Best Purity Poems
I think I know the Name of Purity,
It is Your Name -- it holds clear water well!
A Chalice carved almost to shattering,
A white rose, that alone, grows in the dell
With drops of ice adorning its still face
The warmth of heart that comes with falling snow
The few flakes that adorn your lashes, by grace
Delightful cold that creeps up from below
Loquacity that speaks only the Truth,
Amazed by every small, delightful thing
Ubiquitous praise and unbroken Youth
Right Trust, that gave your finger to the Ring
Inevitable Joy, and whispered Love
E'er faithful, that this all is from Above.
2/11/2019
Submitted for: Standard Poetry Contest 175
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
Unassailable purity, a cognition divine of venerated mind,
Proffers promise inviolable, beneficence sacred aligned,
With force invincible emanating from goodwill of heart
Forming precepts impeccable, teachings benevolent impart.
Purity of thought and action~ a worthy and righteous goal,
Resounds indomitable from kindred voice of resolute soul;
A heavenly call of compassion, extolling sanctity of love,
Lifting tenor of gloomy dawns~ soothing refrains of dove.
Unassailable purity in life, a road map of directions to hope,
Sacrosanct are its valiant acts, vowing ceaselessly to cope,
Performing with mighty resolve, deeds inducing pride;
Serving humbly as invisible hand of irreproachable guide.
Assisting destitute is the sermon, tolling bells of prayer,
Beckoning the weary, indigent, to shelter and welfare;
Comforting grief of despair with words enlightened, aware,
Consoling cry of nothingness, bequeathing love and care.
It exemplifies within her selfless smile, purity of her eyes,
Reassuring her children, bliss of mother’s love never dies;
Its rectitude unassailable, eternal as the reign of time,
A gift precious, paramount to life~ ethereal and sublime.
Classic Poetry forms should not be transformed
by those who think themselves poetically charmed
Limericks are not trampolines to bounce around
Anyone who changes the form is not honor bound
If you want to allow syllables of another count
Give it some other name and use any old amount
But keep the form pure as did poet, Edward Lear
as it was sung in bars while drinking ale and beer
Variations in forms have been liberally adapted
the original remains from which they were extracted
It's been successfully done with Japanese Haiku
Now, branched into many... there are quite a few
No contest judge, whether an amateur or a pro
should alter Limerick line syllable count. That's a no
And then when questioned by not one but three,
The offender deleted all the comments... cowardly
There's no cloudburst of tears over a contest loss
when a know-it-all sponsor assumes he's the boss
Imagine Shakespeare writing one of his Sonnets
without rhymes as if he had a bee in his bonnet!
Being true to poetry forms is doing what's expected
Those who mess with tradition should be rejected
It's the contest that fails when the judge has no clue
and accepts anything entered, right out of the blue
No outrage or tantrums take place in that situation
The ones who bastardize should face condemnation
Original Poetic forms were never meant to be changed
Anyone who does, should be ignored and estranged
Her Presence always was a quiet glow,
A morning all the day, and through the night.
And, while she slept, white radiance did show
Uplifted from the earth, her form grown light.
Like her, Spring spills forth waking on all things,
On sleeping hills, on nascent pomegranate,
On curling bear-cub, everything that sings!
And curled-up leaves, yawn, stretch, embrace bright planet!
There is an Allness, newly on the air
That lacked before... a Presence of Christ rises
And wicked things come over, once laid bare
To new humility, which small things prizes.
Like her, Spring gently calls a man, 'Awake!'
Who always let her sleep, for Love's sweet sake.
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
Her birth was never trumpeted,
Nor caught any media headlines.
Born to Joachim in very ordinary settings,
Virgin Mary, the simplest of the simple,
Was specially chosen to perform a task divine.
As she grew up, she pledged to keep her body and soul,
Free of all blemish and stains of fleshly desires.
But in her teens, she was betrothed to Joseph,
Perhaps, part of a divine plan.
Did dreams come to nab her sleep, no one knows!
She found joy in prayer and absolute surrender to God.
Once when in silent communion with God,
Hearing the flap of wings overhead, she looked up.
Seeing the flash of blinding light in her dim lit room
She stood in dazzled astonishment,
Not knowing what was about to happen.
Before her, appeared a winged seraph.
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness n’ grace
Its hands raised in benediction,
Saluted Mary and said,
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to digest what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again, it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee,
And a son shall be born of thee,
Whom you shall call Jesus.”
“How can this be”,
The question lingered but didn’t ask.
In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware?
Or did her virgin womb thrill with new life?
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves?
For a girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out,
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
Without questioning,
She surrendered to the will of God,
Thereafter, never wavered nor bemused,
But readied herself for the great task.
Forever she remains a symbol of mercy and love.
Her immaculate grace is reflected on her radiant face.
Her lovely visage having greater beauty than any flower,
Emits sweet fragrance that perfumes our souls.
Remaining ever so pure with no trace of sin,
She is acclaimed by Christians all over the world,
As a symbol of unassailable purity and godly grace!
One has to like the price,
which never fluctuates.
It floats,
like some suspended orb
imparted from another heaven, perhaps...
itself a consciousness unknown
and undefiled.
It is the good the ages seek,
still there before our eyes.
Were there a formula,
a prize to touch or taste,
it would not occupy the metaphor
of grace nor scorn its worshipers.
There's time to let the rain sweep down
the valley, time to revel
in the harvest when the fullness comes.
It's time to yield a little, come alive
to listen while the piper plays;
the air is sweet,
the song is of the eminence of day.
If there is any paradise
let us make room for it
within our precious now
though set upon with every fond device
of intellect to struggle to our feet;
the highest good not ours alone,
persists in that strange crystalline precipitate
when all is done—old Paul knew what it was
and called it love.
~
My Heart pours out remnants
of nothingness as I create in
form from Universes unknown
Union becomes Duality
a dash between birth and death
then disappears back
to Source from whence it sprung
for to remain in form is to be captive to
space and time
So does Purity only live
where no illusions dwell
in super seconds of no boundaries yet no escape
frequencies of freedom fashioned
timidly we taste
It remains a shadow we all chase in our
thousand million moments to bring
Heaven down to Earth before we are called
back again bowing —— b u o y a n t l y !
It's the look of anticipation in a preschoolers eyes
as he holds your hand near the playground gazing in skies.
It's the prolonged kiss when the preacher says to the couple side by side
“I pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride.”
It's the gaze of a kitten as she swats at the laser light
as she hopes for a game that is fun and bright.
It's the yard in the morning after a night of cold snow
when the sun is just high enough and the wind has stopped its blow.
But love from the Creator God is by far the most of all
the most perfect source of unassailable purity without any downfall.
I am the Garden
in me all things live
in me nothing is forgotten
here we enter
after being done with the Serpent
flamed or in darkness
when the Cross enters from below
we die, never to be reborn
Over naked breasts and belly
shadows dissolve in milk and manna
transmuted to rainbows of gold
in the body of the Magdalena
droplets dance fiery ice
where Power is gained through
entry into the Garden of the Heart
another way then becomes the forgotten
Nothing more entices, no fleshly desire lingers
wisdom is my key to the
Gate of Chrysanthemum Purity
where Patience is enthroned at the
fulcrum of two spheres
after we’ve climbed ladders of courage
listened to mournful entreaties, tolling gongs
shook hands with Keepers of Freedom
Our giving becomes our taking
Separation, the Union
the going, a returning
returning, our resting where the
Centre of Silvery Strands is Stillness
born of angels and white doves
as Truth cloaks, after paying
in sweat and tight purple silences
Few know how the Garden imbues
or how matrix minds dissolved or
what a tiny imprint is hidden in the
Palm of God-Goddess where the
Palm of Blood and Thorns
washed us from the shores of
ancient lands into the
moistness of I N F I N I T Y
What haunted me the most, was the myth of clean.
Soap with its pale arrogance, its perfume of forgiveness.
Water pretending to be neutral, pretending it could rinse a history.
As if purity were mechanical.
As if turning a handle could unmake a person.
As if the stain were not the self.
The old ways
are done
The new ways
of love
slowly but
resolutely
unfold,
and show
themselves
to their fullest,
generating
a great flow
of all-purifying
hope
“Thoughts of Purity”
Hanging by a thread; feet dangling like clothes flapping in the summer breeze
Look upon the little things below me ; everything is so tiny when you’re so high
Believing that being above all souls will bring me the peace I long to have
When it comes to Stephen there is no right or wrong; for all is lost with open eyes
Desiring to be the man I set goals to be, failing like the wings of a baby bird learning how to fly
Is life really worth your owns words being misconstrued into what they really want to hear
Is it the failure in others that drives their insecurity to be boasted by worse failures then their own?
Stephen is just a name used to describe the failures of his lost soul floating in the vastness of space
The highest peak on earth cannot describe the level of pain that depressed hearts endure
For the pain of the depressed isn’t a come and go type of feeling but never ending
Seek and you shall find lonely minds scattered like puzzle pieces laid freshly upon a table
It’s not just Stephen alone in the spectacle of life, for broken minds stay silent unnoticed in pictures
In mountain streams the dreams of normalcy floats away like paper airplanes thrown into the wind
Always searching for a hand to grasp to lift a lost soul to stand upon the solid ground
Never finding the ears to understand that life’s treasures fall into the hands already rich in comfort
Stephen is no longer reaching for steady arms but forgiveness of suicidal thoughts that break his thoughts of purity
Deep red star flower,
scarlet life blood atonement.
We beseech your heal.