Long Monk Poems
Long Monk Poems. Below are the most popular long Monk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monk poems by poem length and keyword.
The end of Autumn is still mild
and the majestic Mounts of Partenio
have no trace of snow; lovely Baiano
at its foot is tamed, not wild.
One can spot, looking up with delight,
different colors of lilacs and roses,
lulled by the softest breeze on balconies
and windowsills open to glaring sunlight;
a Verdi aria is sung by a housewife
who is bored, but looking outside
she sees all the beauty that excites life
and lets her daughter improvise!
Hasty shallows are leaving
the sky of Baiano, a picturesque town lying
in a valley between sturdy mountains
that protect her from the harshest winters;
see that slim boy run down Via IV Novembre
holding his books in his right hand with care!
Only the grey-breasted robbins choose to stay,
they shriek emitting a loud cry; warm is their nests
beneath the red rooftops when frozen rain pelts;
ah, they sadly follow the trail of the shallows in dismay!
This flaming sunset blinds as the old bronze bells
of Santa Croce ring; and in this church, I sat, pondered, and prayed
and singing the hymns written by a monk that lived
two hundred years ago, and now in the golden city of God, he dwells!
Hasty swallows are leaving
the sky of Baiano betraying their trust
in an iridescent season very calm and charming;
I chase after them, then I stop and start to grunt!
She stares into my eyes whenever she wants to pray.
She touches my skin, kisses my lips,
as if flesh were scripture, am I her prayer?
She preaches, whispers sermons:
I’m God; you are my God.
We are fragments of a greater whole,
not heaven overhead or skies above,
but burning here on earth, rooted in this soil.
She sleeps with a different man each night,
seeking threads in other bodies’ light.
Through shadows she wanders,
chasing dots, a grasp, a spark
a flame burning in her eyes.
Alone, she anoints herself
with everything she was seeking from a god,
Maybe a temple,
trembling with the weight of life.
To a different lord, she prays every night,
kneeling to passing men
as if each were divine.
she knows herself,
a monk with no god.
Time is of the essence, when I get my hair cut,
Impatiently waiting in turn, gives me dandruff,
Barber’s damn slow, chatting, making small talk
Oh hurry up man, I’m in need of a new Mohawk
Three more ahead of me, staring at the walls,
At least two of them, already suspiciously bald
But the other one, he has me seriously scared
Wears a big long coat, his hairy feet laid bare
At last it’s my turn, barber asks what’ll it be
A fantastic punk style, nice and spiky suits me
So off he goes, razors and scissors a blazing
Going cold on top, I’m sure I feel him shaving
Ok we’re all done, that’ll be twenty five bucks
I look in the mirror, to see a scalped Friar Tuck
What the hell I yell, that’s nothing like a punk
Oh dear thought you said, a monastic monk
I’m a holy show now, of that you can be sure
All I require is a robe, go with my new tonsure
By
David Kavanagh
As along our long life journey we sail
We all do encounter belied expectations
Feeling of deep hurt results from betrayal
Our shrivelled heart writhing in contractions
The hurt needs healing so we go to a healer
Who examines blotches in our aura field
Looking grave is this wheeler dealer
As his magic wand he does wield
Half who visit healed, the others not
For he simply invokes the placebo effect
Opening up our mind beyond its fearful slots
The faith healer does nothing yet no one suspects
With this comic interlude over with let us examine
The root cause of our pain needing healing
We negate not potency of toxic poison
Simply look at origin of so feeling
The aspect of us hurt is our identity
Plunged into dark gloom owing to its loss
Recognising not that in world of ephemerality
Attachment to fleeting images of pain is the cause
In monk mode detached thus free from pain and sorrow
Lower mind vaporised, we abide in blissful joy
No expectations or desires for the morrow
Mind illumined we recognise ego ploys
Acceptance of others just as they are
Knowing that maya oft causes misalignment
Acts of others be as they may leaves then no scar
We empathise with one and all resting in blissful contentment
We then are our own best faith healer having faith in love divine
Offering no niche within for rancour to anchor onto our being
Knowing that in timeless time with love all souls will align
We nonchalantly breeze through life ever celebrating
29-November-2020
A plush monk’s life was my designation
Before the process of dissolution
Then back to now, fast extrication
From enforced seizure and desecration
A simple life it was for me
Amid fertile land, its fruits aplenty
The chapter house was full of deals
lucrative ones that ensured good meals
The venerable relic in sacred place
A mecca for pilgrims upon which to gaze
And tourism fast filling the chapter house coffers
Ensuring the refectory is full of scoffers
A rural retreat in which to languish
Organic produce, not just a sandwich
free range and fresh by home kept beast
A buttery and flour, just add the yeast
The spartan dorm is plain and crude
But no money needed and even free food
Just say a few prayers and work on the land
Outdoor jobs that leaves one well tanned
A stroll in the cloisters, then meditate
Plainsong soars melodically when it is late
It soothes the mind and placates the soul
Even more lovely when the bells start to toll
This monastic decadence now at its peak
Espied by Henry who’s got a damned cheek
The supreme head is after its dough
O dear, I think its time to go
My trusty machine will ensure my return
Refreshed, better and much I’ve learned
Ruthless old Henry their land he took
Their fate outlined in my history book
,
Imagine myself..
a traveller from the ancient world of history -
world of Buddha, Hsuen Tsang and Fa Hien,
land of Pyramids, and Great Wall... walking through ages..
in search for knowledge, spirituality, harmony..
crossing through meandering rivers and mighty oceans,
hills and dales of the universe,
in quest of love, kindness and inner peace.
Probably many have imagined the same way as I do...
inspired by the chimes soaring above from the temples,
standing on the seashore with sapphire waves rolling away, meditating on serene snowy mountaintops,
with chartreuse waterfalls descending on coral rocks.
History of human civilization....
A history of inquiry, enlightenment and attainment of peace.
References: Hsuan Tsang - 7th century Chinese Buddhist monk, scholar, traveller
Fa Hien - Chinese Buddhist monk who travelled on foot from China to India
Buddha - Spiritual leader. The word itself means "enlightenment".
FIRST PLACE
September 27, 2021
For "Q" New Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
For Strand - 1058 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Where do you begin with Ravichandran Ashwin...intellectual impresario
Red ball romeo... conceptual maestro..the Kingpin of spin..leather lothario
Perpetual taunting...teasing..bubbling cerebral cauldron formenting..haunting
Troubling.. flaunting...tormenting..vaunting..fermenting..pleasing
Luminosity...but another one of the band of badger brothers
Reeks of unique chic tweak at its peak
Bare faced cheek of genius geek cavorting
Discerning pastor preaching while yearning for learning
More about turning…..curiosity pique...sleek sporting freak
Mythical master of disaster..have many if any been reaching 500 wickets faster
Viral spirals about this sage despite his age still taking centre stage
Batters like budgies trapped in a gilded cage
As though he had planned to grandstand the Ravinchand bandstand brand...stealing the back page
Revolution masquerading as evolution...cogitating...searching for a solution
Ruminating..problems to fix with his swag bag of tricks..spinning absolution
Precision physician with constant revision...each edition
A new rendition.. high jinks with winks.. and nods to tradition
Wondering...that furrowed brow..pondering how
Career of seams caressed with finger finesse ... architect..engineer without peer…
Can't debunk the magic funk…just respect from a Test tragic monk
Scientist enthrall..sorcerer gall...still one of us...the best of us all.
So hold your head high Ravichandran..still don't know why you were so often the fall guy
Fans vicarious view..our meme..you part of our team...daring to dream..your art of derring do
Iconic booty of noble probes…lush lullabies...strobes lapping global lobes
Sagacious..loquacious oratory...the tonic...fruity frolic
Fresh from laboratory duty..bodacious bucolic beauty
Even naysayers can't deny they relish that conjuring charm from your cherished right arm.
Let's zoom to the elephant in the room...is Ashwin the don of Indian spin
With the skill and will to top the bill and still pip Anil?
Kumble also a defiant giant on whom they were so reliant
Hot to trot just not as savvy as Ravi
The Don's got the lot..takes number one spot
Wealth of stealth...doyen among men..but never ever about himself
He loves cricket just for the cricket itself..zen then..
3d music bot that makes hearts swoon
Is what I’d leave melodies on the moon
Musical notes float like a magical mirror
Reflecting views of places applicable to each song
The notes can gather and form a body that dances
Or dissolve like sand to create lands sang about
For instance a song about the sea would be watery
The notes would create an ocean with sandy floor
Coral and sea critters swim in harmony with notes
The same notes that glow when played
Or the music may stop as an audio bops of
A jazz or opera singer pauses for emphasis
The view would be of anyone anything
Related to musical production 3d limitless
First a low lone bell chimes to alert the mind
Of a melody about to unwind like a clocks time
Then strings blend like a waterfall of rhythm
Coloring each note as a glowing universal ghost
Ghosts of civilization past present and future
Each song moves along melting into the next
Which could be a country song or a monk chanting
The magical notes twirl and float melting into the end
For it softly samples all music with minds open
Bhishma Pitamah, warrior fierce and monk exalted
An ascended ascetic, whose life could not be faulted
Granted by Gods, boon of immortality, of death by wish
Yet so deep became his anguish, life he chose to relinquish
How all this came to pass is depicted in the epic, Mahabharata
Suffice to say, he could not bear to see his soul defiled by stigma
Thereby voluntarily choosing to suffer upon a bed of arrows to atone
Karmic consequences of injustice by ego identity sown, he alone did own
Quest for immortality, in effect a seeking of our ego identity to unify with soul
Encased in this mind-body, feeling limited and bound, we wish to be whole
Thus we yearn for life eternal, bliss ineffable and wisdom unimaginable
We already are that who we so seek, ego veiling cognition spherical
Deluded that we are this organic fleeting form, fear spirals arise
Imaginary identity hypnotises soul, resisting joy and surprise
Oh weary pilgrim, know we are immortal but this body not
Divine aligned, bliss suffused, exit narrow thought slots
Shrouded by fears and desires, ego flounders hither and thither
Whilst soul luminous has no questions, itself being the answer
18-July-2021
IMMORTALITY YES OR NO Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
In my reveries, I am a monk in the temple of love from the books written with shadows,
Sailing through the endless pages, I let myself be carried by the breath of destiny of fragile heroes.
They who heal their loves with a divine piety,
Like the keepers of mysteries - isn't it the right of every being?
They raise them in a fan of breeze, consume them in dances on dew's tips,
They spin under drops of sky, with the echo of symphony on the canvas of scattered clouds.
A scene detached from romances, where petals compose a celestial carpet,
And nostalgic, slender murmurs intertwine with the veil of evening in chords of vastness.
Fingers intertwined, carving astral paths, white morning words carried by the dawn's breeze,
Embraces of daylight and the coffee that bursts aromas beside morning prayers of rounded dreams.
But when the story ends and reality reclaims its throne,
I look behind me and see nothing but ruins of glass and scaffolds of dreams.
The blood of bloomed failures on the floor of my soul like a field abandoned after battle,
Grows in shades of changing despair, a morbid carnival with lights that do not falter.
For love now seems to me a desert of words without shadows,
A weave that tickles my senses in a bitter, deaf sarabande.
A feeling unprecedented, among foreign hues,
A sweetness overturned across the threshold of a heart that cannot defend itself.
Echoes of despair reflect off the eternal walls,
An ode of pain where the past seeks a forgotten chalice to rewrite its destiny.
This is not just a sanctuary, but a labyrinth of solitude,
A habitat not to find, but to wander lost among the echoes that leave no trace.
And as the hours pour before the curtain of darkness,
I remain a mystic lost in romances, when the world sleeps and I watch over the ruins of hope.