Resurrects Poems | Examples

Mystic Phantom

Amidst the ebon of my lonely room
I feel a covert brush across my face.
The phantom from my dreams disrupts the gloom,
which terminates despair's profound embrace.

Her mystic coffee eyes entrance my soul
as freedom's blanket warms my frigid heart.
This charmer's stitch has sealed seclusion's hole,
now dammed, the flow of somber tears will part.

My trusting fingers grasp her guiding hand
as flames of adoration burn within.
I bow before her sensual command
and let the blaze of passion's fire begin.

We sail the sea of fascination's kiss
and bathe in waves of rapture's soft caress,
then anchored at the dock of Eden's bliss,
we mingle on the beach at love's address.

My spirit's flooded by enchantment's rain,
which resurrects a buried peace inside.
Beneath the midnight moon she's freed all pain.
Upon her magic ship my dreams now ride.

rain

each drop resurrects
every forgotten moment ~
sunflower-smiles shine

Fire and Ice

Amidst the ebon of my lonely room 
I feel a covert brush across my face. 
The phantom from my dreams disrupts the gloom, 
which terminates despair's profound embrace. 

Her mystic coffee eyes entrance my soul 
as freedom's blanket warms my frigid heart. 
This charmer's stitch has sealed seclusion's hole; 
now dammed, the flow of somber tears will part. 

My trusting fingers grasp her guiding hand 
as flames of adoration burn within. 
I bow before her sensual command 
and let the blaze of passion's fire begin. 

We sail the sea of fascination's kiss 
and bathe in waves of rapture's soft caress, 
then anchored at the dock of Eden's bliss 
we mingle on the beach at love's address. 

My spirit's flooded by enchantment's rain, 
which resurrects a buried peace inside. 
Beneath the midnight moon she's freed all pain. 
Upon her magic ship my dreams now ride.

I Do Not Write Poems to Weaken

I do not write poems to weaken the heart,
I write the words that flow from the heart.
I believe people will understand me,
If their hearts still beat with sincerity.

I do not write on paper random things,
I bring to life the thoughts that my mind brings.
They become poems, flowing from my pen,
The voice of the poet awakens again.

I do not write for profit or gain,
Nor do I lease them out or sell my name.
Yet, within poetry, there's a sacred power,
That revives and resurrects them forever.

I write my poems with inspiration’s spark,
For truth that’s clear, unshaken, and stark.
The words left by Abai and Mukh still shine,
I carry them, unbroken, through time.

I write to stretch the lives we hold dear,
To lift the spirits and bring them near.
With poetry, Allah gave us a clear way,
To live forever, in verses that stay.

I write to soothe sorrow with kind words,
To make the wicked weep with truth unheard.
I write my poems to touch the soul,
To melt the ice, to make hearts whole!

For the sorrow that clouds my people’s days,
Who else will write if I don’t raise?
Those who my written poems never read,
They are the ones who I despise indeed.

Invoking grace

Betrayed by our muse,
seems we’re doomed to lose
but then blushing heart
resurrects lost art.

Soul’s poetic rhythm
in mind-body prism,
flows when we let go
ego’s need to know.

Universal mind
and heart when aligned,
births a divine spark,
that lights up the dark.

To invoke such grace,
steps to soul retrace,
making our heart pure
and love’s touch demure.

the lost refrain

The lost refrain resurrects,
music of the spheres reflects,
absorbed by heart, voiced by mind,
songs sublime, loving and kind.

Slower than slow, slower still,
drop by drop, voids within fill,
as love in love, for love’s sake,
willingly burns at the stake.

All that that is, is a flame,
which on symbols lays its claim,
creating bubbles in space,
orbiting fulcrum of grace.

Poised at the in-between stage,
there being no wars to wage,
lost refrains become the cause,
to brighten the pregnant pause.

The Maestro And His Deaf Child

Quote: Bring forth the music dear lover of soul, she's waiting for a drop   

A Conducter's baton fills the air with caresses of passion and zest 
as a black patent leather shoe taps gently on a varathane wood plank
it sends a sensory cortex vibration to a deaf infant child, pure elation.  

With a suave wave of his delicate hand the conductor brings the music  
to a regal Orchestra who is finely attuned to a child's ears like fine sand.  
Waltzelettos to the heart, the child doesn't hear not does she cry 
when a salt and pepper haired man raises his tuxedo sleeves in the air,  
the heart pumps blood and resurrects her once more.  
 
Staccato notes each detached and separated from the other, 
the newborn listens, lost in a paradise of movement and sound.  

Infinite notes from a seasoned Maestro,
head is sewn to the carpet next to a transistor radio,  
the toddler remembers louder days 

He was a German Maestro/composer and his name was Carlos Kleiber, 
today he sleeps in a quiet memorial room,  in beautiful Slovania.

O Maiden Fair

O maiden fair whose elegant space that  I, a little ant has found grace
It’s true that the breath of the devil resurrects Death
               But your beauty can raise both Death and the devil to light
              See your skin, as warm as a beige that glows under the merciless sun
              And backdrops all the layers of gold you have dangling from your arms
             O your eyes, feline and utterly luminous
             As if they project their own ray beams

           Fine woman of svelte neck, straight back and sturdy hips, 
          I secretly watch you – and patiently await my turn of acquaintance
         To feel the peace of your calm temperament 
         And visualize up close the form of your 
         Lovely essence. 
      Speak to me, speak with me, why do you succumb to sorrow for the world that we despise?
Your tears leave me with a wounded heart. Come, cleave my breast and see

Ego

ego identity long since vaporised 
at times yet surreptitiously resurrects
it’s now like a dusty, discarded book
lying somewhere on our bookshelf

it served its purpose in our early years
but then acquired a mind of its own
soon after tail began wagging the dog
so we plucked it out to sing soul’s song

we now roam the earth bubbling with mirth
this is taken as an orientation unbecoming 
trauma bonding with darkness most fear light
so we dwell in the void, vibrant in our aloneness

Thoughts Thrown From a Pier

It seems nothing is ever lost
but is transmuted, returns
to another state
or resurrects 
into something new.
Take thoughts thrown from
a pier into the dark 
water lapping below.
They make no sound
as they sink, resigned 
to their fate,
becoming whispery filaments
of what had been 
spectral inhabitants
of the head.

Long threads rise
to the surface and float
free to catch the moonlight,
becoming strands of silver
drifting off on an outgoing tide.
Where they go
nobody knows although
they are more than
what they seem,
webs set to catch 
a passing soul and weave
a lovely face
into the tapestry 
of a dream.

kingdoms notes

You stole my far away kingdom
didn't say what for?
Said I didn't have the jurisdiction 
to grapple my own crown

The ice resurrects steely bacteria 
will our antibiotics endure?


I feel all elephantine
the piper is never paid 
My foot prints are all asunder
on ancient sanded dunes

My ship is sinking
The troubadour sings
The innkeeper perilously on the cliff yelps
some erratum does he detect

Jesus, The Christ

He weeps and
prays like humans.
He SAVES like God.

He HEALS like God.
He sleeps and hungers
like humans.

He teaches
and preaches like humans.
He FORGIVES like God.

He pays taxes like humans.
He RESURRECTS and WALKS
ON WATER like God.

He CLEANSES LEPERS,
CASTS OUT DEMONS,
and FEEDS THOUSANDS like God.

He BLESSES CHILDRENS and
UNSTOPS DEAF EARS like God.
Jesus, The Christ, was born
in a stable like animals.

112423PS

The Last Dream

Sleepless hours
turn gray and faceless.

At last the mind veers away from itself
that last sleep addled dream
comes to you in tinted monochrome.

This is where all our ghost live,
there behind night exhausted lids.

The dawn resurrects
clocks and watches,
devices flicker through the seconds,
yet the late sleeper has only now
fallen into a last dream.

Then the ghosts
who haunt themselves arrive,
they all want you to read
the sad stories they have become,

and you do
through you also rewrite their tales
as if they were you
awakening in their graves.

I,A Soul

with twittering,tweeting and chirps of chiffchaff
a sublime chime of hope resurrects inside

i,a wild rose,somewhere in the pastures grown
i grow,i alter every day,every hour and minute

Some days are filled with achromatic gloom
making ways for impending doom

To taste death one day,i live many days
each passing moment unite me with tale of yesterday

i am the present,who is past eating future perpetually
standing aloof from miseries and pleasures

that was not the rub-i haven't cared enough
I,a soul,who in the body,somewhere hidden

April

 
Atmosphere alive
Pleasant birdsong in the dawn
Rosy flowers bloom ~
Immanuel resurrects
Love lavished with life lasting



30th March 2023

For Andrea Dietrich's "March into April - Tankacrostic" contest

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