Best Rachel Poems
Rachel
Rachel, sweetest looking peach on such a high branch
A teasing sway in her round hips, full of undiluted
gorgeous femininity
Eyes as blue as sky and a voice that is felt all over,
more like a warm breeze than sound
Aesop might recommend the lesson of the sour grapes,
but his Greek eyes never saw such a perfect
northern beauty as Rachel. He would have to
eat his words and tell his tale in reverse; how this unreachable
treasure made all the low hanging fruit taste sour
Damn!
Taken to awaken favored
Havens, where images are stored,
Expressions, one can not ignore,
Render visions that are savored.
Aesthetic art provides flavor,
Catering to a hungry core,
Hungry eyes, hungering for more
Extracts that can not be wavered.
Literary images show
Quintessential beauty in ink;
Uncompromised poetic flow.
Imaginations are in sync,
Now that she glows from head to toe,
Named as the one, of which I think.
Seven Years Rachel*, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Sept ans Rachel by T. Wignesan
For seven years Rachel remains sealed
By the kiss she received from Jacob
For seven years she keeps her eyelashes lowered
Under the impact of their unique encounter.
When he saw her on that one occasion
He was reduced to tears,
So very much of her sweetness was revealed to him
The blue tint of the nocturnal sunset
Reminiscent of God.
There’s no love without nostalgia
When will I seize what has gotten hold of me ?
You’re as beautiful as the fleecy Rachel
When the immense army comes together.
You shine on up there like a moon-like pebble
At the bottom of a well.
You are unreachable further than the stars
An a priori hint of Him.
From the moment your gaze comes to rest on me
It lights up the fires of Bethel.*
I have seen God enthroned in your pupils
And all the exit paths in the world
Converge upon you.
The désert which has pursued me close upon the heels
Hardened roused till it reaches you
Until my return to the fold
That was a spiraling tearing apart of the fire
Hatched from beneath my entrails.
O ladder which consumes me O flame
The dwelling by whom my insides burn
You are the native home of the soul
You are the mother’s smile come to rest on the child
Yours is the infancy of God over this world
Virgin speech like God’s own gaze
The unruly smoothness of fire.
(from Jacob, O.C. t. II, p. 62)
*The poem alludes, draws and constructs itself on the imagery relating to the « legend » of the biblical Jacob’s dream and the ladder, recorded in Genesis, key symbols in the interpretations of Judeo-Christian and Islamic religious concepts and history.
• Bethel : (Lit.) « House of God »
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 17, 2014
Tinker Bell dwells well in my mind,
Helping me find the words to use,
Endearing enough to help choose
Radiant qualities that blind.
Alluring my mind from behind,
Charm is in the arms of my muse,
Handing me lines I can not lose,
Engaging enough to be kind.
Lyrical miracles flow free,
Qualified to be the unique,
Uncommon qualities we see.
Incredible enough to speak
Notably of? Enough for me!
Noticeable enough to seek!
Transcend words! You recommend words
Heard only by listening hearts,
Expressing blessings from the start,
Regarded with the favor spurred.
Admiration, already stirred,
Contemplates how to play his part
Honorably. His words are art's
Experiments; Seen, but not heard.
Loosen confusions in your tongue!
Quote your mind, so his ears can hear
Unique descriptions that are sung.
Indicate that his words are dear,
Not mere, with the breath in your lungs,
Nurturing his hope with good cheer.
Legs long and smooth
Finger nails painted to prove
Eyes made of passion
And her essence perfume
Lips made for saying "Amore"
Hair her crowning glory
A body unrivaled with words
And feet high heels perfectly curved
"Imagine a lovely garden, tea for two and this story"....A Rambling Poet
Just nine years old but she had a dream
of serving others, of doing good.
Adults were failing, but this young girl
decided to do everything she could.
Her birthday was coming, she had a plan.
She asked her mama, who soon agreed.
No gifts wanted by birthday girl,
but rather money for world in need.
She’d heard of the children in Africa
with no fresh water to cool their thirst.
She wanted to cure all of their ills
and need for water would be the first.
Three hundred dollars she set as a goal,
which she almost reached by her birthday.
She didn’t give up, she would find the rest.
She must have three hundred to send away.
There are other children who’ve done the same,
given up their gifts for the water cause,
but Rachel’s story is quite unique
which I’ll tell you now, but I must pause
To steady my hands to pour the tea
and to wipe away this unwanted tear.
More of her story I’ll tell you now.
New twists and turns will soon appear.
Rachel was traveling with her mom,
on some good deed, I have no doubt.
A car pile up and a child was hurt.
That ‘s what this tale is all about.
Rachel died, but ere she did
she begged her mommy to finish her dream,
to get the money to Africa,
so they needn’t drink from polluted stream.
Over a million dollars raised
by tender souls who have heard her plea.
The money just keeps pouring in
from simple folks like you and me.
“A little child shall lead them”.
Dear, sweet Rachel was one of those.
She put the needs of others above
desire for birthday toys and clothes.
By: Joyce Johnson
August 16, 2011
For Constance's contest "I fancy another sad poem" Won no. 3
Radiance glows from no boundry
A butterfly flutters through the hair
Children gathered to listen
Heaven came upon the death
Enough roses for a garden
Little Racahel close your eyes and dream
...i'll miss you Rachael...
She shone within the Sun's realm
And her beautiful soul danced beneath the light of the moon.
She had touched my heart with her kindness
And her devotion had cleansed my soul.
Her name was Rachel
My Grandmother,my friend
And it seems like forever that i have missed her
And will do until my life's end.
I always wonder why she had been taken so soon,
At least i had the chance to tell her that i loved her too
And as each day passes i think of her always
Imagining what she would look like if her journey of Life
Was still going strong
And sometimes i do weep for having lost her
For i truly wish that she was still here
Instead of beneath the earth
And so very distant from me.
I call her the Rose
For indeed she was the blooming flower of my Life
And although she has passed
I know that her spirit walks beside me
For i feel a presence,
I know that it is she
My guardian,my angel
My dear Rachel still lives through me.
The inspiration, for this ode of ink,
Had on a skirt colored blue, green, and pink.
Energetic, with an engaging smile,
Rachel impressed me with her unique style.
Aesthetically sexy from head to toe,
Covered in black with a natural glow,
How could one not write Rachel such an ode,
Examined by walking poetic roads.
Lovely legs, like hers, walk along such lines
Quite well, for fishnet thighs that look quite fine.
Under such circumstances, odes should come
In the form of praise, that should come in sums.
Now, this ode, full of some obvious clues,
Names the inspiration of my new muse.
You hold her for ransom…
She knows not of your guile
Too young and too in love to see through your smile
Played as an instrument while you write the score
You buy her affections and drag her heart on the floor
Innocent and vulnerable, like clay in your hands
I silently watch…what chance do I stand?
Because of her I still let you into our lives
Still amazed at your ability to manipulate and lie
Though I’ve tried to include you year after year
You still whisper darkness into her tiny ears
Despite my conviction she ends up confused
Your worst qualities into her fragile mind, transfused
Though I can’t keep her from you (if only I could…)
Know that my love for her will not be misunderstood
For it is not fickle, flickering, or vain
And over the years it shall not wane
Unlike your ugly desperate attempts to deceive
Which soon she will see through and no longer believe,
My love is much stronger and will carry her through
For it is unconditional, and you never knew
How to love someone in this unselfish way
So go on with your ruse;
I can see you beginning to fade away.
** This is my last poem in tribute to the Sandy Hook Shooting victims and I am so glad to have done all these poems. Hopefully I can soon send these poems to the families.
My last poem is in memory of Rachel Davino. Rachel was one of the teachers who died in the Sandy Hook Shooting. Rachel was supposedly going to get engaged to be married on Christmas Eve ,but didn't get the chance to see that moment. Rachel took the full force of the gunmans shooting rampage to protect as many children as she could. She cared for the children and after school hours her job was said to not have stopped there.
Ding Dong!
Is heard around the world.
As a bell rings signaling Rachel getting her wings.
Although, they aren't wedding bells, she will meet her loved one in Heaven one day.
Until then she will help other angels get their wings,
And watch other her family and friends.
With the help of her little angels dropping gifts of love in the world to land in people's hearts.
The next time you hear a bell ring.
It will be Rachel helping another angel to get their wings.
Real beauty
Angelic voice
Cute as can be
Heaven bound
Energetic, intelligent
Loving sister, only daughter
A child in our AWANA class
Rachel, How Could You
By Elton Camp
Hearing from Miss Rachael is a delight
She calls me faithfully all day & all night
I thought surely that Rachel must love me,
Now I’ve learned she puts others above me
Her cardholder services she offers around
And talks to others guys in town after town
There is nothing that more fickle than woman
Especially if she’s one whose eyes are roamin’
Rachel, if true, chaste and faithful you cannot be
Then I would like to ask that you quit calling me
The stone that was rejected
now hovers overhead.
The sword of retribution
still dangles by a thread.
The careless laugh and squander,
the hungry starve away.
Men mock the storm and thunder,
deny the coming day.
They bomb, exploit and plunder –
of necessity they say.
And Rachel still is weeping
for the babes slain at her feet,
in Ramah ever keeping
her bloodstained swaddling sheet.
No longer do they crucify;
they poison, gas and maim.
No martyr do they glorify
or honour by a name.
But the greatest lie they proffer,
it is not that God is dead –
“He’s sleeping,” says the scoffer,
“on yon high and lofty bed.”