Best Throngs Poems
I rise from deep within the earth
out of pressured lavas
I rise above the level into
breathable realms
I rise following the risen
He who set my path and
monitors my lift lovingly
tenderly, yet such pinions
given of steeliness unpluckable
I rise for the grace of the Father,
for the loving sacrifice of the Son,
for the Spirit, all Powerful, Ever-present,
All Knowing – I rise from man's mental
coma...from delirium of his lesser ego,
from estrangement of his physical-obstinance;
climbing higher, into loftier, far brighter reality
of being...
cleanly exalted, my consciousness purified –
I rise on frequencies of heavenly choirs...
throngs of worshiping angels welcoming, wings
fanning my once fuming soul – all the while
singing Praise to Christ, man's Conqueror Lord:
The slayer of Death; the Subduer of devils
and their throngs of whispering, shouting,
deafening demons;
I rise from out under the Master Liar...jealous possessor,
once Arc of God's Most beloved till Fallen...
I rise on a divine swell of compassion and forgiveness –
carried yet higher, on upward, surging tide of greater purification,
resurrected with Divine momentum...a soaring sea of expanding
spiritual freedom...
It is Easter,
as The Risen One anointed, so shall we follow
and rise!
“Glory to God
in His Highest!”
Excitement filled the bushland as December was near
Every creature had been waiting for Christmas time - all year.
Wallabies hung their stockings on a gumtree branch with care
Just as all nice children do – everywhere.
Meanwhile those more up to date logged on the internet
sending E mails to Santa to see what they could get
Koalas draped high treetops with shiny garlands green
And furry possums lined their dens in golden glitter sheen
Wallabies joined in with bright balloons hung on their tails
All the crows tied streamers, cascading from the rails.
Kookaburras’ laughter changed to Christmas songs
While magpies and peewees piped along in throngs.
A wombat and a bandicoot made honeysuckle punch
The parrots came too early and drank’ til they got drunk
And when the’ Magic Pudding’ came to help with Christmas Dinner
His taste was so delicious he left a trifle thinner.
With a Kangaroo as Santa, his pouch stuffed full of cheer
hopping ‘round the outback in the hottest time of year
Just guess what all the drovers got- lots of ice-cold beer.
Suzanne Delaney
For Children's Christmas Poem Contest for Carol Eastman
I walk the path amid the trees
Where footsteps of the past have tread
Where ancient stones of Blarney please,
Where lips upon the stone are wed.
My roots run deep with Irish blood
and County Cork's where my folk hale.
There Blarney meets where tourists flood
to kiss the stone below the rail.
Enchanting are the turrets here
bedecked in autumn's vines of red,
the little stream that wanders near,
and steps to where I'm being led.
The Blarney stone at last I see,
so bending backwards now to kiss
the stone, my friend is holding me.
That’s not a mark I want to miss!
I have a thought; I now can say
my mouth has touched where many more
have touched upon this stone of gray.
How many thousands came before?
These ancient walls in ruin stand
With greater hist'ry than most know,
Yet still throngs yield to their command
In visitors that come and go.
Inside the marrow of my bones,
I feel a thrill . Will eloquence
Be mine from having kissed this stone?
I feel a chill of reverence!
For the Partner UP Contest of Shadow Hamilton: Theme: Castles
Finished 9/4/2015 By Connie Marcum Wong and Andrea Dietrich
Many times the ocean
has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea,
an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see.
The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide.
The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil
or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones.
Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own
scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform.
With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born
with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested
tested by the hand of He,
tested and found worthy.
The children of the Divine Wind
rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
She That Time And Fate Can Never Erase
BEHOLD- she that a torn heart can repair,
a Venus that bright stars envy and praise
she that reflects morn's firstborn golden rays
sumptuous love, beyond mortal compare!
Soft as silk glistening as fallen dew
blithe spirit, born of Aphrodite's gifts
she of dreams, radiant hope sent so swift
treasured kisses that sets my world anew!
State of resplendent royal purple glow
siren serenading sweetest of songs
awarding respite from world's teeming throngs
sweet as honey, pure as fresh fallen snow!
"O, but for that end true love reunites,
may destiny's arrows fly swift and right!
Darling, my beloved- of beauty's grace
She that Time and Fate can never erase!
Robert J. Lindley, 2-25-2020
Sonnet, plus two( Lind-Sonnet And Two )
( Born of a summer of love in 1973 )
Yet now, thrives as a dream that was
once lived and now tis' deeply treasured!
Dedicated to the inspiration that Byron
and his magnificent poetry that he has
gifted to this too oft dark and sad world....
Golden Notes, Within Love's Newfound Treasures
As river rose, waves lapped on eager banks
bright as gold, love and its true romance gives
for its blessings we give eternal thanks,
within that paradise one truly lives.
As flowering meadows greet dawn's new rays
hours flow to moments of deepest pleasures
two lovers find night's joy, delightful ways,
and wrap themselves in love's blessed treasures.
Upon midnight moon's, shining love sent beams
both hearts dancing to such beautiful songs
cool winds touch and enhancing starlit gleams,
enjoy love's depths away from noisy throngs.
When such jewels are gifted from afar.
Brilliant are the glows of united stars.
Robert J. Lindley, August 7th, 1990
Sonnet
I see an aging Panagiota with the soul of a youth.
Untouched by hatred~yet despised for, as she's always telling the truth.
Utterly, unwilling to be a crowd pleaser.
She has grown to know the hollow emptiness of being a groupie-gratifier.
A big Heart to her, counts more than the brilliance in any word play in the head.
She loves poetry of Shakespeare that throngs here consider quite dead.
She knows the arrogant here who knock at her heart's door, oh my so loud?
And evaporate quickly,as insignificant raindrops after a storm followed by a golden-bright cloud!
She knows the hopelessness of playing life's little victim.
With the onset of great pain, hardship and lonelines,she blossoms, right as rain.
Threatened by males here to "change her poetry style or else,"
These macho nobodies have lit her soul afire, nothing more ignorant delights to ainspires her.
She knows quite well the legion of names of the BEST who ignore her.
She really doesn't care, she realizes she is, indeed, first and forever,God's poetic daughter.
You won't find thousands of one-line poems from her.
She wants her poetry to make your velvety-heart positively beat loudly and almost purr.
This is the self in the mirror, I have found at Poetry Soup.
No big arm of trophies nor winner am I, just an ordinary woman, with her quill in glory, acknowledging God in the sky.
To God be the Glory. Thank you, close friends and ones yet to come....
All my love~
Panagiota Romios
February 5, 2020
7:00am PST
POTD. February 7, 2020
Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written. John 21:25 NIV
Tell Me, Who Do You Say That I Am
The wind whispers of him.
Rocks long to call out his name.
Angels ponder this salvation.
Demons shake in utter fear.
The throngs were looking for physical food.
God of all creation, in front of them,
fed them fish and bread.
Heaven’s bread out of reach
They ran when he tried to teach.
To his close knit group, he’d ask,
and even they were perplexed,
their inner core knotted.
This man supreme
would curtail storms,
walk on the sea,
feed crowds with a handful
of seeds.
Tell me
who do you say that
I am?
This simple, humble, feet-washer
would spend his short life healing others.
This eye-piercing man would bore
into a woman’s soul,
tear her away from her shame,
be the cause of a rumbling fame.
The King of kings
sought her out.
This lover of freedom,
untwists the cords of slavery
that binds our souls.
Divinity longs to hold —
not stare us down,
nor strike us down,
nor trample us.
Love incarnate
knelt down to peer in our eyes,
surprise us with truth
instead of worldly lies.
Tell me
who do you say that
I am?
O Lord, let my every breath
be an answer to your question,
my every step, my every action.
Amen!
4/27/2021
Tell Me, Who Do You Say That I Am
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
If Only
If only, world had continued on usual darken course
life had not turned to this humanity's new divorce
separated by disease and fear of impending death,
fearful of others and even now taking public breath!
If only, sun would shine upon this city's usual throngs
dawn would break upon merriment, laughter and happy songs
bacon, eggs, toast, coffee again would be so very great
we would as before rush to work praying not to be late!
If only, days would return to the ordinary before
across sad world, gaiety would reach every shore
night and loneliness would not deliver such dreaded dread
and we could live without knowing so many are now dead!
If only, we and earth would be truly blessed to endure.
And divine hands would wash away this darkness so impure.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-01-2020
Sonnet, ( When The Dark Hand Of Fate Decides To Strike So Many Down )
Note- I told myself that I would not write about this modern day
calamity and its destruction wrecked upon so very many! Yet this
came to me and I knew I'd be wrong to not give it space and air
to breathe. One thought gives me comfort, the knowing that- this
too shall one day pass. May God bless you, one and all....
SHALL WE DANCE
Shall we dance, as two snakes encircling one another,
A bite to the strike, whom draws the first blood of
Passions bitter poison.
Venomous vipers, engaged in a twisted game of hidden desires,
Shielded by golden bands of confinements vows of promise,
Yet yielding under the guise of the serpent’s folk tongue.
Reptilian lovers Intertwining, beneath the light rays of the
Elliptical moons illumination, deceiver’s side slithering,
The truth of reality’s harsh dawning to come.
Desert tempest creatures, crushed under the swelling
Sand storms of destiny, rising in the winds rip tidal shift
Of exotic’s throngs of passion, then dashed upon the
Rocks of calamity’s destructive force.
Behold the skins of shame, we’ve shed in this our lost
Garden of paradise called Eden, as we descend limb
By limb, unraveling, retanggling, in a mutual enticement’s
Partaking of the unripen fruit, in this the harvested
Orchard of deceit, and lies of pleasure spoils.
Rattling’s bad to the bone species, are these
Deceiver’s dwelling under the moonlight,
Loves vanquished, by passions burnt embers
Of lusts cold blooded flame.
Veracity’s fiercest retile's in mortal combat
With their human hearts, or their raw physical
Basic instincts, the animal within themselves,
The beast of desire, exposing the coiling in raptures
After glow of the exotic.
In the emerald eyes of the snakes flashing, these
Are the transfixed, paralyzed prisoners of loves
Passionate vipers, the cursed of the forbidden.
Poisons intoxicated figures, silhouetted in the red
Moons seduction zone, he the hooded king cobra,
And I his empress taipan of the orient.
Glittering do our scales of temptation, damnation,
Oh but to die in this incoilment’s display of eternal
Abandonment, a climatic apex of poisonous predators,
Ripping, tarring at their bare exposed fleshes
Atonement, unsheived are these carnivores
Of passion.
Shall we dance, as two snakes encircling one another,
A bite to the strike, whom draws the first blood
Of passions bitter poison.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Ideology is silent, victory is violent, we are corrupt, death is abrupt;
Perhaps if the world were still flat we wouldn't know what we know,
Stacks of black and white dictionaries defining the worst of what
tomorrow just might hold:
War, famine, poverty, disease – hatred, racism, phobia, and sleaze;
In a perfect world we would only know each other by name, blame,
never brought upon what we sought as we found peace and happiness
in all that we thought;
There would be no need for money, honey, emptied from jars, stars,
made of diamonds, would only shine bright in the sky, never in what's
ours;
Bullets would be relics from a past never known, killing fields empty,
the winds never blown, away, like innocent works of art, splattered
on the mud, covered in the blood, of children, at play, at war;
In a perfect world we would all matter in the ways that matter most,
mostly thoughts of love for those who we love to boast, about friends
and family, kind ways and sunny days, days on which our kids would
love to play;
The only weapon in our armory would be one of a chiseled harmony,
echoes soaring from the rafters above, doves flying, wings open, open
to our gentle hands, holding the sands of a desert spent searching for
wetlands, drenched in our smiles and our songs, throngs of us
preaching not our judgments, but rather reasons why we're strong,
willed to excellence by arias of immaculate acceptance, played by
symphonies of converted marauders who's only wish in this world is
for the wealth of healthy sons and daughters;
It's in those ways that make this place the best we have to offer, offering
ideas of humanity over vanity, kindness over blindness, and a general
sense of respect for whoever cares to share, life on this beautiful blue
sphere, where, in the end if we hope for our history books to look back
on this chapter with love, above all else, then maybe it's best we look
deeper inside, searching our own mirrors for the potential perfection
within the reflection that stands before us, human and still;
February 12, 2016
Sweet are the verses in rhymes that are sung
that genius the mind in history does crown
Blank white pages with divinity and splendor
Stoned face, haunting or dark and yet tender.
With celestial visions charmed as they be
Will but lighten our hearts with a spirit free
With the streaming pulse of unwavering joy
With crystal enlightenment, this is our ploy -
That our names would lie in history's book
That eternal we'll be remembered, but look
There's a poet clasped on the mighty wind
Where the perfumed blossoms softly bend
In sweet sighs like deep breaths, to blend
With rippling streams in murmurs and then
There his solitude has sought no fame
Among the throngs of mightiest names
Like Byron, Elizabeth, Keats and Emily
Like Shakespeare, Poe, Blake and Shelly
But in the warm breath of silence he lays
Where no man may gather and praise
Gifted his glimmered thoughts proceeding
With humility's grace and love exuding
From blessed a heart as pure as the springs
Clasped upon God's wondrous wings.
Oh never lose sight of our earthly treasure
That beyond every carnal soothing pleasure
Is that gleaming gift imparted to us all
That in poetry's grace we may stand tall
In fun or in fame or in dream's pursuit
In practice or in shame or in joys mute
That our pleasured words, we may mute not
Thro' life's sorrowing moments and yet but
Thro' the coursing days of history's lines
How sweet the verses when sung in rhymes.
What does poetry mean to you personally? I'm open to heartfelt expressions to the question.
Is it autumn, when silence has come to a lonely lakeshore?
Throngs of reveling summer tourists are flocking here no more.
Is it autumn, the water's sitting still in the swimming pool?
The rowdy children have gone, unhappily, back to their school.
Is it autumn, when the blooming gladiolus have been lost?
Tonight, the garden's bounty will be bitten by our first frost.
Is it autumn, do golden cornstalks hang heavy with their yield?
The farmer has a scarecrow propped, out standing in his field.
Is it autumn, the pumpkins have no orange spattered 'round them?
Their deep green color is fading now, up near the browning stem.
Is it autumn, the farmer has left his apple orchards bare?
The spiced aroma of baking pies goes drifting on the air.
Is it autumn, when the gathering geese ready to fly south?
Two neighbors saw them yesterday, I have heard, by word of mouth.
Is it autumn, with dying leaves turning shades of rust and red?
The maple tree's timbers brave the wind as they begin to shed.
Is it autumn, with ever shrinking sunsets and chilly nights?
There comes a whiff of warm woodsmoke as the first fire alights.
Is it finally the day when autumn will at last arrive?
Twelve months ago was a long, long time to wait to feel alive!
Date - 8/26/2022
(15 syllables per line)
As butterflies eagerly flutter into view
Our senses unfurl with alluring sights
Engaging while imparting those ornate designs
Under skies azure, they entice, delight
Igniting then occupying thoughts upbeat
then all senses erupt with invitations that ordain spring's ultimate, bright allure
Yet every day invokes thoughts of sweet,
unique, yet amazing things
Enriching then initiating thoughts oh so upbeat
Like aerial dancers entreating with invitations that offer hope
Until they are joined eventually by insect throngs
of many unbelievable colors
As butterflies entice with invigorating dances
outstanding movements under sun's assuring glow
Enraptured by intimate tunes of warblers
upholding melodious appealing flow
Every butterfly imparts beauty
Only monarchs ultimately rule, adorable royalty
Enjoy the inherent beauty of the universe
At the end of the finishing line,
a deep grouchy voice thunders in my ears
and said, “Welcome home”.
I stepped on the green carpeted grass
and gazed at the slender bushy trees
waving peacefully in the hot summer breeze.
Happy squirrels scampering along
and merry birds singing happy songs.
But the moment swiftly fades and the
tormenting sound of fire trucks sirens chimed in
Trash less garage truck put on masquerading scenes
and empty school buses appear on every corner
performing a deceptive drama.
I gazed across the horizon and drowned out
the intimidating sounds in America’s streets.
Instantaneously a hand touched me
I reached out and held on
but surprisingly it disappears.
I held on tightly clinging to something that was not there.
Bequeathed by a mysterious will
my mind glides up a gigantic hill
shades of wonders, throngs of danger
could not stopped god's destined will.
With hand clasped and eyes closed
I whisper a prayer for my compelling soul.
I tried to detached but it kept coming back.
Something bigger than faith kept me going
more profound than hope itself
It absorbs my innate being
and laden me with mystical dreams.
Weighing heavily upon throbbing heart
It was strong enough to melt my spiritual thoughts.
Thousand of them stand in the midst of the crowd
but only one I could make out.
That one gambled with my heart
Stretched my bone and pull my marrow apart
unmindful of the wounds it caused
smiling at me without an infinite thought.
most powerful and most worthy
Yet strong enough to rip up my aching heart.
©2013 Christine Phillips