Joe Breunig, 19 july 2012
Those disembodied remnants,
Earthly remains of unknown souls,
are now assembled at my doorstep.
Having piqued my attention,
who are these unwelcome houseguests?
Loved ones or Nordic heroes
who were consumed in funeral pyres?
How old are these molecules
that have been forever scattered
during these past centuries?
Unwanted leftovers of human containers,
eaten by microscopic mites,
nibble at my presence
and wait for my spirit to dry up.
The dust calls for my fated demise;
However, my particles won’t be intermingled.
My segregated ashes have earned me my own space
in the cemetery’s manicured ground.
Thus, no one has to clean up after me.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Joe Breunig, 19 july 2012
Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I share a blurb regarding my poem "Enjoy This Season".
Lots of people like to surmise about the idea of living in a different period of recorded humanity, such as: Italy's Renaissance (circa 1400-1600 ad), the building of the Greek or Roman Empires, the time of Christ and so forth. However, not me. Being an I.T. (Information Technology) professional in this "Age of Information" with available technologies - specifically "Personal Computers" and the Internet allowing me access to gobs of data - can be a real and surreal "head trip". For I've learned how to glean concepts from the experience of others; such an ability is helping me to learn to dream and redefine my personal journey. After all, we are instructed in the Bible that "we're to be more than conquerors" and thus live a Christian lifestyle successfully. Hence the rub...
Like everyone else, I'm uniquely defined. So expect that your results will also vary. In the Scriptures, one of the many analogies to describe mankind is "withering grass". When compared to the centuries of mankind, one's existence is brief; however, it doesn't need to be invisible. With the tools and information presently at our fingertips, we can learn to develop vision and ultimately uncover the "unseen things of God". So in my desire to want more of Jehovah's presence in my life, I became more vulnerable - in a spiritual sense. As a result, I lost my joy; I lost it because I didn't recognize how important a commodity joy is. It took years to recognize what had transpired. And it took more years of internal fighting (with myself) and prayer to get it back. While attending Church for decades, I was familar with the idiom "The joy of the Lord is my strength."; its importance was only revealed once it was gone. Feel free to learn from my mistake and avoid the associated pain.
It had never been my life's desire to publish a book, as with some people. Writing poetry became my personal therapy sessions for reclaiming my joy; an insight that was realized once I reviewed my accomplishment in retrospect. Although a portion of my joy has been restored, I still have more work ahead of me. And more serious challenges are now in view.
One of my dearest friends, Norman J. Richard Jr., died earlier this year (August 19th). One of his favorite quotes was: "Do something, even if it's wrong!". As some of you may guess, he was unquestionably a man of action. In addition, he fiercely loved life, his family, and friends - and he did so with an overflowing river of joy. Not only was he a member of "my inner circle", but he was one of the few who truly encouraged me to pursue the goal of getting my poetry published. By the way he lived, he also showed me that I would be able to ultimately recapture my joy completely. So back in August of 2008, after spending quality time with Norman, I wrote this simple poem of encouragement for myself. And it's my desire that others can also find encouragement for themselves, during their times of difficulty.
Joe Breunig, 19 july 2012
Forcing an alignment of corporate resources
for some theory of best fit correlation
doesn't work on Kingdom People
when using an unspoken method of tabulation.
If Life is about true spiritual growth,
then why do ministries attempt to pigeon-hole
not making any allowances for us
to develop, expand and break our current mold?
Despite multitudes of outcome possibilities
the Church seems to suffer bouts of paralysis
from the continued mashing of talents and gifts
resulting from unexplained Presbyterian analysis.
There are many ministry leaders who speak of vision -
Their tone indicates that the laity is completely blind and numb;
their message is clear - the Body is not interested
to reach the Earth before Kingdom Come.
We are souls with great, untapped potential
and not just elements of an array.
Despite our abilities and life experiences,
our dreams and desires we're not allowed to convey.
For a failure of Church motivational tricks
comes from cramming God's People into a human matrix.
Author Notes:
From the book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
louis gander, 19 july 2012
So many things in body / soul
are empty, undefined -
but read this poem carefully,
and answers you may find.
The knowledge of the Love of God,
comes through in loving stages -
so see if you can find a clue -
within this couple's ages...
.......
The couple faced each other close,
while standing toe to toe.
The clear new day was very young.
They had no place to go.
His right hand held her left hand and,
His left hand held her right.
He slid a daisy through her hair.
She was a pretty sight.
The springtime breezes did not quell
the sun's most warmest rays.
As ocean waves kept rolling in,
they held the longest gaze.
Her face was like a sunshine's glow.
Her toes sank in the sand.
Her hair flipped in the open breeze.
Her fingers squeezed his hand.
Some folks had paused and stared a bit
when softly came the kiss -
but never would a moment pass,
a moment quite like this.
And with these two, that special time
would never go away -
for faithful is that one true love.
There is no better way.
So scenic was the sandy beach,
so beautiful, the pair -
yet only God creates true love
that I saw perfect there.
.......
Now just in case you're wondering,
what ages they could be...
Well, she's but two years younger than
his age of eighty-three.
So if assumptions, you had made -
in poem told above -
then you have also missed the mark,
of true Agape Love.
Therefore, question all the writings,
discovered here and there,
that often miss the God of Love -
the hearer of each prayer.
And don't have shallow notions or,
wear blinders to 'believe' -
or come to some conclusion that
some well-known 'experts' weave.
Sometimes we think we know it all,
when all the facts we weigh -
but we do not create the God
who loves us every day.
©2011 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
-------
Gert Strydom, 19 july 2012
It’s exhausting, painful with tears
there at the grave,
old ladies blow their noses and cry, old men
pass away all of the time
with surreptitiously a big argument about who
will inherit everything,
when cousins glance at each other
sometimes kiss, embrace and reach out hands.
[Reference: “Ballade van die kerkhof” (Ballade of the graveyard) by T.T. Cloete.]
Gert Strydom, 19 july 2012
(after Jean Pierre Rawie)
In a whirlpool of emotions
I stand at the grave,
half full of grief with the tender remembering
of things that went wrong,
somewhat ashamed that things had not been different
and the strangeness is startling,
I am astonished by other persons
for whom tears come so easily,
about how meaningless life is,
about how death touches caring,
about how the final farewell
drives love to its limit.
[Reference: “Kerkhof” (Graveyard) by the Dutch poet Jean Pierre Rawie.]
Gert Strydom, 19 july 2012
The caretaker did not spare the work
and everywhere there are flower beds
that comfort with bright colours
the lawns are neat and cut to perfection
and the granite of each tomb glitters
that the sun falls shining on them,
that people walk around
as if they are maybe in a park
but the idyllic peace
every now and then shattered
when rows of cars draw near,
when coroners carry
a deceased person to the grave,
when crying people want to come to peace.
Satish Verma, 19 july 2012
Time capsule in gangrene
foot. It was madness of the legs.
There were no sins in the ghetto. Only
illicit distillation and girls changing
the beds.
It stinks when he says he was god.
What was the ism of the sex
in the language of violence? Trash, you
throw the half-eaten apple on the road,
and sun rises nonchalantly in penthouse.
Not the full moon tonight. I will filter
the moonlight in my cup stealing the
autumn from the lavender, despair
of the tormenter.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 18 july 2012
When the Buffel troop-carrier detonates a landmine
we see dark dots moving in the bush
and I break loose with the light machinegun
that the empty burning-hot caps hit against me
and as long as there is movement
on the other side of the dry riverbed
our fire is drawn
until everything is motionless.
With the smell of gunpowder hanging around us,
a skimpy goat-herdsman
crawls out from behind a giant ant hill
and cries about his dead goats.
Gert Strydom, 18 july 2012
A Phosphorus projectile explodes
burns soldiers to particles of dust
when an enemy tank fires
hitting a Ratel armoured car in a bright glare,
burns hissing right through the blood of boys,
it becomes a terrible hour
where humanity goes totally dim.
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