Long Minaret Poems
Long Minaret Poems. Below are the most popular long Minaret by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minaret poems by poem length and keyword.
Await the zenith of the sun,
cross clay courtyard a beckoning
barefoot walked, heartstring undone,
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Soundless clarion of tears fall
toward absolution’s bright blessing,
within the domed sabil I call...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
The fountain's dry, but not my eyes
sounds of grace rebound, amazing,
Amazing Grace, sang such as I
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
We are but one beneath the sun
for all our fears and wandering
all creation our companion...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Let spirit rise on minaret
and phantom penitents come hieing
all is well, we are God’s get
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Peace is not a relationship of nations. It is a condition of mind brought about by a serenity of soul. Peace is not merely the absence of war. It is also a state of mind. Lasting peace can come only to peaceful people.
Jawaharlal Nehru (1889 - 1964)
From the minarets the call to prayer resounds
Breaking the peaceful silence of the dawn
In its undulation of fervent fanatical need
And all across the world the daily call spreads
Making non-believers at least tolerant
Of the mysterious words and haunting refrain
Lulled into acceptance as by a snake charmer
Women too now rising up
In the name of liberation
Fervently fanatical in the need
To have it their way,
From conception to abortion and infanticide
To now the freedom to filicide,
Have it their way
A brave new Burger Queen world
Without compromise or sacrifice
For the only job they were born to do.
Meanwhile the minaret keeps up its call
Loudly proclaiming to the faithful
Ignorant and deluded,
And increasingly deserving,
“Make Misogyny Great Again”.
(9/13/26)
another Bukowski nightmare begins
the castrato sings below
while she calls from the minaret
fossicking thru the memories
for our linked verse
while i, sitting beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for some rabbit or Alice
oh incorrigible moon
have you no mercy this night
see the parade pass, the ithyphallic
the trilithon collapsing, time and gravity
another turgid, erubescent symbol deflated
another thought buried by time
and mine to waste
o moon so incorrigible
teach me not emotion
let me revel in callosity
let the mirror play tu quoque
let it speak for once
scream from the inner scotopia
where the predatism scutters
read to me another confessional poet
those in need
of yet another minie ball, open oven door
fill the pockets with rocks and rockets
o god more, more misery
rise and hail your innermost misery
you must suffer for literature
tempus fugit is a lead pipe cinch
that is the diphthong the calliope
never fails to sail thru
while surds and sonants bounce the walls
the coffee shop lustrum, ideomotion
learn to unlearn
supine beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for a rabbit or Alice
the urge for frottage
pushes us beyond logic and reason
suffering polyphagia between the limbs
where the eyes drool in
bushes of void commandments
now postmodernism
and i are even
i refuse to die for this revolution
i refuse the pitiful pitfalls
life's a grand adventure
taking in ever larger measures
i refuse to fail its call
i refuse
i refuse
hand me that bottle of rum
let's think about this
Fergus Falls 97
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running,
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off only ourselves.
When tears dry up and laughter is not funny any longer
As duvet feathers grind the weary soul to sunken skin
The parchments dehydrated canvas folds the poet’s path
A cliche strewn among the notion ‘it will make you stronger’
Depicts an empty victory pretends to gather strength and win
The prelude of the past in future remains a lonely aftermath
Gone are the days of jolly frolic of showers gelled and Turkish bath
Of journeys tickling monumental Derwish’s allegoric spin
Despairing anger cannot shed an inner war’s destructive monger
With memories and wreaths of praise and laurel turned into wrath
Then conjoined before and after numbness seems your next of kin
A magic oriental carpet’s washed out fabric evaporates inside her
An ancient pleasure cruise shrouded in silence’s muted fanfare
Sails of plain cloth mystery weather worn in droplet’s silent fall
Its time and place and time-place for scented oriental candles
To rekindle a mosaic of epic proportions a glancing care from scare
From feeling so minutely small and festered no recipe for standing tall
Yet seeds of cinnamon and hope might just reset this hold of strangle
Meditation reclusive pastures enlightenment from darkness’ bangle
Retrieved from imposed prison shackles to praise to heal and call
‘I want to be the muezzin once more sing forcefully in ink and dare’
Climb my minaret resolve cacophony write messages to Self and strangle
All those demons massage my dreams and foresight grab the haul
Then conquer quietly as time proceeds ‘I know I can in solemn prayer’
Blasphemy
Blatantly ephemeral or plain outright naughty and lustful
Praying for beauty in the eye of beholding passionate Gods
Angles and half dome shaped wishes curve balls and all
~ Those who write by the sword are judged by the Lord ~
Thanatos and Libido a close shave of mounds of Vesuvius
The Vatican going up in one shattering search of its smoke
Church towers like phalli or bayonets decree choice in the matter
~ Trust thy neighbor in her cove’s coveted olives and mangos go forth
Veiled femme fatals embrace their shadows cover the flame
The Muezzin shouts from his minaret calls for service and love
Lingerie adorned by copula’s cusp bosomed for nibbles
~ Wet shirt competition in the heat of the spiritual moment ~
An elegant elephant with trumpeting trunks moaning and groaning
Free flowing love on the banks of the Ganges under cloth of the loin
Where Hindu meets Buddha on sheets and streets of Kolkata
~ Begging for mercy as wars of religions and nations battle in vain ~
Crosses to bear half moons to envisage and Karma to please
One woman’s humid humour is another man’s satirical crime
Whose God is to command me what is right and what thong
~ But once the bloody atheist kneels on the altar faith is restored ~
03rd May
Dedicated to Ed Sheeran
Inside the glass the dry leaf was manifested, as a skeleton is prominent with all the inside structure and artistry.
I went to the voting center. I had nothing , completely nothing in my mind. Beto O'Rourke, some democratic other names , but I was not daydreaming, I was not dreaming at all, in a grown up body, I learn so little, after putting so much efforts, I feel I am getting washed away, and nothing sits there, nothing gets deposited there, as silt, sedimentation of particles, nothing too much sensual either. It gets washed away, as the river flows, as a present body embedded in the nature, out in the flora and fauna.
I had a ride. She is a beauty, with headscarf and white skin, she is a mirror of the past. flavor of cooked mosul of next door neighbor, where we had a big big masjid on the other side of the road, the name of the masjid was Minar Masjid.
The minaret was truly beautiful, and the curvature , also. Older days, in Bangladesh.
We reached the destination. She met a random person. I had so many complicated nuances in my introspection that I hardly talk about that. There is a narrow lane to be tagged as inferiority complex, and opening up about truer issues, where lights are making the pathway as our intentions are reflected on that.My mom was a old fashioned beauty, an old one, but vintage enough like the most delicate motif, as I touch the threads beyond time, without cherishing too much, without mourning too much for perishing either.
She was never an outspoken person. My older sister had a maxi, a long gown, a greenish one. Amma mended the gown for me, a downsized one, and did embroidery on the chest with pink and green threads. Her knitting was with a style, a reserved one.
Not every morn brings her back. Not these days. Not too often.
Live with full heart
As love funds start
See what you see
That truth may be
In your temple
Feel love ample
In your church fine
Let love define
In your synagogue
Sketch love's fond dialogue
In your minaret
Voice love you beget
In your soul's own shrine
Adore love divine
In your own house
Live love's pure rouse
In any place
Sync love's wise face
Be what may be
Warm love set free
Live with true soul
As love makes whole
Pledge love your best
In earthly quest
Sacred love calls
To one and all
Leon Enriquez
15 June2018
Hamlet Place, ACT
The glowing sun is just about set
And I have a glass of wine in my hand
A candle burns in a robust flame
My beloved snuggles in my embrace,
There’s a prospect of romance in the air--
And Muezzin* calls the faithful to prayer…
O God
Pardon me my evening prayer!
My evening has blossomed
into a promising night
Her long and lustrous hair swaying
like flower-laden boughs in the wind
Let me drink and imbibe my love deeply,
I know a new day is not going to now dawn…
O God
Pardon me my morning prayer!
*Muezzin: One who summons Muslims
to prayer from the minaret of a mosque.
(An overriding theme of Sufi poets is the expression of the relationship between lover and Beloved, soul and Absolute, using worldly imagery to describe their mystical experiences. Wine refers to the nectar of divine ecstasy.)
~08/21/15
"Only for those NA contest by Edward Ebbs
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an