Long Processional Poems
Long Processional Poems. Below are the most popular long Processional by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Processional poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a need for quietness today,
I listen to my neighbor's toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I hold seconds inside my mind
between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening,
the trash compactor chews on
when switched off.
I hear conversations
filtering through the air conditioner,
words both distinct and garbled.
Yesterdays hurried meal
speaks still, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
sound moves upon carpet slippers,
yet steps are heightened
by being audible
in a lower registry of depth.
It is I who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable moments,
a distance between
and marked by blank labels -
every note,
an eavesdropping deliverance.
It is a time for congenial chants,
for keeping a reverent pace
with the hymnal steps of the heart.
The year lags behind us
setting slowly now
laden with all its bygone woes.
The days are become processional,
a folding of sacramental raiment’s
strained with the fabric
of isolation, hardship, and loss.
Rituals are more important
as the year declines,
as nights lengthen and settle
into rumor and whispered lore.
It is a time to honor
the sanctuary of flesh and faith,
to lift cupped hands as chalice’s
to sooth anxious eyes.
Hold you now high the votive lights of hope
cherish our child-like winter flowerings
warmed in the sanctum
of each quiet breath.
Satin shoes, for years,
I wore upon my feet;
Bound around my
Ankles with
Expectations
I could never meet,
On bloodied toes
That languished
In a pirouette
Of self-defeat;
Wearing slippers
That tried in vain
To polonaise
Your dreams.
~~~~~~
Written: Jan 24, 2011
Author’s note: In the story of Swan Lake, it is told
that the lake was formed from tears.
Definition of ballet terms:
Pirouette: whirl or spin - a complete turn of the body on one foot,
on point or demy Pointe.
Polonaise: Processional dance in 3/4 time with which the court ballets
of the seventeenth century were opened and can be seen
today in Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty
Masthead Media Group
Chug Cramproll made his heelstand in Buffalou so the story goes.
He sprinkledd sand on a surface
and made percussion sounds to the amazment of an audeince.
The song "Mumbled" was used as his entrance theme.
It's beleived it was remixed to the standards
of Modern sounds to have
a edgey Urban feel. " Jive Talking" Cat Vamp was said to be his manager.
"Scatt " and Bebop accompanied them to the ring. Off the wire these sounds like
"oh-be Doo-Bee" with some "ahh-you ahh's"
the debutting sounds of reasons.
So Right" and Yubbia Yubbah"
modern talking swing grooves.
When asked about that debut he said
" I'm a fool to want you: you know
that's life: thats the way it's gotta be!"
Where's that Crooner man; WWhere's that Crooner?"
Zu Du-dum: ooh we!
ahh wee ah!
OOh-wee!
There is a need for quietness today,
time drapes itself in velvet curtains.
I must move aslant if anywhere needs
to be somewhere.
I listen to my neighbors toilet flush,
It takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill
and I dream between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening dreams,
the trash compactor chews on longer,
when I switch it off
bellows breathe in and out
yesterdays hurried meal
speaks on, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
yet sounds move upon carpet slippers,
not muffled
but heightened by being
more awake
to a lower registry of depth.
I guess it is I
who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable seconds,
yet the distance between them explodes
into acronyms,
labels
for each
eavesdropping deliverance.
They walk in single file beside the river.
Five young men heads newly shaved,
their saffron robes washed so frequently
that orange has turned a saffron yellow,
a yellow seen in temple lamps at dusk.
They gather under a broad Tamarind tree
for shade and rest.
There was a big match last night.
I overhear the names
of Thai football players lauded or lampooned.
The boys shuffle their feet,
dribbling imaginary soccer balls,
skillfully tackling less nimble opponents -
their excited talk
is birdsong beside the water.
Some playful rib digging --- then off they go
one behind the other along the Klong,
processional once more, reciting
a numinous Buddhist chant;
their beatific smiles
perhaps recalling a fumbled kick
or an easy goal.
And all the people were gathering;
With palms and olive branches in their hands..
There He is
Here He comes..
Riding on a donkey..He comes
He comes
He's here, here He comes
Jesus was in the center of the procession;
And all the people all around him were shouting'
Holy, Glory
Glory, Holy
Hallelujah “Praise God for the Son of David comes, comes;
Glory, Holy
Hallelujah “Praise God for the Son of David comes, comes;
Blessings to the ones who comes in the name of the Lord! Praise God in highest heaven!”
And all the people all around him were shouting'
Holy, Glory
Glory, Holy
Hallelujah “Praise God for the Son of David comes, comes;
Glory, Holy
Through the crowds comes the Lord our God ;
He comes alone for everyone;
Teaches righteousness;
Preaches righteousness;
Come unto Him and confess;
Allow yourself to be blessed;
Come confess;
He's coming, He's in the processional
And all the people all around him were shouting'
Holy, Glory
Glory, Holy
Hallelujah “Praise God for the Son of David comes, comes;
Glory, Holy
Hallelujah “Praise God for the Son of David comes, comes;
Blessings to the ones who comes in the name of the Lord! Praise God in highest heaven!”
Here He comes He comes...
4/14/19
Matthew 21:9
“I AM”
I am the leader of a one man processional
I am a consummate professional with no job and slim prospects
I am young at heart with an old soul
I am wrestling for control with me, myself, and I
I am a good guy, but not good enough
I am finding it tough to believe, believe me
I am 27, chow, yard
I am going to try, but I never said how hard.
I am a man of course, and a felon to boot
I am a mighty redwood without roots.
I am sitting alone in my cell with a pen
I am fitting to roam straight to Hell, say Amen.
I am anxious and restless and oh so much more
I am waiting to see what’s behind the next door.
I am an enigma, a something quite strange
I am what I am, but I’m willing to change.
Sunday afternoons,
or Saturday afternoons,
look and feel richer,
dense relational liturgy of mundane ritual,
often more sabbath quiet.
Quiet neighborhood school playground
celebrates more solitary visits
seeking silent sensory selftalk,
muse swings back and forth,
happy slides up elational,
processional,
then downright ecstatic.
Sunday's GratitudeGoRound
of a warm winter's sun
pretexting Spring's redemptive dance,
prancing across wet jungle gyms
of mythic pirate romance,
swinging Tarzans and Janes
flying rope to rope
bar to bar
beating outdoor kettle drums
of Sunday's sacred playground joy.
This light we bring to sabbath
Sunday's sun absorbs
full resolved through echoing play,
a child again
in love's sequestered Solar System womb
giving happy birth to weeks
becoming strong,
EarthBound PlayGround
ecstatically beloved
Queen Shabbat's weekly baptism
in love child's regenerativity.
The Turning Point
(A Quiet Arrival)
Enter ? only one way in, and no way out!
A ritualistic burial, trauma.
All these thoughts, inside this grave mind,
Processional realm without
Footsteps. Following your grave, interlude.
Haunting from beyond.
Are now being unleashed. Whispering,
Something never-ending.
This ceremony of the dead.
Skin of their crimes; it's here where there
Subconscious relieves.
One way in, no way out! Giving you a sign.
Here in this darkness is where
Memories are trapped. This is darkness.
Underworld.
As within, no way out! A judgment, from
The past: trying to find a way out!
Of the same dream, mean, schemes;
Those few that prevail,
Released tormented souls; eyes of terror,
finds their light within.
Leaves the tunnel:
Into a lucid, silent
Morning.