Long Resurrections Poems
Long Resurrections Poems. Below are the most popular long Resurrections by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Resurrections poems by poem length and keyword.
(A triple acrostic)
F - Faithfulness
F - Fervence (significant reverence)
F - Feeling good with neighbors
A - Ambitious and admirable you
A - Acknowledging animals endearingly
A - Apple to my eye… oh my…
I — I love You, Lord of Accord
I — Imagine illuminating illusions and allusions of appreciation
I — Ideas flood my brain of beautiful benevolence and brilliant blessings
Tension-whelmed and…yet…
Tormented by uncalm spirits in the realm of resurrections unknown to me…I’m of the Spirit, not man alone
Tranquility matters to me and I’m all on my own…humans are unreliable and always changing, yet God never changes…He’s incredible and dependent on our peace-making skills and talents of plenty
Hope I have faith too no doubt! Walk His narrow route…
How about a handshake of gentility? What about you free me from my captivity? Sin has enslaved me inwardly
Handsome hurts…
MORNING has broken
oh, pieces of light.
and clouds beyond night.
like the first burst
-- oh, see the seas of waters.
My love oh crashing upon rocks
like seventh waves bracing for
a warmth of hearts --
Sweet heart and new light of day
like i praise for mornings
without pain and screaming...
Oh, sweet love like a first dew
upon a petal of passion's flower
so morning's light too.
Mine is the sunlight
mine is the morning
born of the One night
we met in creation
of a New Day.
Sweet resurrections and like
the first slither of light
i was born to love you
---/\ Mine is a sunlight
and a sunlight born of night
and praising reward and mornings
like God's Creations.
:: 05.04.2021 ::
Time here is measured
by the lint-clogged resurrections
of air-conditioners.
All of us have had to learn
to shout past our souls.
Dulled minds are churned awake.
Fractured nights slumber on
beneath the rocky rumble
of nearby ice-machines.
The ‘Marigold’
is unmarried, divorced and abandoned,
but for those still not seeking lonely
there are midnight do-overs.
Behind the days horizon
a desert sky still thirsts
in the mouths of discarded shoes.
Firey sunsets melt
a stale residue of bedside booze.
The Marigold is mad, it was built that way,
its identical rows of doors
are designed to be portals
to yet more distant parking lots.
We internees prefer our rooms
to be dead to the daylight,
though every night
they will always revert
to storage units
for long imagined - much better times.
Blood used to make me queasy
Make me turn away, unable to bare
Now seeing blood is easy
After getting used to the cuts on my body
So when blood drains out of your heart
Staining the floor as your eyes roll back
With this life you'll finally part
As no one comes to save your soul
I won't look away, no, not at all
I will enjoy the sight of it
The way that you made me feel so small
Every feeling of pain you deserve
Your death will make me smile
Your torture will make me laugh
Your screams will be heard for miles
Your tears will satisfy my thirst for vengeance
Crimson the color staining clothes of white
The most beautiful artwork I will ever see
As I see your eyes fade of their light
I won't feel anything but relief and joy
Closure will only come to me
When you're six feet underground
I hope my blade will be the last thing you see
As I put your miserable existence to a close
But just knowing that you died for your sins
With no resurrections after three days
Never to be seen in this world again
Maybe then my nightmares would cease
Or if justice was true in this nation
Locked up behind jail cells to rot
To serve out your sentence of damnation
Never to plague others as you did me
To the ones who beat my body
To the ones who stole its privilege
To the ones who made me bloody
To the ones who left me scars
This poem is written here for you all to see
With every bit of "love" that you gave me
Resurrections .
During these past, fruitless, couple of years,
I have been revisiting my old thoughts, written in rhyme.
Much of it, I feel, would bring many to tears.
When I resurrected these experiences from a past time,
I began to wonder ?, what was I trying to accomplish
with all, that now seems to be nothing more than trash
laid out upon hand written pages, these feelings I did fish
from my subconscious, my memories hoard, memories I did stash
away, it seems, for a future day, now brought back into the light.
Some of it makes me wonder ?, if I ever did, truly, have insight ?,
or were my words, my phrases, not but, mere refractions
of this person, my words – upon pieces of paper - are not but reflections
of the person I was then, the person I now am ?,
who tried my best to live the best life I can.
B. J. “A” 2
June 1st 2014
They tried to deny
me and you…
who we are
and who I am…
as the beloved of
I am who is…
but you can’t deny
creation…
Out of the darkness
of creation I have come…
beautifully adorned:
I am a cloud of joy
and the burning bush
of flaming faith…
I am a river of Jordan…
and a lion tamer
in a David-like den…
I am a tri-cooling shield
in a blazing furnace
and the wind in the sail
of a Noah-like ark…
I am the force of the exodus
out of the valley
of the shadow of death—up
to Zion’s Mountain top…
I am the wheel in the middle
of a wheel and the fuel of a train
of an underground railroad…
I am the energy of marching
feet over trouble waters and
resuscitation of deferred
dreams still overcoming…
I am the strength of hued Simons
still aiding Calvary resurrections
of soaring peace and love…
I am indeed the child of the Alpha
and the Omega—the soul of the God
of the oppressed—the nourishing
blood baptizing their coming renewal…
I am—you see—the Trinity’s third:
the Holy Spirit riding the Holy Ghost
chariot and nothing can neither
stop nor turn me around…nothing…
I am the juice of the fruit
of the vine of your liberation—
the liberating juice of the God
of the oppressed…
I am the solidifying matter
in your hued lives—
enlightening the blind world…
I am the Holy Spirit
abiding in you and yours:
I Am That I Am…
Word
Without
End…
"Bring me all your broken pieces says the Lord,"
I think he knows, how much I'm trying to keep it
all together... "Air Thought, By Mystic"
Easter the big event is one week away
and I can't help but recall all past resurrections
and past invitations to His table;
I wasn't always prone to sentimental rituals,
too busy raising a family and paying bills;
But today being three quarters down the lane of life,
I feel the need to spend more time in Faithful rituals;
I am going to bake some Easter bread today
unmasked and being thankful for an anti-virus day;
I am going to wear my bright red hat in church
on Saturday evening, when I go for Easter vigil service
and I know Jesus will think, " there goes my girl"
which I will answer, " Happy Easter my Lord"
Then I'll smile, knowing he is the epoxy in my gaps
and the glue that holds me, together.
Everything will be alright if I just hang on tight,
to Him !
I consumed it once, to avoid my loneliness.
I felt—wow—euphoric! Was I walking on air?
Was it a celestially blessed coziness?
Wasn't it like being in nature's divine care?
I saw crores of rainbows surrounding my being;
I was sailing silently on a sea of peace.
On clouds of endless ages of time, I was skiing—
Gulfs between deaths and resurrections seemed to cease.
How long will all these last? I did not know. I slept.
What did I find except darkness when I woke up?
Like a child born only to die, I bleakly wept;
There were only slips of lips on my broken cup.
Why chase a ghost and mock your inner need?
Must not the soul break through its binding weed?
Some say
when one dies
there is nothing
no more seen and felt
nothing left behind
gone all the
memory
travel
fits of dreams
inspiring beams
one has chased
through imagined dimensions
if not to capture
at least, then, to experience
and chronicle
poems transcribe a soul’s
patterns of ascent and falls
as a crystal gazed to read
the electrics enclosed alive,
conduits of senses that
spark and fly seeming into
an alternate freedom beckoning --
Everywhere I look
I see no example of nothing --
to the contrary, see
the little becoming the large
the solid becoming the mist
yet breathable, so to speak
replenishing,
(transformed into)
(reformed of)
accountable deaths becoming new
resurrections – even space
and time with forward
and back markers, nothing
lost entirely just replaced --
juxtaposed….
If I will then be nothing
show me one example!
Perhaps I will believe….
Even the vacuum
speaks the substance
of emptiness....writes its hidden
language
upon our blank pages....
I live in a rose-tinted town
bowing mainly to White Western skies
bleached of blue blooded color
but also of dire Eastern dawns
with smoky red skies,
warning farmers and gardeners
taking and giving nutritional cover
under bad-blooded weather
on our way to further apart.
I live in a NorthEastern place
replete with geriatric grace
yet less mindful of holistic medicines
less conscious through holy meditations
less green ecoschool wholesome
with cooperative administrations
of home
and families
and neighborhoods
as wholesome 7-Generation multihoods.
I live in a public space
directed by private embrace
toward trusting love of all four dimensions
all eight lifetime resurrections
From infant to WinWin child,
child to WinLose pre-teen,
pubescent to late adolescent,
where U.S. culture seems LeftBrain stuck
between delayed adolescents and too young adults,
young adults toward mature WinWin multiculturists,
voters listening to WiseElder leaders,
WiseElder leaders
longing to conjoin CoMessiahs
and Bodhisattva PeaceWarriors
and PolyCulturing Yogis
and MultiCulturing EarthScientists
and PolyPhonically inclined EarthArtists
and PolyPathic EarthEducators
and EarthFirst Mentors.
Researchers and Designers
of full-octaved trust,
if for no positively healthy reason,
to avoid hatreds of anti-trust
and ambivalent angers
seeking secular mistrust
and equivalent fears
finding infinite misery
pathologies.
I live in a rose-scented town
where three polluted rivers conjoin
worshipped by LastNative gamblers
reweaving our vapid ritual bows
within all four fractal revolving directions.
I live in a rose-fading town
aging while watching southwestern drought,
at risk of growing Eastern coastal
as Northern blizzards of chaos
compete with Southern hurricanes and tornadoes
of flooding tsunamic competing complexity.
I live in a rose memory town
filled with ghosts of LeftBrain dominant climatic pathology
rising up to restore RightBrain with Left
peace from within,
settling down to withstand
capital punishments
ego-justified retributions
without rose-tinted restorative glasses.