Prayer
A sailor drowned in the sea's depths
Unaware, his mother goes and lights
a tall candle before the ikon of our Lady
praying that he'll come back quickly, that the weather may be good
her ear cocked always to the wind.
While she prays and supplicates,
the ikon listens, solemn, sad,
knowing the son she waits for never will come back.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Related quotes
Supplication
The sea took a sailor to its depths.--
His mother, unsuspecting, goes and lights
a tall candle before the Virgin Mary
for his speedy return and for fine weather --
and always she turns her ear to the wind.
But while she prays and implores,
the icon listens, solemn and sad,
knowing that the son she expects will no longer return.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The eyes of the ikon
The door creaks as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church. The Son of Man
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. Look into her eyes.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ikon
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into her eyes.
[revised]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Holy Russia
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are;
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation; presence; memory
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could be a midnight cedar forest
in its dark wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –
is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?
Or was she, is she, that unmarried, once famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?
She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
thick with gold; the ikon that tourists
note with brief glance as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.
She looks intently into His eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her;
asks as intently as its painter: praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him…
She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.
She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only to be known; her heart
opens itself to her soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.
The candles flicker in the draught; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
as an old woman, wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into His eyes.
*
(revised)
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ikon
On a day like no other
In a time unique, in a place divine
Keep your eye on the ikon
Shining in the light of eternal mind.
I went to sleep a blind man
But when I awoke I saw
The legions of the lonely
See their faces, hear them call.
See how they hang on
Each one in a world of his own design
Listen to the ikon
Ringing in the sound of eternal mind.
And the music plays forever
And it captures every ear
And the sound of barriers crashing down
Is the sweet harmony you hear.
Still, be still
To strong, so be still
Much too long, come down
Be still, look around
Listen here, be still
Hear the sound, be still.
Still we are here
We are still
Will we sing sweet
Sing we will
Still we are here
We are still
Nil is a fear all is nil
Still we are here we are still
Spill it let go let it spill.
The question comes to mind
About what should be done
And how much of the old will die
That the new may be begun
But you dont have to be afraid
Of being alone with nowhere to run.
You dont have to be afraid
To look yourself in the eye
You dont have to be afraid not to lie.
Someone knows who you are
Someone watches over you
Someone knows how you feel
And someone feels the same.
So you dont have to be afraid
Never fear, for you are living in eternal mind
For those who still recoil
For those who fear the pain
Of peering oer the edge of
A new and different plane.
You dont have to be afraid
Whenever you go you come back again
So you dont have to be afraid
We live and we die
You dont have to be afraid to know why.
You dont have to be afraid
Whenever you go you come back again
So you dont have to be afraid
We live and we die
You dont have to be afraid to know why.
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How’s My Boy?
“HO, Sailor of the sea!
How’s my boy—my boy?”
“What’s your boy’s name, good wife,
And in what good ship sail'd he?”
“My boy John— He that went to sea—
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
“You come back from sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have ask’d some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There ’s not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
“How’s my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me know
I’ll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the ‘Jolly Briton’”—
“Speak low, woman, speak low!”
“And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I’d sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?”
“That good ship went down.”
“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how’s my John?”
“Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”
“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I’m not their mother—
How’s my boy—my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How ’s my boy—my boy?”
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Cold Wind Waits
though the frost is gone, the
cold wind waits.
the robin sings while the
cold wind waits.
a gentle breeze
now blows the wheat,
but a threat of rain
will change to sleet.
the summer slips and the
cold wind waits.
though the warm wind blows, the
cold wind waits.
the traffic crawls while the
cold wind waits.
it's dark too early,
winter too soon,
light of the sun
will change to moon.
the weather turns and the
cold wind waits.
(2011-Bolingbrook, IL)
poem by Mark Money
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Under the weather...
Under the weather
Down low
Beneath the ground
Water, mud, rain…
Soon I'll be gone
With the sand
In the wind
Sunny side up
Not so sunny
So I walk
Or is it mope?
I mope around
Away from the day
Escaping the sun's ray
Rainbow
Or is it a dark cloud?
I don't know
I can't see
I simply breathe
The dirty smoke
Under the weather
There I go
I just lost myself
Oops, clumsy me
I am but a simple waste of skin
That roams unnoticed
Undefined
Tragic Empty Space
Under the weather
Just a little raindrop
Leaking from tube to tube
Leaf to leaf
The bud of my light,
Now,
Turned back into a seed
Back to square one
Under the weather
Away from the sun
Under the weather
Under the mud
Purple, violet
I'm color blind
Corrupted
Interrupted
Blissfully unaware of my bind
Winter, fall
I don't matter
Silently, calmly, I crawl
Carrying my broken shell
Heavy weight
Fragile neck, my fragile back
Unseen snail
Under the weather
Under the rain…
poem by Lynn El Amine
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The silent child never spoke
There she sits alone in her room.
And wipes away her tears.
Hiding beneath the covers so no one else hears.
She wraps them tight around her for noone else to see.
Praying if there is a God to make her safe again.
She hides deep into covers holding
Cuddling her little teddy bear as she cries her tears.
She waits for the assurance that all has gone to bed.
Hoping and praying maybe he'll leave her alone tommorow.
And not find an excuse to get her alone.
In the morning she shivers with her childlike fear.
As she starts to cry knowing what he has come here for
Although she doesn't know why.
He made his excuse to look after her.
He tells her she is special that she's his little girl.
As he pulls back the covers he rapes her on her bed.
Deeper she now goes into her silent world
He says that it's their secret the special game they play
She lay there in her silence with her clothes on the floor.
Trying to shut it out as the tears slowly fall.
She listens to him tell her that she will be to blame
If anyone discovers their special secret game.
So deep within she hides the pain.
He tells her this is their little secret;
she mustn't say a thing.
Then she cuddles up to teddy and cries her silent tears
Beneath her tear soaked covers so no one else can hear.
And as she lay in her silence
with her tear-filled eyes
Each time that he comes to her
a part of her dies ~
So she curls up in her bed
and hugs her teddy tight
And prays that he will never
come to her again at night.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Aunt Sally Speaks
Who have been educated out of naive responses,
The hoodoo of love, the cinderella of class
Knowing that everywhere man has the same clock face,
the same moody defences
Against age and the loss of love in the hope of millennimums
Who think too much perhaps of elegance
Or the form of wisdom, having outgrown dreams
Like baby clothes a long while since;
Wiseacres playing with terrible dolls in the twilight
holding our sides, thinking of mad Loyola
Or that bald maker of roads, the much stabbed Caesar
Till the stars are bright;
Who cannot live in the Very Lights of the headlines
Or forget the unrehearsed summer of the shires
Because Europe is frightened, quakes like a woman,
Looks wildly behind?
How shall we live except as plants or fays
Who cannot take ten deep breaths in any crowd?
Neither the whimsical mob, nor those whose better times
Are only a pierrots disguise
For the disastrous pathos of their present?
What shall we do who cannot place a candle
Before the ikon of the future, nor yet acquiesce
Unconsciously in habit?
For whom the actor's gesture, the preacher's word
Are not enough being at all times too conscious
Of the shortcomings of motive, who refuse drugs
And the tailspin of madness?
What shall we do with our hardened arteries
Under the zeppelin shade of catastrophe
but emulate the gloss and selfishness of china
Till the clocks fly away?
poem by Kenneth Allott
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Serenade
THE western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark Ægean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
O Lady mine come down, come down!
She will not come, I know her well,
Of lover's vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,
They never know the lover's pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot tell me true
Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
Is that my Lady's lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
Or is it but the silver sand?
No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew,
'Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!
The waning sky grows faint and blue,
It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
O Lady mine away! away!
O noble pilot steer for Troy,
Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
O loved for ever evermore!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Altar
My grandmother had an altar
in the middle of the living room;
Mother Mary statute four feet tall.
On the table it rose seven feet
towering over all.
In an family emergency
a candle was lit
she would kneel;
pray-
candle flickering
on her face-
lit like heaven
was supplying
the electricity;
so serene that
face
and most often
the hallway phone would ring
and I swear
that family emergency
had been resolved
somehow
someway.
.
Came Christmas
I was alone
with the Madonna
and I knelt
just like Grandma
lit my candle too
and prayed for a toy tank.
Got one too
except it came
on the TV.
America
was fighting
a war in Korea.
My thought to this
day:
maybe I did it wrong
but can't risk doing it again
the whole world might get
destroyed.
Just one of those child fears
that lingers on.
Oh I still pray
but now I just leave
those candles alone.
Apparently
my praying is too powerful
and by not praying that way
I save the whole world
from me
everyday.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Confused Atmosphere
Mother Nature may be confused, just like those, who have used,
This demeaning title to describe, the very God they have denied,
The Lord God, Who orders all, weather patterns, great and small,
He may never enter their minds, while stirring weather of all kinds.
Confused He isn't or will not be, for He is The Lord of all Eternity,
He is God of Order, up above; controlling weather men speak of,
And they truly don't understand, He controls the weather at hand,
Confusing only meteorologists, who dream Mother Nature exists.
They forecast the weather to come, not aware of where it is from,
Knowing not who is really behind, the weather they bring to mind,
Being shaken and very surprised, when it's not as they surmised,
But taking credit from their peers, for saying good weather nears.
Often times, you may even note, as weather is good some gloat,
About the returning of the sun, as if, it's something they've done,
Even though they may shy away, as bad weather comes our way,
Almost with a real reverence to, The Lord, to whom it is truly due.
For He is The Creator of this earth, Ruler over the whole universe,
He has, and always will control, all weather patterns, big or small,
With change meteorologists see, that fools the latest technology,
And it's those who have refused, God's Truth, who are confused.
Mother Teresas Prays!
A CHILD is borne with aids,
her only hope, mother teresas
beatiful tears.
A WOMEN crying for help, starts
to cut her wrist, still mother teresa
prays.
A MAN sells him self for drugs, still
mother teresa prays.
A world with to many guns,, still
mother teresa prays....
poem by David Gerardino
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Harbor Lights
(words & music by h. williams - j. kennedy)
I saw the harbor lights
They only told me we were parting
Those same old harbor lights
That once brought you to me.
I watched the harbor lights
How could I help it?
Tears were starting.
Good-bye to golden nights
Beside the silvery seas.
I long to hold you dear,
And kiss you just once more.
But you were on the ship,
And I was on the shore.
Now I know lonely nights
For all the while my heart keeps praying
That someday harbor lights
Will bring you back to me.
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seadream
Pretty lady look at me
Im a sailor from the sea
I can take you anywhere
You can join me do you dare?
Like a dagger made of diamonds
In a scabbard soft as gold
I can show you pretty secrets
Human lips have never told.
And she said, sailor, come with me
Is it lonesome on the sea
Is there shelter for your head
Like the comfort of my bed?
Love is harder than a diamond
And as soft and pure as gold
And its sweet as any secret
Any sailor ever told.
Pretty lady look at me
Im a sailor from the sea
I can take you anywhere
You can join me do you dare?
Pretty lady look at me
Im a sailor from the sea.
song performed by by Kris Kristofferson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Candle
A spark flickers
a bright flame glows.
Pushing shadows back
one candle burns.
Within its heart
such strength is born.
Brings the will to persevere
in the darkest hours.
From one burning candle
no matter near or far.
Like a living soul
warm energy flows.
To one who is lost
this tiny radiance
lights a dark path.
It shows the way.
Think of the good
could be done.
Had one the power
of a single burning candle.
06May03
poem by Kurt Hearth
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The lonely old lady
She sits in her favourite chair
her dog lies by her slippered feet
a cup of tea in an arthritic hand.
The television is on in the corner
she sees it as a very close friend
talking to the newsreader about her day.
She stares over at the telephone
praying that someone will call
it hasn't rung for a long time.
The postman has just been
she wishes he'd come in for a chat
but people are so busy these days.
The pretty weather girl is talking
it's going to be a hot and sunny day
the old lady tells her she looks nice.
Struggling to get to her aching feet
she looks out of her living room window
people and cars go quickly by.
Sitting back down in her favourite chair
she bends to pick up her little dog
and stroking him she starts to cry.
The old lady died in her favourite chair
her little dog sat for weeks by her slippered feet
the postman kept pushing the mail through.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Darshana
Who looks to whom?
And who looked first?
Everything that has direction
has its contraflow.
The ikon whose golden frame you gently touch
painted its painter so that it might look within you.
That white-bearded man whose photo
you just glanced at, was photographed
by the Ganges’ snowy swirling waters
to be there to bless your eyes, to smile your mind.
For you who arrived, hot, dusty, saddle-sore,
the saint has waited patiently to see you become him.
For you, the whole world awaits
with answers to your questions yet to ask.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Back To
When the night wind chills your heart
when you are away from home,
you wish you were back there
tucked up in your warm bed
away from the chilling night
that penetrates your soul.
Back to those warm rooms
you call your loving home.
Back to your loved one
who waits patiently for you.
Back to the safety of your dreams
vowing to never leave again,
even if for just one day.
Back from the night wind chill
to your own castle walls.
Back to the place where
your heart calls, home.
poem by David Harris
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