"vestment" poems
green hills, rolling green
i like you
with fresh dewy innocence
you speak in hushed voices.
your sides are guilded
with coral white
your tops are crowned with clouds.
green hills, rolling green
i like you for the majesty
you wear your verdant vestment
forever stretched your arms to the blue
forever sheltered by the stars.
green hills, rolling green
tell me, do you like me too?
would that when i harken
to the trumpet call, when there would be
no excuse to tarry
i should lay spattered on thy peaks
first touched by the divine finger
piercing the nimbus mantle.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
I want to cry in a scarlet robe
A vestment of my own demise
I want to trickle into tears
My soul drip out right through my eyes
To empty out into the streets
This body that was never grand
And flow away with ***** rain
And stain the mother earth and land
An uneventful, empty death
A toast to all my useless life
The sting of nothingness quite felt
For nothing wields a lonely knife
Goodbyes bygones from other days
I was a lie that came and went
When life and death were cards to cheat
And not dull guests at the main event
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 2:33 AM UTC
To Gods acre caught in the storm
Of the angels immolation harried
Like welcome strangers to the feast of
The good shepherd, the world
The flesh, the devil take the hindemost
Vigilantly stalking Earthly tears
Encrusted jewels upon Hells vestment,
The harbinger of death wearing a garland
Of skulls fashioned off of Heavens tomb
Splendiferously graven upon lonelinesses
Stoop spirited as shooting stars the
Pitched candles of sovereignties saintly hands
Resting between lives enlightening the broken
Lamp of truth purging the liasing humours of
Illuminous damnation unfrocking priests
Under colour of nothingness epitomising
Faiths elixer yonder the gate of unfoldenment
Breaking butterflies on the wheel
Of rightousness unabating delving the vale
Deciduously to show the cloven hoof woe betide
The levity of Man Friday billowing in the
Teeth of the wind.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
Outside in the fall
Leaves coat the ground in their brown vestment
The moon likes to settle in
Slightly earlier this time of year
Nuzzling itself amongst the foggy looming clouds
Missing our old weather
Had barely been here but 3 months
I miss the warmth
But look forward to the empowering melting glow
of the furnace
Heating every inch of every bone
Till you rest your weary eyes and rest
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
HESIONE*
Shut in her room with the scent of roses
pounded with wet stones
picked one by one from the riverbank and shining still,
Hesione struggled to remove the clasps
which she placed on a piece of cloth weaved by her grandma.
Days later she lay in bed wrapped in a sacred vestment.
Secret hopes torpedoed her body
and for a moment removed the clasps from the groin.
All worthless.
People were buried nearby.
The freshly-dug graves smelled of tamarisks.
She and the Thoans scanned the sea.
Nothing reminded one of who she was and why she mourned.
She forgot all about Hercules, thurifications and joys never to be.
Now all worthless.
POEM FORM THE COLLECTION SALUADER
BY MARIA PANOUTSOU TRANSLATED IN ENGLISH BY GIANNIS GOUMAS
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
*Butterfly flit across the meadow grass
As evening curtains begin to close
Crickets and Katydids sing
And Firefly dance about
The black vestment of
The night.*
Тадеус
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
his fingers dig into the dirt
like a priest bends for prayer.
his feet are rooted to the ground
and his lips taste like the earth.
in the trees he hides himself,
clothed in a vestment of mist
clutched between ***** fingernails.
in the sand is laid out all the words
he's ever truly known: the word
of the sand is what he lives by.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
The church dimly lit by candles
The procession begins
Alter servers in white with crimson ropes
Solemn, quiet, mournful
They proceed to their destination
The priest lays prostrate before the alter
His crimson vestment starts to glow
The moon in all her beauty shines through
the glass of our Lord's home
Service begins
The Passion read
Our holy Cross brought forth
Chaste, mournful lips kiss our Lord's feet
Tears are shed is silent sobs
Our King has died
We look forward for three days
Trying hard to remember he rises
Knowing the end of the story
Yet still heart's break
Our King has passed
As silently as service began
It is finished
Into His hands we commended our spirit
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
I needed a new job so I got one. If only I were
a master manipulator, I'd have a million catchphrases and a walking stick.
At dawn my friend brought me a magic radio that made all of my worries go away.
I tuned it just right and caught a station out of detroit.
Twin foil balloons float in the backseat of my car, something worse than limbo.
I dribbled a beautiful skull yesterday and jammed my finger -
then I wanted to
visit the scene of the plane crash to look for my mood ring, for the remains of the vestment he
kept folded in his back pocket.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
I don't think I'll make it
until I know how to not fake it
until I learn how to break it
until I let them take it
the it factor
Harry J Baxter
because unless I can give me
then I'm just like that tree
that fell in the forest
through the safety net
with nobody around
to hear it yet
A sick dog without a vet
without a vestment of hope
will they like this? nope
is this really you?
your where why and who?
because people have
great bull **** detectors
and unless you're the director
nobody is buying tickets
no more white pickets
see that bucket? kick it
like a mangy mutt
kick it right in the ****
these rhymes are simple
I never had much skill
never got such a thrill
from fitting into a style
maybe in a little while
but I don't want to hear it
I just don't give a ****
if these long lines of words
leave your eyes feeling hurt
and your poetic sensibilities inert
It never stops
and I might take a shot
at making this poem
be needlessly long
an ugly song
sung by an ugly swan
or is it a duckling?
who knows? who cares?
It just leaves me scared
to think that I'm not
who I am
when I write
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
made just for me
(young skinned heart)
please loaded voice
beg a clutch o
f
so lacy palms scraping denim sheathed
thighs.
every
vestment ripped serenely. sensual laden edifice.
i know only this valley invited in: i travel gentle
grooves. & so if wanted i will give your canvas
my crimson
stroke.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Watching from afar
Don't know who you are
Dee__--mons
They'aa-aa-ah have chaa-_nged you
Too late to turn back now
Putting your Country on a scowl
Perhaps unacquainted with vestment
Your Base keeps them in the basement
Too_oo-oo laa-_aate now
Nough
T L H Joyner
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC