Best Purgatory Poems
The darkness here is blinding
In this prison of lost desires
Not even a burning ember
Can rekindle the forsaken fires
A tomb of broken promises
Is my only company
No hope for an escape
No chance to ever be free
Pain and heartache mock me
As I ponder my mistakes
The sound I hear is deafening
From the heart that finally breaks
My thoughts, my only refuge
Of the things that could have been
But grief will soon remind me
Of the love that had to end
Comfort and joy betray me
Tomorrow will never come
Held captive in my anguish
As I am left, feeling numb
My purgatory is the silence
And here I shall remain
Forever to be forgotten
For my captor is my pain
I walked through a shadowed portal
into a darker existence:
a parallel microcosm
where light is impenetrable
and only remorseful sinners
inhabit this purging place.
A restless wind endlessly blows
its elegiac redolence
across a seemingly lifeless land
where no sunflowers ever grow.
I continued walking, groping
about, stumbling, until I saw
a faint illuminate ahead
the exit portal into light.
A tree is known by its fruit, this we know.
Actions prove the person as these always show
What he believes, and the truth he imparts
What comes out of the mouth reveals the heart.
It's easy to don pious robes that hide
The venom of man that he keeps inside.
But God sees the heart and will surely weigh
Each man for his words and his deeds today.
Know that His Word stands firm perfectly
There's Heaven and Hell, no Purgatory!
Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~~03.21.16
"It is appointed unto man to die once,
and after that comes the judgment."
(Hebrews 9:27)
Sometimes I just like
to have fun with syllables
and call it haiku
Seventeen is big
number in my family
stuff happens that age
Epilepsy for
one, then there's eye surgery
two don't forget how
cutting is frowned on.
Some things you must avoid in
order to follow
rules. So go figure
punctuation is option
no matter who nots.
Sometimes I just like
to say what I think and get
feedback from kindreds.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
erred against God's omnipotent will
sacrosanct commandments profaned
myriad chances bestowed
squandered - still sins exist
all are imperfect
but must do good
now, squealing
being
JUDGED.
===========================================
jun-jun villanueva
IMAGINATION
When we stand before the Pearly Gates
St. Peter with his golden keys awaits
as the Book of Our Life is opened to the dates
to see if good deeds were done to our mates.
It lasts only a second but we think its late
As he scans the words next to the dates
and curious beads of sweat arise on our pates
for the Book contains the answer to our fates.
We begin to shift from leg to leg after a little while
thinking of all the things we did that were petty and vile.
More upon more of those thoughts we pile
until we can no longer stand the trial.
Then, St. Peter grabs his phone and slowly begins to dial
"He's here now, Lord" is overheard..."he's been in Purgatory for a while".
Then he hangs up the phone, and gives us a curious smile
"The Boss said He paid your fare...so into Heaven you can file"!
Maybe if I could do what I wanted
Go wherever I wanted…
I’m detained
My emotions
My thoughts
My opinions
My wants
Are non-existant
Im passive
I submit
I’m not
I am not
Everything is okay
Nothing matters
I won’t be anything here but submissive/insignificant/nobody
My Self has fled
Im DOC# 454056
Imma get by
Imma get out
I hope my Self won’t remain dormant in submission
I hope my Self will recover from numbness and incorporate some of the qualities
Of DOC# 454056
This is not depression
This is emotional purgatory
I don’t know anything –
I knew something
I knew opposition
Opposition was on fire
Now frozen over by passivity
As I left the arena of life,
I gave my best shot.
But grades of war is not about effort,
But the final result.
I came with questions,
I have some successes,
Some failures.
Now the only question is
How I look on the history books
Do I look like a champion of heroes
Or a joker in the gallery of fools?
it’s not its striking unique slate of tones
as if vincent had risen from his century
long sleep
it is not nature’s rich hypnotic melodies
or the slim fingers of gusts touches our
very cores
stirs emotions in the coldest of humans or the
crackling sound under our new walking shoes
it is not the acorn berets chipmunks discard below
white oaks once they devour its scrumptious meat
not the wagon rides or the hot chocolates that
stamps its marker on children’s innocent faces
it’s not the bliss(greater than any gift) our kids
ingratiates us in displaying their unadulterated
love returned continuously and unconditionally
this adventure reminds us of our blessings
a welcomed little something beyond cities
however it’s not any one single happening
of this season which fills our hearts warm
it’s the multitude of many moments
the ones greater than any reality or
of all the fantasies found in dreams
deep within our fortresses built
it’s all the endearing memories
autumn leaves
armand~
brilliant thoughts whirling
and I sans the wherewithal
to collect them all
For Brahn Bailey's Son of a Senryu Poetry Contest
The autumn leaves crinkle beneath my feet
Their radiant colors dulled
I see the reds and yellows as vibrant as they were
The last time we came here together.
I hold you in my hands,
The way you held me when I was a child.
Your urn jostles softly as I scale the cliff
To our favorite spot.
I open it up, and look at you one last time.
Bits of bone sprinkled in the ash,
Like the time we came here after the first snow fall,
The defiant leaves of abundant autumn
Refusing to be masked by light dusting.
Off the tip of the rock,
I turn the urn,
You flow out over our favorite hike,
As you would have wanted.
We pass through this trail
One last time.
Getting high like cocaine
as i fly higher then your rogaine;
wishing i was snowboarding
not falling outta college.
When i die, lord may i touch the sky
and get smashed by a meteorite.
Bright like fireworks delight,
slope side friday night lights,
Cliff drops down crater runs, having fun;
praising Allah for five hundred or so
extra vertical, name it mount heavenly.
My ghost will call it mount purgatory;
invites for eternity; who's joining me?
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/one-for-the-lift-ticket/7970992
His Limbo Soliloquy
Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone.
Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
Using his bedside number at the nursing home I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours, ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
His answer’s most always the same, Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain. Clicking me to speaker he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect tense.
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land outpost,
All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me die alone.
Forgive me only thinking of myself, I just need you to hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day.
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission, ending his time on active service,
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is good.
You swim in the ocean of my tears
in my purgatory time machine
a designer hell, that had no heaven
to replace every negative with another positive
and you could help yourselves earn this
every grain of sand placed around the one rock
i cried upon everyday i had to earn
by wishing myself away
In this hard place
god passed me by forever
a star in the sky for ever reason i discovered that i had to die
Drop by drop the oceans were collected
grain of sand by grain of sand
the beaches created with no deception
never got a turn to live the life i deserved
just rewarded for suicidal tendancies
in this purgatory time machine
punished for something you did to me
The laundry needed changing
Impossible in the house I was trapped
Long-haired pot-smokin' hippies
Cluttered the hallways, impeding my progress
Laughing and blocking my movements
Arms full of clothes
The way I saw it, I had to get out
Rushing the streets I sought refuge at the
Laundromat way down the street
Finally free I finished my laundry chores
Content I had shaken evil influences
Leaving the window open
Letting fresh air in