Long Ascensions Poems
Long Ascensions Poems. Below are the most popular long Ascensions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ascensions poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a body stronger than the flesh alone
it is the body of your love, that temple built of desire's stone
quarried from the chaos of your erotic emotions, shaped by destiny's moan,
where neurotic nerves, psychotic passions, fanatical faith and romantic rose chrome
are imported from the four corners of your heart, brought to the mount of your soul zone
upon here, obedience and freedom, submission and domination chalk and chisel to the bone,
the flame of Shekinah seduces spirit within and without your psychic cyclone
as age becomes an aggregate of obsession's ascensions and avalanches in cycles for you to atone,
Egyptian magicians and Phoenician mariners could only dream of your pulsing fortune,
what do magic rites and the mines of Ophir have to entice with compared to your throne
Hiram, the builder of holy royal bastions would seek the secrets of your star storm home -
J.A.B.
Of blind cocks
that crow at dawn
Dyeing, drying on
the thorns of humanity
The Blood of non-creation
and criterion of a nation insane
Inhumane and decimates
to the red strains of Children’s games
Glory and praise the
ascensions of one
The sum of masculinities abortion
The burnt image
of the aftermath.
Go and see
the walls of None
The tribunal of dung
Crown the one-eye worms
Anointed in rotted empires
Furies scurry and bury the thoughts
Of lace and grace the masses of fame and shame
The brutal pyre of human’s creed,
the immune one
The dyeing,
drying of the horns of cruel black sons
The burn of dark hands
The blood of divinity
The nation
Is at war with profanity.
Sanity
What is humanity?
like the full moon
seeking fulfillment
there i hung
dangling in space—
half empty—half full…
gradually
the tell-tale linking
of the gibbous moment
of truth’s awareness
came in the still of night…
then i realized
fulfillment is preceded
by life’s crucifixion
fulfilling resurrection:
it’s the emptiness
of life’s cross
that brings fulfillment…
once again i ink crosses
of words and pray
they empty themselves
and become
ascensions to the minds
of blessed children
anointing them with sacred
guidance…
we poets must never be
cocooned in non-metamorphosis
imprisonment of abject silence…
rather we must be evolved
liberated poetic butterflies
soaring life’s skies
pollinating them with divine
shared words of peace and love
and divine wisdom and guidance:
we poets must indeed
be ascended saints
of god’s cistern
sharing cups and saucers
of his shared words
nourishing seeking souls
with awareness
confidence and encouraging
inspirational spiritualization:-
A friend asked this simple?? question,
which provoked this universal answer session.
Why wake and get out of bed each morn?
My goddess!! I adore each fresh dawn.
For starters - there's life,
each day a chance to lessen strife.
Pour loving oil on ideas for war,
til each one's a satisfied locked door.
Every heart that's broken,
can be given a healing token.
dark entities that games enjoy,
our emotional ties to employ,
In devious slavers' play subtle,
my golden threads do easily scuttle.
and that's just before my 3rd dimensional coffee break,
while in bed starting physical actions to wake.
To align all within the gestalt's design,
the body must to the day's mandala resign.
Release the need society's matter brings,
Let NOW through and destiny's purpose sings.
Now, coffee imbibed there's work to do
3 breaths and bulwarks of protection are strengthened too.
this day needs - a dozen souls to be freed,
in several more, ascensions goals to seed.
but I hope you get the drift,
this is my list to shift.
Yours is unique to your own soul,
Intention is all that is needed to fill that bowl.
Ask and it will be given,
Concede to serve and despair will be riven.
Useful joy will companion your days,
this is what universal Source says.
777
Written 22 June 2018 in response of a special lady's question on Facebook.
Submitted to Contest by Dear Heart
Your favourite poem for June 2018
,
Oh Sweet Island! Thou tropical paradise:
Miles have I traced upon thy ceaseless reach
Of ocean-choked shorelines owed Heav’nly device
Sheltering I, this marooned guest on thine endless beach.
Safe House against left alone misery;
Whereby, alongside thine evergreen canopies full
Darwinian mysteries perched high atop their home,
Do I maintain nourished in flesh ‘n faculty
And keep this wit sharpened when blunted dull
Should become elements awash reduced but to roam;
Added all, all for sake of thine increased covenance,
That keener my eyes and keener my tongue
When my throat succumbs thine euphoric abundance;
Pink spilled over warmth -
Else-wise myself, by self, selfishly by now would’ve hung;
For if not for that which is thy sun (may thy sun also hear praise)
My sight might yet be withheld those rare flockish friends
Who keep in time the shared sweetness of functioning words;
Therefore to thee, and to they of thee, whom of wing’ed realm I appraise
As reason unsought are frenzied neurotic ends;
True thanks directed thee and thy mystic splendors; thy talking birds.
Alas, sadly, not even thou distills lunar ascensions
By which subside hopeful rays in thy sobering night;
Nor be those which aviate above as homing pigeons
With beaks to carry silent pleas where may come ends to my plight.
Thus, this I ask thee; What good is time spent when time’s spent alone?
Yes, thou provides: plentiful shelter, plentiful warmth, plentiful food
As well as fiery fuel to fend off critters of strife –
But, this be thy kingdom, not mine. Here, I sit on a remembered throne
Where days threaten months threatened by years in which strangers brood –
Oh, Sweet Warden; Relinquish me! I beg thee on behalf of slipping sanity;
Let this rambling sentence end
So I, once again, may stand by my daughter and wife.
1/28/2017
Submitted for: Tropical Island
Anti-Poem — “Baxter Street Monday”
me trudging walking
gripping onward forward
traipsing baxter street monday
and its steep inclines
going up like a dizzy sparrow
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
that sip spit with maraschino endives
scanning thighs ripe with hard-ons
the stoner pink boys
lost in rainbow cul-de-sacs
lost amidst the traffic tirades
the propelling grind of accelerators
up up and onward everlasting
floating hovering over shy ascensions
in ravenous echo park
me scratching grinding like steel death
holding tight the skin wheel
trudging baxter street monday
the morning reality suspensions
the daily cyclotron of kidney exertions
of ascending footsteps moving skinward
now racing down baxter street monday
descending and plummeting
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
i see my sista rosa gonzalez
she be screaming down with wet wings
sending love bouquets to my los angeles
In the tapestry of time, where friendships bloom,
Mes amis, like petals, dispelling life's gloom.
Brothers, firm anchors in the sea of existence,
Une soeur agaçante, a tempest, a relentless insistence.
Parents, the roots, firmly grounding my being,
Leaves of wisdom, in the breeze, foreseeing.
Enemies, shadows that dance in the moonlit night,
Igniting the fire, propelling toward the light.
Obstacles, sculptors shaping destiny's mold,
Dans leur défi, a story to be told.
Life, un cadeau sacré, a gift from above,
Not a right to claim, but a testament of love.
In the symphony of struggle, where melodies intertwine,
Chutes et ascensions, a rhythm so divine.
Gratitude, a dance, through joy and despair,
Dans chaque souffle, God's presence in the air.
Number one on the list, au sommet, divine,
Grateful to Dieu, the source of the grand design.
In the dichotomy of good and bad, the ebb and the flow,
All glory to Lui alone, in the afterglow.
Frank Lane
1877-1913
RS was my best friend,
A friend ever to the end.
Together we footed and mounted
The pliant limbs of the Hybrid Tree
On County Road,
And wetfully whistled,
As with birds in the warm zephyrs
Of summer solstice,
At the lassies down below,
With young and perfumed necks naked,
Ready and shivering,
For the ghost dance.
Together we skipped smooth stones,
Upon the staid surfaces
Of the state school pond,
Out back among the chicken coops
And the pig pens;
We howled and hollered,
As with hysterical night beasts,
Wild under the stars!
Together we passed scented posies to Lottie Gordon,
Our intended island of private discovery,
Our intended treasure,
Our intended Holy Grail!
And with silent tandem ascensions,
There in the enticing moon shadows,
RS and I found a home in the Gordon heights,
Inside the inviting spread-out mansion,
Of a hundred breathless whispers.
Obsidian oscillated into lava
slid across syntactic streams
tumbled thick greenwood thickets
impenetrability an illusion wicked
shatter splinter sassy sinkers
Lord Ashtar himself lifted gnarled garbage
two big broken black bags to Source
split seconds of screaming searing sores
baby posture soak singular satin
Prophet Daniel’s prison-free prediction
Coloured lava languid loosen
yin-yang of yesteryear’s yarrows
as Watchfulness wed yearnings
no black bumblebees boomerang bombs
rainbow hands bell belly beckoning
Solar flares ignite twin hearts atoning
corona emissions spill splashing space
sodalite sprinkle sundrenched shores
kaleidoscope pupils please pulsing fate
Hearts purely placed on golden plate
Four eyes fathomed Guy Fawkes fickle
feuding onto a fervid foolproof floor
Stonehenge now sturdily steadily stood
sedating simple silent sleep suavely
accede alchemical ascensions
Missions matched mottoed moulded mountains
timelines merge in moss musical movement
Justice jump Jungian jurisdiction
Presence posy a present perfection
Dreams deliver dictums to Duet
Delicious domed desserts diffusing !
Peeling Back the Bubble Wrap
Peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when Nixon was still presiding,
He, leading with paranoid deliberations,
Sold his yeses to the Goldbricks, and the Mustard Men;
And while he was dipping into the rubbery tides of the latex surfers,
I found your shadowy pointing breasts, shivering outside my backdoor.
You were standing in the dark, waiting for me to turn the key…
1973 was the year you taught me how to love a woman;
You, at 21 years, and me, ensconced in the stereo-lit darkness,
Of my dimly-lit bedroom on Hoover street;
You, wearing a wool skirt and that ruffled low-curving blouse,
With those tan buttons, like a half dozen corks, ready to be popped,
And you, sitting at my black upright piano,
The 1907 Schumann, made of stubborn black mahogany, and
You, with your long curved nails, femininely tapping the ivories,
Soliciting an intimate song I have since forgotten, but can still hear,
Your cylindrical tan legs pressing the piano pedals,
Like a fragile dancer made of fine glass, and
You, exploring human desire with determined pressings.
And then, into your garlanded home we strolled,
Hand in hand; And with our lips, we cleared the stoney path
Leading into the sun garden, amongst the cats and the posies,
And found astonished silhouettes behind the peephole.
Still peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when my door was locked, and a green candle burned therein;
I saw you in the naked flickering, riding the tree of silver ascensions,
And with five pulsing fingers, I eagerly picked your finest flowers, over there,
Inside the throbbing, sun-lit bed of this poised sun garden; then,
You told me you loved me. Told me what I never wanted to hear,
“Even now, with me on top of you, in this silent grinding darkness,
I cannot bring myself to lie and say, ‘I love you.’
There is something about you I don’t want to know.
Yours is a long and complicated book I do not wish to read.
Your mind I cannot calibrate, or truly understand, so…I am sorry.
I deserve to be called an ass, deserve to be brushed off like a gnat, but
With you, my shoes never seemed to fit. My ears never seemed to hear.”
...when the copter went down, witnesses heard you scream…
“I am truly sorry.”