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.
This is what some will say
You’ve crossed the line. Time out.
You’re rejected from the game
You’re not coming back. So go hit the showers.
Once cherished, baptized, and sublime
Asinine. Never enough iodine. Guilty.
Now crowned in your sins.
Stoned concubine. The shamed bovine.
You’re sweaty. You're filthy.
You crossed the line. Go hit the showers.
Submerged from the weight of the world.
Drunk on the blood of the wine.
End of the game. It's not even halftime.
The filthy crime. The shamed headline.
Once cherished, There's no room available.
The game is over. You’re out. You've crossed the line.
Not worth a dime. Stole from the altar's wine.
Combine, the fowl and swine wine and dine.
Frankenstein shrine. You're out. Go resign.
You’ve crossed the line. You’ve crossed the line.
This is what some will say.
Form:
Today, I feel her-
she alerts her soul-mates, their storm-
colored bodies. She..cries,
her wings contracted,
a honk mingled with a " I am
amongst you", and chimes
so dampened, they toll
like Hemingway's Bell. A Goose,
Canadian- a wife-
is in my dried throat
this morning, within the drops
of the shower; a peal,
but a high note "oppressed".
The fat, so off-key with the song
of my being, folds
into pastel wings.
They are light, like an American
shore bleached by the Suns.
My wet, soft blonde arms
reach for Irish sea-tints: a bar,
and a rainforest (shampoo).
To cleanse coffee oils.
My hands rub against the porousness.
The bouying scents,
like the sparks of incense,
sink into my entity.
And the shrine could flood.
My hair twists like rope,
enshrouds my loosened countenance
that is a burnt rose.
The sheen of this skin
shines in the yellow watt's glow.
I sing; I lift the grass-
green towel to dry.
I grab the faded face cloth,
the hue of a weary
field, barren but for the gold
butter-cup weeds of the longest
days. I toss the tough
machine-threaded cotton,
to FLY..off of my body.
My damp hair is night
colored; blonde wings clipped
at birth. Yet, within the misty
brushstrokes of morning,
beneath a gentle
wedding-white sky with lilac
lace, she may feast, hushed.
Starting from the void, my voyage has been adventurous.
Who am I, yet, without the fleck of the Param Atma?
With the image of God, existence has been virtuous.
This vessel of my body bears the spirit of Allah.
I am a fountain of flow. I am a river in flux.
I am a lake with whirlpools. I am an ocean with waves.
In my movements as a lonely star, God has been my crux.
There are, in my core shrine, marvelous, mysterious caves.
When the body is not mine, when the spirit is not mine
I say I'm. I exist. Am I not, yet, a car on rent?
When the spirit travels within me, everything is fine.
In each twist and turn, in this spirit, I find my vent.
Is my identity delusional, like a mirage?
Does this self imply too my physique-psyche camouflage?
The world is a window
A beautiful window
Filled with brilliances
Colors and schemes
Image if you may
All those beautiful reams
The colors so glorious
So wonderfully notorious
But away is the Father
Looking here after
All of creations
All of His everything's
His creations
Glorious all those things He has made
He stands in His glory
Watches His beauty through His
Beautiful window
My eyes are wide open so that I can
View those beauty full things
And I cherish all that I envision
And it isn't a dream
I cherish all God you've made this even includes me
With His eyes beautiful
With His love through the panes I do see beautiful
His marvelous works of you and me
The world is a wonder in time
It's yours and it's mine
wonderful, marvelous glorious Savior divine
Beauty
The oasis and galaxies are
Star crossed mountains and wonderfulness
Marvelous trees green acres of grass supreme
Wonders of wonders as I gaze out upon them
God stands in heaven mansion
As He looks cross the galaxies
The oasis and heaven are His divine
Beautiful window a shrine
What a wonderful, wonderful fine
And the rainbow is heavens
do (is) still the promises of what god that He's granted me
His marvelous works , the world is a wonder in time
It's your and it's mine what a wonderful find
As He stands at attention this did I mention
God's looking out both of His eyes
Colors and schemes
looking here and after
This another chapter
And if you didn't know
God's looking at all He made out the
Beautiful window
12/29/06
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
Written December 7, 2024, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
____________________________________
When we lose a lesson, we etch an example on a rock,
Be the alteration you wish to view, all round the clock.
We have a deep link and a prosaic mental stake.
After brittle, we allow what we did not forsake.
We seek worth in this life and deem it divine.
Wind disregards the leaves that fall upon the shrine.
Hearts flutter and linger when you're in sight.
Exuberance refers to its outstanding delight.
The exquisite tapestry radiates light from the inside.
Intertwined strands of the lustrous, silvery guide.
You hope nothing more than my crushed heart.
Would you be willing to bring us back to the start?
Time lends death the echo of silent screams.
Dark whispers back to you ripped from dreams.
I tuck away what I have experienced inside.
When it emerges, we are bound to collide.
My panick attacks is like I'm crawling out of my skin like I just peeled off every layer one by one. I'm shaking like I just swam In winter. And my air is like a bubble I'm the back of my throat and I can't get it out but I hear the air coming out. It's like I'm feeling death for the 3rd time each one worse then the last it's like I'm a cat and each death is more gruesome than the last, and when I finally get that bubble of air out I'm still shaking but I can feel the breath now and all I'm left with is air and thought I didn't think just ones placed in my mind it's like a shrine marked by people I didn't ask for. And when it's all over I put my skin back on and wait for the next life to be waisted.
Number 5 Tagore web -ontor momo
5. Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Cleanse thy impurity, bless them a glow
Beauty, may the diva touch the unborn heavenly , beyond the creation
Awaken, prepare
for the gallant cause, intrepid
Do good to others, be active, make them sure and certain
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
reach to the souls soaring higher in the flight in assonance
to remove the impediment of the voyage
Calm and placid a reach, to beseech humbly
thine speechless impeccable trochaic
The foothill and the fragrant Jasmine, make them a humble duo
be praiseworthy, be praiseworthy
be praiseworthy
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2025
I have come to a crossroad in time
knowing I should let go of the past
but I keep recalling many things sublime
and I must now reflect on a grief vast
as storms shake the ocean of my sleep
where shadows in my life are buried deep
I put away all the photographs of family gone
placing them in an old inherited ornate chest
it sits in my living room like a headstone
inside are memories that need to be caressed
oh, my life is weather stained with tears
and I have wept for years, years and years
My thoughts gleam like jewels in the sun
like a day as clear as sparkling wine
without planning a place of honor has begun
it is in the divine process of spiritual design
in a sunny corner of my bedroom a table waits
and two newly painted walls have new fates
Tomorrow, I will open the lid of the hidden
holding each image to my heart with love
cherishing the images of the dead forbidden
dusting off those faces residing in heaven above
it is not a shrine to the dead I am creating
but of life memories beautiful and captivating
I will stand silent in this place to reflect
and it will be fine to feel sad and weep
remembering the sorrow, joy and respect
memories deep will creep for me to keep
Through poetic words I am able to express
what I tried to hide but cannot now suppress
In Lagos' vibrant mosaic, life abounds,
Multicultural threads, in waters surrounded.
Lovely, funny, and resilient souls reside,
Great leaders emerge, yet hurdles abide.
Morning rush, nighttime chase, ceaseless pace,
Some seek rest, others rise, in endless space.
You wonder where the crowds converge and roam,
A city of mystery, where not all are known.
Superhuman, mysterious beings weave and spin,
In public transport, life's drama unfolds within.
Humor, satire, politics, and football fervor blend,
Mobile markets thrive, where lives intersect and transcend.
Lagos, a haven for the homeless, and the free,
Thieves and saviors coexist, in harmony.
To survive, focus is key, determination unlocks greatness too,
Yet, without discipline, all can be lost, in the city's swirling brew.
In Lagos' streets, a symphony plays,
Horns honking, people chanting, in endless sways.
The scent of suya and jollof rice fills the air,
A culinary delight, beyond compare.
From Victoria Island to Ikeja's bustling streets,
Lagos' energy pulsates, to the rhythm of its beats.
A city of contrasts, where wealth and poverty entwine,
Lagos, a city that defies definition, a true African shrine.
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to whore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.