Long Detects Poems
Long Detects Poems. Below are the most popular long Detects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Detects poems by poem length and keyword.
A fox cub ventures out of his den
For the first time on a pretty Sunday morning.
He should not have left.
On these days, when church bells ring out,
All is silent in the forest—
There is always peace.
The trees—tall and swaying—
Make the fox cub nervous,
But he has other things to fear.
In the distance, the church bells do not ring;
The fox does not detect their gentle harmony
That reaches his ears so sweetly,
Like a lullaby to rock him to sleep.
Instead, he detects a cacophony of explosions—
There is evil just around the corner.
Yet, the fox cub is too young to know
What is right and what is wrong,
So he walks towards the curious sound
Until he is belly-deep in mud
And he can’t walk any further.
Now, the crashes are all around;
His fight or flight tells him to run,
But, as much as he pulls and pulls,
He is in vain—
He will never leave this spot again.
One day,
The soldiers might find his body:
Frozen stiff and plastered with the thick
Mud they have all come to despise.
Perhaps they will take pity on the small creature
And give him a warm bath
To show him some kindness in such a cruel world.
Maybe, then, they will cradle him
To keep him warm
Throughout the brutality of winter
That he did not live to experience.
Perhaps, the mother fox
Still calls for her son
When the light hits on Sunday mornings.
She calls in case there is a chance
She may see him again—
To curl up around him and keep him close
With her tail—
But her never answers her desperate pleas,
And she knows. She knows.
Our Boogeyman
There is a boogeyman within
this home of ours, we swear he's here!
He comes and goes to mess with us
and bring about a silly fear.
It happens if we're here or not;
he seems to go from room to room
to keep us guessing why we see
phenomena that brings such gloom.
It has to do with lights, you see,
the kind you touch to turn them on;
somehow this boogeyman knows how
to toy with us, and whereupon,
we find our touch lamps brightly lit
in rooms, we enter while we're there.
But worst of all, to find them on
when we've been out, and such despair,
to wonder how that comes about??
For sure, it doesn't make much sense.
Do boogeymen have fingers that
can generate capacitance?
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place~
Contest: Boogeyman
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 06/02/2016
True Story!
"Touch-sensitive lamps almost always use a fourth property of the human body -- its capacitance. [kuh-pas-i-tuh ns] The word "capacitance" has as its root the word "capacity" -- capacitance is the capacity an object has to hold electrons. The lamp, when standing by itself on a table, has a certain capacitance. This means that if a circuit tried to charge the lamp with electrons, it would take a certain number to "fill it." When you touch the lamp, your body adds to its capacity. It takes more electrons to fill you and the lamp, and the circuit detects that difference." http://science.howstuffworks.com
She wails to your soul
The coming of pain
The black fairy appears
Voice of the undead
in the darkness
Waking through the mind
Piercing my inner most shell
Bringing the death of you
Pure heart turns black cold
I slowly open my eyes
The nightmare begins
To fade
Let me see the colour of light
My soul covers
the heart in white
To stop the rot of hell
Saving it in times
of darkness
The shield of protection
In black its bound
to roam this earth
Forever more
One soul passes
the graveyard of life
Passing through fairyland
Colours a blur
the heart begins to beat
searching with the eyes
in living dead
This body numb with pain
a dusting of light appears
angel rays
appear through the cracks
dark horse detects
the vampire's grave
Leaches sucking
what's left
crossing the undead hell
a zombie
I feel my pulse
there is always hope
Dark horse rears
on his front legs
slowly standing
on his feet
the mood changes
the banshee
heads straight to hell
With the coachman
of death on her tail
rattling passed
Two ivory coloured
headless horses
leading the carriage
straight to hell
Dumping the darkness
into a bottomless pit
locked away
in the dungeons
no more to see light
I found you love
dark becomes light
colours everywhere
my eyes wide open
my hands outstretched
Raising them high
to the heaven's
no more the fool
the banshee buried deep
in protection
of my heart
in the hope
she wails no more
Far away a distant thought
some say she lives in the pain
not heaven's light
barred to the darkness
where she never sleeps.
Awakened by the creaking of the dying trees
In this barren land devoid of a breeze
Imprisoned dreams in a land of unpicked seams
Endless chasms of regrets in which no sunlight beams
Broken chords strumming tunelessly in solitude
Of songs of praises by an adoring multitude
Intruding reflections oppress thoughts that soar
Waltzing through his mind she invades once more
Time when they were darlings of virtuosic impression
Dancing in wild abandon to a public adoration
Truly enamoured in each other, their love did blossom
Though, in Life’s carousel sadly far too often
Pursuing perfection whatever may befall
One loses focus in the fluster of a fall
Adorning false crowns in high esteem
Ego soars and plummets and shatters the dream
In the drop of a pin - displeasure he perceives
past idolising could not now appease
the icy cold rejection she projects as she flees
leaving a broken man - who has failed to please
For many long years he lays wishing death’s end
Dwelling on memories of his so-called friends
Friends he thought steadfast who chose to ignore
his whispered words ‘forgive me I implore’
Shunned he was before his knees hit the floor
After long years of solitude one day he awakens
Finding his dark soulless days have been forsaken
Terrors of the night have been released - set free
From an unsuspecting sky all dark clouds flee
Dark night of the soul heralds White Light of the Self
Perceptions of enlightenment an awakening of himself
From the corner of his eye a movement he detects
A woman of the White Light he strongly suspects
In her iridescent persona to her task she ascends
His vulnerability she sees and her hand she extends
And in a confetti of star showers his heart she mends
Copyright © Nov 2020 Maria Williams
How much is an idea worth -
enough to make you poor?
What if you found the ultimate
that shook you to your core?
Suppose it took a thing you hate
like struggling with planks,
and sneakily turned it to fun,
would you pass and say, no thanks?
Ingenious, this board called Stealth,
paired with an app that’s on your phone;
Your elbows help you navigate;
it’s hands-free, in the planking zone.
You’ve got to stay up on your toes,
Or on your knees at first.
And most folks cannot stomach it
except in shortened bursts.
You use the board to fly through space
or shoot an asteroid,
or roll a marble through a maze
(That’s one I’ve not enjoyed).
The goal of Stealth: make you forget
that you are working out,
and focus on the game at hand
like finding the best route.
It seems we humans can do much
distracted from our pain,
and some of us will even pay
to play and play again.
----------
Stealth Core is a planking board that rests on a ball that allows it to rotate in all directions. You run a game app on your phone and place it on the board, and you use your elbows and arms to move left or right, up or down, by twisting/tilting the board, and as a result, the phone. The phone detects the movement and changes what's on the screen, moves the cursor, or the ball, or the scene. It is really quite clever! It is also devilishly difficult if you're not accustomed to ab workouts.
In the heart of the night, under the leaden and weeping sky,
amidst the twisted shadows of our thoughts,
we let ourselves be carried by a cold wind, cold as a kiss of death,
falling into the abyss of our hidden fears,
that chain our souls with shackles of cowardice,
a silent disease that makes us see terrifying illusions,
strange and alive, like ghosts.
We are the ones who hold ourselves back,
locked in cages of fleeting names and identities,
too scared to move, too timid to live,
like wooden puppets controlled by invisible strings,
puppeteers hidden in the shadows, manipulating our amygdala,
that small, almond-shaped portion,
the oldest part of our brain,
the ancient organ that detects and organizes responses to fear,
a stone guardian in the midst of the storm.
They do it intentionally, with movies and laws, with TV programs and schools,
with justice and lies,
a grotesque spectacle staged just to maintain control over us,
and we, like hypnotized spectators,
find in this a bitter sadness,
a dark part that laughs in our faces,
a macabre irony that watches us with empty, cold eyes.
I lose myself in this labyrinth of melancholy,
as my thoughts flow like a river of ink,
writing on the unseen pages of the night,
seeking an exit, an escape from this captivity of fear,
but I always return to the same point,
a vicious circle that swallows me, and my amygdala,
that old and weary organ, flinches at every noise,
at every shadow, like a frightened animal before a predator.
We cling to dreams like colorful balloons,
hoping they will lift us above this realm of shadows and illusions,
but we are too heavy, too anchored in fear,
and the balloons burst one by one,
letting us fall back into the darkness,
in this theater of pain and fear,
where we are so small, so lost.
In the end, only we and our fears remain,
dancing a sad waltz under the pale light of the moon,
enveloped in melancholy, seeking answers in the silence of the night,
but finding only the echoes of our own fears,
like whispered voices in the dark depths of our souls.
Who gives thoughts?
Who gives emotions?
Who detects stimulus?
Are they a result of very own perceptions and interpretations?
Do they come from incomplete information stored in memory creations?
‘Mind’ is its name
Its job is to converse ceaselessly driving one insane
Its nature is to have internal dialogue of judgments over and over again
Who is the observer of the mind?
Who can watch train of thoughts running so wild?
Who is the driver of the train?
Who controls it?
Who can put breaks to it?
Understanding the difference between the observer and the mind, brings release
Watching thoughts float by like clouds, brings ease
Accepting instead of suppressing, makes it unpretentious
Taking deep breaths, reduces overwhelming emotions and concerns
Being aware of the moment closes gaps between past and future
Practicing gratitude helps appreciate life and it's nature
Santa eats burger.com
A McD’s opened at the North Pole Sights
Scarfing on Big Mac’s, fries, and crispy bites
The red sleigh abandoned
He now weighs a ton and
The Airforce cancelled Santa’s Noel Flights
Big Red’s beard’s down to his knees
Only comes out to shoot the breeze
Mrs. Claus won’t ring his bells
Rudolph’s nose detects foul smells
His naughty and nice lists have been seized
North Pole news cries: Santa Clean Up Your Act
Mrs. Claus nags of a bad heart's impact
Do like Rudy does, take yoga
Instead of that Saratoga
Kids depend on you to bring their toys intact
by I Am Anaya
*Saratoga cigarettes
Deernaped by a carnival for all to see
He's called Miami's Own Rudoph Wannabe
Now lamenting and blue
For deserting his crew
He's the prodigal deer returned home spreading glee!
by Robert Gorelick
Notice how the birds sing long after we listen.
We oft’ are engulfed with our trampoline thoughts.
With gossiping beaks, they chirp and they flap.
We mimic their tweets, in our minds, as we beat
out the negativity of tenacious tumbleweed and burrs.
When wings catch the air - either we can’t breathe
or we catch commonsense & attempt a sound mind landing.
The canal, closest to the great outdoors, detects signals
of the sweetest sounds, beckoning the eavesdropper -
reminders of a mother’s cradle drop; will we fly?
Let go; indeed fly. Flap those wings. Give it a try, baby bird.
All ‘round, the spellbound flight of robins, bluejays, sparrows.
Pure awareness
Unattached to form
Just IS
As it IS
Complete
But since the awareness wishes
Choicelessly wishes
To engage in movement
It does
Creating matter
And energising it
With a part of itself
Without reducing itself
Or being affected by matter
Though in it, with it
And so
Matter ...
Or consciousness
Thus energised
By awareness
Yawns
Stirs
Stretches
Awakens
And becomes itself ...
Awareness
There then being no difference
No separateness
Between the awareness
That brought this awareness
Into being
And ITSELF
The human form
Of consciousness
Is the latent awareness
Having already yawned
Already stirred
And now awakening
Within form
To become awareness
Pure awareness
Without form
The body
An instrument magnificent
Enigmatically magnificent
Within which
Consciousness detects
Grid lines that connect ...
The entire body itself ...
Completely
Each grid line
Having nodes
These nodes are then occupied
Energised
By awareness
Making them conscious
Just as awareness
Once made consciousness awareness
And so
Each node is now consciousness
Enabling awareness
To be joyous in movement
Of the node consciousness
Born
Energised
And awakening
Within it
Later to be distinct though unified
To itself become awareness
As is ALL
These grid lines
All interconnected
Across the body
Of which the spine to head chakras ...
Are but one
A prominent one but nevertheless ...
One of several grids
Each continuum of the grid
Whether at the node or without
Being alive & aware
So as such
Everything being awareness
In entirety
Yet ...
The magnification of awareness
At the nodes
Which are consciousnesses
Dormant and now created, born
Or say energised
Awaken
And thereby enable
The totality of consciousness
Within form awakening
And experiencing awakening
In conjunction within
Nodes awakening
In unison
As a symphony
Of the formless movement
Of awareness itself
Are connected at all continuums
Of the entirety of awareness
Boundlessly
Within form
Without form
As the one awareness
That IS
Disclaimer:
No elaboration offered
For the revelation in stillness
Which each consciousness
Awakening
To & as awareness
In timeless time
Receives and becomes
As One in Oneness
Pure Awareness
23-October-2020
Flashback from 30-November-2018