Best Choristers Poems
Written: January 30, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath February breath,
a fugue of magic hues—
embers of crimson,
coppered caramel trill
as maples sway
in Mistral melodic mirth.
Amidst the rhapsody,
in strokes of whispered shimmer
a rainbow flares.
In a seamless symphony,
a fresco of shades
unfurls in the sky.
Amid the onyx,
woven in clouds gossamer,
winter moon glows in a frosty sheen.
In luminous rhapsodies,
she hums opal notes
of wistful longings to the sea’s restless soul.
Drenched in ethereal blushes,
the sea becomes a shimmering midnight hymn—
choristers of spectral silver.
O'er the skyline’s silken scarlet,
March dusk in tourmaline blush, twilight lyrics
of a sundown serenade.
Amidst the concerto,
swirling crimson, a swoop of swallows
in shimmering shadows.
They dart off into the tinted eventide,
their wing beats, an echo of lingering silence.
Deck The Halls
*
****
*
On
Christmas
carols echoed in the hall
Merriment and celebratory mood
put us all in swinging gaiety with the singers
We sang with the choristers at the midnight mass with
clanging cymbals
Past sorrows were shut out
Our neighbourers exuberant faces
warmed our blood by forgiving and forgetting
the spears and barbs of the dead days as bygone stories
Zealously we were
spreading happiness of sharing
in the lonely world of the less fortunate
by becoming the forerunners of our benevolent Santa Claus
making a toy land of the homeless and joy land of our parched souls
We at sixteen each
held lit candles
decking our lives
with unfortunate
Carols and candles
chorused unknown
into the unknown
Contest : Christmas Carols- Deck The Hall
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
December 15, 2015
Baby birds, it's said, are born not knowing
their notes. They learn them from their mother's
throats in the way children learn their ABCs
at parental knees, muh muh muh becoming mother,
da da da, daddy; cheep cheep cheep, a cantata.
That being so, do poets find a poetic ear
in the sphere of their predecessors?
Young, with island sand and salt my milieu,
my concerts were the calls of shorebirds,
the forlorn foundling cries of gulls, the staccato
siren of a tern, should you carelessly venture
too close to her nest; the stuttering dance-step
of sandpipers, miniscule but mighty. Then,
there were the rest: foraging land birds, seeking
fare left by the incoming tide, their darkness
incongruous on the purity of a beach.
There was a time, walking to my garage
when I found a songbird dead in my driveway;
its small body supple, still warm to the touch,
not ready to die just yet like all of us. I
placed it in a box (ashes to ashes, bird to sky),
laid it to rest under the fig tree in my backyard,
and not knowing its persuasion, I
fashioned a cross of sticks over the fresh
earth, believing we shared the sanctity of
simple beauty, the brevity of life.
Near a lake where I live now, sibling to the sea,
briny by proximity, birdsong is rampant
in early spring. I have heard the 'death bird',
he of the shrill one-note filled with foreboding,
who heralded the passage of a dying husband
in an interminable summer of illness. Here,
there are the sharps and flats of ordinary
choristers, and one whose mother was surely
a coloratura soprano in a former life.
This one whose concert halts me spellbound,
turns me to stone (not salt) with his serenade of
couplets, no two the same, some so comical I laugh
out loud to the absent cars and senseless concrete
of my parking lot. He sings and sings, never
abated, nothing by rote, and I? I wait, heart in
my throat, should he be the songbird from
under the fig tree, reincarnated.
When All Hallows' Eve's curse, cast its spell, on that night,
As the choristers sung, all in tune, church bells rung,
And the bats, in the belfry now spooked, took to flight,
While the witches and wizards were chanting in tongue.
Soon the churchyard was filled, by the ghosts of the dead,
When those living caught sight, all their hairs stood on end.
While the cries, of the banshee that filled hearts with dread,
Made them pray, not for me, would those wails, all portend.
Soon the quick and the dead, were all covered in dust,
From those dried out old bones, once deceased, now alive.
When the chains, of those sinners broke free,from their rust,
All those innocents cried, as they fought to survive.
On the last stroke of midnight when witchcraft decayed.
The devout, sought salvation next day when they prayed.
10 / 27 / 2022.
Sponsor Craig Cornish.
For the contest All Hallows' Evening
The mockingbird sings,
Emulating rings,
Confusing all nearby birds.
He keeps me awake;
Won’t step on the brake.
So glad he cannot speak words.
For what I utter
Might cause a flutter
Among other choristers.
“Please choose one,” I smile,
“And do not compile
The sweet tunes of your sisters”
*Written July 27, 2014 for Dr. Ram's "Alouetee" contest
She is a beauty with her vaulted ceilings and cloisters.
Has been parading about for over a thousand years
Showing off her English gothic architecture.
Cathedral Church of St. Peter and the Holy and Invisible Trinity.
We have seen her in films and movies – The Hollow Crown,
Doctor Who, Sherlock, and Harry Potter.
She houses at Gloucester, Gloucestershire, UK.
She was once a pilgrimage for Christian seekers.
King Henry the Eighth established her current choir in 1539.
Today her choir boasts thirty-eight choristers and twelve adult singers.
So when you walk through, you are a historian, so much has gone on.
She is magnificent with her beautiful stained glass windows.
Her organ was constructed in sixteen hundred and sixty-six.
She has been the site of graduations, coronations, and weddings.
In medieval times she held daily worship sung by monks of the abbey.
Gloucester Cathedral, a gorgeous example of what architects can do.
A Winter tale.
oh Winter – how you often linger long,
what windswept elements you deal;
your cold dark chamber does my spirit feel.
your shivering grip of uncheerfull thoughts is strong.
and often in your shadows I belong -
a land of phantoms that appears often real.
But now a warm and gentle wind I feel,
and hear the choristers of the morning song,
foretelling Spring's arrival; I was wrong,
the morning of the year with beauty gleams,
and nature with a thousand words in seems.
Untruthful is the winter of the mind -
not like half remembered dreams I can find,
A verdant field I wander – quiet, still.
I keep the winter memory near
and sing in darkness - none will hear
A sweet sweet winters tale a girl leave.
and in this cold she no more breathe
till long life over I too depart,
to infinite nights a new start.
Go home, old man, turn to your bed
and draw the covers to your eyes;
there is no papa in the skies
to hear your prayers,
were you to dare to frame them.
No spirit hovering?...to flood your mind
with golden streets? No harps
employed by pretty messengers
with sunbeam hair?...no enemies
to tread beneath your feet?
Go home.
Our censers do not swing for you;
our choristers sing out of tune,
our crowns, bereft of stars,
are tawdry bibelot
to weigh you down. Ironically,
your heaven just passed you by
and left your saving Lord to die
alone.
All you have left is the unknown,
a bit of awe, perhaps,
a sense of mystery
and cries to an eternity of silence
unaware that you are even there.
Your peace, your rest
is not in sacrifice or penitence
but listening, never mindful
of reply.
Old fellow, what have you to say?
"My children, how I wish
that you might understand
that I am merely blessed--
despite my failure to express
the swirl of the ineffable
around my head...confounded
only by an adversary,
too hard pressed
to speak of anything
but love."
~
Colorful season for the saints; a simple sign for sinners;
Happy hearts hover; love and light unites the universe.
Righteousness received in a wicked world by winners;
Indemnity to the indebted, laugh alive oh longing losers,
Seeking the Savior still, following the faith of our fathers.
Terrific throng and tone, bells and balloons across borders,
Merry making, gift and gowns glow… no proud nor paupers;
Alluring alarms by kids and kings; choruses by choristers,
Men and women in joy and jubilations, caressing Christmas…
SAT NAM
I am rose in sunlight breathing
Buddha in middle of balm bathing
beckoning my Heart leavening lively
I am a loop in Love cathedral of pure
passion where two beanpoles
dance dare devils deafening
I am wolf wandering in wild weather
finding a fabulous feathered feed
mesmerising messages of marvellous magic
I am darling dove in Dover
watching wedded buy woven wonders
my wings widen their purse-strings wonkily
I am ant anticipating bald-headed eagle
escorting a co-op car to labour ward
fetching mother and new bursting born
I am bardy breeze trying a tango
in coralled coloured church chinks
witnessing choristers sing new comely chords
I am quint quilt on forked farmyard fence
damp dough in toddler tweaks
forte fingers on trebled trumpet tumbling
I am sage steaming vapour soothing stomach
Salomon’s battle stoned and sprung
mirroring his victory on glass floors glimmering
I am tiger in Tibetan temple tempered
monks on my turf as they deserve
stroke my striking countenance smoothly
I am silhouetted stallion in South Sea surf
galloping my gay freedom song
whilst scientists girdle genomes googling
I am witch of weathered spirits
witnessing zigzag zaps down
lithe legs as learnings of latent timelines
I am grandpa goat gambling
another term of gum boot dancing
Lady Nada gifting a hymn for Beatles ballooning
I am Goddess of the Moon
inspiring mortals to seek
Sat Nam Sat Nam Sat Nam !
Saaaaat Naaaaaaammm…
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2008
Our attendance is a mere formality, a routine unconnected to the hearts
We sing, but not to the True God,
We pray with wondering Hearts
Even Prayers are dead, it is a mere routine of minutes
The fervency is gone, we know it from our hearts
We are just socializing
The men are now old who tore our hearts in years gone by
They are tired by age or backslidden,
We only remember their gone by exploits
And the new ones are distracted by social media and the world
In our Dead Church
There are no secret prayers,
No heart-searching sermons,
The choristers are desperately seeking applauds
They import songs from the other side
and characteristics of the unregenerate
Our dead church
Now have special seats in front differentiating men from men
We are no longer brethren, Pride ekes outs
We have become Ichabod
We tell stories of yesteryears and hoped the days will come again
In our Dead church, we worship men
Mere mortals, we fight or hate those who oppose them
They like it so, unlike Jesus who recognized the spirit
In our dead Church, things have become mechanical
Messages are no longer divine, they are from the internet
Our love is conditional
Our hypocrisy is loud
Our head is full, our hearts are empty
We are Christians in church but sinners at home
Don’t judge me is our lyrics in defence
In our Dead church, we have sent The Master out
We have become masters as we swindle the people through tithes and offering
Our old clergyman still keeps his office
Even when he ought to be silent so we can repent
In our dead church
The new Pastor never witnessed revival; he knows nothing about it
Our hearts are dead, our soul is panting and yearning for the church of Acts
Where Jesus was enthroned above man and mundane things of earth
We are back to Rome
Where are the Luther?
Where are the Zwingli?
Who will bring Jesus to His throne (our hearts)
“What a caterwauling do you keep here !”
Sir Andrew and Sir Toby – too much beer !
Listen. Is that a cat–er-wauling,
A piercing feline screech, a bawling ?
All our neighbourhood cats are calling !
Loud yowling in the pale moonlight,
Enough to give a banshee fright !
Why's “choir practice” late at night ?
Approach the window. Looking out
I see no sign of cats about.
Was it a dream ? Begin to doubt.
Our choristers have ceased their din
And now our moggy's come back in –
Was that you wailing, where've you been ?
Grey turns the sky at noon:
Broken arrows storm the atmosphere
With their terrible mastiff and slavers
And carted away the glowing stars.
I gazed with a blurred lens
Into the sky where the sparrows fly
But the smoke from the burning huts
Had scared away the sparrow’s choristers:
No song, no peace, not even a glimpse of hope
No light, no night, not even the sweet shining stars
For smiling sorrows swings back and forth the town
And clanged to the souls that once did smile
From my bathroom throne
I overlook heads of trees
men for all seasons
who sway and still
like felt and feathered burghers
dependent on his lordship’s
words.
In glowering times
they cloak themselves in mist,
hiding like fleshless nerves
from courts and kings
and the kings’ best choristers
the birds.
A vicar whose sermons were boring
Caught one of his choristers snoring
The lesson was taught
He cut sermons short
And numbers in church are now soaring!
12.01.23