Long Cathedral Poems
Long Cathedral Poems. Below are the most popular long Cathedral by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cathedral poems by poem length and keyword.
Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again
Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process
Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because
He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels
He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more
Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool
Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt
In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted
“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”
“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”
Later, Mr. Obvious noted,
They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”
Mr Trump later told reporters.
“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief
France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump
sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude
could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”
the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief
When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.
april 17 poem for April Month of Poetry Challenge see Writers Digest, All Poetry and my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for the rest
Mein kampf synonymous as a blooper
Writer of these words,
a former Lower Providence inhabitant,
who dwelled within darkest depths
of Dante Alighieri's inferno
for most of his outlandish, impish,
and devilish growing up years
witnessed microscopic scrimmage,
where spermatozoan with most forcefulness
muscled itself handedly,
magnificently, and splendidly
envision unicellular olympic competition,
yours truly swimmingly
begot during the heat
of parents being passionately fruitful
courtesy diploid erogenous frisson
between my then searingly
robust virile father and fecund mother
~ late March/early April 1958
ushered seminal moment
post ova fertilization realization
courtesy male gamete
penetrating zona pellucida
a glycoprotein layer surrounding the oocyte
triggering cell bait multiplication
subsequently yielding male
gendered offspring and sole son
hashtagged as uber twittering, snapchatting,
shutterflying super duper
cute little boy with short strawberry blond hair,
whose solitudinarian nature
became quite evident when he displayed
acute social withdrawal
upon off fish shill commencement
getting schooled as a grouper
by mister Hooper,
who made his debut
appearance on Sesame Street
November 10, 1969
as storied and staple long time resident
on above named television show
until March 18, 1983,
beloved by adults and children alike
within make believe community
(a conglomerate of real and imaginary locales)
peopled with proprietary named characters
for any of a number of humorously grotesque
glove or rod puppets and marionettes,
chiefly representing animals,
first popularized, idolized,
dramatized, capitalized, and actualized
by the children's television programme
Sesame Street (1969-) and more recently
in The Muppet Show (1976-80).
Also: a toy made to resemble one of these
ingenious brainchild of Jim Maury Henson
an American puppeteer, animator, actor,
and filmmaker who achieved worldwide
notability as the creator of the Muppets
which series originated as two pilot episodes
produced by Henson for ABC in 1974 and 1975.
Henson's shocking, sudden death occurred on May 16, 1990 of organ failure resulting from streptococcal toxic shock syndrome. An emotional memorial service was held five days later at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.
I had been placed in chains
Where the cripples shed their canes
And the blind regained the art of seeing.
It was a robbers’ den
And as all God fearing men,
I had assets needed freeing.
Sometimes the poet’s muse
Is a bride who will refuse
All his conjugal solicitations.
He must lure to bed
Any tramp that turns his head
With unchaste alliterations:
And so it goes...
He’d lived his life alone
In a hermitage of stone
Where he rang those bells for all occasions;
Like the feasts of saints,
For the widows’ sad complaints,
And for joyous celebrations.
It's said confusion rules
At the Festival of Fools
And the scene below just seemed to prove it.
So he clambered down
And was regent of the crown
Till Claude Frollo’s hand removed it.
He smelled her perfumed hair
From across Cathedral Square
And the fragrance soothed his loss of hearing;
For her silent dance
Cast a soul ensnaring trance
Both enticing and endearing.
She was a barefoot girl
With her gypsy skirt a swirl
As the minstrels played a tarantella;
Graceful as fabric spun
From a gently setting sun,
And he pined for Esméralda.
But when the maid fell hard
For the Captain of the Guard
As a villain plotted her seduction,
His trust was put to test
On a futile, wicked quest
In abetting her abduction.
And so he bore the blame
When the warden called his name
As they bared his back to take a whipping.
He felt each lash stroke bleed,
The injustice of the deed
Set those righteous scales to tipping.
While the Archdeacon's kin,
Who was guilty of the sin,
Stalked the halls as Satan’s emissary,
A young girl’s tortured plea
Brought his fool to guarantee
Esméralda's sanctuary.
In a defiant act
When the rebel mob attacked,
He strained his crooked back to save the maiden;
And called the angels home
With the tolling of Guillaume,
Like hard currency to trade in.
He ran from wall to wall,
Hurling curses at them all,
Raining molten lead down on the rabble,
From the gargoyles’ throats
To the beggars’ ragged coats
In a symphony of babble.
But it was all in vain;
He could laugh himself insane,
Still those oaken doors were being battered,
And the dénouement
Left his ashes in the straw,
Proving love was all that mattered.
I awaken to the woodland scent
of a favored fragrant herb.
Its aroma transcends nocturnal bliss
and then softly seeks so gently to kiss
the distant lingerings in my mind.
Of a cherished place where I had laid
embraced warm in a lavender field
and was but long loved
by its strong perfumes
so fragrantly released.
Overfilling my heart
and infusing my mind
with all earthly bodily pleasures due
Its overwhelming possession of my sensibilities
its passions hence do hold my senses close
as an all encompassing lover
that it doth still now consume.
Its intoxicating signature fragrance,
like no other that hereby exists
The most vivid contemplation of Indigo,
that one could have ever seen
Infusing its heady oils upon my much younger memory
and an older and much sweeter tryst.
The palest shades of those lavender flowers remembered
each blossom a sweet sachet
Eternally to be engrained upon my mind
the heady confections of that day
to be forever missed.
The most complementary plumes of color,
that before I'd ever had met
Stretching toward the horizon's backdrop
a blanketed sea
a gently moving ream
A natural artistic composition of heady lavender
composed of surreal artistic color.
A palette holding court over the opposing values
and yet very complementary hues
of lovely, lovely lavendar
and wonderful planetary greens.
And if I ever were a bride to be,
I would desire to marry among the flowers
My sun kissed hair would be loosely worn,
its wildness framing my upturned face
In a field of the world's most ethereal scents,
a regal vison in colored lace showers,
Surrounded by a heaven
of millions of happily scented blooms.
In an outdoor cathedral of fragrant herbal spears
the lovliest of earthly rooms.
I would share my love,
of my beloved and with my beloved
for all whom by their presence cared.
I would unite with my love to be right there
I would unite with my love to be
for all to witness as I promise you forever
for all to witness our solemn vows
above a cloud of perpetual lavender
amongst the waves of those purple seas.
In Lavender and Lace
I would marry my love
I would marry my love to be.
(December 3rd, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
A true story, based on family oral tradition
from the oldest part of the city of Bern,
capitol of Switzerland, where my mother was
born and raised, in the Nydegghoff)
He lighted the candle with a quivering hand,
his overcoat seeming to weigh down the old man.
He paused in the aisle to genuflect,
and wondered if God knew his heart was a wreck.
He found a pew and got to his knees,
hands clasped together, he sent out his pleas.
He is old and he's tired, now he's alone,
his wife died last Spring, now his house wasn't home.
They'd been blessed with one son, he'd died in the war,
and now there was nothing for him to live for.
He prayed until his knee pain was great,
then sat back in the pew and tried not to shake.
The cathedral was beautiful; he loved the stained glass,
but, oh, they brought memories of Sundays past.
How could he make it through Christmas alone
in a house that was empty, no longer a home?
The kitchen was silent and cold as a tomb,
but her scent lingered on in their modest bedroom.
He said one last prayer, then rose to his feet,
genuflecting again, he went out on the street.
He walked home near blindly, not even aware
of the snow that was landing on his shoulders and hair.
He was cold inside, his heart like a stone,
and he felt completely and utterly alone.
He turned down his street, saw his porch light's glow,
and only then realized it had started to snow.
He opened his gate, thought of making some soup,
but froze in his tracks at the sight on the stoop.
On his porch sat a basket, the old wicker kind,
he thought for a moment, he was losing his mind.
Inside the basket that sat on his mat,
were three tiny kittens and one momma cat.
What a pitiful sight, so cold and so thin,
he scooped up the basket and hurried them in.
He found some canned tuna and warmed up some milk,
gently petting the babies, whose fur was like silk.
He never discovered who left those cats there,
but, as his love grew, he no longer cared.
His wife had loved cats and this comforted him,
as they slept on his head, or tucked under his chin.
The kittens grew quickly, as they're wont to do,
amused by their antics, his love grew and grew.
There was laughter and joy 'til the end of his days,
for God works, as you know, in mysterious ways.
I am promenading in the woods
Whistling at the birds
The rays of the sun
Now and again interrupting my vision
Then something moves
Something- like a woman
Her glamour- what say?
I halt- the power attending
How very smashing
She moves, actually peacocks
Towards me; closer, closer
Now I am all smiles
All smiles and tears
Her arms outstretched
Mine, too, outstretched
We are now drawing closer
we are moving
Like we were on the moon
With a spring, bouncing
Slowly towards an embrace
Eyes, ears, arms and smiles
The whole machine feeling for company
Full of nothing but joy
As the distance between us narrows
I hear small bells tolling
I hear small babies pattering
I hear the laughter of maidens
And as we lock our arms together
In a violent embrace
There in the woods
I see beautiful nymphs
All around our embrace
Holding their parasols high
Dancing to the reggae
In the tropical sun
All this I see, and more…
I notice that while locked we stood
With my bountiful beloved
A thousand maidens emerge
All in white and with roses
And yellow scarves
In each hand a bouquet
Of the best assortment of flowers
On their lips stands a song
Which I know to one
Composed by a great poet
To all that trade in marriage
I smile at my beloved
The queen of my soul
And as we walk in state
I see gold in her finger
And more on mine
I kiss her brow and lo!
The perfume!
The diamonds surrounding!
Then the doors of the cathedral
Open in front of us
At the pulpit- the bishop
His eyes raised above us
The Holy Book in place
And on either side
The attendants:
All practitioners of the faith!
We step inside the edifice
The congregation stands
And sings a welcome;
The train behind us
The bishops and attendants
The tolling of the bells
The bride and maids
And I the Prince.
All these I see, and more…
As we seal the pact
And vow to God
To be, now and always
Till death do us part
And set our hands
To ‘these presents’
I see twins at the brook
By our country home
Playing hide and seek
And mother and father
Standing hand in hand
Watching them, bemused
And I see a house
Happy and prosperous
Where dwell two pretty maidens
And three handsome lads
And the greatest promise
Sealed in the woods
Is kept.
And I wake up
To the ticking of the clock
After the hour of eight
And all the sorrows of bachelorhood
Come knocking at my door!
Religion is just a fragile shield,
That man raises before the overwhelming encounter with God,
A refuge built from holy prayers and ancestral fears.
I feel each wall of faith as an ancient fabric,
Dotted with stars that tell their secret stories,
A fan of intertwined hopes and dreams,
Under the infinite sky of the soul, I navigate among desires and fear.
In the flow of consciousness, my thoughts merge with eternity,
Where time becomes a river flowing through the infinity of my being,
And in each ripple of sacred water, I feel the divine presence,
A light hidden in the shadows of my trembling faith.
Religion, a gate between limited man and divine boundlessness,
Is the closed curtain that hides the cosmic spectacle,
A bridge of sacred words and mystical rituals
That links the earth to the infinite sky of knowledge.
I think of the overwhelming encounter with God,
That moment when all the fallen masks reveal a total presence,
A truth brighter than the sun, that burns,
But religion is the umbrella under which I hide from this fire.
In the shadows of the temple, I hear the noise of the divine step,
Each echo a reminder of my ephemeral becoming,
And I wonder if the words murmured in prayer
Are just an imperfect shield against the enormity of the Absolute.
On the altar of my heart, candles of faith and doubt burn,
A living flame flickering between desire and fear,
And I wonder if religion is just a construction of the soul,
A sanctuary where we hide from the reality of supreme mysteries.
In the flow of consciousness, I lose and find myself,
Navigating on rivers of light and night,
Each wave a metaphor for the human struggle to understand,
Each reflection an echo of the unfathomable encounter.
Religion, with its symbols and rhythms,
Is the haven where I try to reconstruct the divine picture,
A puzzle of light and shadows from which is born
A sacred portrait of man and his God.
And thus, in the flow of my endless thoughts,
In the silent cathedral of the night,
I wonder if we will ever truly embrace the infinite,
Or if we will continue to cling to this fragile shield of religion,
A treasure trove of endless hopes and fears,
A dance of spirits seeking
Through the eternal labyrinth of consciousness,
The overwhelming encounter with God.
A light mist of ethereous rain falls
silent on his thin, sharp-angled
face. He lengthens his stride and
leans toward the wind. He walks
through plundered poverty; crumbled
by the weight of exodus. Abandoned
to the blood-rough nails scratching
on the concrete diasporas of multiethnic
history.
Past the playground echoes of PS #59,
as they drift along the faded asphalt
haze of time. Echoes still ring true with
elemental bones of hope: the children
break out and through gunmetal gray,
graffiti covered doors, outside to the
saturated heat of inner-city rage.
Past gothic orthodox cathedral
mausoleums which sit like ancient
stoics and stare through burnt-amber,
azure, crystalline-blue stained glass
eyes; focused out with a kernel of
eternal mustard seed hope: souls will
come again and warm the sacred pews.
Past the Puerto Rican market
where the pig's head led the
carnivore parade of mastication
promise every day. A meat-market
window of letted-blood and death
reminiscent of Amsterdam whores
with their wares on display for the
dead-eyed stares of the men outside.
He comes to the dust and
grime of an empty lot covered
by old and broken concrete slabs.
He stops and lets his mind drift
back to watch a woman who wears
a ratted fox-tail wrap around her
neck. She holds a long, un-filtered
cigarette, loose, between her two
bright, fuchsia painted lips. She
wears a black velvet hat with veil
to her nose and a straight black
dress that flows below her knees,
mid-calf, above her shiny black,
high-heel, patent leather shoes.
He can almost see through the blur
of a chiaroscuro choreography his
mother, visiting with the Kazakhstan
neighbors, in this dreamlike memory.
The multi-plexed, subsidized project,
where he was born, once stood just
beyond his vision of a mother's visit in
high-heel, indigo, tangerine, sibilant
sounds; lit with electric light smiles
of denial.
She would hold her cigarette between
fuchsia lips and wear that ratted fox-tail
wrap until the cancer cough began to spew
Chesterfield blood on the molted fox-tail
head of her beloved fur.
Then she went to bed. Went to sleep. And died.
Pigeons cooed quietly on that New York City night.
I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
If ever I had to have a country victim of pedophily : LXXXVI
[Note: 216,000 cases of pedophily, perpetrated by the clergy, have been recorded by the Catholic Church in France since 1950.]
If ever I had to have a country, would that it be a country where no infant boy or lad need ever fear of being the victim of pedophily
Let it also be a country that sent no Albuquerque or Vasco de Gama, Drake or Raleigh, Cortes nor Dupleix to undermine the « street arabs » and « orphaned » heathens under seal of the Papal authority
For, remember how I was persuaded to assume the rôle of Ministre d’État Plenipotenciary without Portfolio or Duty, the Saviour of down-trodden Womenkind (O, « A Daniel come to Judgement ! »),
for I’d turn Torquemeda, revive the Inquisition, the Ace of Papacy
Will I let fresh-cheeked choir boys nor novice sacristans in strict page-boy linen, candle or Cross in hand lisping psalms disappear in the dense stench-filled folds of priestly « soutanes » behind pillars under Roman arches or polished teak encrusted encasements their stifled cries for help choked through holy promiscuity
Nor will I let Henry the VIIIth behead his wives in the Tower for failing to provide him with a male heir nor let no Archbishop lie bleeding at the Cathedral at Canterbury nor no politicking murder
stain some Florentian cathedral to foist the House of Medeci
You guessed right alright, I’ll take over the Tower of London as my foremost torture dungeon, call out the Swiss helmeted Guards with their spears and while I keep puffing at the Havana cigars (a chest-full gift from Fidel Castro, in grateful acknowledgement of inestimable services rendered to soft-ball gals in shedding excess weight on the ground) and keep crying out « Habemus » Pope to drown out the squeals yells and screams issuing from pedophiles pierced by Swiss lances in the rears of millions of priests found guilty
You bet that’s what I’ll do even if the entire Order of the Malte forgot about the Crusades against the Turks and Saracens - and poor one-armed Cervantes – during the Battle of Lepanto just to crucify me
And so what even if I never ever had no country with orphaned infants and laddies to pity
© T. Wignesan, Paris – Octobre 14, 2021