Long Rosaries Poems
Long Rosaries Poems. Below are the most popular long Rosaries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rosaries poems by poem length and keyword.
My Mothers' Hutch
Finely polished, of carved wood it still stands,
With a glass gleaming door and crossed, copper bands
Inside, items treasured and truly lovely.
The Dresden women, dressed in delicate finery.
Gold specked wine glasses, imported from Germany.
Demitasse cups, stunning, with gold etchings.
Marble music boxes play waltzes, so heavenly.
Ceramic angels with smiles, so demure and divine.
Colorful birds gaze from music boxes.
Family pictures in antiqued, cherished, frames.
The first soft shoes of her poetess daughter.
Prayer books and rosaries bearing her meme.
June 25, 2020
8pm PST
Edited
Poem # 1, 312
Honest as the night is long
eyes that have no holes and teeth that never show.
Sinews Strewn in Straw-like manner making Shadow Men
whose bellies all lie lit with ash of Golden Yearnings.
Crawling on this dangerous beach searching for strings
and springs of learning; bubbles and froth, to tend their unmet reach.
Distant distilled feelings gathering Storms of Skin,
erupt into lives’ another’s known. Passion woven
to the rug another trods; lives devoted to another’s Gods,
whose swiveled mind collects all tired worded insects.
Where the Middle of Divine leaves no footstep unworn
And we might well ask, “When is the middle of what we might have become”?
Did we alight, Create this Life, Whose Memory then, Our Living Proof.
Black Smile manufacturing unknown Holy Grief wearing shroud of Laughter to Ignite
following empty eyes that hunger deep within the Audience of All.
We Pride Ourselves to Give the Gift of Life
accept with indignation lingering; rosaries in prayer fingering
waiting for ourselves to slow awaken
No Thought at all to Gifts that lie Untaken.
Spacious, glistening as far as straining sight can wander,
Playful waves reflect the light in joyous, rippling prance,
Effervescing the myriad, resplendent sherbet-sky
Colors in flashing pirouettes, a ballerina dance.
Tides wash in and, weeping, withdraw from sentinel shores,
Aching, yearning for each returning, salt-cleansing spray,
Cresting upon warm sweeps of widely welcoming sand,
Undulating sound like the rosaries lonely nuns pray.
Layers of foaming laughter dissolve, then mount in raucous cries,
Arcing across the mighty oceans of this planet,
Rustling, swaying branches or mighty, charging samurais.
Copyright, January 13, 2016
Faye Lanham Gibson
Funeral in 1963
Beveled dusty cracked glass shielding Mother Mary enthroned,
Amidst flying angelic devotions atop whipped clouds of icy air,
Enslaved by an antique miracle made manifest in stained blood,
With silent invisible memorized prayers uttered in ancient Latin refrains,
Bowed before upright holy statues and a gold-encrusted grand altar,
He stood back-turned under a dead Jesus hiding his whispering sanctified face,
And the mysterious movements of his ten pious anointing fingers;
As with an airy fountain, he hosed Unction’s graces to the stone seekers,
Bestowing divine mercies by sealed envelope and a black vestment,
The lofty partial indulgences, the immaculate plenary indulgences,
Abundantly delivered and received using withy baskets and black beads.
Hollow dry penances offered up in a confessing private darkness of sorrow,
Within the squeezing superior stares of the priestly knot and the white Alb,
Altar boys on knees beckoning the impulsive turning of the holy human heart;
The struggled speaking of final toxic words on a red bleeding gurney;
Unsaid rosaries and scapular penances finding rusted, grinding precisions;
Broken trust and scarred faith wilting within clay idols and bloody crosses.
There is imminent death in the still waiting, there is red agony without the pain.
Black funeral wallowing within the hushed bereaved church at noon tide in 1963,
Sunken gray corpse of a woman serene, reposing waxlike in her beige groping coffin;
Grieving-suited witnesses and black-devouring shades standing wooden in dreadful silence,
Wondering when it will be their turn, their moment, to jump from this terrified earth,
These undead survivors, these breathing refugees of Unction’s graces,
Remembering now, their concealed matinee kissing games at the seedy Pillbox.
When Neptune's
nostalgic sighs,
weave ruffled rosaries
of brocade ink,
bleeding from
blackberry wrinkles
in torrential time,
I wonder if
herculean eyes
of my earthen heart,
are afraid of being
abandoned by the
electric rhapsody
of life's alienated
aroma.
Swinging on the
translucent
parabola of a
frozen rainbow,
my fate is
skewed as a
cantaloupe
silhouette, of
helix-shaped
maple pamphlets,
where, bluebirds
feast on decaying
seeds of love
and sing
hemlock-croons
in those magnolia
gardens.
But,
what if stars
were edible and
I devoured their
ivory scintilla,
submerging
cosmic potions
in my arteries,
iridescent with
clusters of
quasar's quivering
rays and pulsar's
pistachio glitter?
So now,
I collect
volcanic ash
from rust-orange
ruins of dahlia's
dreamscape
and embalm
them with
paradise-pink hues
of distilled empathy,
for my swan-white
halo of faithful
silence, is still
glowing with
sombre yet
glossy shine
of the linen sun
and I inhale
the fragrance of
my marshmallow moon.
Taking the Life of Innocents
A cold, Wisconsin dawn....
The children, burrowed under thick blankets and yawned.
Mother reminded them it was time for Sunday Mass!
“Bring your best rosaries, made of rainbowed, crystal glass!
Obedient children, they dressed with finesse and class.
“For after Mass this very noon,we are going to the Kenosha
Christmas parade, with festive balloons, very soon!”
Michelle, your friend, with her dance class will be in it.
Mom continued,” she has been baton twirling for many weeks,
getting out all the kinks.”
Later, we all piled into Mom’s wonderful van!
Off to-the Parade was our fun plan.
Jack, my brother and I, sat behind the barricades.
Our best front row seats, to see the hometown
Kenosha Christmas Parade.
I sat there dreaming, planning to be in it next year.
When suddenly bullets flew round about me, and so I
hunched my shoulders in fear.
Brother Jack on the sidewalk lay.
His face not pink, but the color of clay..
Bodies, children of God, run over
or struck, by an SUV?
Any age got to be injured, or were sent to
the Lord.
As other cried, screamed and prayed this
fateful day.
This horror ...when one man took many
lives.
This is neither humane,nor is it
the American way.
My parents were sobbing uncontrollably.
I asked Jesus, to not take Jack ....but me.
I knew the famous Green BayPacker, he one day
Had hoped to be.
************
A poem based on a real attack....
in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
Nov 21, 2021
www.newsone.com
www.Kenoshanews.com
Sister Mary Catholic never tells a lie
Trust her in her order to be pure
Every word spoken under the habit screams
Penance requires suffering
Nuns are likely to be abducted
Taken aboard an alien ship for treatment
Bug eyed tentacled creatures travel through space
Looking for old ladies in long black robes with rosaries
Who simply accommodate the flavor of the day in prayers
Probes that don't always offer pleasure come with a price
She returns from beyond the stars not quite the same
Some orifices are considered sacred
Sacrifices must be made for science
Some times she cracks a smile while being violated
These heathens will be converted by her touch
A bar of soap to cleanse their awful breath
Scalding hot water to purify dirty filthy minds from sin
Is what religion requires for non human beings
Sister Mary tells her story to the priest
Who vows to keep her secret safe from outer space
A brightly feathered crooner
daffodils along a hidden creek.
The bombs mimicking raindrops, cracking the halo of good dreams.
Assassins are ever commonplace.
The human race is in constant critical condition.
Following faint scents of rosaries misplaced.
God never seemed so far-far-far away.
The freshest plague is long since dead.
Something is still raging in their heads.
Funhouse faces of the modern man.
Stroking of the flesh-his only task.
The four horsemen are encroaching fast.
Upon the blistered sundials of wayward lambs.
Futile to hoard or take cover from the blast.
Our manna, God knows where our souls are at.
As melodious meadows breeding play and fun,
With music of laughter and vibrant cheer,
Woven in the rhythm of playful wins and losses,
In grounds where sorrows fear to peep in...
Don’t bring the fog-stitched pathways of
Thobes, cassocks, or robes.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As natterings and chatterings of tutees and tutors
Shatter the silky silence of budding nurseries,
Where friendship and hate are wedded couples,
Where undulating rituals fail to set their foot...
Don’t bring the evening spreads of
Chubas, albs, or kimonos.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As clamps and forceps clatter in sync
While nursing pain and tending wounds,
Where nurses know the names of germs
More than the carriers bearing them—
Don’t bring the dying embers of
Rosaries, rudrakshas, or karas.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As silent shuffling of paper dances
Spreading rays of words and newborn ideas,
Where yesterday’s crumbling glows are kept
In silver lines of ancient papyrus—
Don’t bring the rust-rimmed rattles of
Christians, Muslims, or Hindus.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
Then I’ll raise a golden palace
In the vacant land of my emptied heart;
I will bring the paradise within,
Where only truth and hope prevail.
Come with all your might and height,
And baptize me in your holy grail.
Oh, God—please come back, and stay within me.
I can almost hear the
haunting monastic chants
and solemn songs, lost
between the rippling currents
of the Hudson River.
The Cloisters stand, silent
upon a nearby hill
stone walls and ancient towers
are stoic and timeless
carrying secrets of the past
covering forgotten sins.
Echos of voices, Ave Maria and rosaries
the fervent signs of the cross
commune amongst sacred writings
silent prayers and penitent pleas.
The tower bells clang loudly
ringing in the hours
as time slips over the horizon
and well cared for gardens.
I linger within these hallowed halls
aching to listen to those voices
from long ago
disciplined, dedicated, devoted men
who knelt to worship
God Most High, Eternal.