Long Litanies Poems
Long Litanies Poems. Below are the most popular long Litanies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Litanies poems by poem length and keyword.
“...The leftists that you voted for
jacked up the minimum wage,
so new workers like me cannot
get hired, much less get paid.
“And those very same people
ignore foreigners who work cheap,
they can work, and break the law,
But the same can’t be done by me!
“And then the proposed solution
to this raging dumpster fire
is to throw others' money at me
until the day that I expire?
“They create all these problems,
then watch as the city rots,
and fools like you vote for ruin
out of fear that the checks might stop!”
His mother with quite the shocked look,
Said,”Don’t talk like no honkey here!”
Then raved about slaves and Jim Crow,
the same old litanies of fear.
Clive said,”Mom, save the conspiracy,
that garbarge is hard to endure.
And stop using your skin pigment
to explain away your failures!
“John bought into all this crap,
thought his thugging was justified.
All it did was leave him lying
with a bullet between his eyes.
“I’ll not end up some dead banger,
or give up what makes a man a man,
even if I have to go out
and vote for a Republican!”
He turned to leave despite her cries,
and her endless protestations,
he had to go down to City Hall
to change his affiliations.
I. Of Circuits and Litanies
Somewhere between the limbic lobe
and the ache of late-night Eucharist,
you touched me—
not in flesh
but in the soft mutiny of neurons.
They do not teach us
that synapses pray
in the tongue of longing,
that oxytocin sings psalms
in dim-lit corridors of the amygdala.
Love is not a metaphor.
It is a switch,
a slow-burning heresy
of selfhood dissolved
in the damp chalice of another.
The brain forgets to defend itself.
That is the miracle.
That is the sacrament.
---
II. Limerence as Liturgy
You smiled.
And the frontal cortex fell
like Jericho.
Dopamine, the drunken priest,
spilled wine across
the altar of my cognition.
Even the thalamus,
solemn gatekeeper,
dropped its keys
and wept.
I built a cathedral
from your silences—
half-Buddhist, half-blood,
a trembling scaffold of maybe.
We are baptized in limerence,
born again
in the gaze of the beloved,
our default settings
re-scripted
by the accidental liturgy
of touch.
---
III. Rewiring Eden
There was no apple,
only mirror neurons
echoing your hurt
as mine.
No serpent,
but my own past
hissing
in a language of trauma,
until you held me
in recursive forgiveness—
and the garden rebooted.
Love,
a divine malware
in the hardware of reason,
reconfigures
the self into plural.
I become “us.”
I become
sacrament.
And the limbic system,
that cryptic chapel,
chants:
Be not alone.
Be not a tomb.
Be rewritten.
---
IV. Final Benediction
In the end,
the theory is not general.
It is specific.
It is your name
coded into my neurochemistry,
a sacred glitch,
a remembered warmth
across cold synaptic distances.
And though the world is ending—
always ending—
my brain,
reshaped by your tenderness,
continues
to believe
in resurrection.
“As Awareness increases, the concept of dreams dissipate, and All of Life becomes a dream” Poet
~~~~~~~~~
My dream floats, held IN Divine’s Dream
Father-Mother-God’s mocha cream
a raw drum dance somersaulting
Sun air water earth, Aloneness ~
litanies of lamentation
loved and loveless across Life, Free
touching altars, embracing be
seaweed slippery frothing curls
gliding, re-surfacing, whorls
emerging then dissipating
panther’s eye concealed between legs
secret lucid invisible
it spirals, cusping fresh dreams
letters, messages, sigils, plans
all is Presence, deep intentions
forsaken, saved, rebirthing
lace torn as tapestries worn
firefly fluttering on stone
I finger my illusive dream
riding Chamuel’s translucent wings
singing sonnets unseen swirling
smoky blue diamond freshly mined
blood dripping from thorn morn
it escapes Sky into Oneness
landing upon receiving palms
¥¥
SECOND PLACING : Standard Contest
sponsor: Constance La France
Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,
conquer the tides, and the groans of the wind
while motionless heaven watches,
where for decades, the sea murmurs life ~ love.
Hungry eyes, eager ears ache at the quay;
mother and I wait with cold arms at the dock.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
Pain sears her thoughts when she remembers Father;
years have passed; the scars of his leaving are not yet healed.
She loves him so. She can’t forget the gleam in his eyes.
I hear Mother sob between litanies of prayer each dawn.
Only Father's return will mend her broken heart.
Years pass, the scars she wears are not yet healed.
At the seaside where Father last departed, we recall his request
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
In the pale light of this day, as I hold Mother’s hand and
we walk along the quay, I felt Mother shudder as she says
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
That day, more than most, we did not want him to be away
as a tender, embedded, memory returns of Father’s smile.
Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,
You may stand among us who survive life's tides
while motionless heaven watches, where for decades
now I tell the tale from memory of Father, the sea of life ~ love.
a new child’s hears, our eyes tear at the quay;
Yet, our open arms spread wide embracing every day.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
________________________________________________________________
~~Inspired by the painting: Morning at the Quay in Venice
by Helen Allingham~~
***Thank you Debbie Guzzi.. =`)
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
4:58pm; January 21, 2015
"The summer night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree
Peace comes to them on quiet feet"
Whose hearts, like sages, so free
Balsams just like purple-dark stars
Shining as though from the floor
Glowworm-bubbles as if from Mars
Knocking the night angels door
Mingled with the breeze so charming
Moody melancholic minds
Happiness-filled and hearts warming
Singing litanies of saints
Beggars, refugees, and dogs stray
Seem to sleep so peacefully
Somewhere in some land far away
Lullabies heard leisurely
01 June 2021
Choose Your Form 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Through the whispers of the evening, when the moon weaves songs on strings of light,
Who has fancied that love is weighed in pearls of spoken syllables aligned?
As dazzling hearts follow their cosmic tango in an endless pulsar’s flight,
And hidden gazes cross in the void, just intertwined spirits, unseen, entwined.
Who dared to claim that grand amour wears the cloak of solemn deeds on parade?
It reveals itself dreadfully tender, in small moments planting roots so deep,
In the convulsions of purified laughter under the astral vault that secretly cloaks our union,
In the lenient silence that echoes more slowly than litanies of orphaned words, forlorn and steep.
No, our love does not mold its path in ephemeral gifts or in phrases that shine,
But it lies hidden in the embrace of fingers declaring silent serenades, in entangled looks,
In laughter bursting without summons, in the echoless symbiosis of quiet being,
In that spectrum of sensations more vibrantly jolting in silence, not tossed like books.
In the core of a world that bellows and blinks amid clamor and chaos,
Where words roll through the air, delicate but devoid of meaning,
You are my silent haven, in your canvas I smile, exuding serenity,
In the way your eyes roam as if they’re painting our great odyssey in the sacred eternal leaning.
So let me, please let me lay my eyelids above you, to touch you only with glances,
To luxuriate in the chapters of you unexplored, to dissolve the shroud that veils your blood,
Allow me to discover you, to embrace, to paint my love in elongated strides,
For the story we inscribe never halts at words, but in seconds that flow gently, without a lengthy thud.
I've somehow pondered about the
rush of air
of how I could be lulled on billows, and
yet,
its notes upon my flesh eludes me--
as if in midnight trailing, weeping in refrains
this cadence glides beyond
streetlamps
on to my litanies, my expectations, my
tears
until I'm drenched by a melody ambient
as the sound of breeze.
Like a rain-child born in January
with taps in my veins, I become
a listener of seasons' tingling tunes
which inhabit my thoughts : and to
know my heart's kept secrets are
cuddled through this rhythmic hisses,
arias of both my dark and lustrous hours.
Now I trace the reel of fleeting memories dating from youth to mid- adult...this old wind chime wrapped in chrome
and antique stones fondle
timeless music whipped by storms,
rhapsodies, deaths of my
life...a hanging rune delivering me
from all I must bear--
though owned by Mom's as a hoard or collection, it was my precious harbinger:
but it echoes no more
in spaces where I loved, and still
need to love back...
Gazing at this chime of four decades drifting gently on the room knob, it has
become mute, aged... but cared for like a most treasured keepsake.
3.
Death, the Master, wears a thousand faces.
The white smile of the skull
Lies behind the 5 O'Clock shadow
Beneath, perhaps, those laughing eyes
Looking your way across the bar.
When the shock begins to fade I turn off the news.
I turn once more to the business of living.
To ponder overmuch over why such things happen
Is to invite the spirit to drain down to hollowness.
Before we cast off at night
Onto the uncertain seas and shores of dreamlands,
We might do well to take a long look down within,
Call up and kiss the swarming demons goodnight
While they stir in the strange shadowgaps of the long dark
Resting there on the fringes of consciousness.
Give ear to the language they speak down there,
Learn dark things from the rumble of their mystic, thunderous litanies.
Call for an uneasy peace with the Legions within,
Hold them back, if you can, with our talismans,
The magic words: Reason, Judgement, Morality.
Tumble then into a warm bed
Forget the Furies roaming just outside
Awaiting dead hours to do their work.
The deeds of the night
Will be revealed
When the mist wraiths steal away,
When the sun bleeds rose light
Across the white face of dawn.
In this beautiful place of worship, the pews are padded but uncomfortable, the sanctuary large, candle lit and cold.
There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??
No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.
The Greeks would call our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??
To me, the whole Jesus story is somewhat sinister and inauspicious, but if Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest, truest reality - then why hasn't Jesus returned??
**Imagining heaven's father and son dialog**
God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they DID to me? Nailed me to a cross! Screw them, there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back, as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”
These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system.... I mean, the various books aren't even *consistent*. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of *traditions* and good rules to live by?
My parents - unlikely pilgrims of the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so *skeptical* - it's a puzzle.
If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?
I'm sorry, there's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.
Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just..
*hopeless shrug*
So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.
Happy Easter Everyone!
(A high school poem from just before the Corona-apocalypse)
In this beautiful place of worship the pews are padded but uncomfortable and the large sanctuary is cold.
There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??
No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.
The Greeks would call our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??
If Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest reality then why hasn't Jesus returned??
imagining heaven's father and son dialog
God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they did to me???.. nailed me to a cross; screw them there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”
These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system. I mean, the various Bible books aren't even consistent. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of traditions and good rules to live by?
My parents - unlikely pilgrims of the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so skeptical - it's a puzzle.
If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?
I'm sorry, There's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.
Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just.. hopeless shrug
So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives