Long Moment of glory Poems
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This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.
The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.
Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.
I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.
On stage he struts in sequined costume,
a plume of feathers cocked high on head
A thespian poet of no account is ranting
though his troupe boasts of his skill and talent
But the look of a charlatan paints his face
when he's alone. Heartache he embraces
for he's aware that he's been misleading
himself and his bleeding heart followers,
the extras he casts to applaud his show.
"Bravo! Bravo!"
He paid them to sit in the audience shouting,
and boasting on him while standing in ovation.
They whistle for more, for his unearned encore.
He promises, "I'll support you all one day."
Foolish would-be, presume without a doubt
that he's a man of his word, but that's absurd
for actors such as he never share the limelight
once the spotlight shines on a narcissist's face.
What price does he pay for his moment of glory?
The highest toll is the loss of a soul.
Each bow he takes should give cause for worry
that one day the bird catcher will collect his due.
He'll barter with Satan for being haughtily boastful
for being puffed up with pride, and for his crime
the foolish one must relinquish his soul.
Scintillating lights softly dancing with the moon
dreamy music playing from the halls of our memory
this is your story and this is mine
Tall willowy blades of grass leaning gently towards hills
midnight fantasies that calm our weary minds
this is your place and this is mine
Secrets of lives yet untold beneath the honest stars
each thought becomes a healing bless of joyful rest
this is your moment of glory and also mine
Glide with me towards tomorrow leave behind all sorrow
join the magic of night's journey and come away with me
this is your story, and it is also mine.
The rose is a most beautiful flower
And it gives off the most glorious scent
It is mostly called the flower of Love
It’s fragrance from heaven lent
Its beauty has inspired legends
Hither and yon all over the land
It has been involved in Gentlemen
Asking for a lady’s hand
It has decorated wedding days
And been there when love dies
It has been present so many times
As it inspired wishful sighs
Any color can be thought of
From deep pink to a sunset red
A beautiful single scarlet rose
On the pillow of a lady’s bed
The beauty of the rose is famous
No matter the color you choose
Its blooms are inspired by all
Depending on which color you use
It is sad to watch its beauty fade
As petals fall from the rose sublime
Age has taken its toll on the rose
Even its beauty no match for time
Is there a lesson here for me?
No it is just the way things unfold
All life has its moment of glory
But not all the wonder gets told
Connie Moore
This journey started many years ago,
A Woodland path, I walked it slow,
From the beginning I had a plan,
To venture off into this land,
The road looked endless from where I stood,
I knew it was time to do the best I could,
My eyes were fixed on what was all around,
What I experienced was quite profound,
The treetops high they could barely be seen,
The air was fresh, crisp and clean,
The sky was vast, with melting shades of greens and blues,
Each step I took, I experienced something new,
The first time I stopped was because I heard a call,
A hurt exstrodanary bird named Afabulouscoo had a hard fall,
Her colors reflected the morning sky,
Pink, yellow and blues, with a song that sounded like a cry,
She let me pick her up off the ground; I tried not to make a single sound,
I gently put her in the trunk of a tree, till she healed and could fly free,
Then I continued on my way,
It was still the early part of the day,
Purple Chipmunks scurried across my trail,
Shaking their bushy little tails,
Miles down there was an abandoned home,
Windows shattered, so I decided to roam,
Looked in the first room and found a pink crown,
Took a quick glance, to make sure no one was around,
I placed it on my head for a moment of glory,
This was just the begining of my strange little story,
Then I walked out and continued on my way,
When suddenly I heard two monkeys play,
Swinging from the branches above me,
They tried to take the crown from on top of the trees,
They were not very nice, evil I would say,
Screaming "come back here, we just want to play"
I ran real fast, and suddenly tripped and fell,
Looked up and realized I was next to a well,
There was a red bucket, It had a note inside,
"Get in and take a wild ride"
I climbed in and could barly fit,
I realized I was falling into a dark pit,
I Jumped out real quick, before I could not reach,
Then, saw a tree that had a giant peach,
I was feeling hungry so I took a bite,
Instantly the day turned into night,
The weather changed it started to rain,
The woods screamed out as if in agonizing pain,
“what did you do”” What did you do”
“Wake up now, or are forest is through!”
I rubbed my eyes really hard,
realized I had fallen asleep in my backyard,
My mother was standing over me,
Saying,“I just went to the store, here is a peach, eat it, it’s healthy”
By:Sabina
Go ask Sabina (Alice) contest
Sitting snugly on a smooth,soft slope
Surveying a stretch of sea eternally still
That moment memorialised in my mind
As the sun- sinking silence soothes the trees
Stand the monuments to shrunken lives.
The plots define within strict limits
The tales of beings whose remembrance
Provides what amounts to no more
Than their names ,ranks and serial numbers,
Their joys and sorrows only to be surmised.
Gloriously the sun bathes the glistening stones
Giving them their moment of glory
Resting softly upon the chiselled legends
And then plunged into the darkness
Of the dead of night
Until their resurrection with the rising sun.
With whispered farewells breathed from the fiery lips of The Western Sun, She slips to that dark resting place beyond horizon’s edge as yet another grain falls forever through the glass of time- leaving me spellbound,,, held in trance of passing moment’s beauty and ever mindful of price paid to bear witness of such- for I live not under deception my days are without number.
I cast my thoughts in direction of task yet unfulfilled- living in hope the morrow shall bring more favorable end to such as I take pause to smile in moment of such self indulgence. Still,,,with intent to hurry on my way I find my spirit delightfully brightened by the waking hellos of evening stars and moonlit paths which lead to home.
Peace reigns in it’s moment of glory - suffering no loss in the memories of a well finished day- bringing thoughts of rest, the warm haven of home and glimmer of hope eternal.
On a starless night, when the sky retreated like an old cloak,
I found myself floating on the river of melancholy,
memories intertwined in the fabric of a dream,
a fabric woven by unseen hands,
where the steps of those who climb the mountains of success
are steps of shadows, shadows dancing at the fire of illusions,
hiding their faces under masks of gold and silver,
but their eyes, oh, their eyes,
carried the flames of another world,
flames that consumed everything they touched,
for they were children of the fallen light,
Lucifers who only partially knew their origin.
In a sea of silence, where thoughts swirled
like dried leaves in an autumn whirlwind,
I understood that the path to heights
is paved with lost souls,
souls that sold a part of themselves
for a moment of glory,
for a moment to feel
that the world is theirs,
but in the darkness of night,
when the stars seem to fade one by one,
the truth reveals itself like an open wound,
and the shadows show their true face,
the face of children of chaos,
psychopaths building temples of illusions.
Under the pale moon, silently watching,
I felt the waves of time
crash against the shores of memories,
and each drop of water
carried a fragment of the story of those who ascend,
of those who look into the mirror of success
and see only the reflection of a hidden demon,
a demon that knows how to smile,
but behind that smile
hides a profound pain,
a pain intertwined with desire,
the desire to be more than human,
more than a mere being
wandering through the darkness of destiny.
And on that night, when everything seemed lost,
when the shadows danced around the fire,
I understood that the magic of success
is just another face of melancholy,
another face of a dream that unravels
in the light of the first rays of the sun,
and that, deep in our souls,
we are all children of the same night,
children who look towards the stars
with eyes full of hope,
even when the stars seem to fade,
and we are left with only the illusion,
the illusion of a road leading to heights,
but in fact, it is just another labyrinth
in which we lose ourselves,
seeking the light that will set us free.
The Echo Of Stars
Galaxies away the echo of stars make her bloom
this rose made of warm inside a heated hand *
Fine tuning her soul to the chime of a thousand crystal pieces
she blasts out and planets resound within her Chalice heart;
Resonating inside her, the peeling bells of Notre- Dame
contain her whole Universe...
Tucked safely inside an IVEAN cloak she lives free
no longer part of this global world.
A star of multiple constellations, she belongs only
to One identifiable light, HIS own.
Evolving endlessly in time she reverberates and rings
entering God's vestibule of heaven without a single sound
Wearing the immortal crown of existence she delves
in, a crowning moment of glory
The mirror shatters in a million tiny pieces and all of truth
arrives, making her whole once again.
“it’s not desire per say but the clinging ~
that stifles soul and stops heart from singing
enlivening silence sets our soul free ~
vibrant in the now, joyful and carefree”
This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.
The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.
Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.
I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.