Long Baser Poems
Long Baser Poems. Below are the most popular long Baser by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baser poems by poem length and keyword.
the void absorbs
vast array of energy orbs
viewing with non-judgmental eye
arms open in embrace, none does it decry
life giving light of the sun blesses one and all
even though but a handful few stand tall
those dwelling in deep dungeons dark
they too feel the throb of love hark
man endowed by power to discern
way to shed baser instincts yet to learn
empowerment instant in the void of stillness
with head and heart aligned attuned to oneness
in time recognising that everything is vibration
outer eye sees but temporal manifestation
ego mind stagnation in a narrow view
whilst love each instant renews
oh hermit, cultivate mindfulness
flowing continuum caring gentleness
vibrant within, outpouring love unceasing
moment to moment in sync with our breathing
18-January-2021
In Vino Veritas, But Whiskey’s Better
In wine there is certainly such real-truth to be found,
And in whiskey there is even more of it to go around!
Wine may maketh one truly sagacious, whilst whiskey
Elevates one to a level known as “For Members Only!”
As modern-day bards seeketh true meaning in their daily
Thoughts—whiskey is man’s key to his baser instincts.
The soul doth prosper even better when fueled so truest
By the cryptic, elixir-like qualities of wine and whiskey!
And doth pray tell, I sayeth this must be so, and why not?
Well, both elixirs help to free man’s deepest inner spirit!
Wine is that exquisite medium for introspective reflection,
Whilst whiskey excites one’s self for immediate attention!
Let it be said though that wine and whiskey do complement
One another in man’s quest for real-truth in this crazy world!
Amen! Amen! Amen!
What more can one say?
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
January 7, 2018 (Couplet)
Hoc est corpus*, hocus pocus
Legerdemaine, a shift in focus
Hoc est corpus, from the Mass
Hocus pocus, parody crass
Transubstantiation phrase
Ridicule, to baser plays
Papists, Protestants at odds
Declaring doctrines with regards
To our Lord’s communinion meal
Causing strife, divisions real
Luther replaced trans with con
Zwingli’s bread, alone anon
Calvin said we participate,
Joined to Christ when we partake
Hocus Pocus, thus a slur
“Magical”, what was inferred.
After Christ’s blood, more was shed
Strange remembrance, but ‘nuf said…
----------
*Hoc est corpus meum, Latin for ‘This is my body’
From what I can find, Hocus Pocus was the stage name for a magician who performed around 1640. Somewhere along the way, someone noted a similarity of sound between 'hoc est corpus' and 'hocus pocus', and observed (sarcastically) that the Catholics must believe magic occurred during the reciting of the mass to change the wine and bread into the blood and body of Christ...
Obedience is worship at our core,
respectful gratitude,
in practiced restraint,
armored Saint parkour.
Obedience helps you to be still
as you are shown the way.
A north star compass by night and by day.
Like as to a river flowing with gentle reflective potion.
Each footstep echoes reverent emotion,
penitentially-potentiality devotion.
I comply to goodness,
in the quiet dance of time and space.
Siren's daring, you, about face.
Temptation and baser instincts held at bay.
In a stillness stirred by the heart's pure ocean.
In humility acts, a serenity of faiths notion,
sigils in silent applause,
we find our purpose, we find our vigilant cause.
In the know of hope in a reposed and dutiful flow
that is natural to natural laws.
A peace of steel, forge, refined in the fire of molding for real, without folding of course, just tested, branded, prodded and steered.
Beneath the weight of whispered commands,
we learn the language that understanding expands.
In yielding, we gather the strength to grow,
in discipline we flourish, in light bestowed.
A prayer in each act, a song in each sigh,
in obedience, we are faithfully tried.
For in submission, there’s freedom to see,
the beauty in grace that sets our souls free.
I sing of the afternoon of life,
Of beaches shifting in such tiny ways;
Throes of death is what they are,
Under the light of a softly dying star,
When eyes full of wonder and hope
Stare into a sky
Made beautiful by the ugliness of transition
And the contingent world of vision and smell
Where only the blind and dumb can tell
That life doesn't really give a about
what you’ve done with yourself all these years.
Let the rain and wind pick up a bit
And clutch the world in a wet embrace.
I don’t really care, you see.
Let the drops mingle on my face,
A beacon for what hides inside.
I wear my disguise to bed each night
And when I wake I certainly stand
So that it's not noticeable.
My window provides a stark picture of a dim horizon
In the agony of acceptance
That every day is a painful step closer,
And those that don’t feel agony are numb.
Or maybe just dumb.
From the wisdom of poets long dead
And the simple thoughts of those
Who don’t mean anything to you
Come the answers we seek:
Words that illustrate our ideas
And the satisfaction of knowing that
Other people can feel the texture
Of the thoughts you hold
Inside.
Surely wisdom has no higher price
Than the realization that
Everything you think and feel
Has already been discussed.
Beauty and understanding once meant something,
But now they vie for attention with
Baser things, trivial things
Only meaningful in their relativity,
Along with knowledge, (what a funny word)
Which once meant knowing what was right
And what was not and knowing the difference.
Now it seems clear that true knowledge
Is only the acceptance that
We know nothing more than that which
We cannot change.
As flowers grow, bloom, and die, so must our
understanding ever be compromised and evaluated.
From the ramparts fall
The sonnets of those most have forgotten,
And maybe you’ll blink, mouth moving
Like a fish in the sand,
Gasping as you realize the futility
Of accepting anything
But what you wanted so desperately to believe,
But like any myth, eventually
you will uncover the trickery
And try to accept it without anger or grief,
Because once the movie’s over,
You’re just in a big room of people
Staring at a blank screen.
I’m sorry, honey.
O.K. I accept your apology.
No, wait. Hold on.
What is it?
I mean it. I'm really sorry.
Are you?
Yes, I am.
How would I know?
I’ve thought about what I’ve done.
That’s it?
And I’m never going to do it again
Even if you find yourself in the same situation?
Yes, even then. … I'm determined to overcome my baser instincts!
Even if there's no one there to catch you transgressing?
Yes. Even if I'm by myself.
Then you really are sorry.
And ashamed of myself, before God, for letting you down, honey.
Thank you. I accept your apology now whole-heartedly.
Let's go to synagogue now. Let us praise God and ask for His forgiveness, that we may atone for all of our sins...
You lash out, speaking ill of love,
reeling from wounded feelings.
And your pain fuels the anger
that battles forgiveness for control.
Someone has hurt you:
and you want to send that hurt back.
A rebuke of love lost to time;
and yet, kept alive in memory, nonetheless.
Betrayal shook your foundations,
as an implosion of trust
broke your heart into a thousand pieces.
And using anger to shield yourself
from the jagged edges of reality,
you refuse to acknowledge your part.
Your cry is added to the countless others
whose tears morphed into anger.
We are all subject to our baser needs,
whereas desires, hopes, and failures
form the clay from which anger takes its shape.
Anger allows you
to evade sharing any of the blame,
and yet, you can't see that;
blinded by your pain.
And corrosive feelings consume you;
spitting up the vile contempt
that self-pity wallows in when love dies.
If you fear an inappropriate tryst
In Day's, bright light will subsist
If attendance to your whims is remiss
For each foible pare one, entitled kiss
If my address too awkwardly I press
Only the passionate syllables stress
If my aimless loitering you detest
Grant each day one, solitary egress
If sanctimonious attitude does distress
Let charitable heart baser traits bless
If beaming eyes, shapely figure molests
Focus my stare on your stately crest
If my squeaky voice your nerves test
I'll drown the variation with lemon zest
If feigned loyalty, I laboriously confess
My lips with time's shadow compress
If from my wit sentient mind does desist
Only time-tested Limericks will enlist