Spirituality poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of spirituality poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on spirituality are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Yin-Yang, push, pull, always switching directions, Digging deeper, future bleaker like a chronic infection, Help her climb back up, otherwise she’s drowning, Always feeling demoted, never in line for a crowning. She lives in the moonlight, but always searching for
Racism is a poisoned thorn that is imbedded in the heart of America. At first glance, it appears the thorn is merely a sliver creating a small amount of—discomfort but not really a wound worth considering after all, it will
November 9, a stroke again in her life, The broken phone lying near the bed, her eyes filled with tears, a blade in her left hand and bleeding fingers of her right hand, all spoke the same story of betrayal.
I was aware My breath was not the same His presence sank in me such I feel him in every drop of rain Pain,anger and intense moments Life’s become a fast trail The destination is worthless now Journey my only
I cannot bare to see it now! It’s symbol so forlorn. The Passion we so fondly show To place your crown of thorn! And yet, it harbours life, in droves; For all things come from you! This delicate, sense filled,
She is within an ever-lasting atmosphere, She is beneath the never lasting core, She prays, searches, hopes and fights, To find this never lasting door, A door leading to peace and promise, She is running out of time, So why
At the beach, it’s night time about 8.00 p.m. Best time to come few people around. Air is crisp, clean; cool, and the white horses are having such fun. Can sit for hours or gently wade while she softly whispers
Held so close, your materials protected like I might wreck some Vibrant hues, a rainbow on the light spectrum Increased saturation, a narrow aperture, and quick shutter Snapping photographs of smiling faces as I slide in a slick gutter Haunted
In my trials and tribulations Be they however great I’ll forever own the splendor In the sanctity of faith You, my precious God Are my hope, guide and way Throughout this realm of ruin Where I patiently remain You amplify
Light a sharpie so bright shines on beauty seen through decay. Both beauty and decay form a duality of darkness and luminosity. Beauty is a love that can provide for its reality against dismay. Just as tradition is a security
Blinded by religion the world is, Touched by holiness, everythings at ease. The parents of a girl of seven Got her a holy guide to make her reach heaven. His deeds and thoughts were said to be long, His greatness
I have agreed to cede an unwritten moon in a killing frenzy, for a chequered spirituality. Now visitation will start ravishing the light at dawn. The grievers will assemble for a final scoop of dust. Forgive my star, for a
About the book – Ray Mootrey, first time author and poet has captured elements of new-age spirituality in an exciting post-apocalyptic science fiction fantasy. HARRY THE MOLE is an epic poem; the story of a reluctant hero who overcomes his
Walking out of the body I was drowned, accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow. A wide circle of testosterone giving pardon to a sin becomes sexless. You were overwhelmed by the missed beats. Your prosaic crime of not fathering
Destiny etches our lives and draws its pictures, we are but portraits placed in its layout… Strange are the ways of fate; when all is lived and seen, when the path to be trod, has been decided and chosen then,
While I dread the monotony of days that pass me by, I relish in the lack of responsibility I deliberately choose for myself And the beauty of un-productivity that allows me to seep into the deep recesses of my thoughts
Trading the sweetness, a rainbow on icefalls, you will come back on rocks and drink the elixir of death. A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler, ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass. The pink goddess of
We know it’s hard to believe From what your earthly eyes can see. We know it’s difficult to accept Since you are deficient in sensory depth. We know you haven’t been sufficiently prepared To come to terms with what’s really
What can I write, I’m not really sure, Shall I talk about hate, Shall I talk about war. Should I forget all that and write about love, Of rolling hills and the wings of a dove, It doesn’t matter because
Beyond the sex he was sleepwalking in shame hiding his faith ingloriously. A poacher in harem of politics, where you stack the hidden virility for killing the money. A single mate must die making love on screen in the vicinity
Cows eat grain and grass, Goats, sheep, deer too Eat greens and grass. All creatures eat As per their nature! Alas! Only people are Who go against nature! Whoever violates nature Will have to suffer? Who follows her Will always
Is man standing? Heart throbs. Is man squatting? Heart pulsates. Is man on his knees? Heart beats, even when posture affects the heart- its rhythms never end. In humor heart goes back and forth, in glumness it thrums, in sullenness
A self-protecting game was going on. After the paternity test there was slow burning inside the moon. Earth heaved a big sigh. Blackwater was making a muddy sound. Embroidery was fading aftermoon. I open the window to uncover the chill.
I live in purgatory for my insignificant sins I could not have lived in this world without bondage and bindings This will last another lifetime it will seem but end within its own meanings Sometimes I think that purgatory is
Unthinkable. Lithograph of a malaise. I cannot talk. Will you abandon the thought and care about the drowning dawn? The bandaged ego of the book threatens the reader. Come and solve the puzzle of poetry. Everything was quiet except the
We were marbles in a concave pan different sizes different trajectories congregating in clumps and caravans until the formation shattered we slid to the edge or the center almost unable to control ourselves but certainly in a hurry motivations and
Ssshh. Don’t let anyone hear you. Don’t tell anyone about it. It’ll be our little secret My friends can’t know. Turned into they know we are fucking not that we are together. I’m just not ready yet. Can it be
After the rain wets the ground, a damp, naked silence, floats in air on the wrong side of the moon. A strange mist, like a post coital whiff envelops you savagely. The testa breaks. A forest heaves beneath your nails.
It walks in with the turn on of the city lights incoming of it helped the roadsiders to brighten their smiles. Presence of it turns the moonlight midnight to the shining dawn. Welcoming tune of it reveals the childhood amusement
When you have been for long hanging into a strange nothingness, you begin to feel your floating hinges creak. Decide, decide, decide. Because everyone knows what they want from their lives (it’s believed). But creaking hinges are good I say,