Long Congregants Poems
Long Congregants Poems. Below are the most popular long Congregants by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Congregants poems by poem length and keyword.
That Pentecost Sunday in Owo
As worshippers assembled
For the rain of Holy Spirit
Men of the underworld
Wielding the tools of their ungodly trade
Rained satanic bombs and bullets on innocent congregants
And two scores lay dead
While many more injured
Leaving families devastated
Dreams brutally cut short
And reign of fear foisted on
The hitherto peaceful community
All in the name of extremism
And misguided religiosity
What a sacrilege in God’s temple?
What a desecration of His sanctuary?
What an audacious confrontation with God
In His terrestrial abode?
The wicked will never go unpunished
Vengeance is of the lord
At His time they will reap
The fruit of their wickedness
Early in the morning, he woke up
Up flinging his wings to God’s House
God’s House perhaps with some reason
Some reason for mingling
Mingling with some congregants
Congregants singing to praise their God
God did not create butterflies to sing
To sing like human beings
Human beings go to church to socialize
Socialize because they are not butterflies
But butterflies follow the wind all over
All over up until at a church
At church, they see no flowers to suck
No pollen to lick and cannot sing
Cannot sing a song they do not know
Not know but can expose their beautiful bodies
Bodies uncovered with colorful wings
Wings they fling intentionally
Intentionally for exciting humans at church
At church, they are still butterflies
Butterflies who come to irritate God in his House.
Poem by Mugisho N.
Should I see you coming from afar,
I would swing my hands at a tick of a clock,
You might take delight in delaying all those congregants,
As they stay unexpectantly in shock,
Then you come in with tattered pants;
All begun to murmur inside the mall,
Disturbances fly in from multiple parts,
"Welcome to the viewers day of yore",
Solemnly,I pleased you with a meaningful dance,
Collectively,fingers were stretched towards where you stood,
No body was beside you,
Perhaps,analyses from your view overlooked,
Laugh with me dear,
Will let you see the expence I've paid to compassion you without fear,
After you've been transited from here,
Mediation will even allow me to become fulfilled to a departed peer,
Than to bath in hypocracy with lamentations and a freezed beer,
Hold me tightly by digesting my fidelity,
For this signs of our executed glory is building our cherished equality.
An advocacy for truthful intimacy.
Submerged in a rat race, to keep the number high.
compromised the truth of the Prince of Peace,
imported science, liberalism and other form of philosophies.
to obscure the simplicity of the gospel,
Biblical illiterates lulled men to sleep through fantasy
and indeed,
“Thine enemies roar in the midst of thy congregations;
they set up their ensigns for signs.”
some experts of science,
others chose philosophy for their trade.
A mixture of voodoo and tradition
the babel of our religion,
many inventions and importation
from the world system to soothe men's cravings.
and in our bids to compete and conform
we sent the Master out through the door
and men love it so.
As we are now jesters from the pulpits
The complete gospel now a burden.
Repentance is extinct, righteousness unpalatable,
our churches as club houses where no Bible it taught
with itching ears as congregants
and we were just socializing,
more denominational than divine
secret devotion now archaic,
and the dark kingdom was plotting
as men sopor like captive.
then came corona, as a scourge, trudging the entire universe like a colossus
and men remembered.
that our Master is the master of the wind
but we sent him out long ago.
By a compromised gospel
Our choir cantata won't take place this year.
We lack the space to be six feet apart
on stage or in the choir loft, but the fear
of Covid can't crowd Christmas from ONE heart!
All congregants will sing with season’s cheer.*
Though Christmas shopping won't be quite the same,
the mask I wear will not dilute the thrill
of finding gifts and checking off each name.
This list is one I'm eager to fulfill.
A mostly normal Christmas is my aim!
Close family will gather Christmas Day,
with scrumptious food and presents to bestow.
Though distancing, we'll limit Covid's sway.
As always, reminiscences will flow.
Our joy will keep pandemic threats at bay.
No chaos or pandemic can erase
the precious truth that Jesus came to Earth
two thousand years ago. It’s by his grace
one's soul is saved. His unique virgin birth,
proclaimed each Christmas--nothing can efface.
*The sanctuary's many lengthy pews make distancing easy.
Date: November 9, 2020
Contest Title: Quintain--Sicilian
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
December 14, 2020
Entered in the Christmas Poems Old or New Contest Placed 2nd
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Mocking the dead,
the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,
but
the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.
Hell,
the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.
Mocking the dead,
making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.
A teenager with the expressions of a middle age individual
is the wonder-creating characteristic of its accelerating growth.
Dwelling in a land not presented with natural gifts;
it still beat all odds to be a member of the Asian Tigers
and a competing contributor to its domain’s prosperity.
The birth place to the Toilet theme amusement park
and a camp of makeup obsessed men.
The fourteenth day of every month is set aside in romance’s banquet
except that of the fourth month when mourning becomes love’s pirate.
February is for young men, march, three times for the ladies.
Prides in the globally acknowledged Boryeona Mud Festival
and gives socialization a new countenance in the “hoesik” event,
while new standards in robotic technology is climaxed
as prison guards, patrols, anti-jelly fish squad and teachers
actively exist through exciting artificial intelligence.
A humiliating public ritual in a form of crime reenactment,
personality stereotypes emanating from the different blood groups,
a nationwide superstitious repugnance to the red ink;
very cultured to even create a backlash
on Bill Gates’ presidential handshake;
typify a people coming a long way from a turbulent past.
A territory of very bright and brainy students;
the god of the LG, Hyundai and Samsung among others;
and to the largest church in size and congregants in the world.
It is the well preserved garden where plastic surgery strives
all to show an amazing growth once heavily stunted,
suffering a suppression entertained by the comfort ladies;
somehow causing a perspective towards the rising sun
to be similar to the swastika’s view by the Jews.
Despite the Japanese colonization, soviet meddling and North Korean threats,
it’s still showing mental strength to be the world’s 12th largest trading Nation.
The dear old pastor had occupied the same pulpit for years and years;
He preached fire, damnation and The Hereafter scorching his congregants ears!
He had baptized hordes of kids and officiated when they married,
And comforted many mourning souls when their loved-ones were buried!
He suffered through stormy sessions at the monthly meetings of The Board,
And withstood the bickering of sisters of The Women's Guild, utterly bored!
Some of his flock were as stubborn as army mules and were quite contrary!
He faced challenging situations that they didn't teach about in seminary!
He confided with his long-suffering wife proclaiming, "This is the pits!"
And after serving the Lord nigh on thirty years he decided to call it quits.
He advised The Board that he was retiring due to health issues, you see.
(Truth was, he quipped, "I was sick of them and they were sick of me!")
Host
Priest and monk eat biscuits quietly
In the garden, delighted
Sunlight on tombstones pray
The dead don’t mind
Shaded by the stone cold church
In the past, whips lashed out perfect pain
Rained down salvation and enemy torture
Repent by fire, inspired by the style of the day
Water too was utilized to clear minds for rapture
Submerged souls sank from the atrocious boredom
Lead them not into temptation
Lost in translation of the word
Baptism is not a poison or a code
Once upon a time there was a host
Bread of life nourishes the church
Inside, behind stain glass windows, services begin
Solid walls hide solitude, pure silence in icy gray
Occasional wafer, dry bread, feeds congregants
Placed reverently on the religious minded tongues
By the purifiers, sterile, the men in long black robes
Counted among the congregants, the geese
flying by, two by two, at sunrise. Guitar
combines nicely with a heavenly voice.
Behind me the couple makes the Spirit flow.
Their voices, too, intertwined like Ivy.
Blessings and more blessings!
We arrive home to a ruckus in the bush.
A red cardinal has my undivided attention.
Perhaps, Mom is paying a visit.
I like to think so.
Blessings and more blessings!
Tears in sunrise glow. I sang of the Savior.
He washed me white as snow, as they drove
nails through his hands and feet. He healed me.
We sing of an angel on a stone, declaring,
“He is not here! He has risen!”
If you only understood, friend, he made a way
where there was no way, and all through
the Holy Scriptures it prophesied
what Jesus would do. What more…
what more do we need. We need only believe.
Blessings and more blessings!
Bless you, dear ones!