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.
We were canoeing on a sunlit stream
A shadow of a willow, then a golden gleam
We entered a cathedral, white branches made a cover
And I hit you on the shoulder and said I loved you like a brother.
A dragonfly alighted on the bow of the boat
I rested my oars, watched a turtle float
Then you told me you had a past, always on the run
Had to keep a distance, because of what you'd done.
You had a covenant with shame, transparent you could not be
You could be a friend in a shallow way, but not eternity.
I said "I prefer perfection, but if perfection is declined
I've known you since finger-paints and crayons combined.
We were like brothers, and what are brothers for?
Don't cry on my shoulder, I don't need to hear more
Your eyes flickered with hope, though your soul felt unclean.
I gestured at the hills, where the vista views were green,
The river kept on flowing, like memories on the mend
You relaxed, I was there, like a brother and a friend.
I looked above to see a California Condor hover
The moment was calming, I thought he's like a brother.
But when the moment's over, and I'm feeling sober
I'll take that job in Whitehorse, though they say it's a lot colder
Whatever he did, I can't let him drag me down
Brotherhood has limits, and I'm heading out of town.
I loved you
the way one loves
a cathedral with shattered stained glass,
not knowing whether light
would ever pass through again.
On the bridge at Leidseplein,
I held your hand like a prayer
I never dared to utter.
It was cold.
But love,
warmer than all the painted walls
of Van Gogh.
The tram passed
between us
like a final judgment.
And we said nothing.
Because sometimes silence
is all we can give
when our hearts
bear too many scars
written in dead languages.
We loved each other
between two stations,
between a promise and a “maybe.”
At Albert Heijn
I bought you chocolate,
and you smiled
as if I had given you
an entire life
in a green wrapper.
I saw you then
in the empty church at Nieuwe Kerk,
where a candle lit itself.
Perhaps it was for us.
Perhaps for those
who never learned
how to stay.
And now,
as the rain falls on the pavement
where we once walked hand in hand,
I miss the way
you held my silence
like a poem
yet to begin.
I loved you.
In a foreign city,
with a foreign heart,
but with a light
that came from Above,
from a place
where love
never ends.
In the cathedral of night, a new phantasm rises from the incense smoke of burnt rules,
Altars of therapy crumble under the weight of our unspoken prayers,
Our steps, like lost pilgrims, are swallowed by streets paved with tears of stars,
Where locusts of prophecy weave their sonorous mantle in the temple of our weary ears.
Silence suffocates us, binds us with chains of light, and steals our flight towards the empyrean,
But we are called to plunge into the primordial sea of divine chaos,
To dance with shadows of fear in the sanctuary of the unknown without reserve,
For only thus can we hear the echo of our soul in the cosmic cathedral of existence.
Reality unravels like an ancient scroll, leaving behind enigmatic hieroglyphs,
And we are the mad alchemists who transmute these symbols into spiritual gold,
With each verse we break the seals of isolation and pour into the streets like a river of light,
Our incantations intertwine with the whispers of eternity in a choir of mystic rebirth.
In this realm of smoke and magic mirrors, we are summoned to be more than spectators,
To hurl ourselves into the fray of life like fallen angels with burnt wings and illuminated minds,
For only thus can we weave the tapestries of a future yet unborn,
Where our wildest fantasies become cosmic mandalas, and rules are but fleeting shadows.
She is a beauty with her vaulted ceilings and cloisters.
Has been parading about for over a thousand years
Showing off her English gothic architecture.
Cathedral Church of St. Peter and the Holy and Invisible Trinity.
We have seen her in films and movies – The Hollow Crown,
Doctor Who, Sherlock, and Harry Potter.
She houses at Gloucester, Gloucestershire, UK.
She was once a pilgrimage for Christian seekers.
King Henry the Eighth established her current choir in 1539.
Today her choir boasts thirty-eight choristers and twelve adult singers.
So when you walk through, you are a historian, so much has gone on.
She is magnificent with her beautiful stained glass windows.
Her organ was constructed in sixteen hundred and sixty-six.
She has been the site of graduations, coronations, and weddings.
In medieval times she held daily worship sung by monks of the abbey.
Gloucester Cathedral, a gorgeous example of what architects can do.
This morning the calling bell rang just at
Five, I thought it was the paper vendor
Sun was yet to spread its golden impact
His time was at six, who was the caller
A soft violin tune of sweet ghazal
Sweetened the small space I was seated in
From my room the clouds looked like cathedral
The air outside seemed scented and serene
Opening the door I was mesmerized
Cross on her shoulder and rosary bead
Clad in blue bordered sari looking bright
Feet in sandals, arm carrying a kid
With fond gaze and fervour her eyes agleam
She was mother Teresa in my dream
_______________________________________________
02/9/16
Note: Ghazal is a lyric poem in Indian literature
Sari is South Asian garment for women comprising a length of cotton or silk
draped around the body
A winter magic moment on the wings of seagulls high
within the stillness of a forest an owl watches nigh
Floating snowflakes swivel, they are falling here and now
while our little feathered friends, tweet their little sighs
Frosty light caresses, cardinals of red
gently falling snow in the morning light
Bushy eyed white owls tufted in the snow
black and white woodpeckers,
peck and taps, alongside knock knock marks
Fairy spirits floating, dancing all about
in a magical cathedral, pure and pristine white
here the birds have silver tips and honey colored eyes
they always land in softly, with the cadence of the light.
Santa never paid me a visit as i was growing up
For our village was so far from the north pole
And there was no snow for his deer's to land on
Christmas growing up was often rainy and muddy
Tales of Santa i came to read on books and comics
But slaughtering a cockerel or two was the routine
Relatives coming together was also very common
Yes we had to have new clothes for Christmas
Yes Christmas mood was so infectious to us all
But the good ho! ho! Santa never showed up
I didn't mind though for always we had a feast
Later when i grew up and moved to the big city
I met Santa in the entrances of shopping malls
At the cathedral he was allotted a nativity spot
Santa never paid me a visit when i was growing up
But i always enjoyed the spirit and mood of christmas
He came from Bangladesh, on the official business
of pursuit of happiness, with only a suitcase and a family of three
settling in Coventry and working at the hospital next to the big cathedral
that survived Nazis' bombardment, being a scholarly man he read lots of history and was enchanted by Rumi's poem, wondering if in his next life he could be a wandering sufi, whirling in praise of god. Life was easy until the outbreak
and he exceeded himself helping patients, some of whom came too late to be rescued and some who came just in time to be put on the ventilators, until they were overwhelmed and patients crowded the hallway, coughing and moaning in pain. But, he came from Bangladesh remind you, where scarcity is the norm and will to survive pretty high, so he set upon himself to
save as many as he could until that dreaded afternoon when he was faced with the stark choice no doctor should ever be presented: to choose between an elderly and a young woman, both in dire need of the last remaining ventilator. Between the two, the woman was sicker, was unmarried and no family to feed, and the guy was a recent widower with four children who depended on him.
Agonizing the good doctor kept asking for advice and, simultaneously, wrote down his metrics and assigned a value to factors such as age, survival chance, and the like, but the decision-time was near at hand and no time to lose, in the end it was a flip of the coin and he opted for the woman, who died nonetheless as did the older guy, agonizing the doctor's conscience to the point that in examining the next victim he removed his mask.
I beg pardon, I'll try again, to gather
From your verse the voice, to align it with my own song,
May words flow in a magic pulse, under the clear moonlight,
Swaying in metaphor and dream, until I respond to you.
Wreathing my thoughts in the ephemeral flames of stars,
Amongst the equinoxes of soul and solstices of arched heart,
With love still kissing my bare soles,
I will drop into the night's carafe the gently diluted essence of life.
Oh, how I have loved! With longing suffocated in blossoms serene,
Harvesting hopes from dewdrops, upon corollas of dreams,
And I love, with a love that weaves beneath a cloak of clear skies,
Twirled in a dance of leaves, where nature in her secret smiles and whispers to me.
Under the canopy, my waiting builds castles on shifting sands,
With my heart, the flickering lighthouse, yet never it falls,
The umbrella of anticipation open to clouds of soaring flights,
Where happenings congeal in waits, distinct and pure.
I cannot confess whom I wait for, but wait I do,
Glowing with invisible wings, heart of untamed birds,
And still they fly, oh, how they fly, over seas of regret,
Seeking that song, plucked from all corners of souls.
What to do, I wonder, in a labyrinth of light and darkness,
My path is lost in the gilded web that weaves the horizons,
Mountains and forests rend inside me, waiting to unravel,
And seas of dreams retract, into the same mouth of the unreal, longing for breath.
In this realm born from a poetic anticipation,
Where groves bloom with promises to give and to receive,
And love's quiver rises, a delicate cathedral, finely crafted,
Over the soul a mantle of love is laid, in roots planted and at the tips infinite.
Remember the Sabbath
to keep it holy
free of Shoulds.
A should-free cathedral
of intimate athleticism
romantic
exotic
ecstatic
euphoric
erotic
Exhausts this sabbath light
at long last
widely dawning deeply stronger
and resiliently handsome
dark as night
In virtuously enlightening response
to Saturnight's weekly exorcism
annihilating
exhausting
expiring
Yet another weekday week
weak slow-groan degenerjism
Darkly precipitating
sweaty penetrating night seductive mares
aggravating
congregating
irritating
neighing
sedating
constipating
All my life
I've been waiting for you
my Sunday not not should
embrace every daytime athlete
with unconditional
warm felt regard
Up on two feet
with spiritually natural intent
of sabbath hot passions
including,
but not exclusively hoarding,
frontal poles
and backside holes
Balancing sabbaths neurosensory integrity
extending virally out and virtuously circling in
stretching strength
of bilateral heart pumps
and lung inflations
and limb elations
stretching Sunday loves
and bipartisan 1 plunging into 0
every polynomial weekday
binomial cooperative
co-invested
convexly concaved
not-not straight but spiraling round
wholesome inside/outside balance
In co-empathic sabbath passions
free of shaming Others
preaching teaching virginal should not
remember SaturNightMare's
BlackHole peak experience
anticipating this new athletic Sunday Service
ReMembering
ReIncarnating
ReLigioning Sabbath
to keep it holy
free of Othering Shoulds.