We're all pilgrims on the same journey - but some pilgrims have better road maps.
quote by Nelson DeMille
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Road Of Life
As pilgrims on the road of life,
We journey on with hope,
Through the joy, and through the strife,
Our own kaleidoscope.
Seeking harmony and seeking peace,
Striving to find our way,
Wishing that, all wars may cease,
And trying hard to pray.
As pilgrims on the road of life,
We travel on with desire,
Through the joy, and through the strife,
Our destiny to acquire.
Seeking calm and seeking rest,
Striving to find a place,
Wishing that we could be blest,
With His pure heavenly grace.
As pilgrims on the road of life,
We traverse on with love,
Through the joy, and through the strife,
To our Creator, up above.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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All The Pilgrims
All those married shall cheer and stride
Like the marchers of religion and gain.
Silent worshippers are like pilgrims of the night,
They never whisper or stride wrongfully
And objectionably, merely they strive.
No mind is against the pilgrims of the night
Who are not beggars of the light,
Who are some of us as well,
Who let pilgrimage be like a journey of choice
That man suffers for woman and child.
Anything in the light of the book of God
Shall be with pilgrims of choice,
Their minds are set upon life of the world beyond.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Pilgrims of the soul
Pilgrims of the soul
Poets' journey through body to soul,
It has no scope for a double role;
A common platform PH provides,
All colors and creeds in One confide.
All of us are on a pilgrimage,
Different countries, variant age;
We all come here with our tales,
One another with bliss regale.
We are the pilgrims of the soul,
In One Soul our bodies roll.
* A rejoinder to Meggie Gultiano’s MY POETIC JOURNEY.
poem by C.P. Sharma
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O Pulchritudo
O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod
And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam,
Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God,
Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream,
Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.
O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought,
Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound,
Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought,
Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound,
Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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St. Helens
This volcanic mountain stands in great majesty
Pregnant with knowledge o'er time
Upon the threshold of birthing baskests of lava filled knowledge
Todays Pilgrims take on its steep climb;
Longing for answers of its history
Of this planet and perhaps e'en beyond
At the base of this most gand mountain
The Pilgrims kneel in awe of what has been found;
Cavernous caves formed o'er the years
Tiny echos of the pilgrims voices are heard
Nearby-birds in a nest-make for the best
Flying 'neath the mountain are the Bluebirds;
In the space surrounding this mountain
Multiple eulogies are played in the thin air
But with nary a casket only knowledge filled lava baskets
Words of knowledge of the mountain now lay bare;
Mount Saint Helens
In Remembrance of Her Eruption in 1980
And how many of my aunts and uncles
Had to move further away because of the
Volcanic ash and debris in the air.
poem by Theodora Onken
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It Is Not...
it is not the language
but the thought
it is not the house but
those who live in it
it is not the road
but the car and the drivers
the passengers too
it is not the ship
but those waving hands
it is not the school building
but the students and teachers
deep in their mission
for more
it is not the church structure
but the pilgrims
in prayer
it is not this Earth
but us
it is not the River
but the bather
it is not the paper
but the words that you write in them
it is not the pen
neither the ink
it is you and your memories
it is not the feet and hands
but your distance
the journey
the things that you create
along this
path
this hill and mountain
that cloud and
sun
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Heaven & Hell
The clock on the turret countryside
pale blue hands will never move.
short one indicates the hell
and long one indicates the heaven.
nobody wants to repair it.
the old haunted building you can guess
will be a holy place.
The pilgrims of disables confess the dumb preacher
stone deaf the bell-ringer.
Beyond the churchyard
there is a poultry farm
and a rattle-snake creeps to the yard
birds made a big noise.
The preacher explains silently to the innocent pilgrims
who are kneeling on the floor,
the noise that comes from the hell.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Footprints In The Sand
We are but pilgrims
traveling on this
journey
Leaving positive
footprints, in the
sands of time
The tide sweeps in
washing them to sea
again
but we must main-
tain
steady
through the floods
of time
When our journey has
ended
someday, we will
stand
before the master
planner
give account for our
footprints
left in the sands of
time.
poem by Heather Burns
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Days And Nights Go By (by R.b.)
days and nights go by
like friends and lovers
merely passing by us
not stopping not staying
know by now, life is
like that, too, merely
passing by, not staying,
pilgrims, yes, days
and nights are pilgrims,
always passing by,
not staying,
night not blacking out
day, not exploding
yes, just passing by
like poems that you
read, that you pass
by, and then we
begin again, we pass
again, not stopping
not staying, sometimes
not even glancing.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Holy Book or Mine?
`
So what if I've gone to Scripture
maybe just to have a look?
So what if it spoke to me so loud
with brilliant flashes of cutting blades?
So what if all my thoughts are laid bare
stripped of any guile or disguise?
We all are pilgrims in this journey,
We all seek for what we know
We do not have yet could not name;
We all of us are on a quest toward
What we know eternity must hold....
So what if in my searching I find
whims and wandering thoughts reigned
within the cosmic finiteness of this mind?
Then there must have been some use
undusting and poring through that Tome.
`
A challenge to do your own pilgrimage and make your own conclusions.
It is always best to travel, first hand. Then the journey is trully your own.
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Our Lady of Health, Vailankanni (Lourdes of the east)
Devotees walk upon their knees,
On sandy paths that's burning hot,
Unmindful of the scorching sun,
To see the Mother miraculous.
They show their faith and gratitude,
Through arduous journey from their homes;
And have a glorious glimpse of her -
The Virgin Mary, Christ's mother.
Throughout the year, millions throng here,
To see the one, who calmed the sea,
for sailors who had prayed for help,
and built a chapel, thanking her!
The shrine has turned Basilica,
Attracting pilgrims world-over;
Promising miracles to those,
Who put their trust on Mother dear.
Many come here to tonsure heads,
Or bore ear-lobes of their children;
As part of pilgrimage of towns,
To cope better life's ups and downs!
Many come here for inner peace
Of heart and mind, eluding long;
And purify their soul by grace,
By Mary's intercession fast.
Some come to spend their holidays,
To take some rest, and watch the sea!
The mystifying place has ways
To tread road to eternity!
Masses are said so frequently;
The church choir sings good melodies;
The lights and décor - feast to eyes,
that feel on earth, heavenly scene!
With gifts and offerings galore,
The pilgrims share testimonies
Of miracles that Mary wrought,
Healing the sick, diseased, infirm!
Candles are lit throughout the day;
Flowers are offered by pilgrims;
Prayers and hymns resound always;
Incense ascends heaven's stair-ways!
The Mother with her baby boy
Smiles heavenly to one and all,
And promises miracles, joy,
To those who pray, heeding her call!
The Indian Lourdes of the east!
Is spreading bliss and piety,
As Jesus lovingly obeys
His Mother's wishes, and requests!
Oh, what a way to get things done,
from Jesus Lord, Mary's own son!
The Queen of heaven and of earth,
God-blessed remains for Christ Lord's birth!
The tsunami that hit the coast
just stopped, short of the Church's steps!
Nature could not profane the place
of sanctity of Christ's Mother!
The place is much better these days,
As tall buildings afill landscape;
More pilgrims pray with piety
To Blessed Mary Ev'r Virgin,
Reciting rosaries to get
through Mary, favours from Jesus;
Purifying heart, mind and soul,
To enter God's abode - Heaven.
poem by John Celes
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Pilgrims who are looking for a cure are soon looking for a curio.
quote by Morley Safer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No life map
Road maps are there.
Paths can be chosen
No maps are for life.
Time reveals the path.
23.05.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.
quote by Abraham Cowley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The saint who works no cures has few pilgrims to his shrine.
Pilgrimmage to the Shrine of the Goddess, Vaishnodevi (Jammu-India)
With a bundle of luggage on her head,
and a baby in the cradle dangling from her neck,
with folded hands worshipping and barefoot,
she was climbing up shouting: ’Victory to the Goddess’.
An old frump counting her days
With a hand on her bent back,
was crawling up crying: “ Jai Matha Di”.(Victory to the Goddess) .
We alone are the footsore pilgrims
aspiring for a magic carpet to fly to the top.
Parents were sitting on ponies
but their baby was in the hands of the pony-man.
The boys danced to the sounds of drums
to boost the morale of the tired pilgrims,
who scrambled up the mountain with frets and sweats.
My friend too danced and looked at the ladies
for sweet comments and smiles;
but the women with no festering thoughts
yelled: “Jai Matha Di” and moved up.
The long trek sapped our energy;
but the shouts to the victory of the Goddess,
flapped our wings to go up.
----------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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LOTTE A CASA (Lot At Home)
Cor zu' bravo sbordone a manimanca,
Du' pellegrini a or de vemmaria
Cercaveno indov'era l'osteria,
Perc'uno aveva male in d'una cianca.
Ce s'incontra er zor Lotte, e je spalanca
Er portone dicenno: "A casa mia"
E loro je risposeno: "Per dia
Dimani sarai fio de l'oca bianca".
Quelli ereno du' angeli, fratello,
Che ar vedelli passà li Ghimorrini
Se sentinno addrizzà tutti l'ucello.
E arrivonno a strillà, fiji de mulo:
"Lotte, mannece giù li pellegrini,
Che ce serveno a noi pe daje in culo".
English
With a staff in their left hand,
Two pilgrims at midnight
Were looking for the tavern
Because one of them had an aching leg.
They met Lot, who opened for them
His door, saying: "Come to my home".
They replied: "By God,
Tomorrow you will be a privileged man".
Those were two angels, brother,
Who, passing by, made the people of Gomorrah [2]
Grow sexually excited [3] .
And those bastards even shouted:
"Lot, send us the pilgrims,
We need them for having sex" [4] .
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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Life Is Fog Bound
Life is a mystery, a fog shrouded puzzle
With images and characters
All fuzzy round the edges.
We are uncomfortable with mystery
It denies our certainties our black and whites.
Our logic fails to work, is inconsequential.
Our faith journey is only clear when looking back
The now and the future remain fog bound.
For those who seek a certain path
Crystal clear and straight and narrow
Will find their way encumbered, misted over
In the reality of our being pilgrims led by him
Who is the way, the light in a puzzling world
poem by James Tipp
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