Best Stream Of Consciousness Poems
*** MUSINGS ***
I have grown old,
thankfully,
dragging along all my ailments,
unavoidably, it seems, but endured ~ and
graced by the frequent
florets of wisdom
adorning the rounds of circumspect musings
— those streams of sub-conscious pondering —
which then course (perhaps too much)
into my rambling soeech —
and occasionally my babbling on about dreams —
throughout whose passages, I have found
I believe
in dimensions upon dimensions of reality
wherein our thick, surrounding present
come
the symbols; geatures; motions; keys; spirits
and intuited messages —
meant to expand
any narrow notice of this life.
————————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/18/2023
Thanks be to God
After all is said and done, cliché style
(Forgive me if this does not rhyme, I'm moving
Past rhyme for the sake of rhyme)
You will have gone away rich and returned for more
Because you thought you knew what you needed
To feel loaded, fulfilled and needed
You thought you knew your needs
And had articulated and defined them to a tee
You knew all the similes that ran parallel to your feelings
But those were nothing more than thoughts
Which is why a mind is such a terrible thing to have
You thought
You knew the right ingredients for happiness
Just the right mix
To make laughter and an electrifying smile
A happy ever after which, you thought
Existed in cash and came contained
In bags of gold marked with silver linings
which you carried a thousand miles
Only to end up clutching a plastic smile
Because all the nonsense you collected turned out
To have a mind of its own
So, you met yourself returning from that place and thinking
Was I better off before I became better off
Or did I believe a lie? Of course, you were drunk then
And you certainly are drunk now
Except you have no idea what it is. You're in the dark like me
And even now I hear a chorus of ayes and nays
And someone letting out a wry laugh and shouting amen
Because the bottom line is this; this will resonate
Even if it doesn't. I will let you be the judge of that
Folks trying to nod and shake their heads at the same time
Take it easy people, this is exactly what you think it is
Name it what you will. If the cap fits, I suggest you wear it
And so, cliché style, you returned
To the place from which you had returned
Because enough was not enough. You wanted more
But needed less of more and more of less
And fortunately, or unfortunately, about this you were clueless
All that glittered was just a bag full of humus
And once you admitted this to yourself a new light shone
And you wondered how come you'd missed this all along
But couldn't dwell on that because you had better things to do
In the end you gave away all the matters that had mattered
And in half breaths cursed and muttered
Words and phrases too precious to repeat in this space
In the end you were richer without the riches
And much more comfortable without the restraining breeches
From a society that had always wanted to define and control your mind
my stream of consciousness
flows over the smooth at times jagged pebbles
of my day, it grows
into a torrent of thoughts
rapidly hitting against
the boulder of your heart
every waking conscious thought
without a reason or rhyme
or any sort of organized meaning
flows to one destination
you
nothing else
every other event
each and every happening
somehow connects to you
the turbulent or serene
flow of these thoughts go
how, I don't know
to you
what can I do
this babbling cacophony of sound
this disjointed attempt
at existential reality
never shapes into formal thought
only you
I wake, I sleep in you
my dreams are devoid of images
only your eyes
your face
no other trace
my consciousness is you
this stream
this reality
these toughts
would cease to flow
if there weren't your inner glow
Just so you know
you can bathe
get soaked to the inner core
you can dip in for more
bring that narcissism to the fore
I adore
you
my stream
of
consciousness
carries
nothing
but you
Eileen Manassian
Stream of Consciousness
This phrase seems worn..Joyce and Faulkner..perhaps a misnomer..
Consciousness doesn't flow..the streams are thoughts and perceptions..
these flow through consciousness which remains steady and still..
Yet..let's reconsider..thought and perception are made of..yes..
consciousness..it seems we have found waves in the ocean..waves
of thinking and perceiving..waves in an ocean of stillness..Yet..
consciousness seems distracted by its waves within..a seeming of
separation and limitation..exclaiming: I am a stream..until..
please return to the beginning...
in the city of Dublin
the seagulls cry out their desire
to fly back to the open sea
hearing them I think of my space
reduced to the one-way sky
a stranger tells me
*priveste imaginea de ansamblu
I wonder how could I
every second shrinks my shadow
ironically I sip my English tea
when you awkward stubborn sun
make my field hurry towards a late green
I can’t swim against the stream
but unaware of a deadline yet
I linger on the streets of my poems
* priveste imaginea de ansamblu
*to look at the large picture
I have never tried sauerkraut the name sounds as gross as the smell. Mother used to love it, her love of all bitter ideas, frankly that's her ruin: the annoyance of a woman who sees the best in all. That's why I hate most everything: still, we aren't so different. Oddly enough Dad thinks I'm just like him - which I am. our arguments are the worst; I clash more with mother though.Two strong-willed parents make an uneasy child, nerves and anxiety creating a false illness to live with forever. I am not a child anymore, I need to grow and develop myself. That's not even possible. I'm a mirror: what I see is what I am. What is put in front of me becomes me, flipped around in my own construed way. I was just like my parents, then my sisters, then my friends. Now I should be happy to be purely myself. The fear of who I might be holds me back. What if I disappoint myself, and deep down I am evil, dark, and secretive? Worse yet, what if I am plain and boring. My sense of superiority will crack, and self-doubt will seep in, and like a drug take over my life. That smell is disgusting.
im a lost individual
see me on my facebook
people tell me randomness
im wondering which way looks the best
ideas to nest
but i need room to digest
assuming i wasnt ready
im consumed by my present envy
feeling doomed something come get me
who the what would send me
ive acquired a taste for self destruction
made assumptions on the way to function
on the way to a lunch in
with epiphanies from consumption
a limo turns into a pumpkin
greeted in bright colors by the munchkins
dare i say a pair filayed
jack the price i don't fare a charade
the fact is vice
no one cares your flight was delayed
feed the pigeons at the park
and light me a candle
when playing with a fire
wisdom comes in handfuls
when life hits
its either a piano or an anvil
call me looney but the goonies
were a prime example
welcome to the future
childhood was cancelled
no one gets to ever pay
every chakra channeled
Allowing great alembics access over hill and glade and brush and dale of mind and swimming softly through the river running up fantastic meadows speckling valleys round the bay ensconced by lighting strikes and thunder booms across the Roman sky above the Irish ground and all throughout the savage peasant towns of lies of great and small import but all the time of luscious past and pregnant present and the future’s wide embrace of mighty life.
I remember all my houses.
I relive all my homes.
I conjure, cottage conscious,
my dreamscape flickering poems.
I easily abide the dream doctrine.
I rub grainy textures,
the memory of my earliest cabin.
I summon my first adventures.
I begin impetuous, scribbling every wall.
I explore sensation with little heed.
My dwelling becomes a stew of scrawl.
My touching tapping tests often bleed.
Later, I occupy the Winchester Mansion.
Edifice under construction, I feel safe here
until I find my wraiths doing the expansion.
Their treacherous handiwork stokes my fear.
My being so unsettled, so unstable, I must flee.
Adrift on the River Styx, I espy a twinkling domain.
“Love Ranch” reads the neon sign beckoning me.
Will this love sate a soul? Is it sacred or profane?
Carnal candy in dank chambers feeds a moment.
These hetaeras thrill me at the prompt of an algorithm.
Not at fault, their commodified love can’t end my torment.
My swirling turmoil phantoms take over this asylum.
Deep somnambulism now carries me to the house of mirrors.
Here, I behold my container, my proprium from every angle.
Curved and twisted glass reflects my contorted terrors.
While smooth, flat surfaces repeat my animus anima tangle.
After all these trials, I accept my multiform essence.
Accumulated psychic scrap, I reimage it in every dream.
This doctrine reveals we are never a single presence.
We impart mental habitats, our revised collections in an
endless stream.
Kick rocks with socks
Only to rip through your epidermal layers
Say your prayers before you're laid to rest
Like the nay-sayers disguised as
Mayors & representatives
Mainstream media sedatives turning your relatives
Into brain-dead gelatin
With an empty skeleton
At the gates of sleep,
Demanding to let us in
Our souls are reaped
As the strings are manipulated by
The elongated
Lives of the Elohim
Striking down like the beam
From a ray gun
Reflecting away from the sun
To delay the sun from the doomsday pun
Intended to run for office
With a strangled orifice
Greedy lungs don't breathe in bliss
Because their needy daughters & sons
Suck them dry of any wealth applied
To the one-percent that defied us all
& lied to protect their hide
In order to decide whether to preside
In luxurious homes or dwell in the catacombs
Of hell
Up to their necks in the wishing well only wishing
they were well & rested
Yet, they remain hollow-chested
& detested as the rest of us protested
Like the oppressed did, as we're molested...
Stung by thoughts too evil
to comprehend
to try to explain
I feel this pain
As sharp as ever,
Pricking me into consciousness
Holding my breath forever
Teasing me into submission
I yearn for sleep
But these voices urge me on
to commit the sins of others
to condemn my parents by association
to a son no mother could love
They try
god bless them
to help me
to usher in a new dawn
to give me a will
to fight not to bend
but i prefer to live alone
with the demons that dance in my head
Want to cut,
Can't.
Want to die,
Can't.
Not can't,
Won't.
Want to but won't.
Why?
They love me.
So what?
I love them.
You suffer...
I know.
Life sucks....
I really, really does...
Who knows,
Maybe death is better...
The dead know.
I bet they do,
They only way is to join them.
But I won't.
I have responsibilities.
"The woods are lovely dark and deep"
Now aren't they...
"But I have promises to keep"
So, so many...
"And miles to go before I sleep"
So many....
"And miles to go before I sleep"
Too many?
Up the creek without a paddle?
Writer's block causing distress?
Get back up on the saddle
Ride the stream of consciousness!
7/16/2022
Designed using elements from canva.com
Stream of consciousness is a literary style in which a writer’s thoughts, feelings, and reactions are depicted in a continuous flow uninterrupted by objective description or conventional dialogue. Even though the result may not always be worthy of publishing, the process can be an effective means to break through writer’s block, yielding fresh ideas that can be developed at a later time.
Drops of oil
Scar the soul
Scare the mind
Steal the life
Dead
Cold
Frigid and still
Creeping vines
Inching in the dark
Sealed rosebuds
Fall to the ground
Trembling in the wind
Vultures
Beak and Talon
Silhouette against the moon
Darkness under the wing
Tick
Tock
Midnight
Tick
Tock
Die
These words
Stream-of-consciousness-soup really
Rarely chosen with care
Falling on thirsty ground
A lost soul trying to find
"the great forgotten language" *
For
"the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth." *
Uh-huh, I see you pointing
To the "lost lane-end into heaven" *
And the shepherd standing there
So, I tried to be a sheep, to babble things I didn't know
I found salving comfort in believing I was right
Protected
And loved--no matter what
But "the great forgotten language" *
Of the forever lost and alone
Drew me again to this place I never left
Where I knew before I nestled in her womb
The "quiet desperation" **
That haunts us all (according to Thoreau) **
So, yeah, these words
I'll keep putting them down in the lost and found
Because somebody might need to know who I am
I do
These breadcrumbs to the deep dark core of my existence
(Not to find me out but to find me in)
No one has to read them
They're uncomfortable and nearly unconscionable
Yet I can't not write them down
Like Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward Angel
Then You Can't go Home Again
(LOL)
They might not lead to where I want to go
Or anywhere at all
And that's okay
T.S. Eliot said:
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time." ***
So, yeah, that's all I want
Makes me feel less lost and alone
So putt'n deez words down Imma gonna keep
(Duh--)
* From Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe
** From Walden by Henry David Thoreau
*** From Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot