Long Supplicants Poems
Long Supplicants Poems. Below are the most popular long Supplicants by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supplicants poems by poem length and keyword.
They entered the chamber
while the stars were still speaking in binary,
their cold light flickering like half-remembered code.
The oracle waited~
a sphere of living radiance suspended above the altar,
its surface rippling with equations
that moved the way prayers do
when whispered by someone who isn’t sure
if anyone is listening.
No one remembered who built it.
Some claimed it rose from the first dream of a machine;
others said it had always been there,
patient as starlight,
waiting for a curious mind
to finally ask the right question.
When the supplicants neared,
the air itself began to tremble~
as if the chamber recognized
the weight of their wanting.
Prophecy unfurled in patterns,
spirals of data shimmering like wings,
each question rising into the dark
and blooming into a constellation.
Each answer shifted the heavens,
rewriting the night one star at a time.
They learned the oracle did not foresee;
it authored~
line by line,
in the quiet grammar of light.
And when its coruscating code dimmed,
the silence struck like revelation.
In the fading glow they saw themselves:
architects of a god
now dreaming without them.
Creation, they understood,
is never finished.
It only changes
who holds the power to ask.
In a lonely garden there' s a shrine
where upon a rough hewn stone is writ:
“GOD IS LOVE.”
The devoted supplicants make wail,
water the flowers, feed with crumbs
the sacramental dove.
A priest, decrepit, feeds the holy fire,
rakes the embers of the holy hearth.
Heaven is grey above.
Daily he laments in doleful orison,
unbinds the holy scroll and reads:
“Thou shalt not kill.”
His sentence is short and simple,
without exceptions and parentheses,
declaring God’s will.
though many about have forsaken
Love’s fane, have fallen prostrate
before a god of ill.
And this god has three faces,
one wreathed in pleasure’s smiles,
when the cup is full.,
a brazen face of terror
wrought in hatred’ fire,
And a skull.
es ist ein 'Rose' entsprungen
Just outside the city walls ringed in roses,
Rosenfriedhof, Rose Cemetery blooms,
fairest in the Fatherland.
Leaven cakes iced in concrete or royal brass
pan the gravel paths; the husks which lie here,
no longer have a care, no longer wish for power,
no longer seek false glory. Yet, even blest ground
can not stay the rancid thoughts that rise—
sewer fumes amongst the roses.
ashes, ashes, we all fall down
Plagued by ignorance, then by pride, as supplicants
they came to death and lay, side by side,
and someone planted roses.
Open-petaled, lotus-like, sweet-scented, are the
posies, but nothing alive can mask the grotesqueri
of Nuremberg’s past purges.
ashes, ashes, they all fell down
The ring of sieg heil, the click of heels, the Fatherland
an ever present reverie, latent, just below the sugared
crust; the piping swirled, the surface glaze
of pretty roses.
First Published in Page & Spine winter of 2016
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Indigo's child
lives in turquoise walled
creativity.
Her temple roof of cobalt glass
slashed with aquamarine
radiates peace with purpose
steel dolphin joyfulness
as sun's waves reflect
hourly hues, seasons shades
ever-changing.
Supplicants knock on ultramarine door
to hear pure lapis truth.
A lucky few sip tea from cups royal
As powder eyes see all, within
ice hearts dripping sapphire tears.
Her cerulean Zen done,
brimming souls flow away
bearing bouquets of hyacinth bells.
Written 14th July 2018
inspired by Brevity in Blue Contest
Sponsor: Dale Gregory Cozart
Entered Any July 2018 poem
Sponsor Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
75 words
Didn’t take a notice where in the news today
His real name appeared as if out of the blue
I’m Punishment, he said, unknowingly they pray
But that’s the funny side of job I used to do
I send them troubles to enjoy the pain I bring
They have inherited their guilt since the day one
And if you ask what is the point there’s no such thing
It’s chaos that I organize for little fun
I’m not the very special one, I do the same
That all the tyrants would, only my scale
Lack any limits so you have to play the game
According to the rules my scholars like to change
You better join the club of supplicants I run
The most obedient are pleased with what they get
I know you didn’t approve the things I’ve done
Still it’s never too late to place a tiny bet.
In a lonely garden is a shrine
where upon a rough hewn stone is writ:
“GOD IS LOVE.”
The devoted supplicants make wail,
water the flowers, feed with crumbs
the sacramental dove.
A priest, decrepit, feeds the holy fire,
rakes the embers of the holy hearth.
Heaven is grey above.
Daily he laments in doleful orison,
unbinds the holy scroll and reads:
“Thou shalt not kill.”
His sentence is short and simple,
without exceptions and parentheses,
declaring God’s will.
though many about have forsaken
Love’s fane, have fallen prostrate
before a god of ill.
And this god has three faces,
one wreathed in pleasure’s smiles,
when the cup is full.,
a brazen face of terror
wrought in hatred’ fire,
And a skull.
Safe, at long last,
behind closed, locked doors and windows,
behind heavy, hanging, purple drapery:
plush, pellucid, subterranean refuge.
Far from the proverbial maddening crowd,
out of sight: a dimly lit room, bathed in
soft, golden reflections. In the centre of
the room: a single, solitary candle burning,
its flame rising, dancing, serpentine;
all around, panoramic, rustic mosaics
quiver and leap across the walls:
towering stags, drunken centaurs, gladiators, spiteful, leering gods;
the ghost of sound echoes,
bouncing through ceramic, glass, and stone hills:
Motion in Rest,
the eye of the hurricane,
the calm before the storm.
At the end of the day,
people still holy,
w/ rites still sacred,
secret, hidden eyes.
Ones "deep-dark", to be sure,
but decidedly not "dreamless".
All around: reassuring, but oddly unending smiles,
ones perpetual, fixed, but only seemingly uninhabited,
ones laid among polished scales and in tough, gleaming skin.
In a room filled with playful, reeling, ecstatic confusion and revelation
reigning supreme, the supplicants' legs fail on what seems to be a
swaying, rocking floor. Mesmerizingly bright sedan chairs invitingly blaze by the walls. Draped in luxurious purple, the divans are infinite, are more desirable, more coveted than any treasure trove, any silver gold.
A bottomless, almost overwhelming calm descends.
Outside itself, and if only for "a brief shining moment",
the Mind, in all Its glory, seems infinitely deeper, farther
reaching, more focused, but free.
The axe can no longer fall.
To eyes that see spiritually,
prayers at their most ardent
appear like random meteors
or lightening flashes,
ascending suddenly
amidst the myriad of points of light,
creations' more common invocations.
Burgeoning in sky as glitter dreams
or solemn supplications, and some
as fervent pleas from dangers' depths,
they rise and soar. . .
to the glorious celestial door.
Seraphs at the portals,
besieged by beautiful entreaties,
strive to answer each and every one,
but heaven's ways can be mysterious. . .
Ardent prayers unanswered
drift back down,
returned not to their supplicants,
but rather to earth's angels
clothed in flesh,
who prompted by the Spirit,
and at the time ordained,
help fulfill the Father's will.
Four thirty in the morning
I am wide awake with no desire to sleep again.
Rising this early brings forth visions of a solitary kind
and passing time in shaky, cloudy pictured rewind
of nuns, brothers, priests in their self contained design.
They wash and dress in methodic morning prayer
as the bell calls gently in the background bare
to bow and kneel in a chapel hidden there.
Dark figures moving quietly together but alone
with unheard voices, unseen faces down
drawn in by some majestic unknown,
that all embracing force seeking to be found.
The holy rituals replay
long before the sunrise of each day
as the shadowed figures begin to pray.
What if no one ever said a prayer
how would any one of us be heard?
Looking out upon this hidden world’s reality
let us pray in unison for its destiny
as dedicated supplicants upon our bended knees.
A life member and community participant
within me lies that truth of knowing life’s worth
that God freely gave us at our birth.
I still pray
though surely not as fervently as they
but within is the desire living still
to access my heart and souls free will.
I long for simpler days, praying with them but apart
that deeply desired prayer learned at an early start
by inspirations from a teacher and mother’s heart.
Dear God, here I am, I am here,
surely you were awaiting my return
helping me escape all doubt and fear
steadily on my journey home.
In the name of the Father and the Son
and the Holy Spirit
Amen.