Best Consecrate Poems
The phantoms of Glen Affric call
from deep within the histosol,
where time and matter’s slow decay
of misty glen and ancient fray,
conceal Mackenzie ghosts in wait
with weapons drawn to greet their fate
of claymore blade; of Celtic cross,
to shed the blood of William Ross,
and stain the sphagnum bryophyte,
his soul to cut and extradite.
Amidst the whipping hilltop squall
is heard their eerie battle call,
where shadow soldiers groan and splay
upon the hazy, darkened brae.
As well, the loose of blood and spate,
to curse the earth and consecrate,
the peat to quench; the land emboss,
forever running red the moss.
It is the conversation
between the poet and the jester.
The poet- with solemn introspection;
the jester- with careless regard,
each captivating the other.
It is the ultimate irony
of this unlikely coupling,
entwining their words,
combining truth and mischief,
sabotaging established decorum.
Neither threatened nor contrite,
nor challenging the others' wisdom,
but with enthusiastic fornication
and eager indecency
they consecrate their mutual madness
Oh what misery!
The heart-
an indigent and feral beast
kept in lock down
in an inner cage
for my own good
What treachery dwells
within that creature!
It's wiles,
it's devious nature
eludes my control
and entices me
to act on
base instincts...
that leave me
in want of spirit,
disillusioned...
My awakening to
sensual pleasures
enraptures me...
I am left smitten
and imprisoned
to desire
So now...I ask
who is the slave
and who is the master?
The yearning for
carnality overwhelms...
my conscience is
frozen solid...
immobile
with nothing to mediate
debauched desires
I spin into
delirium...
wholly lost in
the unholy
oblivion of reality
I consecrate
my mind,
and I submit
to His will...
however,
I tread on
the edge
of a delicate
imbalance-
Obtuse
to the destruction
that
pummels my will
and dedication
me,
now a willing
participant of
egregious sin
I wallow
in self-pity
Oh, what misery!
Sample for my 8 word challenge contest
John Derek Hamilton
August 14,2019
Our love will never disappear or wane
We clung tight to a true, passionate heart
This spirit of love, the world will retain
After our kiss, as tethered eyes depart
Ashes cry out for each flame that love weeps
When you departed this world filled with tears
Your spirit is gone, your body now sleeps
A still empty realm of darkness appears
This cold, lonely space where love never burns
To warm the eyes with wondrous emotion
I'll seek my own death without my concerns
To consecrate all of my devotions
As lovers' passion fueled our love's pyre
In death, I'll find you with my desire
7/14/17
countless hearts and roses fall
for sake of heeding Cupid's call
and yet I fail for phrases, new
imparting, fresh, my "I love you"
(for poets, past, have said it all)
perchance I'll find the words inside
your hazel gaze, quite starry-eyed
the limpid peepers, fair and fierce
that pity, not, the hearts they pierce
(or pulses hurried, far-and-wide)
could be the words hide in your grin
and dance demurely with your chin
coaxed to shine as sound is swirled
much as your smile, to warm a world
(with just a dusted touch of sin)
perhaps the terms lie in your shape
the curves, sublime, to finely drape
that, placed with motion, quite defy
all other grace thus brought to eye
(and leaving countless jaws agape)
might be the phrase lies in your hair
fleece, tawny strands of tresses, fair
or with your skin - so silken, chaste
those unseen places meant to taste
(adorned with only moonlight, rare)
or maybe, found in ALL of these
the words to bring me to my knees
in reverence of the reasons, true
that consecrate the wonder, YOU
(and set my sifting heart at ease)
but, I think I'm more apt to find
the words to say how you’re refined
in things that senses can't impart -
the YOU that dwells within your heart
so caring, thoughtful, sure, and kind ...
bright sense-of-humor - artful mind
of dark and light and grey, combined
with heart and soul, thus intertwined
and ALL that I have e'er consigned -
yes, NOW my words ...
are Valentined.
Lord, please fill our hands today
And make us holy unto You
Please take all sin and guilt away
That we might raise clean hands to You
Fill our hands that we might be
Your ministers who spread Your Word
Till all the earth Your reign shall see
Till all have known and all have heard
Fill our hands, that we might spread
The glad, good news of liberty
That You have risen from the dead
To save our souls and set us free
Fill our hands that we might fight
And train our fingers for the war
To stop the wrong, defend the right
Fulfilling what You made us for
Fill our hands with strength, that we
Might heed whate’er You say to do
Equip our hearts that we might be
Your witnesses of what is true
Fill our hands, that we might guard
The covenant we made with You
For Your commands are not too hard
The things we promised, we shall do
Fill our hands that we might be
A temple made of living stone
That in us might Your presence be
Within our hearts, Lord, take Your throne
Fill our hands with Your strong hand
That leads us toward Your mission’s call
That guides us homeward, to Your land
Please consecrate us, Lord of all!
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
the consecrate rose
sits on the bureau
its petals ebonized
now delicate
like life
the tempo of night
strums through whispers
of gentle wind
beneath the tones
of a lullaby
as shadows rock
back and forth
on roseate walls
while obtuse thoughts
peek in and out of mind
like the indigent moon
shrouded by clouds
she suckles on thoughts
as she kisses the infant
the press of hard glass
kissing back through the edges
of her delirium
she tries to mediate
in her sleepless mind
between lifeless beats
faded in egregious moments
that fate pillaged from hope
and the pleas of unanswered prayers
as they fell like rituals
night after night
awakening to cockcrow
her tears bleed
against crimson flesh
as she rocks
hands empty
alone
August 16, 2019
An obtuse angle is an angle of greater than 90° and less than 180°. Wiki
I must be looking like an obtuse angle
in my funeral agent's eyes -
an over ninety years old,
(but less than one hundred and eighty)
indigent sunburnt naked geezer
who likes to meditate on the rooftop -
an egregious instance of treachery and immorality.
He is pretty delicate, my funeral agent, though,
when calling to enquire after my health.
- Nausea? - he's asking me with hope.
- Delirium?
- Convulsions?
Insouciance.
Freedom.
Awakening.
I'm sorry to disappoint him.
I like funeral agents:
they mediate between life and death
and consecrate the right to a decent funeral.
Alas, they attach too much importance to acute angles.
15/08/2019
Eight Word Challenge 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Show me the way to your fields,
Where;
I am told is filled with joy and peace;
Where;
They say has rivers flowing with milk and honey;
Where;
I hear people say, is life eternal for the chosen nation!
Lead me all the way; with your light shining along my path.
Teach me to number all my days right.
Teach me to do what I ought to do;
In order that I may walk through the heavenly gates safe and sound.
By your grace and love, lift me up on to higher grounds;
And keep my eyes closely fixed to the cross for all my hope.
Fill my heart with songs of praise, and let not my lamp burn down.
Consecrate me, dear Lord; for your pure service;
And wash me; and sanctify me with your precious blood.
Show me the way to heaven,
Where, there sits your blessed throne of all thrones;
Where, there you sit on your throne to rule over the whole world.
Show me the way to your paradise beyond the blue;
Where, I will serve you through eternity!
she was fragile-
delicate, like autumn fighting
for reveries of crimson tides,
delirium raced and left no trace,
and before i whispered farewell-
she was already gone.
she spoke as if her awakening
had arrived,
yet-
hid without telling me where
to seek;
ran over rivers not fearing
bridges,
fought with might while weak-
the egregious demons she
grew up with rippled into fears,
all the why mes and what ifs-
questions left unanswered
leaving her breathless and me…
restless.
she was not self-centered,
just a woman longing to
see the snow-capped Rocky
Mountains once again-
(where she found herself lost in joy)
she’s been gone for quite some
time now-
and even on obtuse nights when
midnight breaks medallion dreams,
i wonder why she felt indigent and
abandoned.
as i mediate the contradicting
thoughts my mind wears,
i remember why she left in
the first place-
to find PEACE.
i shall consecrate her memory...
by loving others as she loved me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
August 15, 2019
Writing Challenge 2, November - A Poem Meaningful
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wisshkobi Ode
And so I write…
not for the clamor of being known,
but to keep vigil with what will not be spoken—
those hushed and hollowed spaces
where sorrow gathers like dusk,
unannounced,
unwilling to depart.
I write
to lay gentle witness upon the wound,
to trace its sacred fracture
without flinching from its remembering,
to press my spirit against its quiet architecture
and learn the shape of what endured me.
I write
to consecrate both the breaking and the becoming—
to name the wisdom buried in ruin,
the strange and steadfast grace
that lingers in the aftermath of undoing.
And if truth be told—
I write to recall myself
from the far edges of forgetting.
To gather the scattered fragments of breath and being
and speak them, softly, back into form.
For even here—
in the most forsaken hollows of the soul,
where light feels like a long-abandoned language—
something remains.
Not loud, nor luminous at first glance,
but patient…
and unextinguished.
A quiet and unyielding ember,
veiled beneath the ash of all that was lost,
waiting not for rescue,
but for recognition.
Something that, against all undoing,
still inclines itself skyward—
still remembers the sun
as if it had never been forgotten.
And so I write—
to bear witness to that remembering,
to call it gently by its true name,
to follow its faint and faithful rise
until it becomes light again.
AWAKE!
Forebear I beg if I am found obtuse
Not turning from the indigent I see
Should I aver egregious a view
They be ascribed a sloth delirium
My comments here may seem not delicate
Yet if I choose travail to consecrate
Would you in intercession mediate
Bring those in need restored awakening
Some consecrate the carnage
Of war and infantry;
Or the argosy of navy’s
Crusading far at sea.
Battles have their triumph
When the gun is in the glove,
But the pageantry of war
Can't replace that crush called love.
For love holds more than power
It invades the soul within;
While the slaughter of mankind
Is extrinsic in its sin.
So, then my heart must follow
To the one who waits for me,
And the silence that's between us
Gives peace eternally.
Some sacrificial fonts are filled
with sanctified water
others overflow with blood and bile
all but for the rose petals camouflage
dare we know the difference
A holy child who in devoice distilled
lest in innocence mayhap confront such sanctimonious alter
collectively strangled by guile
for say not to us such criminal reportage
but prefer to consecrate our ignorance
In dissonance are we worse revealed
and laid sightless to truths encounter
be us then the factious rank and file
conversant only to a fools salted mirage
a dummies page of prophetic words rallying our compliance