Long Enshrine Poems
Long Enshrine Poems. Below are the most popular long Enshrine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Enshrine poems by poem length and keyword.
—What Time Takes Before We Wake—
I deemed a life a province ruled by clock,
that every loss must cross some final door,
and what the dark withheld was yielded back as morn;
I trusted memory to enshrine my name,
whilst years, beneath the liturgy of body,
wrought their unheralded dominion into silence.
Yet age doth enter not with trumpet, but with silence;
it filches, grain by grain, the sovereignty of clock,
until some kingdom forfeited within the body
hath crossed, ere we perceive it, through an unseen door;
the face still answers to the summons of its name,
whilst gold, unknowing, crowns the counterfeit of morn.
There are departures indistinguishable from morn,
for naught in the bright air proclaims silence;
the heart yet keeps its covenant with its name,
the pulse performs its ancient office beneath the clock,
and yesterday seems safely sealed behind its door,
though something hath already altered in the body.
Then did I learn: the future is within the body,
not as tomorrow, but as the treachery of morn;
each year conducts some former self beyond a door,
and what we call forgetting is but deepening silence,
whilst time, like some invisible sexton, winds the clock,
until even loss grows strange beneath its own name.
Wherefore I feared not chiefly the extinction of a name,
but that time should revise its scripture in the body;
for time doth not merely travel onward with the clock—
it bears us hence, though every day resemble morn,
and leaves no footprint save its consecrated silence,
whilst we, poor witnesses, enquire what lies beyond the door.
Now September comes; I keep no vigil at the door.
Let former hours depart and take their borrowed name;
let what must dwindle dwindle into silence;
let time fulfil its austere workmanship upon the body.
For waking is not finding some imperishable morn,
but hearing, ere we knew it, what was ticking in the clock.
The door knows my name; silence inhabits the body;
the last morn comes unbidden—the clock has ceased.
And I, who feared the silence, find the door within the name.
I came to spend some time with you today
And lift life's heavy load with hands of mine
I've been a friend so true as years entwine
I'll speak of dreams you had that turned to gray
And try to keep the painful dark away
We'll journey through the reasons you define
To free the shadows weeping you enshrine
And find a way to let them go astray
You can release the pain you keep around
And hold a light to shine upon despair
To face the need of strength to come from you
To heal the soul from wounds you found profound
A cold abandoned wish in disrepair
This friendly hand from me to see you through
121/31/19 contest open me first
Love's crystal memories from times that define
When life was savored with a smoldering kiss
Leaving blisters on our tongues from desired wine
When dove wings fluttered in the shadow of dawn
And we were hungry in the filtered light love looked upon
From the moonlit rapture in night's eternal bliss
When we gathered purple asters where our dreams entwine
This jewel I keep in my soul as a shrine
To your memory, my sad heart will reminisce
The measure of life when we clung to its vine
Until death whispered to you, and last breath was drawn
And I saw my tomorrows as a trembling fawn
Where loneliness became a guest I'll never dismiss
Deep in my heart, you are forever enshrine
8/12/18/
contest Rhyme Time 6-Verses of Metaphors
An Echo Through Time
An echo through time follows all now in kind;
It’s the moment when poets find their rhyme!
Past-Present events give us a mirror to see from,
Of what Present Perfect events have now become.
Poets must write to truth what surely they mean;
With such wondrous verses the reader shall glean!
Writing with tone, tenor and syncopation is grand,
Giving poets that mellifluous effect desired by plan.
The echo quality of a great poem bespeaks its passion,
Whilst its literary panache shall always be in fashion!
An echo reflects a poem’s true resonance by intention;
Ensuring one’s mind shifts to an intellectual dimension.
Poets’ rendezvous with this echo through time is divine;
It helps us enshrine our thoughts now in continuous time!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 27, 2015 (Rhymed Couplet)
The many winters I had seen
When once I was a teen
Gathered inside our small living room
Joy and simplicity our faces illume
Warm with laughter at striking stories
Light is the heart and empty of worries
My sisters and sole brother
The treasure of my father and my mother
Mum, our angel of the earth
The springs of our gaiety and mirth
Moving in the magic of her young age
Our hunger for hot food would assuage
Would even bring a piece of paradise
To us, if we dared ask, for any price
Dad, overloaded, would tread miles for our sake
Serene reassuring smiles while so much at stake
The nights echoed holy verses dad used to read
Developing a sense of belonging to his creed
Opening our hearts to the graces and blessings of the Divine
In my veins, a life of a tender love I’ll ever enshrine
*****
Many winters had passed
Still nourished of a so precious past
Confined to the tranquility of the night
The magic box would offer dreams in black and white
Stress and concern evaporated and lost weight
Soft whispers.. suppressed giggles with life pulsate
The quietest of corners I would always look for
My sanctuary, my home made bookstore
Ever my worlds side by side shaping the inner me
No single worry over the one whom I would be
Why would I when I was entangled in more than one story
Preened myself on my pen musing in my world of ivory
My younger sis who of English knew no word
Would grant me her patience and love for what she heard
Love and most of all contentment and gratitude
Deeply remained, the reign of my worlds and my soul food
The cold of winters, now, how can my words perceive
In my realm of poesy what of warmth willing to weave
The winter of our Life which many abhor
My wishes I will have the grace to adore.
Star Reverie
Seeds of stardust gather into
A holy crucible , birthplace,
Creation’s crystals of clear dews.
Celestial reveries ring out
Their birth song lingers in deep space
When stellar joy sings with a shout.
A medley of neon rainbows
The Creator’s sparkling showcase
Garden galaxies, God’s hand sows.
Through astral winds of cosmic fire
No hand of sin touches their face
Pure blessing light from each transpires.
Every star born with unique traits,
The sparkling stars enshrine their place
Their starry magic, contemplate.
Each night they see the face of God,
Eternal signatures of grace,
Then send prayers of praise and laud.
Peruse the literary discourse; illusion from reality divorce
Objective criticism with conscientious rigor your tour de force
Educate yourself on each antiquated style and archaic source
Train your enterprising eyes, every truism endorse and apt allegory reinforce
Recon the lexicon for cultural anomalies and idiosyncratic expressions
Your probity use to underscore trite confessions and trivial regressions
Peel away each banal artifice; to the arrogant that hauteur grant no concessions
Audit the amateur-shadow poets, showering disapproval on their indiscretions
Lacquer and emboss the verses that with creativity and innovation bridge the generational divide
Attentively nourish the nuances and imbibe the endearing witicisms that will abide
Careen through the light poems; cavort through each limerick; caress every soliloquy in stride
Enshrine the masterpieces with laudatory epilogues; let their inspiration your literary path forever guide
When meadow flaunts her robe of green
and covers me in tender lace
her perfumed view lights up onscreen.
From mantle wrapped by pure citrine
a peaceful view my breaths embrace,
when meadow flaunts her robe of green.
Cascading dewdrops quite serene,
wheels gently to enshrine my face
her perfumed view lights up onscreen.
A nightingale takes wing, unseen
to pipe last croons within this space,
when meadow flaunts her robe of green.
She glides around like myth's Celine
oh beauty lit by skyline’s grace,
her perfumed view, lights up onscreen!
The newborn dawn will spread its beam
lingering through mild slumber’s pace.
When meadow flaunts her robe of green,
her perfumed air drapes path’s onscreen.
Villanelle
Juli- Michelle's Rhyme Battle: Round 4
One from the 1850s,
I bought it from a Scotsman thrifty,
on the windswept Isle of Skye,
its browning cover caught my eye,
old paper that’s weathered to tan,
each leaf thick and dry in my hands,
an imperious title-page,
and the high English of that age,
once a proud showpiece for a home,
when books were pricey, barely known.
Early western, 1914,
full of villains and bandits mean,
black and while plate on the first sheet,
basic Roman fonts, cold and neat,
scratchy fabric on the cover,
like crack to an old book-lover,
small publisher, long ago lost,
tales forgotten, so cheap the cost,
a curio, few know it’s here,
the fun that enthralled yesteryear.
Paperback, 1946,
bright cover, like posters for flicks,
first seen in the pulp magazines,
tales of dastardly doings and fiends,
pocket-sized so it slips away,
it seems small in the modern day,
the teachers once scoffed in disdain,
“It only sought to entertain…”
Falling apart, bring out the tape,
since this kind of reading is great.
Bound classics, 1952,
enshrine time-tested points-of-view,
matched series, no pictures, all words,
print so tiny it seems absurd!
Bible-paper to fit it all in,
ancient scribes, philosophers grim,
spines crack when you open the tome,
once made young college students groan,
few were read, and yet they still sell,
’cause they look real nice on a shelf.
An omnibus from ’83,
the best of Jack London for me,
received it as a Christmas gift,
public domain brings good profits,
smooth cover, in two colors cast,
dust jacket with wolves, running fast,
buffet of a dead author’s work,
tales told from all over the earth,
read half, but I mean to get back,
if I ever find time for that.
Now our ‘books’ are screens with blue light,
one more device, it never feels right,
and I have used them, I attest,
yet I still think ‘How is this progress?’
. ...........
I speak of Light's love, gracious in glory of peaked devotion
Where bough and sky design life’s pure expression
As I reflect on His divine lamb’s Grand Plan
A vessel am I… cupped on reassuring, gentle hand
When I cringe while waiting long prayer’s request
Discerning that “later” is not a tick of denial possessed,
Rather a sweet delay to steel my courage that by His will
Not mine, seeds of my heart buds, highest good to softly till
In His flow and those whose lives I touch with or without pause
Daily gifts of bread enshrine fabric of Calvary’s gauze
Like always, through summer’s fire and glistening of winter glow,
His union with worlds tames souls reflecting itself as ALL of YOU
Within the everything-of –everything mankind shares gladness
Oh, Intimate One as timeless shepherd of brotherly ONEness,
We transcend time passing through test of fire to unfold
As children of peace, beloved’s blessings transformed... Behold!
©
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for DaneAnne Smith-Johnsen's Didactic by nette onclaud