Steepled Poems | Examples

I Would Love To Revisit Norway

I would love to run after the midnight sun
And visit the fjords, museums, and shops
I would take to the forests on the run
And pick berries and hike the mountain tops

Oslo Norway I saw thru the eyes of a child
And in those five years, I became a Viking
There was skiing, skating, and fishing in the wild
There was cod and cheese-all to my liking

This time I would take pictures of the city
Of the steepled roofs and nude statues
And get me a Norwegian sweater that's so pretty
To wear on my return trip on that fun cruise 

12/31/22

Take Me There Poetry Contest

Sponsor-Margarita Lillico


N/A-(this is disappointing. I'm not going to lie. I can't write any
better than this.)

Church Bells of the Clock

Sunday sits unmoved.
The theater pipes on fire.
Restorative proved -
join the next door choir
in heart, soul, mind and strength of eye,  O God!

Paired with our pastor.
He wears grief well and joyous,
heav’n’s alabaster.
Suff’ring does not destroy us.
Precious silver and gold stored up,  O God!

His Spirit stirs us,
absent of steepled building.
Our faith’s profession,
together as church gilding,
one mediator between man and God.

So close and so far.
Only a quick winded walk.
Peace and calm, on par,
are the church bells of the clock.
Cruise left us scarred. Christ’s balm in hand. Glory!

All is well. The lift,
week away, our friendships keep -
with God there’s no rift.
Insufferable pride, let sleep -
All Knowing grants healing we need. Glory!

9/25/2022

Token of Blessing

Token of Blessing

Simple brass token sits with anticipation,
Like pennies, abandoned in the streets, wait, 
Gracing my desk with reminisce 
Of an inlet crossed by a narrow bridge -
To an island basking in spring air
Or trembling in the nor’easters grip –
Finding open arms of smiles
To rest embraced in hospitality
Warmed in glowing fireside warmth
Before the matin hour, named time,
Calls my song
To enter wide flung doors
Of a white steepled church with a cornerstone
Set before the fife and drum
Rumbled in revolution -
Their steady beat
Still resounding in the tidal winds -
To raise up 
Faith, hope and love found in a spring morning
Of worshipping hearts
Then in a final blessing
Leave echoes of praise, prayer and thanksgiving
While soft winds now tousle words of Godspeed
As two brass tokens, pressed into my palm,
Carry a message of farewell but not good-bye
Each with a mission and a message –
A mystic connection -
One for the bridge toll on my departure
One for my return.

Based on a true story.
4-8-21
Contest: The Last Token
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose

Cold Feet

Still, in my pajamas, cold, ‘tis Winter.
Purple and gray wool socks, and still, cold feet.
Yet i’d walk down into the oaks, with sun’s
light be soaked, at the Summer-plumed heartbeat.

Into the glowing moss and down the hill,
like my grand, who’d make glorious foothold
into the street. Still, alone, basking in
happiness, woolen feet waltzing, toes cold,

knuckles chapping, clapping of my steepled
fingers. dry and joyful lips, arising,
Dizzy, I'd survey the amphitheater -
steam of cold-heat, underfoot apprising.

O my soul, the crooning blue signature,
expansive, inexpensive, pensive sky.
Behold God’s goodness directed my way.
Though fibbing from inside, I do not lie.

The arms of my chair, still, caring, hold me
or i’d jetty into my imagination.
There the birds stir up woozy fairyland
with tea and serenity’s coronation.

2/10/2021
Contest: All Yours (Feb 10)
Sponsor: Brian Strand

Knight of the Golden Fleece

Weepers with hoods —
tear-stained, faceless.
Dirge monks with shields.

Knight of the golden fleece
on a slab in requiem.
The silent mouth of Cicero.

Fell in love with this funereal piece
— Tomb of Philippe Pot
with life-sized pleurants.

His hands steepled in prayer,
a lion in repose at his feet —
Grand Seneschal of Burgundy

9/28/2020
Tomb of Philippe Pot
Louvre Museum

Unheralded Prince

Upwards you gazed, poignantly painting me
like no one had before, nor has done since.
Concentric white and yellow circles. Free
of any common bearing or pretense.

I'd seen idyllic villages before -
The steepled church in sacred echo of
the cypress, looking down in fond rapport,
as olive trees embrace the town with love.

But never have I seen hills so inflamed,
nor moon so agitated and insane,
nor indigo sky eddies so untamed;
grappling to find the answers to life's pain.

Vincent, you were art's unheralded prince,
Like no one was before, nor has been since.


(an ekphrasis of Vincent Van Gogh's "The Starry Night")

A Fine Sunday Morning In May

The nature of the leaves
                 praising thee
On this fine Sunday morn’
           the church are we

Each one as we do our bit
                       in the sun
That shines through the pane
                lighting our knees

Songs, like the breeze,
                    move us
To care for those who
                     join us

Barely a city or town between us
                                  bon amis*
Our steepled hands, sealed eyes
                                        aloft

Generosity of mind and spirit, toward
                    our God and fellow man
How warmly greets this third day of May
                           a peaceful quarantine

A quaint building at rest awaits
                    our crestal voices
The blessings of a room filled to
                             overflowing

Like a bride’s exorbitant train, pure
                            and angel white
The groom grinning ear to ear. Guests
                            dabbing their eyes

Shall we be as we arrive on
                that jubilant day
The doors thrown open with prayer,
                                   with praise

Curio Nun

CURIO NUN

placed in the palm of my hand,
a wee little nun with praying hands.
this tiny sculpture hugged
my heart, at once filled my eyes
with salty tears.

certainly my Aunt
leans on my shoulder
as my cousin presents
this precious gift.

Auntie’s curio cabinet
with doors fly open,
empty out,
but these joyous woman
with habits
still inhabit her home
in the tender part of my soul.

this sentiment,
different then the one i left
for dear sweet Auntie,
but the perfect Sister Folk
for me.

not only do i hold and look
at the details, but
my fingers slide
over her steepled hands,
as if they are mine
and Auntie’s and this little curio nun’s,

and i’m reminded of
the God-given satisfaction,
handed-down responsibility 
to pray for kith and kin.

may YOU be so blessed.

11/3/2019

Homecoming

I had a dog way back when
With white teeth and tail a wag
He slept so fine in steepled den
Crunched on a chicken, like a rag

With eyes of brown, and fur of black
Patrolled the farm, a canine cop
The silly cats he would attack
And barking noise should never stop

One snowy day he disappeared
Walking a road he often trod
Did not return, as I feared
Where was my dog? I asked God

Then one night, I heard him bark
My friend returned in pitch dark

Harbingers of Morning

HARBINGERS OF MORNING



Seam-splitting the rim of an eastern sky,
morning's radiant golds  
grading 
down the rimpled brow of mountains
            leapfrogs
    out of the high hilled horizon
 with the sun
come upon the winged 
                molecules of birds
                               sun-stirred from their trees.
  Advancing
            under a sun-burst sky 
      to undulations of flight,
                  these verbs, in action 
          swoop down
the white steepled streets
    loping in sunlight
             to gather 
 amid the eaves of a still sleeping town
                    and resound 
                         as bells
                   under a bandshell of sky---
     this motion of  birds 
                      breaking rank
               into the melee of morning.

Nevermore

NEVERMORE

What hell!  Of pale-green fever
that slithers and shakes no longer,
clammy under a cold clean sheet.

Feel the weight of gold roses placed
over the splintered sphinx,
luck of flotsam wood escape —
of twisted fate, no wand will save.

Coins placed where pupils stare,
a swamp of hair on feather pillow, heavy.
How oft her lair, I’d treat myself
to penny candy - sweetness sours.

The howl like a wolf tears,
through my gaping hole.
The dam suddenly severed
divides me from her.

Woe! Woe! Hear the church bells!
Take a stake to my undead heart.
Gargoyles lurch off the steepled seas.
Oh please! I repent — and rend

my reptile skin, stick acupuncture swords
in my pinpoint eyes,
but the blurred black din continues
to squawk, “nevermore...nevermore”

1/7/2018
Poe in Plath Style
Inspired by Poe’s poem For Annie

Sutherland No More - a Proclamation

Sutherland No More – A Proclamation

Sutherland Springs from the pages of my media feed,
A story of guns, grief and the need, for no more.
Sutherland no more.
The innocent and the free sitting in their Sunday Pews,
Little thinking they would be the news, on the door.
Sutherland no more.
The white squat steepled church reaches to the sky,
The congregation and world asks why, whilst the tears pour.
Sutherland no more.
‘Fortunately somebody else had a gun’, the saying goes,
That was equalising those bullet flows, from ceiling to floor.
Sutherland no more.

Freedom to Bear, Freedom to Speak, Freedom to seek
The solution to these nightmares in our sleep.
Guns cause the rift and opinion must shift.
When you’re gone,
Will you send back a letter from America?
X.

©Keith Murphy

Patriotism

PATRIOTISM 

Red, white and blue ribbons with stars
surrounding my head, hand over heart

Kneeling in the Catholic pew, steepled hands
point upwards to my allegiance start

Stars kneel not to pray but to belie their point
of origin, where amber grain waves part

11/3/2017
Modern Sijo

From a High Place

From A High Place

On the street look up,
And see the high steeple,
Run inside, take the lift,
With all the working people.

Up up up to the 50th floor,
Through opulence, old wood,
Marble walls, a temple
To businesshood.

Look down from the window
In quiet contemplation,
Way over the steeple now of
Those in meditation.

The little church struggles for funds,
Swallowed from years of beanstalk choking,
By those who heard its love,
Their greed its hymns now revoking.

High high were the dreams encouraged,
From the little steepled pews,
Those who learned in it, reaped its love.
Have dwindled to too few.

Zurich In Winter

A gust of icy air blasts 
the cold into my bones,
tugging at my knees with 
hollow, aspirating groans,

making numb my cheeks, 
whirling 'round my waist;
pulling at me thither-ward 
down cobbled streets in haste. 

Thick snowflakes lightly flurry 
soft upon my lashes,
squinting hard, I blink away 
the blinding, frozen ashes.

Presently, I chance upon 
a steepled, stony schloss,
whence I knew myself beyond 
the bounds of Hotzestrasse.

All around me, strangers rush 
to unfamiliar places;
swiftly stepping, spinning past 
with stern, impatient faces.

I sidle down a sleepy street, 
apart the harried crowd,
into the quiet entrance 
of a quaint café I bowed.

A corner cuckoo ticks away 
the time with listless ease,
whiling away the morning; 
an anxious spirit to appease.

Rich and steamy mochas 
warm away the frosty chill
of this melancholy trav'ler
reflecting on the wintry still.

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