Long Chapel Poems
Long Chapel Poems. Below are the most popular long Chapel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chapel poems by poem length and keyword.
Some choose religion as their sacred home for worship and prayer
others choose spirituality, "it seats the noumenon of their soul "
From very young I was introduced to religion, mom kept a chapel in the house
we were taught to pray the rosary and be obedient according to bible laws
I had a statue of Mary that I kept on my dresser and from a young age
she spoke to me and encouraged me to live despite the pain I was experiencing at such a young age...
Later in life when I reached my thirties I went through a crisis,
during the darkest nights of my soul I found the philosophy of Buddhism
both comforting and altruistic to my nature.
I learned from monks how to go within
Today at the age of sixty two I realize that both were gifts
One taught me discipline and introduced me to Mystical experiences
the other helped to re-discover the child within
and heal the broken parts of me ...
Today I work as a healer and I do my part to help others heal
It is all about love and compassion and how we choose to express our
FAITH
Religion and Spirituality, I believe I was blessed to be able to
embrace both equally without feeling that one threatened the other.
May 22, 2021
The Pope Benedict XVI chants, " Pater Noster " with a voice not so grand
while distracting himself by gazing at God's outstretched hand
that Michelangelo painted so well
on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
This is a Gregorian chant with music sumptuously composed
by monastery monks whose life dedication was to preserve knowledge
despite the barbaric invasions that they constantly endured...
they knew that their song of celestial sound would survive another age.
He is not wearing a tiara decorated with stones as other popes have,
perhaps it is to express his true humbleness towards God Himself,
that the power of a crown is a selfish manifestation of earthly power,
so on his feeble knees he prays for all, "Pater Noster. "
And while controversy about his birth and ancestry is absurd and unfair,
he's breaking down the barriers of prejudice and race laboriously...
although he came from a nation that conquered and slaughtered without pity;
let us join this selfless servant of our merciful God by chanting, " Pater Noster. "
Before the almightiness of the delighted Creator with " Pater Noster qui es in caelis, "
he displays his devotion for Him and admiration for the artistic hands of tireless bone
that embellished the ceiling of the Sacellum Sixtinum: a gem of the Renaissance;
Rome is in constant transformation, and here Pope Benedict XVI lays another stone.
English translation: Pater Noster qui es in caelis:
Our Father who art in Heaven
Sacellum Sixtinum: Sistine Chapel
There are so many things in life I can't do and it makes me sad. I will never know the Zeta function on the f line. I will never win a noble prize. I will never retain the entire dictionary in my vocabulary. I will never go to space. I will never be Bruce Lee. I will never change the past. I will never travel faster than the speed of light. I will never be Lenny Cravits. I will never control the weather. I will never slow time the first time I see a lover. I will never leave my own mind. I will never be you. I will never paint the Sistine chapel. I will never invent the lightbulb. I will never see gravity. I will never be a child again. I will never call the one I loved when I was young and thought it was love. I will never stop nuclear reactions. I will never be a super hero. I will never eat a dodo.
I’m trying to be respectable by being undetectable,
But my words are indefensible,
It’s regrettable yet incredible,
That I can’t see past the second hand,
This isn’t how my life was planned,
Another junkie for the damned,
Another soul that’s slammed and scammed.
You sit up in your fancy houses,
With your 2.4 and trophy spouses,
While I’m sleeping rough with dogs and louses,
Pimps and hookers cutting ounces.
Your judgement oozes from the street,
It’s stench it drenches sickly sweet,
Condemning me to taste defeat,
At the hands of your sacred elite.
I’ll burn your book and eat your apple,
Sodomise Eve inside your chapel,
Teach the truth while you all grapple,
Amongst yourselves like a desperate rabble.
Because I’m the truth of all your teachings.
I’m the result of a millennial of preachings,
The result of progress here I am,
Look upon your modern man.
Sweet dancing jasmine
Scent upon air
Breathing in beautiful
In sweet aroma
I catch
a star
In a gentle whisper
I leave it
Under the pillow
Hoping within
A wish
Trailing
in thoughts
On a dark
lonely night
It will shine
Outwardly
to you
Embracing emotions
In deep
dripping feelings
On a blood moon
Playing love's tune
Crying
in the chapel
Floating river
Of scarlet passion
Dreaming in the clouds
Destiny calls
A princess
From grains of love
Building from the sands
A castle within
One staircase
In the right
Direction
The world
Becomes beautiful
Wrapped around
Only you
Early morn’s bright birdsong sings my blink to day activate,
waking my faith as feel my thoughts cannot think agitate.
Of earth’s many crisp Eden’s, my yard does participate,
for when I stepped out and into Spring, her marvelous slate
had hymn-grown it as a wholeness chapel, less man’s ornate.
Our loved, frail willow’s miracle growth rose thanks to dilate,
then soar-spun my green love thru all growth to appreciate.
The blueberry bushes set my awe on anticipate.
Our garden washed me fresh in gratitude’s glorious trait.
Bulb plants lifted me with promises that exhilarate
my sense rushes of gem blooms to come and intoxicate.
Our joy-filled, yard contentment was a sense sweep dictate.
From ground to sky, eye to soul, spring does rehabilitate
all that lags as spiritually weak in my heart’s rate.
Natural earth is wonder in beauty’s prime based state
and in our yard presence are the Spring psalms I celebrate.
... CayCay Jennings
May 26, 2018
The relentless rain ravished the old village.
No one dared to leave their warm homes.
Except for one dark-hooded human being
Zigzagging and hiding along paths and roads,
After leaving a bundle on a Convent step
And ringing quickly the nuns' bell.
Low amongst the ebony clouds, thunder rumbled.
Sister Clare immediately saw the bundle,
She heard the child's moan in acute fear.
She gathered the babe and rushed inside.
In her hurry, she left the heavy door ajar.
A lithe girl quickly entered behind the nun.
Sister Clare took the babe into the cosy kitchen.
Took off its wet wrappings and wiped the poor babe.
Then with another dry towel covered the infant.
She hurried to search for clothes and returned.
She stopped at the doorway for there a young girl stood.
“Who are you?” The girl dressed in a white nightgown
Turned and smiled. “I am Gabrielle,” she said.
The babe was fully dressed but rather quiet.
“Dressed her up, and baptised her White Rose.
Now it’s time to take her to the dimly lit chapel.”
Sister Clare and many other nuns followed, wondering.
Who is Gabrielle? Why did the baby make no noise?
Gabrielle and her babe climbed the altar’s stairs slowly.
“Jesus is kind and loves us all. Now White Rose is His.”
A white aura of bright light surrounded the girl and babe.
Harps plucked in the most dulcet way and then all was dark.
Only the dead babe remained, lying in a basket on the altar.
From far away a few bells tolled a happy melody for all to hear.
In days long past, my school did a pilgrimage to a small land of peace and reconciliation, that lay in the nation of passion and revolution. As a community from nations near and far, we all ate simple food in the daylight flavouring the fresh air, allowing us all to discover joy in pearls hidden in fields. I listened and sang hymns of honey given by the monks dressed in white. Through the songs on my tongue, I tasted gladness of heart and peace in mind, though sometimes the words were a mystery to me. I spent my personal time in the chapel, sitting in silent worship amid polished stone with orange windows. I listened to the peace of flowing milk around me, and the occasional drip touching my tongue. I did not understand the divine flowing all around and within me, though I felt its gentle touch. It was a mystery to me, incompressible and veiled by my shackles. A mystery that I had not comprehended at that time, till I took a bit of fruit in years after. But the hymns of sweet honey and the flowing milk was but a faint taste to me. I was not a Christian back then as I am now. I was still led along by the hope of a New Age back then. Though the milk and honey were sweet to my tongue, I could not have swallowed the medicine they contained within. Yaldabaoth had chained my neck tight by his words and by his mirages of the desert, until I found the Tree of Gnosis that unlocked my neck and heart later in life. As such, the milk, honey or any beverage of the spirit were not my found treasure there, but the friends that journeyed with me. They were a mountain filled with greenery for me. Birds were tweeting in laughter, and the trees were rustling in chatter. Wind was playing games in the branches, and the sun was shining over this all. We all slept and hung out in tents at night when there was no blistering sunlight showering us. That was a mountain of friendship I never climbed before and never climbed up again. Only memories of the mountain peak of shining white remain. I can no longer see that princess of moonlight now, though I was closest to her on the mountain peak. I felt her cool breath amidst the stars, and I heard her laughter among the trees at daylight.
On the green mountain
With honey and pearly milk
Laughing with the moon
He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot
He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot
His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too
He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
Had this town been a Wild West town, he’d know which way to go
But how does one say ‘Hotel’, here in outback Mexico?
A man in a sombrero, three armed sidekicks in his wake
Sauntered up and told him to be gone for his own sake
“Hey, Cowboy, we don’t want no Gringo, messing up our town,
Take yourself and your guitar before we take you down.”
The preacher said, “I’ll play for you and if you love the tune
You’ll point me to the chapel and the rowdiest saloon.”
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
He reached down for his guitar case, the Mexicans took aim
And with a little slight of hand, the preacher did the same
But nothing grins as wide as when a bandit thinks he’s won
And when four guns are facing one the job’s as good as done
So was it skill or was it God who played a helpful part
When each of those four bandits took a bullet to the heart
The sheriff, if you’d call him that, said, “Have you got a name?”
The preacher said, “I’ll tell you Sunday if it’s all the same.”
The sheriff, having none of it, said, “Tell me who you are.”
He said, “I’m just a gringo with my god and my guitar.
But men of God preceded me and got no help from you.
So clear your desk, I am not me… I am those other two
He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d gotten word
Two preachers vanished here before, but he won’t be the third
For he had brought his guitar which, to praise the Lord, he plays
And when he strums those guitar strings, the congregation sways
A Chapel lives within the Chest—
No Steeple, yet it sings—
Its Hymns are stitched in Breath and Bone,
With unrecorded Strings—
The Sabbath walks on quiet Feet—
Through Kitchens—Fields—and Care—
No Bell is tolled, yet Conscience knows
The Hour that waits in Prayer—
A Discipline of gentle Fire—
Refines the mortal Clay—
Not scourge—but tender urgencies
That will not drift away—
I found my Piety in Acts—
A Cup—a Hand—a Word—
The smallest Mercy, humbly done,
Becomes the loudest heard—
To visit Grief—unheralded—
To bind the unseen Wound—
To sit beside the Failing Light
And make no pious Sound—
For Faith is not a Shouting Thing—
Nor Thunder from Above—
It moves in quiet Ordinance—
The Daily Work of Love—
And if the Soul should falter—still—
The Covenant remains—
A Thread between the Dust and God
Drawn tight through hidden Pains—
So let me be—no grand Devotee—
No Scholar robed in Flame—
But one who keeps the Narrow Path
And answers to His Name—