I can do.
Aug 13, 2020
Aug 13, 2020 at 8:34 PM UTC
Sudden new pressure to make sense,
you see, you know I say you make believe.
Mystic realms realized in meditations,
ancient tails of firebrands, embers glowing
{Isaiah assisting intel…ai ahmen, ok}
embers in the darkness, embers glowing
like cigarettes across the stubble field,
leading to a still dark pond tonight
- this is a way
- we pray, we listen
- for morning
pealing rooster, humming electricity
and my thoughts, my resting peace
perceived reception, acknowledging
the idea that holds truth in bits
in the perifity peripheral ambition,
at ambits
edge of civilized authority, unknown
unknowns offering and making sacred
known uses
we used to know.
On the side of knowledge not falsely so called,
science branches into all we may think
to ask if it were ever witnessed,
face to face, first hand.
Messaging face to face, suffered to be so.
Angelos means messenger, bearer of information,
holder of unknown knowns, becoming angelic.
Guardians of knowledge, root, branch and seed.
Get the message, make it plain, listening,
where would one knock
--I am the door
--I am the truth
hmmmm, so it is written, the message
to the meek, to such minds as let this mind be
earth bound
thinking what would a god with no power
not common
to mankind,
a true mortal experiencer, ask-
think what would, not could or should,
what would, the will that set the galaxies awhirl, do?
If he were such as you, taken with all the learning
available for such as you, who loved to know why,
and how, and when and where,
then and there, tell us, in the spirit realm, words live.
Yes, itself, and No, in all its proofs, still reproving,
living words redeemed and reused
for proverbial instances, reproof is the way of life,
Reproving you know that knowing was never outlawed.
Not by any representative of wisdom.
Subtler than any created thing, this shining thing,
child's eye ignores the lecture, to watch a mote in a sunbeam,
and remember
that
this long later.
------------------------------- Part two
Minding my manners, make yourself
comfortable, slow
thinking takes each letter
push the orders intention to stretch
incredulity to the snapping point,
chaos and chirality clap,
fingers snap, slow think
what possessed me to make me think
{this does not end here}
Jan 18, 2024
Jan 18, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
The indelible precision of God’s holy Word
has been fine tuned for the Human soul;
genuine application of its divine secrets
will assist us to become spiritually whole.
For the Scriptures are meant to be profitable,
and were originally encased by Jehovah’s breath.
The sacred aspirations for Man’s eternal life
are contained in principles for overcoming death.
Agnostic skeptics of circular Biblical arguments,
intentionally chose to ignore The Word’s confirmations;
meanwhile, we know that the text is open to reproof,
as we study precepts for seeking our divine connection.
For it’s only in God, that one can find completeness,
seeing that we strive to live in brotherly accord;
be trained and equipped with His divine influence
since all Scripture is… God’s inspirational word.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
2 Tim 3:16-17
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC