Long Vestment Poems
Long Vestment Poems. Below are the most popular long Vestment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vestment poems by poem length and keyword.
Abbott Cat
—————————————(Dedicated to our unique cat Gnash)***.
*…..*****….*****…..
Know that Abbott Cat
Had the stride
Of the pure…placing:
Each step forward
With the slightest lift
of the upper ankle
So to set down his
Paws — first the toes,
Then the heels
As ballet dancers do,
In a gait of grace and
Blessed dignity…
Like the passing by
Of an acolyte — we
May nod our heads
In respect and
recognition
of the passing
Cross.
Abbott held, so
It felt, some
Secret knowledge,
Some gems requiring
A very regal posture.
To carry the inner
Cache of
Secrets of heaven;
Some wisdom
His mews
Could not share?
Still, his noble
Carriage and his
mystery held psalms
Giving lyrics to his
Every motion, with
A prefacing instant
Of a weightless rise.
And, Abbott
Welcomed
An open lap
To curl round upon:
His black, furry back’s
Cape and vestment-
muffler tail,
To be stroked
By a gentle hand,
Without precepts…
Over and again,
Like the redeemer’s
Promises, a gracing
Causing Abbott Cat’s
Spirit a wistful smile,
Plus a coded, grateful
Mew…
———————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 9/2021
Thanks be to God
Their courageous bodies lay like garland
on the sandy shores of Normandy,
Their duty there well defined.
Fearless of every returning home
And with their dying breath's they whispered
For God, Country and the Flag
Let Freedom Ring, Let Freedom Ring
With their last full measure of loyalty
and impeccable divine gratitude.
Honor now their vestment!
Their deaths filled with Integrity!
They sacrificed their lives
Not for "Honor or Glory!"
For "The Stars and Stripes!"
Known as "Old Glory!"
Let your palms be the last twilight,
Which covers my heart with the shroud of repose,
Draping the white silence, an ancestral vestment, at dusk,
Rest that descends over a world forgotten by the living.
May your gaze, the everlasting starry night,
Illuminate the universe that has lain in eternal slumber,
There my soul ascends and in turn ties its wing,
Where peace and the eternal dream have become sacred allies.
May your voice be the vessel of the breezes,
Carrying me to islands where time has woven silence;
The roof of the seas a muted bell, a proclamation,
That the mystery of prayers has quietly unveiled, in its reverence.
Your hair, let it be the willow on the downing evening,
Where echoes of warmth and sweetness still quiver,
Voices of memories in galleries of dreams, hidden and still alive fly,
Getting lost and found in the embrace of day’s end.
And let your soul be the kiss on my cold eyelids,
Unveiling in its clear light, a truth profound and pure,
And every tear dropped, a thought of crystal calling me,
Is the hour preceding a destiny, a future already signed on the horizon.
Our love, late yet so intrinsically natural,
Be the wave that raises us and carries us in song,
Toward eternal shores, in symphonies of sweet pure harmony,
Where love is woven with immortality in the sacred and sweet duet.
VERSE I
she brushed across my shoulders
the bedroom light broke
a breasted scimitar—dancing thoracic throat
what I once outran—now presses my lips
she carried no black-wing omen
yet every breath drew near
purple velvet summons
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS I
kiss drawn, the walls slant inward
and rouge, the dark-root took shape—
as if her inborne blackwork
could make the night a colourless drape.
CHORUS I
Murdering me with Cashmere
tugging at my countless heartbeats
stripping me down to bare nerve
Murdering me with Cashmere
touch that lifted a ceiling curve
a birthright that denied me standing
VERSE II
the air lost a beat near her
piano shuttered its strings
her keratin ruled its hidden kingdoms
where songs outlived clipped-wings
one quick brush of softness
could tilt the atmosphere—
an unquestionable sovereign reign
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS II
marrow-sapped, my bones bleached white
and oooh, my will to power grew thin
her presence pressed antique velour
against my browning-paper skin
a blue-litracution mocked my manly core
CHORUS II
Murdering me with Cashmere
negating my defenses
melting my deep fear
Murdering me—only Cashmere
mist that would not recede
a spell that outlasted me
BRIDGE
she stood there—the verdict given
queen without a crown
her secrets a crashing thunder
hinged to pin me down
and I—
climbed, she was higher
and her hemlock closed in—too near
I fell into her ghast-lit shadow
Murdered soft by Cashmere.
FINAL CHORUS
Murdering me with Cashmere
kindness with a strangler’s grip
a calm that finished the work
Murdering me in Cashmere
queen in vestment of highness—
Lady Caledonia Blue— cyanotic.
OUTRO
she brushed across my shoulders
the world skipped a breath to grieve
softness that occluded on my lungs and stayed
refused to let me leave
her after-mint lodged in my vertebral mind
thorn in every flowing tear—
the night she claimed my arrhythmic heartbeat
Murdering me with Cashmere.
Its off to grandma's old fashion cottage we go;
past snow covered pine trees all in a row.
To her humble abode adorned in holiday charm,
And two grey horses inside the red painted barn.
Inside a crackling fire warming- nothing to compare.
With flickering flames dancing with flair,
Mesmerizing grandpa with a hypnotic spell.
And up the chimney smoke bid's farewell.
Grandma's cooking in her colorful blouse
the smell of baked bread drifts about the house,
And Grandpa snoring, asleep in his comfy old chair
in a plaid shirt and head with no hair.
Outside freshly fallen snow- a winter wonderland,
With frolicking young children mittens on hands
playing with vigor on freshly fallen snow
Their rosy red cheeks fully aglow.
Carolers singing along the snow covered street
each one adorned with a smile to greet
With sleigh bells jingling
and people joyously singing.
The aroma of roasted chestnuts swirls in the frosty air
On Maple street near the town square.
The White Chapel's steeple reaching toward the sky
A glorious symbol to the faithful eye.
Inside the tiny White Chapel with lights burn bright
a beacon to the world on this most glorious of nights.
Inside rich harmonious voices with glory to sing
As flying wild geese with the moon on their wings.
The parson adorned in modest vestment
As the choir sings- a worthy testament
Outside its silent, still and calm
Inside the congregation seeks the Savior's healing balm.
Cheerful hearts gratitude they bring
patiently waiting to celebrate the birth of their king.
For it came upon a mid night clear
as their voices raise for the Lord to hear.
Inside grandma's cottage on this snowy Christmas Eve
snuggled warmly asleep in their bed
waiting for Santa's with presents filled in his sled.
Billy, Tommy, Freddy and Steve
Next to the fireplace for Santa to find.
A glass of warm milk and cookies to dine.
Upstairs Sally and Sue unable to sleep
waiting for Santa to get a sneak peek.
Christmas Tree lights blink with a fury
the children wanting Santa to hurry
And mom and dad quietly sitting
Grandma in her rocker quietly knitting.
Decorated stockings hung with care from the fireplace
Sally’s and grandpa's adored with red and white lace
photos of grandchildren that grew up too fast
Grandmother's cottage with memories of Christmases past.
Off to grandmother’s cottage we go,
past snow covered pines all in a row,
to a cozy home with old fashion charm,
standing beside it the red painted barn.
Inside a crackling fire- nothing to compare.
mesmerizing flames flicker in the air,
each tiny flicker casting a hypnotic spell
up the chimney the smoke bid’s its farewell.
Scented smells drifting about the house,
grandma wearing her colorful blouse,
grandpa asleep in his comfy old chair,
in a plaid wool shirt and a head with no hair.
Outside freshly fallen snow- a winter wonderland,
joyous young children with mitten on hands
playing with vigor in the freshly fallen snow
their rosy red cheeks fully aglow.
Along the snow covered street
people wearing a smile -to greet
sleigh bells are jingling
and people are singing.
smell of chestnuts roasting fill the air
a wave here and a wave there
the chapel steeple reaching toward the sky
a wonderful symbol to the faithful eye.
Inside the chapel with lights so bright
a beacon to the people on this solemn night
rich harmony voice beginning to sing
geese fly with the moon on their wing.
A parson adorned in modest vestment
the choir singing- a worthy testament
The feeling outside is silent, still and calm
the congregation seeking the Savior's healing balm
Cheerful hearts with gratitude they bring
patiently waiting to celebrate the birth of their king.
It came upon a mid night clear
that voices raised for the Lord to hear.
In a small cottage on a snowy Christmas Eve
Billy, Tommy, Freddy and Steve
warmly snuggled in their bed
waiting for Santa in his sled.
A glass of milk and cookies to dine
next to the fireplace for Santa to find.
Sally and Sue unable to sleep
waiting for Santa to get a sneak peek.
Christmas Tree lights blink with a fury
the children waiting for Santa to hurry
with mom and dad quietly sitting
and grandma in her rocker doing her knitting.
Decorated socks hang from the fireplace
Sally’s adored with red and white lace
photos of grandchildren who grew up too fast
filled with memories of Christmases past.
A silver spider spied a golden fly,
and to it most amorously did sigh:
"O most glorious of flies!
What fine wings you have, what eyes!
No earthly thing shows beauty more.
I shall weave in silver thread
a garb for you, a vestment fair,
that we be forever wed,
a common destiny to share.
I in you, and you in me,
O how happy we shall be.
You shall be my metaphor.
To you I'll pose reality."
"I'm sure what moves you is benign,"
the fly replied in dulcet tone.
"Yet I regretfully decline
your offer of a common home.
My gold is - like your silver - pure,
and may such purity endure,
for purity, if once alloyed,
as sure as fate must be destroyed.
To sun and moon it was decreed
not fusion but duality
should constitute reality.
Cohabitation I debar!
I shall admire you - from afar!"
Can we put a man on the moon?
Just asking, hope not too soon..
We've built him a rocket
In the shape of a bed
With nice fluffy pillows
For his white fluffy head
Powered by electrickery
With buttons and dials
It's sure to be comfy
For those final few miles
Can we put a man on the moon?
Not so gender exclusive
It's just time is short
And our volunteer effusive
We have oxygen prepped
With fire safety assessment
All the food is prepared
Every cover and vestment
Has been guilded with love
And we've washed up the dishes
Now a hareem of beauty
To attend to his wishes
It's an easier challenge
Than a rocket and booster
If the attendees can wake up
Without the aid of a rooster
A launch date is looming
So the countdown is clicking
It's weather dependent
And that red button keeps sticking
Not the end of his journey
But the start of another
This spaceman is ready..
Leaving me and my brother
Can we put a man on the moon?
It's an easier ask
But saying goodbye..
That's the heart-wrenching task
Funeral in 1963
Beveled dusty cracked glass shielding Mother Mary enthroned,
Amidst flying angelic devotions atop whipped clouds of icy air,
Enslaved by an antique miracle made manifest in stained blood,
With silent invisible memorized prayers uttered in ancient Latin refrains,
Bowed before upright holy statues and a gold-encrusted grand altar,
He stood back-turned under a dead Jesus hiding his whispering sanctified face,
And the mysterious movements of his ten pious anointing fingers;
As with an airy fountain, he hosed Unction’s graces to the stone seekers,
Bestowing divine mercies by sealed envelope and a black vestment,
The lofty partial indulgences, the immaculate plenary indulgences,
Abundantly delivered and received using withy baskets and black beads.
Hollow dry penances offered up in a confessing private darkness of sorrow,
Within the squeezing superior stares of the priestly knot and the white Alb,
Altar boys on knees beckoning the impulsive turning of the holy human heart;
The struggled speaking of final toxic words on a red bleeding gurney;
Unsaid rosaries and scapular penances finding rusted, grinding precisions;
Broken trust and scarred faith wilting within clay idols and bloody crosses.
There is imminent death in the still waiting, there is red agony without the pain.
Black funeral wallowing within the hushed bereaved church at noon tide in 1963,
Sunken gray corpse of a woman serene, reposing waxlike in her beige groping coffin;
Grieving-suited witnesses and black-devouring shades standing wooden in dreadful silence,
Wondering when it will be their turn, their moment, to jump from this terrified earth,
These undead survivors, these breathing refugees of Unction’s graces,
Remembering now, their concealed matinee kissing games at the seedy Pillbox.
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.