"ablution" poems
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
8.4k
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -or else swoon to death.
4.3k
Vibrant waters
Flowing with life
Every drop an elixir
Deserts of feelings
Let’s take a plunge
Rejuvenate our soul
Drenched with vibrancy
Ablution of negativity
Taking a deep breath
Under the water
There’s another world
Vibrant waters
Shall water the paradise
Flowers shall bloom
Of hope and gratitude
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
In the aftermath
Of a very hot bath
Sylvia Plath
Used to re-read
Katherine Mansfield stories
Until she felt
A little bit snory.
Whilst Ted Hughes -
After he'd imbued
The cool waters of
A shower for an hour -
Would watch Jackanory
Till he felt Hunky Dory
Then listen to Aladdin Sane
To bring him back to
The real world again.
Watch That Man!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Oh Sleeping believer on the bed!
Three knots at the back of your head,
each contains Satan's words enchanting.
' The night is, long, so keep on sleeping, '
' The night is, long, so keep on sleeping, '
' The night is, long, so keep on sleeping, '
wake-up praising Allah, untie the first one,
perform the ablution second will be undone,
execute the salah so that remains none.
Send the dullness, gloominess far away.
Get up in the morning lively and gay. :)
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
right to the core of a problem
that refuses to be solved,
defying absolution like
time against our wishes
sending the whole **** plane
into a tailspin—
around and around and around
like the whirlwinds of history’s echo
channeled through muffled ears—
nowhere to go, no way to
think your way out of a past
that clings to your back, claws
digging and steadfast, digging
for answers, for resolution—
some kind of ablution,
so the everyday gnawing
may cease to be—might, perhaps
let us be present without
past tense.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
The circumambient wings of a seraph
Obstrepously monastic within
Dereliction contemning the
Mendaciously obsequious;
The bathos of ablution grittily
Jejune fulgerating the engrossed.
The chaldean lachrymatory
The ligature of the darklings rheum,
Volently acclaimed
The paladin necromancers
Circumfluous wintry orbs
Ardently accosting the chasm
Lasping tarnation fructifying
Acedias roborant,
Heavens ignoble lassitude
The boreal scope of causality-
Hells predacious moil.
ELEETE J MUIR..
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time
some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness
some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross
some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations
like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence
until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:
my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC
This wilderness,
I aimlessly wander through.
A deep breath
The air, it holds a tangible primitivism
I follow a beated path along the brook
As it guides my directionless saunter
Stillness of mind and habitat coalesce.
Dragonflies dance with my eyes
As I ponder their surreal spirits
Loneliness is liberated from every definition
Identity is lost in the harmonies of every root and leaf and songbird
Begone to all the names and labels,
Now
It comes in the abstract waves of shades and colors,
Now
This wilderness,
One organic tellurian phantasmagoria.
This wilderness,
A warm ablution for the cold comfort of my reality
As it humbly sits
Just beyond my backyard picket fence
Waiting.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
On rare occasions, I still pray
When it’s dark, I slip in one more prayer or two
I stand facing the qibla, saying God is great
I bow before the one and only, glory be to God, the Most Great
I stand back up, to God belongs all praise
The ablution cleanses me, the prostration humbles me
Glory be to God, the Most High
I wish for peace and mercy upon the angels on my shoulders
When I am done, I understand why people are believers
Because there are no angels on our shoulders in real life
The rest of the world is there in their stead, weighing us down
As if we are Atlas, cursed to carry for eternity
But the Lord is our shining beacon of hope who can absolve us
Of course people are believers, why wouldn’t they be?
Are faith and devotion not a small price to pay for reassurance?
For peace of mind?
On rare occasions, I still try to convince myself
When it’s dark, I slip away to find that light again
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
BRIGHT Star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
1.5k
Dusk is busy with her daily bit of frenzied painting,
in the western horizon messed up by dark, fat, nimbus
with an intense wish to make it look strikingly different,
from that was in display yesterday and the day before.
The colors appear in fluorescent flashes and in the next
instance changed in to mixes of more ruddier hues
suggesting a separation, an invasion of black night long.
The beating blue waves of sea are all red with empathy
and the sun is pleased to come down for an ablution
in a sudden change of mind, swims to self immolation.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
*On this Friday night a poem to share with all who wish someone would write them a love poem. Or in some other show of affection give them love and kindness.
Bright Star
by John Keats
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
I think if I would write a poem of love for the one I love,
It would be to simply voice softly in her ear, this poem written
by John Keats and given to his love, Fanny Brawne…. redzone to_____,
a softly voiced enchantment in the night’s sky.*
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
This hour of the night feeds me pain; I grieve for her, in vein
a river, when she did flow nearer, I floated on, one could hope
only for an ablution, she washed away sedimented pain,
then, in a hurry broke away making waters muddied,
making things unclear, she becomes a rush towards other destinations.
A flower of arresting beauty, a scent never forgotten,
one would be horrified by the thought of plucking her to keep for oneself.
but as one stands watching, she withers, loses color, falls after a while
as a fruit, she entices, eaten by passing avaricious birds
she is reduced to seeds strewn near and far and peeled off skin.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
this point of call
has many a name
which one do you
put in the frame
in my region we
call it the *********
or to be more polite
the little house
some folks call it the public loo
which oddly rhymes with poo
Americans have given
it a male gender
the John is the term
that they render
in Ye Olde England
they've named it the lavatory
their chosen word
tells its story
***** and bog matter are expelled
from the bowel or the bladder
those making a stop over at the toilet
do feel much relieved and much gladder
twas drawn to my attention
this November Tuesday
that tomorrow twill be
International toilet day
as a cleaner of rest rooms
I've scrubbed plenty of porcelain
and on it I've found lots
of piddle and skid mark stains
whence next you're visiting
that place of poos and wees
give thanks to it for handling
your daily ablution sprees
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I went to that well again and again
And never refused what my lips desired,
But after a while I knew deep within
The cost would be steep for what I acquired.
I turned a deaf ear and then a blind eye,
The well was defiled and yet I still drew
And drank my bitter fill of every lie,
Until I was nauseous with what I knew.
Then daybreak’s dawning and with it came grace.
My soul was washed in an epiphanous rain
That fell on me like a lover’s embrace
To grant me ablution erasing the stain
That clouded my eyes and hindered my heart
-I’ll never again feel life’s torn apart.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
Meh is what I say
When I feel that way.
It’s all in the expression:
That’s the lesson.
I ain’t a troll
‘Cos I say lol.
Our language is growing,
Toing and froing,
Ask old Mister Owen
(Our English Master back in the day).
I play these words
Along the page,
Hoping for a Golden Age
Of growth.
Not revolution, just evolution;
Some may say pollution
Even ablution.
The constitution
Of Progress.
Paul Butters
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
After the burial of
A neighbourhood child
I stayed in the cemetery
Where lash grasses
And weeds grow wild.
Out of curiosity,
Inscriptions on
Headstones
I began to read.
At the height of
Her girlhood
To her parents' grief
A lass cut brief.
I noticed as runs
The adage
“Drinking one's cup
To the last dregs”
Few had passed away
At a full ripe age,
Some had ceased to be
Of natural cause
While Others
From the challenges
Life is sure to pose.
Reading, I went deep
Into the quiet wood
As far as I could.
A pregnant woman
Hit by a car
A man shot dead
In a bar!
The clamour of
The silence
Nudged me
While I still have
The license,
Repentant, my sins
I have to confess.
Then I heard from right and left
"Had we been in your feet
We wouldn't waste a minute!"
"Your sins get rid of it"
"Do it!"
"Wash it!"
"Before God
You have to stand neat !"
"While in full harness
Sins ablution
Is what must come
To your attention!
Don't wait for
Days of retribution!”
Outside, I began my wits
To gather
To make an open breast of
My sins to
My confessing father!
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
The pool glistened
in wet moonlight,
wearing a haze
like in an ***** eater's vision.
the deep blue waters
that lay still
has something to tell
one would think,
he was glad to see
such clear water,
that reminded him
something vague
"Answer my questions"
from the pool intoned a voice
"before stepping in to this water,
your ablution can wait a bit,
would you like to taste
this water, and find out
its origin, if you could, then step in"
"Why not" he replied with confidence,
"I am enamored by this sight,
such loveliness makes one
forget pain of every kind
now, let me know it a little better"
when his tongue touched
the water just once, a flash
struck, remembrance came
rushing towards him like
the curse of tsunami waves,
her pearly tears it were, collected
on its own, for many years.
he sat by the pool, guilt ridden
torn apart by grief, cruel vultures,
till the moment his eyes fully dried,
he was let out from the house of pain.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
*Water mirrors the inner feelings
Travels a tranquil path between woods
Ablution of regrets and negativity
Carrying away with it the heavy feelings
Replenishes the dehydrated soul
A leaf falls on the water, carrying my message*
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
the pigeon has not
just lain two eggs,
it has lain the
promise of flight,
pairs will take off,
float and land
with adroit skill,
feverishly mate
to fast-flapping
feathers, curve
an avian circle...
now if I may ask,
as the human
on whose area
you roost,
prospective
mother, what
exactly are
you doing
about hygiene?
like when will the
next pigeon
generation be
toilet-trained?
after all cats
dig a hole and
cover afterwards
so you see -
ablution evolution
is certainly possible
in the creature world
I have no other
complaints,
winged sister,
you take
little space,
may your
children prosper
we are sorry
for the trees ,
by the way
for our species,
frequently intimidated,
perennially afraid,
build fortresses
of dismay, that you
have to conjure
your nests on them
I do hope your kids,
god willing, when
time ripens, built
their nests on
branches, lay their
eggs on huge trees,
take flying classes
off stout branches...
by the way,
don't spread
the word to the
rest of your kin,
that our balcony
is the nesting kind
you see we humans
are still animal,
still territorial,
once is fine, but
another time,
we are not
so jovial...
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
I'm losing every bit of courage
You left me with a rage
How do you expect the pain to submerge
I'm neither a saint nor sage.
You were my north star
Shining through the thick
You were my herb tar
Curing me, when I'm sick
I've been patient all along
I've endured the pain life long
My story is the saddest song
Sung with the beat of thorns on thong.
My dreams are deception
What happened to me seems abdication
With untidy water, is my ablution
I'm a soul now self neglecting, performing self reflection.
Neither a saint
Nor a sage
Just a soul patient
All his age
A reflector, with pain as wage
Thrown after use,like a bandage.
Neither a saint nor sage.
Decades of pain as age.
Purified by the tears
The wanderings alone throughout years
I'm a mountain of wisdom
Awaiting to be known
I'm neither a saint nor sage
But a dervish unknown.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
His sins are washed one quarter
when the Devil bathes in holy water.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
yes.
we have the avenue and the fortress,yes.
we are genuine. we thunder the spark of a long darkness
but alarm heaven from the porch of our peachlight.
the pit, asking why we bother
as we shackle the sun to our gross harness.
come.
come and be clean and be witness.
be the few. the proud. the serene.
join me in the fathoms of the lost found
and jungle your monkeys
in the branches of a drowning
dowry.
i suggest you move.
i plot, you prove. indeed, i will it so -
but you must leave now.
your demons are quite proud, and no one
has the stick
to stave them off now.... now that you love
them so.
So
my voice, choose.
let your game prove game-less
and be twice removed.
shed your dark god
and trod upon the soft drench
of my deluge.
swirl the sun of it
so the fire burns like ablution
in the rendered fat
of your angels.
Use them.
or be disarranged
by them.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves
strangled in noxious space.
android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light
renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers
and a solitary weight of love.
this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill:
a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;
a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies
helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.
cyclic spectral cyclic spectral
there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone
of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor?
can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures?
butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******
again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel
of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet
of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,
in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked
pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how
to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC