"worshipper" poems
"Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving -
It does not matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come,
Even if you have broken your vow a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come."
-Rumi
Lover of Leaving.
I wonder where that comes from.
Abandoning ideas,
or the idea of abandoning people.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
The flowerlike
animal perfume
in the god’s curly
hair —
don’t assume
that like a flower
his attributes
are there to tempt
you or
direct the moth’s
hunger —
simply he is
the temple of himself,
hair and hide
a sacrifice of blood and flowers
on his altar
if any worshipper
kneel or not.
5.8k
My lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops is troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hates loves, and pride becomes his worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
4.9k
Liking her a sunflower crown becomes new religion
She introduced the sun to me
In the flamboyant light of her style and being
Myself, already a worshipper
As I’m sure she’s princess of the wild tribes
Now they’re passions for the sunlight shades
Slow spinning with blonde desire towards the
casual dance of new attraction
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
In her eyes the starkness of might
in her outstretched arms a call
to the ones challenging her
to surrender to her power
and the ones worshipping her
to find in her might what’s hidden,
an invitation to the worshipper and the challenger
to submit, to see, beyond her wrathful might
not a goddess
but a woman, a mortal lover,
infinitely lovable!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty—the unhidden heart—
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto’s daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks—
Which glistens then, and trembles—
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies—
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
3.3k
I felt a spirit of love begin to stir
Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;
And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain
(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),
Saying, 'Be now indeed my worshipper!'
And in his speech he laughed and laughed again.
Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,
I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,
And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice
Approach me, this the other following,
One and a second marvel instantly.
And even as now my memory speaketh this,
Love spake it then: 'The first is christened Spring;
The second Love, she is so like to me.'
3.1k
Trust the sun (she says)
her first rays when creation was young
and God's window opened outward
as a place of worship
born to be breathtaken
daylight imploring for companionship
and bleeding into itself
as it bleeds into the worshipper.
She notices that her own taste
in repeating patterns doesn’t mesh
with the apparently similar
patterns in Drakensberg
they obey a different logic, and the friction
between them generates
a fascinatingly ambiguous color.
Tinctured cathedral of time passing
on its first layer of stairs...
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 7:53 PM UTC
When we prefer the narrow gate
And tire of busy highways
We see the Kingdom come
When the master is the servant
And kneels to wash our feet
We see the Kingdom come
When the straggler is given preference
And the first steps to the back
We see the Kingdom come
When we serve the poor, the hungry
And take the stranger in
We see the Kingdom come.
When children are given pride of place
And followed as an example
We see the Kingdom come
When brother and sister are reconciled
While our offering is left to wait
We see the Kingdom come
When the temples are cleared of commerce
And prayer takes it rightful place
We see the Kingdom come
When the Sabbath serves the worshipper
Not the worshipper the Sabbath
We see the Kingdom come
When fragrant extravagance is applauded
And noses put out if joint
We see the Kingdom come
When the Creator's light is lifted up
And the Son is no longer hidden
We see the Kingdom come
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
A ******** enthusiast
Whose pessimism is intrinsic
And not fashioned
A frequenter the doldrums
With a penchant for exaggeration
A confused Scorpio
Plagued by ghosts of former selves
Meandering along a thorny path
Under darkened infinite skies
Waiting for the severed backbone
I Possess trailing behind
To latch on
And offer restoration and purpose
An eternal student
A slave to academia
With an insatiable hunger for knowledge
In the field of economics
Governed by perfectionism
That will be my demise
A feminist
A riot grrrl
With an acute fascination with morbidity
A worshipper of rock music
And Professional headbanger
An enlightened inner-directed soul
An awakened dreamer
Gouging out
The remaining fragments of delusion
From the eyes
Embracing realism
A sufferer
Aspiring to be human.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
she worries the hem of her white cotton dress
in her delicate hand
while her other hand nestled softly in mine
she looks up to my eyes
and smiles
as she gathers me up
to the hay in the barnyard
where she lay with me
and indulges me of her delights
we lay in the cool air
and she is curled up in my arms singing to me softly
the summer birds dance in the open sky
the summer afternoon sun glows golden in her eyes
she looks up into my eyes
and without a word need to be said
and in my heart
the sunlight is devoted to her face
a worshipper of the only real beauty in the world
it caresses her delicate features
and paints my perception of her
she is a masterpiece of love
paints my vision of her
her vibrant laughter and smiles run
round in my heart
making themselves a home in my heart
and making my heart feel at home
she worries the hem of her white cotton dress
i lean in and kiss her lips
with the heartfelt adoration
of every ounce of my soul
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there
In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song;
And I have loitered in the vale too long
And gaze now a belated worshipper.
Yet may I not forget that I was ‘ware,
So journeying, of his face at intervals
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls,—
A fiery bush with coruscating hair.
And now that I have climbed and won this height,
I must tread downward through the sloping shade
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed
And see the gold air and the silver fade
And the last bird fly into the last light.
2k
the drunkard crawls from an infinite sea of sadness,
their screams echo
into an enormous black sky,
upon finding their sun
which was once an incessant ***** red,
now a cold mass of midnight blue,
abandoning its worshipper
to revel in darkness,
to freeze from a deathly chill of loneliness,
to melt from the nights' stinging raindrops of reality.
but the drunkards,
and only the drunkards,
are secretly admitted
into the hollow asylum of the traitorous mind,
where some imagined eerie light
bathes the shadows,
where they feel the solitude enveloping their bodies
with an alien warmth,
where the raindrops intoxicate their insides
like thick, sugary syrup;
a place where they
willingly drug themselves
into an ignorant stupor,
painting translucent
dreams of yesterday
upon the undersides of their eyelids,
and seeing them
as the art of the future.
solely possessing the key
to the invisible shackles
that chain them
to equally invisible walls,
they lie back in relief,
upon silken feather dust pillows,
comforted by a styrofoam fortress,
while blissfully wasting away
in their drunken
narcotic haven.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
I cannot forget with what fervid devotion
I worshipped the vision of verse and of fame.
Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean,
To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame.
And deep were my musings in life's early blossom,
Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering long;
How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full *****
When o'er me descended the spirit of song.
'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened
To the rush of the pebble-paved river between,
Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened,
All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene;
Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing,
From his throne in the depth of that stern solitude,
And he breathed through my lips, in that tempest of feeling,
Strains lofty or tender, though artless and rude.
Bright visions! I mixed with the world, and ye faded;
No longer your pure rural worshipper now;
In the haunts your continual presence pervaded,
Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow.
In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain,
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain,
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain,
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain.
Oh, leave not, forlorn and for ever forsaken,
Your pupil and victim to life and its tears!
But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken
The glories ye showed to his earlier years.
1.6k
In a throbbing coccon seized by ablazen web
thou viscid meanders woven by an unabating tempest
then hoarded in a rapture... by the sylph of the sands.
Rising rider, captive of an upwind sail
meadowy sky lover, worshipper of the ephemeral
fettered Why mooring the eluding eons to a transfixed now
as if the twined dreams of a wayfarer,
nomad of the seas, the sands and the skies
trapped in an ethereal time warp.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:10 AM UTC
In the villa in Sharja,
A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.
Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,
Touched it to my forehead in reverence,
Remembered my father who understood trees.
In the book she has kept closed,
It should be possible to still see
The memory veins of a leaf-
Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.
‘It is a sign of prosperity,
It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.
New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana
Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps
Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,
Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet
After them,
Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby
One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,
I heard speech of a rhythmic nature
From the room of those who wore caps
It passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music.’
It was a Friday.
While watering Basil plants,
Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.
Its leaves, like heart shattered..
Whitish veins drained of blood
my eyes hurt
As I ran to it,
Saw the tree,
Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut
While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.
Father,
You used to say that there were many types of trees
Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, Father?
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Ek Ehsas woh bhi hai
Aur ek Ehsas tu bhi hai
Woh todta hi chala ja raha hai
Tu jodta hi chala ja raha hai
(A feeling was that - which was him...
A feeling is that - which is you...
He kept on breaking
You kept on mending)
Woh kal ki meethi khushboo liye
Mere wujood ko tilmila raha hai
Tu aaj ke haseen waade ke saath
Kadam se Kadam badha raha hai
(He was using the fragrance of the sweet past
And making my existence shatter
You are here with me with a promise of today
Moving ahead with me walking hand in hand)
Woh khud parast apni marzi ke
Zakhm dhaaye ja raha hai
Tu hamdili se un zakhmon par
Pyar ka malham laga raha hai
(That self worshipper in his own will
Went on giving me wounds
You have only compassion to give
And are healing my painful wounds with your undying love)
Woh apne lafz zubaan pe meri
Rakh kar chalna chah raha hai
Tu honthon ki chuppi par meri
Man hi man muskaa raha hai
(He placed his words on my tongue
And made me say what he wanted to hear
You are happy with the silent curving of my lips
And your heart is contented with only my happiness)
Woh beete dinon ke safhon ko
Bhooli kitaab se chura raha hai
Tu dil pe gade hue lafzon ko
Rahat e jaam pila raha hai
(I can’t translate this very well...
He was stealing the pages of days gone by
From a book which was long forgotten
{And trying to make an impact by using matters which pained in the past}
You are nurturing the words of my heart
With nourishment of contentment and everlasting happiness)
Woh apne "ain" ke aaine mein
Tasweer purani dikha raha hai
Tu haath mera haathon mein liye
Naye rangon se Saja Raha hai. ..
(He showed in the mirror of his eyes a picture faded and eroded
You are taking my hand in yours and painting a picture full of beautiful pictures of life
{showing me the beautiful side of life})
Ek Ehsas woh bhi hai. ...
Aur Ek Ehsas tu bhi hai. ....
(Afeeling was that - which was him...
A feeling is that - which is you)
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 7:01 AM UTC
The sun falls faster and the colour of the leaves I'm drawn to,
No longer am I longing for that lawn dew.
Gotta fight the cold, feel I need to wrap up warm too
As the season turns it's something that I can't warm to.
I see the squirrel foraging within the leaves,
What lies for him fills me with jealousy,
Because once his work is done,
He gets to sleep and just like the sun
We won't see him for several weeks.
Theres something I, just can't put my finger on,
Theres something that burns within
Me which lingers on,
It's as black as the winter clouds
I stop, think and look around
Has anybody else been veiled with this shroud?
Of course, smiling faces, festivities are near,
I can't face it, wake me when Easter's here,
When the sun goes, so does my soul,
Burns me up like Nich's coal,
Winters drawn and I can't go on.
Maybe it's in my breed, when I start the freeze,
My body starts to cease so I need to sleep
Within the winter leaves,
Just wake me please in 28 weeks,
Jeez!
The pain in my chest, it's all too much,
Had since I was 12 and nothing has changed
Its strange, I go blue and slow,
Before we get the snow,
And when we get that very first light
My body start to excite.
Sun worshipper - no I'm not,
I'm guessing its my body clock
No matter how I try to fight it off,
Its a feeling, I just cannot stop,
On the other hand the feeling can't be topped.
Maybe I'm like the birds, the bears and the lot,
Work hard all season now need this winter break,
To reset my brain, to enable me to carry on,
Just ring me when spring has sprung.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
The number 25 was marked along the front of my hand, between my thumb and index finger.
It lowered each and every day.
Its no tattoo,
nothing that I wanted to be inprinted on my very skin.
I wasn't your normal girl,
I was more than that.
People call me:
Saint,
Devil Worshipper,
but you see, I'm not any of those things.
I may have different things about me,
that no one else has.
But I am still human.
I have a heartbeat,
blood,
a mind,
and a soul just like the rest of you.
I am no alien.
You wouldn't be able to tell I was different just by looking at me.
You'd say a friendly hi,
and get taken back from the others.
She is cursed.
They would say to you.
I do not get effected by the quiet whispers that are around me,
tis is nothing new.
They say the number on my hand is the days I've worked for the devil.
The day I fell from heaven and hit rock bottom.
The day I reached up from the ground and cursed this Earth.
They have no clue what this number means.
Would you like to know ?
Every day the numbers go down..
24
Waiting...
23
Waiting...
22
Waiting...
21
Anticipation...
20
Ignore the whispers...
19
Live like there is nothing wrong...
18
Enjoy being out in the sun...
17
Your fine...
16
Live on...
15
The crazy buzzing noise in your head...
14
Your hearts still beating...
13
Thee unlucky number...
12
Pace the room...
11
Bite your fingernails...
10
Whisper silently to yourself...
9
The world becomes to darken...
8
Your blood begans darken...
7
The air gets colder...
6
Your legs start to shake...
5
Your thoughts become realer...
4
Nervous of what is coming...
3
Don't forget to say goodbye...
2
Watch the number mold into your hand
1
I'm dead...
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
I am a worshipper of the moon.
A seeker of the darkness of night.
A creature that side steps light,
A keeper of the shadows.
Watcher of silver moon streaked meadows,
A subservient to the crepuscular goddess.
© Nick Strong 2014
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
The glow of a midnight moon touches
The tears of night’s cold gaze.
The moor rolls heaven’s stars
On into the great forest.
Who will ride to the grove
During autumns chilly nights?
None other than the moon worshiper
His cloak loose and divine.
Knots of the Celts painted on his face
His eyes envy green.
To the grove he rides to meet them,
The druids of his own clan.
Their horses hushed at the grove’s edge
A circle formed with rocks.
Each flattened stone with a symbol,
Matching each of the worshiper’s cloaks.
Chanting begins slowly
Their arms raised to the sky.
To the moon they pray for life itself
Pray they never die.
The fire burns brightly
From the moon to the druid’s heart.
His soul one with the forest
With the fire he heals its pain.
The ivy begins to sprout
From the trees of the grove.
From his hand to his fingertips
The moon begins to glow.
The yellow glow swirls round,
The great plants begin to grow.
The runes pulse with ancient light
The elders raw power.
As their eyes burn bright
The trance still strong.
The worshipers chant slows slightly
His eyes still envy green.
The arms all fall.
Their heads swing low.
The runes stop their humming.
It has been done.
To his horse he walks,
On its back he mounts
From the grove he rides on autumns night,
The forest now full of life.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
Abela wants to sit
and sun herself
on the beach;
I prefer the cafes
in the old city,
a book, a smoke
and a cool drink.
Others sit or lay
in the hot sun,
she says,
why not you?
You go,
I'll meet you later
in the city,
have a drink and meal
in some restaurant.
I hate being on my own.
You're not be
on your own;
there are hundreds
of other sun worshipper
there, too,
all around you.
She pulls a face,
sulks,
wanders down
to the crowded beach
with her towel
and skimpy
two-piece.
Don't blame me
if I get picked up
by some gorgeous guy,
she says,
back at me.
I watch her go,
the figure advertising
her Venus sisterhood.
I wave
and set off
for the city.
Some poor schmuck
will try his luck;
he'll not succeed;
pity.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Russell, Taynon, Josh and Stephanie
Thank you for willing to be seen with me
Zack, Anthony, Lili and Max
Thank you for accepting all of the facts
Danica, Cody, Shayne and Steven
Thank you for keeping the playing field even
I know I’m forgetting so many names
So many faces and so many claims
So, to all of you who I call friend
Here is the message I’m gonna send:
You’ve all been there through thick and thin
Better friends there have never been
Stories, poems, rants and obsession
You listen and aid my mental progression
I could write this thing all day
And still I know it would not say
What you have all come to be
And what you all mean to me
And yeah I know, I’m awesome too
My being here is an honor to you
But my dear Ninja, Artist, and my Writer
My prep, my worshipper and my oddball character
You’re the ones with whom I rock out
You’re the ones who won’t let me pout
So, speaking quite seriously
I hope you don’t ever leave me.
SO! Please stand up and cheer
All of my friends here
Because if you don’t it will be quite queer…
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC