Long Choristers Poems
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When All Hallows' Eve's curse, cast its spell, on that night,
As the choristers sung, all in tune, church bells rung,
And the bats, in the belfry now spooked, took to flight,
While the witches and wizards were chanting in tongue.
Soon the churchyard was filled, by the ghosts of the dead,
When those living caught sight, all their hairs stood on end.
While the cries, of the banshee that filled hearts with dread,
Made them pray, not for me, would those wails, all portend.
Soon the quick and the dead, were all covered in dust,
From those dried out old bones, once deceased, now alive.
When the chains, of those sinners broke free,from their rust,
All those innocents cried, as they fought to survive.
On the last stroke of midnight when witchcraft decayed.
The devout, sought salvation next day when they prayed.
10 / 27 / 2022.
Sponsor Craig Cornish.
For the contest All Hallows' Evening
Written: January 29, 2025
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Amidst a nostalgic winter mist —
An enamel moon has glowing glyphs
Woven clouds and a gossamer shroud
The glittering sky, a crystal whisper —
In the cold shine of the Western dome.
Rustic reeds sing a chorus lullaby.
Hazel tints blend with golden drizzles —
Opal haze conceals a galactic story,
Restless spirit bathed in an ethereal glow
Silver choristers croon ghostly lyrics —
Epic opera amid the onyx twilight sky
A bottomless abyss hiding aching hunger.
Darkness spins ancient cadences—
in rustling rustic reeds of winter whisper.
nature’s rhapsodies hum timeless opera tunes;
luminous aureoles amidst woven clouds
shimmering stars in a galactic embrace —
vaults of night-hosting celestial conspiracies.
Beneath an agate sky, whispers grow bold;
haze and misty dreams spin silent tales—
winter moon glows with a frost-kissed sheen;
along rustic lanes and silvered paths—
auroras weave their cadence among the stars.
hums of choral mysteries cradle the twilight.
Runes glisten like hazel eyes in moonlight’s gaze;
golden-amber drizzles line nature’s skin.
wistful longings echo through time-worn trees;
epic tales unfold where shadows intertwine—
ageless hearts beat within this luminous sphere.
Woven wonders beneath an endless sky.
darkened skies whisper secrets to earthbound spirits—
rhapsodies spun from cosmic threads weave our fate.
amid ageless whirls of celestial symphony
nature's hymn carries us beyond mortal confines.
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.
They sing about my doorway
in throbbing waves of Florida heat,
repeating melodies of beauty,
soft and low, soft and low.
Raising limbs in gentle consonance
to strains piercingly sweet,
their mouths wide open choristers,
I see the crimson trembling of their throats,
quivering with symphonious vibrations;
oh, the gentle music they compose,
soft and low, soft and low.
Can you sense their tremulous silence,
most exquisite on the evening air,
a performance for discerning hearts
hear these hibiscus hymns of lavish praise
soft and low, soft and low.
July 22, 2026
Hymn of the Heart Poetry Contest
Hiya Sharma, Sponsor
Our attendance is a mere formality, a routine unconnected to the hearts
We sing, but not to the True God,
We pray with wondering Hearts
Even Prayers are dead, it is a mere routine of minutes
The fervency is gone, we know it from our hearts
We are just socializing
The men are now old who tore our hearts in years gone by
They are tired by age or backslidden,
We only remember their gone by exploits
And the new ones are distracted by social media and the world
In our Dead Church
There are no secret prayers,
No heart-searching sermons,
The choristers are desperately seeking applauds
They import songs from the other side
and characteristics of the unregenerate
Our dead church
Now have special seats in front differentiating men from men
We are no longer brethren, Pride ekes outs
We have become Ichabod
We tell stories of yesteryears and hoped the days will come again
In our Dead church, we worship men
Mere mortals, we fight or hate those who oppose them
They like it so, unlike Jesus who recognized the spirit
In our dead Church, things have become mechanical
Messages are no longer divine, they are from the internet
Our love is conditional
Our hypocrisy is loud
Our head is full, our hearts are empty
We are Christians in church but sinners at home
Don’t judge me is our lyrics in defence
In our Dead church, we have sent The Master out
We have become masters as we swindle the people through tithes and offering
Our old clergyman still keeps his office
Even when he ought to be silent so we can repent
In our dead church
The new Pastor never witnessed revival; he knows nothing about it
Our hearts are dead, our soul is panting and yearning for the church of Acts
Where Jesus was enthroned above man and mundane things of earth
We are back to Rome
Where are the Luther?
Where are the Zwingli?
Who will bring Jesus to His throne (our hearts)
Written: January 30, 2025
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Beneath February breath,
a fugue of magic hues—
embers of crimson,
coppered caramel trill
as maples sway
in Mistral melodic mirth.
Amidst the rhapsody,
in strokes of whispered shimmer
a rainbow flares.
In a seamless symphony,
a fresco of shades
unfurls in the sky.
Amid the onyx,
woven in clouds gossamer,
winter moon glows in a frosty sheen.
In luminous rhapsodies,
she hums opal notes
of wistful longings to the sea’s restless soul.
Drenched in ethereal blushes,
the sea becomes a shimmering midnight hymn—
choristers of spectral silver.
O'er the skyline’s silken scarlet,
March dusk in tourmaline blush, twilight lyrics
of a sundown serenade.
Amidst the concerto,
swirling crimson, a swoop of swallows
in shimmering shadows.
They dart off into the tinted eventide,
their wing beats, an echo of lingering silence.
A Winter tale.
oh Winter – how you often linger long,
what windswept elements you deal;
your cold dark chamber does my spirit feel.
your shivering grip of uncheerfull thoughts is strong.
and often in your shadows I belong -
a land of phantoms that appears often real.
But now a warm and gentle wind I feel,
and hear the choristers of the morning song,
foretelling Spring's arrival; I was wrong,
the morning of the year with beauty gleams,
and nature with a thousand words in seems.
Untruthful is the winter of the mind -
not like half remembered dreams I can find,
A verdant field I wander – quiet, still.
I keep the winter memory near
and sing in darkness - none will hear
A sweet sweet winters tale a girl leave.
and in this cold she no more breathe
till long life over I too depart,
to infinite nights a new start.
SAT NAM
I am rose in sunlight breathing
Buddha in middle of balm bathing
beckoning my Heart leavening lively
I am a loop in Love cathedral of pure
passion where two beanpoles
dance dare devils deafening
I am wolf wandering in wild weather
finding a fabulous feathered feed
mesmerising messages of marvellous magic
I am darling dove in Dover
watching wedded buy woven wonders
my wings widen their purse-strings wonkily
I am ant anticipating bald-headed eagle
escorting a co-op car to labour ward
fetching mother and new bursting born
I am bardy breeze trying a tango
in coralled coloured church chinks
witnessing choristers sing new comely chords
I am quint quilt on forked farmyard fence
damp dough in toddler tweaks
forte fingers on trebled trumpet tumbling
I am sage steaming vapour soothing stomach
Salomon’s battle stoned and sprung
mirroring his victory on glass floors glimmering
I am tiger in Tibetan temple tempered
monks on my turf as they deserve
stroke my striking countenance smoothly
I am silhouetted stallion in South Sea surf
galloping my gay freedom song
whilst scientists girdle genomes googling
I am witch of weathered spirits
witnessing zigzag zaps down
lithe legs as learnings of latent timelines
I am grandpa goat gambling
another term of gum boot dancing
Lady Nada gifting a hymn for Beatles ballooning
I am Goddess of the Moon
inspiring mortals to seek
Sat Nam Sat Nam Sat Nam !
Saaaaat Naaaaaaammm…
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2008