Long Shrine Poems
Long Shrine Poems. Below are the most popular long Shrine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shrine poems by poem length and keyword.
Is it real or are you faking
it? ;
Can you testify truly
without a hit?
That it is as strong as it
seems? ;
Even in the absence of
every being;
You are poised to create a
scene;
That goes against all sins;
I could call you the mustard
seed;
But, is it worth it? ;
It is one thing to be known
for something;
And another to be firm in
acting;
The story begins with the
action;
The test;
The great test that you
can’t detest;
Your arms are tied;
Sitted in that waiting room;
And like a criminal that is
tried;
You shiver like its all going
to end in doom;
No! She must live…;
That’s what goes through
your mind;
And even a quick magic
right
now, you won’t dare to
mind;
I thought you had it in you;
I thought it was for real;
Even after all the binding;
And through all the casting;
Your mind is still in a doubt
situation;
And you run helter skelter
in search of a faster
solution;
From Church to Church;
From Temple to Temple;
And alas! From shrine to
shrine;
How then can the light
shine?
As it has finally been lost
for a
cheap fine;
The word says it’s the
evidence of
things not seen;
The assurance of things
hoped for;
A supernatural gift given to
you;
And yet your distance from
it grew;
Like both sides of a forever
widening canyon;
You once testified;
That he was crucified;
Not for nothing sake;
But for our whole spiritual
make;
A good reason for our
belief in him;
And our total submission;
Have you forgotten or are
you blinded? ;
Blinded by impatience and
greed;
And now;
The big question;
Where lays your faith?
Is he not the same as he
was in the past?
The healer, the provider, the
protector;
The I am that I am;
Where lays your faith?
An encouraging answer
would
spark up a good fate;
After all the roaming for
quick solution;
You still come back to your
place
of true solution;
Inevitable!
That’s the word;
He raised Lazarus from the
dead;
He said a word and the evil
spirits
fled;
Does that ring a bell?
I guess it does now;
And it’s clear that you once
lost
the faith;
And luckily it’s not too late;
Use the kneeler;
Make that prayer;
Have the belief;
Feel the relief;
And Alleluia
The problem is all gone;
The story of faith;
Preaching to your state;
Good or bad;
Hope it is real;
Hope it’s not fake;
Your faith;
And this picture on the wall of my heart told a story of men giving birth among themselves in the north promiscuously...
Sipping memories from the lungs of the girl child.
They were not ashamed of the little ones watching their nakedness which howled at them mannerlessly.
We bathed the oceans again and again,
We made the sand shone like the moon,
We washed the sky daily to see clearly of what the earth has in stock for us.
We painted the earth and added more colours to the chirping rainbow.
Life became wet in our palms because we saw images and figurines of women whose shinning womb were made abnormal by men of yesterday.
And mother told of an innocent girl that killed her father, mother and brothers,
She was patted by the king for doing so,
As she told this ear breaking tale,
we saw the rain emerged from the ground instead of the lonely idle cloud that watched us through different mirrors.
They said we'll live forever on paradise,
They said there is heaven and hell,
They said evil people will be punished on the last day,
They said we will burn for thousand years,
But how could a father punish his children with fire and brimstone?
How could spirit burn in a fire?
How could we tell lie to ourselves and expect the sun not against us?
We have seen cock making love to a duck and, dog to a cat, and grandma told us it was normal.
And Father told of the miseries of the black spirit in our village streams,
How pouring of libation on the family shrine brings good wife and good harvest,
how rubbing oil and wearing palmfrond on your lips wad away demons.
he said there is a third heaven above us,
He told us why the He goat smells,
He said white ghosts do fly day time; he has seen the flashes of one of them at Benin.
After Christopher, I creed,
After Achebe I loved again
After Seghor
After Wole and Niyi' folklores,
After Habila Helon,
After Chimamanda's truths,
We'll retrace this fables with a knitted thought towards strings of our voices.
How does the patient dog eat the fattest bone now?
Does the silent cock still live for a lifetime?
Mother lied to us
Father lied to us
Grandma lied to us
Grandpa lied also
A mirage formed
Teachers lied to us
An illusion created
We are not who we are through those illusion told to us through their lips.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent.
Bring the Nzu and
Kola nut
Take it to the
stranger among us,
Let him kiss it and
be bless.
Let him rub the Nzu
on his arms then his
fore head.
It is our tradition
here not to neglect
A humble stranger in
our land.
We kiss suffering on
the lips, it harm us
not.
We measure our joy
with dance and
laughter.
pour the oil in the
calabash
Roast the yam and
break the kolanut,
Let the youngest
among us break and
share it.
Pour the dry gin on
the ground and bless
the gods
Our forefathers must
drink before we
taste ours
Angry will they be
if they taste not
the gin.
It is our tradition
here in Nkporoland.
The maiden must not
touch the raging
masquerade
Keep them afar off
from the here, let
them smell not of
it.
All the young men
must be present at
the Iza Afa festival
and then the young
women must not be
excluded from the
Igboto Nma festival
in the village
square.
When is the
initiation into the
masks spirit taken
place?
Warn all the young
men to partake, it
is our tradition
Never allow the she
goat deliver in
pain,
Go call the elders
to look after its
delivering.
The snake must never
be in group like the
beads
It is an abomination
not among the
tradition.
Gather the cowries
and the white chalk
and assemble the
youth in the shrine
Lets pour the goat
blood for the
sacrifices
The gos will hear us
this time after
We went astray from
it in foolishness.
Call on the widow
among us, i heard
there was one.
Her hair must be
Barbe thoroughly
She must bath and
drink the water used
on
Her deceased husband
bath.
The Umu Ada must be
there
It is the tradition
here.
Let the Umu Ada
check the maidens
Of their virginity
before they dance
Let them deep their
hands into the hole
One after the other
to check the fruits.
It is part of the
traditions.
The king must not
set his eyes on a
rotten
Shining meals which
are set for the
vultures.
Let not a child
whistles in the day
Let not a girl child
come out to the
Agbala naked
Under the initiation
in festival of
virginity.
We all must set the
tradition going
It is our right and
liberty to excel.
Neglect not the
wisdom of the elders
In his wisdom exist
pure and holy.
Our fore fathers
must be happy and
free
when we all observe
the traditions
Of Nkporoland in its
pure heart.
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a red and black hell for sinners?
Basking on this, I told myself that the beautiful heaven is this we see now, argue with the sky and cloud on this.
Father Francis told us that there is no heaven,
Pope Thomas told us that paradise is within our hearts,
and those who fall and fall on the altar of deliverance are miscreants.
We believed him on a platter of Sunday school morning.
He gave us lies and lies of truth about the World Series of lies.
In this pantful world where children wear disgrace,
In this world' voodoo, where sorrow back treasures of preachers,
In this train of earth where girls wear tears,
In this shattered world where our pride are whores,
Nothing is precious under the sun and nothing that the sun has not seen.
Man is home to himself and have choices about himself.
The clergy men that had their skulls littered in the evil graveyard of my village can tell of this.
To this voidness,
To this coldness,
To this yonder of shattered images,
Xylem of mannered eloquence of the devil,
To the world demon's demonstrators,
To the Halloween and the Dejavu,
To the magical cloth verses of the Indian,
To the cries of unholy pages of those holy book tabled before we were born,
I have a way that seems so right to me; and those are the choices I have made.
To the shrine of Illinois of the Illuminati,
To the pyramid of underworld,
To the coldness of death,
We will escape from this drum of world,
This is darkness!
This is darkness!!
This is darkness!!!
Darkness of the black spirits.
Voidness lies in the bag of red colours.
This gory miseries of the world keep us in the fold of grey.
We don't know death but death knows us,
We don't know life but life speaks of us,
We don't know abstract painting of demons,
We don't know the abstract imageries of sins;
The beauty of sin lies in the consequences that lies aftermath.
We are train of shadows,
We are feathers of spiritualities,
We are blood of feelings, emotions. anger. Carcass. Faded colours. Sadness.
Pains. Revenge. Vengeance. Evil.
Emptiness. Vacant. Void.
We are the opposite of day, synonym of good.
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a black and red hell for sinners?
Search your soul and answer to its voidness.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams
Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms;
hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches;
then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain;
for this is welcome shade from the burning sun.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads
by the windswept elms near the breezy beach,
providing rest to sunburned travelers,
and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage,
and drink cool water from the sprightly spring,
so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors,
may take rest from the blazing sun.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the grove of Cypris,
for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep,
that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy,
as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is nothing sweeter than love.
All other delights are secondary.
Thus, I spit out even honey.
This is what Gnossis says:
Whom Aphrodite does not love,
Is bereft of her roses.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most revered Hera, the oft-descending from heaven,
behold your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense
and receive the linen robe your noble child Nossis,
daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, my homeland of beautiful dances,
to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho,
remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me there.
My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go!
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pass me with ringing laughter, then award me
a friendly word: I am Rinthon, scion of Syracuse,
a small nightingale of the Muses; from their tragedies
I was able to pluck an ivy, unique, for my own use.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords: ancient, Greek, translation, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, lament, mourning, funeral, grave, death, death of a friend, dead, bereavement, eulogy, funeral, goodbye, loss
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It’s fun to stop breathing.
I hope it’ll happen.
If I could only gather enough courage
to slash my wrists and dreams
in a bloody mess,
nobody would miss me or my writing
for too long. Never mind.
They’d find me, and keep me rooted to soil,
to the impostor that is love
and the world that spits in my face.
There’s only one way to die.
One way that would justify death,
not exhaust-breathing, nor jumping, nor cutting.
I wonder if I could just get a gun
and play Russian roulette with myself,
spinning the barrel over and over again,
shooting, shooting, shooting, never sure
when Death will come and take me away.
The rumors say he’s a hard, cold man
But I believe him soft and kind.
Love is a bastard.
As is friendship.
All either of them do is coax you into something,
learn all of your secrets,
and then dunk you into the mud, kick you around,
and leave you, their wicked faces smiling.
Which is why I never trusted them.
I never knew why every foolish person,
sails and oars cast overboard,
went such long distances for them.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Long, boring, winding stories,
all based on the same Shakespearean play.
I never understood why everything
cascaded down as it did. Romantics,
I now know, and money.
Money, the green thief of society!
How every man adores and dotes on thee!
How every man creates their shrine on the world
Built and destroyed by thee!
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
I lie in bed alone and dream
of jumping on the first train to Russia
– because nobody wants to be in Russia nowadays –,
of waiting for the world to crash down behind me
as I plaster a two-fingered L to my forehead
and stick my tongue out at everything dying,
including myself, sooner or later.
I live only for one thing.
I live only to write.
The lessons I’ve learned in life:
She married him for his money.
Everything’s perfectly fine with me.
Masks cover feelings.
Not all was meant to be.
My parents think they love.
It’s fun to stop breathing.
There’s only one way to die.
Love is a bastard.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
I live only to write.
The pen lives on.
(2-14-17)
Psalms 118:22-24 - NKJV: “The stone which the builders rejected Has become the chief cornerstone. This was the LORD's doing;”
**************************************************************
Wisdom in Decrepit Stones
With bones and skin wilting away with age
Like withering stem and leaves of a tree
Like a house reaching a decrepit stage
I wade a few steps stooping to the knee
With the whole frame pining with stinging pain,
Treading a hundred steps a task in vain;
With a decrepit frame and ache in breast
Climbing some steps of my decaying home
Leads me utterly to gasping for breath
As battered by wild winds of a weird storm
I feel the need to take forthwith some rest
Like the twilight sun on its way to set ;
With a frail, feeble and mouldering frame
I feel like tumbling down at any time
Without any appalling stamp of shame
With my time ripe to kiss the earthly shrine
As the battered roof of a crumbling house
Forsaken to face its own fateful vows.
Yet my mind feels like waltzing tall and strong
The spirit simmering as ever fresh
The self shining as ever bold and young
The soul sparkling bright as ever blessed
As a house stone base that does not decay
But remains firm and does not fade away.
The mind retains insight plucked over time
Gleams with remembrance gathered over years
That ever remain valued and sublime
Like memories enshrined in walls` whispers
Like undertones relayed by cherished moans
Like wisdom captured in decrepit stones.
Crying Mercy
Hurled down the depth of a desolate ditch
By folks envious of my blazer to cloak,
To the lowest tide of despair, I`ve reached
And pace of my breath points to a heart stroke.
With sad clouds of stress stretching to the neck
Hardly I can eye sunshine in the sky
And the boat of my life seems to be wrecked
With the weight of rolling waves of deep sighs.
No more can I stroll for long on a beach,
Tread along the flank of a sloping hill,
Swim in the azure sea like a grey fish
Or taste the sweet joy of tilling the field.
O Good Lord, I pray for your compassion
To melt any guilt of mine from past lives,
And beseech your lenience for infraction
To any of your rules during my strife.
O Mighty Lord, I yearn for your mercy
To gaze at the shine of your divine light,
For your lenience I am ever thirsty,
I pray that you shore up my astral flight.
O Supreme Lord, I cry for your mercy
To bestow on me strength to quit this ditch,
Of your fatherly grace, make me worthy
That I may attain the shrine of your feet.
O Graceful Lord, I scream for your mercy
From the very depth of my pining heart,
All that I cherish is a humble lee
In your realm that I may serve you apart.
O Lord, I pray I`m released from this drain,
InflictIng upon me bodily pain,
That the celestial sky I may attain
Your humble servant ever to remain.
(1)
O Thou the beauteous lofty fort!
O ancient manse O royal court!
O land of beauteous holy dream!
Thou art a shield of mortal mort
Thou midst of ancient royal mead
A royal shade A royal hand
From centuries by majestic sky
In circles of devotees stand
The birds there singth in mirth and Glee
And doth so souls of seraph bands
(11)
In evening sing cuckoo and lark
And with them ring the mystic bells
O Tell thou Dozen lofty gates
O speak Thou stepped magic wells
Sprawling on the rocky hills
In bent of running foaming Ghaan
To save His kingly royal heart
Thy face decor by Shah Sher Khan?
Thou built on ancient Indian lands
Thou Koh e noor of Pakistan
(111)
Artistic hands of noble Turks
They measured first by indian scale
They then erected Asian king
In meadow green in heart of vale
Oh Thou largest than all the forts!
On face of Asian continent
For crowds of people everyday
Thou sing the songs of merriment
O Thou the kingly knight at Arms!
O thou guarded by heavens wall!
Thy face on hilly slope was made
By thousand hands of Todar Laal!
To crush the tribes of Potohar
Who were the lions of Indian war
(4)
O kings , Queens Of royal line
Wherest thou live?
Wherest thou go?
No grave no tomb not any shrine
Wherest tell me wherest you bow?
Thou chirp in birds in
winds that blow!
Or thou in Ghaan bottoms row?
With open eyes I can see
The princess swimming in Baoli
In scented orchard royal maids
Are fixing blooms in princess braids
In castle thine now fairies dwell
They drink the water of thy wells
In horrid nights they knock at doors
And then lie on dusty floors
They wake and dance in lap of meads
In Dewy gale in morning breeze
O harken me departed souls
O ancient stones ! O willow tree!
I fear the fate of Royal king
Thy kingly face who can not see
Who can not pray in Royal mosque
Who can't feel it's mirth and Glee
I fear The callous lady Death
Who in thy orchard roams so free
(5)
Thy fort is in the hand of Lord
He is the owner of this Gem
While thou and me by our heart cord
Can bow to him or sing a hymn
We are the tourists on this earth
We are a grain of desert vast
While phantoms of the days of past
Like kingly jewels all they lost
Ink flows like a river, a poet's soul on fire
A maze of words, where emotions unfold like a desire
Each line a path, a winding road that beckons me
To the heart of the abode, where secrets wait to be free
Fragments of self, embedded deep, like a treasure unspoken
A reflection of the heart that beats and seeps with every line
A dance of words, that weaves a tapestry of heartache and design
A kaleidoscope of pain, a symphony of feelings that entwine
The poet's emotion, like a river's flow, ebbs and grows
Through every line, a symphony of feelings, as the heart overflows
A reflection of the soul, where emotions forever align
A dance of words, that whispers secrets, like a heart that's divine
Most readers glance and pass, blind to the heart's design
They fail to see, the emotion that will last, like a love that's sublime
They read the lines, but don't feel the weight of every word
Of each word's power, that the poet conveys, like a heart that's unheard
For empathy is key, to truly understand the poet's heart
To feel the pulse, of each word's design, a work of art
To be immersed, in the poet's emotional shrine
Where emotions flow, like a river's stream, forever divine
A true poet gets lost in the lines they create
In the labyrinth of words, their heart does await, like a love that's great
For in each phrase, a piece of them resides, like a heart that beats
A reflection of their soul, where emotions forever meet
They pour their heart, into every single word, like a love that's true
A symphony of feelings, that are forever heard, like a heart that's anew
Their emotions flow, like a never-ending stream, like a love that's free
A tidal wave of passion, that crashes on the dream, wild and carefree
In the silence of the night, they find their heart's voice
A whispered truth, that echoes with every choice
Their emotions raw, their feelings exposed, like a heart that's laid bare
A poet's vulnerability, that most people have disposed, like a love that's not there
In the labyrinth of lines, they find solace and peace, like a heart that's at rest
A refuge from the world, where their heart can release, like a love that's blessed
Their emotions flow, like a river's stream, like a heart that's free
A poet's catharsis, that's the heart's esteem, like a love that's meant to be