Long Parish Poems
Long Parish Poems. Below are the most popular long Parish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parish poems by poem length and keyword.
Yesterday I dreamed a dream,
that had no end.
You in your white gown, and long, black hair flowing.
You were calling my name.
I heard you, but I couldn't reach you!
And when I say your soul was tainted.
You went out in the night life.
You dressed in your black, evening ball gown.
You danced till the Red Sun came out, over the horizon.
You smiled at me.
A flame in my heart burned red hot!
My knees and hands shook with nerves;
Nerves of love and joy.
I blew you a kiss,
but you turned away!
Oh, please don't turn away from me,
for I would die, if it happened again!
Your beautiful and golden heart showed me the truth.
The truth that every gentleman wants to hear.
I've seen you walk the streets,
in the blue dawn of August.
As I followed you, you stopped and looked at me.
You smiled so beautifully, and my heart fluttered into oblivion!
You walked with your friends and I went my way.
I couldn't find a single trace of you that day.
I cried out "Why did I leave her like this?!"
I looked for you, all over the courtyards and town squares!
Yet no sight of your beauty.
... No sight of your golden heart, that I hold so dear to mine.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Why did I leave... that is the question!
I should have stayed by your side,
till the ends of time.
Yet I had left.
Why...?
One gloomy and parish midnight.
I came along a road,
and soon found myself in front of a wayward cafe.
Smiling faces all around me.
I spotted a beautiful face that outstood all the other faces around me.
It was yours.
Your face brought me to sanity and I went over too you!
You spotted me and tried to run!
I caught you in the dirty hallway and pulled you in.
Our eyes met and I fell in love once again.
Sanity re-entered my mind, body and soul.
I kissed you and you kissed back.
You held my hand, and we left the cafe and walked down the street.
The street was gloomy, yet we together brightened the dark street.
We went back to the lit up city streets, of the lands filled with smiling faces,
and we fell in love and slept together.
You lay there in my restless arms and I gave you a sweet kiss,
upon your sweet and soft head.
Your dark hair was sweet smelling and felt of silk.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep with you,
there in my arms and we dreamed together
till the morning came and woke me up,
and took you away from my weak and weary arms.
I dreamed a dream of you.
Only if you knew that you live like a God in a place my heart has found you fit to rule
only if you knew that I would be the opposite of what God would cal one of his own if I Were to find out that not only I
Can make you smile and make you feel sugary and not have an explanation for it
Only if you knew
you would recent the idea of falling asleep on my chest
The very foundation of your peacekeeping concentration camp would play out like the rest
You would start believing in a curse
only if you knew what would happen in the Myst of a fairy-tale Adam and eve would see themselves immortalized in being chopped in half
if My existence learnt that the absence of another man in one of the most important days of your life brought you nothing but the question of where you stand
while I. The King Still reigns by your side
I would crack open the heavens and drag down an angel with its wing
Hold it down long enough till the sins of this earth stain it so that the rejection would last longer that than existence itself
Only if you knew
How that stayed with me without knowing
The honesty we find in solace
sets us on road trips we don't have lunch boxes for
sometimes,is it about listening or is about subjecting yourself to the moral of what is right
My dear
I know the power of chemistry,It has the tendency of showing off by blowing up before the magician can make a perfect landing
Especially when the story was left on a good note
subliminally,
He invaded my castle
killed my guards and two pit bulls got into my fortress
sat on my throne and felt home
only if you knew what it does to me
That you too can establish communication that is no where to be seen
It breaks my ego in what can be put together again
only if you knew
what I would give to have the ability to snatch his contact numbers off your mind
you can look me in the eye
Serenade me with what you have to say with your mouth but its your eyes that I am looking for
windows to your soul my love
I wish you knew
how beating your life because your heart is deformed can have an impact in your trust
The trust our names put together rhymes with
Subliminally
Are we really that strong?
are we aware of the vulnerabilities that are there to parish us off
Maybe just maybe
I am reading to much into a dream
could the feeling be mutual ?
Taint/
There was a time when I felt like wealth
all I needed under my belt,
like why the f*** do I care,
look at this Gucci I wear,
like a movie directed by Luci,
I’ve become less a begger and more choosy,
the center of my own world, and I unfurled,
all the time I spent,
where f*** I went, giving one hundred percent,
on earth between a ferment,
I’m trapped inside, right beside sin,
Divided by greed,
why did I agree,
to envy the clout, about how everyone else
has no brain cells, but their s*** sells,
Rebeltease/
Truth be told I came up from the gutter
(metaphorically speaking)
nah just being cheeky
but never smooth as butta
makes me shutter
I never been sneaky
I worked hard for my respect
and yea I can still flex
I just do it correct see
Taint/
I been hanging with rebel tease,
oh please, oh jeez,
I might just be your next trainee,
like teach me nothing original just a fictional idea
I mean something.
The reality is I’m a wannabe,
this rap game is a fantasy,
so everyone can chastise
me, so give me the clout,
fishing, hook out my mouth,
swimming, winning.
Rebtease/
At times it sucks to be me
but I can fully agree
with the fact that my respects
distract cause I see those stars in ya eyes
wanna be like me
Yea a trainee now,
a tease in the making ??
oh wow, please
but the clout
it ain’t cut out to
be what you see the critics
you can never appease geez
Here’s the true story...
ain’t no glory in my story
it’s a predatory
world out here none give
congratulatory telegrams
like you become an animal
watching ya territory
nah see ain’t no glory here!
but if ya want it come get it
Taint/
Laugh at my jokes,
I know it provokes,
to see me get rich,
which b**** gonna diss next,
I’m dying Hysterically,
because I’m not a ing charity,
remember I’m selfish,
quite devilish, who am I to Cherish,
when everything will perish
Rebeltease/
honestly consciously
times I wish I wasn’t so good
I say that modestly
hope ya wasn’t looking for a comradely
because to be real that straight comedy
but you right all will parish
when it comes ta the light but cherish what you can
find reason to fight don’t sell your soul
just know there’s no guarantees in life
SONG TO THE RUINS OF AMERICA
With the Glyn Ford’ eyes:
"Fascist Europe-The Rise of Racism and Xenophobia"
I see with horror how from an american country to another
Racism and Xenophobia are cultivated in ist fields
Inspecting the growth of fascism and its relationship
With the capitalist families’ domain
As Daniel Guerin saw in his “Fascism and Big Busines”
When Fascism was flourishing in Germany and Italy
For nothing.
Cities and fields returns to watering the river Biederitz
Feeder of the river Elba
That brings the Hitler and Eve’s cremated and crushed remains
Together with others of theirs on the studio couch
Where they were found suicided
Perhaps the same couch of love where Neville Chamberlain
the British Prime Minister was sat.
River that joins and, at the end, matchs to the river Potomac
In Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean
Rested in backwater of the White House’ pool
Built in its foundations and frames
by slaves and Irish and Italian workers without papers
that tomorrow will come to call "Trumpbunker".
He’ll walk in the middle of the garden
Arrogant his figure as a God with joke eyes, body to much he-man
And penisly classic figure
whose Te Deum will be of the Asses and the Marquis of Sade.
Heil¡ He’s the “Uro of Heck" big, robust, with long horns
a brown copper hair, with skin of a certain form
with fierce behaviour.
Heil¡ He’s the new Thartac, God of the Hivites with Ass-headed
well known and loved by priests and parish priest.
Nor the snow neither the wind will lash, that they believe
The angry figure of this God-man who loves life
As a desolated tyrant with dizziness of sex just nasty
running towards the void of a great National and Global Zoo
upon which will erect a statue to the Ass
to which will come the souls of the Eve’s terrier breed scottish dogs
and the Hitler’ German Shepherd Dog with her cubs
to piss lifting up its leg.
And Fabius will sing near the doors of the White House
The new "Trumpbunker"
the Rodrigo Caro’s paraphrased song to the Ruins of Italica:
"These, Trump, poor me¡ that you see now
Lonely fields, gloomy hill
Were a time great America”.
Because the crime, the evil, the cruel and bloody
Assembly of wars against another peoples and nations
Ever returns, sooner or later, against one and another.
"Poetry is thin, with dark eyes and a hollow face that echoes all the time without distinction. The distinction lies in her breasts that are full of beat under her vague dress that changes colours according to the statements.
She never fails, grows old or dies but simply moves to the next place when it is time to move, to slap, to love, to incorporate the unspoken before it fades away unrecognized."
(Miranda Cambanis)
"The Unspoken Army"
it came to me this life,
I did not ask for it,
I was pushed out, not wanting the revisit at all,
one iota
as if in a dream the blinds once drawn were slowly sliding wide open; framed,
through doors to a foreign world where no one spoke my language, the light a bitter potion -
nor sensed the feels of me, the unseeing, deaf to this bleeding open wound that spoke of children stolen;
and all the stage my world turned its sunny back on me;
eyes to the ground their feet shuffled like poetic shackled legions leading towards the unleading,
best to follow the masters they could clearly see and listen like soulless puppets, vacuous and easy,
manouvred senselessly into agreement, contracting the poisonous words trusting falsehoods reverently;
faith had diminished, drowned in faithless cups of erstwhile parish tea,
the conversation took turns ripping to shreds the core of what was left of me, muted,
“...another piece of this delicious dark fruit cake dear?” this suggested patronisingly,
I shook my head sincerely, without saying one word, I smiled thin and grimly
inside my mind was forming a different kind of unspoken army,
leagues beyond the server, somewhere under my drowned sea
the bends were kicking in, it was debated would I make it to the surface
before oxygen took over the blood and water of me;
such unwanted urgency.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"(Dancing around a shooting star)
(And every cell remembers what has taken us this far)
Feed me sunlight, feed me air
(I see images of killer whales)
Feed me truth and feed me prayers
(Sleeping in a desert trail)
(Dreaming of a parallel world where nothing ever hurts)
(Dreaming of a parallel world where nothing ever hurts)".
(Revised with new homophone added in. Thanks for the catch, Becca!)
*Wants upon **uh thyme inn uh would, uh vary gneiss prints named Hairy
met inn the missed, hi awn the bow of uh tree- uh ferry named Tarry.
The ferry felt lo, fore he was week, and he was inn knead of sum meet.
He bald, “Whoa is me. Eye cant even stand hear awn my own too feat!
My pour hart is braking, and I’m inn pane. The last thyme that eye eight
was daze ago. Ewe sea, I’m inn uh hays and due naught feel sow grate.
Eye parish and long fore whine and ham. Even bettor wood bee lam!
Butt eye wood settle four uh peace of bred with sum suite bury jam!”
Prints Hairy new he had sum mince, sum Tick Tax that **whir inn the pear
of gnu read genes he war. He took them out and waived them inn the heir.
*“Lickerish to, eye halve write hear!” Prints Hairy tolled the ferry.
“Its naught much, butt pleas dew eat. Later awn, wheel dyne and make marry.”
Prints Hairy placed the ferry Tarry aun his pail ***wight hoarse.
Then aweigh the roil with the ferry hastened aun his homeward coarse.
Awl day long they road and road. ***Wen the ferry started to grown.
Suddenly, from the hoarse, both the man and ferry whir throne.
Hungrily they paste beneath the setting son and threw the knight.
They pressed awn until mourning. Hairy’s residents came inn cite!
Prints Hairy’s wife had supper ready, and she’d maid uh pi.
From udder happiness, the ferry thought that he mite dye!
She *heeded up they’re food four them. They both had groan sew pail!
She listened as the ferry Tarry tolled his tragic tail . . .
of how heed lost his weigh and, four food, had knot won crumb
until her deer spouse rescued hymn. At last, his prints had come!
Written April 10, 2015, using homophones from various lists.
Note: I did not use letters, for example, U for “you” ; they were not on the lists I found.
Neither was “hee” which I was going to use for “he.”
The main list used was The HOMOPHONES LIST of John F Troutman and Joy A Miller
* these are a few more homophones I found on Wikipedia’s list.
** these homophones appear on Homophones.com, perhaps the most comprehensive one.
*** These homophones, perhaps antiquated, are from Suber & Thorpe British English
When you are young your life is not about you
You it owe to them for love, for sacrifice and rent
Youth is the margin of our parents ever do
The young know their life only by old consent
My father was doctor with animals in his care
The blackest and the first of them in that space
My mother was the Jill of every trade, a rare
Exhibit of beauty in a working class of grace
He out of the dry parish, made ladder with brains
And climb to wring the clouds of dreams. He
Matured from church school teacher, got the reins
Fathoming figures, Maroon boy in ascendancy:
Policeman, black sergeant, parting the waves
Clerk of the Court while colonials made war
Thespian for Vere John, the black hole craves
Everything it cannot be like a wounded star.
He did well when the war was done though. Some
Whites came back alive, and their substitute yield
So they coud find their sinecure. He got a ransom
From gruelling things too, a cut above the common field
His lettered mind scholarship him there
And this society that prevented cruelty to beast
Gave that astute mind its golden stair.
From slum investments father rose to feast.
He loved rebellion, it was his poetry, yet not he
But mother was the rebel, leaving father's house
Breaking bonds with tradition and its morality
To bring my sister weddingless, to choose her spouse
And refuse them regardless. Family's wealth
She forsook, and took the rudder of her life
Compassless to sea. All winds and surge she felt
Survival was the only fun in her fracture strife.
It walloped her, the storm of winds and fire
Three children and no way back through flames
Churning like a sword, waist deep wading mire
Her soul unshaken its sovereign pride proclaims
My own daily lessons that core my manhood
Father's love of learning, mother's pride
And I drifting in that Ark since the old flood
Left me in a barren place where wants divide
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
Your love is lost
Your word descended from the pits of starvation
Emotionally, for a month I resided in your arms like an orphan
Stayed by your side
Rested under your feet
Nana instead of using my spine as a stepping stool
You walked all over me.
Your footprints left a burning mark on my skin, the least of my worries were,
Will you ever catch a grenade in a war for us?
I was hit by an atomic bomb when I stretched my arms reaching,
For a piece of paper to write
A century for the new age
Our time as one flesh being a mechanism to count the years life was found upon,
Nana the forever part in the text was dry
I blew the ink off the surface with all my breath
Just a little longer…, I would have died,
I would have died for what to you was only a page that I found on top of your desk,
Died for what to me was a book found in the middle of incredible happenings.
The ink was dry …
The font was final, I should have landed your hand
Hold it tight and slowly write Ls and Os’ .., Vs and E’s till the last page
Just the way they do it in grade R
Lost lover
My tears are no longer in the scope of being dry,
They have out lived the agony and colonized a pond in Ficksburg,
The fluid is rich with what will sustain an ecosystem
An ever Lange of melting Ice cubes
Filling up oceans, refusing to reflect but rather give in to the rays of the over Seeing Eye God has called the sun,
A tragedy of humankind but a step closer to cleansing the planet
They say for a virus to parish, the host must be put down
In simple terms
You no longer qualify to be called a lost lover
Our planet died a long time ago
You no longer host this love
The missing part of the story no longer exist
I have found you to be perfectly fit to stand with other stones
Pave a way for a new
Lost lover
The title has left its purpose for thee
I wish you can see what happens inside of me when thee wakes up every morning
There’s this sudden rush to end this poem
And get back to bed.
Part I.
The organized church, whether Catholic or not,
Probably kills more people's faith than Satan.
Its grand pomp and circumstance all 'tommy rot, '
And designed solely to up ‘the gate' brought in.
The first church of our Lord was mostly a home,
Though seaside or even a hill could make do,
Thoughts spell-binding like words of a poem,
The place unaffected when God's word was thru.
Part II.
In East Africa, through no planning of mine,
I chanced to visit, ‘broke bread' at a mission,
Black parishioners served us curry and wine,
And the mood friendly, without inhibition.
Swahili was the only language we spoke,
For the monks living there came from Italy,
When their servants had gone, one offered a joke,
That once spoke, changed our brotherhood fatally.
‘So your Peace Corps came here to help monkeys too? '
His joke referred to his own serving bushmen,
The meal really over we bid them adieu,
But we would never, ever stop there again.
Part III.
A close friend of mine that was raised Catholic,
Was traumatized both by church and by Lassie,
A cute TV show that was maudlin and slick,
Dog and family made rural life classy.
My friend was eleven when Lassie had pups,
And a contest announced, ‘Name them and claim them! '
Many times she entered, thinking of backups,
She consulted her parish priest on a whim.
The priest's words convinced her belief would suffice,
So she announced to her friends that she'd won one,
But no puppy meant that she paid quite a price,
The false words of the priest could not be undone.
Now by man's hand, God and child were made foolish,
But for this small girl it was just God's deceit,
All human claims to know God simply ghoulish,
And for her stolen soul she bares no receipt.
Many years later, the girl's wound still festers,
For want of a puppy, her Savior's not real,
And people of faith just look like court jesters,
She longs for a heart but has nothing to steal.