Long Steepled Poems
Long Steepled Poems. Below are the most popular long Steepled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Steepled poems by poem length and keyword.
Token of Blessing
Simple brass token sits with anticipation,
Like pennies, abandoned in the streets, wait,
Gracing my desk with reminisce
Of an inlet crossed by a narrow bridge -
To an island basking in spring air
Or trembling in the nor’easters grip –
Finding open arms of smiles
To rest embraced in hospitality
Warmed in glowing fireside warmth
Before the matin hour, named time,
Calls my song
To enter wide flung doors
Of a white steepled church with a cornerstone
Set before the fife and drum
Rumbled in revolution -
Their steady beat
Still resounding in the tidal winds -
To raise up
Faith, hope and love found in a spring morning
Of worshipping hearts
Then in a final blessing
Leave echoes of praise, prayer and thanksgiving
While soft winds now tousle words of Godspeed
As two brass tokens, pressed into my palm,
Carry a message of farewell but not good-bye
Each with a mission and a message –
A mystic connection -
One for the bridge toll on my departure
One for my return.
Based on a true story.
4-8-21
Contest: The Last Token
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
CURIO NUN
placed in the palm of my hand,
a wee little nun with praying hands.
this tiny sculpture hugged
my heart, at once filled my eyes
with salty tears.
certainly my Aunt
leans on my shoulder
as my cousin presents
this precious gift.
Auntie’s curio cabinet
with doors fly open,
empty out,
but these joyous woman
with habits
still inhabit her home
in the tender part of my soul.
this sentiment,
different then the one i left
for dear sweet Auntie,
but the perfect Sister Folk
for me.
not only do i hold and look
at the details, but
my fingers slide
over her steepled hands,
as if they are mine
and Auntie’s and this little curio nun’s,
and i’m reminded of
the God-given satisfaction,
handed-down responsibility
to pray for kith and kin.
may YOU be so blessed.
11/3/2019
NEVERMORE
What hell! Of pale-green fever
that slithers and shakes no longer,
clammy under a cold clean sheet.
Feel the weight of gold roses placed
over the splintered sphinx,
luck of flotsam wood escape —
of twisted fate, no wand will save.
Coins placed where pupils stare,
a swamp of hair on feather pillow, heavy.
How oft her lair, I’d treat myself
to penny candy - sweetness sours.
The howl like a wolf tears,
through my gaping hole.
The dam suddenly severed
divides me from her.
Woe! Woe! Hear the church bells!
Take a stake to my undead heart.
Gargoyles lurch off the steepled seas.
Oh please! I repent — and rend
my reptile skin, stick acupuncture swords
in my pinpoint eyes,
but the blurred black din continues
to squawk, “nevermore...nevermore”
1/7/2018
Poe in Plath Style
Inspired by Poe’s poem For Annie
River Findings
The Ohio winds around hills
and streams down the hollows
passes steel mills, brick yards and scrap yards.
It carries tug boats, pushes barges, and hauls
black coal stripped from the mountainsides.
The Ohio’s littered banks
are home to train yards
filled with graffiti-covered box cars
rusting relics of the Southern Pacific
and the Norfolk and Southern railroads.
Erector set bridges span
the murky river and link Ohio
to “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia,”
the Weirton Mill,
and Homer Laughlin China Company.
In towns called Powhaton Point,
Shadyside, Bellaire, and East Liverpool,
houses are stacked on hillsides
with an array of slate,
tin and asbestos shingled roofs.
Ball fields and corn fields,
concrete parking lots and shopping malls
are full of busy people
who fail to appreciate
the river’s charity.
There are roads with cryptic names like Goose Run,
Pinch Run, Riddles Run, and Rush Run.
There are towns named Brilliant,
Costonia and Calcutta,
each with their own secrets.
North on Route 7 bars advertise Karaoke
and all you can eat fish fries.
A plethora of car lots and gift shops,
bait stores and gun supplies
dot the countryside with
a never-ending display
of marketing profanity,
but the river rolls on
never compromising her dignity
never surrendering her boundaries.
White-steepled churches
stand like beacons of redemption,
while billboards promote“Hell Fire Fireworks,”
“Gentlemen’s” clubs, sleazy motels
and the “Forbidden Zone Exit.”
Still the river moves along
around the hills and down the hollows
proud and powerful
chanting and rippling with satisfaction
a stalwart testament to her tenacity…
It's a quaint little street, bustling with tourists
Shops selling ice creams and coffees, sandals, and seashells...
People rushing, a bike or two in the street, a car searching for a place to park
A baby cries, and mothers wipe sticky faces....chatter, and laughter..
One small gallery, tucked descreetly, into the narrow cobblestone alley
A blinding ray of sun's reflection, catches my attention
The window display, filled with seascapes, antique sailing artifacts
And one small painting....sitting, poised, proudly on an easel...
At first the glare makes it hard to see
But I cup my hands around my eyes...
A lovely rendition of this very same village
Painted many years ago...long before tourists
Long before lattes and souvenirs...
Just a little fishing village...dated 1918
The houses wearing chalky patina,
Narrow lanes leading away from the main road,
dipping down into golden sand dunes,
A small general store and a blacksmith shop,
Seagulls gliding like angel wings against the summer blue
White steepled churches slumbering in the warm afternoon sunshine
The quietness, the peaceful nature of it....simple and serene...
And I think to myself, ...how extraordinary it would be
If I could freeze time for a day,
If I could pull it out and visit it...just once in awhile
If I could bring it back now and again....that peaceful afternoon...
Walk in warm sunshine,
Where the leaves would never fall from those ancient trees,
And the gentle slopes would never know the cruel blast of winter storms
Where tears had never fallen, where age was timeless
If time could stand still.....
I hears the tinkle of the bell, as I enter the shop...
A gust of icy air blasts
the cold into my bones,
tugging at my knees with
hollow, aspirating groans,
making numb my cheeks,
whirling 'round my waist;
pulling at me thither-ward
down cobbled streets in haste.
Thick snowflakes lightly flurry
soft upon my lashes,
squinting hard, I blink away
the blinding, frozen ashes.
Presently, I chance upon
a steepled, stony schloss,
whence I knew myself beyond
the bounds of Hotzestrasse.
All around me, strangers rush
to unfamiliar places;
swiftly stepping, spinning past
with stern, impatient faces.
I sidle down a sleepy street,
apart the harried crowd,
into the quiet entrance
of a quaint café I bowed.
A corner cuckoo ticks away
the time with listless ease,
whiling away the morning;
an anxious spirit to appease.
Rich and steamy mochas
warm away the frosty chill
of this melancholy trav'ler
reflecting on the wintry still.
Lonely Awaits
This gathering furl of past
Rising from love’s once moist heart
Now but dry sorrow
Lingering stubbornly
Where once its canvas
Of vibrant color
Rainbowed the future
Today only flaking memories small
Drift downward
Joining queues of bygone erosion
Where emotions of stalwart bedrock
Once held firm
Like aging scree
Time continues biting thin
Moving yesterday’s drifts into exile
Chased by fossiled feelings
Once of molten passion
Now but withering dunes
Aimlessly adrift
This expanse of solitary
Whom death made giant of wind
And small as hourglass sand
Whose Sabbath wore Mary Jane shoes
Waxed each Saturday
Polished to reflective mirrors
Paying homage
To steepled Sunday service
Was made to sit upright
Conscious of ruler at the ready
Reciting the ancient book
Whose guilt-motive stories
Promised good girl suppers
To close out Lonely’s black Sunday
Agonized memories past
Seem ever present
Pain’s last remaining stand
Pleads why ghost towns await
Why deserts only preserve such places
From drifting grit of expired time
Like the sand
Lonely awaits another tomorrow
Fractured
Scattered
Clinging to its impoverished identity
Here I am
Lonely mutters each night
Its head buried in nocturnal safety
Unable to forget its childhood fear
Perhaps never to be vanquished
To always be at the mercy
Of wind and tide
Its dreamt upon cheerful voice
Never being heard
Here I am
Here I am
Still, in my pajamas, cold, ‘tis Winter.
Purple and gray wool socks, and still, cold feet.
Yet i’d walk down into the oaks, with sun’s
light be soaked, at the Summer-plumed heartbeat.
Into the glowing moss and down the hill,
like my grand, who’d make glorious foothold
into the street. Still, alone, basking in
happiness, woolen feet waltzing, toes cold,
knuckles chapping, clapping of my steepled
fingers. dry and joyful lips, arising,
Dizzy, I'd survey the amphitheater -
steam of cold-heat, underfoot apprising.
O my soul, the crooning blue signature,
expansive, inexpensive, pensive sky.
Behold God’s goodness directed my way.
Though fibbing from inside, I do not lie.
The arms of my chair, still, caring, hold me
or i’d jetty into my imagination.
There the birds stir up woozy fairyland
with tea and serenity’s coronation.
2/10/2021
Contest: All Yours (Feb 10)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Sunday sits unmoved.
The theater pipes on fire.
Restorative proved -
join the next door choir
in heart, soul, mind and strength of eye, O God!
Paired with our pastor.
He wears grief well and joyous,
heav’n’s alabaster.
Suff’ring does not destroy us.
Precious silver and gold stored up, O God!
His Spirit stirs us,
absent of steepled building.
Our faith’s profession,
together as church gilding,
one mediator between man and God.
So close and so far.
Only a quick winded walk.
Peace and calm, on par,
are the church bells of the clock.
Cruise left us scarred. Christ’s balm in hand. Glory!
All is well. The lift,
week away, our friendships keep -
with God there’s no rift.
Insufferable pride, let sleep -
All Knowing grants healing we need. Glory!
9/25/2022
I’d put on the gray drab uniform,
catch the yellow bus, while
other villagers made a pilgrimage
to Violet Avenue Elementary School,
and us parochials would be driven
to the now closed St. Peters.
This is where I first knelt, steepled hands,
had a sense of the transcendent,
always a good Catholic girl.
I did not know otherwise. I knew habits
that, at least for some, were untouchable.
They probably were initially the knuckle smackers
but apparently someone cracked their knuckles
and said - no more of that.
Saddle shoes and lacy socks and such.
We’d often be in chapel in meditation,
learning the Lord’s Prayer. Thankful.
I’d not thought of it before but Drugen
was also on our beat. He’d threatened
my brother like a bully Catholic thug.
Over what, I have no idea.
Did I think it cool, that when we all landed
on the village playground, that a fight
was pursued? Did I think that my brother
would be tough? The former tough broke
my brother’s arm and I’d try to chase him;
mad was I, at both myself and this bully guy.
In that dull, gray, pleated jumper, lessons
are memorized, Jesus before our eyes.
Don’t we all feel pitiable in His light?
That’s the exclamation point! No sense
going round and round, but we do nonetheless.
Still pocket knees underneath, steeple hands
fold, raised, praising the one who has pity,
saves - me from sin, from myself; wipes tears,
fears, and embarrassments away. Lights up -
Christmas days and Easter morns. I adore Christ.