Long Channelled Poems
Long Channelled Poems. Below are the most popular long Channelled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Channelled poems by poem length and keyword.
Remember when the ink, a writer’s tat, like a cobra spiralling ‘round fingers and arms, wielded power. Splotches, balled up, thrown into the basket hoop, flooding the creative canal. Ideas danced like mad flames, charming, rhyming, flipping, flopping, finally happy, no crossing out, neverending editing, feathers flapping, inkwell splattering, until the words must be kept.
Eyes the color of dawn, never set. The romance never kept. Captivated by the sea, trees, and wolves. Hair like a cape ‘round the shoulders, as the cold swirls about, as the fire almost goes out. Only then does the poet gather her skirts and wood, and nibble a biscuit, pour herself into bed.
Her dreams and nightmares will be channelled into tomorrow’s inkwell. She lives inside a warm womb, in a butterfly's cocoon, in a bear’s hibernation cave. She spins fairytale gold.
When there are no doors, all and sundry,
like the wee willy nilly winds,
are welcome to come and go, as they please.
Blow-ins, blowouts, are free to enter or leave.
But feng shui would like missing doors
to be not directly opposed,
or for something to lie on path between,
to keep the gi energy inside the house.
Install a door and everything changes,
someone must open it, close it and
decide when to keep it open or shut.
This depends on the wants, needs, will and whim
of the door-keeper, or you
if you have a key?
Feng shui is happier with doors
as the qi energy can't flow straight through.
It can be channelled within and absorbed.
For feng shui, a strong front door is essential.
It's the mouth of qi, where energy flows into the home.
The front door should be wooden, clean and bright, uncluttered.
The path to the door should be open, clean, bright as well.
This allows gi energy from the environs
to move smoothly into a home,
to enliven the space within.
Make your front door a cheerful, bright
and welcoming face, for you,
and whoever comes to your door.
The visit to Monique the Medium on Christmas Day
(A channelled voice whispers)
Every clock in here
These old faded white wooden ones
Hanging on so many burnt out trees
That litter the pathway
As they tick
Remind me of you
Every single second
In every single minute
Carries luminescent memories
Of all the wild but lovely things
We used to do
As they suddenly manifest
Like a magician's trick
Right out of the blue
And if my broken heart could beat
Could scream to the high heavens
It would carry drum beats of such irreversible revelations
So true
I would die once more
In palpable bliss
If I could write a parable
It would only be
I yearned once for a touch of your silky skin
And a taste of your red lipstick
But got distracted
By the sweet voices
In this darkness
That strives
All good things to
Underpin
And now
In here
The Great In-Between
My parable
If deciphered by an illuminated one, would read
If love is offered
Freely and
Willing
Clasp it
Hold it and treasure it
And it's why now these sparkling twinkling lights
Dancing before me
Reflections of you
Shine so brightly in this ever-hot dust
From dawn to dusk
Showcasing your beautiful image
To the empty husks
Of the Ascended Ones
Night and day
That litter the roads and pathways
Some in here call
The Lord's Way
Come what may
So while the Baylore energies
Magnify my thoughts into these words
Through Monique
Like a soft fingertip across your warm spine
I'll see you soon
Skyclad in blue
In your deepest of dreams
Wide-eyed
Mighty and free
Where we'll be reunited once more
But not like Orpheus and Eurydice
To be snatched away by a lack of trus
But forever
And that's why
My love
I still see your reflection
In these embers
In this everlasting dust
In every single second
And minutes
As these tired old wooden faded white clocks tic
From dawn to dusk
as I walk pasy
The Ascended Ones
Husks
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy
His life came to a ruinous end
Plummeted into insanity
The red-bearded painter
With his self-hatred, despair and desperation for understanding
He drank yellow paint thinking it would make him happy
Locked up in a mental asylum that would shatter any person’s self-belief
Deceived Vincent cut his earlobe in an unforeseen calamity
But he channelled the awful torment into beauty
Immaculate and sublime
To find ecstasy in the ordinary
And in transforming the banal into a magical masterpiece
The Starry Night, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait, The Potato Eaters, Wheatfield with Crows, Irises, The Bedroom in Arles
Each a genius’s masterstroke into Eternity
A jumble of love, sorrow and rage
Painting the canvas in bold strokes as his heart and mind burst into flames
The King of colour, a whisper into the future unheard in his times
He died in a rut with voices all over his mind.
So, he picked up the gun
And the bullet went straight into his golden heart
Wonder how many colours lost their lives on that day?
In English we say, I am hurting,
but in poetry we say ~
I am windswept wave
weeping weathered roses
upon the haunting heart of drowsy dunes,
kissed by the mineralized melancholy
of wounded wadis,
for love forgot the fated flow,
nevermore feeling the forlorn skin
of b l e e d i n g ink…
I seize the scorpion crushed weight
of crestfallen crystals,
once voiced
through painless passion.
Devouring the distress
cutting through lips splitting,
I taste nothingness
amidst raining ruby-winged butterflies,
mirroring the bruise
burning in sync with extreme dolor…
O beloved, would you still recognize
the rippling riddles of soul’s river,
or has distance
dried the wild-lilies
dressed in dramatic scents
of dangerous devotion,
like the syllables I spilled
between the spaces that
held the poetry we once breathed?
Would you still hear the
undreamed chimeras ~
chapters channelled
now choking the reveries
I home in morbid muteness,
or has the nerving nadir
jinxed the sparks of Jupiter ablaze,
numbing ringed-jewels of strength
we once believed faithfully
would
never phase
nor decay…
I wonder if your skies serenade
soft blue soliloquies ~
sunrise soaked in honeysuckle hymns.
Do they drizzle
densely designed darkness
draped in dissonance,
or do you find comfort
in painting me with solemn ashes
as the black-fanged Empusa ~
one that inflicted
nothing but misery,
injected like liquid lethal lament
that suffocated
the arteries of midnight?
2:22 ~ angel omen ~
do with this what you will,
I overwrite to outrun the emotions,
refusing to be overtaken
by disillusionment.
I speak not to lure the stars across
your cerulean seclusion,
but to heal as I seal the envelope
of unanswered thoughts,
wishing the pulse of p a t i e n c e
would no longer
push and pull the string
of my weakness
like ice-hot estuaries
rushing against the ache of want...
O detached desires,
forgive my need to release.
I am not restless,
I am not reactionary,
I am merely reminiscing in resilience,
to rise again
as the seamstress
of scarless sonnets….
Rubin’s Cup
Rested in conclusion that water vessels cast push pull as they propel
the motions’ notion from confusion’s stagnant nightmares
into another settling day of canyons’ crevices in mid-day tinges
she searches an attic of mindful antics antiques anticipation
restores all crayons of the rainbow’s might progresses colours from
within the lines proceeds to shade the shadows that await
outside her channelled tracks paints transfigures Rubin’s cup to faces
collaborates collaterals and relishes in wondrous ambiguity
Safety used to feel like fixed,
Problems resolved,
Beaming hearts,
Innocent perspectives.
Safety used to feel like man,
Weight lifted,
Body desired,
Lust and codependency.
Safety used to feel like promises,
Expectations expected,
Attachment again,
Connection in small blips.
Safety used to feel like convenience,
Easy access,
Self abandonment,
Distress or over comfortable.
Safety now feels like generate,
Warmth unlimited,
Current generated,
Fluidity Channelled.
Safety now feels like help,
Resources shared,
Ways respected,
Mind open to difference.
Safety now feels like Faith,
Hope driven,
United uniqueness,
Hearing without speaking.
Safety now feels like stay,
Stand together,
Patience imperative,
"We will work this out."
If to love is to live
Then I'm lost
If to live is to love
Then I'm dead
My heart channelled at birth
Never to love
Or so I believe.
Never been lucky with love
So I am jinxed
Jinxed by what?
When I am selfish with my heart
How can I give my heart?
When it keeps me alive
How can I give my heart?
when it pumps my blood
Call me selfish
but I'm in control of my feelings
Call me heartless
but I do get to keep my heart
They say love engulfs your thoughts
but I need my thoughts
to keep me sane
They bet on loneliness to kill me
but it never really haunts me
because I find solace inthe bottle
Call me lost
but I definitely don't want to be found
Form:
Liars
Looking and staring
Singing and lofting
So agile and charismatic
All for the essence of the belly.
I've built mansions
And own exotic cars
But in reality a pauper
The honour is just for a moment but expires
He assaulted or raped me
But in reality snubbed a frequent advances
Making an innocent to suffer an unjust cause.
There's nothing done without rewards.
I love you
You own every part of my life
Without you I can't breathe
We're destined to be married
Yet several abortions are gone to your credit.
We serve a living God
And our church was built on the center of the holy spirit
But a corpse was buried as part of the foundation
And several abortions are to the credit of the Pastor.
All have rewards and will soon be made known
Sweet is their voices
That one will have no choice but to buy
Cos they're respected with ovations
As they build Castles in a minute
But in all truth they lack ideas.
Liars don't fade away
But their integrity is zero
Rich and well respected
Yet they have no life.
Come over and hear my plight
How best it is to be truthful?
You may be in want without honour
But you have life
Liars are the prodigals of truth
Whose lives are channelled on their talks
Do they know the Bible?
Hope they'd learned from Ananiah and Saphirah.
Zenith of perfection is the aim of my existence.
My pilgrimage towards this, I know, is my persistence.
I align my senses like a predator towards prey.
My physique and psyche are synthesised in every way.
The social fibre in me, like thread in linen, is knit.
Doesn't the quiver of optimism endlessly transmit?
I dig the mines of cores of self-searching for the truth.
Thoughts, words, and actions are in unfeigned perpetual youth.
The fulfilment of feelings flows towards fullness of life.
Between uprightness and vileness, there is a constant strife.
Virtues, like treasures of vast oceans, are hidden within
Could stains of sin, before relentless goodness ever win?
Divinity, like vast skies, endlessly gets expanded.
Fullness of spirit within innermost shrines is implanted.
Values are revalued. Sensual pleasures are channelled.
Hindrances towards integral liberation are annulled.
All that the almighty meant for humans to be is won.
Eternally, in everything, the divine will is done.