Best Past Glory Poems
A poet enters a private sanctuary,
A sacred place where the imagination
Dwells with a mélange of emotions
Conceived by aesthetic beauty,
Often divine and esoteric in nature;
That comprehensive longing to
Express through common language
That which is so vitally uncommon.
Words that seek to form a bridge
Between intellectual abstract thought
And the world of the inarticulate.
A way to express the depth of sorrow
While having it become a cathartic
Release, thereby relating to others
In commiseration and heartfelt empathy.
Poetry has the ability to help, to heal.
To reach souls enduring that same pain
May be a blessed gift poetry genuinely
Offers in a nonintrusive manner, helping
Lonely souls know they are not alone.
No-one escapes the loving light poetry sheds.
It dwells inside each of us, realized or not.
It teaches with simplicity, expands the mind,
Ingratiates itself without any effort when
Expressed with forethought and integrity.
It may stir emotions from the most stoic.
Speech itself, lives and breathes, and is poetic.
Acquiesce to that silent voice inside which
prevails upon the heart to be released in verse.
Poetry may elevate our spirit with such intensity
To generate a feeling akin to euphoric bliss.
Poets, honored in past glory with the status of Kings,
Now dwell in a world often misunderstood by the
Masses too busy to take the time to regard its worth.
How fortunate for the insightful who appreciate and
Embrace the ageless, immortal soul poetry provides.
They are blessed and will give birth to future poets.
© Connie Marcum Wong
I can see the past glory, though it is humble now and all the more reverent....
With thoughts of deep ocean bliss,
that comes with fading hope,
I walked along the tide line,
no longer able to cope.
I stared at the setting sun,
its brightness, burns the eyes.
I glanced back at the sand stone cliffs,
where a building caught my eye.
I don't recall it being there,
when I traveled the cliff top path.
I shrugged my shoulders then turned back,
to the ocean and waiting death.
I take a step towards my fate,
when I feel a tap upon my shoulder.
I turn to see who is there,
all I see is sand and boulders.
My eyes are called to the top
and to that small building.
Something there outweighed my need,
so up the cliff path I started walking.
There upon the windswept crest,
were trees leaning with the wind.
I followed the overgrown stone walk,
to the building, just round the bend.
The steeple leaned, but still spoke volumes.
No stained glass to catch the sun.
No bell to call folks to service,
no roof, as the rot had won.
Yet a charm was there to see,
strength came from the ancient stones,
that made up the four standing walls,
of this Chapel, now just bones.
I made my way to the entrance,
amid dead leaves, the scrag that enfolds.
I felt a welcome pour over me,
as I crossed over the threshold.
The setting sun cast long shadows,
that all pointed toward the alter.
My need, took me down the aisle.
Not once did my feet falter.
There He was, looking down,
from a weather beaten cross.
His countenance both pain and love,
I suddenly felt small and lost.
The sun sank deep into the sea,
and gave its final flair.
Within that light I swear I saw,
His face lift, so he saw me there.
I fell to my knees and I prayed,
as I had never prayed before.
I prayed for guidance and His love,
I felt both, to my very core.
I visit that Chapel, now and then.
It's still crumbling with time.
But, to me it has more glory now,
than it did when its bells did chime.
Paula Swanson 9/25/2011
For the contest; Church By The Ocean
Sponsored By Constance La France
Placement: 1st
Stained glass bits of past glory, shards of rainbows bright,
Once the star of Bethlehem like diamonds in the cobalt sky.
Oh, how we have fallen, slivers of ourselves are we,
Blood red pieces from His crown of thorns.
Once the star of Bethlehem like diamonds in the cobalt sky,
Now, mere broken bits are we, a kaleidoscopic sigh.
Blood red pieces from His crown of thorns
laying shattered beside the leaf green of Mary’s lily.
Now, mere broken bits are we, a kaleidoscopic sigh,
imprisoned in a hollow form no more to see the sun,
laying shattered beside the leaf green Of Mary’s lily,
a childish offering preordained, fallen glory, pretty toy.
Imprisoned in a hollow form no more to see the sun,
oh, how we have fallen, slivers of ourselves are we.
A childish offering preordained, fallen glory, pretty toy.
Stained glass bits of past glory, shards of rainbows bright.
"Blooming"
In the quietening
of my days
there is a dream
there he whispers
cutting tales
with sharp teeth
in my mind
in he swims in calm waters
at the end of a long long story
You are far gone
lost for past glory
where future curls
its fingers around
your fate
where there you once stood
so fresh and wet in Life waiting
the longest re-wind
like an old tape
ribbons of black
viciously ripped out
now slack
a child long gone
family films on
scratchy videotape
ultra
sound
evaporates
I play it
on repeat
the cycle of complexity
yet it is far too simple
with each read to understand
what was not ever flexible
and that which was great
the sleep of
Rumpelstiltskin
awakening a stranger
others warn you
stay away from
the fire
stay away from
the danger
In the quietening
of my days
there is a dream
there lost love letters
from the soul discovered
open arms, looking upwards
smiling
The shark
planting blooms
each seed found
and like a pearl sewn
into the cover of a
new book sensed
yet still unknown
I calculate
all the imaginary
wounds
Love bombed
and swooning
in a flooded heart
blood red rose rising
razor edged and
naked bit large
red light
shining
some kind love
please let it be
the kindest love
blooming
in the gloaming
where an Ocean swells
inside this whirlpool
where an army of sharks
shed salt tears amidst
their ravenous timing
Moon draws you in
wrapping her beams
around you
she is swelling around you
her Ocean tide voluptuous
high rising
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
As I lay on sodden ground
Silence reigns,
There lays no sound.
I feel no pains
I have no displeasure
My heart interlocked by chains.
I feel great and euphoric leisure
I am in control I’m proud to say
Nothing can stop this pleasure.
I am feeling no guilt and no sorrows
Am I kidding myself to the actual truth?
Because even small ants cast long shadows.
I have passed the fountain of youth
I also been removed from past glory
Nothing is equable and nothing is smooth.
In truth this is not all my story
It belongs to another sod like me
We’re are not hunky dory.
One side of me is totally free
The other confused and fouled up
Both in me yet they never agree.
I can feel them but never see them close-up
Yet even small ants cast long shadows
So do I and I am going to shut up.
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers Minnesota
Before Paul Bunyan flattened it
To resemble North Dakota.
Paul's blue ox Babe was equal to
Most anything he'd ask.
A job that takes machines today,
Babe found an easy task.
When Minnesota was cleared off
To Paul's high satisfaction,
He looked around for more to do.
His huge ox needed action.
He came out to the great Northwest
Where he found to his surprise,
The trees grew taller and so big
They matched his ox for size.
Babe struggled just to clear a path
For wagons to get through.
Paul, fearing for his valiant ox,
Said, "I''m retiring you."
As I said before, no man's alive
To tell the end of story.
It's said Paul and his ox went home
To bask in their past glory.
The Town of Sintra, Portugal
A tourist attraction, a lovable town
With its twisting and turning roads and lanes
Gardens where Eucalyptus and fur have grown
A town that past glory maintains
The mountainous terrains like ups and downs of life
Apartments on top of hills piercing the skies
Serene, calm and free of hustle, bustle and strife
Each and every fruit tree blossoms and thrives
The Castle of Moors on the highest peak
Pronounces the modesty of Muslim kings
The Pena Palace’s adornments a language of glamour speak
The relics of monument bygone memory brings
Scratch the dust and see what lies beneath
Thousands of impressions of yesteryears
The traversing soldier’s with swords in sheath
And Poet Byron’s1 foot-prints as the dust clears
Debonair nobility in Sintra resides
Decency and charm are the wares he sells
For guests red carpet of generosity provides
His life in harmony of nature excels
The Pera Roche of Sintra, the peaches so sweet
The bakeries and bolos with tastes profound
Its pottery and tiles no one can beat
A paradise on earth that people have found
-----
1. Lord Byron wrote many of his poems sitting in the gardens of Sintra
Partys for couples new lovers and just friends.
Music to fill the night the streets of New york
breath life to old flames keeping even jaded souls warm.
The lonley gather round the TV.
sharing a glimpse at something we all yern to have.
And from the up high the streets seem magic tonight.
the soudtrack of the night will echo
into are hungover minds with a painful yet happy reminder
of last nights celebration.
Late night lovers will smile and go there awkward ways.
So many acts in so many different plays.
creeping back to are corners in lastnights suit and tie.
Tight little black dress kiss worn lips
acting happier than two kids ragged in need of a shave
you with hair in a mess.
And for friends that gather to relive not so real
past glory.
The pages are left to the writter.
To add to lastnights not so original story.
As the barflys gather to battle another unsober day.
I watch this first new day anew.
Take a sip from my flask and thank the lord
for one more year with you.
And tonight I say to you all raise that glass.
kiss that stranger you know so well.
Laugh love and live.
And thank whomever ya choose weve made it through another
year to tell.
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
do not discard
now seemingly tired old books
their youthful souls can be found
awakened by a kiss
and brought into the present
again and again
and enchant all
with their past glory
until the last story
is told.
Not own dream, weak bones and falling fleash.
Leaving my younghood to a place of weakness and spinelessness.
It was like yesterday i became a man,today
an old man leaving a lot of competitions and risks Now i have become an experience narrator of past glory.
Now i sleep and dream on how to narrate my past glory to children
This handsome skin falling like a bull dog saliva.
Hair running backward afraid to face challenges.
Teeth falling down like walls of Jericho.
Sickness attacking the old skin like Legion.
Old age is the beginning of death.
So i did catch a lot of fun in my youthful days,
which makes me professor of past glory.
The comming out of gray hair is like the wheat planted with the tears.
The unpleasant voice is as loud as an ant while speaking.
The weaken eyes is an esclipe of the big star to the earth.
Is there any glory in getting old?
One day this body will become a debt
to the maggot that will suck into it.
The fly that will follow it into the darkhall,
will regreat and shed tears.
I have heard people declaim
That Africa is the dark continent
Plagued by war, sickness and famine
The aridity of such a claim
Has left my people to pine.
Yes, I grant through the years,
Africa has suffered from war, famine, and sickness.
Yet, dear reader, is it Africa alone?
From East to West,
Death has reared himself a throne.
I beseech thee, O reader, let thy ear be attentive
To the confessions of Robin.
For these declamations
Have led many into error.
It is not my intention
To absolve Africa of her share of the blame
Yet my beloved continent,
Is both home to the good and the bad
The best and the worst
Why then dwell only, on all that is base.
Lineal son of Africa that I am
My heart bleeds -
Seeing that the soothsayers and naysayers
Are moving among our villages and cities
Congesting our airwaves
Shamefully declaring
That the Ides of March have come
Unlike Caesar, I dare - reply that they haven’t come and will never come!
For mine experiences have taught me a lot of things
And I dare you to discard that label hoary
Coined many and many years ago by many a missionary.
Allow me then to tell you Africa’s story
For that is my sole ambition.
Of her past glory
I will say no more
For the pyramids of Egypt will testify for eternity
The Great Zimbabwe Ruins
Stand tall and erect in the Savannah plains
A monument to the greatness of their builders
Don’t you dare believe that fable
Told to many a school boy in colonial Africa days gone by
That mine ancestors could not create such a piece of art
Just go to my village this day
And you will see many stonehouses standing
A testimony to our heritage.
Her natural beauty is second to none
Heaven, excluded - for I am talking to men not angels.
Since I am weary
Let me tarry. God willing will continue tomorrow!
(Voting Republican)
Who’d have thought that our nation would ever go postal,
Past sin perhaps brings our demise?
From our ancestral guilt at the treatment of Indians,
(Enrichment by gun’s artifice)
To enslavement of innocents branded by color?
Misanthropic beginnings forged seeking our freedom
Duplicity seen as our Right
We then took on the armor of people we hated
Our fear and greed clouding our sight
Could our brokenness truly be hope for all nations?
Undeserving we worship stale Gods and past glory,
New Testament’s cautions, lost art,
As now saving yourself is the Trump-phatic message
God’s grace has no place in our heart,
Self promotion the sand that his lunacy stands on.
Kings of science denial and nails in Christ’s coffin
Christ buried is their promised land,
And the sharing of wealth is a communist mantra
To love is a foolish demand.
A fool’s take on the Bible is what they call Gospel.
For the mighty will fall and their pride turn to ashes
God grant that Trump’s time will come soon
As his follower’s goosestep their way off life’s pathway
This piper just plays a sad tune!
But would taxpayer sponsored elections improve things?
Brian Johnston
December 24, 2015
***GROWTH***
Blossoms are Spring sweet
Red orbs that cover fall down
Keep peeling apples.
~~~JOY~~~
New readings today
Words not yet well understood
Poetry...Supreme!
+++ANIMATES+++
Coursing the air bright
Burrows in the earth so dark
Creatures surprising...
^^^NATURE^^^
Sun's rays warm and bright
Moon's harvest fills up the night
God adorns the sky!
) ) )WRITING( ( (
Haiku for form now
Try to think and count as well
My imperfect words---
###PAST GLORY###
Running the bases
Tackling the one with the ball
Memories enjoyed...
> >
Coaching the new boy
Stance back, glove down, go for it
Passing the dream on.
We live are words and if not were just typing.
Ive come to a crossroads understanding little or nothing of the game
but knowing my place has been taken.
No longer in demand I sit with the other burnt out writers looking
back with grand dellusion and litlle hope for my return.
The dark waters of a uncertain tommorow overshadow the past glory
and future failures of my existance.
The last round poured the new gaurd will be here tommorow.
And as you pass the ones toblind to see as you've become to
jaded to feel you realize.
To live the words failure is a must for no agnst is true without
a glimmer of hope.
I stay ahead of the verse like a pool waiting for the tide.
Now in a place once called home I find strangers in old faces
shadows cast dark figures in alleys all lost for the better day.
But im no judge just a exile forced to carve a nitch
outta his same old space.
To tired to care yet still to ego ridden to leave.
Im a exile to friends who live next door.
They hammer the walls laughter takes there nights.
Im locked in only with memories to recall.
The smoke trails across the empty room of my mind.
Like some old stories ghost I merely haunt this worn down shell.