"strongholds" 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
Rusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor
the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells
like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows
and bolt these doors and slate them in the young sun
for the hungry cranes, but I return in the twilight
of going home traffic when five o'clock lets loose blue collars
to fumble through the ruined rooms of time gone by,
I kick through our broken bricks. Their red dust stains
my shoes and wears on my cuffs. A hopeless hearth,
discarded news, a crippled doll with matted hair
and I all share the crumbling of the day, but only I
shall not remain come compline. Neither can I
pack these walls with me. So this is adieu
to former strongholds. To our old fidelity, adieu.
It is not fit to go forth less than brave, for
they built seven cities over Troy, seven worlds
not knowing where they stood so long the first
could not be said to be. The docks of Caesarea sleep
in the sea, and tourists sit for lunch
on the prone pillars
of Jaffa.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
Match, match forward and go, you heroic sons of America
Reconnoiter into the strongholds of boko haram,
And restore our captive girls from the foul custody,
Lawlessly held hostage by the connoisseurs of terror,
Go on and recover poor souls from ribald of religion
Impishly created by Moslem from the satanic verses,
Regulating foray of terror on the poor of the poor
****** mahyeming, looting and executing massacres,
Match on and on yee angels of democracy,
Don’t stop in any haste or in any wonder,
To help in the sham flabbergastations,
About the Igbos who fought the Biafra,
And the Yorubas who federally defended,
Under the aegis of Obasanjo the Sandhurst
General, where are they all to save the girls
Of Nigeria from the Islamist terror
Excuted by boko haram the handmaid of evil.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
I was born in grave clothes
Raised in grave clothes
Unaware I even bathed in grave clothes
I didn't know the extent of my decay
Like the bones were expose in my face but I didn't have reflective glass to see my flesh
I was on a rotten path
Death would have been the only prize at the end of my race
Strongholds wrestled my thoughts and subdued my brain
Bone marrow deep I was linked to Adam
Lord knows I wasn't Abel
Dna tied to blood imprinted on the ground I had more in common with Cain
It's true a heart beat of sin causes death to course through vains
I wondered how could I be treated
Something was missing something was needed
To my shock it was Jesus
Clear! He got my heart beat right
With that resurrection power
Made my heart see light
He changed my life
I started to realize that the same power that raised Christ from the dead
Was the same power that lived in me
That does more than allow me to breathe .
It brings life back to limbs riddle with rigor mortis
It's reverses decomposition brings back what death has stolen
It's uncontrollable like a lighting storm.
It's unadulterated
Once it hits
It's changes landscape like when a nuclear warhead is detonated
Hoover dam generated power
Turbine engine spending power
Lift the dead out of sin power
Tectonic plate shifting, erecting mountains from plains power
By one name only can we be saved power
Second coming cracking the sky power
All knees shall bow and all tongues shall comply power
Corruptible turned into incorruptible in a instant power
Rebirth repositioned repurposed repented power
Turn what seems to be a lost into a win power
It is finish the precursor to the release of infinite power
I could never be the same because the spirit lives in me gives me power
My arteries are laced with a burning flame
A roaring wind, a groaning earth, a raging sea crashing waves
The impact of several elements crush the chains of a slave
It's the same power that said come forth Christ friend walks out the grave
The same power that moved the stone a borrowed tomb turned to a cave
It's the power of the Resurrection
In a world full of aborted life
It breeds conception
In a world that attempts to abort Christ
The church still cries out in reverence
Changed death for us now it's portal
Changed lives of stop watches into immortal
Resurrection power a glimpse into the eternal
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
(There're no unfortunate stories,
Every whole sheet was once a torn leaf.
A fraud story; a genuine history.)
One is a digit of love,
One, a union of two.
If and Choice got married.
If became a single parent
Coz there's no Choice.
Fear and Strength contradicts
While Faith was the youngest
of the brood of three.
If invites both Fear and Strength,
But as always, they fought with tears.
Fear meets Anxiety and refuses Strength.
Anxiety isn't good, for great Fear
turns to be an ocean's bliss.
Strength was accompanied with Courage,
Determination and Righteousness.
Yet Fear was so loud and with Anxiety,
They brought forth Sin.
Pride and Lust, both strongholds of Sin.
The young Faith was bold
And Forgiveness was on her side.
Strength and Fear both got numbered
And tamed by Grace who was a child.
History says that Choice left If
But the death of Choice depends on If.
If knows not that Choice is in her heart,
In the melody of her soul.
If is a Choice; for they're one in heart and soul.
Choice isn't certain without If.
And Fear, Strength and Faith
Don't ever depend on If and Choice alone.
The three of them preferred Independence
And moved into another world --
A new home with welcoming Hope and greatest Love
And History was left untold.
(end of story)
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
Table salt without pleasing flavor is useless,
like a weak Christian lacking “good works”;
for the World is in need of divine examples
of how to live within the Kingdom’s framework.
There are many souls craving spiritual waters,
to have their endless abyss of thirst quenched.
Are we testifying of God’s Love to reach those
in strongholds- where they’re firmly entrenched?
Unless there are obvious and significant change
in the personal behavior of our everyday lives,
the World will have no real motivation for faith
when there’s no evidence of transcendent lives.
We’re still called to be the salt of this planet,
demonstrating victorious lives as saved brothers;
As Christians, we’re supposed to add loving flavor.
We’re responsible for generating thirst in others!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Loosely based on:
Matt 5:13; Jam 2:14-26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Come now,
Answer the call of war.
Answer the cry for settling scores.
Skyrim is in chaos,
War threatens strongholds.
Purify now,
Purify their souls.
Make peace,
Answer the call.
War will whether the souls,
Of the lost.
Stand together,
Whatever the cost.
Though your shield may falter,
Though your swords will fall.
Answer the call of war.
Aid your homeland.
Skyrim is in Chaos,
Answer the call.
Save it!
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
All the sad faces, so quickly they appear
Those eyes they peer; like voyeurs of the night
As time approaches dusk, and light becomes dark
They disembark
From Upper York Street-
To the strongholds of the the Shore Road
Glimpsing in, people stare back
From the Spides of the north
To the elderly and beyond
Coughing and shuffling, moaning and groaning;
Oh! What a concert!
Amadeus would be a proud man indeed
As it slogs by I catch a fleeting glimpse
My face, appearing ever so different; sadder
It must be illusionary, right? Perhaps
Standing there, just thinking to myself
Will I ever see these people again?
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
Did you know that love is a tangible thing?
I felt its warmth in your touch
saw it spill from the corners of your eyes
to the apples of your cheeks
if you continue to love the way you do,
Indz jan,
you will shake strongholds.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
My arms I wrap
Around my knees
And rest my chin
Atop them
The hood of my cotton coat
Keeps my braided hair dry
While it soaks up the
Cloud’s tears
A patch of African violets
Grow before my feet
Their small patch
Gowned with dew
The intense purple of the violet
It is deep
Grounding
And proud
It does not resemble a shy flower
Such as the sun daises that
Close their petals at night
Its color voice
Speaks outgoing adventure
And seeking mystery
The irises of my green eyes
Seem to make contact
With each violet’s center
Its face
My eye’s irises
The violets hidden eyes
We both count
Count the silent tick of the dark night
Swallowing all the shadows of tree and stone
Night’s clock ticking
So many branches
The patient drip drip sound
Of dew from the tips of the green
The torn departure of frost
Bitten leaves from their branch strongholds
The silent cackling of the demon’s moon
The slow formation
Of the stars overhead
Moving together to form their ancient constellations
All these things
Among a thousand others
Some unseen
Some unspoken
Some not yet known
Form nature’s circular
Clock of time nonexistent
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Fire in the sky
Volcano spores finding seed
Within my spark scarred chest
They grow
Racing lava through enraged veins
Once alabaster skin chameleons to crimson
Overwhelmed
It must find an outlet
This intensity could burn down a village
Melt glacial strongholds
Even evaporate the deepest depths
I choose instead a different route
Pen in hand, ink my battle axe
Blank page, innocent lines
***** Pillaged. Plundered.
Many verses later I am spent
It's purity never stood a chance
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
Women are the vessels that hold life
for Nine 1/2 weeks like Kim Basinger
Call me Mickey.
Women adorned Da Vinci paintings with a half smile
martyrs in the flames of freedom
Call me Joan.
Women that nurture life
the greatest man to ever walk our path
call me Mary.
-and yet we’re reduced to calling them *****
because our male brains can’t reach to nothing more.
Women in revolutionary trenches
artist, poets, our strongholds, mend no fences
call me Frida.
Women our souls, our backbones
endless spinal chords that keep us up
call me Theresa.
-and yet ***** is the word that dominates our tongues
when we refer to them.
Women the leaders, the warriors
the fighters, the valor of the coward
call me Cleopatra.
Women the lovers, the pleasers
that feed us and keep us up on our feet
call me Anne Boleyn.
-and yet ***** infiltrated our vocabulary
like a terminal cancer, let’s get rid of it.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Screaming
In bright lights, bold colors
Driving by billboards,
TV, magazines The
Lies
For young children to see
That distorts the meaning of value and beauty
That it’s all about
The wheel at your hands
The house at your feet
Your
Skin
White as bones, overexposed
Whose name is wrapping your
Stick, sick
Flesh
*It’s all about
Me
In this consumerism*
To believe these deceptions
Is to
Deny and shun
What He has said,
What He has done
And to accept these distortions
Is to
Push Glory’s embrace and
Spit at Beauty’s face
For the way of the world
Is a blind subversion
Against The
Holy
Holy
Holy God
‘Cause He said
He bought you with a price
His beloved Son, Jesus Christ
No need to chase this and that
Turn back
He has been chasing after you
That is fact
Are you lost?
Are you broken?
Well in Him you are loved
Not just accepted,
Chosen
He is Father.
And from enemy you became
His son, His daughter
Can the world just please know that
They are
Children, royal heirs
Not tools
Not meat
Not slaves
To tree fibers flattened together
To the ogling eyes of men
Just as ***** and blind as theirs
It’s an honor that this
We Christians know
In the world we are tasked
The Truth we must show
So do not conform
To these unattainable norms
Take heart
Set yourself apart
For tomorrow is the due
The Lord will do amazing things among you
Remember:
One coin is one vote
For the kind of world we want to see
For the kind of world we want to be
Ponder
That those trash are only made and sold
Because people lust over those worldly strongholds
So, make certain
That the things that you buy
That the votes that you cast are for
Modesty, security, purity,
God’s name, God’s glory.
The icons, the trends we
Have been following,
It’s time to start leading
Do not falter
This generation we can alter
No need to be economists, politicians, or preachers
Just as Christian consumers
We have the power
Those are not mere dull coins or crumpled bills in your hands
You know what it is?
That is the future
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Enlightenment is explosion Its means your mind is virtually certain Either been butchered Or wobbling or wondering Like a curtain thrown from system strongholds Threat of retaliation, with its more we feel the beauty
Trash bins for leftover, Buddha said the same thing A Zen master would say sidewalks If you work too hard the latent anarchists or God will attain anything Not to make everyone the same prostitution Capital into an asphalt jungle, the proportions of our own body Ritual *** on the other hand it may be too idealistic
Blood **** ended no need to talk about Unorganized and we can see the beauty Her face covered with blood you try to do it all at once Since most of the victims realized that you are one One whole, many thousands of innocents Brainwashed whites with reality Anarchy and savagery grew emptiness Subsequently died in a wise and effective way
If an artist becomes, Short intense raids on the system river Sources and supply and human life Put some strength into their veins and die With fingers encircling and incantations of Satan worship Her pretty face was smudged little by little She moaned of eternal life
The meaning lies in a flash about fifty yards in almost a direct hit From a secluded densely wooded suffer in your difficulties Exploded inside your body The projectiles began calmness Something in itself is enlightenment weapons especially for guerilla distress Your life in your effort thundering in the midst We saw beautiful blossoms of some meaning in their ****** toll Know the answer, but while it lasted
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
He buried me amongst the dead
kicked the dust off his boots
left the house in it's peace
wandered in to the next open door
to spread the word.
Now I am buried,
being buried by the dead
You being the dead.
Do we love ourselves
more than God? (Call him/God Christ if you want to.
God is enough for me
with how a name gets thrown around
by those who defile the name
with abuses of their own design. Christ becomes in vain)
Are mystics justified, by their closeness to the divine,
their missions in life to show us God,
to rebuke us in each of their own given manner,
harsh or light as it might strike,
no matter the tear at our inner light they saw as dark.
"We use God's mighty weapons, not worldly weapons, to knock down the strongholds of human reasoning and to destroy false arguments." says the bible.
Who was arguing, asks I?
Om Shanti is Sanskrit for peace for the all human kind, peace for all living and non living beings, peace for the universe, peace for each and every things in this whole cosmic manifestation.
"Am I a non-believer for using a Hindu language, Mr. Mystic?" I ask.
Is God that absent from my inner mind?
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
**** **** **** hell
My adrenaline fueled brain swells
Tells me of a kid who needs this
The seed splits
The shell cracks
39 lashes across your dads back
Broken
A token of appreciation
Mis-conceived determination
Reverberations
Echo
Art gecko
Whatever that means!
Split the seams of dreams
Perception is...
Reality
Realty
Sold out
The windows to a soul behold cold strongholds
Drought!
Boute
Route
Taken
Called to the small and weak
Looked past but not forsaken
Earth quakin
Quaker
Oats moats surrounded
Shark infested daughters
Lambs led to the slaughter
Living water
Thirsty world
Has your well run dry
Draw nigh
Apples and eyes
Sparrow
Jack into the narrow
Firey arrows
Shield of faith
Held together by grace
Through...
One more
The heart is a door
And Jesus is the way.
Pray or be prey.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Extinguished beneath the pressure of stifling darkness;
the blackness a behemoth caressing me with oil slick fingers.
Bound with shackles of my own forging,
chained to the dank confinement of shame with iron bracelets made up of every hurt I felt, each sting I’d inflicted.
Comforted by the weight of my own disease, dragging me down deeper into the depths of myself;
swarmed by demons cutting slices of me for their devouring.
Blistered fingers claw at the dirt, broken nails taking insignificant strongholds in the battle.
New shackles being forced into place where old ones were severed, cutting new wounds where old ones were healed.
Then, a searing light burns through the airless tomb where I lay,
my sweat still glistening in the after hours of my latest debasement.
Eyes burning, unaccustomed to the phosphorescent glow after years of stapling them shut to the vision of horror I became.
A new tsunami of dishonour throws me back, twisting my shackles tighter around bound limbs.
Now I am free and live to feel the sun on my skin, no longer translucent and sallow.
Each sound and sensation sending ripples of pleasure through my soul, but still
I limp, and my wrists are scarred.
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 4:50 PM UTC
Gaseous pockets of fire
Across the midnight void.
Lunar orbs in elliptical motion
Attract the mother planet
Closer to the sun.
Titanium white sparks form as
Iridescent rocket refuse
Collides within fields of
Atmospheric strongholds,
Lighting up the sky.
1/17/2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
We are the refused...
Barefoot in the marketplace
Born in the backseat
With minds erased
To hide dirt in the backstreets
And mud on the school steps
The fool in the textbook
Paints us inept
Tainted
******
Illicit natives
Miserable Misfits
Nothing the magistrates can't handle
OH!!!
They wish!
Suppress our melodies
But never break our lips
We are the misused...
Our eyes do penetrate
Every false-flag they perpetuate
Even though barbiturates
Are placed beneath our pillows
The shame billows
The shame follows
Rodents to the edge of the borough
Where men create addicts
There
Publicans turn
Badges burn
Magistrates press their shirts and hatch their eagles
Discernment is not taught
Nor is it learned
We are the obtuse...
Blacked out and abused!
Sold for pulpits and ocean views
Magistrates hate us
Their eagles circle to berate us
"Intolerant"
"Outdated"
"Unpatriotic"
"Ill-fated"
But by grace we persevere
By faith we adhere
To a higher truth
A purer view
Our strongholds are not stick
and stone
Chrome nor drone
But
Christ alone
Our strength and hope
Out hope for home
NOT polls and popes
NOT guns and votes
NOT Magistrates and lazy legislations
NOT eagles which feed on
Desensitized demonstrations
Police brutality and assassinations
Nomadic nations
Sporadic speculations
We
The Refused
We
The Misused
We
The Obtuse
Will NOT cosign evil
Will NOT massage magistrates
Will NOT elevate eagles
We will NOT
We must NOT
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
It had discovered
A small shaft of darkness
Wriggling from the pain of light
A mere whispered phantom
Haltingly treading a miasmic path
Continuous dewdrops of ocean water
Leaking from saddened face
And its twisted self
Enveloped in putrid strongholds
Of offensive thoughts
Though veiled in
The absence of light
It has met its match,
A burning flame,
The flowering torch
Of another heart
With moth- like trance
It has followed this luminous being
And become itself
An entity of inspiration
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
Circular
Cyclical
Unending
Spherical
.......Cycles.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Rinse. Lather-let's NOT repeat....The cycle goes on, unless we defeat
warped, twisted, distorted mindsets-
lest we forget
that our weapons of warfare are to demolish strongholds...
mindsets.
We can't be walking around blinded and undecided-
not in THIS spiritual climate.
No more Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
We must decrease and let Christ increase...
that's the only way that we can defeat
The Cycle.
~K!Co!
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
poetry was hushed
or ushered out from being compared
with philosophy,
well... bye bye systematisation
leave you to it...
it's hardly an art, given it only uses
two extremes that can't be defined
as colour, but more or less x-ray vision...
i know... so much colour and so
much perfumery surrounding
me that i wish to not replicate...
hence the stance...
important dates like the battle of Hastings
(1066), or the great fire of London (1666) -
such importance goes hand in hand
with being up-to-date for a quiz show,
alt. to knowledge? quiz or trivia.
poetry is that: it's the sole mediator
of history and journalism,
entry of Darwin on a 10 quid banknote,
poetry has to marry someone else,
it can't be stuck in a rut with pompous philosophy,
and it's too crude to munch off a sharpened flint-stone
(Flintstones? Hanna-Barbera?! **** off)
of Pythagoras' cubism - cubism, you sure?
only cubes herrscht? well hardly,
Marilyn Manson is still an introvert anomaly
in Essex amongst the zombies... as i heard in
a HMV, one of the last strongholds of the
mutilated high-street and the death of
the postman profession... they're going, those postmen,
you hear? among the carrier pigeons
shot down dead! unlike Sartre i'm making a claim:
evolution precedes adaptability... essence indeed first
and existence last...
and with regards to poetry, that great mediator
of journalism and history...
ten sixty six mattered as much as today's article
headlined: GAMBLING ADDICT 'DIED OF SHAME'...
hmm? it does... you can just immediately pick
out the correlation for a national egoism.
if it weren't for skin-heads the metal rock enthusiasts
would have been called meat-heads for head-banging
too much: smooch smooch (x x in slang).
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
a snow falls upon us
blanching our being
in throes of starkness
silently we shiver
as crystallized tears
slice our eyes
icicles of
random fate
pierce our
hearts
shredding
the last strongholds
of youth blessed hope
draining reservoirs
of love into tepid
pools of blood
growing at our feet
our prayers fail
to keep the deadly
blizzards at bay
bearing this days
daily pestilence
ravaging the
fragile semblance
of our crumbling
humanity
what winds
bring this snow?
these terrible
clouds descending
upon us
drowns us in groaning
waves of desolation
with such startling
finality
for the children, teachers, parents and community of Newtown CT
Music Selection: Prokofiev, Peter and the Wolf
jbm
12/14/12
Savannah, GA
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC