Quickens Poems

BRING YOUR SIN

Bring your sin and the ugliness within
It’s all we bring: our part of the equation
But He quickens us to Christ
This Desire of every nation
The ingredients found in the preparation
Is the recipe for God’s vindication
It’s more than a metaphor
It’s an intimate union prepared by the Lord
And as we doubt and fall, sinking as did Peter
Let us cry out to our Overcomer and Leader
(And daily we need our Savior because of our behavior)
“Mein Körper und mein Blut” says Martin Luther
But it’s more than just elements
But we have faith (and sin we exchange)
For our development
(It’s a spiritual imbibing of Jesus Christ
Needed for the Christians ambling through this life)
Myriads and myriads of angels 
Descending and ascending on Jacob’s Ladder
For periods and periods in eternal life
We will live this faith (with each other), and for our Master
(In closing hear the pastor’s call, to all)
The Law and The Gospel, they work in tandem 
As the Old Testament puts the baton in the New Testament hand 
This is our faith that’s not contrary to reason
Even as we walk together with The King of the land

Night Whispers in our Ears

      Daybreak trumpets adventure
        night whispers in our ears
      Doubts dispelled by sunlight
        darkness quickens our fears 

      The moon shines bright
         as candlelight
      Stars race through the heavens
         wing-ed flight 

      Ere dawn stirs the day
         doves coo and play
      ‘Tis the season for lovers
          saints and poets pray

Summer's End

Summer’s End

The sun begins to set a little earlier now—
a gentle breeze brushes past my suntanned face and
I walk briskly on the sand which feels cool beneath my feet.
My pace quickens, like the prance of a Cat on the prowl.

Once home, the trees which line the street on which I live
stand majestically tall.  No longer still, they begin to
sway to the music of the gentle breeze which softly touches
and fondles the leaves with a caress that only the breeze can give.

The air envelopes me, telling me it’s cooler than before—
and I run to the place that I call home,
Glad to be sheltered from something I feel in the air—
from a sky whose sun, today, will shine no more.

I pause in the house whose windows openly beckon the freshness of the crisp breeze as it quietly enters, gently pushing aside the ruffled curtains, and as it filters through the rooms—
I suddenly realize, it’s Summer’s End!

Correctional Choreography poem

It’s a place I feel off—
not wedded to anything.
Truculent.
I think in riddles
and answer in metaphors.

I dance on my tiptoes—
an adagio of agony.
Passion pirouettes
out of sight.

Tethered.
Bound by grief.
Temptation forgotten,
tempered.
It no longer exists.

It was a pas de deux,
now it’s just a deuce—
a petulant penitent,
an unwanted pardon.

The dancer stirs.
The pulse quickens
to a tango.

Recalcitrant and longing.
Unable to follow the white line
unless it’s condemned.

So the path ahead is delusional—
felt, not seen.
When will the blocks of life
build up
and make me feel safe?

I feel like I’m
in a correctional facility.
I am my own door.
I am my own jailor.

I realise I have the key.
I bury it
under the pile of shame
in the corner.

Angelic Sulphur

Angelic Sulphur



Angelic sulphur streaming downward on a glistening ray of light 



Essence of daybreak imbues a radiant effigy of hope 



Culmination of atmospheric shimmering and sky bound illuminations leave me in awe of such blue yonder



Firmaments of peace lay beneath the majesty of a fig tree 



And a brimming overwhelm captures my soul as the beauty borders on profound



My communion with the breaking sunlight has left me with a fervour 



For all the compliments that natural beauty simply cannot be found in mankind



Reluctantly my soul and I depart and head back toward the bleak cityscape



Thunderous clouds of polllution illustrate my growing unease



Another burden appears as the skyline quickens with buildings 



And the angelic memories from the morning light persist as if telling me there is a home beyond this man made abomination

unforced errors

In tennis,
Love means nothing.
Off the court,
It’s everything.
 
Tennis and love start the same—
Your pulse quickens, hands shake.
Your first high school match,
You lose the opening service game to love.
You would’ve felt less gutted
Had your opponent eviscerated you.
 
Tennis is a game
Of little lives and quiet deaths,
Each break point converted, electric—
Every winner a shock to the heart.
The points lost to careless mistakes internally bleed you,
Matches lost as a result of a million little cuts.
 
You could hold a eulogy
For each match lost,
Mourning them from the bleachers,
Hoping your team won’t feel the same loss.
 
The court slips away,
The way he did—
Your reach, no matter how fierce,
Falls short.
You swing, you miss—
The same way you lost him,
By fractions.
By fleeting moments.
By flaws you thought you could fix.
 
And when you walk off court,
It’s like leaving him again—
Bruised and breathless,
Haunted by points you’ll never win back.
 
The first time you fall in love,
He doesn’t stay.
And you carry it with you,
A soft ache beneath the skin,
Like the match you almost won
But couldn’t quite keep
In your hands.

Not Anne but Gabrielle

Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow

If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.

Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.

Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.

I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.

No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.

I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.

Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.

Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.

Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.

Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.

I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.

?

© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.

The Road Ahead

     A gaslit street
       of cobblestone

     The horse-drawn carriage
       faintly moans

     A snowstorm quickens
       the traveler groans

     The road ahead
        no longer shown

     His way home
       no longer known

     The road ahead 
        no longer shown

      A white tombstone
        whistles ~ all alone

Half Past Summer, Two Months Till Fall

Length of days begins to wane, twilight quickens 
and moonlight obeys the seasonal call of nature.
The time is half past summer, two months till fall
and the warm splayed fingers of sunlight's heat 
are reaching for the zenith of their time to reign.
Soon, night will darken earlier; stars appear brighter,
and autumn's crisping days will wither crimson leaves
fluttering in swan song dances, swirling on the ground.

Writing Like the Dickens

    It’s so hard to start
    Brain and pen, poles apart

       Yet two lines in, the pace quickens
       Soon you’re writing like the dickens

    Thoughts stream in and out your head
    Fish them out, else they’re left unsaid

       Moments ago, you left yourself for dead 
       Now a bird aloft, your words ~ wings spread

swerve

hairpin turn
road, verses' wit—
pulse quickens

Winter's Passing

Winter's Passing

warmer temperatures hasten Winter’s passing—quickens Spring’s coming

Trancefire

Mystic dancer in the firelight,
spinning, swirling as her soul takes flight,
chasing spirits on an astral plane
and catching them to call by name.

Perspiration beads on her skin,
arms spread like wings of her peregrine,
bracelets jingle and scatter light
and she dances late into the night.

Drummers beat out a strong tattoo,
her tempo quickens, her heartbeat too,
as visions spiral around her head
conjuring spirits of dancing dead.

She slips the veil without a glance,
and shadow-selves begin their dance.
Her falcons carve the moonlit air—
and now she's flying, wild and bare.

The fire sends embers up like stars,
she soars past Mercury and Mars,
hearing old songs in tongues once known,
and bringing back silence, but not alone.

She settles to Earth in the deepening night
as the fire burns low, no longer bright.
A blink, a smile, and her trance subsides
as prophecies in her eyes abide.

Zen mode

the Bindu point glows
our toroidal heart listens 
flow of pranic breath is slow
yet pulse of awareness quickens

Foreboding

Foreboding...
The air is thick, too still, too deep,
a hush that lingers, holds its breath,
as if the world itself won’t speak.

Foreboding...
Shadows coil along the walls,
not moving, yet not quite still,
watching, waiting—silent calls.

Foreboding...
The wind hums low, a hollow tune,
whispering secrets through the trees,
warning that something is coming soon.

Foreboding...
A footstep sounds—but you are alone,
your pulse quickens, your fingers shake,
a chill that settles in the bone.

Foreboding...
The door creaks open, darkness stirs,
a presence lingers, unseen, unknown,
a voice that whispers just one word... Run.

• Short Quickens Poems
• Famous Quickens Poems
• Best Quickens Poems
• Read Quickens Poems
• Long Quickens Poems
• Quickens Quotes