Best Worshipped Poems
The
old house
from my memories
opens to a wide porch
adorned by mom with her
loving touch.Herbs,flowers
swayed to caressing breeze
Lilies in pink, roses in blue
and bougainvilleas that
blushed in lilac hues.
Green tulsi shrubs
tended with care.
Ah! leaves that
flavored
our tea.
They
were
laced
by a
fence
with a
sweet aroma
from tendrils
curling bluebells
intertwined in mesh.
The fragrant jasmine,
she sang to them
and put one in
her wavy hair.
Spring bloomed them to full moon. Monsoons brought a divine petrichor
that made us breathe the heavenly aroma of her love. She taught me
to care for them under the Mahogany tree that enveloped them from
raging heat. She worshipped her nursery like her own kids. Every
evening, dad used to share his stories watching the rosy blush.
On moonlit nights, we stargazed lying on the grassy bed and
listened to old songs on radio. I had built a corner of three
bricks to keep my favorite books to bloom and read them
on lazy noon with cuckoo's songs breathing intermingled
scents. When we left that house, the garden lived for
someone else. My mom had wished they would care
for it like she did. I packed my old books to move on.
Now years later, far from mom, when I miss my garden
of bliss, I unpack those books that still release scents of
roses and jasmine drenched and dancing, releasing soothing
petrichor. For a love so deep shall bless me now in my kitchen
garden, confined to few flowers. That love still blooms with those
books as I inhale the fragrance of those foregone days. Like I carry
my mother's essence in everything I am, the divine garden of that heaven
from my memories and the eternal fragrance of mother gleaming, lives on.
~ To the garden where I wrote my first poem
Categories:
worshipped, garden,
Form:
Concrete
You had me oblivious to your antics,
as you hushed me tenderly by the creek
into your hide and seekable
soul-surrendering secret relief.
There, you cottled me into softness
with a simple chin caress,
which continued to smooth
the entire twisting course
of my delicate remorse.
My garments shifted
from their skin,
slipped into the witnessing wind.
You convinced me to sin
so remarkably, so recklessly,
for one worshipped glide
of feigned intimacy.
I bemoan my mixed senses
behind the curtain of uncertainty.
Oh, Romeo, if only I'd known you.
If only I knew that
your prestigious people-pleasing smile
was practice for the play.
That those granny pleasing manners
and Band-Aid banter
would soothe my soul to sleep.
That those jovial jokes
and caramel coated coaxing
would lead me quietly to the creek
where your meaty man hands would span
each inch of my innocence and beyond.
That your chivalrous, chiseled chest
and incandescent camper's scent
would be compressed
against my gentleness.
By this indulgence
I had relinquished your respect
and you had tossed my trust.
So dissolved the blending of lust,
and with it the end of us.
Your camouflaged fibs
of forever love
would continue deep
through the space in my ribs,
into the closing scene.
Romeo, so applause-worthy were you
on your secret stage that
Shakespeare could have cast you
just as you had cast me.
Categories:
worshipped, betrayal, loss, lust, romantic
Form:
Free verse
No mere river, thou art nation’s heartbeat,
That you came from heaven may be a myth,
Not that for common good ye fell beneath,
For centuries ye lift people’s spirit.
Let me call thee India’s stand-in sub soul,
O Brahma-vari, heaven’s holy waters,
Thou worshipped art in thy all as a whole,
I bow to Thee, Holiest of all Daughters.
Many a meditating muni’s mind
Mused were by thy serene, calming presence,
And far from the humdrum of mundane grind,
Shelter have found at thy banks for long hence.
King Bhagirath’s penance once brought ye here,
In penitence to wash ancestors’ sins,
With this hoary burden of long ye steer,
We need a new Bhagirath ye to cleanse.
Ye had, we know, condescended to come,
Known as Brahma’s haughtiest of daughters,
Boasting of ‘my cascading flood waters’,
Shiva tamed thee, taught a lesson wholesome.
Sad, mere rituals seem all that remain
Today, wreaking ‘pon thy soul vast damage,
Yet, all this done is in thy holy name,
Ye sure suffer, suffer in silent rage.
A holy thee flows in all us within,
We need not come to thee to wash our sin,
Bathe nor worship, sully thy soul so clean,
But people are what they have always been.
O Mother, under thy sons’ sins ye moan
As ye thyself need a bath of thy own.
A poet was so pained and hurt to call:
O Ganga, why ye care to flow at all! ____________________________________________
Brahma-vari in Sanskrit means (holy) water from Brahma, the supreme creator. Bhagirath (Sanskrit: ?????, Bhagiratha), a legendary king of Ikshvaku dynasty who brought the Sacred River Ganges (personified as the Hindu River Goddess Ganga) to earth from heaven to liberate his ancestors and Sagar’s sons from sins.
Ode |16.05.2021|
Topic: river, mother
Categories:
worshipped, mother, river,
Form:
Ode
POTD 23 Mar 2024
THE PATH WELL TRAVELLED.
Two paths diverged, and I was thrown by doubts I had never known
To my left, thickly overgrown, was a path to dismal dimness prone.
To my right, a lovely sight-fragrant flora flamed in light
Forms so graceful, beauty rare, a wonderous vision beyond compare.
Both seduced with equal right, torn was I between dark and light.
Resisting limits of time and sight, a liminal border of cosmic might.
Hesitancy rapt with fear and doubt, the pondering heart beat aloud.
Tempting was the path so grand, but instinct cautioned of a treacherous hand.
A feathery touch, a breeze stirred, and in its sigh, a voice I heard.
Was it Hecate who whispered?
"Take heed. Beware, for each path leads to a different lair."
Crystal clarity knew what I must do, and with a heart filled with valour true,
Joyously, I strode wild and free down the well-trodden path ahead of me.
The leaves, like frisking lovers, played as I embarked my chosen way.
Future paths ~ So many dreams ~ Each a thread in life's grand scheme.
Though true discovery lay in paths, I'd roam ~
The one well travelled always led back Home.
By Maria Williams ©
Greeks worshipped Hecate as a guardian and gatekeeper who could ward off evil forces. She is often represented carrying a torch and a key and standing on the liminal border between one place and another. She bears three heads and always has a dog by her side.
Inspired by Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken', I chose to write an alternative version.
'The Road Not Taken' is one of Robert Frost's most famous poems. It's natural and understandable that many readers take the poem to be Frost's statement of individualism as a poet: he will take 'the road less travelled'.
The metaphor of the road is one that immediately evokes a journey, not just of the local or day-to-day kind, but of the life-defining sort: life as a journey, with many roads which we must travel along, and with many alternative paths which we must choose between.
POTD 23 March 2024
Categories:
worshipped, inspirational, journey, life, metaphor,
Form:
Rhyme
Reverence heard, a compassionate sound of solemn word,
Resounds mercy of utmost goodwill, aura-divine spurred,
Performing deeds of beneficence, defying malevolence;
An epistle of angels on earth conferring gift of benevolence.
Such holy angels dwelling among us, are gems quite rare,
Purity of their actions proclaim~ how genuinely they care,
For the destitute, the hapless, caught in throes of despair,
Proffering words of prayer, pleading for hope and welfare.
Messengers of peace, hallowed in zeal of virtuous intention,
Supernal is their magnificence, never yearning attention,
Humble in service to others, dedicated to their missions,
Guiding through life’s hurdles, fulfilling human ambitions.
Inner harmony echoes from voice of their altruistic soul,
Righteous are such missives, sentiments endearing cajole,
Rejecting pessimism of fate in bold pursuit of virtuous goal,
Of kindness, of amity and love, teachings spiritual extol.
Featherless angels, mortals alike us, yet they live on and on,
Worshipped for their pious acts, long after they are gone,
For legacies of ideals devout, profound passions of heart,
For reassurance, inspiration of life, memories now impart.
Categories:
worshipped, angel, inspirational,
Form:
Rhyme
Ramayana, a Hindu epic,
written by saint Valmiki, in Sanskrit
one of the two largest ancient epics,
the first ever poem ever created
many many centuries ago.
It depicts story of Lord Rama
as a kind, fair, brave, soft spoken,
handsome prince, who had
the kind benevolence of gods.
Himself an avatar of lord Vishnu
he was bestowed with divine,
powerful weapons of gods
to be used to fight evil forces.
He won over his consort, Sita,
daughter of King Janak,
in a 'swayamvar', a competition.
Keeping the tradition of honouring
a given word or promise at all costs,
a tradition of his sun god lineage
he went to forest for fourteen years
obeying his father, King Dashrath
and forsake the throne of Ayodhya
for his younger brother Bharata,
as demanded by Queen Kaikayi,
the mother of Bharatha.
He went to forests
with Sita and younger brother Lakshman.
There, he often killed many demons
who had terrorised and killed saints worshipping
peacefully in their holy monasteries,
on latter's requests.
In the 14th year of his banishment,
along with younger brother Lakshman,
with help from his follower Hanuman,
and, King of monkeys, Sugreev,
he fought with King of Lanka, Ravana
a demon King, who had kidnapped Sita
and had wanted to marry her.
After this victory of right over wrong,
and freeing Sita and killing Ravana
he returned to his kingdom Ayodhya
and became the king himself theteafter.
Ramayana, steeped in morality,
depicts duties of relationships,
portraying characters, ideal in nature,
like ideal son, ideal father, ideal servant,
ideal brother, ideal husband and ideal king.
Ramayana has greatly influenced
Hindu poetry, life and culture, thereafter.
Presenting teachings of ancient Hindu sages
in narrative allegory, it intermixes
philosophical and ethical elements.
The characters of Rama, Sita, Lakshman,
Hanuman, Ravana are still revered and worshipped,
in some of the culturally conscious
South and East Asian nations even today.
Two great Hindu festivals,
Dussehra and Deepawali
are celebrated to mark the victory of good over evil,
in India and elsewhere
with fervor and gaiety, every year.
8.6.2020
Categories:
worshipped, inspirational,
Form:
Narrative
Cause you see no one gets how hard it is to fix back into shape when you’re broken,
Shattered,
I think it’s just mathematically, scientifically impossible to get the pieces back perfect,
Because in the process some pieces may have been lost,
Lost and cannot be found,
Cause I found it was so hard to every get over you,
But it looked so easy to you,
Cause maybe you never feel as deep as you said you did,
I fell deep into your lies and your beautiful eyes and it’s just so hard to move on,
Hard to move on, because you left piece of your soul inside me, the exact moment you decided to get inside me,
Despite our use of protection, it didn’t protect the sexually connection,
No it’s not an internet connection that you can easily disconnect from, but it’s almost permanent,
Yes you permanently hurt me ,
And you watch me with those eyes and that grin cause I, the fool gave you the thing,
The thing that I promise that I wouldn’t give until marriage,
I willingly disobeyed God for you,
Cause you became my God,
I worshipped you,
I loved you with every inch of me,
And now we’re inches from being strangers and I have to get over you,
I’m sure to be careful next time around,
Because I can’t afford to break the pieces of my heart that are left dangling .
Categories:
worshipped, addiction, betrayal, break up,
Form:
Free verse
Growing older is a garden of graces . . .
disgraces, wild goose chases, closed in places.
It is an imperceptible tottering of time on a
conveyer belt, where at the end time drops
into the slipstream and becomes the mobius .
Growing older is wanting to be older when
you are young and younger when you are old.
You wish away the days, never dreaming that
you would give a king’s ransom to have them
back once again, treasured, appreciated.
In our youth, we squander time, kick it to the curb.
In our older years, we try to tie it to ourselves.
Age sneaks around when we aren’t looking, spreads
its poison pollen and is gone without our seeing.
The business of living distracts us from noticing
until it is too late, when we look into a mirror,
only to behold the ruthless signs smothering us.
It is realizing men no longer turn and whistle.
You have become invisible, crayoned out until
some young man says, “Grandma, the time?”
Growing older is smelling of Icy Hot instead of
Beautiful by Estee Lauder, seeing people sniff.
It is keeping L`Oreal in business long past the time
you want to stop, but can’t bear those gray hairs
that are the mute testimony to the inexorable decay
Growing older is breaking the shackles of propriety
Wearing that purple, and at least four sweaters.
It is joyously realizing you don’t care a fig what
people think or say about you or anything else.
You can laugh at the absurdity of fashion, style.
It is the delicious capability to say anything
you want, vent your opinions, disagree.
You say the most outrageous things freely,
and are forgiven, because you are getting
more than a little fey and just a little dotty.
And, oh, growing old is the sweetest blessing,
for you no longer are frozen in fear at death
and it's coming soon, for your years have
worn you out and everything changes so much
there is scarcely anything left of your world
What does it matter what god you worshipped
This earth has been hell enough for an eternity
and if there be heaven, it is icing on the cake
Categories:
worshipped, meaningful,
Form:
Blank verse
I wake each morning with the ghost of yesterday,
Its cold breath on my neck,
Its weight on my chest.
The dawn feels like a mockery,
Another day to relive what I couldn’t forget.
I love you—
Not the way poets write about love,
But in the way a drowning man loves air.
I’ve worshipped the ground you walk on,
Held your every word like scripture,
But somewhere along the way,
Your love became a prison,
And I can’t find the key.
You say I’ve wronged you,
That I always do.
But your wounds are never alone—
You craft them from things I don’t remember,
Moments twisted by time and guilt,
Moments I can’t defend myself against.
You detonate the past like a bomb,
And I’m left picking through the rubble,
Wondering how I became the villain in this story.
You say, "No one listens to me."
But I hear you.
I hear you even in the silence,
Even when your words are knives,
Even when they cut deep and leave me wondering
If I’m bleeding, or if I’m already bled dry.
You call my darkness a choice,
As if I could simply cast it off—
Like an old coat, like a bad dream.
But this shadow is stitched to my skin,
It clings to my bones,
It is me.
And yet, I am always there for you,
Always the shore to your storm,
Always the hand that lifts you when you fall.
But in the stillness of my own pain,
I stand alone.
I have been your mirror, your reflection,
But now I am fading,
A ghost in your life,
A shadow of the man I once was.
My world spins around your needs,
My days are measured by your happiness,
And I’m lost somewhere in the cracks,
Between your joy and my silence.
I love you—
I do,
But I need to be heard.
I need to be seen,
Not as a villain,
Not as your salvation,
But as a man—
Flawed, broken, and aching to be whole.
But you never listen.
Not really.
You only hear the echoes that suit you,
The words that bend to your will.
And I am left here,
In the quiet aftermath,
Haunted by all the things I’ll never say.
Categories:
worshipped, angst, anxiety, best friend,
Form:
Epigram
This was when the whole world measured time
This is when the light would turn around
This is where the past would come undone
and the spinning earth will mark a new beginning
Let's go back in time, to when it all began
To the breaking of new dawns
Where moments bright with fire, would light the chanting song
Where pagans worshipped sun, and danced among the trees
Wore strange masks of covered straw, and blessed cold ash with awe
Wreaths hung upon the door against all spirit's, dire
and when the winter's grasp let go, the sun reversed the pyre
This was when the whole world measured time
This is when the light would turn around
So that spring arrives, and seeds will sprout and grow
Oh, radiant sun, stretch the day, shorten night
Return earth's darkness into light
This is where the light will turn around
And this was where the past would come undone
------------------------------------------------------------
5/26/16 Summer Solstice Contest Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
Categories:
worshipped, history, people, seasons,
Form:
Free verse
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
My sister and I would play outside
almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
traced the pattern of our lives.
Our country had a new flag and boys
in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.
Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
all the beautiful people gone?
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
Categories:
worshipped, art, emotions, how i
Form:
Free verse
The angel Gabriel appeared to Mary,
He said that she would bear a son,
And call Him Jesus, the Son of David,
The Saviour, man, and Holy One.
(Chorus)
The perfect gift came down from heaven,
The Son of God born on the earth;
The Prince of Peace, the King of Jacob,
Became a babe of humble birth.
The shepherds kneeling, the angels singing,
Give praises to the infant Lord.
The Father's glory shines round about them;
The love of God that night outpoured.
(Chorus)
His beaming star stood above the manger,
It led the wise men from the East;
They fell and worshipped, and then presented
Their gifts to Jesus, King and Priest.
(Chorus)
By Isaiah Zerbst on November 24, 2013
Categories:
worshipped, angel, birth, christmas, jesus,
Form:
Lyric
tale
from old
Slavic god
idol worshipped
sage and protector
season’s spirit
winds obey
chiming
toll
gusts
from gods
stab with blades
of potent breath
freezing the tundra
and stripping oaks
till summer’s
warm air
wafts
winds
rage on
in winter
born from the sea
called by Stribog’s horn
warrior’s songs
command his
grandsons
blow!
*source: Wikipedia and pagan-soul.blogspot
For Shadow's Gods of Winds Contest, 12/17/14
Categories:
worshipped, mythology, wind,
Form:
Ninette
Chivalry
A long, long time ago
Chivalry was wearing silver armour
Travelling the countryside it rode a white horse
Championed the weak, fought for all that was right
It taught men of honour how to treat the fairer sex
It was the force of good in the medieval world
The world changed in a thousand years
Chivalry disappeared as time went by
The politeness and honour of that time was never meant to last
Rudeness grew as the cities blossomed
Even please and thank you are hardly ever heard
There is more and more violence against innocents
Women, once worshipped by the men who knew them
Now they are beaten by men who never learned to care
Even children, the most innocent of all, are abused
Humans forgot how to act with each other
The chivalrous are gone along with their morals
The world needs one white knight riding on his white horse
One who remembers what was taught so long ago
One who will live the simple rules as so to teach our children
Chivalry will one day return
It takes is one person to care about politeness
One knight to ride in on a white horse and say please
Just one word said by the right person
Then everyone will have the respect they deserve
And we will bring the chivalry back to civilization
Categories:
worshipped, nostalgia, philosophy, men, world,
Form:
Free verse
With a shade of colourless eyes
Have I looked upon a world of discrimination
My nature is a rare form of uniqueness
And I defile every race by description
Golden hair on pale silver skin
An African white woman of Timbuktu kin
I have danced to the tune of my mockery
With teary eyes have I smiled at victory
Sharp edged stares may pierce me daily
Yet I walk head high and step most steady
Though the sun remains a foe that tortures
Still I conquer it with protective amours
I scowled at the honey tongues of lying lovers
Professing love only to taste my rare fairness
I read through their lines but read in between better
For this fragile,ignorant creature was fully harnessed
I have been belittled, scoffed and shaken
And redefined by several ethnic culture
I have been judged,ignored and broken
I have been worshipped,feared and obscured
But I created the burning hero in Me
And won my inner battle the greatest battle to be
For i embraced my deepest weakness
And savoured every drop of success
I am that nature's mysterious creation
A shortsighted being with farther vision
I betrayed my timidity and trampled its shell
I am a story and this story I tell
By: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond World Of Poetry
Categories:
worshipped, 12th grade, adventure, anti
Form:
Free verse