Long Unerring Poems
Long Unerring Poems. Below are the most popular long Unerring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unerring poems by poem length and keyword.
Tis' timeless this cathedral green
A constant play of exquisite transition
Lofting tribute with flawless composition
Unerring to the senses embellished serene
Above the hushed and restful peace
The thunderous water speaks aloud
And falls like torrents from Neptune's cloud
Transcending its glorified masterpiece
The rushing fierceness of cascading stream
Like the mother lion's roar of wrath
That nothing in the wake shall be spared in its path
Tumbling into the steel mouthed rock strewn ravine
Its majestic, profound, and enduring footprint
Flows past the lushness of its own genesis
A Shangri-La, a Utopia, a perfectly blended precipice
Crashing far below while vaporous breath escape in its ascent
And below in the placid quietude be still
The calming pool of water's mist imbues
The harmonious state of rainbow hues
In the midst of doves of gentle will
Ah! So soft it speaks in its gentle din
Enfolding gratitude in our hearts
To be mindfully given for peace doth impart
The beauteous wonder of nature therein
September 19, 2019
A faceless clock without numbers
traces past, present, recycled.
Nothing is created; nothing is lost.
It's all transformation.
Fallen leaves cradle new flowers.
As sun rises, sweeps the ground,
lifting up the dying to spring new shoots,
each unfolding rebirth.
The river's flow remakes the land.
Reshaping with unerring hand.
A moving sinuous flow, to and fro,
in endless state of flux.
Nature has no need for numbers.
Not bound by birth, life stage and death.
It's driven to become, improve, evolve,
when the fittest prevail.
Humans, adrift in yearning, trace
each hour that bleeds slow on clock's face.
To reach beyond the birth of their children.
To wrest more from their fate.
Momma went trappin' till noon,
fer Ring Neck Ducks ~ en gone fishin',
also trappin’ fat coon…
so she was a dragin' er ole’ berlap
full - of game, as well, 'like money in…
'er til' ~ by thee light, of ay full moon...
Seven siblings doin' chores causin'...
Momma needed money so soon,
Grandpa en a Pop'a were a knockin'
down all those logs - for Coors, quickly
Momma chasin' chickens, while rescelin'...
in there pen, en a sloppin' with all them hogs,
why she was buzy a slippin' en a slidein'...
into a sink hole, an a trippin' over pa’ pa's logs,
frogs were a jumpin', an a hopin'
right through her hands...
While Grandpa was a brewin',
good ale, a good tale fer Kentucky mash...
fer what she longed fer sure,
Momma ney're could save 'er cent of cash,
ner're enough mash-ale fer er dough, unerring
though ~ down to her country-store...
She went one misty ~ foggy mornin'...
into one of her swamp boats, all traps
all bottle ale, so Momma went a paddlin'...
certain, per'aps
fer her new pair, so needin’ of them
ere fancy laced ~ Combat Boots
“Now remember to call your Mom too”
Human never bears down on
elusive, explicit goals.
We all always bear with
transient sufferings.
Human is always sanguine
about breaking the golden
chains.
Aimless thoughts neve bow
to a predominant rapture.
We all always put up with
unbridled fury successfully.
Bitter ,hot tears of the heedless
world streaking my heart ,and
make a stab to the soul.
A windy, raging fortune greets
gray dawn.
The harsh, prevailing
wind engulf the unerring
daybreak.
Strumming air enriching vision, full on pollen heading back;
Bees antenna are unerring always on their sky-way track,
World within a world their workplace, the link with every living plant
A hive alive was placed in Eden, I never saw; but that's true I grant'
Oxygen flows around the world, everything part or not at all..!
In the scheme of daily life; the Honey bee is there on call.
In pursuit of power & money, man reaps fields right to the edge
Instead of leaving a little spare, for the poor; alien or orphan alive in dread
Mans power to miss-use is fearful, never letting 'well alone.'
Without realising, we are not the (be-all) mankind is but a useless drone.
Breeze, storm, tempest, tornado, wind,
Typhoon, you are named, yes, whirlwind,
Yet, you have well compressed yourself;
In me, into a gasp, named breathe,
Without which I have a mere death,
Thus commanding terms on myself...
I could hear your voice utter once,
In a debate of unique sense,
Your whisper was serene and sweet;
Admirations on you I poured,
As the plants and trees applauded,
In a richly rhythmic movement...
'Lovely you are, I commented,
Lavishly cute, high spirited,
Gracefully sweet is your murmur;
Yet looking into your movement,
I often tend to calculate,
You are a nomad, wanderer...
It's then lightly and politely,
Talking to me rather freely,
You'd told me many a secret;
Authentic, spiritual, pure,
That makes mortals feel sure secure,
Realistic and innocent...
Just like breathing, indeed, breathe's sigh,
And her loyal philosophy,
Fascinating, enlightening;
Nomad, gypsy, and traveler,
Migrant I am and wanderer,
Enthralling, real enchanting...
Yet, my child, have you realized,
I have you in me imprisoned,
And have kept you prompt permanent;
In my nomadically pure,
safe, perennially secure,
life-giving divine little hand…
It's when I had far away moved,
From the gushy maddening crowd,
And started reflecting calmly;
On the breath's bewildering words,
Dawned on me Gautam the Buddha's,
Renunciation theory...
True as the very Truth itself,
Is breath's unique unerring self,
Does the daylight any lie say?
Who upon this earth so divine,
Or under the gorgeous heaven,
Live without breath a single day?
Breathe is in me; I am in Breath,
It's, indeed dead-sure- till my death,
I can never refute this fact;
Breath utters and breath punctuates,
Breath whispers; breath murmurs and sighs,
Breathing is world's unending act...
I got imprisoned in the breath,
When in my mother's divine depth,
I received charming human form;
Knowingly or unknowingly,
Willingly or unwillingly,
I got surrendered in breath's arm...
Breathe has adopted me wholly,
Affectionately, benignly,
Giving me gifts of the Spirit;
Entering in my every nerve,
And my physique's each muscle curve,
Made me melodious flute, lute...
I play on
I am played on
04/27/2021
Writing Prompt - Breathe - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The Pope is
the Bishop of Rome
is the Vicar of Father Christ (Jesus) on earth
The visible Head of the Church
Successor of St. Peter
The supreme ruler of all Christians
He is the supreme judge in all matters of faith
Morals
In pronouncing upon which he may exercise unerring
His office is called the pontificate (or papacy)
As possessor of the keys to the kingdom of heaven
Gifted with unerring or certainty
The Pope keeps the doctrine of the faith pure
Acts as the center of unity in the Church
His office is a royal one
As represented by the triple tiara traditionally worn by the popes
Poem Written: 10:12a.m.
Time Written: 10:12a.m.
Poetry Form: Free Verse
Please, tell me, for you, it was not a total waste,
Thirty two years of our souls entwining.
Tell me there was warmth and joy you embraced.
Like the love of our lives , our precious two,
morphing four into one, without even trying.
I wish I had their strength but I don't think I do.
Tell me for a time, for at least a short moment
that your heart beat for me and your smile was unerring,
Tell me your words were a fervid investment
not hollow discourse just meant to appease me,
or placatory sentiments of habitual murmuring
expressed without meaning, an embittered plea.
Tell me, please, through our contrived, inane reasons
you must have found cause, at least some simple thing
that kept you next to me, for so many seasons,
for the hope of renewal as the time slipped away,
more than our passion and more than just clinging,
until the feelings faded from fact to cliche.
Tell me it's not true as we sit in this room, without malice or greed,
the judgement is final, dissolution of marriage,
"Best of luck to you, with your divorce," he decreed.
The words yet linger like the executioner's bell.
Fourth floor, section B, room 2, where we were kept hostage,
until we stepped through the door, as our past we expell.
11/26/2022
Crisp ...
You lay like solemn ashes
'Neath glass ... spotless, sacred
Dried to bright hues ...
The shades of her lips in chill autumn air
(Winter, whisp'ring soft)
Edges crimped ...
Like the hems of her pleated tartan skirt
You are the vestige, precious
Of a moment ...
A final moment of love, true
Sweaty, sweet passion
That found its confluence under a vault of fire
A canopy of crumbling crimson
Wafting, weaving a rustling woodland blanket
The bed for a callow curiosity
Confusing, carnal, but perfectly imperfect
Numberless months have yet ceded to the wind
(As tender as the moons they bind)
Since I rescued you from the hood of a sweatshirt
Still, your color is unerring
And your scent is ...
Her.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand no 780, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Select V Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge - December - Any Poem NA'd In November 2019" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart - Wishkobi Ode, Judge & Sponsor.
( This poem was written on November 14, 2019, and N/A'd on November 22, 2019 in the Scented Leaves Poetry Contest )
The Catholic Church has a Pope because the papacy was instituted by our Lord Father Christ (Jesus)
The Pope is the visible head of the Church and has supreme authority to preserve doctrine
To teach
To sanctify
The Pope protects dogma and keeps us united in faith
If not for the papal unerring
There would be no certainty in matters of faith
We would have no means of knowing what is true and what is not
We could have no finality of doctrine
Each person would be left to believe whatever he or she "felt" was right
As a result
There would be error
Disunity
Rejection of truths
Adoption of errors etc
We wouldn't even have a Bible since there would be no unerring authority to determine the canon of Scripture
We could never be sure that our beliefs corresponded with truth
We could never be sure we were on a true path leading to salvation
Furthermore
Without the Pope
There would be no preserver of doctrine
No center of unity
No supreme authority visible on earth
The Church was literally founded by our Lord on the "rock" of St. Peter
Without this foundation
The entire structure would fall
Poetry Written: 1072023
Time Written: 10:51a.m.
Poetry Form: Free Verse