Long Homilies Poems
Long Homilies Poems. Below are the most popular long Homilies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Homilies poems by poem length and keyword.
Within the vast cathedral’s lofty walls
A cardinal delivered his address
From proud zucchetto perched upon his head
To buckled shoes, a picture of finesse.
His scarlet cassock swayed with regal pride
And eyes admired the purity of lace
Exquisitely displayed beneath a cape
Whose crimson tone bestowed a warm embrace.
The message, mouthed with clarity and force
Conflicted with a hollowness of heart
His faith, now but a withering mirage
His homilies, a time-perfected art.
Outside, the stain-glassed windows came alive
Resplendent as the sun began to shine
It kissed the petals of a blushing rose
Engendering a fragrance quite divine.
A simple rose, yet clothed exquisitely
In softest silk and crimson-petalled bloom
Implicitly a witness to God's love
Through silent language graced with sweet perfume.
(slight change to the final verse)
15.01.23
The Cardinal And The Rose Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Profane words, poor things, scorned as contraband,
In contrast arraigned with words weighed as sane
That hold a moral firm ground-- for long grand.
Forbidden, they talk to us in words plain
But are powered by voltage of thunder clouds
Which, words that wear civil dress seldom can.
What beauty-- words raw, truthful, not in shrouds,
Honest if rude, can do free from restrain!
Not sure? Try stub your toe and mark your jibe:
Sage decorum nor yet homilies rife,
Nor vague philosophical diatribe,
Nor yet poetic prompt on fleeting life!!
Pain, no child of elegant etiquettes,
Spews words profane-- flood flooding past floodgates.
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Sonnet (tongue-in-cheek) | 17.12.2025 | profane, sane, words
Note: The part - II follows.
The foresight
When I look back on my life, which I seldom do
I think in my writing, I should be deeper; alas, my self-mockery gets in the way.
Why should I think I`m intellectual to have any worth to say?
It appears to me that many on Facebook feel important enough to enlightening us with their homilies?
If you live like this or that, you will find peace and happiness.
Balderdash!
Reading what philosophers said, is interesting but it does not change your mind.
Nor does reading the bible makes you a Christian.
Gladness is a gift and the place for village idiots who lack the ability
to reflect upon life.
speculated on what life is for is useless; the only cure is acceptance
that life is cruel, and if you live long enough, friends may drive you around
asking you about the old days, a time you rather forget.
No religion or philosophy will rescue you; you are on your own until death.
Your First Breath
David J Walker
Should I try
To name and number
The nameless days and
Numberless nights
I am
Another beginning
A being
The alpha and omega of
Another day spent
Remembering each morning
Each new day forming
Less of sight
and more of scent
I am
Another descending
evening
Riding the tide
of another tonight
guarding the dwindling
visions of vestige
The mellifluous homilies
Ascribed to the bright
Colored lights
Of the moon
I am the nameless
you will never know
living and dying
believing and loving
fearing and toiling
long before you
have come to take
your first breath
Me, home and loneliness, no more no less,
Ah, oh, utter darkness, no more nor less.
In birth, life, death, equity rules the same,
Suffering there’s endless, no more nor less.
A few saline tears flow caused by sore heart,
What heart held, eyes express, no more nor less.
In desert were buried my memories,
Whence my mind did retrace, no more nor less.
Our parting when sun departed that day,
Hurt was on hurt I guess, no more no less.
Homilies that the world hail as Ghazal,
Some pens tend to caress, no more nor less.
Fine, if readers relate, draw parallel,
If not, it’d them depress, no more nor less.
____________________________
Inspired by a piece in Gujarati by Dikshhita Shah, no translation
Ghazal |21.12.2024|life, birth, death, tears
Poet’s note: The tears flown from eyes or dried down therein are like documents describing painful memories. If they were to be expressed in words, there’s nothing else like poetry. And in all poetic feelings expressed, there’s nothing to compare like ghazals, or to some extent sonnets. In ghazals a reader reads his own painful memories. The poet then disappears and what remains are pure experience of feelings. It means, in poetic words there’s not just fragrance of philosophy, but there’s that perfume, the painful scent of personal suffering as well. And yet, world often sees the light lit by the lamp in front of the photograph of the person lost, but not the darkness in the life of one who has lost the person.
This epidemic re: murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling and providing terrifying
trappings, whence Pandora out the lid
anger loosed by gun toting recorded by hid
dee us aide de camp per grim reaper
milling crowd, each bewildered person stunned viz satanic grid
loosed bullets ensnare coterie upping ante bid
daring pernicious fare thee well odiously off loaded
per incendiary fiery maelstrom to mega death count added.
Suicide bombardier slakes thirst aims at billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray painting human innards
congregated engaged groupon people), with egregious pay
ment for exaggerated slight mowing down, a slew - nay
soon to be lifeless victims unaware - delivering may
hem to anonymous hunter a cannibal as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows, which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.
Death be not proud, nor ought airtime be allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring family affair sport doth please
manifesting prize pride killing machine owners
posed as stonewall Jackson frieze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses incite epidemic violence as disease.
Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie or goo
goo dolls in tandem with foo
fighting beastie boys pay homilies whence homage grew
to grateful dead nobody knew
fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and mew
sic cull doobie brothers of their simian species with no sorrow to rue.
How beautiful is sky of setting dusk!
Why then the setting old age seems to tire?
Eve inspires to conclude unfinished dreams,
If so, why should the setting old age tire?
The setting sun inspires the search of self,
If only setting old age should not tire.
Gone dusk and dark night, there’s the light of dawn!
And still, why setting old age seems to tire?
From lifelong journey dawns dawn of wisdom,
Why still, the setting age should so much tire?
Joy and grief, two eternal truths of life!
Leave both aside and live and still retire.
Let flesh feel fatigued, never let your mind,
And tell me if the setting age still tires.
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Musings | 05.09.2022 | Couplets
Poet’s note: You are as old as you think. Age is only a number… and with so many such homilies people try to soothe the old and aged. And still, one does feel old even after being careful nourishing body with good food, keeping it agile with exercises and games. And yet, perhaps the old fail to do enough for the mind.
Wrapping him in a blue blanket he hands him over to me
outside the snow is falling, as I gaze at him my hearts about to burst
all the pushing is over, now its time to receive his glee
bluest eyes I'd ever seen suckling at my breast with a quenching thirst
Yesterday was Debussy and Bach
lullabies of sweet by morning dawn
Today a baby cradle with gentle rock
"Oh my God, did you see that Ron !"
We named him Joseph, after his grandfather who was a great artist
homilies of love spoken truthfully, I cannot contain the joy
just given birth to a special boy and it feels like I've been kissed
my love leans in and whispers " we'll give him every toy!"
With a sacral dimple you can't miss
he looks like a hand carved ivory Angel
as I draw him close and feather him a kiss
he gurgles with laughter, "I'm your Angel"
October 8, 2020
With your teachings, tired tunes I’m tired,
Hauling its harsh import, I’m tired.
Not with my frugal fate, it’s fine,
Your rating jewels as jade, I’m tired.
By your discourse, a bit iffy,
Karmic fate of if-then, I’m tired.
By your sermons that seem dated,
Scolding, berating me, I’m tired.
Do deeds, expect no fruits, you say,
Of such tired homilies, I’m tired.
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Ghazal |01.12.2021| despair
Poet’s note: There are numerous channels on television bombarding religious discourses, even a god channel, all heavy stuff, somehow making some listeners burdened with undue guilt. Here’s the desperate cry of one such man.
I deem it important to attend church for my spiritual maturation.
I really savor the fellowship of a loving and caring congregation.
I especially relish the potluck suppers and other social interactions,
But even in this worshipful scenario, there are bound to be distractions!
Now, I don't mind the preacher pounding his pulpit to gain attention,
Or the occasional "amen" from a dear sister for her comprehension,
But that feller across the aisle who always sings off-key and out of tune,
Sounds like a murder of cranky crows or an out of sync bassoon!
I thrill at a great rendition of "How Great Thou Art" by the choir,
And the crescendo of the organ as it grows higher and higher.
Even the woman belting out her mezzo-contralto doesn't bother me so,
But that feller across the aisle who murders "Amazing Grace" has got to go!
I can tolerate little children who holler and scream now and then,
Or the occasional raucous ringing of a cellphone now and again,
But I approach congregational singing with little or no anticipation,
When that feller across the aisle brays, "The Churches One Foundation!"
I don't mind the snoring of the guy who occupies the pew behind me,
And I can abide the pastor's profound homilies to a certain degree.
But how I dread to hear that feller's odious and tuneless strain!
(I suppose I could move to another pew to ease my Sabbath bane!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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