Glenn McCrary, 13 july 2012
This young fawn
Who saunters along the town
Soliciting her slender compassion
Month in, year round
Has known tall, dew doused forests
And the moon has made
Her skin quite fair
Glenn McCrary, 13 july 2012
When the dastardly woman Helena
Arrives to collect our souls
And cast them into the lake of purgatory,
She ponders whether she shall find
The soul of a young, zealous woman
Worth more nickels of eternity,
Than the areolas of a haughty bastard?
Glenn McCrary, 13 july 2012
The woman was a water bearer:
Alluring as the refrain of midnight,
Alluring like the skin of an atheist.
The woman had been a prisoner:
Mandela urged me to furbish his door steps.
I waxed the knees of California.
The woman had been a singer:
All the way from Vancouver to Abbotsford
She carried her battle anthems.
I crafted time.
The woman had been victimized:
The Russians charred every last speck of confidence.
They hung her before The Black Sea.
The woman was a water bearer:
Alluring as the refrain of midnight,
Alluring like the skin of an atheist.
Glenn McCrary, 13 july 2012
She has a brain full of legends.
She has a whole heart full of legends.
Shaped by summer’s yellow collar bones
She caresses a sepia hued image to her breast
And recites memories in her sleep.
Legalistic hellions
Stalk her sharp scent,
And legalistic hellions
Seek to kidnap her ,
And legalistic hellions
Cry illustrious hymns along canyons
Speaking amongst themselves
Into the jagged patterns fashioned by
Her legends.
And the sepia hued image, frozen
Insinuates that her legends were honest legends.
She knows they were never born of classic fiction at all,
But that they had been fostered by her own life.
The sepia hued image lies lifeless
During a subtle, summer evening
Reciting memories.
Glenn McCrary, 13 july 2012
I’ve befriended lovers:
I’ve befriended lovers daft as harlots cleaved
like the glass in extrinsic films.
My sagacity has matured like adult freesia.
I had been saturated within tasteful ages.
I built fences near the trestles of disbelief.
I sought to sip of the finer fountains.
Yonder echoes throughout Canada I had heard
Touring along the avenues of Abbotsford
Nature testifying betwixt an epicurean draught
I’ve befriended lovers:
Daft, apathetic lovers.
My sagacity has matured like adult freesia
Esther Thornburg, 12 july 2012
Words are free, facts remain
Thoughts live on, truth to retain.
Choose a pathway simple and plain
Do not mumble,grumble, and complain.
"In God we trust." must always remain.
In hearts and lives, on freedoms plain.
Each must choose their words and thoughts
Seal forever in the felievers lot.
Praises be to the greatest power of all.
Answer diligently the Maker's call.
Joe Breunig, 12 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 speak to a poem that ends in a direction, not initially considered...
I've attended Church services for more than 3.5 decades; as a youth, I was raised in a Baptist Church (in southern Maine). For those unfamiliar with this division of Christianity, there's nothing more important than studying "The Word of God". And hear me - there is nothing inherently wrong with studying the Bible; it's one of those necessities as a Christian. And for me personally, it just wasn't enough. As much as I love The Word, having a real and personal relationship with Jehovah became more obvious and critical for my spiritual growth. Eventually, I found my way into the Pentecostal Church, got filled with the Holy Spirit and learned to speak in tongues. Accepting this gift (of tongues) raised my ability to build my relationship with Christ. In effect, it significantly improved the way I'm able to give praises to God and to talk with Him. I share this background information to give a flavor of my thought process (that influences my spiritual writings) - and not as a criticism for those who have not accepted this gift from God. (People who have read my poetry should readily agree that it's fairly evident that my writing is based on the Scriptures and does not contradict the basic tenets of the Christian faith.)
In order to remain within my profession of I.T. (Information Technology), I've had to relocate to different U.S. states on the east coast. So I found myself living in southern Connecticut for about a decade. For more than three years, I attended this popular Church in Milford. Despite my own "baggage", I was a productive Christian, giving my time, talent, tithe and offerings to the Church freely and whole-heartedly. As a result, I started to dream of how I could give more of myself to Him - to be able to give my entire life for God's purposes (as He intends for everyone). My poetry manuscript was completed and blindly rejected by the Church - the clergy was not interested or curious about the "Christian poetry" I had written. Undeterred, I had already started working on additional poetry manuscripts. Wanting more of Christ in my life, fascination with Enoch began to grow at this time; very little about him is shared in the Bible and I never thought to research him on the Internet. The pages of my Bible are written upon with notes, concepts and ideas as I studied The Word and listened to sermons throughout the years. And yet, I noticed how little commentary about Enoch was known to me in my notes. What did Enoch know that the rest of us fail to understand? At the beginning of the Wednesday evening service, parishoners are allowed to submit questions - to be addressed directly by the bishop, prior to the evening service. I had begun assembling my poem fragments and phrases, but had not started the construction of the poem itself. So one night I submitted a simple question: "Why don't we know more about Enoch's life?"
I've come to learn that preachers are fickle creatures; they claim to be "dead men" - people who are unoffendable when interacting with less knowledgeable individuals in spiritual matters. And yet, with my analytical brain and decades of Church experience, I naturally rub minsters against their grain. After all, "iron sharpens iron" and my words catch on their spiritual burrs - which is something that ministers typically don't fully appreciate when dealing with me. My innocent submission uncovered an overly sensitive nerve, quickly made apparent by the bishop's unrighteous reaction to my inquiry. Instead of answering my question in a positive and forthright manner, he exploded into a contrite diatribe "of how I suffered from an escapist's mentality". Naturally I was unimpressed with his carnal response and came to the immediate conclusion that he didn't have a viable response. I'm fairly sure that this event wasn't lost on the congregation either; for when someone avoids answering a direct question, people can easily draw their own conclusions. When the time came for me to compose this poem, the minister's words were still grinding on my spirit - thus setting the tone of this work. Although different from my other poems, I can't say that I'm disappointed with the ending of my poem, given the actions of Christ's dealings with the Pharisees and Saducees. If anything, I've followed His earthly example. This poem is my reaction to the bishop's inability to provide me with a solution that I had sought.
Joe Breunig, 12 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. One never knows exactly when the Spirit of God will move on your soul; fortunately I was paying a little bit of attention, one cold winter night...
I've been a member of the IT (Information Technology) community since June of 1981, a profession that constantly tries to turn you into a slave from an employee. Rarely did I ever bring home work; sometimes it was unavoidable, given arbitrary deadlines and poor managerial planning. After dinner on this particular night, I had spread out the pages of computer 'source code' across the entire kitchen table, while attempting to solve a logic problem. ('Source Code' is the logic written by a computer programmer, in a given computer language, that addresses a specific business function. The term is equivalent to a computer 'program'.)
Once I had spent roughly 90 minutes struggling to solve the issue at hand, I treated myself to a mental break. I noticed the gentle reflection of moonlight on the window and decided that I would step outside onto my breezeway for some fresh air. The evening sky that night was a magnificient sight, like many other times. Absent were the visible presence of clouds and the stars seemed noticeably brighter. Taking in this grand view, I let my mind wander, temporarily forgetting about the thousand lines of computer code awaiting me. Gazing upwards, I was quietly reminded of God's promise to Abraham - that his offspring would be as numerous as the stars. I also contemplated why God had designed the heavens to demonstrate His existence.
When the coldness of the winter night started to permeate my body, it was time to terminate my break. Stepping back into my warm home, my brain was re-energized and thankful for the brief, mental hiatus. Trying to re-focus on my work became difficult, as phrases of poem snippets bombarded my soul as "shooting stars". I had been writing haikus and senryus for several years, but not 'traditional' poetry. So to move on, I grabbed a blank piece of paper and started writing, capturing the poem's concept. At the time, I did not recognize or fully appreciate what had transpired. This was my first non-haiku poem written by me; it would be over a year later before I thought to publish my first book.
Having taken the time to compose this poem, I was blessed by God, for taking time to honor Him. Less than ten minutes later, I solved the problem and enjoyed immense relief; plus I got to spend quality time for the rest of the night with my wife. In addition, I completed my project deadline to my boss' delight and surprise.
Joe Breunig, 12 july 2012
Wellspring of spiritual water,
It's bubbling inside me.
Gently soothes my bruised soul -
Covering Life's pain of mystery.
Unseen surging river,
Courses through body mortal -
Renewing my energy,
Forced through this open portal.
Full to overflowing,
Come stand next to me,
Let the excess splash on you -
To prime your own jubilee.
This internal source,
Never shall run dry;
For Hope springs eternal,
Keeping this flood in full supply.
Author Note:
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/
Anthony DiMichele, 12 july 2012
I know I am paranoid
it took the first ten years
of safety education
to open my eyes
a frog's mouth unexpectedly magnified
how life forms are transformed
into celestial garbage bags
my mother's command repeatedly
was to push harder!
it taught me repetition
a contortion of origins hard to control
finally I see my zombie at high noon
eat its own hands in prayer
but something is always missing
in that appetite
I am suspicious of its nexus
a gordian knot I tied with my toes
I sheath my tongue in a hunting knife
and I can't wake up after I awoke
there are ideas that bleed confections
carpenters who never touched a toucan
the flow is moving from mind to mind
mindlessly most of the time
I was so wise once
every game was life or death
with my dice cup full of hot air
in arcades hypnotised by surrealism
advertising its lips
finely stitched with care
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