Long Deeps Poems
Long Deeps Poems. Below are the most popular long Deeps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deeps poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you
ever feel!?
Upside down
sideways
and bent
backwards?
Snowboarding
down slopes
of discontent
challenging
and
dangerous
With
temperatures
on the
flip side
of minus
forty degrees
hellbent
and
freezer burned
pleading
Traversing
the
powdery deeps
With
a slope of
snow rattling
your
bending knees
Freestyle
jumping
turning atop
breezes
while
twisting inside
Thinking
what a ride
While
in flight
then
flipping upright
while praying
to land
on a dime
with no
broken bones
in a
Wipeout
Just the
shattered
nerves
of an
athletes time
in their
moment
of
free styling
just shining
and stopping
on that
dime
amidst
the
mounting
snow of
Time
What are mental aberrations when in a deep state of meditation by focusing on rejecting all thoughts and senses, and allowing the body to exist autonomously?
To call them visions is to purely describe the minimalistic tangible visual evidence of the experience without regard to meaning and other sensual possibilities. In Genesis 40 of the Bible, Joseph was able to extract meaning from the visions of the baker and cupbearer while they share the same prison. The two men were unable to understand, as they were passively experiencing the visions.
However, to be your own Joseph would require an active experience of these visions. Is this possible? It is if you are actively receiving while in a state of nothingness.
All conflicts must be removed, including the anticipation and understanding of the origin of such experiences. Only when you profoundly receive clarity of understanding may you know their origin. Is the experience from God, Satan, you, someone, or something?
Theologists call this activity being in a state of prayer, or is it? What would you call it?
Now that you are on the Path of Kabir, what truths will you find?
Where spring, the lord of seasons reigneth, there the unstruck music sounds of itself,
There the streams of light flow in all directions, few are the men who can cross to that shore!
There, where millions of Krishnas stand with hands folded,
Where millions of Vishnus bow their heads, where millions of Brahmas are reading the Vedas,
Where millions of Shivas are lost in contemplation, where millions of Indras dwell in the sky,
Where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered, where millions of Saraswatis, goddess of music play the vina,
There is my Lord self-revealed, and the scent of sandal and flowers dwells in those deeps.
—?Kabir, II.57, Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
by,
Martin Braun
3/17/2020
Through hushed deeps of dark and endless space.
We drift on streams of an unspoken law.
The blue-green pearl gleams brighter in its place.
What forms of life, what purpose, and what grace,
Await the curious and unblinking awe?
Through hushed deeps of dark and endless space.
Will our new kin have song upon their face,
Or hide their thoughts behind a fearful flaw?
The blue-green pearl gleams brighter in its place.
What structures rise, what beauty they embrace?
What gentle gods hold them in hopeful draw?
Through hushed deeps of dark and endless space.
A fragile home, a vibrant, hopeful case;
We near the sun, and watch with sacred awe.
The blue-green pearl gleams brighter in its place.
What do they dream in their terrestrial race?
We hold our breath and see what we foresaw:
Through hushed deeps of dark and endless space,
The blue-green pearl gleams brighter in its place,
A dark of deepness covers sky
Reaching to the mountains high
What secrets lie in buried sleep
In darkness, darkness, ever deep
A forest of secrets undiscovered
A silence of voices long been smothered
The roots of forests grow deep indeed
Memories stored from fruit to seed
Shadows sleep among the trees
Echoes carried on the breeze
Floundering flashes of cold and dark
An arrow speeds to its mark
Deep in darkness silence sleeps
Hidden secrets in the deeps
Mem’ries whispered from voiceless lips
The cup of shadows Secret sips
In darkness memory makes her home
The secrets not spoken in book or tome
The trees remember what we cannot
They hold the knowledge we have sought
No voices evermore shall fall
In darkness dim in elvenhall
We mortal men forget the call
Of shrouded secrets dim and small
The truths mere men have long forgotten
Scattered on the wind like cotton
(Inspired by 'Indigo Night' by Thomas W Case)
A thousand thousand stars pierce the indigo night,
but no moon mars the canvas, or lightens velvet strokes.
Half-hearted waves slap at shoreline rocks, like tepid applause.
If the sky is darkest blue, the ocean is a still-darker green.
The harbor suggests a freedom, outside the breakwater
as if the choppy ocean were a highway to the sky.
Tomorrow's deadlines fade, in the face of infinities.
The harbor is quiet, like a restless animal that's sleeping.
No skiffs tack for the harbor's mouth, no fishermen juggle lines.
The sea is a jagged, broken and twinkling mirror for the stars.
A thousand thousand dreams will be launched, this deep indigo tonight,
some will store, in memory's hold, others will be lost, like shipwrecks.
No line divides where sky and water fold, where endless deeps meet.
Time's arrow seems stilled by the cold and the gentle darkness.
But dawn will come, soon enough, and with that blush, cares ignite,
duties' call, and the stars will hide their light in greater glares.
For now, we'll walk the shoreline, our small voices like seagull calls,
enjoying celestial light, the indigo night, out beyond all earthly cares.
In the jaundiced light of the pock-marked moon,
Nevada nights many strange visions have seen
But few match spring time rapidly rutting rabbits
Racing and romping in moonlight madness;
Frolicking free in a sagebrush sea
Amidst white-crested mountain waves;
While whirlwinds swirl and in playas play
One hundred and forty fathoms deeper
Than luna-limned beach strands of dry lake shores.
Bobcats lurk in the moonbeam shadowed deeps,
Eager to feast on the bounding banquet
Of loco late-night leaping lepuses.
Madling moonshine swilling drivers pop a
Fair share of raw rabbits upon their grills
As coyotes yowl over missed moonglow kills.
I hear a soft voice amidst
deafening din of daily grind:
Where's the forest dark and dense;
the mountain high as heavens--
its shadow, a looming doom?
Where's the valley that dews
dawn to dusk, too deep to fill?
Or the gulley wide and yawning?
Or the sea fathomless, bottomless,
a home for leviathans, a womb
for tsunamis; frothing and foaming,
howling, humping to the shore
where a tiny grain wiggles,
scoffing the scorching glare.
The grain jiggles on the beach
sparkling in the sun. His voice rings
a deafening roar: I'm F-A-I-T-H.
I'm higher than heavens, wider
than earth; deeper than the deeps...
Creation stills, cowering at his voice.
Trees wither; rocks shear off in splinters,
tumbling down in clouds of dust, spraying
shrapnel on persons away from the voice.
Out of my spell, I crawl to the beach.
© 2018 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
Longing for faith, my soul beneath the veil in grief did pine,
Till Thou didst teach that Grace alone bestows this gift divine.
Nor can repentance bear its fruit, nor contrite tears impart,
Except Thou cast perfect brokenness into the sinner's heart.
In showing me the true beginning of the way to Thee,
Thou humbledst Thyself unto hell's lowest deep;
The fearful gulf yawned wide beneath my wandering feet,
Yet Thou Thyself – the only Way – dost safely keep.
Thy Grace alone sustaineth whom the deeps would claim;
Thou stayest him that else were swallowed in despair.
Thou askest nought but tears in true repentance' name,
And mind made new by holy change and faithful prayer.
From Thee all things receive their life, their breath, their being;
Thou bringest forth from hell, corruption, passion's night;
Revealing purity no mortal thought can compass seeing,
And givest Living Water, lest the seeing soul should die.
May each inhale be Thy cold fire –
Ineffable, unseen, without beginning,
Unchanging, deathless, never to expire,
Intangible, yet all my being filling.
POLITICRABS
(A series of "The Armor Crabs In A Bucket poems")
An ancient folklore forged in African deeps,
A design so perfect that time itself repeats;
Unrelated life takes on the same hardened shell,
In the grand design where the armored creatures dwell.
The Crabs walks with five pairs of legs in sight,
While the Anomura hides its soft tail from the light.
They drum upon the sand, they navigate the maze,
With stalked eyes looking out across the shifting bays.
But the warrior must change to grow within the sea,
It sheds its outer walls to set its body free.
And in that silent hour, when the carapace is gone,
The mighty, armored king is vulnerable and wan.
Like a fallen king stripped of all his iron might,
It hides within the shadows, waiting for the light;
Yet if a limb is lost to the predator’s sharp blade,
A new one will regenerate, a brand new claw is made.
But pull them from the tide and throw them in a pen,
And the ancient, armored beast becomes a mirror unto men.
A single crab alone could easily scale the wall,
But crowd them in a bucket, and they cause each other's fall.
We look upon the vessel and we label it as spite,
The human tongue decries it as envy in the night:
"If I am bound to perish here, then you shall perish too,"
A socio-political law that holds the modern view.
Yet nature does not malice what the human heart designs,
The truth within the bucket is read between the lines.
It is no calculated plot to keep a brother low,
But a frantic, blind survival where the desperate clutches go.
They grab the leg above them just to lift their heavy frame,
And drag down the ascendant without a conscious aim.
The road to our escape is blocked by crowded hands,
As the panic of the vulnerable reshapes the shifting sands.
Her three tall masts pierce through the gray,
Where swells of sapphire rise and fall;
She rides the deep in grand display,
Answering the high sea's wild, cold call.
Her canvas full, each sail blown tight,
Stretched firm beneath a heavy breeze,
She carves her way with graceful might,
Across the rolling, restless seas.
With rhythmic ease, the waters swell,
And lift her dark frame toward the sky,
While white-capped crests surrounding tell
Of rolling deeps as she glides by.
From high atop the crow’s nest railing,
A lookout spots gray shadows near—
A pod of whales, majestic, sailing
Beside the hull without a fear.
At helm stands Captain Jack, steadfast,
His weathered hand upon the wheel,
Reflecting on her storied past
And every seam of iron and steel.
Born in the fires of sea-bound lore,
Rebuilt from ash, reclaimed from fate,
The Black Pearl haunts the coast once more,
A ghost of legend, proud and great.