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.


The Fragile Voice

Were we created for the Shopping Malls
Or to ponder over weight and belly bold?
If  God approached would humans hear his call
As prophets did  in mystic days of old?

Seeing visions,hearing  that small voice
May be possible no longer while we spend.
 We look for  good advice on  what is choice
Not rosaries but money  fills the hand?

Instead of tenderness, below, above
We hope to find love handcuffed on the rug.
And  promises are lost as well as vows.
Vibrating dildos  surround us  like black  bugs.

The sacred has been hidden, we are  half disgraced.
We ignore our lowness and ignore the holy face
Form: Sonnet


Water Rations In a Prison Cell

after Ho Chi Minh

I
The stone basin holds
still water. The still water

drinks the arid sponge
as rays of pure energy

slake their thirst on
the ebon wings of crows

II
Yangtze flows from widows peak
pooling briefly in the lock

of a tired eye. Dirt
and salt cry brackish tears

before leaping from sallow chin,
like rain from languid boughs

III
Frogs turn dirges beyond
translucent glass, their croaks

fold and crease the air
putting dusk on the shelf.

Aphids eat the pithy stalks
and drown in sudden morning dew.

IV
No callused hand washes
in the same basin twice

V
The kettle boils, pallid
phantoms push through iron

walls. Prescient tea leaves show
time’s current—fish swim 

upstream. Two worlds away,
a young girl draws a bath.

VI
Forehead donning liquid rosaries, 
each dawn anoints a king anew

Each afternoon, grains of rice
cling to one another, fulfilled.

Ink spills quickly each evening,
the white page laps at pitch waters.

VII
Eleemosynary sunlight burns
through the keyhole, tumblers

click in the lock. The stone basin
is once again filled with still water.
© C.W. Bryan  Create an image from this poem.

Holy Orders From Far Above

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

Premium Member Silversmith of Dream

Dreams frolic
  in the basket of the mind.
    Like Easter eggs on Sunday grass
       pastel hands for slowing time.
             A misty- trusting face
               just beyond the frosted glass.
                 A spirit mare with fiery mane
                  that licked the heart with lips aflame... 
                     then backhanded 
                      your naive face into the fangs
                   of loneliness, refrain.
               In place of friendly smiles 
            were sirens with hollowed hearts, void of any grace.
               The leather-souled elders taught you the art of
              kneading hope then weaving scars.
                  Turning a room of bitter spirits into angels
                       taming the bucking flanks of moody stars.
                               The golden-mouthed flutist 
                            whispers of a long- forgotten dream,
                          when ice cream trucks and noon church bells
                         flowed into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
                          When streams of angels waltzed with innocents....
                           upon a stage of gilded rosaries.
                          Now, everything is forever lost.
                          The flesh-the bone- the burlap- the silky sweet.
                        The heavy metal of our youth 
                       minced into the thinning cloth of age.
                      Most every soul is gifted to the silversmith,
                    who forges halos and shimmering wings...
                  while a few are hung upon the tusk of
                  the icy, gray slag heap.
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Dahlia's Dreamscape


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.


Premium Member Beat The Abyss

Jaded.
Cascaded.
Faded.
I retaliated.
Alienated.
Isolated.
I changed it.
Reframed it.
Battered it into submission.
The abyss that ignored my name—
That stagnant stage that stayed the same—
I busted it up.
Tore it apart.
With teeth, with nails, with rage.
My bitterness, boxed in a cage.
I am a woman scorned.
Properly, pointedly warned
About playing nice with unkind boys—
I did it anyway.
I’ll do it again.
Unless stopped by a trainwreck
In a leather coat, pockets packed
With heavy flicker hymns and haunted facts.
Healing stab wounds with bare hands,
Pressed to my bruised and cracked chest,
Leaking regret.
A man by any other name
Still reeks of old spice and shame.
I only need a joy ride
Into the dreamscape’s drifting tide,
Where trees bend low to bow and breathe,
Their musk and pine a whispered wreath
Inviting me into the realm
Of lust, desire, and fire-fed calm.
Branches brush my aching skin—
A welcome wrapped in woodland hymn.
I am not that complicated.
Though my pain, layered and laminated
Like geological canyons carved in stone,
Matches my internal rue—
A structure built to stand alone.
I can grow a man roses from rubble.
Just give me rosaries, rubies, and rubels.
I admit my earthly needs.
I am an investment, not a scheme.
I saw a world I hated.
I sublimated.
Evaporated.
Changed my state of being—
From rigid to roaming, mist into meaning.
Cold datapoints and sterile streams
Reformed into wisdom, stitched into dreams.
He tried to hold me subdued.
Silenced my dreams with histrionic moods.
Overwhelmed my senses,
With intentions sharp and sentences crude.
I was a prisoner of shame.
And there I remained
For a near decade.
I broke the chains.
Escaped the plush, performative pain
Of pseudo-companionship’s velvet cage.
Now I’m agitated and raw—
Midway through my emotional overhaul
As I transform from meek to sleek,
From silence to sovereign speech.
I will not take silence as an answer.
I will shake loose your response.
You cannot ignore me in oblivion.
I am here to stay.
You have the option:
To be a benefactor
Or de facto arch enemy—I know.
I am aware of where I stand,
And what I wield in my streamlined hands.
I am not simply a pretty creature.
I am not solely for looking.
I want touch—not merely tender,
But true.
Is that you?

Premium Member Quaint Elegy

The cauldron sizzled when she added stink wood twiglets

threw in an old sandal and stirred the pot in elegant poise

When she stoked the fire by the quay of mixed pleasure

the platinum boiler outshone the lighthouse and gave hope

to pirates who filibustered merchants high on foul trade


With a shuddering quiver the harridan inhaled the scent

of frog legs and molluscs stir fried in sea weed and fear

which filled the air with the quaint fragrance of revenge


‘I am a seductress with my sweet perfume second to none

need no cabal or macho clique to induce justice and peace

Mercantile vessels sink to rock bottom where they belong’

The ocean master’s quandary blasted a troubling dilemma

for she was fair and offered one last chance to jump ship


‘Abandon abomination and slavery and join me at the stake’

Penance could be bought with gold coins and honest rosaries

for in this instance the good lady followed hallowed tradition

Once in hell’s heat Satan would absolve evil and godly delusion

roast the perpetrators like marshmallows draped in snake skin


An aroma of violation trespassed between bargains and pleas

and kindly the intoxicating fumes softened agony and betrayal

‘I shall reckon ashes and pulverized bones to the next menu in kind’


08th February 2021
Form: Elegy

Premium Member The Translucent Loft

The Translucent Loft

The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step inside
through these green rectangular doors,
Shh! Listen... 
We can hear them up there, 
in the translucent loft.

They are still cloistered upstairs in the saintly glow, 
of stained glass fortissimos, and bare knees,
dressed in blue sweaters with plaid beanies doffed
upon the three dozen crowns of the virgin sainted;
And now before us, the majesty of the holy sanctuary,
the deep eternity of ever-swallowing horizontal constictions, 
upon which the devout might meditate the spirit mysteries,
with blessed rosaries, scapulars, and communion wafers,
bristling miraculously upon flaming tongues of fire.
“Shh! Be quiet here in the church, it is a sin to talk!”
We must fold our hands in silent contrition to an invisible God.
We must say our prayers, memorized from old missals.
We must genuflect on bended leg, making the sign of the cross.
But still, a likeness of our creator, dead and naked,
Nailed and bloody, with sickening thorns and gushing crimson,
hangs before us most ignominiously, a dead creator.
How can this be, Father Flanagan?
Why are we being reminded of this, Monsignor Molthen?
Why dear saints?, all ye there, encrusted immaculately,
in stone cold tableaux, absorbed forever and today,
in emerald stained glass transfigurations, way up there, 
high on the upper reaches of this long heavenly nave,
that stretches out like long arms wearing bracelets of infinity.
Why are we to be reminded of this?

The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step outside 
through these green rectangular doors.
Shh! Listen...
We can still hear them up there, 
in the translucent loft.

Catholic Paradox

A man of faith waits his turn 
to propel to the luxuries of heaven.
Last night he slept alone 
with rosaries hung upon his headboard.
A recent convert to the Catholic faith.
Exposed to God through steel bars.
He sleeps in peace, repentant and calm.

A family restless blasts the heavens
awaiting retribution for a brutal sin.
A family sleeps in a home
with an empty bed, in an empty room.
A daughter, a sister waits in heaven.

I repent, therefore, I am free
To live forever in luxury
Heaven awaits for me to come
God is thy Father, and I his Son

He took my child forever away
And here on earth, tormented I stay
I pray for her, and I pray to cope.
Faith in God, I remain to hope

Premium Member With Each Morning

"I beg You, show me Your glory," Moses said
but God snuck past, back-turned, revealing not His glorious head
Moses didn't know they had to wait for God Incarnate, instead
for God's glory -- no mistaking!

“Glory to God...on earth peace, goodwill to men”
seeking the True Light, God will not refuse to enlighten
believing in His Name --Jesus-- Messiah! makes us God's children
His historic birth -- world-shaking!

Government rests on His shoulders -- electing
most thought, this is not the Messiah we are expecting
Theotokos, handmaiden of the Lord, accepted -- reflecting
Rejoice! God's angels -- partaking!

Each morning, let Christmas Joy bloom in your heart
He's the Reason for the Season on His Birthday, as a start
His humility overcame the world; Mary's Heart-- our rampart
her motherly prayers -- painstaking!

A shower of roses from Heaven -- promised
St. Therese wrote of Jesus asleep in her boat -- calmest
glorify the Lord's Name, sunrise to sunset, pronounced the psalmist
celebrate the Christ Child waking!

Offer roses to her, in all the bustle
do little things with love, to slow down the Christmas hustle
the Prince of Peace shows Mercy-- new each morning-- so stop the tussle
pray to avoid wars -- peacemaking!

Our rosaries offer heavenly roses
don't you want to please Jesus, Mary, and Joseph's noses?
Christ's meditation is even more face-to-Face than with Moses
to see His Face... the world's aching!

Reflections of pink, and gold on heaven’s floor,
a hint of memories that came millenniums before,
and the radiance of God’s glory, eying from behind the shore,
is a new dawn, for our taking!






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspirations for references:

~Christmas
~Psalm 113:3
~Isaiah 9:6
~Matthew 5:9
~Luke 1:38
~Luke 2:14
~John 1:9, 12
~John 16:33
~CCC 2308
~St. Therese writings
~Lamentations 3:11, 18, 22-23
~Divine Mercy Novena Day 5
~"33 Days to Greater Glory: A Total Consecration to the Father through Jesus Based on the Gospel of John" by Fr. Michael Gaitley, MIC (Day 1: A Prophet like Moses)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With Each Morning Poetry Contest
Submitted Friday, August 11, 2023
Deadline: Monday, September 11, 2023
Sponsored by: Martin Braun
Form: Rhyme

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