Long Consolation Poems
Long Consolation Poems. Below are the most popular long Consolation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Consolation poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes when life's a hectic mess and I feel most alone,
And things don't seem to turn out right, my heart feels like a stone,
Buried deep inside my chest and I need consolation,
I have a secret place I go for rest and meditation.
A quiet place where I can go and lay my burdens down,
A place where tension slowly ebbs, lifts pressure from my brow.
My special place is not a room that anyone can enter,
Or follow me intruding on my inner sanctum's center.
I found this place within myself, a strong and sturdy fortress,
Where I can rebuild self esteem and strengthen waning prowess,
To face once more the daily grind, the endless worldly contest,
I sally forth now self assured, I can and will make progress.
When we are aged in body and mind,
most of us hurriedly close each window
wide open to Nature thinking of our end;
we feel cold and shiver 'though it's not winter yet,
will it come soon come and wound us with a sharp arrow?
Ah, we are helpless and feeble souls that fall to defeat!
A menace is a horrible threat if not a warning,
when we perceive it: does it awake all senses in disarray?
Can we hear strange and muffled voices from far away?
It's murmurs that mourn the cursed isolation
despising the awkwardness of old age to convey
the absurdity and behavior of their unfounded thinking:
who surrenders to fate and despairs, widens desolation
and accepts what is offered without hope for consolation!
And now we aren't able to hide inside
the constant fear that makes us tremble and display
anger when the hurricane devastates all in its way,
and staring at a minacious sky without light,
we don' ask for a truce and start dreaming after a while,
letting all escape to a distant realm of delight!
Woe to all who seek a solitude gloomier
than a dark horizon: it's unconceivable folly
believing that death is unexpectedly imminent!
Woe to all, don't wipe off tears without a cry;
we shouldn't be overwhelmed by doubt,
or any other thought entering our ear:
it's completely absurd to accept fright!
Under the enchanted curtain of the night, where the stars whisper ancient secrets,
I no longer desire everything, just an ethereal caress,
A stellar thrill and a minor love to soothe my dreams,
Fragile desires woven into the dance of silver shadows.
Now, I stand at the edge of time, waiting once again,
The years unravel like the fabric of an old tapestry,
The radio softly sings the songs of yesteryear,
And the kitchen walls glow in the yellow of a setting sun.
I toss empty bottles to chase away the evening ghosts,
Listening for invisible footsteps that might break the silence,
Hoping that death harbors something gentler
Than this endless waiting, this heavy silence.
At my fogged window, I write stories with my fingers on the steam,
About quiet pains and half-open joys,
In a small universe where dreams float on calm waters,
I no longer seek everything; I stay with these ephemeral fragments.
The moon, a silver queen, weaves her veil of light,
And under her diamond rays, I find my sweet peace,
An immeasurable moment, a suspended magical time,
A brief stillness in the vastness of my unfathomable past.
Others sleep in their sacred silences; only I remain watchful,
In nostalgic waiting, dancing with the shadows of the night,
Begging for a minor love, a stellar caress, and the thrill of desire,
In a small universe subtly vibrating under the canvas of infinity.
In the secret silence, each moment seems to slip slowly by,
The years become thin like silk under the full moon’s light,
I seek consolation in the simple art of waiting, listening to the depths of the night,
Hoping that death carries a lighter burden than this lonely life.
In the magical light of the moon, I embrace these passing moments,
My desires transform into falling stars,
And in the melancholy of life, I feel the enchantment of eternity
Revealing itself subtly, in every whisper of the night, in every dream.
Oh, he had a combat rifle,
An Uzzi sub machine gun
A revolver and a pistol
And a TASER just for fun,
Because to bear arms
Was his God given right
One of those for which
He was prepared to fight.
Nobody ever knew
Why he flipped his lid.
Nobody ever knew
Why he did what he did.
Just wounded lying among
Bodies of the six dead,
Rampaging on until a SWAT
Marksman shot him in the head.
It’s not guns that kill people
The NRA statement said
Its those who pull the trigger,
But folk still end up dead.
I really don’t think that’s
Much of a consolation
To bereaved and grievimg
Coping with the situation.
A loved one lost with
No apparent reason why
Just in the wrong place so
They just happened to die.
One of those things
That sets off alarms
As to why they need to right
To continue to bear arms.
There are no indigenous natives
Waiting to ambush waggon trains
Very few live lives of danger
Out on the old Wild West plains.
No, perhaps they need weapons
To protect from the likely harms
Caused by all those others who
Exercise their right to bear arms.
A SPIRITUAL SAINT'S STRENGTH AMIDST STRIFE
Fortitude for half a century, giving God all the glory,
The Foundress of Holy Family lived a humble, godly life,
St. Mariam Thresia - a stigmatic saint's story
Filled with many troubles, temptations and strife,
From Puthenchira, an Indian Syro-Malabar Catholic
Consecrated herself to the Lord at eight or nine years,
Modest and meek, serving the poor and the sick,
She was disciplined, obedient and different from her peers,
With childlike simplicity, charismatic charity and Christian chastity,
Fastidiously following Father Vithayathil's fine footsteps,
The "virgin of pains" was for Family Apostolate, the model entity,
Nursing the sick and dying by visiting them at their doorsteps,
Burning with intense love for God, she was a mystic soul,
"Whose Heart was aglow with fire and whose feet were winged",
Enduring her sufferings for the sake of Christ was her goal,
Her patient, divine spirit was with radiant sweetness tinged,
She had fervent trust in God's immense providence,
Her spiritual ecstasy was hours of prayer and meditation,
The "Apostle of suffering", she strived for her continence,
Wiping the tears of the broken hearted was her consolation,
Her gracious gift of goodness guides us all in giving
Care, concern and compassion to the comfortless at all cost,
Her lasting legacy left behind still leads the living
To show His love, shine His Light and shelter the lost.
Form: Rhyme (abab)
10.23.19
{This poem is about St. Mariam Thresia, who was canonised on 16th October, 2019 by Pope Francis in Rome. She is the Foundress of the Congregation of Holy Family, Puthenchira, Kerala.}
Take away the memories burning within my heart.
Rid me of grief I've felt since we were torn apart.
Offer me a brew of magical potion so I can forget
This wretched anguish born from things that I regret.
Songs of sorrow stumble me; I can't listen any more
Sedate me with wine until I lie cradled on the floor.
Echoes of his voice have left my emotions oppressed.
There is no consolation, and my heart cannot find rest.
Please allow my dire heartache a semblance of peace.
I am drowning in misery and desperately seek release.
Often plagued by thoughts that easily overpower me.
How much longer will this strife last until I am free?
How do I bury yesterday's burdens in the ground?
Must I mourn forever, in black ash cloth gowned?
April 13, 2021
Rhyming Couplets Contest
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Long ago, when the sun and earth were one flesh held tight
When male and female were one light
Shining as the white moon, turning as the wheel of night
We had immeasurable might
Because we had four legs, four ears, eight eyes and four hands
We had two faces that looked towards the heavenly lands
Saklas, terrified of our searching and wandering
But still desiring man to continue sacrificing
Sliced that moon into two for our light to start dimming
And so, each half was filled with trembling hunger and longing
For their other half, because death came when the moon split
They both tasted gnosis, but they were cast into the pit
After thousands of years wandering in the swirling dark
Adam heard the baptism of the lamb, the new and holy ark
He cried out to his son Seth, for the firstborn morning spark
"My sole living son, go the stars and Armozel to embark
In receiving the oil from the tree of mercy and life
In order to anoint my body in this tomb, now my wife
I, Seth, went to the high stars of the draco constellation
And prayed for the oil for my father's consolation
Armozel, the first angel, appeared in a revelation
"Do not weep Seth, for the oil of white grapes of salvation
For the oil will only be granted when the morning appears
When the firstborn morning spark will dry up all of man's tears "
"All mankind will get the fiery oil, all will bow the knee
When the spark will come down in flesh and become the gnosis tree
Becoming the blazing morning for all sleepers to see
Awakening the dead from their tombs, against nature's decree
At that time, Adam and Eve, male and female will unite
The sun and earth will become one flesh of heavenly moonlight"
As he brushed his golden locks, he detected something stressing.
The skin around his noble forehead was inexorably progressing!
(Politically correct types tend to call this "follicle regression!")
Alarmed at this discovery, he suffered terrible depression!
"Follicle regression", now that was a mysterious term to him.
It left him totally confused and feeling somewhat grim.
He consulted his Funk 'n Wagnalls for a simple definition.
Alas, this august tome had no explanation for his condition!
A visit to his barber further compounded his dismay.
"The only solution I see for your plight is a nice toupee.
Son, you have a very serious case of 'follicle regression';
I recommend you get a consult from the medical profession!"
With his barber's observations he was not content.
He sought his doc's advice concerning his predicament.
"I have no remedies but this I'll say without hesitation;
Follicle regressive types are very macho, if that's any consolation!"
Tho' they insisted upon calling it "follicle regression",
He never fully understood what they meant by that expression.
Call it what you may, he was certainly not enthralled!
To his utter consternation, simply said, he was going bald!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
[Written with much love and bonhomie in
response to Milt’s Poem ‘Hearty Poetry Soup’]
*
Not so long ago in a land called Soup
A warlock gathered a talented group
These were the wordsmiths who writ all Soup Lore
But the warlock decided that they’d write no more
For he had been born to be ‘Soup Laureate’
A role he’d hold longer the more folk he ate
Even a warlock is sometimes unreasoned
Not much consolation…when you’ve been lightly seasoned
So here in this cauldron we boil and we bubble
Somehow I sense we’re in some kind of trouble
My hope is this as I cling to the edge
I hope I’m the meat and not the two veg
But, lo, I discover that Milt’s being mother
He’s spotted my need to write something or other
His warlock-like methods at first seemed remiss
Until this old turnip sat down to write this
But still I find one thing decidedly troubling
I look like a beetroot from all of that bubbling
My poor scalded feet are developing bunions
So at my next barbecue… Milt’s in the onions!
I stood for a while,
naked,
in front of the mirror.
My wife was out with friends
so I could use hers;
the full-length one
she is often reflected in
posing, choosing
just the right outfit for the occasion.
I avoid mirrors these days;
the fifteen minutes looking at myself
while the barber
does his best with my tangle of hair
is a torture.
So here I am
me,
and some stranger staring back at me
discussing which part of me I dislike,
subject
for a poetry contest.
We turn off the light
and agree
there is not enough paper in the world.
I look down as I type these words
and in consolation
say to myself
I have nice fingernails.