Long Bodiless Poems
Long Bodiless Poems. Below are the most popular long Bodiless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bodiless poems by poem length and keyword.
In the labyrinth of thoughts, where the soul and mind intertwine like the vine,
A dance of shadows and light, where memories whisper like the wind through leaves,
There lies an abyss, deep and wide, like an unexplored ocean,
A realm where reason and emotion collide like falling stars.
The heart and intellect, in an unending ballet, like two twin spirits,
Each step a testament to the battles of yesterday, the storms within us,
Some lose their minds, yielding to the embrace of the soul, like a butterfly in flight,
Drifting into madness, a sanctuary, a sacred place like a forgotten temple.
Others forsake their soul, clinging to the vast domain of the mind like a castaway to a raft,
Becoming incarnate intellect, in the cold, unyielding reign of logic like an ice fortress,
But in this realm of reason, where feelings are kept at bay like ghosts,
They find themselves lost, in a world of endless gray, like a dream without color.
There are those who lose both, in the struggle to be whole, like a leaf in the wind,
Accepted by the world, but fragmented in their soul, like a broken mirror,
They walk the earth in shadows, neither here nor there, like bodiless shades,
Lost in the interval, in a state of quiet despair, like a lost echo.
And then, the few, who never taste the madness of the heart, like unyielding rocks,
Who live their lives in balance, each part a separate art, like a self-contained painting,
What dreadful existence must they lead, devoid of ecstasy and pain, like a field without flowers,
A life untouched by chaos, in a banal world, like a story without beginning or end.
Oh, to be mad, to feel the depths of every tear, like a rain of stars,
To dance with joy, to tremble with every fear, like a leaf in the wind's breath,
For in the madness of the soul, true freedom lies, like a sky without limits,
A journey through the cosmos, under the infinite heavens, like a dream without end.
Thus, let us cherish the madness, the eternal quest of the mind, like a sacred pilgrimage,
For in this dance of shadows, our souls are truly blessed, like hidden treasures,
Let us lose ourselves and in losing, find our way, like a river finding its sea,
In the beautiful chaos, where both heart and mind stray, like two wandering stars.
When we are flesh no more
will we still a have a spiritual skin
to jump out of?
Will we still be able to skinny-dip?
Will Summer rain still feel like
a kiss from a horny angel?
Will there be mind-Harley’s?
Plasma shotguns for shooting
long dead ducks?
Will we have to wait in line
for anything
or will we just shove our minds ahead
imagining a new line with us up front,
but I guess that like now,
most things will not be worth waiting for.
It’s a mind game,
and even if this world is a head-fake,
we will still need some mind-flesh
to create a substantial place
for our many bodiless functions.
Why Bother Dying
Instead...
Revisit the child within
Ask if Van Gogh hadn't experienced the sunflower
Would we know yellow and ochre as intimate friends
Would music's rapture remain alive without
Pavarotti's high C
Coltrane's "Sheets of Sound"
A Shostakovich 1905 Russia
Could scented memories remain permanent
Were ocean salt mere granules in darkness
Pine needle sap but sorrow of nature's longing
Darfur's wafts of boiled rice simply yesterdays past
And what of touch
Given freely by a baby's hand
A mother's lips
A feline's paw
Is this not of permanent storage
To be accessed anytime
From the attic of our minds
Forever willing to give
Receive
Can taste ever be forgotten from
Virgin mountain streams
Warm milk from mothers infinitum
Brackish tears of joy
Such as it is
Aging asks to be but temporary
Committing not to gravity
Tissue disintegration
Or synaptic malaise
Relying rather on our embracing Time
Allowing wisdom to nurture cyclic preparation
Life's pigments layered upon a limitless canvas
Give Time its due
Colors will dry
Purity of vision will appear
Absolute and bodiless as horizons awaiting tomorrow's sunrise
Awaiting another edge ever-changing
For some
Only denial
For others
The journey proceeds
A perpetual hourglass
Remaining in motion
Generating new arrangements
The cosmic sand expanding its window
Giving reflection back to the sun
Renewing fire
Generating passion
Fostering endless vibrations
So
Why bother dying
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
Ah, Divine influence, it has come to many, so they say,
as to their nameless or named God’s they do pray.
The light came to Carroll, he said he could see,
for raised by a Vicar at Christ church was he.
Dodgson was his surname an apt moniker
for he veers of from his father, made math his liqueur
Lewis was Charles tongue in cheek, he wore hats
and from his birth place, he transformed Cheshire cats.
Lewis Carroll wrote “Alice” sure, he was also Charles Dodgson
but who wrote the marrow, now that’s where the God comes!
Now, many men wrote the Bible or so we surmise
and the pages they garnered came in random sizes.
Yes they picked, they plucked, these men were right scary
and what do you know, left out the Book of Mary!
Now you modern readers just might take a note
the resemblance twixt Alice and Mary's no anecdote.
Dogdson, yes Carroll, knew Mary so it seems
yet, Alice sweet Alice is who came in his dreams.
Carroll clothed Alice and it's no surprise
that in Chapter 3:21, her dress he seeks dried!
For Alice, dear Alice, did not wish to die!
“She would catch a bad cold if she could not get dry.”
Carroll being the kind creator, he would
had the mouse read to Alice the driest of books.
Again and again, his benevolence is shown
when he sends Alice a rabbit to soon lead her home.
So, we are lead on in most delightful detail
to Chapter 4:15 where her flight is curtailed.
As Cain slew Abel, so the Queen beheaded prates.
Yet, she’d no power at all, over bodiless cats!
Now, Chapter 12 is truly my favorite, as you may surmise
Lewis Carroll has dreamed much of caterpillar size..
He dreamed a whole world full of goodness and villainy.
As anyone can see, men will see what they see,
and the Looking Glass has as much meaning to me
as the Bible may have to the Christians, let be.
Wandering Spirits of the sea find your way home back to thee, wandering spirits of the sea my heart is crying out for thee, you roam the sea day and night dragging innocent souls into your fights, you carry them out into the sea and plunge them into deep waters and leave then to suffer, daylight creeps upon the shore and the spirits are knocking on the ships door in headless and bodiless human form they wander around in the dark until the break of dawn. Wandering Spirits of the sea, the universe is coming after thee, you have roam the waters around the town spilling venom all around; five boats sank the other day and all the immigrants bodies were swept away, the crews searched up and down the track and scour the bottom of the ocean but the current keep dragging them into the hole and they keep swirling around and within seconds they were nowhere to be found. Wandering Spirits of the sea what do I have to do with the thee? I did not travel from Africa but you keep turning my boat over, what do you want from us? why are digging out the immigrants gut, you use sonic sound on the shore to sink the boats and cut out the sharks throat, wandering spirits of the sea when will we have peace at sea; you carry them out into the deep and put them to sleep into the sharks belly, they try to swim themselves out of it but they keep going around in circles until they are drowned; wandering spirits of the sea give the immigrants back their heads and bodies so that they can tarry; they will hitchhike, ships and boats and follow the lights wherever it goes until they find their way home, wandering spirits of the sea please come and rescue me.
“I am not the doer or enjoyer. Work have I none, now or formerly. I have no body, nor am I bodiless. How can I have or not have a sense of "my-ness"?”
From the stillness fulcrum wherefrom forms emerge
As the motionless potent hum before we exhale
Spontaneous intent causes a bliss surge
In the void of no-thingness we set sail
Resplendent as eternal Self aglow in our light
Dew drops of love and light illumines our life’s trail
We are the source of bliss pulsations that delight
Transcendent and immanent flicker-free flame
Heart unblemished pristine and snow white
Both highs and lows for us are the same
We breeze through life which is but a game
The Cathedral Behind My Eyelids
I fell asleep with my temple pressed against night's windowpane, and dreamed an alphabet of embers,
each letter burning like a candle forgotten in the deep cave of time,
and my shadow, torn from my body like a leaf pulled loose from late autumn's branch,
drifted through doorless rooms, searching for a name I still don't know.
Colors poured from the walls like a river of honey mixed with ash,
and every thought broke apart into a thousand butterflies with wings of glass,
and somewhere, behind my eyelids, a choir of bodiless voices whispered to me
that longing is the only language the soul never forgets.
I saw the city of my childhood floating on the back of a smoke-whale,
its windows lit like eyes too afraid to fall asleep,
and my mother, her hands full of dough and morning light,
calling my name through a time that exists now only in memory's folds.
The earth split open then like a book written in ink made of lightning,
and between its lines I saw all the lost trains and all the burned bridges,
but over that chasm I laid the only word I had left —
love — and watched it become a bridge for everyone left behind.
I woke with my mouth full of stars and my chest heavy with an entire train station,
and understood then that the poet doesn't write, but only listens to how the world burns,
and that a poem isn't a page, but that unseen door through which
the heart remembers, if only for a moment, that it still has a name.
The powers that be, undefined, ruthless, opaque authority
Shapeless, bodiless, upstanding folk, coercing the majority
Overseeing applications, supplications, ensuring conformity
Specialists in quagmires, minefields, esoteric bureaucracy.
The powers that be, model citizens, high ranking royalty
Peerless above the law, protected from a droned society
Scratching each other’s back, freeloaders, freemasonry
Funny hand shakes, codes, wink wink nudge nudge faculty.
The powers that be, puppet masters, answering to nobody
Church going pagans, planted within god fearing laities
Penchants for young hookers, high class swinging orgies
Masters of the universe, demigods, self serving deities.
The powers that be, off the radar, shirking accountability
Magnates, judges, ministers, businessmen, your attorneys
The A listed, elite, endemic, prevalent, shrouded in mystery
Wrong side of these people, you’ll disappear no conspiracy
The powers that be, yet another victim, where’s Khashoggi,
Are his killers really in prison, more likely given new identity
Some ask too many questions, Maltese journalist Daphne,
Blown up in a car, getting too close, unsettling the fraternity
The powers that be, its not possible I’m losing it completely
Because I believe a certain ilk, walk amongst us with impunity
Live behind walled estates, big donations for political parties
In return, yes sir three bags full sir, here’s to your anonymity.
By
David kavanagh
I felt a sharp thrill in my heavy heart,
But hardly knew if that tip of a dart
Was caused by delight, fear or curious mind,
And felt an eerie, strong urge truth to find,
But naught was seen before me, nor could hear
A thing clearer despite my straining ear,
All I could was birds chirping in the wood,
As if a dark curtain made of past stood
Hanging before my anxious pair of eyes,
Fains if I could lift them nigh to peer through,
For, total darkness enveloped my view,
I hoped still, sooner would the curtain rise.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the weight
Of oppression— thanks for life's small mercies—
The still surface of the river rippled,
Curling a tad like strands of a nymph's hair,
The woods were wrapped in evening's sleepy gloom
When there was some relief ah of murmur
As if arisen from a darkling dream!
Was it real or a tired man's daydream?
Piercing through the centuries gone by,
Vanishing in a flash as moments fly,
And yet, the mystic forms that brushed past me
With quick bodiless steps, loud lifeless laugh,
The sound of bodies splashing in river,
The eerie apparitions somewhat bent,
Squeezing their dripping robes awhile they went,
Remained in my mind's vague vision for long,
O like fragrance wafted away by wind,
Dispersed but by a single breath of sprig.
Filled I was with the fear: or Muse it was
That gained gratitude of my solitude,
Possessing me in such a lonely wood,
A witch, thought I, visited on a cause.
Whatso it be, let a good dinner fill
Me, an empty maw’s undoubted devil,
I’ll call cook, let a hefty dinner be—
Of lots of spices made smoother with ghee.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.