Long Mantles Poems
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Boughs of evergreens grace mantles above fireplaces.
Children await Santa Claus with smiles on their faces.
Beribboned wreaths are hung on many a front door,
but to me the spirit of Christmas means so much more.
The greatest gift was not found beneath a tinseled tree.
It was Jesus Christ, who gave up his life for you and me.
Humbly born, he was laid upon a bed of straw in a stall.
God gifted us His only begotten son to give hope to us all.
A present so very precious, one that we can never repay.
He bestowed on us a Savior, the babe born Christmas Day.
We must always hold dear to how much we are blessed,
as we sing 'Joy to the World' when our love is expressed.
We fill our churches with candles, admiring their glow.
As moonlight shines across white fields of fallen snow,
we pray, giving thanks to God, remembering to be meek,
for it's our Father's divine favor that we reverently seek.
Christmas is a time for Christians to celebrate and rejoice,
praising the Lord in lyrical hymns raised in adoring voice.
With myriads of Angels in chorus, let us worship and sing,
"All glory to God," as the bells from church steeples ring.
The true Christmas spirit is not gifts with huge price tags
or new toys for children that fill too many shopping bags.
It should proclaim "peace on earth, good will toward men."
So, to this end we pray to God in the name of Jesus, Amen.
I was the child
that made you old,
I was also the girl
that couldn't be told
I was a rogue wave
and couldnt
see 'now,'
that was I
cherished
I'll never know how
when you went
away
without word or a
sigh,
I was forever bereft
we didn't get a
goodbye
over time I've
painted
my pictures in
words,
I cried out my heart
in the differing
verbs
I wish I could
harness
and saddle a star
and fly to your side
but your so very far
I dream
conversations
in the depths of
the night,
some seem so real
that we start to
fight
but as in the
wonder
that walked this
earth,
forgiveness was
quick
from the time of
my birth
on a stone tablet
that I've hung on
my heart
I etch in your name
each time it
crumbles apart
of the,
four thousand
eight hundred
and fifty three
days,
I cannot count
every tear
I've shed as I
swayed
now I celebrate the
life
you lived without
fear,
as I smooth out
this page
I feel a presense is
near
I am writing a
canto
that goes on for
miles
I wish you could
read it
its for you with a
smile
I write in your
name
life wasnt for
naught,
in mantles of
flames
your spirit is caught
burning through
history
your memory shall
shine,
I am the poetess
writing a shrine
for a mother who
never
ever, gave up on
me
I will bleed every
word
till my veins have
run free
I rest in a painting of twilight
muted in the solar tones of absent light
revealing vague and softly spoken shapes
of sculpted silhouettes
held vacant in its obscurity
in this portrait of contrasting verity
where age has no value
and depth is transcendent
absent of dimension
In this flat portrait
not of day or night
where mantles of phantoms sway
like soft black velvety feathers
in gusting atmospheric motion
unveiling our psyche with premonition
absorbing the promenade of forms
eliciting the unknown
like an inquisition of undefinable secrecy
As an allegory of languishing butterflies
hyaline outlines of transparent motion
shift the curtain of the unknown
chasing the light of curiosity
flittering symbols dance
as disappearing brush strokes
on a colorless blank canvas
a dark illumination
striking a cadence of timelessness
Rewrittten: November 30, 2020
Un-Rhy-Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Americans love the day of Easter for all its pageantry
the Sunday outfits, the fancy hats and the chocolate candy
but Christians love Easter for what it truly represents
it's the Resurrection day of Jesus the Christ our salvation present
it's a time to reap the benefits for the victory we won
when high on a cross at Mt. Calvary a sacrifice was done
yet many forget the significance of the Sunday of the Palms
when on an untamed colt Jesus the Christ rode in on
humbly riding on the back of a service domestic beast
He came to serve, support and sacrifice for the least
God had need of that donkey at that appointed hour
like He has need of each of us to be the manifestation of His power
God will use anything when it comes to achieving His goals
be it a person, place or thing it's He who is in control
to serve God's purpose that is our true mission in life
to do whatever He requires of us in the name of Jesus the Christ
but more often than not we're tied up with earthly things
but God will find the means to cut away those binding strings
God will send something or someone to help you break free
just have the spirit of discernment that it's not coming from the Adversary
now those who witnessed Jesus' triumphant display
laid clothing and leaves of palm on the ground to pave His way
crying Hosanna to the highest blessed is He
the Son of Man who came to give us life abundantly
stripping off their mantles and cloaks of society
laying bare their faith for all the world to see
trusting and receiving
in the Messiah they're believing
crying Hosanna, Hosanna blessed is He
the Prince of Peace who came to serve and save you and me
I fell.
Not with a cry, nor with glory,
but as a cross falls
from the chest of one who forgot how to believe.
I fell on a Wednesday,
when the rain smelled of raw fish,
and the hurried world drew its umbrellas
like mantles
of indifference.
No one saw me.
They were busy with their bicycles,
with their phones,
with their eyes,
which no longer weep, but only check notifications.
I fell on a bench
where an old Moroccan woman was sitting,
murmuring something in Arabic.
Maybe a prayer.
Maybe a longing.
Maybe just hunger.
She handed me a mandarin
and said: “Allah ziet alles.”
I felt ashamed.
I fell in front of a shop window
filled with blind mannequins.
In them,
I saw all my dreams,
dressed beautifully,
but hollow within.
At the Van Gogh Museum,
a little girl asked:
“Daddy, why did he paint stars on such sad nights?”
And I thought: we all paint…
only some of us have no colors,
only ashes.
I fell slowly,
without a sound,
like an unfinished verse
written in a hotel room
where only the cold can be heard.
And no one asked,
“What’s wrong with you?”
for no one asks anymore.
They just pass by,
faces turned toward the future,
souls wrapped in plastic.
But maybe I wasn’t lost.
Maybe I just saw myself
for the first time
in the dirty mirror
of an Amsterdam canal,
where the sky falls
every morning,
and no one asks it
why.
Farther than mantles of a pewter night,
Comets reel in their own immeasurable world
Past earth's sky, gloaming through lattices
Woven by celestial bands... a grandeur
From a multiverse illumined with other heavenly forms
Like asteroids unknown to human eyes, mirrored
Only in a roulette of divine Infinity : Out there,
With the bursting spiral from gas, fire, molten rocks
Twirls a dreamy carouse within a hub of Life Source.
My heart aches to greet them beyond zone's limit
In star-studded cast of aureoles...a poetry in motion,
Which alights into Borealis songs, their haunting lore.
And through sacred Mystery , I connect with this force
Designed by one Galactic handiwork-- moons, stars
planets circling around Milky Way, ever vibrant...
And to bestow a natural pace
of night and day,
Season upon season, I see myself as one
With creation reaching ---out for God's light.
...............
Re-post 6/28/2019
Contest of John Hamilton: Best Free Verse 2019
Originally written 2/20/2019
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
Shadows detach at dusk to sneak silently away
to roost together like bats in rookeries,
hanging upside down, wrapped in black mantles, gossiping.
Each shadow reborn each morn seeks out its host
like a parasite seeking sustenance and succour,
for a shadow detached is inanimate and non-existent.
Shadows need light and objects to cast silhouettes
to give shadows life, substance and vitality.
Only things of this world cast shadows,
So things and beings that cast no shadow are spooky.
Shadows follow you around mirroring every move you make.
In endless shadow-puppet performances
they often give you away when you sneak up,
and showcase your slinks and skulks when you slither away.
The brighter the light the stronger the shadow.
Multiple lights cast multiple shadows.
Shadows are too dark and foreboding of death and evil to be friends
For shadows are cast by the living, the dead and lifeless things.
But only the living animate shadows into life.
You unfold the mantles of paradise in my eyes,
As I, ambassador of beauty in curtsy arms, rise!
When I stand from the deck with awe and wonder,
I wish our ferry flies and soars high like a bird.
All charms I see are truths of songs I’ve heard,
As whirs of zip wires play like violin over yonder.
While I stroll the landscape to explore and wander
I’ve glimpse of the moon peeking behind a day cloud curd.
moonlight smiles with sun
as bright foliage unfurl
pirouette cold gentle breeze
adorn forest field
eyes dance on green lake to shore
sun-moon ballroom I sojourn
October 19, 2016 11.50am
Copyright2016Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
First Place
Contest: Three Style II (Couplet, Sedoka, Free Verse)
Judged: 10/22/2016
Sponsor: Poet Laura Loo