Best Hymn Poems
In a hyacinth bed of seven stars,
winter fairies waltz in pearl elegance~
a token of faith engrossed amidst scars,
while skies drizzle rain in fruity essence.
Angel of sleep seeks through frost's icy thorn,
fallen feathers soar towards jasmine moon,
when lotus light within soul is reborn,
listen to the tree of life sigh and croon.
Somewhere between daisy dusks and rose dawns,
seeds of sun unfurl promises in gold,
sowing herbs of hope across sequined lawns.
In the realm of healing, love I behold.
you
are the
love song my
soul never seeks,
for your lyrics live
in the constant chorus
where a poet bleeds desire,
and wistful nightingales covet
the silent dreams of a witching rose,
tracing starry wrinkles of lonely skies ~
while I hear your heart hum hibiscus hymns
to the frost moon and the smitten breeze,
as I subtly kiss the cadence
of an opera octave,
orchestrating a dusk
of finger-pressed hope
O beloved,
hold my night
when hurt
drowns
the
voice of
mystery ~
a violin
verse between venom
and Venus, blind to our
truth, we are the warriors,
the Valkyries and Berserkers,
reborn from diamonds of devotion,
a musical storm of Norse wilderness...
I part petals
like quiet psalms.
I hear these hibiscus hymns
pressed to the pulse of morning,
where colour hums
in crimson breath,
and the wind
remembers my name.
It comes unbidden.
The song my soul never seeks,
it finds me anyway,
threaded through my ribs.
A tremor beneath my thoughts,
an ache
I cannot unlearn.
I feel
a violin verse
between venom and Venus,
drawing its bow
through my silence.
Each note,
a kiss.
Each chord,
a wound.
I taste love
dripping with poison.
I feel beauty’s sting
like truth.
And still
it rises in me.
The chorus a poet bleeds
restless,
unstillable,
moving in tides
of ink and ache.
A refrain
carved deep in my marrow,
learning the language
of my silence,
singing me open
again.
And again.
Until
I am lifted
beyond breath.
I kissed
an opera octave—
full-throated,
trembling,
infinite.
And in that surrender,
my heart,
no longer silent,
becomes
the hymn itself.
Lord, place Thy Hand on the yoke of those who fly,
And guide them through the vast reaches of the sky.
Bring them safely through their perilous flight,
And may they ever look to Thee as their Guiding Light.
Lord, protect the sailors who sail the treacherous seas.
Calm the roiling waters that they may cruise with ease.
May they always look to Thee as their Pilot for support,
And with Thy guiding hand, bring them safely home to port.
Lord, protect the soldier with Thy mighty sword midst the battle.
Give him strength to press on despite the muskets' rattle.
Hear his fervent supplication for Thy protection from all harm,
And provide him with courage as he leans on Thy eternal arm.
Lord, shield the brave marine as he storms the dangerous strand.
Strengthen him with fortitude and provide Thy protective hand.
Surround him with Thy angels as he strives to overcome the foe.
Bring him safely through the conflict and upon him honor bestow.
Lord, bless and provide comfort to his family, for they also serve.
Until that day they are one again, give them hope and steady nerve.
Hear their prayers O' Lord, for the safe return of heroes dear,
And from their trust, hope and faith in Thee, may they never veer.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
In the marshmallow
mirth of blueberry
beginnings of bliss,
I wish upon stars
that blush behind
mint-grey memories,
drifting along sheets
of fluffy daydreams,
across orchid skies.
For I am carving
silence before the
Goddess of Ocean
ascends and swirls to
the sterling rays of
the tulip moon.
My pen pierces through
paper promises
of what tomorrow
may bestow in blue,
where magic is sketched
from tears of broken
yesterday's drenched in
treacherous currents.
But tonight I'll
follow the raindrop
angel sprinkling light
glazed in gratitude,
to compose hymns
of healing with
hydrangea hues.
When life's bourne becomes rocky and I suffer dreary days,
To the One above, I'll lift my simple hymn of praise.
For He knows my every need and takes me by the hands;
I place my hope and trust in Him, for He truly understands!
When upon the grandeur of this His earth I gaze,
To Him I lift my humble, simple hymn of praise.
For the splendor of celestial lights in the universe above,
To Him I sing my hymn of praise for His unceasing love!
I sing my hymn of thankful praise to the Immortal One,
Who sacrificed for this mortal His only begotten Son.
His promise of forgiveness when things are looking grim,
Is so reassuring for those who place their trust in Him!
I thank Him for this magnificent land in which I live,
And for family and friends and the love they freely give.
To those who sacrificed for the freedoms I hold so dear,
I lift my hymn of praise to You, dear Lord whom I so revere!
For You Who bestows unmerited graces on me in many ways,
I shall ever sing my thankful hymn of praise.
To the forgiving and compassionate Creator I'll ever raise,
To You, Eternal God, this my hymn of grateful praise!
Entry for Robert James Liguori's "Song Of Praise" Contest
Oh, unhappiness,
you relentless tormentor of my heart and mind,
forgive me for I have never thought to thank you for
your presence in my life
but
I have just come to realize that, without your bitter presence,
none of the sweet instances of happiness, I would have been
able to enjoy!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
08 June 2022
I wrote these words as an easy song,
with lilting lines to pull you along.
Each rhyme extends a welcome hand—
"Come sing with me; Come join the band!"
A poem draws its words from heart to page.
Each verse invites your soul to engage.
The chorus a poet bleeds is the hymn of the heart,
that leads you to where your own songs start.
You praise the craft, the rhyme, and grace,
the measured pulse, the careful pace.
But when the chorus calls your name
you lower your eyes and shun the flame.
For every poem longs to reveal
every quiet truth it dared conceal.
A poem only starts with a simple song.
The chorus waits, for hearts to belong.
I wrote a hymn to light your way,
not to bind your footsteps where mine lay.
Should you find truths I never knew,
I'll sing the verse, that belongs to you.
I never sang to make you mine,
or keep you walking on my line.
The song is only passing through—
until it finds its true voice in you.
So let my images now depart;
I hope my words become the art,
that awakens an artist within the dark,
where the embers wait find their spark.
I write what I still yearn to show,
what I can't silence or not let go.
So take what you need, then make it anew.
Let your own chorus arise in you.
When eye was eating my serial this mourning
Aye red the hole rules four the contest
Eye sore it inn black and white
It was plane for all two sea
The sponsor said wee CAN make miss steaks
Butt too me this practise isn’t write,
Nun are aloud, they are usually band
Yule have guest its throne me off coarse
Ewe awl no wee kneed too right perfect poetry
How can wee expect two win
Hour poem mite bee bard
Weave always bean tolled Anne error can't bee maid
Sew is the fax I didn’t ewes my spell chequer a gambol…
May bee I knead a lessen how too rite inn the write tents two
Tell me strait, do my versus make any scents too ewe?
Who nose, my poem mite sale to a plaice at the top of the podium
Contest Don’t fight it ….write it!!!! – Sponsor John Lawless
08~13~15
With a heavy heart I embrace
Willingness to come forth efface
All my many unspoken crimes
In the name of our Jesus Christ.
Beneath the breath of my still tongue
They stay struggling to flit among
Memories of stained sinful deeds.
In the name of our Jesus Christ.
To completely wholeheartedly
Accept your judgment blessedly
For your most infinite mercy
In the name of our Jesus Christ.
With a blithesome bosom rising
Of God's anointing sight I sing
Of place of shelter from the storm.
In the name of our Jesus Christ.
12/27/2019
Poetry Contest: Writing Prompt - Take The Dagger Out
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Where regal forts lie dormant now,
Once Maedbh beheld the Sacred Cow,
At Cruachan of the fifty mounds,
From Uaigh na gCat came Faery sounds,
A vision, behold, Róisín Dubh,
Symphony of my stolen love,
Never before a sight so fair,
Like Adams ale flowed burning hair,
'Come now young seeker, take my hand,
And come with me to Faery land'
And then she hummed her Faery tune,
Invoking ages of the moon,
'For who but you may understand,
The grieving whispers of this land?'
Blessed am I, behold this sight,
The Sídhe summon me tonight,
'And who but you may come to know,
The seraphic language of the crow?'
'Come now young seeker, from the cold,
And know not sickness, death nor old'
Then louder grew her Faery tune,
And slowly I began to swoon,
'You once were children of the Sun,
Where heroes dwelt there now are none'
'Deepest silence, they must endure,
But not for you whose soul is pure'
'The time will be upon us soon,
To sing the chorus of the moon'
At Cruachan of the fifty mounds,
From Uaigh na gCat came Faery sounds,
Boldly now I took her hand,
And off we went to Faery land
Hymn to Pan
Before Morocco was Roman, you see,
the music of Pan was African jazz.
At the Wednesday night prayer meeting
the percussion discussion of Mingus goes on,
getting' all jumpy and sweaty inside.
This is the time of the passionate stranger,
of bullfights and trumpets, of magic and lust.
You should see that goat high steppin'
playin' his pipes for centaurs and satyrs
while rivers of wine and buckets of beer
splash the maenads snaking with joy.
Seven black dancers leap on a cliff,
five different rhythms make them alive:
It's music that spears them, one at a time!
One says “It's crazy,” one says “It's love,”
three new rhythms awaken the dead!
Fertility spirits moan and shout
as flutes and oboes evoke ancestors.
A soprano echoes a baritone's wail.
The sky man wears a cloak of feathers,
the earth woman wears a skirt of grass.
A neighboring tribe joins the fray
entering caves with torches aloft,
wearing masks of stallions and mares.
The god who grants all desires arrives
riding a winged golden lion
as twenty eight drummers climax at once.
I can believe that joy is infectious,
I can believe that music is Life.
I'm going to jump and roar my approval
she's going to ride a broad chested centaur
the people will tussle a long hungry python
when Pan calls us in the middle of the night.
Oh my lady Night, the dreamer’s mistress,
Enfold me within your dark and sombre shroud,
To sooth my doleful soul and show me happiness,
And unfold before me a world of mystery,
Then display your clouds to fill the emptiness,
Of bygone memories and forlorn miseries.
Instead of your embrace, upon me dreams bestow,
That morrow may not grasp until you come again,
To write what I had dreamt, do inspire me so,
What is written down I cannot forget,
Though we both are vain and our secrets keep,
We must yet await the jolly sun to set.
Allow me, my dear Night, to be your confidant,
Amidst your children rise, the evanescent stars,
When my solemn Reaper starts my name to chant,
Yet until then I shall weave my rhyme and verse,
And when your reign does pass, I must fall asleep,
Only thence may I sing my hymn to the Night.
Magic of stars and beauty unsurpassed, bath me
In the fragrance of your dew, let my heart sing
The woodland voices to outlast, here on the sunless lea
Where bats and owl invisibly pulse their wing.
Like the moon she will come soft into my arms
Laden with the bright scent of flowers in her hair
And the wind will serenade her, and love disarms
Our two fancies from the pillage of our fear.
This is the hour when life's care abate, and sweet now
The cicadas cascade their uncrinkling chorals loud
Love calls here from heart to heart in every bough
O sweet one, come now, come now and leave the crowd.
Enfold me in the ebony of your breast, give me milk
The moon cannot exceed in warm sugared whiteness
Let naked touch naked in thy diamond drizzled sheet of silk
We will feast on love, and find solace in Eden's happiness.
O' pearlescent papercuts painted in
honey jar spells of journaling june ~
I ponder, if the spirit of
the seven-spiked sun must taste
the pewter petals of
slow-dying summer,
to hear what fades
and lingers
in the
heat
of
healing
damsel dusks...
breathless... lifeless...
to feel the forlorn ~
in liquid scents of love...
but, why do I evermore
remain a whispered wound, bleeding...
weightless in the veins of weary weeds,
wrinkled in the holy hymn of heartbeats?