Best Ritual Poems
It broke her heart
when Franco died
he’d been her soul mate
wed over fifty years
he’d been her life
For her Franco
she had a ritual
lit a candle every night
so he would know
how much she missed him
Today would be a special day
she felt it when she closed her eyes
wouldn’t be lighting any candle
she took her one last breath
set down the path to join her Franco
AP: 2nd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Connection with nature
When a new day arises
Inspires to meditate
About the meaning of life
Looking through a window
Feeling the sunshine rays
After morning routine
Recharges the senses
For Morning Ritual Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
January 1, 2018
Spring will forever be the time for renewals when brisk fresh air invigorates our drowsy muse. Tickling every inner child, beckoning them to come out for a playdate. And ever so gleefully we crack open the treasure chest of possibilities, dust it off to see what gems we can uncover.
dawn of
fresh beginnings
old shoes new paths
AP: 2nd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on March 7, 2021 for contest SPRINGTIME HAIBUN sponsored by M.L. KAISER - RANKED 1ST
since nearly three millennia
the exact origin
muddled thru times
come every fall
from the Taj Mahal
to sacred temples
to the humblest homes
around the world
the festival of lights
dazzles during five days
of exuberant worship
and lush ritual in celebration
of triumph of good over evil
millions of oil lamps and candles
and sparklers are lit
setting the nights ablaze
in honor of knowledge
and consciousness
as families gather and feast
unleashing prayers for peace
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~NAMASTE~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 28, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE SEASONS-FESTIVALS VERSE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
MORNING RITUAL
I shake off thoughts, as I awaken,
replaced by cocoa beans and faith.
Remembering, I’m not forsaken,
I shake off thoughts, as I awaken.
Open the book, it’s true — I’m shaken.
The Spirit stirs what GOOD WORD saith.
I shake off thoughts as I awaken,
Replaced by cocoa beans and faith.
12/16/2017
Morning Ritual Poetry Contest/Line Gauthier
SUPERSTITIAL format is supported by Unicast's patented delivery system, which ensures that just like a television commercial, every SUPERSTITIAL ad plays perfectly for every consumer -- regardless of system capabilities or the Web site the user is visiting.
A Virtual Ritual
Reality at times may become virtual;
Can view on screen as a superstitial;
Successfully completing;
Then are repeating,
And have habits existing like a ritual.
James Horn
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
On both sides of drunk
and on both sides of sober,
both sides of the truth
and both sides a lie
lie the two of us.
You own the license to my pain,
I hold the leasehold to your wounds,
we hunger for the ritual
embedded in our souls,
bruises that won't heal.
We can't breathe but what
we're bleeding,
leeching out the worst
of how we feel.
Within the twilight of the witching hour,
where dreams mingled with reality,
your tongue, a sacred blade, flicks me open—
each unspoken word unfurling from your lips
presses against the ache of mine like a spell.
And I gasp—
my lungs filled with stardust sighs,
as explosions of nebulae grace the dark behind my eyes.
"The clouds parted like the pursed lips of desire".
In the gravity of your kiss, I taste the cosmos,
each particle a hymn of knowing:
there is no holier truth
than to be drawn into your orbit.
The hallucinogenic hymnal hums low,
and secrets spill from me like sacred offerings,
stoking the fire of our ritualistic ravaging.
Our souls swirl with stardust and cosmic lust,
entwined in divine disarray,
beaming through a haze of shimmering particles.
Essence entangles like twin serpents—
coiled hemipenes locked in a celestial trance,
rekindling the ancient flame.
I stitch my lifelines into your skin, silver-threaded,
a living scripture written in shimmering ink.
Within this realm of halcyon hymns,
we are a sensual sonata,
notes melting into ether
as we dissolve, waiting
for the encore of reincarnation.
Our new bodies form
from the shards of broken constellations,
and we descend once more
through heaven’s opalescent gate—
hopeful that fate's hand, in quiet mercy,
will place us again
into each other’s sacred embrace.
I watch the city come and go
through the tram’s dirty window.
October spreads across the old wheels,
making each station a little quieter.
I buy a loaf of bread
and hold it tight
as if it were the only
certainty
I still have today.
A man with flowers in his arms
crosses the street,
and the rain tears the petals from him
without asking anything.
I speak with myself
only in thought,
answer a weary stranger
with a strip of a smile.
October is different:
it lets you die a little
without losing yourself completely,
it holds your hand
even when no one is near.
It should be more than a Jeopardy* answer,
that glass-half-full should shimmer
as if joy can be captured in a simple act of water.
She drinks artesian from a crystal carafe,
pours it carefully into the crystal goblet
spilling not a single drop of the life-giver.
Toasting the sun was their morning ritual,
the light casting sparkles and rainbow colors,
You are my rainbow he said that last morning…
His crystal goblet now empty forever.
*Television gameshow, category “Full” House
Every morning rain or shine,
she has breakfast with her flock.
The seasons change and
each has their peculiarities.
Still her faithful companions
visit daily at the appointed hour.
She leaves them seeds so they'll know
they're always welcome.
She hopes they'll come this spring
to build their nests within her flower garden.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
blue crane undeterred
wings flap and emotions spurred
raspy sounds are heard
Contest: What's the Buzz
3rd Place
Public speaking fear,
Relieved by a beer,
Can lead to audience loss,
You are filled with dread,
Words at mirror said,
Make you seem like you are boss.
Tell a short story,
Of me - no glory,
Make them laugh real good and loud.
Forget the content,
They’ll think you’re bent,
Self-comedy wins a crowd.
For Nette Onclaud’s “Alouette Your Cleansing Rite (Ritual)” contest
Written by Lee Ramage
August 27, 2011
Placement: 8th
pageantry of stars
welcomes full moon arising,
congos pulse in bounced rhythm
for one midnight rush
garlands offered for wishes…
arms catching heavenly flare
primal dances swerve
unleashing instinct’s desire,
toes swivel on burst of eve
for whirlwind frolic…
Moon Lady beams through tree - lights
her radiance spilling charms
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
*The full moon rises this July 19
symbolizing aspirations for abundance,
joy, good luck. Most cultures honor this day
with rituals of dance, music, offerings.
syllables checked at www.howmanysyllables.com
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Entered in Compose A Choka Contest
7/21/2016
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Resubmitted for Broken Wings
I Got Zero, Nothing, Nada- 2 Challenge
8/3/2016