Youth Easter Poems | Examples
These Youth Easter poems are examples of Easter poems about Youth. These are the best examples of Easter Youth poems written by international poets.
They rise and sparkle and crackle,
Shaming the nakedness of the skies
And the city, with one frightful flame of
Youth,
Burning with the zest of
Seasonal lore.
At Christmas, they salute the days
Creamed by snow and sleet,
Thrusting in us the wisdom of
Global ceremonies.
They are the lightning of Yuletide —
Lightning unaccompanied by rain.
Shaped in balls and spears, and lean
Fragments of flagrant colours,
They are armed with their own thunder —
Thunder that speaks volumes and calms the rage in
Frenetic dogs.
They are coloured paints splashed lavishly across the broadest
Canvas ever —black and seamless
We see through their lens, the running dusts
Of sparks,
The dancing circus of sky-circuits
And the happy wars waged on the frontiers
Of seasons.
They strobe around the cold earth.
New Year’s Eve is riddled with conundrums,
Waking sleepy souls to sneeze up details of
A frazzled year.
The heavens are lit up lavishly,
Electrified to stupor,
Reminding us of choirs that chorus to the tunes
Of life everlasting.
Carousels ride through our minds, young now,
Old tomorrow,
With sparks that shine this moment
And dim the next.
Such is life.
Armozel kissed his head as the blue lily did in youth
To crown him with nurturing grace with piercing truth
Oroiael kissed his right-hand twitching and twisting in blight
To bring back memories of penetrating light
Daveithai kissed his left-hand that was marked with streams of blood
To give him the staff of understanding and wood
Eleleth kissed and cleaned his nailed feet with bright tears as dew
To mirror wisdom weeping for leaving the blue
Artifacts of artistry
Approach a blurred mind trembling
And we will go remembering
When youth was our despair.
On steeds of deeds a galloping,
Surrendering to luck
From life we plucked
A pear or two
With lips pressed dripping,
Sipping only time.
We made it rhyme, by God
We made life fine.
And on the sands of Israel
Beneath the twilight sky
We found our Babylon
Within a newborns cry
And all of us, each one
Is not alone;
The light that is the soul of us
Still burns where love is shone.
GENTLE DAWN OF RESURRECTION DAY
Love is the gentle anointing of his hands.
Pierced palms - like Elijah pressed upon
a youth with the balm of Gilead, except
the curtain’s torn - we’ve direct access
to the King of kings. A glorious morning!
2/27/2020
Then he stretched himself out on the boy three times and cried
to the Lord, “O Lord my God, let this boy’s life return to him!”
The Lord heard Elijah’s cry. 1 Kings 17:21-22a NIV
Is there no balm of Gilead? Is there no physician there!
Why then is there no healing for the wound of my people?
Jeremiah 8:22 NIV
There is a balm in Gilead
to make the wounded whole,
there is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sin-sick soul.
(traditional African-American spiritual)
From wikipedia: The “balm in Gilead” is a reference
from the Old Testament, but the lyrics of this spiritual refer
to the New Testament concept of salvation through Jesus Christ.
The Balm of Gilead is interpreted as a spiritual medicine
that is able to heal Israel (and sinners in general)
King Of Kings
Baskets filled with candy and plastic grass of pink and green.
Children searching happily for Easter eggs unseen.
Giving credit to a bunny for this temporary pleasure.
Helping to create memories for each of us to treasure.
Yet this Easter story heard from our early youth.
Is just a little tale we tell far from the painful truth.
The Easter celebration from a time of pain and strife.
Began when God above Sacrificed His Own Sons life.
Stripped, mocked and beaten then nailed upon a cross.
Knowing as it happened our gain would be His loss.
By His stripes we are healed He saved us from our sin.
He fulfilled the prophesy In three days I'll rise again!
His disciples ran to see Him in a tomb that's made of stone.
Once there told by angels our hearts are now His throne.
So as you're celebrating Easter with baskets full of (things).
Take a moment to remember
Jesus! King of Kings.
Edwin C Hofert
I remember the day my imagination was lost
and my brothers laughed because they thought it so funny;
tears and innocence being the ultimate cost
when they killed, for me, the Easter Bunny.
“You’re too old to believe in all of this stuff;
its time you started acting your age”;
My siblings had decided that I had enough
as they turned over my childhood page.
With chocolate stains on the front of my shirt
and Easter eggs yet to be found,
I did my best to cover up all of the hurt,
hating the truth they were slinging around.
It wasn’t just the end of a childish phase;
It was more than destroying a mere fantasy;
Somewhere in the mist of this confusing haze,
was the realization - they had been lying to me.
It wasn’t just the Easter Bunny they had slain;
It wasn’t just Santa Claus they turned into dust;
Destroyed holiday myths wasn’t the cause of my pain,
it was a loss of faith in those that I trust.
So, be careful when we tell me a tale,
I am skeptical about accepting your truth;
It is a lesson that I learned only too well,
long ago in my forgotten youth.
Hand in hand, we fluttered like two butterflies
among the fragrant flowers of the field
and meandered, singing songs, along a stream.
No agendas to keep to; no schedules to curtail
the pure pleasure that we took
in consuming every lovely hour of our Saturday.
With our picnic lunch, we sat down on a blanket.
Later we lay looking up at clouds.
Transported to the wonderland of our imagination,
we named them fluffy mountain ranges,
bunnies, sheep, and Easter lily petals
until they morphed into lopsided bearded faces,
huge white polar bears and cotton-breathing dragons.
Unexpectedly, the clouds grew dark, and suddenly,
we saw and felt large raindrops splatter on our skin.
We fled our happy field, arriving home - two children,
wet and laughing, just as the spring shower let up.
How were we to know in the springtime of our lives
that the field and the rain from which we fled
I’d one day write about as metaphors for youth.
It either comes stealthily at first like a spy or announces as a fanfare but more often
like a bride in white being no respecter of beings or things equally fooling all in the
guise of a fluffy warm blanket.
It is the delight of children who miss school and teenagers having a mock cricket or
baseball match as a form of courting.
It is the bane of commuters even worse than a leaf on the line, fog on the tarmac or
gales shutting ships in or out of port and slip siding away on the roads.
It is a mixed blessing to the old bringing back to the brim of memory the tales of youth
more exciting than any computer game or the fear of bringing with it loneliness and
racketing fuel bills.
It is for those sleeping rough or the unemployed a frigid beauty or just dirty and ugly
as though nature is also against them as well as the state or society too.
It takes the boredom from our doldrums of the post Christmas celebrations and New
Year revelries before Spring and Easter give us hope these often so hopeless times.