Long Deceptive Poems
Long Deceptive Poems. Below are the most popular long Deceptive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deceptive poems by poem length and keyword.
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
"as an entity in the dream we conjured
we know not we are both the dreamer and dreamed
how then may we wake up when we are in trance
in bondage to illusions we ourselves stream" ~ Unseeking Seeker
D r e a m s
when draped by the dreamed,
connected to the inner consciousness,
is a manifestation~
of etched m a g i c,
composing songs of the soul,
tied to the heartbeat of the Universe,
letting awareness be the curator,
no longer a victim of fate,
but rising as the artist that paints~
peace and harmony,
from pristine pigments,
through blissful brushstrokes,
to recreate a landscape of love,
oblivious to the illusions
that veil our visions with vanity,
confining us to caves
of perplexed perspectives,
with hazy hieroglyphics engraved
in superficial gold
from Cleopatra’s jewels.
And I trace lifelines amidst moon-rays,
grasping the luminous light,
laced with enlightened beams,
waking up from lucid lies.
My thoughts have long floated amongst
brushing off salt-soaked blues
that soaked my skin in oceanic mists~
surreal sea-urchins
that whisper manipulative mantras,
anchoring me to an abyss
that floats with nothing but darkness…
I see through the marine mirage,
the truth that no longer
is trapped in euphoric melodies,
luring me to dance and dwell in delusions,
as if I am a victim of my own thoughts.
So I close my eyes,
let my mind wander through electric fields,
designed to resurrect
the sleeping stars adrift
in my veins, lost in material longing,
blind to the seraphic glows
floating through the air~
Tonight, I taste flavors of freedom,
to attain eternal nirvana,
unchained from hypnotic reveries
that dared not unravel
colors of clarity,
and spices of zest and zeal,
engrossed in mindfulness
that emanates candle-lit flames of truth,
illuminating twilight skies
with dreams drawn
from fingertips of f a i t h,
seeking spiritual clues
to conquer cosmic castles,
detached from the deceptive dreams
we’ve spun with greed and apathy…
For we are;
the dreamer and the dreamed,
the lyricist and the lyrics,
the poet and the poem,
the painter and the palette
the musician and the melody.
We rise and soar
across celestial gardens,
absorbed by the light,
silencing conflicting cadence~
within inner chaos,
forever adorned in sanguine stillness.
For many years I have realized that our hearts are very deceptive and unreliable. I cannot imagine how many times my heart has let me down and exposed the dark and negative aspects of it. Please permit me to share just one experience with you.
Thumbing through some old material a few days ago, I came across something that I experienced over 40 years ago and more than 2000 miles away. When I read the notes which had been in my possession for more than 35 years, my soul was enriched because I was sharing about the need for dedicating our lives to God which often demands that we take the initiative to say, "I'm Sorry", not only to God but also to fellow humans, even if we think that we are right.
On January 2, 1983, I referred to an encounter I had with a nurse in or about 1975 in Memphis, Tn. Now, 40 plus years later, I remember being in Memphis, but I don't even remember such an encounter. Had I not recorded the incident, I would not be speaking of it today. My notes reveal that a point was being made about changing our minds and taking the initiative to apologize. My notes also revealed that I was indignant toward the nurse, after which I left the scene and was heading home. Somewhere between that nurse and my home, The Holy Spirit convicted me of my actions and attitude.
Again, presently, I do not remember what really happened, but not only was I convicted by The Holy Spirit, I was compelled by Him to find a public telephone. Before I reached home, I telephoned the nurse and apologized for my behavior.
God knows every detail of what happened that day in Memphis, and I suspect if shown a video of my behavior, I would be embarrassed, to say the least, and perhaps surprised by the anger released from my heart. For many a year, we have heard it said, "Follow your heart". Technically, I do not follow my heart, but I lead my heart. And but for the grace of God, the cleansing blood of Christ, and the compelling forces of The Holy Spirit, I would be forever lost.
02162019PoSpMTFB
well, woman has been around for a while
hypno-teasing men with her wicked smile
been known by many names starting with Eve
Boadicea, Cleopatra and Genevieve
she can fly-by-night, be out with the bats
purring and prowling with sly slinky cats
never a tame girl, sometimes receptive
with hidden secrets, deep and deceptive
see her in twilight, creature in the dark
flames flickered when she was Joan of Arc
think she has been here for just a few years?
think again, 'them' hills, they flow with her tears
woman has been teacher for aeons of time
wrote most of " Homer ", taught Plato to rhyme
as Archimedes' hand-maid, she had a laugh
when he shouted " Eureka, get me out of the bath! "
around when Adam gave out those spare ribs
her name is on parchment writ with rare nibs
her time here with us, a mere interlude
battles over centuries, a bitter feud
with men from the past and future I'm told
man on her arm, just her latest cuckold
well-rounded dame or seriously slim
cheerful demeanour or chief sister grim
close-quarter woman talking loud and fast
words over-taking like a blast from the past
so hard to keep up, so hard to break in
leave you behind in the wake of her din!
what's this I hear, is she now slowing down
pausing for men, is she wearing a frown?
perhaps she's starting to shuffle the deck
departure dreaming on a very long trek
maybe no point in moving on once more
the greater challenge is here at the door
as men they shout " I am invincible
I've the biggest Archimedes Principle! "
late at night she now walks the floorboards
seeking a new role, a song with new chords
" where and when will I go, who will I be
will I stay in this land or else oversea ? "
men of the future and men of the past
treasure this woman as head of the cast
whenever, wherever, whoever you are
she will always twinkle, shine like a star
bring her some chocolate, bring her some wine
make sure she stays and has a good time
but watch at midnight in case she's outside
all alone by the road hitching a ride
silver moonbeam and finest curb crawler
then down to the port and onto a trawler
far out to sea where she thinks of those days
when Gods fought Neptune for sight of her gaze
Remember who you are!
In the deceptive times that cast their spell on the sleeping conscience,
Today's youth are lost in masses of merged and dissipated identities,
With a meticulous clanging of tin, almost deafening to the ear of history,
They form a melting pot of collective mentality, a dense and murky fog.
It would be easy to provide a quick explanation for this ultra-progressive phenomenon,
Which has homogenized characters and scattered historical sentimentality,
Dissolving even the last trace of the clarity of inherited sense,
For what could be simpler than to conclude that the youth have been deprived?
Where are you going, young person, toward the Sunset of great promises of progress?
There, in the West, where the mirages of the new world dazzle with their brilliance,
Where contemporary ideologies promise happiness on this earth,
In a neurotic delight that urges you to swallow without questioning.
Have you not yet understood that appearances are often deceiving,
You naively leap into the whirlpool of contemporary ideologies,
You easily believe what the majority promotes, but forget that history,
Has shown that it is not the many who hold reality, but the few and the strong.
The Romanian, a rock against the turbulent waters of deceptive times,
Could not be easily fooled, having the consciousness of ancestral values,
Stronger than any current coming from outside,
Have you forgotten the deep heritage buried in your heart?
The Myth of Progress is the dream that delights your senses and blinds you,
You have learned to love evolution and to become an obedient citizen,
Society rewards your perseverance with small fleeting joys,
But you have forgotten the moment of the Present, the simplicity of awakened thoughts.
Shadowed by the nostalgia of the Future, yearning for the certainty of a better tomorrow,
You have forgotten that the ideal is not in the standards imposed by the elites of society,
The Present is made of simple, yet awakened reflections,
It's time to stop and lock the whirl of currents that has engulfed you.
Breathe deeply, remember the life of your parents in communism,
How difficult it is to serve foreign ideas, remember who you are,
Do not be afraid, for victory does not belong to the many,
But to those who firmly believe in Truth and the inheritance of the soul.
My muse is a poetic flower garden,
blooming lilacs in barren meadows,
but I still remember
how I heeded haunting heartbeats
in paradise, whilst praying
for your lustrous light,
to descend onto my hazy horizons.
Your eyes like captivating sunsets,
made me dream away,
recalling shells lost in a forgotten
coral reef, castaway upon
an elusive island,
where the paths have no name,
but the oceanic breeze
calls yours so softly.
I was killing time,
scribbling elegies
on distant musical shores,
where spotted eagle rays
and flying fish were my only mentors.
Nocturnal reef sharks unfolded tales
beneath lonesome skies,
illustrating a secretive stairway
that would lead me
to the scintillating stars.
Deep within my heart,
I knew in the darkest
night you are the light
that would illuminate
my breathless sighs
with blazing ballads
rewriting my fate,
reawakening my
need to thrive through these
endless melancholic monsoons;
surfing through vast oceans.
Your cosmic radiance pulled
this chocolate mermaid,
from the bioluminescent
ripples of sorrow,
empathising with
endless streams from
my volcanic mind
and harmonious heart,
which was in dire
need of healing,
from draconian depleted
ideologies imprinted within
a labyrinth of
narcissistic daffodils,
emanating deceptive fragrances
resembling the devil's disciple,
claiming me as nothing,
but a mere self
confessed queen
on a conquest to conquer
the uncontrollable calling
to a land of virtual hypocrisy.
If only they knew
I no longer desired
to rule a kingdom of
tumultuous pretense.
I was waiting for the
return of the butterflies,
tearing apart the fragile
walls of its cocoon.
I knew if Romeo did not die,
I would be living Juliet's desires.
I was a poetess
searching for
a purpose, with no sense
to shelter, watching the
last icicle
of winter melt away.
Truth deserves a narrative
that has no ending,
though I question the universe.
Where do the
lost poets reside?
Is it where the
moon chooses to hide,
disguising dreariness
within dazzling blankets
of dancing moonscapes,
or will this be how
this sleepless soul
seizes its faultless lunar tide?
Although the place where the dead go is called the world beyond,
some say that it’s located underground while others say that it’s located in heaven above.
Since the world beyond is not the real world where you and I live,
it doesn’t make any difference whether you go to heaven above
or netherworld below
the majority of people, when their time comes,
whether they lived their lives virtuously or not,
they want to go to heaven rather than the underworld.
Because the underworld is dark, chilly and damp,
moreover, time doesn’t move forward but is still,
people suppose; heaven is warm, bright and beautiful
with seasonal changes in colorful sceneries.
The thing is, though may it be human nature to choose heaven,
to me, rather hard to comprehend is the one who asserts
that they are the ones who will enter heaven wearing
a garment smeared with covetousness and hide their deformed ugly heart in it.
Most men who allegedly say that they will go to heaven
are those unable to see their own blemishes, no matter how big
they may be, because they are so arrogant and self-centered.
Nevertheless, they spot other’s flaws so easily, no matter
how small they may be, and scold them severely because
they are self-righteous hypocrites.
They donate a fraction of great sums that they collected from
many tenderhearted good people in the name of God or of charity
and boast on themselves though they appropriate the rest of the large
sum for their purposes, as if they sacrificed a lot of their possessions and precious time, as if they were the most caring and understanding human beings.
Though they ill-treated their own parents they shamelessly tell others
to respect their parents, they are deceptive pretenders. They are men
able to trade their own brothers for any price without the pangs of conscience though they once swore before God that they would be faithful to their brothers.
For those human trashes insist that heaven is theirs though
the men who qualify to enter heaven humbly lower their head
without a word, perhaps Peter the owner of the key to heaven,
is troubled badly with men’s ignominies; it would force dignified rigorous Yama*,
the lord of hell, to smile a grim smile.
*Yama, the Chinese and Hindus King of Hell. Hades of the Buddhism.
Once the dream was to make America the shining light of the world
a caring and compassionate country with opportunities for all
but after questioning the veracity of the election in America by the sham pretender since then this nation has endured the corrupt, the ugly, the distrusted who have put a damp on long held dreams of millions.
A neophyte failed businessman/politician with a narcissistic bent
of a five year old, looking for a king's crown, his fatuous transmutation has proven to be the culprit blocking his own way but denial is months away but
this dream may be reality in the making.
We who understand the damage done know are the ones
who must remove the stench he has created and the pain he inflicted
while hell bent trying to annihilate our Democratic Republic and his intent on
changing justice in America to save himself.
American's Constitution and the Bill of Rights are the hope of the world
but this administration peddles lies for control but honesty chokes them,
integrity strangles their foundations and freedoms they profess to value.
Their insidious mindset will not prevail and definitely will be challenged.
We are being devoured by manipulative small minds; their indifference,
bigotry and the all-mighty, all-consuming, deceptive profits seems to be what we are becoming. I can't believe we have been overcome with greed
and what it represents, but are we really, at heart, really that?
Will Democracy, Truth, Justice continue to be our guide, our conscience?
Will American integrity survive the current onslaught of verbal inanities?
America was great before this charlatan came unto the scene
misleading his followers and instilling his divisive absurdities.
America was great long before this pretender stepped on these shores.
It will continue to be great even greater, but these last few years he has fed lies of con to his followers derailing that trajectory of greatness
yet there are those who will follow this false Messiah's words of hatred.
White supremacists, bigots, genocidal maniacs with the mistaken idea
that this country is for them to take have a shocker awaiting them,
America will never be ruled solely by punk-pink-orange colored wannabe's
hellbent on destroying indigenous peoples of our world and our country.
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred:
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was.
The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went,
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis,
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?
Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once was...so lovely and happy,
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?
Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries
recited with graceful whispers, gave them
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?
Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels
bend under their heavy weight and bow....
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"
Southern Italian Town: Baiano
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci