Best Supplicants Poems
To eyes that see spiritually,
prayers at their most ardent
appear like random meteors
or lightening flashes,
ascending suddenly
amidst the myriad of points of light,
creations' more common invocations.
Burgeoning in sky as glitter dreams
or solemn supplications, and some
as fervent pleas from dangers' depths,
they rise and soar. . .
to the glorious celestial door.
Seraphs at the portals,
besieged by beautiful entreaties,
strive to answer each and every one,
but heaven's ways can be mysterious. . .
Ardent prayers unanswered
drift back down,
returned not to their supplicants,
but rather to earth's angels
clothed in flesh,
who prompted by the Spirit,
and at the time ordained,
help fulfill the Father's will.
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
To my Sweet Grandma
Thy love, thy sacred smiling face
I cant forget till final breath
Thy beauteous eyes, thy charming smile
Thou are goddess of vale of Death
I often see thee in the dreams
Thinking of all the days bygone
O ! Come from mystery world of Death
O! Tell me thou some mystic yarn
I saw you praying on the graves
I saw your anguish and distress
Oh may that I could wane thy pain
Oh may that I thy sorrows guess
Thou go on top to feed the birds
But I know what infact thou wished
Thou waited for thy dear dear son
Thy wistful eyes from top him kissed
Where are you lost my gracious Mom
I harken thee may that thou hear
Thy son loveth thee from core of heart
He pine for thee all time I swear
His wistful eyes his aching heart
His silent cries , can all you hear?
These customs rules of vale of Death
Thou break for once my gracious God
Oh permit us to meet them once
We prithee thou our Bounteous Lord
Harken my Lord thy supplicants
Are moaning give them thou reward
Sunlight trickles through stained glass windows.
She kneels, a little apart from her fellows
who also seek salvation in water.
Her gray hair slips from her circumspect braid,
and her Sunday-best thrift-store garb
stands out because it doesn't.
Shaking fingers tap the rail
Nervous feet twitch as she waits.
The water flows down the line of supplicants
till it reaches her, and instantly,she is transformed,
beautiful from scraggly braid to thrift-store shoes.
Can mere water cause this transformation?
Is this a message for me---
Another arrow into the heart of my agnosticism?
I don't know, but for now,
there is sunlight trickling through stained glass windows.
es ist ein 'Rose' entsprungen
Just outside the city walls ringed in roses,
Rosenfriedhof, Rose Cemetery blooms,
fairest in the Fatherland.
Leaven cakes iced in concrete or royal brass
pan the gravel paths; the husks which lie here,
no longer have a care, no longer wish for power,
no longer seek false glory. Yet, even blest ground
can not stay the rancid thoughts that rise—
sewer fumes amongst the roses.
ashes, ashes, we all fall down
Plagued by ignorance, then by pride, as supplicants
they came to death and lay, side by side,
and someone planted roses.
Open-petaled, lotus-like, sweet-scented, are the
posies, but nothing alive can mask the grotesqueri
of Nuremberg’s past purges.
ashes, ashes, they all fell down
The ring of sieg heil, the click of heels, the Fatherland
an ever present reverie, latent, just below the sugared
crust; the piping swirled, the surface glaze
of pretty roses.
First Published in Page & Spine winter of 2016
St. Duloxetine, thee we beseech
Our chemical plaster to fill the breach
Between raw emotions and hard reality
Our primal instincts and plastic society
Give to your supplicants a brightened scene
With norepinephrine, serotonin, dopamine
So traffic jams hum not so loud
Mindless tasks morph to puffy clouds
Pastel pinks from glowing reds
Dark clouds lighten over our heads
Ease the wear of countless miles
Flatten our frowns, deepen our smiles
Relieve of us of our myriad obsessions
Lengthen our spousal bonding sessions
Allow us to be more like our Savior
Free from socially unproductive behavior
No clay-colored stools or gastrointestinal pain,
Just another day without psychic rain
And of burning questions in our heads
How gently you put them to bed
And should we cry as it all flies by
Sing our weary souls a lullaby
5/3/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood is the birthplace of hope and mirth
not fear and perturbation for the budding soul,
a testament to love where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal.
Shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evil thinkers to the depths of hell!
Last Modified: January 09, 2016 at 07:20 pm
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...the first three verses: abab rhyming
the next two together: abcbac rhyming
a form used frequently by W.H. Auden
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, even in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood is the birthplace of hope and mirth
not fear and perturbation for the budding soul,
a testament to love where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal.
Shun darkness, disillusion, from God's green earth,
cast demons, evil thinkers to the depths of hell.
On a throne
in the depths
of
the
forest
sits a king
He rules over the forest beings
men, women, animals, and plants
He sits gazing upon his kingdom
and supplicants come before his
and he dispenses his wisdom
to eager ears
His queen has passed from
this mortal coil
but his raven - haired daughter
and two doughty sons
aid him in his rule
He is known far and wide
as a benevolent monarch
On in years now
he still has a regal bearing
His eyes are like clear pools
which see far and away
into the woods
and into the souls of his subjects
Faraway images
Clearer impressions
Calico kittens
Conferring intentions...
Wistful companions
Abundantly joyous,
Singing reditions
Of Eventide's chorus.
Lastly, the supplicants
Soft eyed in questioning
Whisper endearments
With symmetry's blessing.
All of the questions
And some of the answers
Flower together
Surpassing imagining...
Softly and softly,
In quiet compassion
Embracing the dreamers
In wrappings of laughter
With butterfly rainbows
To use now as ribbons.
Tie up the wishes
And save them for living...
Come, open the windows now....
Sunrise in my lover's arms.
In a lonely garden there' s a shrine
where upon a rough hewn stone is writ:
“GOD IS LOVE.”
The devoted supplicants make wail,
water the flowers, feed with crumbs
the sacramental dove.
A priest, decrepit, feeds the holy fire,
rakes the embers of the holy hearth.
Heaven is grey above.
Daily he laments in doleful orison,
unbinds the holy scroll and reads:
“Thou shalt not kill.”
His sentence is short and simple,
without exceptions and parentheses,
declaring God’s will.
though many about have forsaken
Love’s fane, have fallen prostrate
before a god of ill.
And this god has three faces,
one wreathed in pleasure’s smiles,
when the cup is full.,
a brazen face of terror
wrought in hatred’ fire,
And a skull.
...inspired by 'The Traveller' by W.H. Auden
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer his self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so's to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood should be the nursery of hope and mirth,
not fear and perturbation, for the budding soul,
a testament to love, where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal,
shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evildoers to the depths of hell!
Shadows stretch, and hungrily
they gobble up the cold and homeless,
Joe and Mary shiver, searching
street fronts for some sign of meekness.
Mary's pregnant, Joe is jobless,
faith and hope belie their plight,
all is dark, but wait, a flicker
penetrates the inky night.
Ken and Ted's auto repair shop,
first to greet the business day,
a welcome in with smiles and hugs,
our supplicants have found a way,
a refuge from the icy blackness,
blankets and a warming brew
revitalizes souls in torment,
homemade biscuits, homemade stew.
Daylight breaks, it's Christmas morning,
Ken and Ted know time won't cease
for squeaky fan belts, faulty starters,
broken soul mates seeking peace.
German shepherds watch in awe
as Mary's baby cries and sputters,
workers give what they can muster,
"Praise the Lord!" the 'midwife' utters.
A lowly place, a sacred mission
celebrated there this day,
Joe and Mary ever thankful,
all God's Children kneel and pray.
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer his self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so's to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood should be the nursery of hope and mirth,
not fear and perturbation, for the budding soul,
a testament to love, where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal,
shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evildoers to the depths of hell.
Indigo's child
lives in turquoise walled
creativity.
Her temple roof of cobalt glass
slashed with aquamarine
radiates peace with purpose
steel dolphin joyfulness
as sun's waves reflect
hourly hues, seasons shades
ever-changing.
Supplicants knock on ultramarine door
to hear pure lapis truth.
A lucky few sip tea from cups royal
As powder eyes see all, within
ice hearts dripping sapphire tears.
Her cerulean Zen done,
brimming souls flow away
bearing bouquets of hyacinth bells.
Written 14th July 2018
inspired by Brevity in Blue Contest
Sponsor: Dale Gregory Cozart
Entered Any July 2018 poem
Sponsor Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
75 words