Best Purity Poems
I think I know the Name of Purity,
It is Your Name -- it holds clear water well!
A Chalice carved almost to shattering,
A white rose, that alone, grows in the dell
With drops of ice adorning its still face
The warmth of heart that comes with falling snow
The few flakes that adorn your lashes, by grace
Delightful cold that creeps up from below
Loquacity that speaks only the Truth,
Amazed by every small, delightful thing
Ubiquitous praise and unbroken Youth
Right Trust, that gave your finger to the Ring
Inevitable Joy, and whispered Love
E'er faithful, that this all is from Above.
2/11/2019
Submitted for: Standard Poetry Contest 175
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
Unassailable purity, a cognition divine of venerated mind,
Proffers promise inviolable, beneficence sacred aligned,
With force invincible emanating from goodwill of heart
Forming precepts impeccable, teachings benevolent impart.
Purity of thought and action~ a worthy and righteous goal,
Resounds indomitable from kindred voice of resolute soul;
A heavenly call of compassion, extolling sanctity of love,
Lifting tenor of gloomy dawns~ soothing refrains of dove.
Unassailable purity in life, a road map of directions to hope,
Sacrosanct are its valiant acts, vowing ceaselessly to cope,
Performing with mighty resolve, deeds inducing pride;
Serving humbly as invisible hand of irreproachable guide.
Assisting destitute is the sermon, tolling bells of prayer,
Beckoning the weary, indigent, to shelter and welfare;
Comforting grief of despair with words enlightened, aware,
Consoling cry of nothingness, bequeathing love and care.
It exemplifies within her selfless smile, purity of her eyes,
Reassuring her children, bliss of mother’s love never dies;
Its rectitude unassailable, eternal as the reign of time,
A gift precious, paramount to life~ ethereal and sublime.
What does innocence cost, you ask?
It seems it's just a grand,
For I know a girl who had hers sold
By her Aunt, in a foreign land.
They sold her soul at fiftteen,
To a middle-aged traveling gent,
Who filmed it all for the internet,
In a dirty basement rent.
She begged her aunt to spare her,
To not let this monster soil
The cherished gift God gave her,
For an hour's salacious toil.
She swore to help them honestly,
And work three jobs, if needed,
But this was quick, the die was cast,
No matter how she pleaded.
She screamed and cried when the hour came,
While the man did what he pleased,
And she prayed God wouldn't see her,
That her aunt would be appeased.
When thru, the sheets were bloody,
And she hurt so down below,
But bloodier still, her spirit,
(Though that wound didn't show).
He let her use the hotel's bath
To clean the vile mess,
And gave her fifteen dollars
To replace her ruined dress.
"A buck for every year!" he laughed,
And threw it on the floor,
Then yelled at her "Get out of here!"
"You filthy little whore!"
Well, with those words, his horrid act,
And the soul he stripped away,
Over time that's what she's now become,
Though she makes a grand each day.
See, they didn't just rob her virtue,
They put her soul to death ...
Now she curses him and her auntie,
With every living breath ...
And she doesn't need her faith now,
There's no happiness or mirth,
For no God could ever repay her ...
For what her soul was worth.
~ 7th Place ~ in the "HASHTAGmetoo" Poetry Contest", Debbie Guzzi, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Let's Talk About It" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
Her Presence always was a quiet glow,
A morning all the day, and through the night.
And, while she slept, white radiance did show
Uplifted from the earth, her form grown light.
Like her, Spring spills forth waking on all things,
On sleeping hills, on nascent pomegranate,
On curling bear-cub, everything that sings!
And curled-up leaves, yawn, stretch, embrace bright planet!
There is an Allness, newly on the air
That lacked before... a Presence of Christ rises
And wicked things come over, once laid bare
To new humility, which small things prizes.
Like her, Spring gently calls a man, 'Awake!'
Who always let her sleep, for Love's sweet sake.
Incite the words that take me through
Unload your fears and call them truth
Stand up and consecrate your hate
Follow along, or die alone in debate
Just look at everything there is
Either products of pain or products of bliss
Just look at everyone that knows
Either running towards or waiting to go
Apocalyptic sense of right
A fluorescent path that just waits for night
Apocalyptic sense of wrong
A darkness that is, spreading on and on
My own reflections are my truth
These words are just me, I have the proof
So incite my mirror to believe
That we are all alone once we learn to breathe
A conscious silence in our deaths
Accept it or run towards more regret
Apocalyptic purity
It doesn’t matter what comes, as long as I see
One has to like the price,
which never fluctuates.
It floats,
like some suspended orb
imparted from another heaven, perhaps...
itself a consciousness unknown
and undefiled.
It is the good the ages seek,
still there before our eyes.
Were there a formula,
a prize to touch or taste,
it would not occupy the metaphor
of grace nor scorn its worshipers.
There's time to let the rain sweep down
the valley, time to revel
in the harvest when the fullness comes.
It's time to yield a little, come alive
to listen while the piper plays;
the air is sweet,
the song is of the eminence of day.
If there is any paradise
let us make room for it
within our precious now
though set upon with every fond device
of intellect to struggle to our feet;
the highest good not ours alone,
persists in that strange crystalline precipitate
when all is done—old Paul knew what it was
and called it love.
~
WHERE NO ILLUSIONS DWELL
My Heart pours out remnants
of nothingness as I create in
form from Universes unknown
Union becomes Duality
a dash between birth and death
then disappears back
to Source from whence it
sprung
for to remain in form
is to be captive to
space and time
So does Purity only live
where no illusions dwell
in super seconds of no
boundaries yet no escape
frequencies of freedom fashioned
timidly we taste
It remains a shadow we
all chase in our thousand
million moments to bring
Heaven down to Earth
before we are called
back again, back again
bowing
buoyantly !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&
Song2007
Her birth was never trumpeted,
Nor caught any media headlines.
Born to Joachim in very ordinary settings,
Virgin Mary, the simplest of the simple,
Was specially chosen to perform a task divine.
As she grew up, she pledged to keep her body and soul,
Free of all blemish and stains of fleshly desires.
But in her teens, she was betrothed to Joseph,
Perhaps, part of a divine plan.
Did dreams come to nab her sleep, no one knows!
She found joy in prayer and absolute surrender to God.
Once when in silent communion with God,
Hearing the flap of wings overhead, she looked up.
Seeing the flash of blinding light in her dim lit room
She stood in dazzled astonishment,
Not knowing what was about to happen.
Before her, appeared a winged seraph.
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness n’ grace
Its hands raised in benediction,
Saluted Mary and said,
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to digest what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again, it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee,
And a son shall be born of thee,
Whom you shall call Jesus.”
“How can this be”,
The question lingered but didn’t ask.
In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware?
Or did her virgin womb thrill with new life?
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves?
For a girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out,
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
Without questioning,
She surrendered to the will of God,
Thereafter, never wavered nor bemused,
But readied herself for the great task.
Forever she remains a symbol of mercy and love.
Her immaculate grace is reflected on her radiant face.
Her lovely visage having greater beauty than any flower,
Emits sweet fragrance that perfumes our souls.
Remaining ever so pure with no trace of sin,
She is acclaimed by Christians all over the world,
As a symbol of unassailable purity and godly grace!
It's the look of anticipation in a preschoolers eyes
as he holds your hand near the playground gazing in skies.
It's the prolonged kiss when the preacher says to the couple side by side
“I pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride.”
It's the gaze of a kitten as she swats at the laser light
as she hopes for a game that is fun and bright.
It's the yard in the morning after a night of cold snow
when the sun is just high enough and the wind has stopped its blow.
But love from the Creator God is by far the most of all
the most perfect source of unassailable purity without any downfall.
GARDEN OF THE HEART
I am the Garden
in me all things live
in me nothing is forgotten
here we enter
after being done with the Serpent
flamed or in darkness
when the Cross enters from below
we die, never to be reborn
Over naked breasts and belly
shadows dissolve in milk and manna
transmuted to rainbows of gold
in the body of the Magdalena
droplets dance fiery ice
where Power is gained through
entry into the Garden of the Heart
another way then becomes the forgotten
Nothing more entices, no fleshly desire lingers
wisdom is my key to the
Gate of Chrysanthemum Purity
where Patience is enthroned at the
fulcrum of two spheres
after we’ve climbed ladders of courage
listened to mournful entreaties, tolling gongs
shook hands with Keepers of Freedom
Our giving becomes our taking
Separation, the Union
the going, a returning
returning, our resting where the
Centre of Silvery Strands is Stillness
born of angels and white doves
as Truth cloaks, after paying
in sweat and tight purple silences
Few know how the Garden imbues
or how matrix minds dissolved or
what a tiny imprint is hidden in the
Palm of God-Goddess where the
Palm of Blood and Thorns
washed us from the shores of
ancient lands into the
moistness of I N F I N I T Y
“Thoughts of Purity”
Hanging by a thread; feet dangling like clothes flapping in the summer breeze
Look upon the little things below me ; everything is so tiny when you’re so high
Believing that being above all souls will bring me the peace I long to have
When it comes to Stephen there is no right or wrong; for all is lost with open eyes
Desiring to be the man I set goals to be, failing like the wings of a baby bird learning how to fly
Is life really worth your owns words being misconstrued into what they really want to hear
Is it the failure in others that drives their insecurity to be boasted by worse failures then their own?
Stephen is just a name used to describe the failures of his lost soul floating in the vastness of space
The highest peak on earth cannot describe the level of pain that depressed hearts endure
For the pain of the depressed isn’t a come and go type of feeling but never ending
Seek and you shall find lonely minds scattered like puzzle pieces laid freshly upon a table
It’s not just Stephen alone in the spectacle of life, for broken minds stay silent unnoticed in pictures
In mountain streams the dreams of normalcy floats away like paper airplanes thrown into the wind
Always searching for a hand to grasp to lift a lost soul to stand upon the solid ground
Never finding the ears to understand that life’s treasures fall into the hands already rich in comfort
Stephen is no longer reaching for steady arms but forgiveness of suicidal thoughts that break his thoughts of purity
Deep red star flower,
scarlet life blood atonement.
We beseech your heal.
I
At the innocent age of sixteen I was sinless,
Pure as driven white snow and totally trusting;
And I fell in love, oh, it was more than fondness,
This was true love, my soul and heart was yearning;
I was smitten, besotted, how I longed for his soft caress,
We would walk hand in hand with such wide-eyed innocence;
So clean and fresh, unworldly, inexperienced and so full of purity,
Our world was small but our endless, devoted love was so immense,
Naïve, gullible and demure, how I blushed pink when he said I was pretty.
II
I waited for him breathless at my home,
On his motorcycle we would fly unguarded;
We liked to find little country towns to roam,
O, I adored him and I was fascinated, infatuated;
We drove the motorcycle on beaches through foam,
I dreamt at night that this true love would be my groom;
The days, weeks and years have passed since this pure love,
He was not my groom, he did not age one day, he dwells above,
I still hold this childhood love so dear and often go to visit his tomb.
______________________________
May 6, 2015
Poetry/Ode/Purity
Copyright Protected, ID 04-670-704-06
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, When Love Was Innocent,
sponsor, Justin Bordner, HM, Judged 2015
Successive letters of the alphabet per line using A through S
Ann was born at a time when females lacked rights.
Both parents warned, her purity must be unphased.
Chastity, shame and sin were lectured day and night,
dictating a future marriage in accord with social mores.
Each day, since a teen, she prayed love to be as hoped.
Fraught, these feelings dimmed in society’s grim scope.
Girly and gangly at sixteen, her parents did chance
Hank, a farmer, as Ann’s best offered circumstance.
Ignorant all, there was not one thought of romance,
just opportunity to make Ann a legal, proper wife.
Knots grew in Ann’s heart and her fears were rife,
life's labels demanded she be Hank’s property for life.
Married life forced Ann to labor on Hank’s farm -
nasty blistered hands to atone for his lazy harm.
Oblivion was often sought by Hank through drinking,
pushing Ann to slave or see her survival sinking.
Quietly, she daily tended all crops and chores.
Unfit drunk, she often tripped him for floor decor.
Repulsed by his stank fueled breath and awful snorts,
She viewed murderous plots in her brain for sport.