Long Chalice Poems
Long Chalice Poems. Below are the most popular long Chalice by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chalice poems by poem length and keyword.
A tapestry of yearning etched in starlight,
where whispers of kindred spirits entwine and soar.
No echo lost, no teardrop falls unheeded,
for solace blooms in echoes from every shore.
The moon, a silver chalice, brims with understanding,
its luminescence bathing wounds in gentle grace.
In hushed confessions, whispered starlit prayers,
find solace, lonely heart, in this star-strewn space.
For though shadows linger, dawn's first blush awaits,
a symphony of souls awakening to the light.
And in the chorus of shared vulnerability,
the lonely heart finds solace, cradled in the night.
Let friendship's fragile flame, by empathy fanned,
illuminate the path where kindred spirits meet.
No longer solitary notes, but a poignant song,
where lonely hearts unite, finding solace, finding sweet.
This is no singular ode, but a choir in bloom,
a testament that echoes through the cosmic blue.
So bleed, brave heart, let tears befriend the stars,
for in their constellation, loneliness is through.
Remember, your yearning speaks not to a void,
but to a million hearts that, too, have felt the sting.
In empathy's embrace, find strength and be unbound,
for in the tapestry of shared wounds, true solace you will find.
Though I may not be the "greatest," my voice joins yours,
a verse echoing the chorus of kindred souls.
So bleed, dear heart, and know that in this symphony,
your lonely song finds solace, and makes us whole.
How 'Artuficial' intelligence reach out to you.
:: 01.03.2024 ::
I craft poems by evening time since I can't slumber.
I'm dreary of the one with a springtime splendor.
I'm lacking in rest, shrewdness, and moral dignity.
I've lost my aware vicinity and spotless anger.
We are not blinded by flies, owls, or moral agony.
It's not the fatal quiet or the sun's loss that's injury.
This isn't a chorus wraiths in the lush hedging.
The drab caveats of another day induce dark dubiety.
Nebulae, stars, neutrons, and quasars are all fledgling.
Dismal holes with some pale and green dwarf lighting
Blooms to be merely seen or to be picked in billion years.
This is the chronicle of the star nights, every evening.
Every night blurs you from my sight, yet, shed the tear.
I wish for a splendid twilight and consistent star seer.
I trust the rife angel's whisper and recall our discourse.
My awe, once the chalice in grasp was deep, rest clear.
Our spurn requital to God wanes our sole act of alertness.
While ebbing pristine streets toward the swift darkness
We scrutinize the cosmos, yet we are witless of his might.
Due to the safety risks of glass shards bits in the chalice
Wishing I had a hundred mates to gather around light.
My soul suffers in a gentlefolk that scorns peace bight.
Yet I shudder at the cogitation of starving to death alone.
Life is amazingly brief not to raise a chalice to reunite.
Written: January 17, 2022
The Chalice of Night Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
She traces a litter of rising stars;
while exploring a place blissful within--
or even feel a desire to extend a timeline
where vicious crimson cells invade
those mounds of chalice breasts, uninvited.
And a once vibrant energy grows frenetic ,
nearly withering from the changed biopsy of
a frame now boney, lightly skeletal
from a hostile tumor raging within Reena’s veins.
Yet, she crawls uphill , this woman warrior
of a hiker… steadily focused on reaching
the mound’s crest, undaunted by lumped pain
as soft tears glitter upon those thinning cheeks.
Grappling with a second -stage notice,
her limbs wobble in exhaustion, her fingers
cold at the same time eager: treading on, I
watch my friend dressed in bald crown, facing
this combat between towers of hope and despondency.
My breath weeps inside. Reena smiles and blinks at me
like an advancing star.
Topic Of Cancer for Craig Cornish
6/20/2019
The passing of the autumn equinox, and the end of October,
now signal everyone it is the first day in November.
The leaves of the forest are brown, red, and gold.
Trees foretell of the coming of winter’s cold.
A local coven gathers in the early morning moonlight.
They join hands and form a circle in the pre-dawn night.
These witches are here for a most festive reason.
It is the Sabbath of Samhain, the end of harvest season.
Among the witches is my red-haired beauty.
Through a flame’s soft amber light, I can barely see.
With her broom, chalice, book of shadows, and an athame,
she joins the others in calling the spirits by name.
People have the wrong idea. She is not at all bad.
This redhead doll excites me when she is sky-clad.
Although there is an autumn chill in the morning air,
none of the witches feels it, or seems to care.
At the end of the esbat, with the coming of the dawn’s light,
I hope to be spending some time with this red-haired delight.
She fascinates me so much. Everything seems right.
In the daylight or the darkness, she is a wonderful sight.
III.
But I had a much higher purpose now,
damned or not, I would serve the True God,
for thirty years I served with my brothers,
upon a humble path I faithfully trod.
Maybe I wasn’t a miracle worker,
though I saved lost pilgrims in my time,
age etched lines in my brothers’ faces,
but it had no effect upon mine.
The abbot swore newcomers to secrecy
about the truth of my vampiric fate,
and I guess I believed I’d just go on
serving an eternity in this way.
But one day as the sun started to set,
I looked out upon a terrible sight:
A small girl running, screaming in fear
as a wolf closed on in for a bite.
I hesitated for just a moment,
the sun was high enough that I would burn,
but the terrified cries of a five-year old
were not something from which I could turn.
I sprinted out with unnatural speed,
instantly my skin erupted in flames,
raced past the girl, thrust my burning hand
to the wolf with jaws of snapping rage.
The fire seared both myself and the beast,
with frantic yelps of pain he then ran off,
I staggered back, my pale skin burned to black,
bits of flesh had flaked off and were lost.
I made it back to the small gatehouse
and I collapsed in the shadows within,
the abbot ran close, with my fading strength
I weakly tried to say goodbye to him.
But he just looked down, said,”We need blood.
Run to the chapel and fetch me the wine!”
A brother raced off, returned with the jug,
made no sense to my greatly pained mind.
He filled a chalice, look to the Heavens,
said,”Lord, I know that I am no priest.
But if he must die, let him drink of Your blood,
let him take part at last in Your mercy.”
I felt this would be a fitting way to die,
burned by the holy blood of my Lord.
But when I drank I did not feel the fire,
in fact I didn’t feel pain anymore!
I didn’t see it myself, but they say
that the charred skin beat a fast retreat,
and through the haze I managed to feel
a deep breath and a steady heart-beat!
When I sat up the sun came through a window
and it fell harmlessly upon my skin,
I felt true hunger, thirty years overdue,
by His power I once more was human!
They said In Him All Things Are Possible,
and I suppose I am the living truth,
strangest of all I still looked a young man,
blessed with the power and passion of youth...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
The moon is a lonely man's chalice to drink from
drunken paradise in such darkness we cling unto the light
where warmth of a thousand candles flickers inside
there it dances with the shadows of dreams
Once upon a time crowned with the stars Aura
perfectly falling like lightening you came in a heart burst
flames one in a hundred miracles lovingly wrapped up
within a gift gem pearl of the oceans wave turns around
Caressed through a soul captured breath
salted with the sweetest spice of the earth's crust cracked
burning down the mountain trails held in a silent moment
giving someone the power over us truth heaven is in your beam
Why? I cried!... Did your Black Excalibur eyes
cut into my heart with its blade of betrayal
leaving it bleeding and dying
like a chalice filled with a lover's wine
thrown to the ground
You devoured my passions with your hunger
and left me with the illusion of time borrowed
My heart wept in silence
When I crawled into the darkness to hide
with my memories of yesterday
That was offered as a promised handshake
of emotional bonding
in a created realm of romantic interludes
Where I drew your face on my heart
with a rendering of tender intimacy
That's washed away by orbs of tears
flooding the path of love winding through my heart
When you left my heart on the wayside
to leave a stain on the petals of roses
You plucked from my soul
causing a deep sadness that came without foreknowledge
When I offered my soul as a sacrifice
To the altar of your Black Excalibur eyes
When memories melt like sunset skies,
mirroring my thoughts,
slipping into the salt-dipped
skin of the deep, warm ocean,
I drink from the stardust chalice
of your unspoken sonnets,
r a i n i n g from cologne-stained clouds,
steeping me in aromatic cravings ~
as my heart weaves
love from Juliet’s jewels
within the aching sighs
of mauve moonlight.
And here I dream within
your spider-silk cradle ~
cresting in this chrysalis heart,
drawing butterflies above mulberry trees,
an illusion etched between lifelines.
For in my h o m e s i c k quiescence,
I wear you ~
my magnetic miracle,
twin flame that never dims,
the constellation sparkling above…
So take me where love knows no more~
you and I will forever breathe poetry,
tercets written beneath
the cobalt blue horizon
where eagle feathers soar ~
caressing the inner demons
that grieve in sunflower silence.
As it is through the kohl iris
of your russet romance
I’ve learned the language of loyalty ~
untangling knots of woes
that braided my sunrise mane
into a murky maze of madness,
sprouting mismatched metaphors…
Tonight I shall dwell in the amethyst afterglow
of your dahlia devotion,
illuminated by the aesthetic
k i s s
of kismet roses…
Tea Alice?
For the vessel
to carry wine
into the chalice
Alice climbed…
Fiddle Dee
said to riddle dumb
while thinking things
twiddling thumbs
Four the squares
and a sacred One
there’s water tHere
on the rabbit’s bum
“Speak nicely…”
Second square begins…
bread to butter her
with proper jams
my finger bleeds
yet another band
Square
near the Lion’s tower
a walk and a king talk
for the better of an Our
“remember” He said
to make the believe
of impossible things
in which wHere
is conceived
the plausible
and surrender …
to be pleased.
“all.ways are mind”
mine.ways are means
means.ways are kind
and if we all.sWay…
this way
then we’re All
d;Vine.
Fruit.cups.the wind;
"...you don't need the means..."
it's in the ways...
Form:
The classic tale Centuries-old
through self-owned reliance
a hero rises from the cold
But Within these chapters carefully hidden
Upon the pages where this story is written
Between the lines is the story untold
Of the acts of love
by the willfully forfeited soul
Born a sacrifice
Meant to be consumed
A life never lived
Born to be used
Created as a vessel
To hold an elixir of love
Collected from the wounds
of Shredded palms
That rest in the hands
refusing gloves
Dripping now is the nurturer's light
flowing into the mouths
Of the ones emptied of fight
Stricken By hunger
And ready to die
Now Fully replenished
And brought back to life
They begin to Forge fables
Of a strength they found inside
And rising from the ashes
Upon the pedestal, they climb
The sacrifice forgotten
Lost within a selfish mind
In the chest of the sacrifice
Cruelly rests the hero's knife
The selfless lover
Cursed to survive
the bearer of breaths
who mended their bones
And stitched their flesh
Born to forgive
Gifted madness
In order to live
Upon the light to balance the world they feast
From the chalice holding the elixir they drink
Born a sacrifice
Through empathetic eyes they see
Those born an empath
Once called eaters of sin
Ache from your pain
Without wearing your skin
Feel your soul
Without wearing your shoes
Takes on your shame
Carries your abuse
For your freedom they lovingly give
Every morsel of what makes them, them
A Century-old book bleeds a tale
Upon pages forever soaked
from the carvings of the sharpest quell
In Blood, a love story is wrote
Hidden between the lines dwells
The words ceasing to bespoke
Of the giver who always gave
And the hero who only took