Long Consciences Poems
Long Consciences Poems. Below are the most popular long Consciences by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Consciences poems by poem length and keyword.
The varnish cracks and peels away,
and little eruptions from below the surface
suppurates before us the underlying truth:
An animal awaits...nine meals from anarchy.
Deadlier than any other living thing,
prepared to kill anyone,
even its own kind.
No other creature sets a lower bar.
Surely the wonder of Nature never foresaw this.
Linguistic casualties:
integrity; heroism; courage; sacrifice and love,
for such things sit uneasily with weaponry.
The words of a leader
reverberate in our minds:
"God is on our side:
the enemy is the lowest form of life,
its armaments and behaviour
horrendous in the extreme."
Yet he desires more from his own productions lines
and urges his people to a glorious
victory.
Dignity, goodness, sensitivity,
and empathy,
the basic decency of many human beings,
nine meals from anarchy,
and 'Mental Cases'.
Easy prey.
So does even the shame, the regret,
that searing, the scarred memories;
the tears, the guilt, and the fear,
fall upon the consciences of the good?
To suffer the rest of your life,
an innocent.
Euphemisms, and stirring myths, and lies,
encircle the globe,
like mental fall-out,
nine meals from anarchy.
The protective layers of pretence and language,
unfold and peeled back,
until,
naked,
everyone is enemy?
Reflecting the love shown to me
People did the wrong thing at the right time
Belittled when I was asking
People did the right thing at the wrong time
After the disaster
Wouldn’t show respect when I said the words
Guilty consciences witnessed the worse
To late but they all offer now
They refused that’s why I fell down
Even now aware of the outcome
that is all they see
but what has left me forever down
is what happened to me
And that happened before the end
the end being when they notice
makes me a reflection of friends
someone absolutely hopeless
What good are friends
when friends are hindsight
that’s why in the end
they have to be out my life
They fell by the way...
The old
The sick
The famished
Discarded heaps of humanity.
They jumped to their deaths...
The beautiful
The young
The desirable
Preferring to die than be ravaged.
They marched on....
During the day
During the night
With no destiny in sight
Endlessly enduring...
The insults
The beatings
The rapes
The stench of death.
They bowed their heads...
Their blood soaked the ground
Their screams muffled
Their anguish stifled
Their hearts torn
Their hopes murdered.
They still march on...
Through the wilderness
Of our seared consciences
Ever searching
for a final resting place.
Their blood stll cries out...
For justice
For acknowledgement
For restoration
For healing.
The Armenian Genocide
Will NOT be forgotten...
By all Armenians
By me
By God!
I sailed an olive boat
into the center of the sea
alone
to find a cure for my loose heart
not the spring-back type, noble with elasticity
but leap-forward lecher-wild
binding to any skirted frame and drooping hemline
like friendly burrs in shrubbery lanes
sat in an olive boat
drifting mid-seas
unaccompanied but for Hope to land a cure upon my knees
to heal my lousy, narcissistic zeal
an insatiable human thinks like a possessed apiary
an overwrought dam
I tonsured my beatific locks
as bare as Samson
hoodwinked
by his pet Flytrap
tossed reflective surfaces, anything that would give my face
a way to self-seduction
safe in a roasted green-pea float
lost like dead at sea
to recover a voice that scarcely has been mine
its echo returns not
through bursting towns
busy at trade
hawkers cawing,
hucksters' crow delirious,
chattering cashboxes
traffic snakes wending
Nowhere do they end in time
always metal and rust
ferric towering towers, condominium pride,
noisome domiciles, toxic steel cages
barring the success of this voice~
the sound of your mind drowned inside the urban brawl
not a jot of space to reckon nor conciliate
blushing-rushing-golden consciences
an echo may not return to its sender then ~
a man with no name.
Human life is one of His sublime creations.
Blessed life is entangled in the clutches of relations.
Diametric elements often co-exist.
Dragon bees and sweet honey exist at one hive.
The seven sins pride, wrath, lust, avarice,
Envy, gluttony and sloth consume souls.
Excessive pride of Icarus led to his downfall.
Blake’s ‘A poison Tree’, about wrath is an eye-opening.
Fall of Troy, envy of Shylock, avarice of King Midas teach us good lessons
Gluttony leads to ugly and shameful body posture.
Sloth pushes into procrastination of doings.
Try to overcome.
No need to encipher the secrets of scriptures
And no need to chant magical words.
Let's unmask our consciences and provide space for introspection.
We can get insight and rebuild our behavior.
Self-Examination is the best practice.
Let's be aware of what we think, speak and do.
Managing emotions builds our decorum
Right perception builds right personality.
Refining consciousness is mandatory to get rid of all impurities.
Placed: 6th
Refining consciousness Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Date: 01-05-2023
Your so good to Paradise you'll go
But I think there is something you should know
You can can my soul and take it with you
For your allowed an item or two
So down on earth a heathen I can jest
Living my ways without any sacredness
It's just to hard for me to be any good
I think this is in heaven understood
I really don't need my soul with me
Like my consciences I really never need
But in heaven with you is best
So when I finish down here in paradise I rest
But just one thing before you go
Be gentle with the can that has my soul
And I think it's best of all possibilities
Take an can opener it's what we might need
To judge another is no proof of intelligence:
those who delight in condemning should first strive
to correct their own failings,
for one is often struck by what is more unworthy than oneself.
The arrogance of judgment reveals less the clarity of mind
than the poverty of discernment.
He who sets himself up as censor
betrays the weakness of his own inner realm.
Criticism, when born of pride,
teaches nothing but the blindness
of the one who utters it.
It is nobler to amend oneself
than to denounce the faults of others.
The truly wise spirit
practices self-reform
before claiming to reform others.
The sternest judges of men
are often the most guilty before themselves.
The condemnation of another
often serves as a screen
for one’s own shortcomings.
One rises higher by cultivating integrity
than by proclaiming another’s fall.
He who seeks the stain in another
ignores the corruption that consumes him.
Only inner justice
remains a legitimate authority
to evaluate the deeds of men.
Moral injunctions sound hollow
when the life of the one who utters them
offers no testimony.
To judge is often to forget
that one is oneself exposed to error.
The dignity of the spirit
resides less in sentencing
than in understanding.
Easy blame is the weapon
of feeble consciences
that refuse to know themselves.
He who sees faults everywhere
shows that he does not yet know his own.
The judge’s intolerance
is but the mirror
of his inability to reform himself.
The more a man persists in denouncing,
the more he unveils the shadow of his own deficiencies.
It is easy to condemn,
it is rare to examine oneself.
True intelligence
is fulfilled in self-mastery,
not in the scrutiny of others.
One does not ennoble oneself
by debasing another,
but by elevating one’s own being
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Invisible beings painted in, sentries stand by, awaiting
his slightest command. The diablos stands by too,
mocking each mark of Jesus’ path, for he holds on tight
to the wretched and weak beings, the easily tempted,
the hungry beggars, the lame, suffering and sick.
The scorch of Christ’s touch, as he heals Adams and Eves,
the liar does not like this, not one little bit. The release
of light into their eyes, the clearing of their consciences,
bitterness fleeing, wounds sealed up as if they never existed.
The howling of a wanderer in this cursed earth. He recalls
those gentle eyes, those wise words, the beauty of the garden.
The horn’d reject can only wind around weeds, thorns, hollowed
branches - something that would make mankind’s skin crawl.
Christ’s see-through hands, reach out and touch, lepers
and lowly woman bereft of freedom. When his mouth moves
the inner universe of each soul either erupts or folds.
The son’s magnificent eyes made of gold, shine as the Father of lights.
Holy Spirit comfort radiates the passion of warmth and O
when he weeps, the impression of Rembrandt’s plates sear.
Multitudes of destitute and growling tummies follow his beat.
When he speaks of eating his flesh and drinking his blood
the murmuring crowd, much like the Israelites in the desert,
turn their backs, with no understanding of the Mannah’s lips.
The dozen choose him. Who else shall we go to. We know you.
Although one is a plant, a weed himself. Should we feel sorry
for the gold digger? He oft shakes the communal bag, opens
and sifts it like sand, retrieving a couple grains. If he only knew
the cost. O the cost! Did he steal the tithe? The ten percent
would be like quicksand. The devil would leave him hanging.
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Christ’s frame humble and confident, his mission to save.
2/1/2021
Why would God give moray eels
A life wherein they live concealed
In a beautiful, bountiful, rapturous reef
Merely to cause the nearby fishes grief?
When the moon and stars shine deep at night
Giving profiles to fishes in background light,
The morays watch and wantonly wait
Until their prey cannot escape.
Are morays just spokes in God’s wild wheel?
Do moray’s consciences not guilt feel?
What is their purpose? What is their ploy?
Is it just to consume those they destroy?
Where is their justice? Where is their joy?
What gives morays the right to annoy
Nearby fishes and affect their fates
While they wantonly lay in wait?
Why would God create such evil creatures
When others’ fates fear their cruel nature?
And why keep morays in ravishing reefs?
Do these evil eels provide the reefs relief?
Is a mindless moray like an inane man
Who bends people’s mores when he can
To languish their lives and besmirch their souls
Just to achieve his iniquitous goals?
The butterfly counts months not memories,
Of the springs and autumn that passed away.
Emancipation from all mortal bonds,
Memories afflicted only with inscrutable fond.
Draped with lamentation of the gone days,
Repairing to the valley of desolation,
Where the pieces of those leaf-like memories,
Still hold on to the transitory trees.
A spectacular array of,
The days that we had rued,
And the inclinations of beings that were true.
Without the consciences of right,
Or wrong; which makes one love or
Hate limitless.
But inevitably memories were made,
Through some did perish away,
But the butterfly counts months not memories.
Especially the ones that made our bond.