Ceremonies Poems - Poems about Ceremonies

Ceremonies for festivals Rainbow colours Dress the streets, People in their latest best Matching paints of salon fares Made to look like a picture book. Shoes shinning reflecting Cleansed ‘soul’ Or ‘sole’ not worn. White teeth glittering In the shinning street, Laughter filling every space With voices trailing along the way. Ceremonies for festivities Only for a day. Smiles then vanish Into the setting festive air. ...

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Once again, the missus did volunteer yours truly as master of ceremonies..., when triumvirate (Kathleen Bergen, Pamela Floreen, and Richard Jett) constitute Grosse and Quade real estate management cutting crew for Highland Manor Apartments in Schwenksville conduct requisite yearly property inspection (the law mandates low income rental properties constituent units undergo careful examination courtesy Housing and Urban Development) on May 28th, 2024. Countdown triggers nails bitten down...

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If I could comprehend the constant rhythm slow breath as if in one first soft impress the indefatigable resolution I embodied a warming tide habitant in a miracle extant of a souls immortal upon these initiatory eyes Such is the memory perpetual of first days creation gave with all the testaments of annunciation lay tiny feet on tiny birth and tiny hands upon...

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Sacraments and rituals will not Bring forth our holiness, They're empty ceremonies that Just make men walk in darkness. Pious genuflections, deeds- They make us think we're good. Truth is in His Word, it leads To God, not to gods of wood. Once for all, Christ shed His Blood, We receive Him in our hearts. He's not in that bread, that's no God! They're lies religion...

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What a privilege! What a treat! My thumbs are thumbs-up thumbing Because today, in “Cabaret,” On stage was Alan Cumming. Born to play this role as M.C. Of the Kit Kat Klub, If he were sick, I’d hate to be The guy called in to sub. From wicked grin to dimpled smirk To knowing, coyish wink, He let us in all on all the jokes, Delighting...

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In just-spring this year, the world was not mud-luscious nor puddle-wonderful, but dry, the stark trees bare and clacking in the wind above the brown lawns and fissured earth, the land trod by old men in cracked leather boots, coughing hoarse whispers under leaden skies,...

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