"shod" poems
Clothe yourself in the full armor of God
and be able to withstand the Devil’s schemes;
know that he’s only the father of lies,
looking to destroy your earthly dreams.
Cover yourself with Christ’s Breastplate
of Righteousness and protect your torn heart;
your essence has been purchased for His Kingdom,
meaning that you’re meant… to be set apart.
Gird your waist with the Belt of Truth
and stand firm with integrity and honesty;
don’t allow your flesh’s nature to interfere
with conditions that you need observe and see.
Shod your feet with the Gospel’s peace;
keep from searching for earthly trouble;
instead congregate with the Body of Christ
and focus on your faith becoming redoubled.
The ongoing battle is not with flesh and blood;
wield Faith’s Shield to quench life’s fiery darts.
Remember that the wiles of Satan are limited!
So outmaneuver him with your spiritual smarts.
Put on your Helmet of Salvation,
for the battles are within one’s mind.
Allow the Divine knowledge of The Word
to resonate with your spirit and find…
yourself continually praying in the spirit
and with understanding on all occasions.
Be alert to His transformational messages,
for upholding Godly principles and persuasions.
Resist the Devil now and he will flee;
endeavor to thwart the enemy’s attack;
be strong in the Lord with power of His might;
promises of victory have been already stacked.
For we don’t wage war with human methods and plans.
We use mighty weapons to knock down evil strongholds
and breakdown every proud argument that keeps people
from knowing God… as His Kingdom, continues to unfold.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Eph 2:2, 6:10-20; 1 Thes 5:5-8; Joel 2:12-13; Rom 4:5;
Jam 4:7; 2 Cor 10:3-5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1388058560&sr;=1-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
1508
You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root—
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant—
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant—
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown—
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown—
6.4k
A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.
Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?
So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.
Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.
No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.
March, 2007
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
3.6k
Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white *** come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !
3.2k
1498
Glass was the Street—in tinsel Peril
Tree and Traveller stood—
Filled was the Air with merry venture
Hearty with Boys the Road—
Shot the lithe Sleds like shod vibrations
Emphasized and gone
It is the Past’s supreme italic
Makes this Present mean—
3.1k
there's a hard silence here
and there is a fresh echo of the dim kitchen light
in the ***** linoleum tiles that zigzag the floor
even the air feels broken as it limps slowly
through the room
i stop near the door upon entering
and gather myself
like a ragman gathering the tattered remains
stitching the fragments of self with the thread of awareness
weave the image of self into the reality of the moment
with the hesitations of someone who has lived this moment too many times'
it will come to naught
she is alive but her heart is dead
the dust on my worn coat is from the graves of my
fallow field where we once laid a crop of hopes
but i cannot abandon her to this barren place
i know i perceive only the narrow sunstricken pages
faded and stained with the words legible only to the hardy eye
but its the deeper tale which
even the gardener of times bloodstained trophy's
would fear to tread
his leather shod hands worry the intricate gears
of the mechanical face she wears
he manipulates it to wear a lopsided grin
pantomime of happiness for my birthday
but i watch the vacant places behind the face and see that
with a blemished mechanical eye she looks out over the oncoming
evening through the livingroom window
its cracked and ***** surface turns
the setting sun into a parody of dawn
she greets me but just stares out the window
as if she is waiting a lovers return
i stand infront of her blankly
we wait for the hours to pass
i fix her tea even though it isn't broken
and make small talk
as she makes mechanical sounds
till she sleeps
i leave with the dawn
and make my way to my own bed at last
to fend off dreams that something somewhere could be different
and wake to the sorrowful song of a passing bard
his thin feet dancing on a moonlight hilltop
meant for lovers only
and he is dancing alone
alone
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
With all the fairest angels nearest God,
The ineffable true of heart around the throne,
There shall I find you waiting when the flown
Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod;
And when the grief-retracing ways I trod
Become a shining path to thee alone,
My weary feet, that seemed to drag as stone,
Shall once again, with wings of fleetness shod,
Fare on, beloved, to find you! Just beyond
The seraph throng await me, standing near
The gentler angels, eager and apart;
Be there, near God's own fairest, with the fond
Sweet smile that was your own, and let me hear
Your voice again and clasp you to my heart.
2.5k
You seem to know where you're needed
to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!
this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as**
come see me
come to the time the place and the date
and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue
communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven
you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared
this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended
an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded
departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility
when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply
one new who knew where one was needed
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
I hear the halting footsteps of a lass
In ***** Harlem when the night lets fall
Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire's call.
Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet
Go prowling through the night from street to street!
Through the long night until the silver break
Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake
Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.
2k
“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.”
Breaking down the walls that once divided
Us from them and each of us from God,
Not like those declaring peace, misguided,
When there is no concord, only fraud--
But with Heaven’s righteousness provided,
By the Son, Who spread that peace abroad.
Now no longer Jew or Greek, one-sided,
Locked behind society’s facade,
But those walls of difference subsided,
When with Gospel’s peace your feet were shod.
Others heard your message, I know I did--
And thereafter called you “child of God.”
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
916
His Feet are shod with Gauze—
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
His Labor is a Chant—
His Idleness—a Tune—
Oh, for a Bee’s experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
1.9k
By what word’s power, the key of paths untrod,
Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore,
Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore
Even as that sea which Israel crossed dry-shod?
For lo! in some poor rhythmic period,
Lady, I fain would tell how evermore
Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor
Thee from myself, neither our love from God.
Yea, in God’s name, and Love’s, and thine, would I
Draw from one loving heart such evidence
As to all hearts all things shall signify;
Tender as dawn’s first hill-fire, and intense
As instantaneous penetrating sense,
In Spring’s birth-hour, of other Springs gone by.
1.9k
Brewing your bitter sap
From the sour, dank sod
In which your feet
Are so comfortably shod
Silk purse made from the bile
Of good-for-nothing land
Your are on the river
In the bog early green
A smile on Spring's young face
Russet tines raking winter's putty
Bearded bonsai of icy summits
Run-maker on summer greens
Webster-woven into creels
For peats, and baskets
For logs of firewood types
Promise me a sprig of ***** Willow
Almost a tree
A match for any tree
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 6:11 AM UTC
*canst poor smile
amid world in bad-shod fit
writ's a-fire
pardon season's ire*
bring'st forth jollity and smiles aplenty
ne'er plaintive be of the sad woe of man
lift high-sky the bless'd, one and seventy
mind scant the fo'c's'tle head in deadpan
floweth into desires flowers of merriment
push upon life gladness; poem of joy-bright
exult all forms of joviality and rejoice on
cheery-heart to amuse and glide to skylight
be curs'd with melancholia; fry all the frowns
ring in goodly-humour and make-it-all-bright
drown dips of despair and banish the downs
expel the heartbroken-ideals; deport skint-lite
what befits the real-feel to true equal-match
face with beck-n-call smile belies wake-latch
(fake)
S T - 29 sept
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Windblown mane flying out behind,
Ribbons of tangled threads dancing
In the early autumn zephyr.
Ebony hued hooves alternate,
Strong as steel, joined in the pounding
Music of free flight. The wild horse.
Soft, flowing mane brushed to perfection.
Ribbons entwining the smooth silk braids
Shining in the early autumn light.
Silver shod hooves alternate in rhyme,
Shimmering like gold, joined in the proud
Prancing of a lady. The show horse.
Two spirits combine.
The wild and the performer,
Both content in their
Destined lives.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Born of fire, your body burned under mine.
The slip shod friction kindled in the bliss.
Blue flames flashing and water dowsing time,
Smoke, my wave, moon seas, lighted sands kiss.
Blue and cold my eyes set, seizing treasure,
Your flaming hair a bed, my boat was wrecked.
A sea of glass and all the stars were measured;
Red on white, your skin was cinder flecked.
Flames were raining, **** the waters break;
Two bodies burned that night, fire on the lake.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
The apple trees are hung with gold,
And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon! O Lady moon!
Be you my lover’s sentinel,
You cannot choose but know him well,
For he is shod with purple shoon,
You cannot choose but know my love,
For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,
And he is soft as any dove,
And brown and curly is his hair.
The turtle now has ceased to call
Upon her crimson-footed groom,
The grey wolf prowls about the stall,
The lily’s singing seneschal
Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all
The violet hills are lost in gloom.
O risen moon! O holy moon!
Stand on the top of Helice,
And if my own true love you see,
Ah! if you see the purple shoon,
The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,
The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,
Tell him that I am waiting where
The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.
The falling dew is cold and chill,
And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill,
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.
False moon! False moon! O waning moon!
Where is my own true lover gone,
Where are the lips vermilion,
The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?
Why spread that silver pavilion,
Why wear that veil of drifting mist?
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,
Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!
1.7k
I'm slipping,
stepping silently through
mountains of air
wind
whipping this clay shod body
earth and sod and
stones to small to see
I'm stuck,
this pen wedged within
my corpus callosum,
not big enough to handle the task
not up not *****
doesn't have the stuff.
I'm all.
Honest, to the tip of each hair on my head
cut and styled, and put into place;
truth bubbling out
from behind crimson painted lips;
but so that I may not mince words, / there is nothing straight about me
save the razor's edge / with which I detail my semantics,
my words cut with conveniences / resilient as talcum powder
you / we have so much to look forward to
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
To the left of kathmandu
sat a man bereft one shoe,
was one sandal shod
so he said to God
"oh Lord this just won't do,
I've holed my sole
and my begging bowl
has up n then gone missing,
now it's my mishap
that I've trod in crap
and I've got no ***
to **** in".
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
We perceive the deep
like some siren song
sinking depths below
where our skin ripples
and runs laps around
and around and around
the surface tension
and cool breaking breezes.
The sunken sand and
rusted portholes
don't draw down
the moisture in our skin.
Next to the slowly sloping
dunes of deep
we are a skin-shod Sahara.
We are pulled by and against gravity
because, in fact, the bleak black
crushing back against our ankles
begs for the darkness we hold
shackled out of sight.
The death of the sea finds
the secrets in me
and it makes them it's own
as it swallows me whole.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC