Long Vestments Poems
Long Vestments Poems. Below are the most popular long Vestments by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vestments poems by poem length and keyword.
It is not God's will
When disaster befalls the innocent, it is not God's will
Hope that the evil one will not repent, it is not God's will
When a tornado strikes and destroys everything in it's path
Some believe that the wind was heaven sent, it is not God's will
When the greedy kill and destroy part of God's own handiwork
Blameless hands to God they cannot present, it is not God's will
When self righteous ones point the finger and judge others as bad
How can they explain it at Christ's judgement, it is not God's will
When a drunk driver decides to take the wheel and takes a life
That decision he will surely lament, it is not God's will
When people blame God for all the evil that happens today
Taught by those in glorious white vestments, it is not God's will
15 syllables per line
John Derek Hamilton
April 27,2016
Optical illusions
Seeing is believing at least that's what they say
Sometimes though, what our eyes see leads us astray
World banks and their buildings are so, impressive to the sight
Promising financial freedom, while profits, like birds take flight
Political leaders, world rulers, seem so confident giving their speech
Fulfilling their vainglorious promises however, is often out of reach.
Physical beauty of men and women is often just simply superficial
When cosmetic surgery alters images, they end up looking artificial
Actors and singers, superstars, have their stylists and make up on
All are not as they appear, broken idols ever seeking a glory long gone
Religious leaders with their pomp, showing off illustrious vestments
Optical illusions promising salvation while minding their investments
This world is full of hypocrisy promising things but they are only lies
Optical illusions at their best, but it's time to open our eyes.
John Derek Hamilton
February 12,2016
In the cosmic forge, where stars knead their ethos, there words were born,
To be vestments for the pristine truth, obsidian fervor.
They interlaced, shining fiery like a swarm of fireflies in the twilight of withered memory.
Ruler over glacial silence, the word, a conjurer of shadow-dappled void.
Scribes and harpists of the great audience, from ancient times, forged the alchemy of speech,
Adorning the fabric of the sky in veils of words, in astral embroideries.
They dance, ephemeral and transcendent, upon the holy water of sentiments, washing clean our lines,
In elusive time, truth a venerable temple, with walls of filled secrecy, remaining unconfessed.
The word, in its infirmity of shadows, bears upon its back the arcana of untold worlds,
Carving from the divine’s unseen glitter gateways to edens that seem deserted.
Vocabulary, a chasm between existence and non-being, the host to a dizzying confusion,
Enfolding the vast in shells of sound, twisting into fragments of reality with depths verified.
Woven into curtains of smoke, a spectacle for the eye that wishes to be intoxicated,
Syllables, meteors through the night of thought yearning to ambush the bewildered in flight.
But the mystical crossroads, in these verses secretly long-entwined, the enchanted poet dreaming a maiden,
Unveils the hidden crimson in the symbolic mists, and the words, ever untamed, are cast into forms that whisper: "We are more than we say!”
I was invited to the wedding of one of the daughters
Of a son-in-law of mine who pretended to be a doctor
At a private clinic.
She arrived at the altar dressed as a bride
Not knowing which priest was marrying her.
Beforehand, because the groom was taking so long
She went to confession with a priest
Whose face was hidden.
-Hail Mary, Father.
-Hail Mary, my daugter.
What sins do you have to confess?
-Father, I have a fever in my pussy
That pierces my heart.
Did you make love yesterday
And did your boyfriend rip your flower from its place?
-Yes, Father. But without my consent.
"We were going up the stairs of the house
And, like a lion, his got hard
Grabbing me from behind
Shoveing it in
And I couldn't do anything.
-Were you not wearing panties?
-Yes, Father.
-For God's sake, my child.
Don't provoke the men.
They only thinks about getting laid wherever he can
And they even kill the birds and rabbits
The ones they raise at home.
Say three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers
That God will forgive you.
But, daughter
Judging by the way your dress is flowing
It seems you're already married.
-Yes, Father. Don't tell my fiancé anything.
When she arrived at the altar
The groom was already waiting.
When the priest approached the bride and groom
In all his Mass vestments
To congratulate them on their marriage.
She was stunned
To see this priest who, when a child, baptized her
Sprinkling the holy oils on her pussy
And, when a girl, at her Confirmation
Sticked the aspergillum in her
So that, when she grew up
She wouldn't offer it to any son of a .
Since she was little
And didn't know what it was or what it was for
Other than just for peeing
She answered:
-Yes, put it in deeper, Father
Because it itches.
When the wedding was over
The father told them:
-Pepito, whenever you want to enjoy
Pepita's beauty
It must always be
With her consent.
And your windows and balconies
Must not face the street or the square.
I begin,
with spearmint breath, barefoot, and hushed skin
woken are earth’s aromas of prayer and namaskar
spilling intentions auspicious a focused vow within,
with a promising salutation to the resending rising star
for the faded filaments of ashy ailments, as well
I hear their praises of open routes and yellow brick roads,
fast tracks to filigree of fulfillments where egos swell
gritty goals, lickety-split in their surrealistic abodes
its competition stirs the soul, yet their ebbing eyes be blind
to suit oneself and not the self, the soul-search sold,
to stay true becomes onerous of an untruth abstract mind
The scribbler’s hastened house upholds,
phasing flowers into a creative expression explored,
literary archaic yet no soul from muse’s molds
some choose to pull from brutal banks previously implored
A game of Scribbage, the deal, the play, the show,
noted nothing less nor nothing more,
vintage vantage, a cribbage of blank blurt we all know
forgetful is the fact that we’re all amateurs
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, it’s the way to putrefy
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood shells of bitter taste
the lower plains and the pains and alibis
of watering wells d i s p e l l i n g waste
There’s innocence in our hearts
an inner chamber where the divine never dims
there's a purposeful purity that never parts
it lives inside once broken down, our bones and limbs
it fills the ovoid, gives opportunity, I end with this,
as an appointee, in a designated avatar,
in n o w mindful we won’t miss
as we are receptors of higher light,
held above varmint vestments tsar
we transform our image gone the dark knight
There’s a secret garden inside, drunk on lovestruck swilling
becoming well known, follow the pathless path amidst
to the road I’m on, there, the sacred wells worth drilling,
the one path known as blessed bliss
—A Monk of Quiet Quest
Deep in the woods, nearly three miles back,
far from New York with its tall glass and steel,
on a low ridge that has no proper name,
I stumble on something that feels surreal.
An old-growth forest grove, somehow survived
the thirst of furnaces and logging claims,
straight white pines that, in centuries past,
would’ve been masts for ships sailing the main.
Thick, furrowed bark runs up the branchless trunks
up to a one-hundred-fifty foot height,
maybe they’ll never beat a sequoia,
but in the east, they’re one hell of a site.
Now this hidden plot has dozens of trees
that must be six-feet in width at the base,
throwing so much shade the undergrowth dies,
and you can walk easily through the space.
Jail-bars of light that somehow make it down
do little against the shadowy cool,
fleet squirrels will scamper, disrupting the calm,
as they’re chittering away like young fools.
Trunks rising around me like buttresses,
smooth boulders scattered about are the pews,
the altar is the crest of the low ridge,
for a service know to a blessed few.
Birds high above are impromptu choirs,
communion wine is the babbling brook,
mosses are vestments, worn close to the earth,
pine needles are incense when by the wind shook.
I may like those churches of wood and stone,
but for all of their grace and beauty,
somehow they cannot hold their own against
a seemingly random mish-mash of trees.
How nature so red in tooth and in claw
can create something stately and sublime
out of the chaos that Darwin’s law brings,
has always baffled my poor, human mind.
But feeling so small against aged giants
makes me think these is much more yet unseen,
I do not think it can be an accident
that there exists such a place so serene.
Much as I’d like to show you all the path,
I fear doing so would only end wrong,
great trees last longer when they are unknown,
and I mean for this grand place to live on.
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
The bugles will blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
All tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking won’t stop
After Midnight
The bottom has topped
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Last palate uncleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
A star for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
The plain and the slack
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and turn
After Midnight
Lost vision relearns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—new eyes that believe
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
Last bugle to blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
Old tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking will stop
After Midnight
The bottom will top
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Lost palates are cleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
Two stars for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
That voice in the back
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and churn
After Midnight
Lost vision returns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—creation redeemed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
ideals to inspire soldiers
when 9/11 spewing black clouds meant a
complicated revenge
defeat terrorists, take out bin Laden
remake a country in democratic vestments
golden good intentions that lose their way in
an undertow of violence
the bones of wartime, bullets of combat carnage
Taliban insurgents hide and seek in Pakistan
militants wait to impose their laws
as a regime falls, unhinged by corruption
unwilling to fire a shot
swift capitulation like jaws snapping shut
US departure, flawed
dangles like severed wires
refugees stampede
flee the bondage of remaining
evacuation - a spreading blood stain, chaotic
Afghanistan intervention, no sound preconditions
for success
in an end game that had no ending?
just more of the same?
achievements of 20 years
seep through outstretched hands
like heated wars
storms of desert sand
that fixate on what cannot be changed
Poem composed September 5/21
For Afghanistan Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Gone like September
from the wind
Gone like the Robin
from its wing
Gone like a child
from its laughter
Gone like the memory
of Spring
Gone like the Priest
behind his vestments
Gone like the hours
from the day
Gone like the waves
atop the ocean
Gone like the months
that lead to May
Gone are the reasons
from excuses
Gone are the moments
trapped in time
Gone is today
from tomorrow
Gone is the magic
left behind
Gone are the memories
from recollection
Gone the beginnings
from the ends
Gone every joy
from every sorrow
Gone what you broke
—but couldn’t bend
(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)