Long Angelically Poems
Long Angelically Poems. Below are the most popular long Angelically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Angelically poems by poem length and keyword.
Agape Hill
When the silvery moon drips Ouzo,
And our chilled glasses are angelically full.
May I ever wanton be~and hope our desires,
forever to fulfill!
My red, long, hair ~ flowing with gleaming
golden-hues,
A star-filled sky above us,your smile so
adoringly bemused.
We collapse happily, high on our hill.
Be star-still this night, lost in each others
twinkling eyes.
Lovingly quiet and oh, so very still.
Shhh...
Hush...
Promise to tell no soul of our secrets.
High on love on Agape Hill!
May 29, 2020
Noon PST
Poem # 1,299
Twas a lovely day in May.
A red-haired Grandmother, with her daughter and
grandchild strolled the soft, still grass.
Under a large pine tree, she unwrapped a beautiful pot of flowers.
In the center~ a flag waved softly in the gentle, Midwest winds.
They proceeded to a marble headstone with a gentle walk.
Not one of them had the need to talk.
Kneeling at the headstone~ she placed her head upon it.
Telling her husband, his family was all here for a visit.
Assuring him that they missed and loved him.
She then spoke....angelically:
" Brian, thank you for keeping our country so wonderfully free!
But alas at breakfast now, it's only me!
Brian, my Airman and eagle of my soul.
I miss your dark eyes that sparkled like anthracite coal."
She kissed the headstone as if herway to say,
She would be back soon~another day!
May 30, 2020
7:30am PST
Poem# 1,306
My autonomous ego's life
feels unfinishable,
unthinkably mortal in future disconnection;
an unfinished compassion life,
unfinishable love,
an unpolished divine icon
of Earth's self-promulgating creation,
recreation
becoming more articulately interdependent folks,
intersectional resacralizing populations,
self and other co-empowering creolization processors,
ego/eco-transubstantiating
north-western left hemisphere's historic win/lose secularization.
Meanwhile,
our Gaian EarthMothers,
south past and eastern-future angelically co-present
Great Transition Troubadours
forever deepening sacred icons,
intersectional emissaries,
polypathic and polyphonic,
sacred MotherEarth becoming metaphorically global webbed,
rewoven away from left-hemisphere fashioned dualisms
of secularizing sacred both/and unity,
humanizing divine communion,
every day sanctuaried love-life,
Where pathological egocentric death
reconnects with healthy long-term compassionate communication
co-empathic communal deep listening
to learn nondualistic grief/gratitude re-education trends
bilaterally co-arising
unfinished articulation
still dynamically emanating
from unfinishable life
within Mother/Father EarthTribal His/HerStory.
Pope Frances
It is a warm sunny day in Lisbon, the pope sits atop of
Mercedes Jeep, he looks like an easy target for assassins
Men in black suits and open jackets hurry alongside the jeep
except for one lifeguard, who wears a gray suit his black suit
is still at the cleaners
The pope is heading for the big park, along the route
There are thousands of young people, waving flags from many nations
Russian flag, Ukrainian banner, it is all here, except perhaps
the Israeli flag, I assume there are no catholic Jews.
Where the road narrows before going into the park, the jeep
slows down, a girl reaches out her arms the pope touches her
hand
Overwhelmed, she faints.
In the park, thousands of young people the atmosphere is
elated, people being happy among a symbol of a public faith
On a stage, young women graciously, in a decorous manner
dance, I gather they are angels from many countries
The pope sits on a throne stool partly in away from the wind
he waves and smiles benignly to the dancers.
The Bishop of Lisbon, speaks wishing the pope welcome
he has a dreary voice, but thankfully it is a short speech
nevertheless, the people applaud
Now it is the turn of two famous female singers to sing
one sings angelically about heaven, the other sings Fado
Great applause, the bishop of Lisbon looks at his wristwatch.
Now it is the pope's turn to speak, the park is silent not
to miss a word. Alas, it is time for my biscuit and afternoon tea.
.................. L I L O
Y F Y V
M H E M G E
F O R E V E R E T E R N A L
L E N O R E L E N O R E
E N T W I N E D E N T W I N E D
Always with my HearT I Always with true Feeling
Love You, my Dearest WIFE ALWAYS with Emotions
My Love grows like an oak My Heart beats for YOU
Mighty and E v e r l a s t I n g MY TEARS are Real
YOU are M Y STRENGTH Yet My Heart still Aches
FOR YOU LIVE in ME Though You live with GOD
ETERNAL B L I S S YOU wear the gown of Angels
INFINITE P U R E YOU carry my Heart in Yours
You grow in my heart EACH and EVERY Day
The LOVE grows and I am at Peace KNOWING
As LOVE Grows In my BROKEN Heart
Constantly Knitting cracks and Fissures
My Dearest Beloved Tenderly Mended
Repairing Loneliness My Wife Lenore
Angelically Smiles Eternally Loved
MY Only Most B E L O V E D
L I F E L E N O R E
Always F O R E V E R
YOU My Heartbeat
Are My S O U L
MY W I F E
One Breath
N e v e r
Alone
YOU
And
I
Father said I was two and a half to three. I'm not sure.
A serious illness, he said, which no doctor could cure.
Glance at your mom last time, dad seemed to have said, full of tears.
I was in my childish unconsciousness. I had no fears.
I did not cry. I didn't know the grim games of death, then.
It's call of the unknown. Unknowingly, I said, Amen.
A glimpse of your grave and coffin clings to my being still.
Could snatching a mother from a child be the divine will?
Though it's not very long, long enough, by you, I was fed.
Embracing you, I slept angelically on your bed.
You taught me the sign of the cross and thoughts of holiness.
How much I miss your gestures of tender motherliness!
I don't complain now. I rain my love on you like flowers.
Seated in heaven, you shower on me divine powers.
I feel you holding my hand and leading me as I walk.
Each morning, as with God, with you, I never fail to talk.
Where dry walls turn to dust
they depart.
They enter as laughter.
They roost on struts and beams.
Rafters for each shinning feather
whether or not each feather is stiff or curly.
Flooring for the angelically inclined
is optional. Pin heads are perfect.
A house without an angel is a tomb
but be of good cheer,
they are everywhere, even in the bathroom
where they often rest with you.
Domestic housing only,
public and federal buildings
will never be up to their code
no matter how architecturally pleasing
for angels need a welcome mat
and a pleasant kitchen,
a roof that lets the pain run down
as rain to water garden seeds.
What else?
Their are tent angels and shanty angels,
homeless and under bridge angels.
Angels are houses for prayers,
In the Far East
folks erect Spirit Houses;
little shrines for holiness to occupy
same thing really,
a flight of stairs
for the starry-eyed helps,
but ranch and open-plan
span just as well
if each body within them
is a ringing temple bell.
Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.
The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely.
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings.
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen.
Then comes that prolonged lull.
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness,
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.
Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane
Separation.
Alone..
Only one..
A lightning bolt of loneliness strikes..
Fast and furious..
Spewing unwanted feelings..
A terrain of anxiety..
Baggage of emotions..
Locked inside a bottle..
Entrapment of the soul..
Desperately seeking to feed the soul with love..
To..
Allow the pure essence of the soul to sing..
A graceful soul to dance to freedom..
Free itself with a helping hand..
A beautiful hand to lead misery behind..
A beautiful hand to help unlock the bottle..
Inside a bottle where there lies emptiness..
An anguished soul awaits a destiny of freedom filled with love..
With arms stretched..
A gentle embrace..
A soothing touch..
The divine soul receives the beautiful hand..
Held together tightly..
Bonded together for infinity..
The pure essence of the soul now sings angelically in soprano..
A graceful dance of peace and harmony..
Separation gone..
Joined together..
In Unity..
Unity is all..
We are not alone..
We are all one..
The forest with its lush,
Yellow, green and brown leaves.
That falls angelically to the floor,
From the dark aged moss covered oak trees.
I gather the leaves and make a pillow,
Where I may lay hidden and in peace.
With the aroma of oak under a great weeping willow,
A place where I will cease.
The date is set for my departure,
And the place where no one knows.
It will happen during wintertime,
I will lay there with a rose.
A knife will I plunge into my chest,
And hope for a slow, painful, cold death.
As I think of my Juliet,
And say her name with my last breath.
A note I leave on a crisp white paper
Written in my blood
Explaining my reasons
For the rejection of my love
I do not wish to be saved
Only by my Juliet
But I know she won’t come looking
Until she hears that I am dead.
My intension is not to hurt her
It’s just the rejection I cannot bear
Life without my sweet heart next to me
My Juliet, My love...
My dear...