Long Priest Poems
Long Priest Poems. Below are the most popular long Priest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Priest poems by poem length and keyword.
I sat with a reluctant story teller
my legs crossed
holding my breath
The fabric of her mind
was tightly folded
tucked in carefully at her edges
I reached for a thread
gave it a gentle tug
hoping that it would come loose
My desire was to know her secrets
Her's was the ability I so desperately desired
She smiled a knowing smile
Looked deeply into my eyes
I gazed back resolutely
Searching for my prize
She whispered
"Come close
within my hands
I hold the ghosts
They scream with force
to be released
You will not be protected
by your Priest
I'm trying my best
to hold them back
If they escape
they will attack!"
My childish wonder
turned to fear
Could real Ghosts
have followed her here
As I wondered
she began to laugh
Within my soul
I felt a draft
I got my wish
Storied spirits grabbed hold
I could not handle
the tales she told
So I ran
through the forest
Spirits close behind
sang a chorus
"We are released
our stories are yours
Fly with us
through hidden doors
The forest our home
a magical place
we knit our spells
with silvered lace!"
Her thread had attached
firmly to my mind
The desire within
had rendered me blind
The reluctant story teller
she knew me best
deep down convinced
I'd fail her test
As the fabric unraveled
I absorbed her pain
Those silvered threads
now formed a chain
The ghostly spirits
wrapped links round my soul
My eyes of blue
turned black as coal
Nothing was left
of earlier me
I became like the one
I wished to be
I am the Reluctant Story Teller
The fabric of my mind tightly folded
tucked in at my edges
You sit cross legged
holding your breath
You pull at a single thread
hoping my fabric will unravel
You desire to know my secrets
"Come a little closer
so that I might whisper in your ear,
I have stories to tell!"
Dedicated to my Friend Vicky a story teller Extrodinaire.
At Nobody’s funeral no guests appeared
No priest came to serve the last rites
No one sent flowers, no one volunteered
To carry the coffin outside
So what’s about funeral, is it a hoax?
It does seem like hallucination
Or one of those flat unintelligent jokes
Some share to get brief attention
If it’s real, I’d like to attend, count me then
I’ll come, if you have the address
We'll bury that ever-recurring old man
Who caused such a terrible mess
He shall be buried as soon as it takes
Just tell me the date, send a scheme
But this time it shouldn’t be any mistakes
I must be assured if its him
Whose soul was as hollow as trunk of a reed
Who had nothing to say but the lies
Fake and evil was pretty much all that he did
What a joy that he finally dies
A solace of freedom and peace comes again
After war people like to feel free
We cannot be judged for the crimes of armed men
Much too busy with love are we
Nobody is dead, breaking news on the top
Swan Lake’s on the TV all day
Four little cygnets are dancing non stop
Odette in the wings drinks champagne.
A flower in Hawaii
blooms in halves -
half on the mounts
half on the shores.
Naupaka is its celebrated name -
we hear there was a princess of the same name
long long ago
and she fell head over heels
in love with a commoner -
a prohibited misdeed for royal ones.
The lovers went from pillar to post
to find a way out
from the quandary they were in.
They yearned to win
the heart of everyone
and live in peace as one
together for several eons.
Alas! That was not to be!
although a priest asked them to pray
at a mountain temple
to find if the Divine cared,
which with all their heart they did
without any visible aid.
Lost of hope they embraced in tears,
the princess tore the flower on her hair
into two halves and gave
one piece to her love;
she said in tears:
“Take it to the mounts my dear
and I shall return to those who least care
at the shaky shores
far down there
with the other half on my hair”.
A heart-broken naupaka plant
witnessed the event;
bleeding inside she decided
to always blossom in halves thence.
This may be a legend made up
to explain a natural wonder
of a flower blossoming in halves
but the world goes lachrymose;
humanity then sings in tears
for lovers torn asunder
on the globe everywhere.
And the winds of Hawaii
breathe this love story
day in and day out
in unceasing strains
and the stars sure do listen
as do the swaying palms.
Oh, visitor to the island, cry!
And say a prayer,
oponopono* for sure,
the Lord will listen
and lessen the pain
• “Forgive me please, I am sorry, I love you, Thank you” – that is the oponopono prayer of Hawaii to the Lord. It takes care wherever you are.
The professorial poser,
the expert,
the desperate clown,
the deeply selfish, the liar,
the healer, the destroyer,
the victim, the aggressor,
the maniac, the scoundrel,
the obnoxious fool, the smug jerk,
the obsessed, the paranoid,
the saint, the priest,
the scold, the judge, the jury,
the addict, the boss, the letch,
the teacher, the student,
or that celebrity character
labeled by you As You -
these all belong to crazy.
We can play all those parts in one day
and often do. Crazy.
Craziness is optional, a choice we make
with our thoughts
when we see those thoughts as our reality.
Consciousness is not a thinking process.
Whenever a churning craziness
demands that we be a character in a made-up story,
one we gave an identity to -
look the other way,
empty out.
Crazy cannot withstand the light of emptiness.
When consciousness is free of you,
you cease to be crazy.
We become that natural state of perfection
we already are.
A Sacred Trust
An old cleric sits in his rocking chair
He is on the porch of a lakeside cabin
He is remembering with tears in his eyes
A boy many years ago making his confession
*
After pushing the mauve curtain to the side
The boy enters closes the curtain behind him
Kneels on the step and faces the latticed opening
The boy will speak through the latticed opening
To a priest the boy can not see
The boy makes the Sign of the Cross
Listens to the Priest say
“May God who has enlightened every heart
help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy.”
*
The boy says
“Amen Bless me Father for I have sinned
It has been one week since my last confession.”
The boy pauses
“Go ahead Davy We are listening.”
“Yes Father
Father I disobeyed I am so sorry
I'm a good boy Father
You know I go to Mass every Sunday
I am one of your altar boys
You told me I'm a good altar boy
You told me my Mom and Dad are very proud
I told you my parents and siblings
Say the Rosary every night
I told you before I go to bed I look at Jesus on the Cross
I think about Jesus feeling hurt and sometimes I cry
In the morning I ask Jesus to forgive me
For being a crybaby
I go to Confession every Saturday
You hear my confession like you are today
Sometimes I'm not sure I committed a sin
I still go to Confession I like you I talk to you
Father I am sorry I ran out of your office
I got scared I heard you say come back
I couldn't come back I ask to be forgiven
Please ask Jesus to forgive me
I will say The Act Of Contrition
Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended you
And I detest all my sins
Because they offend You my God
Who are all Good and a Loving God
I firmly resolve with the help of Your Grace
To sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin
Amen
Father I am ready to hear my penance
Father? Father?”
*
August 30 Faith in God Bible Meditations Based on Ezekiel 1-4
Key Verse – Ezekiel 1:3 The word of the LORD came expressly unto Ezekiel the priest, the son of Buzi, in the land of the Chaldeans by the river Chebar; and the hand of the LORD was there upon him.
FAITH IN GOD WHOSE WORD COMES UNTO US
God with His Word comes unto us through His vision
That expresses His salvation’s provision
While securing us around His compassion
For our faith to be strengthened by His supervision.
God with His Word comes unto us through His Scriptures
That shows His redemption’s gestures
While ushering us toward His victory pastures
For our faith to be assured by His truth-features.
God with His Word comes unto us through His voice
That declares His majesty against worldly vain noise
While manifesting to us His ways wherein we rejoice
For our faith to be settled by His glory’s poise.
God with His Word comes unto us through His leadership
That displays His wisdom in our ministry-partnership
While cheering us inside His fellowship
For our faith to be dedicated toward fruitful stewardship.
God with His Word comes unto us through His light
That reveals His will, always perfectly right
While teaching us to trust Him along Biblical insight
For our faith to be determined for good fight of triumph’s height.
God with His Word comes unto us through His grace
That asserts His goodness all the days
While directing us in following servanthood-pace
For our faith to be blessed in running the Christian race.
God with His Word comes unto us through His divine zeal
That affirms His favour along His approval-deal
While enclosing us into His freedom, spiritually real
For our faith to be increased by His knowledge-seal.
August 30, 2025
The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his bit..
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his spade
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got pissed
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed.
Tell them christ is yet to come
The world is in shades
of Terrorism
As wars is always
An existing trend
Never to change
Tell them christ is yet to come
I wonder why
so i sick Gods Face as i pray
Tell them christ is yet to come
Hoping unto God
Hoping i can see him
Face to face
For in this cold world
Alot i need to say to him
In the zoo all is still same
From yesterday's brutality
Tell them christ is yet to come
Looking unto God
Wishing i could talk
To him face to face
For alot calamity need
Be stopped in the world
So always i wonder
If truly there is a God
In heaven
How much more
Will he allow the good
Die young
Yes how much more is left
for the innocent to live
Without a grife
Tell them christ is yet to come
I just wish i cant talk to him
For i dont understand
This world full of wickedness anymore
With an endless ignorance
Hatred is born everywhere
So If i have to pray
Then i have to swear
For humans to repent as the priest says
Tell them christ is yet to come
You’re the reason why I write poetry.
Seeing beauty and promise in the mundane.
You are the music – reverberating gong.
When you smile, I have won the lottery.
I walk around grinning like the insane,
‘cause you put in my heart a lilting song.
That you favoured me, how could it be?
While the music lasts, love should not wane.
Surely this feeling I have can’t be wrong.
I wish for meteor colours to see
night long!
Poet's note:
Depicted here are the different colours of comet tails as they enter the earth's atmosphere.
Science now asserts that colour does not exist anywhere in the universe. It is only how our brains interpret the various wavelengths of light. The colour blue could not be 'seen' by many ancient peoples and, therefore, many languages do not have a word for the colour blue. Also, according to science, time does not exist.
Poetic form: Curtal sonnet
The curtal sonnet (obsolete word meaning curtailed or contracted) is a form invented by the Jesuit priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889). He only wrote the three examples: ‘Pied Beauty’, ‘Peace’, and ‘Ash Boughs’. An eleven-line poem in two stanzas, in variable metre (he employed sprung rhyme to achieve desired effect of lesser syllables per line). Comprising of a sestet with a rhyme scheme of abcabc, and a quatrain rhyming dcbd or dbcd, that marks the pivotal point (a shifting or tilting of the main line of thought); with an additional 2 syllable verse, a spondee [//] rhyming ‘c’, which is presented indented.
References: Poetry Base/Poetry Gnosis; Poem Analysis; etc.
Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.