Long Capsuled Poems
Long Capsuled Poems. Below are the most popular long Capsuled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Capsuled poems by poem length and keyword.
Meanwhile at the Temple of Doom,
the hearts of the "resistance",
are burning everence
in "Human Resonance Frequency",
somewhat
resonating resonance residence,
but not enough- igniting our own severance.
So in the depths of our longest night,
where thespian shadows cloak the moon,
I wander through corridors of my visible mind,
seeking riddles to confounded words,
towards that which will catharsis bloom
if I shut my eyes just right.
Within the untamed wild,
"Sad Wings of Destiny"
where emotions run deep,
in a time capsuled sarcophany.
I paint pictures with my scrabble pen,
hoping beauty jar- sealed lid-
canopic o-o parts will forever keep hid, till eden.
From the Alien characters deodorized
from creatic period malignancy
deed.
The New Age of Aquarius did us no favors
but of bearing their bitter wormwood waters.
Their pact in the Vesicle of Pisces.
The Sylphstream
painting hues of our desalination of populace.
But amidst the melanfolly,
there lies a glimmer of light,
a flicker of hope in the darkness,
that fuels the foliage
of heart with it's beam,
like a hope that spreads majestic wings,
a tapestry of righteousness,
garden of cornucopia- unity brings.
But fragile petals float on your velvet breeze,
revealing secrets
not lost in the minotauric memory.
A fairytale, like "Beauty and the Beast".
Sunset blueprints a citrine caress
of stalwart things,
to my state of disrepair,
as the "mandrake screams".
For in the little bands of unity we create,
in amethyst spaces of cultivate races
and unrecognized homeless faces.
We become cutlets on a plate-
presenting ourself naked oblate,
where emotions find their place to address their undressing Sunday best of show time to
~Contemplate~
When the word flows freely,
like blood leading to the heart
for prayer's power lies in its ability,
to touch us apart from the World,
but not to forget the least of them in part or participle.
Rhapsody of rainbow morphs to morose mélange
Bleeding colors bleached from the twilight cloud
Rainstorm daubs as blemish on the broken heart
The shades of grey paint the frayed linen of love.
Requiem of roses resonates in melancholic medley
Petals pine for dripping tear drops of mourning dew
Desiccate in somber sunshine in the deserted mind
Fallen flowers make bouquet for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled in the cauldron of mute melody
Chaotic symphony dismantles on the discord waves
Strained smiles sneer the scarred scenario of lone life
Songs turn to convoluted noise echoed by the soul.
The lattice of life seen through the languid cynic lens
Magnifies into crooked contortion of distorted essence.
Rhapsody of rainbow
morphs melted
into morose mélange,
scattered in sullen sky.
Bleeding colors bleached
from twilight cloud
ruinous rainstorm daubs
as derelict blemish
on abandoned shards
of broken heart.
Shades of blue
permeate pining
frayed linen
of lost love.
Requiem of roses
resonates profound
in melancholic concerto.
Drooping petals languish
for dripping tear drops
of mourning dew,
desiccating dismayed
in somber sunshine
in deserted mind,
where for bracing
cold desolate stone
fallen flowers
make bouquet
for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled
in suffusing cauldron
of mute melody,
lost in tempestuous sea
of incongruent tune,
chaotic symphony
dismantles harmony
on discordant waves.
Synthetic smiles sneer
scarred scenario
of lonesome life.
Sanguine songs turn
to convoluted noise,
echoing in solemn soul.
Lattice of life
seen through
languid cynic lens
magnifies mystified
into crooked contortion
of eschewed essence.
“If the Self is the negation of difference and nondifference, if it is the negation of knower and knowable, if there is only one indivisible, all-comprehensive Absolute, how can there be the third, how can there be the fourth?”
Time makes kinetic, consciousness in space
but neither space nor time truly exist,
being but a template birthed by God’s grace,
terrains we navigate as a bliss mist.
Consciousness capsuled in form feels constrained,
since deep at its core it knows it is light,
hemmed in by space-time, to body-mind chained,
it searches for permanent bliss delight.
Power of bilocation is the key,
that as both immanent and transcendent,
poised at heart’s stillness centre, we are free,
beholding light of Self, bliss resplendent.
Dear souls, bother not about yogic states ~
We are living light that never abates
“The Self transcends all, is indivisible and all-pervading. It is free from stain of attachment, immovable and all-pervading. It is without day and night and all-pervading. Why dost thou, who art the identity in all, grieve in thy heart?”
Words as symbols are not the thing,
which appears and then disappears,
whilst also failing to depict,
the source wherefrom vital force spears.
Metaphors are our sole resource,
which point out to but don’t portray,
that homogeneous consciousness,
to which egos kneel down to pray.
We, here and now, capsuled in form,
may be then labelled as God’s spark,
a statement literally true,
though it still leaves mind in the dark.
Suffice to say we’re living light,
one with oneness and bliss replete,
as awareness beyond space-time,
free from attributes yet complete.
There’s in truth nothing to attain,
for we’re he we set out to seek,
which we learn when heart’s free from stain,
dancing with all souls, cheek to cheek.
Say what you want
Today, tomorrow, it’s a another month
Right now I feel captured, capsuled
But tomorrow, I’m changing my stars
Dealt something like a rapture, a lap full
With the misery of a prisoner, I’m rearranging these bars
The car can stay in the same place
Keep your keys, I supply my own need
Living days alone has granted me felony’s and fees
Got a lot of dreams but they can lay where they are
Hold my starry nights as freight in a glass jar
So simple, so precious, so brittle
Teardrops in open dimples, No longer am I up from the middle
Should these words burn, then they burn
But if they remain, then it’s my claim to mourn
Once more as an old man, I’ll be look into that shattered jar
Only to find a platter of lonely nights in a distant, so far
I wanna write forever
Be we each know I’m gonna die
I wanna capture these dreams
But I’m never gone try
I’m gonna write forever
Tomorrow, you and I may die
Form:
In an old briefcase
capsuled for years in a corner
of the shed, I found a rolled up wad
of poems, stalled, still looking
for something to say, frozen
in a futile gasp for air.
I should have thrown
them away.
There was also an old plane ticket,
a beer coaster from an Antwerp cafe,
and a few photographs taken
from a bridge across a canal
in Bruges with three nuns wearing
starched white cornettes
stretched out like enormous
butterfly wings perched atop
of their heads.
And tucked in a side pocket,
were letters from my mother
written more than thirty years ago.
Long dead, I could almost hear
her voice read each word.
In one, she told me how
she scored an A for English
in the HSC exam she sat
when well into her sixties.
She could recite Frost's "Birches"
off the top of her head. Stevens,
for her, made no sense. Mum liked
plain language pared down
to bone.
I am not sure why I am writing
these words about such
middling matters, much less trying
to shape them into poetry.
No matter.
Sometimes just ordinary things,
like those found in an old briefcase,
seem to find a moment
to have something to say,
at least for me.
A God-spark, capsuled in form,
senses currents cool and warm,
joyous on feeling contrast,
not knowing earth life won’t last.
Thought spawned illusions amaze,
so soon the soul’s in a daze,
descent chosen by free will,
so he must now trudge uphill.
To rise on an upward arc,
is easy for the God-spark,
if in heart its quest does start,
a simple shift and yet an art.
Mind has a life of its own,
which it is loathe to disown,
so continues spewing thought,
a web in which soul is caught.
A day comes when desires cease,
thoughts ebb and soul flows with ease,
propelled by bliss magnetism,
enlivening body prism.
Cessation then paves the way,
compelling mind to obey,
pulse of heart, all love and light,
filling form with bliss delight.
Heaven then descends to earth,
childlike hearts bubbling with mirth,
recognising all are one,
as God’s spark, same as the sun.
"The Elemental’s Confession as a Peace Offering"
In the moment I lost my head
my hands tied without voice
I wasn’t crucified
I was looking for some kind of
release from the solitary confines
of a confessional habit that was
reclaiming an unknown peace
bare legged, yet not running
with the violins soaring
in a sore heart
I was elemental,
some unknown mysterious being
suspended inanimate
in shades of dark amber
immaculate, impaired and too late
crackling through the cameo potentate
black capsuled and swallowed by bitter smiles
with my precious time drowned
in captured glass, scrying,
peeling back all the layers
a confession waiting
unholy and holy
escaping a small mind
metronomed and pulse
throbbing towards you
telepathically,
my sonar to this day, bleeds forth
encircling your heart
it is where I worship
it is my church
bleeding tired heart beats
like a cathedral organ
pipes smoking, a tortured phantom’s hymn
of an unending time it would seem, within
the brutish Bardo, Vulgate immersed
mind staked in the fire, still,
passionate and burning
disconsolate
restlessly waiting
for your confession
to me,
that never came
to finally be opened
to finally be set free
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"I burned your picture last night
just to see you move.
smoke illuminating
from those flashing signs"
1. Habit
2. Confession
3. Bardo
4. Vulgate
5. Elemental
6. Potentate
7. Immaculate, impaired
Ugly people
We living in a world with a hole in it
We living life ugly
But we make the world go round
Would you think I was hopeless
If I led you astray with a song
Whom else are you willing to cope with
I’ve gone missing within your arms
The future
It won’t be here to grace your face
And tomorrow just won’t take you in
Don’t you love your poets
Writers from within your storm
Tenderly, I’ve grown so cold
That my days no longer keep me warm
Capsuled in a city of dreary moments
And I’m hearing there’s more a coming
As indecent as a man who knows not to feel
Searching for a wagon wheel
Up from midnight and on until
Why don’t you sing with me
See how much time we can kill
We’re just ugly people
Living in a world with a hole in it
Don’t you love this ugly person
I don’t do much at all
Just doing my part, living life ugly
But I make the world go round
“It’s lovely isn’t it
Ugly people,
We’re beautiful aren’t we”