Long Conscious self Poems
Long Conscious self Poems. Below are the most popular long Conscious self by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conscious self poems by poem length and keyword.
CHRISTIAN QUINTILE
Habits
Ingrained die hard,
We need a helping hand
To disrobe,transmute our inner
Nature
with
Beauty
free from above,
Embedded in our heart
With loving kindness,ready to
Impart.
CHRISTIAN QUINTILE II
Jesus
Fountain of life
Beginning and our end-
For all to see,was and will be
Our God
the
God who
is alive,active
And of the loving kind-
Available,accessible
I am
ready to
Transform
Renew,complete-
Changed in a moment into
New robes.
Christianity today
hacked
to pieces...
marked with scratches
despised..
and crucified,
...mocked..like Christ;
courage
my friend
walk in His light ;
for in His sight,
our God of love..
Sees
a pure,
holy
spotless,dove
CONFESSION
We like sheep have gone astray,
if He marked our transgressions
who would stand.Tempted,ofttimes
tormented,self-conscious,self-
seeking missing the mark;stepping
over the line,impulsive,doing what
we do want to do.Encouraged into
doubt,we deceive ourselves,listening
to the father of lies,’Til the Holy Spirit
convict us of this sin.Absolved by the
Saviour’s sacrifice I turn back again,
for I know whom I have believed,and
together we walk on.
AN AGAPE RESUME
Arise my soul, lay bare
this heart, give me lips
touched by God,ever
consecrated to Him.
A true and steadfast
mind from higher radiance
caught.
The challenge from within ,
looking with a fresh mind
true to life,to taste & see,
grow with the flow,a servant
heart ..here..to eternity
WHO AM I
His workmanship,a poiema,His masterpiece
bearing his signature mark,evidence of
His image,remembered,written on His palm.
Beloved, altogether lovely,sustained and by
His hands, our cornerstone, I live.
For today's poem, I tried something new. I opened up 10 Random pages from George Orwell's 1984 and picked up the first word that I saw and tried to create a poem out of them. These 10 words are as follows:
Conscious, Permanently, Small, Curious, Open, Reflex, Cigarette, Peddle, Wonder, Twig.
..............................................................................
'Curious, how a certain place can take you to a distinct memory and when you are there, it feels as if it never happened.'
The conscious self
Questioning its
Worth,
As to why the
Twig of solitude
Cracked and
Fell.
The cigarette butts
And the smell of
Smoke,
Telling a story
That they
Were here.
Oh! My small,
Fragile heart,
Peddle away,
For this land
Is no longer
Your haven.
Open up and
Break the
Shackles-Permanently,
Never to look
Back.
Wait here,
Look at
the ruins
And stop
Wondering
Why.
From blood to Thought
With every loving beat, of my swollen heart
– upon these crimson vessels, giving life to –
ride millions of thoughts, thoughts of you
riding on the zenith, the crest of every wave
flowing, turbulently down these shrinking, hardened,
aged, bluish tunnels of hope’s dreams,
dreams that reach into energy fields,
electrifying dormant synapses into glowing rainbows
of conflicting forces that wage never ending battles,
battles of whether or not there can be, will be,
could ever be that preverbal pot of gold,
the gold that can only exist- be found within
and within a pure, undefiled, undesecrated,
unbroken heart, not the heart that beats
to the tunes of that drum pounding out
ice castles, stone cold walls, the iron used in
erecting cages, the beat of shovels excavating
a trench in mother earth face, for that moat
- all these have I seen, have I felt, I have experienced -
that locks in your beauty, keeps out the light, the fires
that could, would want to evaporate, turn to dust, dry up,
remove the veils that guard, that hide, that protect
that beautiful, imprisoned light, that light that hides
behind masks, masks that hide in order to attract’
that seem to attract like kind – birds of a feather –
mirrors, mirrors, the twins - not the one’s that reflect
images of truth denied the conscious self while in sleep
dreaming the dreams of ?, that lay beyond today’s reality
of unrealistic expectations, of unnecessary fears,
fears justified by life’s journey throughout all your years
hidden behind beautiful, dry, hardened eyes without tears
for what has been freely, lovingly given
- rejected, for hopes and a desire to touch that illusive,
delusional White Knight ( Mr. Right to come into ) –
to fill your life, your sight with visions that just might
be able to satisfy, the unsatisfiable in you.
B. J. “A” 2
August 22nd 2008
A ghost began whispering inside the soul's echo
there one Trojan horse enters defeated
spiritually the battle ground stands firmly fixed
against those whom denounce the King
misery will follow with disastrous events
Where human rights are exploited through chaos
quarrelsome beggars deny the basic truth to explain
Backfiring liars have a burning desire to bring conflict
Unequally self ordained gods of little value without hope
they try to influence the battle results
ignoring this backward omen leading to terrible infighting
warfare has the mentality that's deeply incorporated this motivating force
where sorrow beats down by force the anger deeply within us
.
Now I shall go, to overtake that killer of a dear life
into one's conscious self
our mortal undying glory rises or falls
quick to the mark snaps the rawhide strap
I open to a blank page which is pregnant with possibilities, thrilled that I found one in this notebook.
I’ve got drawings, words, and syllable counts upside down and backward on almost every page.
I had to flip through it twice before finding this lone page. The ink on the back has bled through
But this distraction I choose to overlook.
I can overlook things like that a lot easier now,
Understanding the value of starting where you are with what you have on hand.
Limited only by my own knowledge, and experience, I pause to listen to my heart.
She knows better where I am going with this than I do. I take some deep breaths,
Cleansing my artistic pallet.
My heart has been named Sheila, after a good friend.
Sheila laughs, and begins with earnest.
My dendrites run to catch up, but never can.
I smile as I stare at Sheila’s handiwork.
A weird combination of cartoon and couplet, I see a bunch of z words. Sheila she loves the Z!
The coffee and I get excited as Sheila picks up the pencil and begins again.
My conscious self is merely holding on for the ride.
This may sound silly to those who do not know,
But for those who do…
It has been much easier
Since I stopped listening
To my mind.
Missing those who have passed away can be excruciating, even after years of mourning the Loss.
Grief becomes a frenemy we live with.
Where Hope is released to Thrive
By Michelle Morris
15/03/2025
It's been years now since your passing
And I still feel the loss each day
My Grief is a constant companion
Someone I'd never choose willingly again
But he sits there in the corner
Holding on to that box of Hope
I'm grateful he hasn't crushed it yet
The Light is a Glimmer I keep close
And each morning when I wake
Before my conscious self takes over
There's a moment when you're still here
We can talk and share fond Moments
But reality kicks in pretty quickly
Life has schedules that keep our attention
And I have to focus on the present
While you're far away in Heaven
Still, I have Faith and that box of Hope
They're trying hard to grow the Light
To Heal the broken parts of me
That cry out in the dead of Night
One day those edges will be smooth
Well, that's what they try to tell me
That Grief won't take up so much space
And I'll be past the Hell of mourning pleas
Because we each have a Path
This Life Journey filled with Joy and Tragedy
Being Human is the price we pay
To take part in creating God's Tapestry
I try to see the bigger picture
And focus on the positive side
Knowing to Love and experience Loss
Is better than feeling nothing on this Ride
But I accept I can choose a new Space
Where Hope is released to Thrive
Where I can see Glimmers everywhere
And I don't feel Life is too heavy to Survive
So, no more bargaining or deals
The Demons and Angels can wait
I'll do my best to get through Life
Until I'm at last at Heaven's Gate
© Michelle Morris, 2025
In dancing, as experienced by my eyes,
I see figures of beauty and of grace,
in steps, choreographed or improvised,
moving rhythmically through space;
but, as I see others, I become aware
that others may set eyes on me as well,
another circumstance, altogether,
as they see a homely man without hair,
not an Arthur Murray clientele,
and much heavier than a feather.
Yet, by replacing sight with other senses,
I find it was my eyes that did impede,
with self-conscious, self-constructed fences,
but now, my joyous spirit has been freed,
and I can connect, engage, and hear,
as my body, merges with the sound
of the rhythm and the melody,
and my feet, my heart, my soul, my ear,
lose themselves as I twirl madly round -
thankful that I can no longer see.