Long Rosary Poems
Long Rosary Poems. Below are the most popular long Rosary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rosary poems by poem length and keyword.
casting away all pieces and parts
of an existence full of casual talk
of board rooms full of rage
lost bodies in burning classrooms
full of philosophy and apathy
on foolish babble on time
lost and found morality
memories based on foundations
of aimless travels
looking skyward
casting thoughts incalculable
emotions of love
hate or disdain, unimaginable
full of the rage n pain
playing the blame game
who are we to say
rooms full of empty views
the apathetic feuds
glass shards, crack
crazy crystalline harts
like falling cards or raining stars
as bodies burn in lethargy
casting stones into the ocean of tranquility
small are the thoughts that ripple large
reflections hard as yesterday’s tomorrow insane
cast away photos in a scrapbook of memories
pieces n parts of arcane life, disregard
full of white rooms and silent storms
staring into the mouth of madness
casting all way the pieces
parts of an existence full of casual talk
in classrooms of apathy n despair
watching burning bodies sitting
in boardrooms full of misery
looking into a city, feeling its toxicity
counting the bloody beads of a rosary
Preserved from original sin by grace given by God,
In preparation for what she would do.
She lived to give the Father all glory praise and laud,
And in her loving care the Christ Child lived and grew.
She maintained her faith in Him even to the cross,
Always pointing out to us the Way.
Through her joys and sorrows, her glories and her loss,
We see an example of how to live each day.
The little handmaid of the Lord, great things are done for her,
So, we lay our worries by her side.
In her intercession, our confidence is sure.
For she points us to God, she is our certain guide.
Finally, the Virgin, preserved from every sin,
When the course of her earthly life was done,
Was taken into heaven, assumed body and soul,
That she might be conformed even closer to her Son.
We sat in the fallout
of last year’s gift exchange—
smashed angel centerpiece
taped back together
as good as a rogue bomb
if someone mentioned it.
Our voices dragged
like anchors through an ocean—
low, cold, summoning something
older than Kris Kringle.
I strained to recall
a time when it wasn’t like this.
The kitchen table—
a battleship, whipped tension
and potatoes. Dad’s knife slipped
once, then twice. Mammaw clutched
her rosary, counting sins like beads
of gravy on the drop-cloth. The whiskey
isn’t worth your soul, she whispered.
Our air was burned sugar—
a water pie, depression-era relic
left too long in the oven.
As they say, it’s the ingredients you have
that bake the cake.
Mom whispered, Let’s just get through it.
The corners of her mouth disappeared—
I knew better.
When my sister reached for a biscuit,
I grabbed her wrist—too hard.
Mine, I hissed. The room turned
quiet, the kind of silence snow wears
before an avalanche.
By sunset,
half of us were crying—
over the ruined pie,
or the family tree
we couldn’t stop cutting down.
When I reimagine it—
and I always do—
I don’t erase or the snowfall
or the tension.
Instead, I break the bread
without a flinch,
leave my sister’s wrist unmarked.
Dad’s carving hand steadies,
and in my version,
we get grandma drunk—
the old broad needed to lighten up.
The angel still shatters—
but this time we laugh,
our elbows knocking it over
reaching for seconds.
In the end, we huddle closer,
ash still falling, we celebrate
cold on the other side of the door.
Our hands stay sticky, glue healing
the angel’s cracked wings,
sugar crystallizing our fingerprints—
we press lightly, only to test for doneness,
we are patient,
we watch as snow smothers our wreckage—
call it DNA, an elegy.
Curbside are snapshots of revelation
they invoice the passing
as stations upon a cross, or rosary beads
from the corners of hard driven eyes.
We count the faces of onlookers like cars
for they count us not,
or may enter our speeding vehicles
as flashes of sunlight upon glass.
Roadside, is a rotting log
sporting small dainty flowers
amid exhaust fumes.
Roadside, both the living and killed
turn in a part glimpsed mobile
reflecting our own brief leaving.
We move too fast to see it all,
layers return as later onlookers
when the car ticks warm and parked.
There is a strange abashment in speed,
a tomorrow-ness in the momentary watch
of those we pass.
The world becomes a known stranger
met on the tip of hastily thrown spear.
We distracted tourists
drive into the heart of questions.
Mind intones our place in time,
a fresh moment we have yet to arrive at,
one in which
we did not crash and burn in - just yet,
and tomorrow waits
to begin another new odyssey.
Under the endless sky, where the wind whispers ancestral secrets,
Engines spin, iron butterflies in their primal dance,
The muted thunder of wheels, an echo of the earth's hearts beating in unison,
And the rain, a master sculptor, shapes stone and brick walls into dreamlike bas-reliefs.
Deserted roads, bordered by ancient oaks, guardians of secrets,
Their branches, tense bows in invisible duels,
Resounding like the crackle of bamboo in the wind, in a dance with fear,
Dryads, mistresses of the sky, weave from azure and amethyst a tapestry of mystery.
Streams of light, strands of wisteria glowing in the nocturne,
Sway in the silver breeze, caressing the leaves in a lullaby,
Their song, a poetry of iridescent shades,
Tales of fire and opal, calling souls back to the sanctuary of ancestral warmth.
From the heights, angelic trills pour forth, silfic light undulates,
Rosary corals, incense in golden verses, vibrate in hymns reverberating at dusk,
Hallelujah in whisper, doves with crystalline gazes,
Rise on wings of dreams, penetrating the silence with their ethereal song.
The ocean cries from the unseen abyss, a voice carrying the essence of hidden worlds,
The earth and wind, in solemn accord, narrate their cosmic story,
In strong cries and sighs, the dialogue of the sea with its eternal admirers,
Nature displays its splendor in a language of its infinite majesty.
The breath of dawn becomes fog, the snow transforms into tears of spring,
The rain, like a cloak of purity, dresses the earth in white porcelain,
Before the thaw, at the dawn of a new era, the cold skin of nature lies in wait,
A sacred distance, where my hand meets the purity of the storm, in a mystical embrace.
In the moonlight she stood beside his tiny bed,
looking down in tenderness on ringleted head--
Her little boy softly cradled in dream filled sleep.
What dreams were these? Into that land she wished to creep
and join the playtime he enjoyed with skipping sheep.
Around his form she drew the sheet and kissed his face
then tiptoed out and down the hall to her own place
where in her own mother dreams she would sweetly trace
her darling child who filled her loving heart with joy.
She did not stir; one tiny sigh was all her boy
released as guarding wings swept by the little toys;
an angel leaning softly down lifted her heart
her pride, her joy and those white wings did upward start,
wide spread, cleaving the air for heaven's rampart,
leaving only the imprint of his childish form.
Baptized with grief the sheets that bear his baby form;
her empty hands trace the outline of a cruciform,
a rosary of tears she wears till heaven calls.
Copyright, July 4, 2016
A Sacred Trust
An old cleric sits in his rocking chair
He is on the porch of a lakeside cabin
He is remembering with tears in his eyes
A boy many years ago making his confession
*
After pushing the mauve curtain to the side
The boy enters closes the curtain behind him
Kneels on the step and faces the latticed opening
The boy will speak through the latticed opening
To a priest the boy can not see
The boy makes the Sign of the Cross
Listens to the Priest say
“May God who has enlightened every heart
help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy.”
*
The boy says
“Amen Bless me Father for I have sinned
It has been one week since my last confession.”
The boy pauses
“Go ahead Davy We are listening.”
“Yes Father
Father I disobeyed I am so sorry
I'm a good boy Father
You know I go to Mass every Sunday
I am one of your altar boys
You told me I'm a good altar boy
You told me my Mom and Dad are very proud
I told you my parents and siblings
Say the Rosary every night
I told you before I go to bed I look at Jesus on the Cross
I think about Jesus feeling hurt and sometimes I cry
In the morning I ask Jesus to forgive me
For being a crybaby
I go to Confession every Saturday
You hear my confession like you are today
Sometimes I'm not sure I committed a sin
I still go to Confession I like you I talk to you
Father I am sorry I ran out of your office
I got scared I heard you say come back
I couldn't come back I ask to be forgiven
Please ask Jesus to forgive me
I will say The Act Of Contrition
Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended you
And I detest all my sins
Because they offend You my God
Who are all Good and a Loving God
I firmly resolve with the help of Your Grace
To sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin
Amen
Father I am ready to hear my penance
Father? Father?”
*
She made the sign of the cross as she passed the park by the cathedral,
His Baptist legs stopped dead on its tracks killing his amorous rush,
His ‘whatever voice’ said, “choose your churchified kind”
The Presbyterian friend raised an eyebrow like his grandma does,
And reclined into congregational mode humming “Amazing Grace”
Then she looked up and saw the third pal muttering unknown tongues,
Clutching her rosary, wide eyed she rushed her ‘the more the better ‘Hail Marys’ ’
Last night she recalled Mr. Miracle on TV, arms reaching, asking, to dig deep –
Eyes, eye to eye with the camera: ‘give, give and you’ll get returns, big time!’
And then her walls came down, her catholic spirit cold as a smokeless altar –
Then she saw walls come up, like sacrosanct divisions, typifying God.
What about love? Humph! What’s love got to do with it? Jeez!
50 cartridges of Nitrous oxide
the old drunk called it hippie crack
One spun case after another
dozing in the bed
His brain pulsing, blood starting to boil
Menudo from the spiritual Mexicans cured his hangover
smoked some weed
covered the stillborn kitten with a laundry basket
Sipping bottom shelf gin
Eyes half open
slurring words through crooked grins
cracked teeth exposed..
He kisses the sacred heart of Jesus
And chugs the backwash
From the empty cans
Lining his bedside
Lola comes home from saturday mass
He can smell the familiar smell
Of pork adobo creeping through the vents
Half asleep
He joins her at the table
“BLESS US O LORD, AND THESE THY GIFTS, WHICH WE ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE, FROM THY BOUNTY, THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD…”
And before he could say amen
the feeling of vomit coating his mouth
Stops him in an instant
She makes his plate
And stares at him in silence
As if knowing
But never says a word
When he wakes up
He can smell the lit candle that sits
In the corner of the wall
Where she prays
Next to his bedroom door
Ave maria, Ave maria!
She looks to the holy mother
talks to the statue
about the sins of her sons
And goes to bed with a tired heart
Whiskey bleeding through his pores
He feels a pull
toward the tiny baptist church
Near the center of town
on the corner of Pecan St
He throws his shoes on
slurs the act of contrition
and goes to sit amongst
the honkie kin of Luther
The thought of communion crosses his mind
still unsure whether its withdrawals or the spirit
pulling him to partake in the sacred blood
He invokes St Joseph
reaches for the rosary in his pocket
fumbling its beads
as they collide with beer caps
from the night before
After the service
he walks along the hwy
committed to the act of penance
each step a pilgrimage
going nowhere in particular
faithful to the spirit
regardless..
A threadbare sigh relentlessly lisps
while he begs with twilight
for inner calm;
Dear life...he is just a young man,
wobbly feet wanting to run away
from unknown ground which reeks of
territorial conquest, of violence inhumane
as spitting bang of bullets explodes:
Just like one nameless label
of life's bloody route ,
he turns into a fetal shape on the road
leading to nowhere; not even hell--
till grunts of combat lamentations
echo upon the breeze;
crushed grains hurling a lone figure
half alive, half lifeless
with rosary beads on his neck...
amidst purgatory of eve.