Long Confessor Poems
Long Confessor Poems. Below are the most popular long Confessor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confessor poems by poem length and keyword.
Not in the sanguine ordinance of the heart, nor in the fugitive embassy of breath, but in that inviolate interval where succession relinquishes its crown, Love keeps its unspoken dominion.
Who schooled the blood in scarlet mysteries,
Or taught the clay such inward majesty?
Not flesh, whose borrowed splendours fade like seas
When Time withdraws its ancient sovereignty;
But that concealed and antecedent fire
Whose silence outlives every mortal choir.
I passed beyond the ivory walls of bone,
Where marrow held a vigil without name;
Where things forgotten before they were known
Lay folded in an immemorial flame;
And there the dark, unburdened of disguise,
Looked through my soul with uncreated eyes.
The heart, that bronze confessor of the dust,
Raised its twin thunder toward the vault of years;
One stroke proclaimed the visible world to trust,
The next dissolved beyond the reach of spheres;
And in that breathless cleft between the two,
Eternity remembered what we knew.
There Chronos laid his sceptre in the sand,
And Number lost the kingdom it had won;
The stars grew still beneath an older hand,
As night confessed the labour of the sun;
For Being, stripped of all its borrowed art,
Returned to the silence beneath the heart.
Then came the vision reason could not bind:
A shadowless bird passed through a mountain’s core;
No wound remained upon the adamant mind
Of stone that had endured the world before;
Yet from its depths there trembled into air
A song that no created throat could bear.
Then I beheld what no decree could prove:
Love was not flame, nor breath, nor mortal claim;
It was the interval where all things move
Before they enter form and take a name;
The hidden mercy no beginning owns,
The pulse between the marrow and the stones.
A holy letter written by
Abgarus the toparch of Edessa
To Bardaisan the passerby
Sent to him by Keefa the confessor
“Abgarus VIII the toparch writing
To Bardaisan, offspring of the dancing river
Son of Nah 'siram and my friend, greeting
I have heard reports of the baptised lamb’s power
Which makes the eyeless see, the lame to walk
Which makes lepers clean, and casts out lion-daimons
Which even makes the dead alive and talk
This faithful power exceeds so-called eudaemons
Indeed, I now believe in Christ Jesus
The saviour of all, who is either God himself
Who came down from the heavens above us
Or the Son of God sent down to save mankind’s self
I am in need of holy instruction
In all these high and heavenly matters of faith
I know from my old life of perdition
In this world which the dark dragon haunts like a wraith
Of your deeds that raised the public-spirit
The healings you performed, the sacred works you wrote
You are the harp of the holy spirit
The archer against daimons, cutting every throat
Therefore, I invite you to the banquet
In order to illuminate my mind with truth
In order to seal my soul’s empty pit
Over my household and kingdom, I have much ruth
I have a little kingdom that Rome will repress
But I will welcome you as Christ welcomed the dove: With comeliness”
(I've based this letter on the ancient Letter of King Abgar V to Jesus (public domain). Though that letter was a third century work, it was likely caused by Abgar VIII of Osroene conversion to Christianity by the Gnostic Bardaisan in 200 AD, Bardaisan was even part of Abgar's royal court.
I thought it would a fun idea to remake the letter to be correspodence between Abgar VIII and Gnostic Bardaisan instead, as it would be closer to what likely historically happened.)
Have you seen the light of Him that shines brighter then the
Aludra star of heaven's lair, and have you seen the rays that
Veer towards you when you pray, my brother have you
Ever known more peace then when you bow your head in prayer
Yoked to your heart He is your everlasting soulmate and your friend
On the wings of faith you can soar towards Him night and day
Unearth your fears and find the comfort that you need
Sacred Father, Abba, Patriarch and Archer of all that is good in you
Every action of yours is guided by His Holy subservient angels
Experience Him in your journey of love and know that you are
Noteworthy of His protection. Sister of life on earth plant a seed
The creator will water it and make it grow like a rose in the dessert
Hide it from the enemy let it prosper in His vineyard. You the
Elect who is never left in the dark, is a child of the Beloved,
Love with all your heart as he has loved you, built an alter and
Invite Him to your table dear friend, He is the candle that burns bright
Goodness and peace will follow you if you make
Him your confessor and your constant companion .
Trust in Him who created you to His image, know you are loved.
Wall clock,
Cinderella got out,
Big Ben's pale attraction,
King Saul highest in York and London,
On dial, his twelve hands juggle,
Hypnosis,
Vineyard blood,
My arrows,
Strings of psalms,
Split arrowheads of dwarfs,
Big Ben's dogs,
Pursue Lady Rowena of Ivanhoe,
Titanic is broken,
Icebreaker from orca,
Sign of Jonah,
Canker on the tower,
Dark hole,
Toxic stepmother,
Fake freedom,
Make gunsight on Sarah (of Tobias) for the gnomes,
But my gold apple of the eye above and over,
Olive oil and Jonathan's honey,
Far like close against who shoots on,
Flame on the town,
Sky fall,
Christmas star only,
Michael knight helps these young women,
Against the red dragon,
To stay in Love,
"Who Is like the Lord?!"
Angel's name in the hand of Mother of God,
This boy, precursor
For Lamb and Lion,
Not a Teuton,
Robin Hood in New York and Chicago,
Monte Cristo at Lyon,
The voice in Moscow,
Wilderness of snow,
Service like an arrow of the Word,
David's stone going like a forerunner before,
When David arrives, He will return with the sword,
And with Cinderella's crystal shoe and Life crown,
For crows and doves, between children of Noah,
Town of the world,
Square of fake Concord,
The Pharaoh's obelisk by Napoleon,
Shady hand on dial clock from the catacombs of lodge,
This Jezebel collusion against the vineyard of Naboth and brother Joseph,
Like a nuclear-armed rocket,
Time stolen,
When Big Ben is loose, fall,
Against only Noah's bow,
With the arrow from the natural rainforest,
Fire of Mowgli,
Good outlaw among wolves,
Confessor on the cross,
Star from the Orient,
Say to the leaders of nations:
"Don't return to fox Herod",
And to Shere Khan Herod: "Don't be with Herodias, dame Terror",
Writing to the seven angels of the churches
By Revelation of John,
Cultures from Noah on Light give all colors,
Worthy and noble communion to Blood and Body,
One who has no sword sell his cloak and buy one,
In sackcloth therefore Elijah and Enoch.
Just like her husband Adam
Eve was perfect at the start.
Pure, whole, untainted in
Body, mind, soul and heart.
So how is it that a woman
With a perfect brain
Did not think to question
What seems to us insane?
After all, if an animal
Approached you to contradict God,
Would that not strike you
As something quite odd?
Today it takes time
And observation
To understand the
Animal creation.
But I sit back sometimes
And wonder if a feature
Of a perfect mind is the ability
To communicate with creatures...
For Eve openly confessed
"the serpent deceived me"
So is it too wild to suggest
This possibility?
Even centuries later
Paul acknowledged this confessor.
"The woman was thoroughly deceived
and became a transgressor"
From the beginning
To the present tense
So much has happened
That makes little sense!
But how amazing would it be
If the likes of you and me
Could connect with the animal kingdom
More openly, more free?!
[Genesis 3:13; 1Timothy 2:14]
We,
with the geometry and evening
balance of our midcentury hands—gently
lower the cloche over the day between us. It is a
nightly ritual, gravity-driven, habit built over time, the glass
encasement marred by scars, and etched with near misses and
necessary compromises. Wonder, so many watch television at night.
Kitchen, near day's end, is the stage for our theatrics, still. Air thick with
the leftover residue of last Tuesday's scorching argument. You, a curator of moments, gather the burnt-up bits—stashing away the evaporated passion, a vanishing act of expiration, of measured moves. The charry air becomes clear, in your reconciliation of memories, each crumb meticulously stored in the up-turned folds of your apron; emptiness of your hollow apologies leaving barely any room,
like
this
room.
I, the confessor of too many honesties, carry the weight,
of your name, in vain, in vow, and in vino. Everything spilled
forth, laid obesely bare on the altar of pragmatism. Evening air
saturated with palatable confessions, invidious revelations, each night creates constant courses filled with serving upon relentless serving of burdens of truths, neither of us wants to swallow. Archivists of these vacant instants, overfilled platters of reconciled destinies, we keep the pledges we intoned in the chapel of sincerity, their headstrong mantras resonating with the gods of practicality. In the end, the bitter-sweet dessert of marriage is plated, seasoned
with the complexities of shared history,
leaving the aftertaste of our combined lives lingering on my tongue.
The Failure
When I was bored with sea life
and walked ashore in Santiago
I could find no work except in house of ill repute
throwing out the rebellious and for some reason
became a father confessor to the women, not a good start
No one wanted a book- learned man who had read Nietzsche
so when the money was gone it was back to sea.
any ship would do as long as I was paid so I could leave and
try my luck. I got a job on a Liberia type ship that looks as
it was ready to sink – it did after I left- for some reason
the ship was going to Norway it is a mystery we got there.
After years of self-disgust, I had a heart attack and the state
gave me a sick benefit which was not enough to live on
in Norway so I want to Portugal and stayed, there deep in
the interior and spent my time walking or writing
alternative poetry with little success, which disappointed me
that not being knows, until I realized it didn`t matter
I had found my Shangri La and that in the end is my goal in life.
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem
A Eulogy in Memory of My Dead Love
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen! My Loved Brothers and Sisters! Respected Believers!
This day, this Saturday, is very sad in the calendar. Cold, oppressive autumn day.
We may once again witness the departure of a mortal soul. This is her last journey.
Yes. Hmm. This is her last hour in our world. You can see her last time. Yes. Here.
She was a mortal. Hmm. Please, see this beautiful blonde lady. She desires decay.
She is dead. Hmm. Yes. She is dead. Hmm. I'm the killer. I sent this lady to her death.
Yes. I am the killer. The priest. The priest. The honest lover. Hmm. I loved this woman.
This beautiful and magnetic woman was a victim of her own lifestyle. I was the witness.
Yes. I. This lady’s confessor. I know everything about her. About her nights. I loved her.
I tried to change her. Her life. But she was very demonic. I couldn’t change her. The love.
Too many men. Too many parties. Hmm. You understand me. I needed to stop her life.
I tried everything to save her life. I loved this amazing woman. But she was a real demon.
I couldn’t put her life on the right track. I tried everything to save her deteriorating soul.
Everything! Everything!! I tried everything!!!. I couldn’t save her. I prayed every night.
But nothing. I had to save her. From destruction. I had no other choice. I killed her.
I loved her
Rest in Peace
Peace to her ashes
My Love
God Bless You
Amen
On entering the confessional we should kneel, make the sign of the Cross and say to the priest, Bless me Father; then add I confess to Almighty God and to you Father, that I have sinned
The first things we should tell the priest in the Confession are the time of your last confession, and whether he said the penance and went to Holy Communion
After telling the time of our last Confession and Communion we should confess all the mortal sins we have committed, and all the venial sins we may wish to mention
When the confessor asks us questions we must answer them truthfully and clearly
After telling our sins we should listen with attention to the advice which the confessor may think proper to give
We should end confession by saying I also accuse myself of all the sins of my past life, telling if we choose one or several of our past sins
While the priest is giving us absolution we should from our heart renew the act of contrition