Long Sepulchers Poems
Long Sepulchers Poems. Below are the most popular long Sepulchers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sepulchers poems by poem length and keyword.
F-orget not those who sacrificed that we might enjoy this special day.
O-ur cherished freedoms we owe to them who in hallowed sepulchers lay.
U-ndulating o'er this blessed nation the Grand Old Flag does yet wave.
R-esolute Founding Fathers and ordinary men so very true and brave,
T-ook extraordinary actions to liberate us from tyranny and oppression.
H-ereafter, may each generation be free to celebrate without suppression.
O-ver all the nation this day folks will celebrate with picnic and parade;
F-ireworks will thrill and boring speeches by politicians will be made.
J-ubilation should ring from towns large and small from shore to shore,
U-ntil the sound of liberty resonates about the globe with a resounding roar!
L-et true patriotism reign not only on this day but all others that ensue!
Y-eehaa! Yippee! Yahoo! Yea! Happy Fourth of July to every one of you!
An alluring art of vivacious symbols and meanings,
Fig leaf has many religious political leanings;
Though apple was the fruit Adam and Eve had once eaten,
It's fig leaf that had hidden them when they felt browbeaten...!
Wrapping our physic we do; though not in pageant parades,
Psychic volcanoes we cover up with gold-gleaming shades;
Odors of festering wounds are hidden by fragrant scent,
Do all these, yet, grand to our hearts, aptly needed vent...?
Do all polished stones turn precious diamond or sapphire?
Do toy-guns in battles, like cannons and tanks blow fire?
When make-up peels off, physic would its true complexion show,
Though buried within darkest shadows, sun will, surely, glow...!
Hypocrisy was what Jesus hated most in humans,
In light of truth, he said, darkness of hearts should illumine;
Washing should be both within and without of the vessels,
Whitewashing the sepulchers? Values need true retrievals!
Shielding sins have been constituent of human nature,
In doing so, we turn hilarious caricature;
Growing out of inner deficiencies, is a must,
Fig leaves might fade off; Fig trees must grow, in strength so robust...!
29 March 2022
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes—
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; though they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
Until we become them, O, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must.
I hear the echoes of yesterday's callings
like a soft longing from a long ago ghost
The emerald forest of my youth re-appears
at the sight of a midnight cadence;
Mystical night dreams reiterate
like an incantation from long ago,
Forgotten Sepulchers...
Tunnels of earth wind and fire burn my desire
once again, as I perch onto the matrix of solid bark
the silence is almost deafening'
I hear the fairies call with their gentry of good will,
"we guiders of soul have come to take you home"
and as I walk through their fragrant gate,
I know from my heart of hearts, that I belong here
In their forest of dreams .
It is the only time we get to laugh at black
So de rigeur at funerals and stogy old photography.
Take Dixie Land at home in New Orleans
Parading back of happy brass from marble sculpted sepulchers.
A mansion in mirage, a wavy misty rambling of rooms.
Their mirrors: windows to another, conjured world.
An agitated specter's greasy lipstick pleads.
How silly in its backward gibberish.
Flies frozen in some floes of ice cube trays
Or eyeballs docked adrift along a punch bowl rim.
In morgues, contracting muscles practice sitting up.
Fingers twitch impatient to be dressed in Sunday's best.
Around grave yards are cemetery stones
Jauntily askew, a sporty take on plumb
Due to a lack of rebar steel or poured cement.
More foundational than wood and bone alone.
Masks flash from unknown alley ways.
Our innards struggle up inside our throats
Suffocated quiet, still, we ache to catch so thin
A claustrophobic breath to be made so easily afraid.
No romance today.
The cemetery was deserted,
at the far edge of the tiny village,
shrouded in a fine sultry fog.
Large black trees threw darkened shadows
over the deserted gruesome sepulchers.
Few cared to visit, few cared to tend the tombs.
A large hawthorn hedge, irregularly grown,
surrounded its oblique perimeters.
Cursed, the villagers said
for it never flowered red blooms
during any time of the year.
An old hunchback lived there,
he lived all alone, with no one to care
No one fed him, no one was his friend.
No one knew where he came from,
no one knew his name,
but he loved the lonely forsaken place:
he weeded out the desultory paths,
and cleaned the old dreary tombs,
he planted evergreens and white flowers,
to welcome the damned and the doomed.
Only one woman came to visit,
constantly, rain or shine, every blessed day.
The hunchback would give her a white flower.
And she returned the gesture with a dime.
No word was spoken, nor looks exchanged.
She’d go to a small tomb, presided by a tearful angel.
The grave was covered with a cold white marble slab.
There she’d leave the white flower,
stand for a while in silence till she left,
No tears fell down her wrinkled old face.
The cemetery prevailed in gloom.
Consequence
by Michael R. Burch
They are fresh-faced,
not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded,
oblivious to time and death,
of each counted breath
in the pendulum’s sway
falling unheeded.
They are bright, undissuaded
by foreign tongues,
by sepulchers empty and waiting,
by sarcophagi of ancient kings,
by proclamations,
by rituals of scalpels and rings.
They are sworn, they are fated
to misadventure and grief;
but they revel in life
till the sun falls, receding
into silent halls
to torrents of inconsequential tears . . .
. . . to brief tragedies of tears
when they consider this: No one else sees.
But I know.
We all know.
We all know the consequence
of being so young.
Keywords/Tags: youth, youths, youth day, innocence, innocent, time, life and death, young, childhood, child, children
When night descends,
The heavens celebrate,
The birth of stars
Through the tossing trees,
They send down their toothless smiles
The Moon too smiles with glee,
Like a pleased mother.
The Earth in darkness,
Looking at the illumined sky,
Follows suit and lights up
Street lamps open their eyes,
Flooding the cobalt streets.
Neon bulbs blink,
From hidden homes
Car lights dazzle,
Like lightning
Glow worms, like night sentries,
Parade round with mini torches
The roads ring with the sound
Of returning feet
Night prowlers come out
To prey upon innocents
Fairies roam round
For their nightly gambols
Day laborers
Coil lazily to rest
Letting their barbed distractions
Melt slowly away
The dead in their sepulchers
Sleep dreamless!
Among the muted murmurs,
The cicadas’ sounds alone swell.
This is the time for
Life and strife
To lay their heads pillowed
For restful silence
And serene sleep
Under the blanket
Of a dim lit night!
Placed First
A Brian Strand Libre Verse Poetry Contest
As night descends, the heavens celebrate,
The birth of stars
Through the tossing trees,
They send down their toothless smiles
The Moon too smiles with glee,
Like a pleased mother.
The Earth in darkness,
Looking at the illumined sky,
Follows suit and lights up
Street lamps open their eyes,
Flooding the cobalt streets.
Neon bulbs blink from hidden homes
Car lights dazzle like lightning
Glow worms, like night sentries,
Parade round with mini torches
The roads ring with the sound of returning feet
Fairies roam round for their nightly gambols
Day laborers coil lazily to rest
Letting their barbed distractions melt slowly away
The dead in their sepulchers sleep peaceful!
Among the muted murmurs,
The cicadas’ sounds alone swell.
This is the time for life and strife
To lay their heads pillowed for serene sleep
Under the blanket of a dim lit night!
Nov.15. 2022
~ Placed First~
Beauty of Night Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sotto Poet
I.
Gray dusk, chaos, grave loss.
All yours before divine blood came
Walking amongst the rot, rumors and tumors of the wild and tame
In quest to satisfy their wame
To take them from valleys to peaks by a flesh littered cross
That salt who cursed fruitless trees
And revealed sepulchers filled with dead men's bones
All beneath heaven's thrones
He gave his words to troubled seas that their winds should preach his peace
And his blessings are all yours indeed to keep
II.
There's a place in time
There we'll find the chief cornerstone a worthy sacrifice
There we'll kneel and bow, never to behold his eyes
We'll cry glory, glory to three grand kinds
Elohim, our love is all yours
And we pledged against the falls
Never to go back the way of the sinful and slug
In search of victories that be all yours
In search of answers from one great source
III.
I am of he who made the years
I am of he who hung up on the cross for my sake and cursed my fears
His head bore a crown of thorns, laden with cares
But he still arose a king crowned with roses and stars that never die
So I fall on my face in his courts and there offer through grace
Sincere praises from my spirit, a living sacrifice
In his kingdom, you'll find a tree with twelve different fruits
You'll find his many doves that eat from his hands
You'll find his worshippers empowered
Unraveling mysteries, dwelling in his secret place, enshrouded by his shadow
Frowning at the things unsaved men do first become
Just to end up at square one, unholy and loathsome
IV.
When men, like deer, drink water from his streams
When we dream and walk in other worlds
What do we make of the unending clips of life?
With all her coffers full of gold and her mines full of treasures
What do we make of all her knowledge unsearchable?
What becomes of things even we can not decipher?
How do we enter the gates our fleshes can not go through?
If all of life and these worlds were yours
What would you do that would be better than the source?