Best Prayer Beads Poems
Let every book
Of poetry
Be a holy book,
Every verse a revelation,
That I might
Sift metaphors through
My fingers like prayer beads,
Sip imagery like holy spirits-
If I begin to speak in tongues
Like the languages of
A thousand dreams,
Then write it down
In poetry...
I watch you unfold—
an argent bloom of bone and feather—
the quiet thunder of an angel
shivering beneath your skin.
I should let you rise,
let your beauty cleave the air,
let the wind kiss the hollows of your ribs.
But I do not.
I bind.
I weave my hands into the delicate lattice
of your wings,
folding them back like prayer beads,
tight against your spine,
so that you will not soar too far,
so that your light
does not leave me in shadow.
I love the angel I see in you—
the way your feathers catch the sun
like living silver—but
I love the ground too,
and the thought of you above me
terrifies me more than the night.
Every time you stretch,
every revelation of yourself,
I feel a crack in my grip.
I pull you down,
tether your glory to my chest,
and whisper that flight is dangerous,
that the sky might swallow you whole.
I am the keeper of your wings,
the jailer of your flight,
and in my fear,
I mistake my tethering for love.
I am the shadow
you have not yet flown beyond.
I watch as she curls
into the corners I have built for her,
her wings folding in on themselves
like soft paper,
creasing under my careful weight.
The shimmer dulls,
the light bends back into the shadows,
and I whisper to myself:
“Better this way. Safer. She will not leave.”
The angel forgets the song of air,
the pulse of open blue,
the taste of horizon on her tongue.
Her heart, once a drum of rising,
beats slower now,
syncopated to the rhythm of my fear.
She learns that wings can hurt,
that flight is not a gift but a trial.
And when she looks at me,
I see the quiet acceptance,
the soft resignation,
and I convince myself
that this is love:
that binding is protection,
that grounding is care,
that her shrinking wings
are proof of my devotion.
But the truth lingers in the cage’s shadow—
an angel in gilded bars may survive,
but she will never soar.
Across the knoll where fading starlight hangs
On graveyards damp, laying on pleated moss
While row of angels bears the gusty winds;
As evening spreads its thin veil on the ground .
My hands begin to trace each cross on the aisle
Revealing a child’s name, young bones interred
Within the deepened chamber of his tomb,
Enshrined in limestone white...like a pure dove .
That on this foggy glen, a mother kneels
Accompanied by evanescing stars…
Her lips pressed on crystals of prayer beads
Till musings are whispered to a lost son .
Embracing this woman’s grief, I rewind
All memories of my father, long gone;
Beside this crypt, there Dad quietly rests;
Maybe pleased, as I leave garlands for the babe.
...................
For the Contest: Poetry Writing #1
Sponsor: Broken Wings
12/16/2015
By nette onclaud
............................
~Blank Verse is poetry that is written
in unrhymed iambic pentameter.
http://www.poeticterminology.net/07-blank-verse.html
* In theory, it consists of ten syllables though 8 or more
syls are accepted.
...........................
~This is one of my favorite forms as it allows me
to combine a rhythmic, flowing pattern in iambic meter
with dash of free-verse style.
When Grandpa climbed to meet the sky
the prayer beads seemed to delay
a night so thin, it can’t deny
flushed teardrops washing air in gray.
Till darkness sprawled on tilted plate
when Grandpa climbed to meet the sky;
my anger turned to a debate
with heaven; needing a reply.
Life bore the wrath of days’ outcry,
the tempest rolled on hours that changed
When Grandpa climbed to meet the sky;
one shadow flashed while clouds assuaged.
Till rare star glazed throughout the ground
Like an angel soothing my eye
his graceful face spoke, “I’m around”
when Grandpa climbed to meet the sky.
This day is not like any other day;
It has never been, nor ever will be
Again.
Though pregnant with eternal yesterdays
Touching all its tomorrows
It is all we ever have to hold and make our own
- Those others fore and aft are ghosts,
To which legions this as well shall add itself -
Each new day defines us as we are, complete,
On some special one
That will not announce itself
Nor look like any other,
We shall walk with it to where there are days no more,
Into that Undiscovered Country.
- So spurn no day as inconsequent.
It brought its gifts or griefs to you,
Subtle or profound, to carry or reject.
Seize each day, they are the Prayer beads
On the rosary of your life;
Walk close with them
Into each one's sacred sunset.
While trail of clouds hovers around
There she lays on fevered ground,
My daughter’s eyes droop low again
As I bear witness to this strain.
No balm can aid the night’s relief
When love’s touch hides a mother’s grief,
That only prayer beads remain
As I bear witness to this strain.
Weeks pass like helpless time’s malaise
Till Marian arms send a bright lei
Reddened, reddened; cheeks flush again
As I bear witness to this strain.
Out of darkness, hope’s moments stir
Clouds echo a girlish laughter,
This healing grace I can’t contain
As I bear witness to this strain.
Helpless, A Kyrielle
(With Co Sponsor Tim Ryerson)
Cyndi Mac Millan's Contest
by nette onclaud
Sparrow song
Window ledge dawn;
Sparkling sunlight
~~~~~~~~~
Dry gusty breeze
Bamboo leaves rustle;
Moongate courtyard
~~~~~~~~~
Young lovers glide
Zest greets romance;
Sensuous future
~~~~~~~~~
Old man limping
His poodle hops around;
Smiles all around
~~~~~~~~~
Chinese martial artist
Sword and spear dance;
Deadly symmetry
~~~~~~~~~
Food court flavours
Hungry appetites prowl;
Meal time persuasions
~~~~~~~~~
This old couple
Share a meal;
Lovers eyes greet
~~~~~~~~~
Jade prayer beads
A personal rosary;
Sacred journeys
~~~~~~~~~
Long queue winding
Banking momentum;
New currency notes
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
01 March 2015
Singapore
Over the years I have found many faiths-
Why settle for one when there are others?
I am Catholic and do read the Bible,
I want to believe there is a heaven,
and an Almighty Lord dwells above,
so I follow that faith each and every day.
But faith is very hard to define really,
I do like Buddism too, oh yes
the teachings of nature, life, death, enlightenment,
And Taoism, learning to live my life in harmony.
Even gypsy wisdom, don't reject
Romany fortunes, powerful physic power.
I put my faith in all of these beliefs,
and in one corner of my room,
I have placed a Cross and Bible and prayer beads,
and in another is a Budda altar, candlelit always.
Lao Tzu teachings help me find my path
this mind is wide open to many beliefs.
_____________________
November 27, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Faith
Copyright Protected, ID 16-853-367-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
The snow is melting quickly now, drip, drip,
and I am getting ready to plant seeds;
I must read up for some have extra needs,
(on a bare branch two birds dance in courtship;
I fear they will fall but they have a grip,)
for my seeds to grow will need prayer beads !
Oh, last year I planted some runner beans,
and they grew at an alarming growth rate;
were taking over- (runner beans I hate,)
I had to murder them by any means;
in the garden they thought they were the queens,
but I ripped them all out and changed their fate !
So be careful what garden seeds you plant;
for some though green and strong do not enchant !
________________________
March 4, 2021
Poetry/HexSonnetta/Spring Seeds
Copyright Protected, ID 03-13340-016-04
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, HexSonnetta
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 04/04/2021
Eighth Place
yet the people rebelled against me
in the wilderness locusts and wild honey
he poured out his wrath on them
yet i did what would keep it
from profaned in the eyes
of the fighting nations
do not follow the idols of your ancestors
the sacred river flowing dirt
remnants of burnt carcass
yellow flowers merging with clotted blood
naked sanyasis dancing in the charnel ground
post mortem rituals ego transcending
tantric liturgy molding the mind and desposition
prayer beads, flower pujas ,yajna ,mortification
of the rotten flesh, summer solstice
esoteric dharmic traditions
archetypal liminality surface
chthonic dieties dragging
will you defile yourself
what are the roots that clutch
what branches grow out of serpents
The world of sight is when taken
Away, let of vision waken,
Let world of sound sharply shaken.
Way laid gets when my wander lust,
Let me hear time’s footsteps in dust,
Dawn’s birds wake me with song-filled burst.
Feel of colours behind eyelids,
Faithfull’s faith passed on prayer beads,
Let me see heart of golden deeds.
If flower colours get frozen
If world of butterflies has gone,
Fine, let me world of fragrance own.
If not, take all this away, much
As ye like, just keep sense of touch,
Let me feel the world just as such.
___________________________________
Musings |07.04.2022| Terza Rima
Poet’s note: As we know, glaucoma as a silent ailment takes away one’s vision gradually over passing years. First the peripheral vision gets narrower, ultimately to get reduced to a tunnel vision, and even that is lost one day. Of late I have been thinking of this eventuality in my life. But then the heart takes over from the head and says, never mind, there is that whole world beyond sight, a lot that we look at and still fail to see— the subject matter of this piece.
The merrily loaded luggage
Adults in a hurry to find their seats
children walking as the train moves,
Expecting a wave in reply like" SCHWAMM's son "
.
One eating a packet of "LAYS"
The other shouting at the not Hot tea.
An old man with RUDRAKSHA
among the chit-chat kids.
Many drooping over another in a
dreamy, sleepy state.
Many stations moving on & off
New people trying to find their seats
Many with ear plugs in
Rest watching out from in
with sweaters &mufflers on
munching snacks & breaking their fast
children shouting at the passing by trains
many waking up after a while, stretching arms
many little ones often moving from their seats.
one rushing for recess, the other follows..........
# Schwamm is a character in ''THE NIGHT AT THE HOTEL" by SIEGFRIED LENZ - a German Writer.
# Rudraksha is a seed traditionally used for prayer beads.
I had by no means celebrated Christmas in the past with such love
Until thy lord presented thee to me on Christmas Eve
In strings of joy it descends towards me as I Clive
Long before was I told of this day in my live
Be no haste for sure, you I shall love
In your sure way I will crave
My Christmas
Tree
Thou art epitomizes the accurate definition of happiness
A nectar of abundant bliss for the monarch in me yet to surface
A monarch yet to be awoken by the fragrance from thy enchanting smile
My Christmas gift, my first Christmas celebration
Thou hath brought upon me the true significance to live itself
And established me upright in the right course of my actual motive to celebrate
My twilight star from amongst the galaxy of my long and ever waited prayer beads
The light from my twilight Christmas star illuminates my spiritual being to glory
And driven away my ever melancholiest period of loneliness
My Christmas gift, my first Christmas celebration
Merry Christmas to thee, thou heavenly believer, she whispered
Those words pierced through my core values of love and belongingness
Casting a spell of fiasco at the miasma that dangled menacingly above my Christmas Ev
For in my entire existence had I ever listen to such words through my tympanic membrane
Those words left me dumfounded as I hunt for the root to my firm grounds
For my entire live they did continued to hunt my memory
Merry Christmas to thee, thou heavenly believer.
Each holy man there is, is convinced he's better than the next,
as his right hand tightly clasps prayer beads, whilst he judges others with his left.
Piety the reason that he wakes up every day,
just to forget that only God can judge, even if someone is gay.
Whether devoted to the gospel or in submission to the Muslim holy book,
many of these zealots cannot be told apart from crooks.
Their lies are so often inspired by an agenda that remains hidden
amongst claims they will be forgiven for each slip, no matter how forbidden.
Living in the future, they are consumed with the afterlife,
but it is so convenient to forget the rules every time they take another wife.
These hypocrites misinterpret ancient words however they see fit,
when the truth holds no advantage from which they could somehow profit.
Wars have been fought over less than a few acres of land,
both sides convinced the blood was spilled as part of their God's plan.
Self-righteousness surrounds us, humanity has ceased to exist,
replaced by laws made by hateful pastors and religious nuts like Kim Davis or ISIS.
Who can say that religion has done less harm than good,
when it can be held responsible for divided neighbourhoods?
When practiced with humility, it can be a beautiful thing;
praised for the prosperity it brings, and turned to for guidance in times of suffering.
But more often than not, Ten Commandments are ignored whenever we commit seven deadly sins,
we are so conscious of all our imperfections but ignorant of our blessings.
False prophets preaching in the streets take advantage of our desperation for something to believe in;
the confidence with which they spread their ignorance is rarely seen as deceiving.
Mankind will only survive this state of emergency if we unlearn all that we know,
once we accept that religion hinders us more than it helps us grow.
There is nothing wrong with having a little faith,
if it inspires love and does not advocate messages filled with hate.
God has no religion. There is no more need for these unholy wars,
let us not be so insecure that any offense is one worth fighting for.
Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or Jew; there will always be power in numbers,
lest we forget that before our dogma divided us, we lived together as sisters and brothers.
Once - a very, very pious catholic priest,
Comes out of a brothel on lovely morning,
Fiddling with his prayer beads, he whispers:-
"Reception is divine, but price is diabolic".