Long Altar Poems
Long Altar Poems. Below are the most popular long Altar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Altar poems by poem length and keyword.
Un-revelling Rivalry
Who am I to speak of historical rivalry I cannot contest
all the clever myriad truths conjectures and refutations
about the two masters the two foes with huge presence
when history acclaim appreciation is subjective personal
up front and back stage up all artistic ins downs and outs
My parachute helicopter mind wants to give first prize to
to Leonardo for free flying inventive rebellious mind and
he helped me with anatomy dissecting corpses and all I can
still smell fragrant formalin preserving miraculous tissues
when I had to learn those medical terms and cut into flesh
But then Michelangelo shares my middle name though I am
no angel but who can proclaim that I may never be biased in
associate vein in quite shallow post-post-modernist anticipation
when the great man also painted in narrative personification
Deluge Drunken Noah Creation of Adam Madonna and Child
Okay family man that I am I resort to holidays with my children
and am so sad to admit that we never so far made it to Rome
sacrilegious or not but how could I pass The Last Judgement
when seeing Sistine Chapel’s altar would alter the verdict
of Ignoramus with leisure time spent on Normandy’s beaches
Well now I recall that trip to Euro Disney when we walked
from Tour Eiffel to the Louvre where I temporarily lost my
little boy Moritz and almost my temper when the devious villain
hid from the artwork was sulking because the Mona Lisa was
so small and he was so tiny could not see amongst masses of
tourists the smile and metaphorical writing on canvas and wall
So in all earnest while giving a toss I could-would have to resort
to tossing a coin in regards to whom why how and whenever the
rivals could measure up to history my history my story and life
Even and because of my whacky literal critical stance and my
stanzas bordering on mockery heresy subtle subjectification
you must remember that I have one tongue and two cheeks
And while seemingly ridiculing an important theme of historical
prominence I still bow in awe admiration yet lodge my own angle
perspective whereas the two grand master’s problem was not
what I would behold in my eyes and my soul in full radiance but
that they chose not to consider each others contrasting beauty
as compliment complement Leonardo Angelo Michel Da Vinci
01st September 2016
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
*WALK ME THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS VALLEY*
Hold my hand and walk me through
So that I will neither fear nor fret
I am stranger on this lonely path
Lead me before the twin ancient temples
Let me worship before the daughter of Zion's altars
Let me marvel at the sight of the wonders of the gods
Let my eyes behold the curves that no architect can make
Works beyond the instinct of sculptors
Lead me to the mountain top
The top men are scared to climb
If I cannot touch let me stretch my hands
To the thrones of the twin goddess
Lead me to the fountain that gives life
Same that feed the liquid manner
The crave of the sinless infants
Maybe I can one day be your priest
Fed from the first drips at daybreak
And an altar to lay for the night
Make a way through the colourful curtains
Made of the finest Royal fabrics
Let me walk through the soft and lonely valley
Let me look up to the hills on both sides
The soft but powerful hills of nature
The hills that caps its peak with the dark candies
The candies we all crave from cradle to grave
I heard the kings doff their crowns to have a taste
They must be made from the historical honey from the lion's jaw
The valley may be short
But I can crawl a thousand times the slopes
I can climb the steep edges
Gently but steady till I reach the top
If I'm gentle and steady
If I can be slow and determined
If I can aim and watch my pace
I can get to the land and have my gain
Don't take this for a play
Believe me I'm willing to lay there till daybreak
Be kind to me and reward my effort
Be nice to me and renew my strength
If I labour for one
Bless me with the other
Let me drink from the spring till I thirst no more
Trust me I shall be gentle and tender
I am afraid to go down the stream
I was told of how dark and rough the path is
I read it is a lonely way
It takes no pair at a time
I know the path is slippery and steep
I'm scared to test the depth with my staff
If I go down the stream
I heard I may lose my way back home
So let me hold on to the hills for now
Where I can lay my head and rest for the day
Where my sweat would be rewarded
And I can have a smile that lasts ages
Where thoughts are crested in memories
And memories remain till no end
Walk me through the hills with the shallow valleys
The path my heart so desire
*CONCEPTUAL FM ???*
Before you stand up to pray you might need to halt
and deal with any grievances that were your fault
and before you come to the altar to give God your treasures
stop and mend the hurt and then return to give your measure
hurt is hurt no matter if you've received it or gave
pain is pain but you don't have to take it to the grave
the Human heart is very fragile and sensitive to any and all strain
and it doesn't take much for it react to any and all pain
God said that forgiveness is the cure no matter the situation
but people tend to make forgiveness such a complication
yet the hurt is always worse when it's intentional and repeated again and again
especially when you're already low in spirit and it comes from a supposed friend
if you were ever to get hit by a big Mack truck
be it intentional or accidental you would still be broken up
to walk in the spirit of forgiveness you need to be most aware
that you in turn don't be the cause of any hurt anywhere
to talk in the spirit of forgiveness you need to watch the words you select
so that your tone and inflection are not perceived as disregard or disrespect
to seek forgiveness position your heart before God and let Him correct it
so start by letting go of the bitterness in life and allowing God to direct it
to come out of that prison and be released from that anger you can't seem to let go
and in turn to seek forgiveness from those whom you've hurt also
and don't ever use that phrase "If I did anything wrong?"
be sincere in your apology and but the blame where it belongs
so what are you going to do about those you've hurt and those who've hurt you?
you need to follow the directives that God has given to you
the Lord Our God said we need to forgive and to forget
to remove all the obstacles that won't let us walk in the Spirit
apologies are needed at home, at the job and the church you attend
you need to show true remorse and in your heart truly repent
as forgiveness is the only key that opens all doors in life
to forgive as the Lord forgave you in the name of His Son Jesus Christ
now free of the bondage and consequences of causing pain
to forgive others and to be forgiven for any hurt, heartache and/or shame
so what are you going to do about those you've hurt and those who've hurt you?
you need to forgive and be forgiven with a heart contrite and true
Marry Your Best Friend To Get the Best of Both Worlds
Not many can claim they met their spouse in a battle of wits
much less the fabled (don't believe a word of it!) Internet.
But my uncle, he's not many. And my new aunt? Well she's a keeper.
And it wasn't love like a summer fling --- but it goes much deeper.
The rumors you heard - it's all too true - they met on Online Scrabble:
sesquipedalians by heart, but in the strictest sense, true Word Warriors.
Her last turn was an "I Do"... and when it came, he knew that he was done for:
pussyfooting through the back door, the tenacious Triple Word Score.
The date was planned - his bachelorhood canned. Compensated on Christmas day,
a wifie from Wales to tie the knot with my uncle the Stud from the Spud State.
The Red Dragon Damsel flew in (too strong to be distressed) into my uncle's country life.
(I still remember his clenched fists pouring buckets at the altar ... his first love)
And she brought her little Dragoness, too --- a fiery spark named Emily.
My job was to walk my new British cousin down the aisle,
as she whispered to me, "Should we link arms?"
And though I should have said, "What's the harm?"
instead of a rather robotic canter --- it now brings a smile.
My lovely Aunt Laura wore an eggplant dress, as if too challenge the mountain majesty
that peaked through the church window of that fine Idahoan morn.
Her glorious entry introduced by a Celtic song that would have made Enya weep,
as the vertigo of vows came to a close like a caged bird being released.
Mariah Carey's famous Christmas hit took to life --- All I Want Is You, rang true,
as they took each other's arms to dance celebrating an unlikely circumstance.
Crossing oceans to become One: she from Barry, and he from Boise.
The After Party --- filled with giggles, tears and rip-roaring stories from every point of view.
The wedding cake (believe it or not) was a Scrabble board:
one slice was Congratulations - and though a bit silly, to me it was poetry.
And my uncle - you could tell - was simply dumbfounded
as she took the words right out of his mouth
... with a crumb-filled smooch.
Written February 27th, 2016.
For the My Wedding Day Is Special Because... hosted by Olive Eloisa Guillermo
NOTE: I've never been married before, so I hope writing about my uncle's wedding instead is acceptable.
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Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a red and black hell for sinners?
Basking on this, I told myself that the beautiful heaven is this we see now, argue with the sky and cloud on this.
Father Francis told us that there is no heaven,
Pope Thomas told us that paradise is within our hearts,
and those who fall and fall on the altar of deliverance are miscreants.
We believed him on a platter of Sunday school morning.
He gave us lies and lies of truth about the World Series of lies.
In this pantful world where children wear disgrace,
In this world' voodoo, where sorrow back treasures of preachers,
In this train of earth where girls wear tears,
In this shattered world where our pride are whores,
Nothing is precious under the sun and nothing that the sun has not seen.
Man is home to himself and have choices about himself.
The clergy men that had their skulls littered in the evil graveyard of my village can tell of this.
To this voidness,
To this coldness,
To this yonder of shattered images,
Xylem of mannered eloquence of the devil,
To the world demon's demonstrators,
To the Halloween and the Dejavu,
To the magical cloth verses of the Indian,
To the cries of unholy pages of those holy book tabled before we were born,
I have a way that seems so right to me; and those are the choices I have made.
To the shrine of Illinois of the Illuminati,
To the pyramid of underworld,
To the coldness of death,
We will escape from this drum of world,
This is darkness!
This is darkness!!
This is darkness!!!
Darkness of the black spirits.
Voidness lies in the bag of red colours.
This gory miseries of the world keep us in the fold of grey.
We don't know death but death knows us,
We don't know life but life speaks of us,
We don't know abstract painting of demons,
We don't know the abstract imageries of sins;
The beauty of sin lies in the consequences that lies aftermath.
We are train of shadows,
We are feathers of spiritualities,
We are blood of feelings, emotions. anger. Carcass. Faded colours. Sadness.
Pains. Revenge. Vengeance. Evil.
Emptiness. Vacant. Void.
We are the opposite of day, synonym of good.
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a black and red hell for sinners?
Search your soul and answer to its voidness.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
I’m just having a good laugh while I still can dude before life takes its heavy grip
Until the community of clowns in disguise tie my tongue to their altar of reason
You think of a genius in the making but I just blew bubbles from my backside
Need some counter balance as not to think I’m off parity before the next photo
For the record I’m a bit sick of all those Rolling Stones songs on your play list
I can get satisfaction and you will be dancing to my tune as long as I tell you
Not yet silenced I am and you can’t always get what you want but will receive
What you need and moss could grow fat on that stone if you tried hard enough
I am your American dream or just pie in the sky for pi is a resolute number
And while I look like a young Einstein I favour the arts and a poet I’ll be
‘Baby’s got blue eyes holding back the pain’ reflecting the glow on your face
Give me face paint and Munch’s scream will look like Monet’s water colours
And those cute little ears I hear you marvel such fine complete composition
Soon they will find an audition of rebellion ignoring trite shallow advice
Craft verses and rhythm deliver fine words you never dreamt of hearing
The comedy will be shattering with a bit of existential philosophy in the mix
You can project dadada’s and incy-wincy spiders as long as the cows mew
I drink from a fountain of pleasure and spill ink on your canvas of conditioning
Think that I am overanalysing but that is what you do when I smirk and giggle
Canned laughter comes in Campbell’s soup cans and better Warhol than wars
Innocent facial composure lies in the eye of beholders and dreams are for real
Let me play for that is the best I can do when drama and tragedy loom so soon
I’ll have my dreadlocks in plaits and you must not be scared of Sylvia’s mother
Van Gogh had one ear but a writer needs only one incisive tongue to critique
My stream will be subconscious when I write about the meaning of imagination
When naïve contortions depict a world with smiles laughter and freedom
I will not change much from when the photographer took this digital image
Blue eyes stuck out tongue two ears one voice whatever you make of it now
25th April 2019
Written for contest: Baby Face What's You Thinkin
Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr
Photo 2
Will you burn the earth`s skin to glass?.
Yet, right there , in Harmony of `69
I bent in adoration
before the dusky pearl of your forehead
the soft slopes of your never-ending body
shifting under a sea of blankets
Oh! treasure of treasures !
sparkling
to life
love
in the inner-sanctum of the
tent-temple of my emerald heart,
filling it with that attar fragrance ,
that compassionate smile,
that yearning voice,
quieting my storm
urging me
to swim your sultry sea.
How could the world ever be the same again ?
Outside,
rooted like stark brood of the Black stone ,
rocks parried thuddingly the capricious charge of waves
and subdued the swell and swirl of a dark ,disturbed sea.
The summer night was short
and I
cleaved to you like a calf to its mother.
Your dark-eyed nipples breasted the blanket ,
occulting the coarseness of Harmony .
We rocked to cradle the peace in the galaxy,
with love milking the way
to the morning star .
Winking over the mount,
Venus caught us intertwined ,
drooling like babes,
sated
I, summer cloud paramour of
you Landie ,
altar of my sensuous sacrifice
sweet naos forever
Yolande
briefly
undraping your
compassionate cosmic essence
for a gallant stripling
starving for affirmation.
Awed,
i nested in mouths
harmonizing
now enchanting,
now strident symphonies,
keen enough to split
chaos
into mutual opposites
that grappled , grinded and finally clashed ,
giving birth to a higher union.
I tattoo your name , Landie, on the stretched skin of the earth.
I pullulate the waves in your name
sackbutting the syllables
till tremolo breaks it breathlessly to foam
on the glistening beach of your belly
Wrinkles I didgeridoo into the dark blanket of our night,
stringing out your diadem of stars
I spiral you stately across my deep.
Breaking away
reluctantly
from the tug of your knees
i trolled our anchor through love`s flow
girding it close to my wound-up heart.
"Go now love….spare me a thought "
Your voice and a gentle seabreeze wafted me out.
Diving at dawn with a whale of love
between waking dunes
capped by sourfigs , bleary-eyed revellers,
the blue-blue sky warbled
“one and one and one is three
One thing you got know ,is you got to be free
Come together, right now , over me.”
.
War Horse by Steven Cooke
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship,
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders field.
His rider glorious in his regalia, sword in hand.
He was his master now, and the horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple, their bond complete.
His last feed, bathed in a red sun,
Which hovered above the morning mist hiding yesterday’s sin.
For this is the place where death is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed, and discarded.
To blow away into the winds of time,
Recorded by nations into the ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans ultimate betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared, Eyes wide,
steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the next stride.
Then the Stumble, a moment’s recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck, then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his brow, the last kindness,
A wavered shot ushers his life away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man, left to rot in Flanders field.
But for those precious minutes, he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation, a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god.
No glory here, only an empty cup left on the altar of insanity
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent Beast.
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