Long Worshiper Poems
Long Worshiper Poems. Below are the most popular long Worshiper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Worshiper poems by poem length and keyword.
He knows his splendor
would be too much
to take in all at once,
and so he announces his coming
by revealing little bits of himself...
A sun drenched tree in the distance
a building all lit up in his glory,
the windows ablaze with fire
Little by little, he creeps closer and closer
to where I stand watering the lawn.
Not wanting to overwhelm me,
he creeps up from behind
and I feel his touch
on the nape of my neck.
Enveloped by warmth, I turn around
for my kiss.
Oh, what sweet delicious bliss
He then continues on his way
taking control of the sky,
exuding his authority
by turning everything in his path
to pure gold.
Slowly, but surely...
he subjugates everything he touches
till he reaches his zenith in the sky,
and is the supreme ruler of life.
This I know, and of this I am certain
that I am and will always be
a worshiper of the sun!
Eileen Manassian
Fear recalled; the taste of sweat in retreat, when
one can never seem to run far enough or fast enough.
Remembering the Christian children’s chants of
devil worshiper, atheist; the taunting hell they saw
for those not blessed to be themselves.
The jeer of the crowd for those apart, the mob
mentality of the Christian heart, the damn you if
you’re not me to a girl of eight, defies any amount
of time to heal. Memories are not obliterated.
Breathless behind a hollow-core door, gasping
tears, a heart pounding to the beat of fists on panel;
fear recalled as bile rose; hate thrown, the Jew bated.
This was only an inkling of what Tanta felt.
Nineteen fifty-six, eleven years after the end of WWII,
I saw the numbers burned into my families’ skin,
the ones still alive to show them to a child of eight.
-broken glass nights, crowded trains, death camps
New England was still gripped in a Christian hell,
at eight, at twelve, at eighteen—and every Christmas
in between—don’t speak, don’t tell, don’t let them
know you’re different—different, hated, taunted,
chased, and if possible erased.
Prejudice knows no boundary of time or place, the
fear, the mob, the gang, the chanting group, alive
still in the 21st century. When you kneel, and pray,
even when you say Amen.
First Published by Synchronized Chaos Spring 2015
Always sad to see descendants of slaves with chains around their necks and wrists.
Some of my ancestors were hunted down, kidnapped, confined, sold, raped, flogged, exploited, gagged, tortured, executed, massacred, and dehumanized for centuries on the slave plantations of the Caribbean.
Too many dark skins were forced to curse their melanin, prostituting themselves on the dilapidated sidewalks of servitude.
Too many traitors among Afro-descendants.
Western prisons profit from carceral negrophobia.
Racialist statistics like the supremacist articles of the Code Noir.
I will not kneel for the death of a macaque who believed in the racist ravings of the West.
I no longer bow to their God since I read the Code Noir and the papal bull of the pedophile slave trader Nicholas V.
I am at war; I see the world through an ethnic prism, like the apostles of the Ku Klux Klan.
I loathe miscegenation when I reread the tragic accounts of the horrors of the savagery of slavery.
I do not raise my fist to the sky like a Black Panther.
I would rather brandish a Soviet Kalashnikov to defend my dignity on barren lands hostile to my Africanness.
I fiercely believe in the salutary brutality of violence.
You who read me are suicidal if you seek comfort in the rawness of my death-obsessed ravings.
I am neither a poet nor a dreamer.
I live the daily life of a hardened criminal in the labyrinths of the illicit.
I cannot recount the offenses of my judicial pedigree.
A worshiper of the principles of Omertà.
I am an angel if you mind your own life without poisoning mine.
I have never loved; I do not believe in love; my life is not glamorous.
Human beings worship the sweetness of lies over the warmth of truth.
Everything is clear in the stench of my incurable wounds.
Everything is written in the darkness of my indelible scars.
I am a free man.
I am not racist; it’s just that I don’t like your ugly mug.
I won’t tell you; you’ll know it by watching the flames of hell writhing in the depths of my eyes reddened by suffering.
My forebears survived the overcrowding of slave ships only to be displayed on counters by slave traders.
It's there, been there all along
Just hanging out, like a tag
Telling those looking upon
That your dressing skills have a snag
...inattentive
Every environment, no matter where
The air is thick with loosh, like sludge
The anger and pull for power
Lingers like a long held grudge
...suppression
Governments and systems carry it
The way the movements push and pull
Grabbing and gaining other's goods
For the punishment of following the rule
...submission
Then, there's the string of religions awry
Everyone can have a God to serve
Making all the words and deeds behave
For rewards the worshiper knows they deserve
...inventive
All leading the probe in the rotten roots
Diving deeper into every new world
Those who have held power, until now
Having to endure TRUTH be unfurled
...impatience
Yes...patience is the KEY...and they will never have it!!!
Written by Trudy Schrader on 08-20-2026
Though I'm ugly and I'm old,
And I'm fat and I'm bald,
And I'm grey and I'm cold;
I've still a story to be told …
I've never been a handsome prince
As far as I can tell;
Unless I lost my memory
During a witch’s evil spell!
I started my spawned life in a pond,
In that valley, there beyond,
I haven't always been a 'toad-in-the-hole',
I was once, a cute tadpole,
Hmmmn … those were the days.
I'm a source of fear for superstitious folk
The hapless butt of many a joke,
I'm not endearing, or the least bit cute,
With all the charm of a hob-nail-boot.
I’m not a worshiper of the sun,
My warty skin preferring it dank,
So I make my home in a shaded hole,
In a man-made stone hedge, or a bank.
You might think that I'm between
A rock and a hard place,
That I've got my back to the wall,
But it's me that's never worked,
Paid tax or had a mortgage,
And never had to go to school!
January 3 Scripture Meditations Based on Genesis 6-8
Key Verse - Genesis 6:8 But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD.
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR ALLOWING ME TO FIND GRACE IN YOUR EYES
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a blessing
Despite my carnality of sinfulness’ cursing
Praise be to You for salvation-bracing
Making me Your child with eternal life possessing.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a privilege
Despite my flesh-strivings of pride’s knowledge
Praise be to You for righteousness-imputation I acknowledge
Making me Your saint with new creation toward heavenly mileage.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a time of gladness
Despite my selfishness hiding in hypocrisy’s brightness
Praise be to You for Your mercy and forgiveness
Making me Your convert toward transformation along holiness.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a sure victory
Despite my vain cravings and worldly thoughts’ flurry
Praise be to You for Your sanctification-glory
Making me Your follower who walks with You, proclaiming Your story.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a proof of Your approval
Despite my failures attributed to enemies hindering my survival
Praise be to You for Your power causing my prayer-filled revival
Making me Your will-abider shut in Your prevailing love-festival.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a service-motivation
Despite my unfaithfulness brought by fleshly corruption
Praise be to You for Your steadfast compassion
Making me Your steward who complies to Your instruction.
To find grace in Your eyes, Lord, is a desire of my heart
Despite my zeal assuaged, abated and restrained by iniquity’s dart
Praise be to You for wisdom propelling my being from the start
Making me Your worshiper offering sacrifice with sweet savoured part.
January 3, 2022
Dearly loved;
Beloved-
you are dear to the heart of God you are loved;
Ever are we I am you are;
Beautiful-
Wonderfully made;
You are I am we are polish vessel ;
Hybrid cascade;
Filled with purest Waters of Heaven;
I am chosen I am;
Beloved-
I am dear;
Loved revered;
I am valued I am prized sincere;
I am loved;
Just a man, a happen stance;
Qualified;
Opened eye my heart sees,
God's plan I sit at the Father's feet;
His fragrant frankincense myrrth, so sweet;
Dearest one, dearest heart sweet admired;
Precious darling fellow worshiper of God's desire;
You are adorned forever more;
Revered cherished I honor;
Beloved -
That, that you are my heart's darling;
Sweet than the purest rains, Heaven drops;
You are God's heart darling;
Beloved -??
7/15/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
As i read the last chapters of Isaih
in the hours middle of the night
i encountered them missing verses
they tell the story of Isaihs wife
tell of Isaih's journey to heaven
and his fight with pollynesians
a race of females who enslave
by use of technology and magic
they had taken over the gadgets
Solomonic devices used for communication
Isaih managed to defeat the pollynessians
and destroyed all the solomonic gadgets
Isaih gave up his spirit and was taken
to heaven because heaven will need his
help again in the future
the future when the solomonic devices rise
and the pollynessians try to gain dominion
once again through the technology
they hyponotise the user of the gadgets
the user becomes a worshiper of pleasure
and material wealth worshiper
that night am sure i read the missing chapters
the story is still very clearly in my mind
next day i searched for the chapters
to no avail and i wasn't sure any more
whether i had dreamt up
the whole thing
lewis nyaga
Remembering fear.
The sweat of retreat when one can never seem
to run far enough or fast enough.
Remembering the Christian children’s chants.
Devil worshiper, godless,
the taunting hell they saw for those
not blessed to be themselves.
The jeer of the crowd for those not part.
The mob mentality of the Christian heart.
The damn you if your not me to a girl of eight
defies any memory to obliterate.
Breathless behind
a hollow core door gasping with tears
a heart pounding
with the hate thrown the Jew bated.
Was this even an inkling of what Tanta felt
as the German’s knocked down the door.
The marks on her skin brought memories
of trains and camps and more.
And, here in America land of the free
in a place which prides itself on Christianity
remembering the fear at eight, at twelve
and at eighteen every Christmas in between.
Don’t tell, don’t speak, don’t let them know
your different from them…………..
different hated, taunted, chased and if possible erased.
Remember the fear the mob, the gang, the chanting group
when you stand, and pray, when you say Amen.
Remember Christ was a Jew and what was done to him.
Pray that this is never done to another child again.
*Tanta means Aunt in Yiddish...the combination of German & Hebrew that most Jewish folk
speak. Yes this is me and yes half my family is Jewish. BUT I am not considered Jewish by
Jews. Judaism is a matrilineal religion.
He stood tall and strong
A rock where someone could rest
A place of solace and contemplation
After a lengthy, trying test
...then, he fell
She was absolutely perfect
The picture of peace and shelter
Circumstances rose and fell
At the fire of God that seemed to melt her
...then, she fell
A leader that commanded attention
When he walked in any room
He balanced politics and religion
Like a weaver handles the loom
...then, he was no more
An inspiration to all in a world of despair
She brought food, clothing, shelter to the poor
She loved on orphan children and vagrants
Like Jesus, opening giant ornate doors
...then, she was no more
Funny how TRUTH ruins everything in her wake
The uncovering of what was held dear
Shows the worshiper that isolation
Is that best way to hold fear, near
...until, we are all human
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-02-2026.3