#Good Friday poetry

[seraphim-eternal]

My soul is sorrowful, even unto death.

Matthew 26:38

[holyandhaunted]

This Good Friday I want to share my favourite poem by Jay Hulme, a queer, trans and Christian poet God as a carpenter. Jesus as a familiar to wood and nail. The beauty of all Creation evident and true even in pain.

image and image description taken from Jay Hulme on Twitter

[sakascal]

When I Sleep

Another poem written for the @whickberstreetwriters Five Words Friday poetry prompt challenge.

This time the words were: ink, feral, hunger, dew, wanton

Warning: NSFW

When I Sleep

You asked me more than once why I don’t sleep The answer I gave you was no lie But neither anything like truth so high Too frightened to tumble down a slope too steep

When I sleep, I dream of fiery silk and golden hue Of fingers inscribing my love into your skin like ink Dream of hunger so deep it carries me to the brink Of sanity as I lap sweat from your body like dew

When I sleep, I dream of your wanton cries echoing My name on your lips, love-filled eyes a view Teeth digging into my flesh as I delve into you Of love fulfilled, long overdue, and fingers trembling

When I wake, no warm body lies near me I’m shivering in the dark without your flame And left alone with feral need and shame Broken on wishes, too sordid for you to see

Read on AO3

[ines2925]

This is a poem for the Five Words Friday poetry prompt by @whickberstreetwriters

The words were: effervescent, flood, whisper, feather, glow.

***

If the day comes To pay for my love, I will do it with a whisper, Sweet confession, The absence of glow

And in the hour To renounce myself, I will not face any regrets, Embraced by waves Of my devotion

A brief moment; To grasp your presence Is to know the effervescent. One taste, no more, Made me repentless

[bumblee27]

I wrote a thing for the Five Words Friday challenge run by I believe @whickberstreetwriters :D

-

A single drop of ink meets paper,

Quill poised mid-air

How to form into words, these feelings

I can't bear to leave unshared?

You bring out the worst in me, my dear

A feral, howling beast

Ravenous with hunger, barely chained back

Snarling for release

I can't find the right words

To fit these thoughts deemed so unholy

I ache to capture your lips in mine

And your cold hands seem so lonely

I am not usually a wanton creature

But, perhaps, with the morning dew,

A fresh start is in order?

You know I forget myself when it comes to you

-

[whickberstreetwriters]

Five Words Friday: a Good Omens Poetry Prompt Challenge!

In the Whickber Street Writers Association discord, we've recently been putting together some poetry prompts.

The idea for this challenge is that our members suggest and vote for 5 words that everyone can then write a Good Omens-themed poem about.

If you'd also like to take part, the words for this week are:

Ink

Feral

Hunger

Dew

Wanton

How to take part:

This challenge runs until Friday 13th September (at the moment, we're running this challenge every 2 weeks)

You can decide if you want to use all the words or just some - we want people to have fun with this, so we're not going to make it a rule to use all of them if you don't want to

Format/structure is also up to you! Freeform, nonets, haikus, couplets, odes - whatever appeals most. The idea is for folks to feel inspired creatively, and there are lots of possibilities out there. You may find this helpful for some ideas

If you choose to post online, feel free to tag us! We'd love to see what the fandom comes up with and to reblog it too 💜 Have fun!

[angie-words]

In the @whickberstreetwriters community, we had a Five Words Friday poetry prompt: write a poem (Good Omens-themed preferably!) using up to five words we'd chosen as a group. This was a challenge, but I really enjoyed creating a poem based on those prompts!

When the waters rose

When the waters rose

While the storm and the flood and the world

rages outside, find yourself in my waiting arms

Let kisses dry the tears that whisper

through your soul, drowning your light.

I need to see you

feather-fine faith revived

so that, effervescent,

you'll glow

again

[westwardly]

ok its a little late but i got something this time

for the @whickberstreetwriters five-word friday poetry promt : ink, dew, hunger, feral, wanton

wanton desire

a feral look in your eyes

animal hunger

sweat beading like dew

sink in your teeth and

draw blood dark as ink

and write with it

the music of my

heart

————

i don’t write a lot of poetry but this was fun 🧡

[septembersung]

Good Friday Christina Rossetti

Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross, To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep? Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved; Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky, A horror of great darkness at broad noon – I, only I. Yet give not o’er, But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.

[mykingdomforapen]

Thoughts on Good Friday. May your day be blessed ❤️.

[seraphim-eternal]

It is finished.

[alilbitofeverything111]

[fridayyy-13th]

just wrote a poem about platonic love and amatonormativity and turned it in for an assignment. the metaphor i used could not be more straightforward. let's see how it gets misconstrued in class tomorrow.

[meadow-roses]

In the middle of the world, in the centre Of the polluted heart of man, a midden; A stake stemmed in the rubbish.

From lipless jaws, Adam's skull Gasped up through the garbage: 'I lie in the discarded dross of history, Ground down again to the red dust, The obliterated image. Create me.'

From lips cracked with thirst, the voice That sounded once over the billows of chaos When the royal banners advanced, replied through the smother of dark: 'All is accomplished, all is made new, and look - All things, once more, are good.'

Then, with a loud cry, exhaled His spirit.

Golgotha, John Heath-Stubbs

[ramblingsofaporcelainheart]

I am standing in the shadows,

Peter with denial fresh on his lips

I am screaming at the darkling sky

Mary seeing her worst fear made manifest

I am suffering my deserved punishment

Sorrowful man on the cross next to you

Worst of all,

I am raising the hammer to strike

Hardened soldier with bloody hands

I am watching you die

I am killing you

You are dying

You are… praying for me?

“Lord forgive me”

Father forgive them

“What have I done?”

They don’t know what they’re doing

You breathe your last breath

I finally see the Light

And the blood on my murderous hands

Covers and washes me clean

[perahn]

Good Friday, 2023

You were born, I’m told on a snowing night; Mary, saddlesore and shivering helped from the donkey’s back into the stable’s small shelter. Sometimes, though, I picture You born here Your star blazing disruption through the Southern Cross on a night too hot to sleep.

And I am told You died on a hard, bright day, burning with thirst under a scorched sky, Your mouth coated in dust and stung with vinegar. But I woke to rain this morning, so here I think about Your Passion in the rain.

How thick grew the leaves in Gethsemane? As the moonlight cracked through clouds the first drop touched Your hand. Peter, John, James - they were dry enough to sleep, but did the trees crowd close enough to shield You from the rain? Surely the blood, sweated through Your skin and dripping from Your robes, could not fall to be immediately washed away.

Rain, gentle yet, hissing in the torches, so their light is uncertain, and the men look more urgently for the traitor’s kiss. They took You quickly, hurrying to be out of the rain: home and dry.

A small space under an awning, a brazier warming Peter’s hands. A servant girl accuses him: he’s as wet as someone who’s been out all night, soaked like the criminal within. Peter lies to keep his sanctuary: he had work to do, he fell off the boat. He just got caught in the rain. The rooster's cry awakes a memory, he flees into the growing storm.

The crowd within are mostly dry, and warmed by hatred and self-righteousness. You cannot hear the rain strong and steady on the roof: it’s drowned in their demands. Only when troubled Pilate speaks to You alone, only then under his words and Yours, the constant drumming.

The soldiers didn’t want to work in the rain. They complained about the mud, they’d have to clean their armour. But, they said, at least the lucky ones with whips could warm themselves with exercise. They laughed and grumbled, as people do trying to enjoy a mucky job. They pulled the robe over Your flayed back, and perhaps the cool wet cloth might have soothed if they’d been gentle. There is no mercy in the crown and pain is harder when you’re cold.

The weight of the cross settles on Your shoulder. The wood is soaked and slippery already, and You walk. Your garment, woven in one piece, clings and chafes at every step. A stone turns under Your foot and you fall, facefirst in the mud. The rain falls too. It’s heavier now, forceful: pretending to be hail. You can barely see Jerusalem’s dear streets.

There are women, rainstreaked, tearstreaked. One of them sneezes. Veronica dries Your face: A small mercy, and futile in the eyes of those who only see the saturated cloth, the falling rain.

Simon of Cyrene is hurrying: his wife waits to scold him for tracking mud across her nice clean floors, he’s caught his death of cold, the foolish man. He smiles at the thought; his arm is seized: The soldiers push him towards You and the cross. This isn’t right, he says. I’m innocent, you can’t - They can.

You squelch together through the mud and stinging rain. Up the hill, and gravity pulls harder now. So tired and cold. There is so much left still to endure.

Stripped bare, laid down against the cross Needles of rain against Your skin, against Your eyelids are lost in the piercing of the nails. You are lifted, raised into the rain and cutting wind.

Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani!

The world should ache in silence at Your death: The rain falls on and on.