Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kit Scott Sep 2018
if you go out over the moor
and around the back of the hill
there's a church standing behind it
silent and still

the church is home to no creature
no bat or bird
makes its nest there
no sound to be heard

but despite the eerie silence
the ceiling that goes up and up and up
it's a restful place
with glass faces watching from above

i like to sit there on the skeleton pews
alone and unafraid
lady mary watches me
sings me lullabies shes made

and i hum them back to her
even when she leaves
sometimes i watch her baby
as i sweep out the in blown leaves

saint peter tells me stories
from his place upon the wall
and sometimes he weaves intricate tales
together with saint paul

once i thought i saw a priest here
and he patted me on the head
told me i was a good child
to be caring for the long dead

the graveyard out the back
is often in disrepair
so sometimes i bring flowers
to those who lie there

and sometimes i like to lean
against this one mossed over gravestone
so that i can whisper to the ghosts
and listen to them complaining that their church is overgrown

and often i like to sit at the entrance
it makes me feel oddly bereft
i feel like sitting here forever
its been a while since i left
"they say some kid collapsed just outside those ruins a few days ago, yknow the ones out on the moor? they think the mite was tryin to take shelter, poor kid never made it"
Julia Feb 2018
I met someone
we had some fun
then we were done

he made me so happy I couldn’t write
he made me so happy I didn’t bite
he made me so hopeful I thought we might...

I met this man
whose daddy hand
could burn my sand

we stole each other’s shirts
kissed each other where it hurts
planted flowers in these dirts

repainted stained and tainted glass
gave each other words to pass
decided not to pay for class

sand falls through spaces
between fingers’ interlaces
wind blows it in our faces

we shared some time
body soul and mind
there is no rewind

I said things I didn’t mean
Across the darkness like a screen
Pages burned and turned the scene
ShowYouLove Dec 2017
Light of the world you broke through the dark
Came into this world and made your mark
We were lost and confused with no one to guide
Wrapped up in sin and shame we thought we could hide
Broken and cracked you picked up the pieces
Of our hearts. You smoothed the creases
Piece by piece you began to put us back
You gave us the support we once lacked
Slowly things started to take shape once more
And what I saw shook me to the core
You took the broken pieces and created something new
The picture upon which I gazed rang so true
A stained-glass window, a cross, a tree, and a heart
Out of death, love made life; a brand-new start.
I stood there smiling as I looked upon the scene
As I drowned in your mercy and love I was made clean
The stained-glass shone so beautifully
And my life will flourish fruitfully
For the light that now shines from within
Has made me more open
To your love and light, the son in the dawn.
At times, darkness creeps in and isn’t all gone
You are the light in me; an eternal flame
And since then I have never been the same
You are the star I follow to keep me going straight
But sometimes I wander and I make a mistake
You shine so bright that the darkness has to flee,
Light of the world help me truly see!
Julia Oct 2017
the most beautiful glass hearts are shattered,
patterned with perfect imperfections,
stained with painful expression of
ingrained in the scattered reflection:
white light sliced into spectrum ascension,
the pension of attention.
Francie Lynch May 2016
My stained glass window
Changed the color of my outlook.
Toby Lucas Apr 2016
When you change the colour of the view,
The world takes on a different hue.
Writing's both a window and a mirror,
You can see life and yourself clearer.
This stained glass window labelled a poem,
Different phrases, different colours, different gems.
The scales of glass in an iron frame,
My words must fit the form.
Each word a different shard on the palette,
A poetic mosaic, not quite transparent.

A translucent lens.

I will you see creation through it
Extenuating before you in a piquant pigment.
In a tint I can show you joy,
In a separate, pane. Tainted.
Yellow, blue, red and green,
And a thousand nuances yet unseen.
You can't read all of it, nor look through every colour,
But perhaps the icon on the window can be discerned
When they tessellate together, the person I am trying to show, the bigger picture, the grand design.
Summer 2015
Francie Lynch Mar 2016
The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.
Leal Knowone Feb 2016
Stained glass shattered shards
raining down in my sight
landing on the copses of lies
watching light with dead eyes
the coldest nights hold my stolen breath
which grows into longest death
thoughts slip by on wings of yesterday
in the silence there is so much to say
hesitant waves flow through the light
resting on the longest night
gone girl Oct 2015
you're probably the reason i wake up unable to breathe thinking there are snakes slithering around in my bed, because you did the exact same. i'll never find the words to tell you just the way you shattered my stained glass, i went to dozens of cathedrals to try and beg you to fix my mosaics and give me forgiveness, but not even the hierarchy could help me now. I went from Nortre Dame all the way to St. Paul's trying to find peace but no glass will ever be the same as mine maybe a pastiche but I will never feel as if I am as beautiful as the Troyes, so I walk around with ****** palms grasping to the remaining pieces I have from that night. I'm gasping for air now, in hysteria I'm flipping through the pages of a poor mans good book trying to find the terms for repentance or contrition or whatever it could be named, I'm not sure because I've never pleaded like this before and I'll scream to the all the gods that might listen, I'll be ****** if Im going to go down like this. I found another chapel he's got mosaics like no other has ever seen, I'm looking into angelic hues of browns and blues and greens. I'm running through the backrooms trying to find an exit, I'm in a rut to get to a comforting haven. don't waste your time on me I scream. Ive been cast out of heaven for my sins and I'm paying for my crimes -my rosary has fallen to the ground. it's just us two now; I want to run, the apocalypse inside of me is tearing me apart. I've had a martyr in my bed and I remember the taste of his lips, now I recall how your mouth resembled that of a serpent and how it tasted -of venom. you lied while your head was between my thighs, oh the stigmata of a dismal life. I've found a new savior and I am more than what you've dictated to everyone else. I've undergone apostasy and devouted myself to a new God, I might even wear white with him.
{the poem that i am going to preform at a slam competition}
Next page