Shriven Poems | Examples

HINDSIGHT 20 20

HINDSIGHT 20 20

It was Atlanta, and not many years ago
With the world crashing about my ears
Pledges made and encouragement given
Smiles and kisses seemed natural to me
It was only selfishness and a cold heart
That reason would finally tear us apart
Was it just fake and never meant to be
And such little chance of being shriven
The only genuine things left were tears
But it taught me lessons I should know

From then on, I’d be a lion not a lamb
Not letting any hope give way to fear
And resume my once purposeful path
Toward those rewards that can satisfy
Your expectations were way too much
I’d felt like a pet rabbit kept in a hutch
But I never did meekly curl up and die
I was more than a keeper of the hearth
But it’ll not be like that again, my dear
As the script said, I don’t give a damn

Whats the current con-currancy

Some had bank accounts taken  t'was on the news this
Situation' 
Though some reasons were given.! That these people were un-ruly
Un-shriven?
Yet that turned out a misnomer? Or a lie.?  Maybe
Just a stumer?
Let us trust in the passage; of some time, all can't
Manage, thats.Just fine.
Will there be a retribution? On these operatives of
Institutions?
Social steerers; cheerers of default  changing, who appear
Mostly as changelings'
Should the cohorts of a feather? Get some tar as per
To the letter?
Will the emails be 'flying?' Will many pundits be vying??
Is there any reality?
Can there; be? some countering of such insanity?

FORGIVENESS

FORGIVENESS

They say that I should have forgiven
Well, maybe could instead of should
Such generosity of spirit is rare in me
I am at heart, a somewhat cold entity
If I were able to forgive, well I would
Perhaps in Church I should be shriven

It takes time for my annoyance to fade
As I am after all, a very sensitive soul
Yet others seem to forgive and forget
But deep inside they’re seething, I bet
Surely mutual understanding is the goal
Maybe it takes time to make the grade

An insult will sting but it can be worse
Maybe I lack a sufficient absorbency
But why should I just take the blows
My righteous position surely shows
Demand an apology and then we’ll see
But to just buckling under, I am averse

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday, the day to confess and repent
As we enter the solemn season of Lent
The ashes remind us that "Dust thou art"
And one day from this world we will depart.

Worldwide, the faithful honor this tradition
With devotional hearts and sincere contrition
But, sadly, some people are not so disposed
To "Love thy neighbor" their hearts are closed.

Thus, the Russian leader is attacking Ukraine
Causing destruction and inflicting pain
Amidst the bombings and rocket flashes
Businesses and dwellings are reduced to ashes.

Today sacred ashes we wear on our forehead
But whose soul will bear the ashes of the dead?
The guilt of this burden to the tyrant is given
In the eternity to come can he ever be shriven?

Molly Moore

Destroyer of Love

Love so easy when stars align
One kiss one touch you are mine
We enter realm of truly sublime
What went wrong? I missed first sign
'twas the criticism you did design
no longer can I worship at your shrine

You took my love so freely given
Forget forgiveness you won't be shriven.



This started out as a vaasokht but am afraid it did not follow rules entirely.

My Testimony

The day I had to force a smile,
For a moment  I was imbecile,
I had to  pretend just for a while,
Unable to walk; I  was immobile.

Lying on that bed I was in great pain,
But for a moment I confused my brain,
After all I had undergone I had to refrain,
Like a poet I thought of writing a cinquain.

Today I can testify there is God in Heaven,
I feel His presence when having a sweven,
He is a wonder working God; I have Shriven,
He truly lives and through me He has proven.

Dreams

DREAMS
A re-occurring dream I have with such 
A vivid set of sight and sound and touch
That in that other world the question’s posed
Is this only a dream soon to be closed?
The answer oft as not is: No! It’s real
What else could give such graphic sense and feel
 
Yet in brief course of time we soon return
To life that’s more than such a brief sojourn
Enjoined to judge this as the world that’s real
To which we must revert, the dream repeal
And so we choose to denigrate our vision
As unreality that must be to be shriven

But what, when young, we see as life unending
A climb to peak so distant we’re ascending
As years go by, perceived as finite stake
A dream perhaps from which we may awake 
A difference? Brief or long the candle burn
Each IS experience for which we yearn

Therefore we may reject as test: duration
Since time itself is subject to mutation
‘Real world’, if we must judge and make decree.
Is that which we concur, we sense and see.
I’ll share with you and you - life long deems
But choose to also live in my own dreams

Lent

Lent

Malasada* Day was merrily spent
Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras - many names are given
To this final day before the season of Lent
When around the world Christians are shriven.

Now, "Dust thou art, unto dust thou shalt return"
Are words that are solemnly spoken
As with prayer and fasting people inwardly turn
Ashes on their head as a mindful token.

It seems this message can be taken to heart
No matter one's religion or philosophy
Self reform and reflection are a vital part
Of creating a healthy society.

So, during this Lent let us choose to fast
From divisiveness and animosity
We can foster a cohesiveness that will last
And nurture our beloved democracy.

Molly Moore

    * Malasada is a Portuguese doughnut without a hole.
      The Portuguese came to Hawaii in the 19th century to work
      on the sugar plantations and have remained to contribute
      to the rich cultural tapestry of our islands.

Molly Moore

Snow Day For the Dead

If those buried beneath our boots
could rise today,
would they moan, turning shriven features
to the frozen earth,
or would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen, 
sticking black bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and sockets?

Sadly some,
the frost-formed and un-melting,
might hitch rides on the windows of cars,
return to defunct offices
(briefcases stuffed with snow),
to labor over epitaphs.

Bishop Bougram's Apology

'Tis in a manner far from thrasonical
That I come to you in full canonical
What I chose to do  was to instill my love
On acolytes  below while I was above
When the holy Church I entered  in my prime
I, the Church,entered many, time after time
Those   altar  cherubs whom I picked out  to spoil
I anointed warmly with  my sacred oil
How could I resist faces so innocent
Wreathed in  the swirl   of the thurible's  scent
To hold them close tightly and their soft flesh feel
Made my whole self dizzily  tingle and reel
How truly  uplifting was my fierce,fierce   joy
When I had communion  with a chosen boy
They knew our closeness was clearly God given
And that in confession would I be shriven
For all the worldly  good I did on  God's earth
Then entry to heaven is my deserved berth.

Alas,your Grace,you cannot in all conscience  enter here
Too much dark concupiscence on your soul sits,I  do fear

Too concentrated were you on carnal desire
That leaves you to roast now  in the eternal fire
Begone! For scandalising the young
Round your neck must a millstone be hung
And into the depths of Hades will you descend
There to endure your torment  without end

The Tall Ships Burn

Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
singed by sullen Sol, not stayed by Poseidon's hand;
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Impenitent, sky rains ash blackening the night.
Fire sends a smoky pall upon the sea and land,
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Fire eats: the air, snuffs man's breath; highlighting their plight,
all hands on deck, the Captain calls, out his command.
Aflame, aflame, tall ship burns, see their masts ignite.

Hell's inferno comes calling on this sun lit night,
foul winds blow, fire roars, and so the flames are fanned;
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Without their ship, crews are lost to a debtors blight.
Up the went like scarecrows shriven by the brand,
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Cinder shower catch the dock; workers run in fright.
Pain and heartache fill the wharf; still, they must disband.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Keelmen Heaving in Coals by Night' by Turner

Published by Dual Coast 2014

Aflame Reversed

Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
singed by sullen Sol, not stayed by Poseidon's hand;
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.

Unpenitent the sky rains ash blackening the night
the fire sends a smoky pall upon the sea and land
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Fire eats the air, it snuffs man's breath, death maybe their plight,
yet, all hands come to the Captains call, his to command
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.

Hell's inferno's come a calling on this sun lit night
a foul wind blows, the fire roars, and so the flames are fanned
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Without their ship, the crew were lost, debtors they'd alight
they went up like straw scarecrows shriven by the brand
aflame, aflame, the tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Burning cinders catch the dock, the workers run in fright.
Pain and heart ache fill the wharf still they must disband.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.


See About the poem

Hold On To the Best, Forget the Rest By Ronald S Porter

Should auld acquaintance be forgiven?
Seek not dear darling, to be shriven.
With all the sweet torments of love
you once visited on my heart, the same
measure for meaure did I, on you, employ.
Call to mend; healing now the only joy.


The rapture, ripe, that we once shared,
I know (and my hope is that you do too)
with all we were, we truly cared.
The love we gave: me to you; you to me
I will always hold treasured, in memory.
Keep the best, forgive and forget
we'll take a cup of kindness yet...

The Blame Game

Seeking to find serenity is a task I cannot take
for most of all it seems to me a mindless missing mandate.

Buddha has achieved serenity, at least that what some say.
Yet, in my mind dear Sylvia* found death in a similar way.

To not exist, to cease to be, will bring the sought for feeling,
many find this door to out, but, it leaves my head reeling.

Can I not change, the path I'm on, can I not choose another?
Will I blame an omnipotent God, will I blame my brothers?

No, I'll accept, live and breathe, the form which I've been given,
and I'll forgive myself each step, and so, I will be shriven.

For I've been made with God's own seed, a God am I so born
I'll not blame another man or take credit from the unformed.



*Sylvia Plath (10/27/32 – 2/11/63) was an American poet,
 novelist and short story writer who commited suicide.

Whiskey Hymn - Part 2

so love us ’cause “I’m the hoochie-coochie man”,
not way over there, but here because we gotta' get our feet groovin'
the path of the seer-serpent probing our souls believin’ our believin’ eyes in askin’,
do you be “secret agent man?”
because they’ve taken your number and given me your name I
raise in exultation of bone-bred pain screaming for a strangling
of questions “in the shadow of the city” risen from scorched, grinning alleys
strewn with hope-seeds born in the spittle of fertility, ancient
moments still watching over the sacred egg from which we came – and 
shriven of barrenness I throw back my head to yell,
“you ain’t nothin’ but a houn’ dawg”
nothin’, nothin’ but a
houn’ dawg, houn’ dawg
runnin’ tongue-led along my trail joined
to your redolent thread, us sweetly inflamed with “bad, bad whiskey – and we’ve lost our home”,
bad, bad, bad, bad whiskey, highway of liquid-burning sin and yelping salvation
from heaven and hell to the beyond of the subway station confessed with “I love you”,
and the only answer I need is redemption of the night
steeped in the beautiful, bad bad whiskey
of your eyes…
… and the whispering hymn of the wind…

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