Long Quarried Poems
Long Quarried Poems. Below are the most popular long Quarried by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quarried poems by poem length and keyword.
Hill And Mountain Talk
Copper flowers quarried in the lower tundra
In sculpted form beneath the pebbly footing
Two giant mountains there to quarrel with each other
Who will occupy the lion’s share of space
One mountain insults the other to its face
Calls it a hill and asks it to leave the place
They stay for centuries, carving out the sky and sun with their jagged shapes
Copper flowers do just fine with moisture from the fog
And survive quite well between the hill and mountain
Who shade them beneath their faces, but feel their weight disgraced
6/21/14 Hills are Alive With Poetry contest
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8
In the heavy silence
I grope around
In my treasure chest of words
Fumbling to find
The right one…
The word jewel…
Glowing with honesty
Radiating with passion
Emanating love
Displaying desire
Quarried from…
The rock of my heart.
Where is it?
Oh, where is it?
I look at your impassive face
Indifference in every line
Of all I consider fair
And idolatrous.
I continue to search
In the suffocating silence…
Finding a few choice words
I string them along in my mind
Not good enough!
Discarding them,
I search again.
Finally…
In hopeless desperation
I reach across the abyss and…
Caress your check
My fingers saying
What my lips cannot form
And glory of glories
Heaven on earth…
You smile
Leaning your face
Into my hand.
For Treasure Chest Contest
By Anthony Slausen
There is a body stronger than the flesh alone
it is the body of your love, that temple built of desire's stone
quarried from the chaos of your erotic emotions, shaped by destiny's moan,
where neurotic nerves, psychotic passions, fanatical faith and romantic rose chrome
are imported from the four corners of your heart, brought to the mount of your soul zone
upon here, obedience and freedom, submission and domination chalk and chisel to the bone,
the flame of Shekinah seduces spirit within and without your psychic cyclone
as age becomes an aggregate of obsession's ascensions and avalanches in cycles for you to atone,
Egyptian magicians and Phoenician mariners could only dream of your pulsing fortune,
what do magic rites and the mines of Ophir have to entice with compared to your throne
Hiram, the builder of holy royal bastions would seek the secrets of your star storm home -
J.A.B.
She built a sailing ship from quarried limestone.
Vacancy for about a thousand restless crows.
Year after year, "The Necessity" steadily progressed.
Twenty-four and SEVEN without yearning for prayer or rest.
She was elegant and beautiful like white virgin gold.
But years of pauper toil always demand a royal toll.
Thinning soul and hunched bones she hungrily attacked.
Through drought, whirlwinds and Devilish thunderclaps.
She placed half a carrot atop the limestone mast.
by far the brightest jewel of her black powder past.
Dragging the beating vessel 'neath seagull serenade.
A pinch of salted MEMORIES left melting in the rain.
She slowly crawled aboard... a parrot's diary in hand.
Waiting for black waters to swallow up the burning path.
"The Necessity" was launched with a bleeding of champagne.
A christening of a new constellation called the death of chronic pain.
I can’t play with words
I can’t make them dance
I can’t show the essence
Of a sweet romance
I can’t make them soar
I can’t make words fly
I can’t make them brave
So that they touch the sky
I can’t make them sparkle
No, I can’t make them shine
I can’t make them yearn
In a love song so fine
I can’t draw word sketches
That help the eyes to see
Hidden revelations
Of a great Deity
My words are quite simple
No, they are not profound
They’re quarried from my heart
My struggles they expound
No need for outside help
To search for what I mean
It is clear and simple
The message can be seen
I’m a humble writer
My words bleed from my soul
I write to find healing
I need to be made whole
Thank you all for reading
For posting comments here
For withholding judgment
That’s why I hold you dear
Jesus used simple words
To make them understand
Profound eternal truths
Birthed in His master plan
And so I’ll keep writing
My little poetry
And hope someone somewhere
Finds joy in reading me
Eileen Manassian Ghali
The old ruin sat near the brow of the hill
it had been there for centuries forgotten
none now knew for what purpose it had been used
not even the elders who had many suggestions
A not unattractive looking building of stone
and that in it's self only added to the mystery
for these stones were not locally quarried
the nearest place being over 170 miles away
Yet here they had been dragged, then hewed
wrestling them into place quite some task
an imposing building nestled in the hillside
and the views surrounding it post card perfect
Inside was airy and light with most of the roof gone
a strange hearth in the corner of the main hall
large enough for a man to walk into upright
Bread ovens built into the walls and a sitting niche
This was all that was left apart from one roofed room
in here it was dry and warm even a single trundle bed
admittedly very rockety but still it was usable
I decided to camp out the following night, it would be fun
The following evening I climbed the hill as the sun set
tonight it would be a full moon, already the air chilling
I settled in with my few belongings and lit the fire
soon it was roaring, with crackles, hissing and spitting
It was a fine clear night and the heat wonderful
so I made up a bracken bed in front of the fire
I laid back enjoying the stars and a comet shooting past
lazily I slipped not realising into a strange sleep
I found the building restored though it's use still not clear
only a long table and chairs in here, beds in the rooms leading off
then a man came into view, he did not seem to notice me as he passed
he stirred the pot cooking on the fire and set the table
Soon more men came in and sat down to enjoy a hearty meal
I realised from their armour that these were soldiers
so the ram-shackled ruin had once been a lookout post
I woke in the morning well rested remembering my dream
As I walked back down the hill I looked back at it
drenched in sunshine it seemed to gleam a wisp of smoke
curling up from the chimney it looked as if once more alive
not an old forgotten ruin moulding slowly into the landscape
I used the word ram-shackled recently and it struck me as a good theme
for a poem so I wrote this.
The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
From the Heart to the Cross
The burden to carry on a journey slated
Weighs heavily on an outcome known to be ill- fated,
When Faith is the belief in hope for deliverance
Where humanity’s destiny hangs in the balance.
In mirrors dwell prisoners’ angst and desperate rot,
To lay their heads in the bosom of Madonna.
One way leads to the Saviour, the other does not.
Be it by choice, from the heart to the cross.
Comfort and joy. God will provide sanctuary
The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
Though Mary mourns, her anguish is temporary.
Unbelievers throw stones, yet His Word lives on.
His last hour on Golgotha shook civilization.
Angels triumphantly trumpeted the Lord’s salvation.
A madman with a hammer thrashes the Pietà1
To eradicate the metamorphic rock sculpture from history
That Michelangelo chiseled out of Carrara marble2—
Who made the seated Madonna larger and profanely stronger,
While cradling Jesus (whose appearance projects frailty)
As if having been chastised for allowing crucifixion.
A mollification for theological credence,
Neither reinforced nor inspired by biblical writings.
By appeasement, the sculptor admits conspiracy
With dogma, misrepresenting Christ to the living.
Mary’s demureness as she looks upon the contorted figure
Supports the illusion of her lordly stature.
***
Notes:
1 Pietà: The “Pietà” is a sculpture by Michelangelo (1475–1564) depicting the Madonna cradling Jesus after His crucifixion. The sculpture was completed in 1500 and is housed in St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City, Italy.
On May 21, 1972, an Australian citizen vandalized the Pietà with a geologist’s hammer. The individual was not charged with any criminal offence but was hospitalized in Italy for two years and then released and deported back to Australia.
2 Carrara marble: Carrara marble is stone quarried in Carrara, Tuscany, Italy. The three most common types of Italian marble are Carrara, Calacatta, and Statuary (aka Statuario). Michelangelo is reported to have said that this was the most “perfect” block of stone he ever used.
Before the cedar learn'd the speech of steel,
Or heartwood yielded to the carpenter,
Its argent rings kept covenant with the weal
Of thawing springs and every pilgrim star.
No bough begrudged the tempest what it took;
Each wound became another living book.
Then came the hands that quarried trunk from loam.
One sought a boundary where lambs might rest;
One sought a crossing, calling strangers home
Across the torrent's vehement unrest.
The timber neither gloried nor complain'd:
It served the purpose into which 'twas grain'd.
Long years I honour'd bridges for their grace,
And deem'd all fences born of timid fear,
Till autumn, in a lichen-haunted place,
Unveil'd a quieter arithmetic there.
An ancient rail, half-vestured now in moss,
Kept not one flower, yet shelter'd all from loss.
Beyond the hill a broken arch was thrown,
Its patient span relinquish'd to the stream.
The river mourn'd no less, yet journey'd on;
It would not counterfeit a perish'd dream.
Some crossings, once unfaithful to their end,
Grow holier by refusing to pretend.
Then first I saw the oak had held no will
To part the meadow or unite the plain.
No fibre cherish'd malice, good, or ill;
No grain distinguish'd blessing, loss, or gain.
The tree gave only what its nature could;
The hand alone interpreted the wood.
I search'd my heart and found, with inward shame,
How many fences I had call'd a scar,
Though they preserv'd what tenderness became;
How many bridges bore me from my star.
For every road I should have left untrod
Had ask'd my feet to wander out of God.
There are estrangements mercy ought to heal—
Proud silences no sunrise should forgive.
There are departures only fire can seal,
Lest dying falsehood counterfeit the live.
Discernment is the rarer, sterner art:
To know which timber waits within the heart.
So now I bless neither the flame nor nail,
Nor praise the wall, nor crown the spanning frame;
I ask but this when love and judgement fail:
What keeps another soul more true to flame?
For wood remembers only how to give.
It is the hand that teaches it
whether to divide—
or let another live.