Best Subconsciously Poems
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Assaulting me! The darkness comes to be
in devil’s guise. Phantom haunts my mind;
in sleep paralysis I cannot flee -
insanity bleeding through ruined rind.
I’m humbled now and at your merciless
whims and words afflicting by your whipping
cruelty I’d endured and what of this -
stranglehold of fear that is so gripping.
The trauma it inflicts does overwhelm
in present as it did in madness past,
as Hypnos slips me blackened nightmare’s realm
my sanity becomes a lone outcast.
Stalking specter and there’s no protections,
I’m the victim with my mind in confines,
house of mirrors broken your reflections;
antagonistic mania still shines.
My life with you; you’re still inside my head,
though self-destruction chose as your fare-well.
Subconsciously you infiltrate with dread
as incubus revenge becomes my Hell.
Susan Ashley
September 23, 2018
*Hypnos: the ancient Greek god of sleep*
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
She once met a man called Noel,
He was a musician of rock and roll,
They sang and played music into the night,
When she is with him she doesn’t get a fright.
Then He turned to her and said...
You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.
Through the wind they whispered singing softly,
Into the crack of dawn, morning light...
At 6am she fell asleep,
Subconsciously she heard a creep...
She woke up and he wasn’t there,
She called for his name,
It was like he didn’t care,
She was going insane!
She still hears those words at night,
Though unable to see Him through sight.
You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.
By: Ava Douglass Age: 12
Man's made sky.
The sky's known beginning and unknown ending.
I look to the sky because I'm interested about the unknown.
I should look to the sky for answers I all ready know.
Sometimes I find myself giving the sky a quick gaze.
Then three hours later, find myself in a complete confused daze.
Is this caused from my interest about the unknown.
Or by subconsciously soul searching for answers I all ready know.
The adventurous flow of the sky brings me much needed hope.
Especially when man has the world headed towards a down spiral slope.
Sometimes while focused on the sky, in some type of trance like steer.
All I can feel, is its man's created fear.
Thoughts of how it was once so pure and how now oil based waters brings no cure.
Man's made sky.
the sky's known beginning and unknown ending.
American Ocean Billy's ( black gold that is ) 6-3-2010
I
"Gotta job as a nanny!"
"Maybe they'll hire me as a butler"
"Butler and nanny always live
in close quarters"
She winks
He raises and eyebrow suggestively
II
"I love flirting with poets
so...
palpable"
"Indeed my dear, indeed.
We are a flirtatious, passionate creature"
"But we're also dramatists
adulterers
alcoholics
and prone to murder and suicide"
"Yes, some may look down on our kind,
but goddamn, we ain't boring"
III
"The first time I read Bukowski,
it was like I rediscovered
some part of myself
that was missing
or that I'd hidden away
either consciously or subconsciously
years ago.
I might have to write that down.
New freeverse."
"Love when that happens"
"Me too.
That's one thing i love about talking to poets.
Conversations often turn into writing"
"Simple Ideas morph into insolent dreams.
There's my freeverse snippet of the day"
IV
"A good poet may exaggerate,
but is no liar"
"True;
and exaggeration is like getting high,
makes everything better.
Possible Haiku?"
V
"Love is our strongest muse"
"Absolutely.
It's the most vital element to human life;
brings our greatest highs and deepest lows"
VI
"The cool thing about dating poets
is that they don't give a care
if you get
caught up with someone else
and by caught up
I mean
hopelessly
carelessly
seeexually
entangled."
VII
"The white gown
drapes over your succulent frame
like a dress of beauty.
Your hair, rusty orchid
in the shade of the picture,
cascades down smooth cheeks
the hand can die happy
having once caressed."
"That was my mom's wedding dress.
I like rusty orchids,
and the Shakespearian ending
was a harpsichord
resonant
a saunter around my affection for the dead
living
doll
I once was
came again to the meter of memory
an escapist serenade"
VIII
"Where does time go
when poets commerce?"
"Onto the paper"
I sing praise to the home-maker,
forgotten hero of the world,
whose actions raise up good children,
whether they be a boy or girl.
Whose presence is there to guide us
in a world that can seem half-damned,
who invest more love into us
than a day-care aide even can.
Who have a vested interest in
seeing that we are brought up well,
their children being their life’s work,
the results of this you can tell:
Less instance of mental illness,
less nihilism and despair,
less major social dysfunction
knowing that someone will be there.
They also provide a model
to their children subconsciously,
showing them how to structure their
own futures homes and families.
They give a agree of value to
a child just starting in life,
to know they’re so important that
another will freely sacrifice.
They teach those kids to realize,
that in a world so harsh and tough,
their existence isn’t nothing,
they are truly worthy of love.
And I think it should be mentioned
what home-makers do for their spouse,
building the kind of refuge that
reality rarely allows.
Making it so the house is more
then a shelter you happen to own,
making a place for life to happen,
turning board and glass to a home.
So many homes now without,
and the results haven’t been great,
children are depressed and stressed out,
many marriages end in hate.
Millennials not having children,
they never were shown why they should,
too many drugs and school shooters,
wherever we’ve gone, it’s not good.
Using daycare, the latch and key,
too much emphasis on career,
tells our kids they’re second-fiddle,
would be easier if they weren’t here.
Throwing away the cornerstone
of any balanced child’s mind,
demonizing those who stay home
when in truth I think we would find
That all of us would do better
with more stay-at-home parenting,
we should pray for more home-makers,
on their shoulders rest near everything…
Please come to me in morning light,
and show to me your sunshine smile.
Remove from me the dark of night;
please stay with me for just awhile.
It’s been so long since I’ve known love;
the loneliness puts life on trial.
I pray to heavens up above;
please stay with me for just awhile.
These dark emotions deep within
forever cause a heart’s defile.
Come help remove this dreadful din;
please stay with me for just awhile.
Subconsciously I always knew
there’d be a lover to beguile;
sincerely now I beg of you,
please stay with me for just awhile.
Remove from me this ball and chain,
and show to me your sunshine smile.
Until I’m on my feet again,
please stay with me for just awhile.
October 14, 2019
Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.
You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.
My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.
Underneath it all…
No, not clothe-less—not naked…
Skinless…we’re traveling DEEP within…
Imagine your skull cut…split right in the middle,
Opening up to reveal your AMAZING brain,
As the rest of your body unfolds…
The fancy clothes…the hair…the young or old,
Bones exposed…organs revealed…
The pupils of your eyes growing and receding,
As you look upon yourself…
You don’t know him or her yet…
The blood is spilling freely and you welcome the sensation that you are now experiencing
The heart is rapidly THUMPING from the sudden exposure
Your lungs feel the air on top of it,
The air that it works with every day—suddenly, it is foreign to it…
Teeth chattering, it is raining now…
The water is COLD as hell on Mt. Everest
Mt. Everest is bare…snow-less, compared to your cold, exposed body…
And no oxygen is needed to survive…
The reveling waves of your mind are forming all of these feelings…
You stand there,
Without a blink or blemish,
Staring at you…
There is no thought that you cannot decipher in those inner features…
Your brain is projecting a film in the clouds above you,
As your skull and skinless neck turn upwards toward the heavens!
The fat of your present has melted into the ice…
The guts are not needed for this ride…
No glasses needed either,
No jewelry…no tampons…no knives or guns…
Your eyes only glue themselves subconsciously towards the awe-full projection before you…
Now…NOW you are being introduced to yourself!
Your defensive Alzheimer’s disease is giving you a rest…
You are faced with the pictures of your PAST…
The ugliness…the PAIN—
The excruciating TRUTH that your memory withholds from the rest of the world…
Some even know your secrets…
But they can’t feel it the way YOU feel it—they never will…
The happiness…the comfort…the BEAUTY…
You see it all unfold in a movie,
Sound effects reverberating all around you,
The organs twitching—almost, with a mind of their own, embarrassed…
It saddens me to gaze upon the stars
I see them blinking, fighting back their tears
Reminding me our distance is so far
Their numbers are the days without you near
Assembling pieces of my scattered thoughts
An image comes to me in stained glass scenes
Subconsciously I gather shards embossed
Create a picture of you here with me
Then suddenly a sign from fate appears
A shooting star takes flight across the sky
I close my eyes and wish that you were here
To stay with me and never say goodbye
I think about the happiness love brings
Then go inside to dream my stained glass dream
an original poem by Daniel Turner
for me ...
I stretch a coursing arm ...
my fleshy tendril of electric
actuality, spanning fingers
wide to encompass my full
and fiercely sensual quarry ...
I touch the tapestry of you -
silken warmth of anticipation,
digits close around absolution
and imagination, so I draw it
all gently, quietly, IN to the
blackness - the inky pool of
obscurity that I yet inhabit ...
now ...
close, ever gentle, your eyes ...
do you perceive the wonder??
There is NO light there, yet ...
it is NOT empty - no blackness
but that which holds a million
instances of energy and color!
A maelstrom, indescribable that
you rarely consider, yet it swims
there subliminal with every blink ...
a world of dark mystery AND
seemingly enigmatic chaos,
pulling, subconsciously, on your
being, thousands of times EACH
day ...
such beauty herein - such
extraordinary sublimity and
pulse ... do you feel it? Can
you own it? Does it pervade
the sinewy substance, thine?
Does that soft veil of vitality
close warm arms about you?
See! Do not open your eyes ...
don't fall to that aberration,
for there is a permeation of
static noise inside your lids ...
stay true to that conundrum,
and spread your senses, all ...
there is an awakening here,
I know ... it's an honesty and
verity not known to the many -
I am on the other side of it,
saturated and whole ... let it
absorb your being, allow it to
soak the essence of you, and
your eyes will alter - sharpen
focus ...
slowly, they'll adjust with your
spirit, and a new reality shall
swath you in its tender cloak ...
sacrifice the bright, for those
without eyes - know a truth,
astounding ... and live again ...
for me.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Open Poetry 3" Poetry Contest, Charlotte Puddifoot, Judge & Sponsor.
Your heart whispers secrets to your soul at night,
divulging secrets made in the light of day.
In your dreams, fledgling feelings prepare for flight,
fleeing reality as it drifts away.
Anxiety fights sleep, keeping you awake,
micromanaging each minuscule mistake.
And yet, the secret whisperings of your heart
anchor your thoughts, encouraging dreams to start.
Dreams are an abandonment of decisions,
your mind subconsciously scripts the role you'll play.
And your role's subject to many revisions,
from fighting wars to starring in a ballet.
Tethered to whatever your mind's perceiving,
fantasy dreams lull you into believing.
Although they're not real, they often feel so,
a respite in time, where only sleep can go.
Our bodies prepare us for birth and death;
subconsciously the brain is in control.
At birth, we instinctively take a breath,
without being told: we're born to our role.
Our brain releases endorphins at birth,
which ease our passage: dulling birthing pain.
We arrive pre-programmed for planet Earth,
and it's all possible, thanks to the brain.
When dying, our brain controls what we do,
drinking less, eating less, and sleeping more.
Our bodies release endorphins anew:
affirming that our souls are set to soar.
Death is beautiful: if you only knew
of the exultation that awaits you.
~
If I call you beautiful…
Do flowers bloom within your worried eyes
surrounding you with color, with thoughts
Looking past the mirror to that place you have been,
that you long to be again
Do you bite your lip,
looking within, seeking past the darkness,
subconsciously smoothing the ruffles of your dress,
shuffling your feet a bit
Do memories flood your mind
of days before lipstick and eye shadow,
when cute was as common as wrinkled nose smiles,
playing inside or out were your choices
Do you roll your eyes and sigh,
describing a portrait that only you can see,
a mirage of impressions you have collected,
stored away in that file you reach for regularly
Do you brand me blind or crazy at least,
point to that one tiny blemish you know of,
turn and walk away kicking dust as you go,
shutting the door in disbelief
Or do you see your reflection in my eyes
the woman that you are to me,
hear the affection in my voice, the truth
and wrinkle your nose once more and say, “I love you”