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.
"The Pavane"
Autumn leaves
whistle nonchalantly
along the left-behind
paths of serendipity
hesitantly touch fingers
lightly for a while, tipping
lost in the wastelands
winter beckons
love unconditionally
magic listens
and arrives
in the laps go-lightly
of racing hares
tossed salad years
and marshmallow dreams
of servile tortoise
pleasantville sown seams
stitching singers sewing
covers over pea-soup ethereal
conquered territory unseen
the unconquered all-knowing, unknowing
misty consommé seas
the spinning reals
seasoning dreams
like sails
stitching the wind
of evergreen the forests
tightly held in
the in-between
dells, we dwell subservient
free becomes the
shield held over
motto lux vitae
foot to pedal
watching you
reading me
dancing the slow Pavane
fingers lightly touching
faces veiled behind screens
elaborate
clothing
autumn leaves
winter arrives
peacock moves aside
it parts the sees, in parts
lost in the wastelands
winter beckons
love unconditionally
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
lux vitae
Autumn Forest Ambience
[Music by Adrian von Ziegler -
Autumn Forest, Relaxing Celtic Music]
https://youtu.be/Ha0i6RUu_Hg
Autumn.
"The leaves are all falling,
and they're falling
like they're falling
in love with the ground."
"The first breath of autumn
was in the air, a prodigal feeling,
a feeling of wanting, taking,
and keeping, before it is too late."
Winter.
"Nothing burns like the cold."
"Winter is coming."
The Pavane/ Pavan.
A stately court processional dance where Elizabethan couples paraded around the hall lightly touching fingers. Pavane means peacock and the name of the dance derives from the sight of the trains of the women's gowns trailing across the floor like a peacock's tail.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavane
A canticle I think I'll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish'd.
This is what I think I might be.
I'd as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we've all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth "A canticle I think I be"
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though 'twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All's well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
Form:
Each Catholic Church may be unique
But you will find familiar elements in any Catholic church
That you also find in our own parish home.
Baptismal font—a pool or large bowl of water usually stands
Near the doors of the church and reminds us
That baptism is our “door”
To the Catholic faith.
Nave—the large open room usually filed with pews or seats is
The main assembly area.
Sanctuary—the part of the church reserved for liturgical
Action that contains an altar where the priest celebrates the sacrifice of
The Mass
A chair for the priest
The lectern for reading Scripture
Tabernacle—usually located in a place of honor in the
Sanctuary, this receptacle holds consecrated hosts. A candle nearby
Signifies when it is full
In our Parish Church of St. Andrew
It was built after Vatican II
The option to put the tabernacle
In the chapel was done since the main church is ‘multi-purpose.’
Crucifix—a prominent cross with an image of Father Christ crucified
is usually located near the altar. Here in St. Andrew we don’t have this
Though we have the processional cross.
Statues—Statues and other forms of art of Father Christ Jesus, Mother Mary, or the Saints remind us of those who inspire us by their holy lives
Here in St. Andrew we have the movable statues located at the vestibule of
the Church and in the chapel that are placed in the altar on feasts
Solemnities
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
The Man from Darwen
Came there a man from Darwen,
In the heart of the Lancashire Hills,
A Town of industrial landscape,
Coal Mines and large Cotton Mills.
These times of hardship and struggle,
Left its scars upon the folk,
Working class agents of Victoria,
Amidst black chimney stack smoke.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Born and raised impoverished,
Education for you not required.
Straight down the Pit at fourteen,
There till your lungs expired.
If it wasn’t the work that got you,
Beware of Smallpox epidemic,
Thirty-two years was no life at all,
Short lives, Victorian age systemic.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Processional Cobbled Street terrace,
Mill Lords housing their forces.
Fourteen people in a two-bed house,
Sparse luxury, but Workhouse far worse.
Lancashire was built on Cotton
and its Heritage stands the test of time.
My ancestors were gritty and grafter,
Working through hardship and grime.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
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.
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.
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,
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.
Do, at night, flowers dream of their death?
The thought, admittedly is a poetic one,
but I find that absurdity,
is often a step ahead of knowledge.
I, being less self-absorbed than the frailest weed,
never dream of death, for death dreams of me,
it crawls into bed with me,
and enters my morning coffee
as a memory of what will come.
Every part of a flower is a construct
of one dream upon another,
it is a meditation by rote,
a chant on rails of light.
Only night can slow that processional unfoldment.
When the bloom wilts, look please with care.
See the beauty of dying flowers,
how they dream themselves out of this world
with their closeted death-songs
see how they impregnate water and soil.
with that last surrendering
of their looking-glass souls.