Procession Poems - Poems about Procession

Though we are fallen, we can still find beauty. And gentle spirits, clothed in living flesh. The world of woe, will still have its graces. There flows a current, upon the dark river. That holds truth in life, following the hard path. Reaching for the stars, we survive the crush. Yet we cannot hold, the weight forever more. when spirit crosses, and light fills the darkness. Maybe then we'll find, the love...

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Summer's parade Is on its way. Cirrus pennons At the forefront As high skied, and of their shape Foreshow who celebrate With kites that day. Best procession! Fun's; unrestrained! Life, the benign Which radiates In sync with bouncy posture And a ball-rolling gesture Our part. - you're gained!...

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His participation won't be needed But he has this fact not heeded: To their church his father's lands ceded And church-building time had them weeded. It is in real mystery shrouded; When the issue was raised halls crowded. "Here men have ascended God's Heaven, One with six plots he soon made seven Joel with ten he dragged to eleven, And this buffoon prefers their...

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April's scratchy rain drives daffodils ornate glow garden temple bliss spiked blooms of proud gold sweet charm of composed spires in sunlight leisure drift to awareness canopy of yellow buds that come up for air Composed: April 20, 2021...

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The funeral procession Moved in silence Through the empty lane; Otherwise, A busier street of, Puddles during rain, And those buzzing horns off, On all by-lanes, Gave no goosebumps, As always. The sumptuous ride, of the fabulous virus, Created fear amongst the masses. The funeral of my friend too Laid off in silence. Only a handful loved ones Could attend her last rites. I remembered, Those golden school days, A few...

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This is the closest that I have ever been to a funeral for more than forty years, a young boy just eighteen was shot dead for stealing I sat quietly on the school veranda and watch the hearse drive into the yard and parked on the property that house the church and the school. I...

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An Image of the Traffic in Kolkata “Be careful, look out, swerve to the right, you’ll hit the...

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Life is a procession of days, They fly past us, With acute precision, They keep us with a vision, Times are floating by, We live in days, At times happy, At times sorrowful, And at times dull, Yet our count on earth, Continues to evaporate, The doctor comes, The priest comes, Our lives and our times vanish....

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(a saeta is a brief, improvised gypsy song, associated with the high emotion of the Holy Week processions) Once a year O Santiago we gather here for this farrago. Our sandals wear the same old track - once round the square, then shuffle back. With sinners' cones on every head we gaze on bones of saints long dead we...

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There goes a lonely soul in a coffin carried by pallbearers which step forward with slow-pace a funeral leader goes with black umbrella up the brass band follows: the trumpet vomits blood from its shredded heart, one step forwards leaning to left the trombone steps backward heaving a heavy sigh, two steps leaning to right; when the...

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Stately,slender trees- Procession towards heaven From the woods uphill...

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The Funeral Procession By Elton Camp The town’s richest old miser finally died So only a few cars went on the final ride Out to the cemetery to see him put away Where he would stay until judgment day A man on the sidewalk removed his hat It was nice to see such respect as that What I saw next looked so...

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fog's fingertips creep moon silently cackles, grins... soft glow on blackness twisted trees moan, creak pumpkins' wrinkles choke, dig deep... lit up distortions shuffling, shifting steps spirited procession, screams... smiles flash, trick or treat! *** Sept. 9 2010 for Linda-Marie's Halloween haiku contest :)...

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All in a dream A procession A walking past A feeling of their acceptance All ages seen but mainly a happy old Another strange dream best left untold Some faces I recognise there Seen with a smile a wave old Granddad So my lovely Grandma the paternal side There look are the kind Mr and Mrs Lozelle There between them in...

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See the procession. Yonder they come' None plays a flute- no one beats a drum. Just a small rag-tagged group of a dozen or so. Who, for three years, have preached wherever they go. They know this ministry will soon draw to a close. What door God opens next, He only knows' Yet there is an aura about this group of...

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