Best Triumphal Poems
(A Christmas Collage)
The sun has set and night is stealing
Softly o'er the silent land,
While snowflakes slowly down are falling,
Shaken from an unseen hand.
To the top of Thorburne Tower
Light from windows streams around;
The glow of twenty thousand tapers
Sparkles on the snowy ground.
High arching o'er the graceful altar,
Wintergreen and laurel sway;
And all about the pews of alder
People kneel and humbly pray.
The rosy cheeks and smiling faces,
Rising at the last amen,
Return to rhythmic rows of places
Raising songs of praise again.
Oh hear those olden carols going
O'er the tower to the skies;
Noel and joyful tidings flowing
From warm hearts and gleaming eyes.
So far above the frosty forest,
Father God and Jesus see
The flick'ring flame of faith fulfilling
What on earth was meant to be.
There below the boundless heavens
Beams the Spirit's blessing full;
Bestowing peace and tidings holy,
Bearing love that makes us whole.
Th' enchanting ev'ning passing onward,
Ev'ry street once empty filled;
Then all-enfolding light descending,
Endless eager voices stilled.
To those who trolled triunal praises,
Angels lit the topaz night;
Attuning to the trilling trumpets,
Sounding in triumphal might.
The harps and high harmonic voices
Hold a hope no man could give,
Enmeshing in enchanting fashion,
Showing how archangels live.
E'en later yet they light their lanterns,
Laugh around the firelight's heat;
The children look around and listen,
Laps all full of things to eat.
Even now the endless snowflakes
Eloquently, gently fall;
Adding to the festive feeling
Held alike by great and small.
The youngsters holding hands are happy,
Dancing 'neath the holly wreath,
While horses hauling sleighs and cutters
Jingle homeward on the heath.
The embers glow in evenings echo,
Shedding reddish light afar;
Expectant eyes reflect its sparkle,
Shining like the morning star.
They sing of Mary, blessed mother,
Meek and willing, pure and mild;
They magnify the great Messiah
Born as Mary's holy child.
[Look for the acrostic in the alliteration. There is one letter for each verse.]
By Isaiah Zerbst, November 16, 2013
Easter
Anointed Eternity
Rises up above the paschal dawn
Heaven’s wounded Prince returns to outshine glory
As the sun blushes – witness to His splendor –
Waters from His wounded side christen crystal springs
With flowing purity
And bloodstained rocks harmonize
With angelic “Alleluia!”
Sung at the top of their lungs like an angelic whisper
Next to the return of his voice.
Light explodes the unclean corpse of darkness
Remembering the lyrics to “Gloria!”
Floral trumpets blare sweet incense
Only a wispy scent in the aromatic frankincense
Of Resurrection’s perfume
As skeletons of the impotent offspring
Hatched by the insomniac serpent
Leave lifeless trails of petrified tears in wastelands
Blooming now from shattered halos.
Emmanuel and mortality
Savor manna’s wriggling ecstasy -
The wine of risen victory -
More abundant than nascent radiance
Life consummated through covenants perfected
In pierced sacrifice,
Echoing like whispers of bridal rejoicing,
Earth’s revelry but a shadow in His footsteps
Of triumphal glee –
Glee only a sigh next to His touch
Felt again,
Embraced as heralds open
Eden’s gates and Heaven’s portals
In forever without time.
See the procession. Yonder they come'
None plays a flute- no one beats a drum.
Just a small rag-tagged group of a dozen or so.
Who, for three years, have preached wherever they go.
They know this ministry will soon draw to a close.
What door God opens next, He only knows'
Yet there is an aura about this group of men.
Unlikely to be seen in Judea again.
Even the donkey, on which their Leader does ride,
At someone else's gate was so recently tied.
Hear the refrain which they commenced to sing;
"Glory' Hosanna' To the King of all Kings'"
Some throw their cloaks on the ground,
Others are laying palm branches down.
The High Priest inquires what this is about?
"If the people keep quiet, the rocks will cry out'"
All this accomplished words written long ago,
Every detail was fulfilled- and precisely so'
A Hero this day as He rides among men,
Though shortly these same ones will yell "Crucify Him."
Today- triumphal entry; but on Friday He dies'
Sunday is coming when He'll split the skies.
This is the story of Jesus our Lord,
Born, lived, and died; now alive evermore'
Coming to Jerusalem- a small band of men-
Jesus led captivity captive; a large procession then,
What has been building in the ensuing ages
As the History Books have been filled with numerous pages.
The Church has been built; mighty and strong,
For which Jesus will return before very long.
He'll claim His bride and carry her away.
Later with His saints beside Him, He'll return to stay.
The Procession expands each time it's in views.
How does this apply to me and you?
I've made my decision and taken my stand.
Are you willing to grasp His nailed scarred hand?
You know the words Jesus has said,
And you've heard how God raised Him from the dead.
Will you believe Him, trust Him, and be saved today?
Come join our precession: He's passing your way'
Art Ball (H.S.L.P.)
February 19. 2006
With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.
The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.
The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground
for the perfect spot
to make his nocturnal emissions.
I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini,
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
“grace-filled moments?”
from my past year.
The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.
There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.
The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment,
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I,
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.
Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap
upon the frozen ground.
1.
My Valentine, how you do shine,
your kisses taste of love’s own wine,
you are the love on which I dine.
In eternal grace, a song is sung,
once again love’s bell has been rung,
by love’s stinger, I have been stung.
It comes from the lips of an angel,
the sweet kiss that loves can foretell,
stand before me, down in the dell.
Our song is love, the eternal dream,
within my mind, you are love’s theme,
you are ever my love supreme.
Our song is from a heart of gold,
the wondrous story that is told.
2.
The wondrous story that is told,
a passion that has come from old,
you are the heart that e’er runs gold.
It is your heart that shines so bright,
you are love’s dream throughout the night,
you take me to the highest height.
Your heart does sing triumphal praise,
you are beauty before my gaze,
in all my dreams, you do amaze.
Sing love’s song and my fire shall light,
forever, your star shall shine bright,
my beloved, sing in our night.
I take your hand, our story told,
it makes our hearts once more run gold
3.
It makes our hearts once more run gold,
our hearts weep joy, our story told,
for your sweetheart, my love is sold.
My soul fills with light when you sing,
what love, to my heart, you do bring,
now, you are my everything.
You are beauty, you are glory,
what joy within our love story,
you are ever love’s victory.
Eyes bright, full of love they do shine,
our love does sing, my Valentine,
in love’s desire, we both do dine,
In love’s endeavour, we are bold,
to you, my heart, I have sold.
4.
To you, my heart, I have sold,
in the joy of love, a heart beats bold,
my soul is light, glory foretold.
My love, Diane, your beauty sings,
your eyes shine bright, what joy love brings,
we two do fly on golden wings.
I fall into their depths, my love,
now, you shall ever be my dove,
our love is wonder, high above.
Share in my passion, my deep desire,
shine on, my love, light my heart’s fire,
I play for you, an angel’s lyre.
My beloved, take me to Mars,
as we hear love’s thousand guitars,
I am one of the nearly men
Never quite the best
Not really of the crowd
Not quite one of the rest.
You see us in every photograph
When the prizes are handed out
Making up the numbers yet
Never standing out,
For we nearly men and dreamers
Just stand back and allow
The doers and the action men
Their triumphal bows.
We feed our children humour
And tell them it’s no disgrace
To amble along comfortably
In the middle of the race.
We don’t believe in heavens
Or gods at pearly gates
So we try with dignity
To accept our various fates.
We consume our allotted portions
And when it’s time to die
We face it not with a roar
But with a quiet sigh.
Nearly men and dreamers
Never quiet never loud
Trying their hardest not
To mingle with the crowd.
The mark of a triumphal concert printed
On a glossy long-playing record sleeve.
The concertmaster's smiling face hinted
The acclaim she was entitled to receive.
She liked her drawing with her lock of hair
Falling on the strings of her violin
Like the violinist of the disk where
She held her instrument under her chin.
As always, her last stroke of a pen fell
With the last crackling of the old vinyl.
One day, she would be applauded as well
Louder than the winners of a final.
Her hope endured until the dazzling daydreams
Shattered into pallid scars of moonbeams.
A herald announced the joyous news that a king was to visit my hometown!
Jerusalem was abuzz anticipating seeing a royal king wearing a regal crown!
I could visualize his majesty arriving on a prancing Arabian steed,
Or being borne upon a lavishly bespangled camel of exceptional breed!
I'd also heard that kings were borne in magnificent coaches gilt with gold,
And that with great pomp and blare of trumpets their procession was foretold!
This I wanted to see so I joined the milling throng and got a curbside seat!
Thousands of jubilant celebrants lined both sides of the city's dusty street!
"Here He comes!" shouted the mob! "Hosanna In the Highest!", they cried!
I strained my neck to see a real king in purple robes, the nation's pride!
The exultant crowd spread their cloaks and waved palm fronds along the mews,
Shouting, "Hosanna To Christ The King! The promised Messiah of Good News!"
This king, this King of Kings, rode a lowly donkey as His means of transportation!
I was told that a prophet Zecharia said He'd ride one for His triumphal celebration!
As He passed by I fell to my knees! He looked directly AT ME!, smiled and waved!
From that moment I became His disciple - straight paths for me He hath paved!
The man next to me said this man, this King, was born in a stable cave,
And that of His power to heal the ailing, blind and lame He freely gave!
Unlike earthly kings, He even promised eternal life for a sinner like me!
From this day forward I'll forever follow that good man from Galilee!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Him fountain of eternal joy from
Where life is renewed,
Ageing and life to be drained out, exit
From the world is nigh,
When suddenly comes a call from him
Above, who regulates
The flow of life through cycles of many
Births and deaths, to stop.
Suddenly sounds the drum from sky for the
Second act of play,
Life really awakens, drooping life
Joyfully responds to the call;
The wintry night desolate soon turns
Into a joyous spring day,
Undoing death, His rhythm and dance
Rejuvenates life force.
The flow of life from star to star
Follows the rhythm of his dance,
Freed from the confinement of matters
Th'Earth finds salvation;
With multitudinous fruits and grains and
Flowers of myriad hues
Her baskets of seasons are filled to the
Till and brim and all.
Thus she attains the fulfillment at the
Touch of his dancing feet,
The flow of life gushes up from death
Following incessantly
The pattern of his rhythm and dance, to the
Tune of his golden flute;
In the tornado of this violent dance,
All that is withered falls.
The triumphal arch of life is erected
Midst the joyful tunes,
And the journey of this spring meanders
Towards the fountain again.
This poem was originally written in Bengali Language by Rabeendranath Tagore. Its Bengali Title was Udbodhan. It was then translated into English by Mr. Rabeendranath Choudhury who expressed his wish that somebody from some other generation may attempt the rest so that all the English-speaking people may enjoy India's Pride. And here it is, slightly edited and recast in the true poetic form by P.S. Remesh Chandran, Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum.
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Walking along the Tiber's River walls,
one discovers hieroglyphics
depicting images of Romans
engaging in battles; they seem
mythical warriors so appealing.
As legend goes, Romulus
became the first roman king,
he founded Rome once
an insignificant rural village;
in the shortest time,
it grew into a powerful city
that ruled the ancient world
with intimidation and atrocity.
Each hieroglyphic tells
a story of victory,
of defeat, of conquest,
of cruelty and dominion:
hear Julius Caesar
speak against his enemy
in the Roman Forum!
It's such a sorrowful echo of distrust;
hear the shouts of proud citizens
overtaken by anger and disgust...
even louder they would be after
his premeditated assassination!
Every empire old or new
has known its glory in full;
and Rome more than any
empire has excelled them all.
If those hieroglyphics tell
of its greatness and superiority,
they also should expose
the evil minds of some emperors:
like Caligula, Nero and Diocletian
who ruled with a steady iron hand.
Constantine's conversion
to Christianity brought harmony,
the inhumane slaughtering
of innocent Christians was halted.
Would this empire have survived
without its legions of mighty stronghold?
Hieroglyphics itched in triumphal arches,
temples and monuments attest:
that the rise to power takes
an ingenuity which begins
with a strategic concept.
Today a world government
is in its raw state, other
hieroglyphics will be carved,
and along with holograms,
one sees images beyond
imagination and belief.
Will humans leave
a testament of their
existence with
a science so brief?
Abandon Hope All Ye
Who Enter Here
Ever the edifice
The bold and self-serving statue
Proud ego stamped
In the courtyards and squares
Of those who have diminished ( ordinary )
Ever the hero who by guile
Steals the heroes burial
With self sacrificial offerings of ballot boxes ( rigged )
Ever the flag waving
For the faceless dictators
Who by money and army medals adorned
Assume control
Via coup d'état ( or money )
Ever the religious fanatic
Behind Iattola, priest, missionary and Papist
Ever the quiet and raucous rapist
Of faith
Ever the secret of power hunger ( sanctioned )
Allowed to dictate
Through political expediencies
Ever the murder of country men
To rule the country
Ever the nationalistic barrage of pride
For coloured cloth
Defines identity
And not humanity ( human )
Ever the innocent left to bleed
To fill the coffers of nameless greed
And ever the hate to feed
The racial, political and religious idiocy ( bigotry )
Ever the door which opens
For men and women returning home
With the triumphal marches
Of black body bags
Ever the tear gas, riot shield and rubber bullet
Ever the faces of Tienanmen Square
Ever the bodies of The World Trade Centre
Ever the terrorism of lies
Ever the truth denied
Ever love defiled
Ever the innocent left to bleed
To fill the coffers of nameless greed
And ever the hate to feed
The racial, political and religious bigotry ( idiocy )
Ever the door which open
Welcoming home
Mothers and Fathers
From their long days labours ( ordinary )
Brutust Iulius Trois Page 07
Brutus called his captains into conference
we are done with creeping along the shorelines
prepare now to sail out across the Aegean
the winds are with us and Troy awaits!
Imogen seeing Hesione, ceased weeping
Hesione, were you happy with your lot?
was Telamon a better fate than Neptune's dragon.
So you are returned home having reclaimed your veil
So Priam is again Podarces and the serpentine Cetus awaits.
With the dawn the Trojan fleet finally sailed out.
Guardian dolphins leaping alongside in sunrise
Sped on by Aeolus, the windy son of Neptune
For Neptune had been placated by Brutus
by his offerings and by his vows
happy to be headed homeward the Trojans sang
composing happy ballads about Brutus
his triumphal return of the Trojans to Troy
of the golden lives he was leading them to
so the sunny days of the crossing passed
The fleet of Brutus sailed past the foggy isle of Tenedos in the last hours of night.
gliding over Neptunes's golden palace, the Aegean glowing with Salacia's lights
raced they toward the ness, the headlands of the Helespont
Suddenly from the fog came, Alarms, cries, clamor, the clash of iron
Sol's opening eyes revealed a Thracian pirate attacking a Phoencian
Tossing bodies overboard feeding the lesser cetus the sharks of the sea.
With his own battle cry Brutus took what was to hand and threw it.
as Nauta the helmsman steered into the fight
Tossed like a weapon Hesoine's amphora burst upon the Thracians
spearing them with shards as her black ashes coated the sea
clogging the gills of the lesser cetus who dived deep
deep and away from all of the disturbance.
As the ships came together the Trojans boarded the Thracian trireme
swords slashing stabbing slicing as they bloodily slayed the pirates
Imogen left behind looked away looked down upon the water
only she saw Hesoine's ashes transform into a sea dog
a great grey seal that swam to the beach of Cynossema
finding shelter beneath the shadow of Hecuba's empty tomb.
I was born
in the spring of the year—
a New England spring,
that comes only with reluctance—
a damp, gray chill
that clings to its pewter skies
and blustery winds,
unwilling to yield its frigid grip—
until the day,
that day in the middle of May
when I drew my first breath on this planet—
a breath of gentle air, perfumed with the heady scent of lilacs,
where triumphal shafts of blessed sunlight
bathed a world gushing with the birth waters
of a greening, bursting, exuberant earth,
trumpeting her joy in a torrent of birdsong.
I was born
in the spring of the year—
and even in the snowy silence
of a New England winter,
I shelter within myself
the glorious fragrance
of petals unfolding.
When the sky shall cry soon,
your head shall be the dwelling place
of its tears of shame and lame.
I will help to sing this cracking song,
an unbelievable old fashioned tone,
a jazz tone of Fela Anikulapo,
Nigeria shall be the theme of my tone,
we will not clothe corruption again.
My poem, our poems shall stand
to unveil those political animals
with palms written with greed.
In the basket of illusion have they
deceived us and made us insane,
our eyes, a beach of salty pains,
tears comes to play randomly.
My poem, our poems shall have
hands to get this uneased land rest.
Poets are not myopic in nature!
Do not trade with our senses!
Whole Soyinka dreamed of conquering
but failed at his teething words.
For boys of tomorrow we taught
how to guide their tomorrow.
My brothers in arms and words,
My sisters in wordwar three,
be armed with your armours.
Freedom one day shall be ours!
From political imposition we'll rise,
Poetry a mightier weapon of warfare.
Man up men and women of words!
Man up sisters and brothers in wordwar!
A triumphal medal is in front!
Of womanhood, we'll journey,
Of manhood, we'll stand firm.
Advance towards corruption!
Man your words and kill!
War for human right
War for tomorrow,
War for freedom from bad leaders!
We are not cattle to be slaughtered,
let them know we have blood flowing,
a speaking blood than Abel's.
Tomorrow we shall not hang our towls
on the surface of the sea to dry quick.
We have a dream to rewrite Nigeria,
so, man up brothers and sisters of wordwar
let's save Nigeria and purge her sins away.
A saint is not without a sin, a saint
is one with a sin and knew he has a sin.
Man up let's save our fatherland.
Nigeria died yesterday when we stopped
sounding the drums with our mouths.
Nigeria is gone into abyss
we could take another route to
resurrect our land-
Man up brothers and sisters of words
tomorrow is in our hands.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration
A beacon of light to a much hurting world in need !
Can't help but to claim..,
Some sense of identity,
Stregnth and encouragement only come from above !
Amidst in the distance, the trapped seagull..,
Lieth frightened but still yet adrift !
In a most vengeful fashion striking the passing fish,
A true source of hope,
Yet a most triumphal beam !
This beacon of light shineth forth,
Passerby's can err' escape the helping hand..,
To the most sparkling of radiance !