Best Chapel Poems
Note: Norwegians are proud of many things, but above all, they are endlessly proud of Sissel Kyrkjebø, the Voice of Norway! International singer.
______________________________________________________________
I live in a deserted chapel,
Buffeted and corroded by harsh winds,
And yet to me it is a godsend haven
Away from hazards of fellow men.
Dry from incessant downpours
But cold and damp and forlorn,
I rest in a forsaken sheltered corner,
As my thoughts linger on you.
For I can never forget you
Though you prefer me no more.
Instinctively I rise from my sad corner
Hobble towards the broken altar,
There I light a candle small
In loving memory of you.
Its feeble light shines wanly
A lonely shadow it throws
Down to the depth of my isolated soul,
A little faint flame of hope.
Soon a turbulent wind violently
Blows its way across the plain.
Like a horde of evil demons
Sweeping all that's in its way,
The candlelight is snuffed off
At least for this desolate night.
Is love so fickle that
It can be stifled so quickly?
Is love so petty and trivial
That it's comparable to a candle wick?
But such a light can be renewed,
The wax ignites into life once more.
So let the gusty winds blow
For I know deep within me,
My love will never be stifled
That I should lose all hope.
Inside a barn long since made into a chapel,
The congregation sits on wooden pews among the calves.
Maybe others a dog or a cat or two,
Creatures two legged,
And ones who stand on all fours come to rest...
Perhaps play and eat their meals for the day.
Man, woman, beasts together in a special hollowed place
Bow before and PRAISE THE LORD.
For none can forget that our Savior was born in a mere stable.
In tribute to that special night and that special morning,
Now here in Farm Chapel you can hear the angels saying,
"GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, to baby Jesus our
King of all that is and is to come. AMEN."
Southfield Chapel is located in Lancashire England
Farm Chapel is the first of two poems written at the
prompting of my beloved friends Pastor Barry and Dorothy Dickinson.
Beside the old chapel of Berhampur
A shadow of man
Residual on the lonely roads,
Always walked in circles
After 3’o clock at night.
One crossing to another,
He moved with no hurry.
Like a pendulum of his world,
He collected time and stones
In his empty pockets!
I could see him getting heavier
while he thinned,
Walking through the racing cars
at night
Beneath the yellow street lights
He lived from corners to corners
And in the shadows of closed shops
And perhaps on one of my scarred diary pages
Abstractly,
As if he had no face,
No name.
These men of torn cloths and blackened feet
Do not have names,
Only residues they leave behind,
On the corners where they sleep
Stories spilling out of the pocket through a large hole
And dreams vaporizing from his memory
While he slept
In broad daylight
with the shadows of the old chapel of Berhampur
Berhampur is a small town in India
The
Ringing
Of chapel bells
Resonating in tune
On our favorite melodies,
Especially those golden-oldie hymns,
Harmonies for a hungry heart
Singing
Bells
HONORABLE MENTION
written June 20, 2021
for "Ring My Bell" Poetry Contest
sponsored by John Anderson
The Sistine Chapel
Thy ceiling reaches to touch eyes
where Michelangelo and God rise.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 22, 2010
Poetic form: Crysalline
Jane and Norman are going steady
Now are planning their wedding
They decided to wed
At a roadside chapel
Off a country road
Their minister will
Do the ceremony
Jane will have bridesmaids
A flower girl or two
Maids of honor will lead
Then the bride will follow
Walking slow to the groom
She is teary eye with joy
Photos taken outdoors
In front of the chapel
People gather to watch
Phots are taken
On a bright sunny day
Small groups groups gather
to chat
Before leaving the chapel
Lifted into the eternal,
Peter walked through Heaven's pearly gates...
Greeted by his name's sake.
Ushered into the city of golden streets,
Meeting up with Jesus Whom escorts him around personally.
Manor houses arranged beautifully throughout this Holy city.
"One of these houses are yours Peter," Jesus said to him.
"Which one?" Peter asked the Lord of all.
"All you need to do is follow the song until you come to the house
that is singing to you," the Lord replied.
Peter stood for a moment while tuning into what was sublime,
Sung by a voice so sweet... beckoning him to follow where it would lead.
The streets of gold connected to a road of masterfully tailored, bejeweled cobblestone.
As they made their way further along this road... city turned into meadow,
Wild grass... the blades the color of emerald yet soft to the touch.
Making their way along this road, Peter noticed calves grazing... this grass was delicious to them yet even so their heads lifted up in greeting as they remembered Peter who had taken care of them in that other time.. that other place.
Continuing along their way a beautiful chapel came into sight... not unlike the one Peter left behind it was his time to take his place in this world.
Not far from this chapel which contained a barn underneath it stood a large manor house. There were giant trees of all kinds surrounding this property.
To the left a brook which was fed by delicate streams of living water. This water comes down from Mt. Zion itself.
As Peter along with Jesus drew closer, Peter's loved ones and church family... the ones who had gone on before came to greet him with overwhelming warm loving cheer... a reunion of great magnitude did take place.
Peter radiant with joy is home.
Jesus said to Peter something we all long to hear, "Well done my good and faithful servant whom I am honored to call my friend, my beloved."
So now we all know that there is no end to our time with loved ones and friends.
There is no end to our life with Father God, the Lamb of God, the Holy Spirit.
Farm Chapel Continue is a dedication to the Late Peter Smith of Southfield Chapel in Lancashire England. Farm Chapel is the second poem in Farm Chapel
which was also prompted by beloved friends Pastor Barry and Dorothy Dickinson.
When my husband and I were in Las Vegas, I had a great suggestion,
To go to the Little White Chapel, and renew our vows in celebration.
I thought it would be such a lark we wouldn’t forget.
Having Elvis perform the ceremony would be the best thing yet!
However we never made it to the chapel, he refused.
To do such a silly thing did not leave him amused.
Maybe that was an indication of what was to come.
Divorce ensued, and sorrow beat its drum.
I want to go to the Little White Chapel with a new man.
We would have so much fun before our life began!
We could play a slot machine on our way out.
Then we would be man and wife with a payout!
Back in 1887, The Convent Of Our Lady was built,
It was part of a school for girls run by grey nuns;
1971- demolish, sad that tilt,
Art gallery wanted it and offered big sums.
It was part of a school for girls- run by grey nuns,
Reconstructed in the heart of the gallery;
Art Gallery wanted it- and offered big sums,
After ten years, rebuilt with skill and mastery.
Reconstructed- in the heart of the gallery,
Yes, all the various components stored for years;
After ten years- rebuilt with skill and mastery,
Oh, beautiful the interior, it brings tears.
Yes- all the various components stored for years,
Marble columns, windows, alter, soaring fan vaults;
Oh, beautiful the interior- it brings tears,
Huge open space, it would make a good place to waltz.
Marble columns, windows, alter- soaring fan vaults,
1971 demolish- sad that tilt;
Huge open space it would make a good place- to waltz,
Back in 1887- The Covent of Our Lady was built.
_________________________
March 22, 2016
Poetry/Pantoum/The Chapel
Copyright Protected, ID 16-770-953-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, A Pantoum- A Poet's Choice,
sponsor, Eve Roper
First Place
Genesis 1:26-27
26 Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals,[a] and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” 27 So God created man in His own image.
-Holy Bible- 21st Century King James Version
Depicting God as an old, bearded man, as if the images created are carved.
Paint on wet plaster when light diffuses, chance of deterioration is halved.
God’s creation of Adam, the very first man, where separation of sexes began.
As if the images created are carved, depicting God as an old, bearded man.
God’s finger to give life to his spirit, an act depicting the start of mankind.
God having made man in his own image, a perfect human form defined.
Adam reclined but their fingers are not quite touching, but very near it.
An act depicting the start of mankind. God’s finger to give life to his spirit.
So adept in creating human form, the artist shows elegance with strength.
In his mural, he sculpts figures with paint, across its breadth and length.
The inspirational sense of power and yet love due to creation is so warm.
The artist shows elegance with strength, so adept in creating human form.
I know you see me from up there,
from halfway up the steep and twisting lane.
In early half-light as you take your walk
I no doubt seem to loom as you descend,
appear to grow, to rise from earth,
my boxlike rectilinearity,
severe and unadorned geometry,
a silhouette against the solitary sodium source.
I once hosted fiery-throated hymns
from dedicated souls in Sunday best:
“Marchog, Jesu, yn llwyddiannus”,
“O! Iesu mawr, rho d’anian bur” –
voices rich and raised and resonant,
so filled with faith, so gorged with God.
My pitch-pine pews were polished
by coat and skirt and trouser twill.
Abandoned now, unloved, slab-still,
void and stark and desolate,
with quarry-tiled floor that would resound
with joy were anyone to walk upon it,
I present gaping emptiness, a thing felt,
a cave whose darkness, palpable,
is peopled by retreating echoes of my past,
like timorous ghosts far too afraid to speak.
But there is One I must not name –
though He might be known by
the four letters of the tetragrammaton –
who lodges in my roomy quarters,
cowers within my tight square corners,
seeking shadows when the sun stares in.
I hear Him breathing as
He sweats in His remorse, a thing smelt.
He hides from the accusing eyes of every nation,
the eyes that witness daily His forlorn creation.
(The chapel speaking here is in a small place in West Wales, UK)
(Translations: “Marchog, Jesu, yn llwyddiannus” = "Ride on Jesu, all victorious"; “O! Iesu mawr, rho d’anian bur” = "O Jesu, let Thy spirit bless")
The fall has remnants of the summer, but the day's not hot,
and all of our beloved are gathered in a woodland spot.
Bearing their good wishes, they have walked the pathway to
this autumnal chapel where I'll make my walk to you!
Around us, in our wedding colors - fall's most splendid hues -
is a bright mélange of flora with a sprinkling of chartreuse.
The tallest oak here is the steeple, reaching to the sky;
its leafy limbs have framed an arbor made to beautify!
Your eyes are dancing, and you wear a sweet, cute pumpkin grin
as I approach, adorned in flowing satin, argentine.
Our union, blessed like nature dressed in hues of harmony,
is sealed with loving kisses under a vermilion tree.
~The Chapels bells are ringing
Best man’s hands holds Wedding rings
While the groom nervously squirms
Bride walks in love’s march
~
~Anticipation awaits
Faithful seal of love in spite
Passions need a Saint’s patience
Not Consummation
John Moses Freeman
For and in Honor of DR Ram
And contest: Wedding Rehearsal,
And the cemetery was
quite and intensely sullen;
a damp breeze blew
anticipating a cool rain...
an open gate led to a chapel.
Two marble angels stood
by the Gothic bronze door,
their looks were too somber;
and walking in I saw candles
burning beneath white skulls
stacked in piles like bricks.
The smell of wax from
the dripping candles
was of a different scent;
the brass cross gleamed
casting a shadow on
the oval floor made
of yellow and green
tiles resembling a mosaic.
Looking around, I discovered
more skulls on wooden shelves,
these had imprinted names
and looked down on the incognito
ones in self-pity and sadness.
I wondered why of such
a massive grave of skulls
without skeletons; a weird
sensation penetrated my
body getting steady chills.
I glanced across the opposite
wall and spotted a memorial
plaque with the deplorable words
" The final rest of decapitated
men who rose against
their king who washed
his hands in their blood. "
Horror and disgust pierced
my being, I reacted to
that appalling sign rushing
out of the darkening chapel;
and stepping outside of
that flickering chamber,
the crispiness of the morning
air filled my lungs with relief.
our trees have blossomed,
and some have knots in their yokes,
like one in my throat.....
fragile limbs look down and weep
to acknowledge my despair
................................................................
"Tanka Tears" Contest: Sponsored By Rick Parise
2/10/15