Long Prayer beads Poems
Long Prayer beads Poems. Below are the most popular long Prayer beads by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prayer beads poems by poem length and keyword.
They grin and sneer, then turn away quickly
Following their lead, my heart slowly recedes
Never without their tales, some quite sickly
They listen to many stories, gossiping thickly
Spirits winking at the darkest of the proceeds
They grin and sneer, then turn away quickly
They pretend to be a friend, flattering thickly
Welcoming others, hoping their lie succeeds
Never without their tales, some quite sickly
They whisper among themselves, pretty slickly
Skeptical of truths that tell of darkest deeds
They grin and sneer, then turn away quickly
They know they are insincere but they’re wickley
Telling the whole world false tales, doubt breeds
Never without their tales, some quite sickly
Their dishonesty - duplicity silences the prickly
Truth won’t be doubted by those prayer beads
They grin and sneer, then turn away quickly
Never without their tales, some quite sickly
THIRD-PERSON VILLANELLE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
November 9, 2022
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vacant control tower hisses in static~
a Morse code signaling the absence of departing flights.
B-24s dissolve into prairie stars,
fuel streaks fading like old film burns.
Midnight mechanics still roll toolbox shadows
across tarmacs swallowed by prairie crabgrass.
a windsock flaps—empty, always empty~
counting dead radio waves as prayer beads.
barracks hum with old Glenn Miller,
though the record needle’s been stuck for decades.
midnight taxi lights still trace the runway,
guiding no one home.
airfield ghosts wear leather bomber jackets,
not shrouds, sighing at how quietly war forgets.
*“The southwest corner of Kansas was once home to Liberal Army Airfield. For 27 months, from April 1943 to September 1945, the desolate plains of Kansas were alive with the deep throaty roar of the B-24 Liberator. The Liberal Army Airfield trained approximately one-quarter of all B-24 commanders. Residents of the area recall few days and nights in which they did not hear the familiar roar of the big Pratt & Whitney engines flying overhead. What was once a wheat field, a symbol of peace, became thousands of feet of concrete runways used to train pilots for vital World War II missions. To this day, many of the runways and structures of the base still survive. Years have passed since the inception and closure of the base, but its history will always be a part of Liberal, Kansas. (Source: frugalfrigate.com/book/9781467162289)”
The Liberal Army Airfield was also where my father spent his wartime years servicing the B-24 Liberators. My mother was working as a civil service clerk at the airfield. The two of them met in August 1944 and were married in November 1944 at the Airfield Chapel.
you may read the related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
When Grandpa climbed to meet the sky
the prayer beads seemed to delay
a night so thin, it can’t deny
flushed teardrops washing air in gray.
Till darkness sprawled on tilted plate
when Grandpa climbed to meet the sky;
my anger turned to a debate
with heaven; needing a reply.
Life bore the wrath of days’ outcry,
the tempest rolled on hours that changed
When Grandpa climbed to meet the sky;
one shadow flashed while clouds assuaged.
Till rare star glazed throughout the ground
Like an angel soothing my eye
his graceful face spoke, “I’m around”
when Grandpa climbed to meet the sky.
The morning was ordinary—
milk boiling in pans,
children tying shoelaces with dreams still half-awake.
The city yawned, unaware
that the sky was planning
a funeral.
The flight lifted
like a promise,
a silver bird with hearts strapped in—
some texting "boarding now,"
some holding prayer beads.
No one knew
the sky would open its jaws
like a god gone mad.
I read their names in the news—
a couple returning from a wedding,
a mother flying for her daughter’s surgery,
a boy who loved planes
but never dreamed of dying inside one.
They say
the engines failed.
They say
weather turned rogue.
They say
black boxes will tell the truth.
But what do boxes know
of the girl who waited at Arrivals
holding marigolds and a placard that said “Papa”?
I heard that the wreckage scattered
near a school,
and a child drew a plane
with broken wings
on her notebook that night.
I do not know these people,
but my womb ached
as if I had lost
my own.
Isn’t that what grief is?
A stranger’s death
pulling apart your ribs
like it belonged to you?
They will build reports,
announce compensation,
blame wind or metal or man.
But who will console
the chai vendor at the terminal
who still waits for familiar footsteps?
Somewhere,
a ringtone still rings
inside a crushed suitcase,
and no one picks up.
For ages man turns prayer beads,
Mind roams the ritual as proceeds,
From fingers turning prayer bead,
O let your mind lead, not recede.
________________________________
Mala pherata juga bhaya, phira na mana ka pher,
Kara ka manaka dara de, mana ka manaka pher.
There is no point in chanting mechanically with the help of rosary beads, when the mind is not in what you do. Mind is a monkey, this couplet means to say. Let your heart and soul be in whatever worship you do, or else it is useless. The poet has used a pun when he says: mana ka manaka…the beads of mind. Elsewhere also Kabeer has used some imaginative puns in his couplets.
I will seek you even in my darkness
Cause that way I won't be totally lost
Bit by bit I'll find my way
And with time I'll be by your side
I will sit in your refuge
And wait as long as it takes
Cause I've seen your works
And each is beautiful
I will sing your hymns
Cause it soothes the soul
As I hold my prayer beads in one hand
Going through prayer and solemnity
I will speak of your works
And of all that you've done
So that your creation bears witness
To your presence even in our despair
I will seek you even in solitude
When it's just me and you
So that I can know you deeply
And marvel at how great you are
The PO£T
I was a child, an ordinary one.
Perhaps all other kids had
Something in common.
I can still remember how
I felt
When my mother used to cook a favorite dish.
I was so embarrassed when she was upset with me.
My secret hiding place was the dark corner beside her steel rack,
Where her prayer beads used to glow greenish in the dark in my hand.
I still
Feel the yearning in me to hear her soft voice calling my name.
I remember
How scared I was when she told me that my father is looking for me.
The view from my childhood bedroom had the setting sun crawling
Down the river, the Brahmaputra each day.
I also remember
The first time, I rode a train to go to grandma’s house (We used to call her “Bubu”).
And till this day, I still haven’t told anyone that
I even
Carry the scent of her hair oil that
She used to use every night before bedtime.
In me, in my childhood memories.
The sun rises slow, casting light so sweet,
In the Kasi, where the streets meet.
Wheelbarrows roll with greens so fresh,
Hustlers hustle, working to impress.
On the corners, voices rise and fall,
“Tomatoes! Spinach! Come buy it all!”
The clink of coins, the sound of trade,
As Saturday's tiredness starts to fade.
Grandmothers with prayer beads in hand,
Walking slowly, their hearts so grand.
Hand in hand with little ones near,
Their laughter echoes, pure and clear.
The scent of stew fills the air,
Pots bubbling, food everywhere.
Mothers and daughters, side by side,
Stirring the pot with love and pride.
Some are at home, busy and bright,
Cooking up dishes to end the night.
And others gather, all smiles and grace,
Sunday in Kasi, a familiar place.
Here, the rhythm of life never rests,
A dance of hard work, faith, and the best.
In wheelbarrows, in kitchens, in church—
Sunday in the Kasi, where love doesn’t search.
It’s not in riches or fame we find,
But in shared moments, hearts intertwined.
Where vegetables are sold and prayers rise,
Sunday in the Kasi, under open skies.
Sparrow song
Window ledge dawn;
Sparkling sunlight
~~~~~~~~~
Dry gusty breeze
Bamboo leaves rustle;
Moongate courtyard
~~~~~~~~~
Young lovers glide
Zest greets romance;
Sensuous future
~~~~~~~~~
Old man limping
His poodle hops around;
Smiles all around
~~~~~~~~~
Chinese martial artist
Sword and spear dance;
Deadly symmetry
~~~~~~~~~
Food court flavours
Hungry appetites prowl;
Meal time persuasions
~~~~~~~~~
This old couple
Share a meal;
Lovers eyes greet
~~~~~~~~~
Jade prayer beads
A personal rosary;
Sacred journeys
~~~~~~~~~
Long queue winding
Banking momentum;
New currency notes
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
01 March 2015
Singapore
I watch you unfold—
an argent bloom of bone and feather—
the quiet thunder of an angel
shivering beneath your skin.
I should let you rise,
let your beauty cleave the air,
let the wind kiss the hollows of your ribs.
But I do not.
I bind.
I weave my hands into the delicate lattice
of your wings,
folding them back like prayer beads,
tight against your spine,
so that you will not soar too far,
so that your light
does not leave me in shadow.
I love the angel I see in you—
the way your feathers catch the sun
like living silver—but
I love the ground too,
and the thought of you above me
terrifies me more than the night.
Every time you stretch,
every revelation of yourself,
I feel a crack in my grip.
I pull you down,
tether your glory to my chest,
and whisper that flight is dangerous,
that the sky might swallow you whole.
I am the keeper of your wings,
the jailer of your flight,
and in my fear,
I mistake my tethering for love.
I am the shadow
you have not yet flown beyond.
I watch as she curls
into the corners I have built for her,
her wings folding in on themselves
like soft paper,
creasing under my careful weight.
The shimmer dulls,
the light bends back into the shadows,
and I whisper to myself:
“Better this way. Safer. She will not leave.”
The angel forgets the song of air,
the pulse of open blue,
the taste of horizon on her tongue.
Her heart, once a drum of rising,
beats slower now,
syncopated to the rhythm of my fear.
She learns that wings can hurt,
that flight is not a gift but a trial.
And when she looks at me,
I see the quiet acceptance,
the soft resignation,
and I convince myself
that this is love:
that binding is protection,
that grounding is care,
that her shrinking wings
are proof of my devotion.
But the truth lingers in the cage’s shadow—
an angel in gilded bars may survive,
but she will never soar.