Long Preacher Poems
Long Preacher Poems. Below are the most popular long Preacher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preacher poems by poem length and keyword.
It is funny!
Very funny how
A masked preacher can preach honesty;
And even points at the wrongs with his
Fingers of hypocritical righteousness…
We stare with grim satisfaction
Because the black winged Angel
Ridding a flaming chariot tells a tale;
And proclaims that God is love,
Yet he, himself is an Angel of death.
Day after wretched day Humanity walks!
He walks down the dark alley of freedom;
Freedom which shouts fairness;
Fairness that begets confusion—
And he tries to bottle the spittle of birds…
Every night he lies in bed and tries to hear
The voice of fishes shouting gender and Sexualty in a world where the scale of
Equality is unevenly proportional and
Equal rights mean the oppression of men.
Apartheid, the history of Mzanzi is
The present for the African world and
That has caused his inferiority complexes
To suffice and personalize racism and
One after another, generations play along.
Lest we forget,
The victims are just as guilty
As the perpetrators but at some point.
Humanity weeps as he inspects
His isle of hopelessness!
But just like the majority, men;
They cry in hiding.
Where no-one sees,
No-one hears and
No-one dares speak for the black sheep!
Deep down this egocentric radicalism,
He orders rotten eggs to make an omelette
With which he feeds pirate justice,
And he goes all year long
On a running stomach.
Although the words never sink,
Humanity hearkens to
The rumbling stomach of justice but
When the rainbow of life turns
Grey!
Humanity's children cry day and night
While the Angel of death entrusted
Their protection feasts on their tears
And dances to the beautiful sound
Of their troubled voices.
And when the wolf comes for their
Brazen souls we hail at the smiling lady
Who says 'I am virgin Mary'
With fangs behind her white vail
And poison under her tongue—death!
The rich are poor but morally,
Yet no-one sees
And no-one cares;
They say 'each one for himself'
Come shall the final hour do.
It is funny!
Very funny how
A masked preacher can preach honesty;
And even points at the wrongs with his
Fingers of hypocritical righteousness…
Humanity looks on
And passes his judgement.
The masked preacher scoffs:
“No-one is perfect.
No, not one!”
I read these letters I've written,
One was to be continued,
I must have been dreaming,
It made no sense.
Dreaming.
No one has three dresses,
the couple are strangers.
I'll never find them anyway,
the list.
Dreaming no more.
You do,
I do.
Why didn't he say some words like we do?
All was there,
no dress,
no shiny shoes,
no list,
no dreaming.
All was good.
Me,
You,
This Preacher,
His witnesses.
Witness His counsel he said,
What counsel?
Dreaming.
I'm young again.
We're Counsel.
You,
Me,
A Preacher,
His Words.
His Counsel,
Our love on paper to witness.
Dreaming no more.
I'm dreaming no more.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
John, the Baptist- baptised people in the Jordan River,
Jesus said, the holy spirit came to him as a dove;
to think about John, the preacher, the saint makes me quiver,
imagine God giving this man the power of his love.
John was a preacher in the Jordan River area,
he was a prophet of God for all faiths- showing the way;
come on Saturday, Sunday or any day feria,
even unbelievers saw his baptism's as a gateway.
Sadly, John was sentenced to death by King Herod, the Great,
and he was beheaded, oh such fear of a preaching man;
John's birth and death honored by Christians for his life and fate ...
I pray to go the Jordan River where it all began.
In the fifties we girls could not wear pants
Unless it was bitter cold, then a temporary grant.
We wore them under our dresses in freezing drool
But had to take them off when we got to school
If you told a girl today she had to wear a dress
She would look at you like you had a nose of watercress
Girls today wear what they want I have to confess
Many do not own a skirt, a jumper or a dress
In the fifties most of us went to church and sat in pews
We were silent knowing that to upset our parent was a lose.
We could sit through weddings and funerals silently.
No one thought to interrupt an adult in 1953.
Today’s child cannot sit silently anywhere without bedding.
Not at school, in church, in a synagogue or at a wedding
Today’s child thinks what they have to say is valuable without fault.
They believe they are on the same level as an adult
In the fifties we kids fought over who laid in the back window
When we went to grandma’s or to church in the Christmas snow.
Today’s child has to be strapped down like an inverted turtle
In the backseat, so the air bag does not “get” them, right Myrtle?
In the fifties students waited for instructions from a teacher
Today’s children interrupt and out-talk even a preacher.
When a teacher commands silence, they ignore her, not nifty.
I wish children respected adults like they did in the fifties.
What be Ye, Preacher or Mortician?
A mortician prepares and buries the remains.
The hole he or she digs is for a lifeless corps, free of soul.
And the eulogy is of poppies and the utterance of past misdeeds restrained.
A preacher lifts and builds the spirit with truth.
The gates he or she illuminates is for souls of the regenerate.
And the sermons are foreboding, warning against the misdeeds of our youth.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
The fruits of your labor are obvious for all to see.
The consequences of your actions are evident across the landscape.
One is an orchard with not a word spoken, but simply bearing fruit and seed.
The other is covered with stones over those that the past forsake.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
Do you hide the truth and live in lies?
Or do you sanctify, pursuing where truth lies and live?
Your master, be he of the world?
Or, be He author of the Word?
One brings death and leaves ashes for remains.
The other brings love and everlasting life that sustains.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
by Martin Braun
February 23, 2024
P.S. The politics and code by which we live, is evidence enough to know.
Sex and Grades
Teachers in my time
taught math, and science and history.
We never cared if they were single,
or married or divorced.
It never even crossed our minds to ask...
if they were dating,
as that was too personal
on every level.
We just wanted to know
what questions would be... on the test,
with the rest
of everything we would really need to know
before we had to go...
out into the real world.
Keep your rainbow flags at home.
Don't drag your laundry to school.
There is toilet paper on your shoe,
look down and remove it.
If you are confused, go back
to the place you began.
Ask your own mother to try again.
as she failed to express
how much you meant to her,
or anyone else.
As my mother already told me the truth.
I am exactly who I am supposed to be,
I don't need you to judge me, you see.
I have been blessed and made whole.
I have been surrounded by family and friends.
I don't know what it is to be lost,
but if I am or become so,
I know that the Lord,
will find me, and show me again...
that I am his.
As for school,
and a talking mule...
I want to learn what is important.
What is important for my own life.
I need to know how to spell my name, and address.
How to count, and how to read through and between
the lines of the news,
spoken all over,
in the name of freedom...
over woke-ism,
be a teacher,
not a preacher
of darkness
and twisted lies.
I deem it important to attend church for my spiritual maturation.
I really savor the fellowship of a loving and caring congregation.
I especially relish the potluck suppers and other social interactions,
But even in this worshipful scenario, there are bound to be distractions!
Now, I don't mind the preacher pounding his pulpit to gain attention,
Or the occasional "amen" from a dear sister for her comprehension,
But that feller across the aisle who always sings off-key and out of tune,
Sounds like a murder of cranky crows or an out of sync bassoon!
I thrill at a great rendition of "How Great Thou Art" by the choir,
And the crescendo of the organ as it grows higher and higher.
Even the woman belting out her mezzo-contralto doesn't bother me so,
But that feller across the aisle who murders "Amazing Grace" has got to go!
I can tolerate little children who holler and scream now and then,
Or the occasional raucous ringing of a cellphone now and again,
But I approach congregational singing with little or no anticipation,
When that feller across the aisle brays, "The Churches One Foundation!"
I don't mind the snoring of the guy who occupies the pew behind me,
And I can abide the pastor's profound homilies to a certain degree.
But how I dread to hear that feller's odious and tuneless strain!
(I suppose I could move to another pew to ease my Sabbath bane!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
True love, she's always seeking.
Broke up not too long
Find another who truly loves her
Proposed to her that same year
She's ready, to let go of her past
She was absolutely happy, It's her wedding day
The long waited day, unknowingly to her it's a bad day.
It's her ex
Coming for revenge
Holding unto offense
Ready to defend without pretense
He still love and want her, not ready to let go.
As the preacher man says,
Do you have anything against this union
He stood up and walked majestically
Down the aisle, straight to the altar
Such an hassle, he's a *******
With all eyes on him, he uttered everything
She screamed; nooooo... then she fainted.
transitory life
how can they understand
oh God
I wish I can let them know
what life is all about
is obvious they are far
gone in calamities
no matter how I cry
does it matter
in a brutal world
full of evils
wickedness the authority
they vibrate
in world they don't own
I wish they understand
I wish they know
that this life is only but a
transitory life
transitory life
forgive them father
the preacher man
always say
for he see the world
turning to a blood
moon
full of evil abomination
what happen to the good
heart of men
make me pray for
humanity always
at my inner chapel
I can't understand
yet I wish they understand
that in this life
we are all fighting
for what we don't own
I wish they know that
this world is only but a
transitory life
transitory life
nothing else is worth
dieing for except
if not for humanity
what worth more
than love
must we always
fight to be who
we want to be
while what life
worth is under our
nose
yet we can't see
forget about those
wealth riches fame
carriers money
and be in peace
for a while
cos despite what you
own today
you will die to leaves
them one day
and that is a prove
that we all
are living a
transitory life