"litanies" poems
unto thee i
burn incense
the bowl crackles
upon the gloom arise purple pencils
fluent spires of fragrance
the bowl
seethes
a flutter of stars
a turbulence of forms
delightful with indefinable flowering,
the air is
deep with desirable flowers
i think
thou lovest incense
for in the ambiguous faint aspirings
the indolent frail ascensions,
of thy smile rises the immaculate
sorrow
of thy low
hair flutter the level litanies
unto thee i burn
incense,over the dim smoke
straining my lips are vague with
ecstasy my palpitating ******* inhale the
slow
supple
flower
of thy beauty,my heart discovers thee
unto
whom i
burn
olbanum
16.6k
stinging
gold swarms
upon the spires
silver
chants the litanies the
great bells are ringing with rose
the lewd fat bells
and a tall
wind
is dragging
the
sea
with
dream
-S
13k
364
The Morning after Woe—
’Tis frequently the Way—
Surpasses all that rose before—
For utter Jubilee—
As Nature did not care—
And piled her Blossoms on—
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon—
The Birds declaim their Tunes—
Pronouncing every word
Like Hammers—Did they know they fell
Like Litanies of Lead—
On here and there—a creature—
They’d modify the Glee
To fit some Crucifixal Clef—
Some Key of Calvary—
4.4k
He writes words on walls and
toilet doors.
Looping black texta with
measured precision.
Emptying out his importance in
tomes of acrid, sickly-sweet-smelling lapses
into hope.
Cascading the loneliness with litanies
of somewhere else
that pulses with a joy unfound.
Tales of intermittent dreams
and dalliance with beauty.
Strobing in translucent beams,
the light leaks through his
poorly-sewn seams
onto the toilet door.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
Single minded sister
Solitary soul searching
For my whole
Set my purpose defined
Within my spotlight mind
Could see that when you found me
My perfected sight was blind
Serendipity
Filled the emptiness in me
Wistful litanies
Distractions the futility
Of intimate action
Wife and mother not for me
The daydream others
Ceased to be desired destiny
Surprised to find in your eyes
Serendipity
The reflection of a family
This frantic spinning pace
A circular path I race
From frustration to futility
You took my hand and
Changed my course
With measured steps
you run with me
Serendipity
Without you where would I be
TL Boehm 070408
- For Dave
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
My friends complain to me
They tell me their sorrows
And tear filled litanies.
I nod along and offer advice
Scowling inside.
Oh so now finally the guy you like doesn’t like you?
So no you finally get hurt?
You dare complain to me who would ****
To feel that pain to feel that love burst?
You finally feel rejected huh,
Left on the street?
Welcome to the real world *******
Welcome to the meat.
Rotting and corroding,
sick filled heart,
That we call rejection.
Beating furiously
As a thousand bulls on the range
Feel our pain.
Now you’re alive.
How does it feel when you’re lucks ran out?
But still you have fond memories.
Kisses to look back on nostalgically
What do I have…
Well I have you.
What a friend you turned out to be.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:44 PM UTC
I see the sad color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, all minutes of the day
I see the serious mental and physical damages
That this cancer has done throughout the ages
And is still doing to our beloved human beings
The others treat our People like they are leftover beans
On a petty pet's plate. Our people deserve respect
Fairness, justice, equality, acknowledgement
Compassion, credit and better treatment
Our sisters are tired of being left out on the deck
Our siblings are often harassed senselessly, persecuted
Falsely accused and relentlessly prosecuted
At one time, they were hunted and hounded by the system
At other time, hindered and haunted by an organized medium
Created to attack, destroy, burn, ravage and annihilate
To embarrass, marginalize, ridicule, punish and discriminate
I see the color of racism, when the police for no apparent reasons
Stopped, frisked and handcuffed our homeless, our elderlies
Or our law abiding citizens, like it was open seasons
To hunt for mule deer or bears, who behave like enemies
Of the civilized society. I see the sick color of racism
When our people are not hired not for being unqualified
But because of their skin color; they're quickly disqualified
Dismissed, fired or terminated. I see the monster of cynicism
All golly minutes of the day. The arrogance is unparalleled
Beyond belief. The racists forgot that God only created one race
One human race, one human race, one **** human race.
Their false pride, their fake supremacy, their ignorance is unleveled
And their audacity is incomparable. I see the colors of racism
Not that I want to search for them, not that I want to find them
Most of the time, I simply cannot elude, evade or escape them
It is not easy to ignore the litanies of bad or negative mannerisms
The bigots easily function like virulent or venomous vipers
That **** out the emotions, and that destroy all positive characters
Our lives, Black lives, like other lives, are sacramental and important
And our contributions to the world are significant
I see the ugly and surly color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, every minute of the **** day.
Copyright © February 24,2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:07 AM UTC
There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
(When The Rains Come)
Our house stands on a valley
early summer evenings find people strolling
specially when the sky is arrayed with countless stars,
and a full moon cooperates with a glow
Who wouldn't want a rain-less evening?
no rush...walking easy on a Friday or Saturday night
finding ways to unwind....glasses tingle in toasting
conversation and laughter fill the air...
In parts of the valley shielded by bridges and walls
there live the troubled, homeless souls
they, too, want to breathe the evening air
they leave their improvised homes
find dark spaces, where they turn bolder
some toughened...almost numbed
their litanies, held within
their eyes, beyond shedding tears
their faces stained with sadness and frustration
due to failed expectations
Around these dark spaces
are where callous eyes meet wary looks
where angels mingle with demons
where, most times, indifference wins
against compassion.
Twice,
i met the dauntless, black eyes of an old woman
i almost dropped mine, to avoid the stare
but she tapped my elbow...i looked up again.
Both of my shoulders would not suffice
to ease the burden this old woman carried
how do we deal with a problem that always starts but doesn't end?
how? when most turn their faces, their backs, their thoughts away,
because, there's nothing spectacular to see, or be expected
just more unpleasant things to come up.
The rains have finally come...our valley
most often, turns into a gully
where it seems to be raining forever.
i think of the old woman with black eyes
if she's still around, could she be hungry? wet again?
shivering from the cold rain?
where could she be seeking shelter
now that summer
is finally over?
Sally
Copyright May 23, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Should the breadth of silence stretch,
Maria, sweet girl of the boughs of flowering
pear and tangerine trees, your stocking-foot
brown like the branch of a sapling tree,
and should the dark profundity of the earth
begin to part (among the hymns and litanies
of things I cannot comprehend
is how Orpheus sang down the earth to part
beneath his feet) then the rich black soil of spring
is where I plant the Could-flowering seeds
of all that I am not brave enough to be.
(chérie, avournine, Eurydice;
you will forgive the
thousand words I do not speak
when you know that language is
but the honeysuckle beneath your feet.)
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Home airs have become quieter,
Things are back to normal...
Here in this house, which isn't my home,
The soundless afternoon winds bring a touch of melancholy,
Holiday season is finished, the hours pass by so slowly.
In the living room, my eyes strayed upwards,
Towards a Christmas wreath left hanging on the wall...
A sunbeam was shining weakly over it...but,
It rested on the wreath long...long enough, it dazzled me with a reality
That changed the preponderant gloomy atmosphere...
The wreath will be kept, for next year...
It is sad to think, another season over
Another year over....and
December is still eleven months away,
But.... the reason for the season could linger on, if we choose to.
It is said, charity begins at home, but it doesn't have to end there...
We quickly stretch our hands for our family, close friends in need,
They are our loved ones, it feels good...feels like Christmas!
But the old, the blind, the disabled people, are strangers, waiting...
What if we gave them even just a bit of ourselves....even just for a while?
Some warmth, or smiles...a hand to find their way,
The Christmas feeling would be alive! Stronger!
For the street children, the orphans in a hospice, it means Christmas,
To be fed, kept warm with clothing and shelter, any time, day, or month.
They... we...would feel a heavenly kind of peace surround us...
It would mean everything for the prisoners, the juvenile delinquents
If we could spend an aftenoon with them,
Listen to their rumblings, litanies of their pain, their losses,
Hear their past moments of glory...of how it is
To be neglected... deserted by their own loved ones...
It is Christmas day, to see them lifted from their agonizing silence, beaming...
To see a child's lost front teeth, as ***** gives a smile of happiness
While holding a bag of goodies and gifts of toys,
Would melt the ice...the stone-cold airs dwelling within...
Maybe, even the lukewarm souls could change...
It is Christmas for them...... for, these short-lived holiday moments,
Mean the world to them...
Yes.....
Charity begins at home, but it does not end there...
If only we could stretch our hands...bearing in mind---
A kind deed done to our fellow human beings,
Is as good as done to God.
The sun shines bright on that Christmas wreath on the wall,
Any time, any day of the year....
Even if it's not there at all...
"Whatever you have done to the least of my brethren, you have done unto me..." (Matthew 25:40)
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Have I forsaken
The sanctity of dreams
Enabling the cacophony of small chattering crises
Droning desires dominate my days
Clinging to incantations and litanies of little lies
Repetitive resonance no substitute
For your whispered word
Sipping the residue of wickedness
from this burnished cauldron of the world
Toxic stupor no replacement for you
Enabling vulgarities to reign supreme
This was never my lucid dream
I am blinded by your radiance
The mirrored pure light of your soul
Resplendence magnified
Purified in a river of pain
You cleanse me from within
Erase my melancholy days
I am uplifted from this abyss
You breathe my lucid dream
TLBoehm 061807
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Gotama was unlicensed
went to graduate school
in caves along rivers
eating one grain a day
seeking the happy place
where great beasts and ships
gratefully anchor and lie in the sun.
Christ laughed at thin laws
refused to relent
poured glowing love
all over the Pharisees
and isn't it sad
that officious therapists
blindfolded to the heart
spew grey diagnoses
to describe pathologies
ignoring the daimons
of each soul
labeled in their great sad files.
Rumi cut a great poem
into his thigh with a dagger
and loved when people read it . . .
Smell the wind. Eat mutton.
Do not waste your days
inventing litanies of sadness
looking for broken places
in your heart.
When the doctor asks for his fee
reach inside your chest
pull out your heart
hold it before him
say nothing.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
*You were my altar! About your ears I recited my prayers, my waking prayers in my soul by the contemplation of the beauty of your magnificent lips, the esoteric contours of your body and my spirit wanted to hear the songs that emerged from your mouth, delicate whispers aroused by my whispers in your ears.
You were my altar and I wanted to enter your temple, go beyond the veils that hid your mystical sensuality and behold thee naked, revealed before my eyes. My mouth wanted to reach the honey of your ******* and sweeten all my judgments.
You were my altar, and my lips constantly wanted the wine in your mouth, revealing in my mind the secrets of the Divine that dwells in you.
You were my altar and on you I recited my songs, my sutras and litanies written in the siddur of my soul.
You were my altar, my esoteric Garden, and your Lotus was my heavenly song, the Bhagavad-Gita of my heart. I was your Arjuna and you was my Krishna ... ".*
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
Oh, Bride of Christ, celestial body,
Oh Holy, Mother Church.
You, gift of God, channel us
in our upwards search.
Holder of all truth, keeper
of God's gracious Eucharist.
Immaculate Mary , Mother of God,
Protector of glowing witness.
Beloved Mass, beloved Litanies,
Keeper of the Flame of Faith.
Blessed Church, who guides
Our seeking of love to taste.
Path of salvation gently laid.
God’s most gracious gift to man,
Sacred Body of Christ,
Through you how blest I am
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
she is a little more than a little tired of
lists. And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one. it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire. (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
wild yawp want it).
More. more (the word quivers at the nub
like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor. More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
I know her by name.
I know her by face.
Only, I don't even
know her at all.
I think I've seen her
once,
and for once
I wasn't disappointed.
We are so much alike
only she has brighter eyes.
We are so much alike;
So, I figured
from black and white
I could be pastel--
faded bright.
We are so much alike
only she drinks psalms
like the preacher's wine.
Before I abandoned religion
I used to kneel
and break bread every Sunday, too.
So, I figured
I could still be as holy
if I clapped my hands together
and whispered litanies
on candles burning outside chapels—
faded light.
We are so much alike
in the way we love
books and music,
anything aesthetic.
But, I am wrapped in tin foil
and she dons silk and laces.
Same filling,
different faces.
And kid, I wouldn't blame you
for craving
the same flavor
in different packaging.
We are so much alike
only, compared to her
porcelain China doll skin,
I am a witch's voodoo,
covered in pins and needles
piercing rough skin,
a cheap imitation—
a fake.
We are so much alike
only I'm lying
when I say we are
because she is pastel
paint in coffee shops
and I am crayola
vandals on the sidewalk.
And let's admit pretty
isn't anything I would
ever be.
It makes me sick.
Because I'm not like her.
I'm never going to be just
pretty;
Pity, that's all they ever want us to be.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
Sister of summer, sweet sighing duende
Why are you so sad and pale?
The dawn sings litanies of your graces that make
The high sun itself mourn and quell!
Flower of autumn, with your crown of fire
Heart-seized and enraptured your eyes do make me,
Flash skies of dark'ning thunder in them
And the stars that bestir the crystal-cold seas.
Daughter of snow and ice-kissed queen
Your name is a prayer unfit for my lips
The white rose of your face the only dream I would dream
When the sun's burnt the last of its wick.
Lady in the orchards, brave lady, your tears are ever pearls
For spring has come and dawn has come
But I will never be the one to lead them in.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
she is a little more than a little tired of
lists. And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one. it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire. (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
wild yawp want it).
More. more (the word quivers at the nub
like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor. More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
In this beautiful place of worship, the pews are padded but uncomfortable, the sanctuary large, candle lit and cold.
There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??
No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.
The Greeks would call on our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??
To me, the whole Jesus story is somewhat sinister and inauspicious, but if Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest, truest reality - then why hasn't Jesus returned??
Imagining heaven's father and son dialog
God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they DID to me???.. nailed me to a cross; ***** them, there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back, as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”
These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system.... I mean, the various books aren't even consistent. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of traditions and good rules to live by?
My parents - unlikely pilgrims in the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so skeptical - it's a puzzle.
If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?
I'm sorry, There's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.
Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just.. hopeless shrug
So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.
Happy Easter everyone!
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC
You and him
And the frogs and the crickets
Provide the only heartbeats for miles.
And when supply is low, demand is high
So your pulse increases
And you can feel your heart pump faster
But you're not really sure if it's your blood
Or him.
Gradually you stop hearing the crickets and the frogs
And the two of you are all there is.
And you know you're safe
Because you're away from the ring of fire.
Not the kind Johnny Cash sang about
More the kind Giuliani would talk about.
The ring of city lights that is so far away from you
So you know you're safe.
You can see the freckle-stars
And the half-moon
And the silhouette of his face.
You can see everything you need to.
Whispered litanies of love
Bliss. Perfection. Pure happiness.
You wish you could be so happy all the time
But all good things come to an end.
(Does that really have to be true?)
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Gotama was unlicensed
went to graduate school
in caves along wide rivers
eating one grain of rice a day
seeking the happy place
where great beasts live
and tall ships anchor firm
on still waters.
Christ laughed at thin laws
refusing to be defined
poured glowing love
all over the Pharisees
and that’s why
it is so sad
some therapsts
forget about the soul
spewing insurable diagnoses
for imaginary pathologies
ignoring the rare pearls
of each heart
logged into their tight sad files.
Rumi cut a lovely poem
into his thigh with a dagger
and loved when people read it . . .
so honor that sacrifice
and never
insult your days
by depending on those
who invent litanies of sadness
looking for broken places
in your psyche.
When the counselor asks for his fee
reach inside your chest
pull out your heart
hold it before him
say nothing.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
There are no teeth in my apple
and my lost love takes pictures
with backgrounds that I spy
saturation in. She misses me, I know it.
The litanies of street performers, and go-go rockstars--she shares the same
plea. But I do not know if she uses the same words.
But I hear their rhythm throughout the film.
Graffiti dollars nestled in the dark of my wallet--preparing for the rocks.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC