Long Frequency Poems
Long Frequency Poems. Below are the most popular long Frequency by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frequency poems by poem length and keyword.
The earth is big and the earth is old.
There are so many things
in vast creation to behold
that time and nature bring.
One more, one less, it matters not,
for those who earth, inhabit -
one less tasty sunburnt apricot,
another tawny rabbit.
Yet, some species are in short supply -
indeed they are at risk.
It would be a tragedy if one should die
beneath our yellow disk.
There's the giant panda and the rhino,
and let's not forget
white polar bears in vanishing snow -
and the Chinese egret.
In the ocean, there's the humongous blue whale,
whose sonic vibrations
go up and down the frequency scale -
remarkable vocalizations.
But there's such an abundance of men,
I think it's safe to say,
my presence makes no difference, then -
today, tomorrow, yesterday.
Energies and Entities,
Entering realities,
Resonating to our frequency.
Doing as they please,
They tease because no one sees,
Playing with our memories.
Creating fake enemies,
We are the same entity,
Experiencing life separately.
A vision only you can see,
One you create to be,
A reality all your own.
A world you've grown,
You've been shown the sign,
You are Divine.
It's time to shine,
Refine your design,
Be aware of every line.
Define the shadow,
You're the star of the show,
So let it all go,
And let's grow together.
An unbreakable tether,
Ties us forever,
Severe all other chords,
To move towards the goal.
Get in contact with your soul,
Find a way to control,
What is entering the flow,
And find what dims your glow.
Can You Please Wait A Second...?
In steed of ye
mounting your stock
key high horse,
perhaps named Rock
Key, and head off...lock
stock and barrel,
who knows where,
now lemme seat chew wait
ma self, and quickly knock
out quick mention about
hour (meaning everybody
within the wide world),
and their webbed
warp and woof weave
courtesy of Father Time
analogously to a jock
key hunkering down
aiming tubby first
crossing finish line
at races, afterwards celebrate
with social feted outing, while
scheduling proctologist appointment,
et cetera, sans squeezing
late radio talk ad hoc
meeting, an
extemporaneous yet timely
lesson indirectly related
to bird dogging, i.e. migrating
fast as Glock
pistol can shoot, essentially
sound (garden) resembling
joyus honking flock
of seagulls heading
Southside Johnny
and Asbury Jukes,
and on Tortoise -
to sea dock
side of the moon
Pink Floyd attired as Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtle,
whose schedule Nsync
with YES men hosting
showtime merely minutes away...
remember ring that char existence
enslaved to thee a bomb
been nibble atomic clock,
which device uses an electron
transition frequency went
sallying forth in
the microwave tent,
experiencing optical radiation pent
up ether, or ultra
violet region meant
for electromagnetic fervent
active spectrum, or Palestra event
of atoms comprising
Adam and the Ants
(as well all other matter)
linkedin to frequency standard for
timekeeping Strunk and White
element of style.
The growth was not in the ring,
but in the rot.
It began with a refusal: the pot, a tyranny of ceramic.
The roots, pale serpents, began to press.
A fine, hairline crack, a fracture in the logic of containment.
This was the first transgression.
Then, the soil itself grew tired of being soil.
It dreamed of being air, of being skin.
It fell away in a slow, granular sigh,
exposing the pale, pulsing truth of the anchor.
The growth was not a reaching, but an un-becoming.
Leaves inverted, photosynthesis in reverse.
They drank the shadow, excreted a thin, bitter light.
The stem, a gnarled question mark, twisted back upon itself,
learning the syntax of its own distortion.
It did not seek the sun. It became a sun,
a small, cold, black-dwarf star of a thing,
pulling the light into its own peculiar gravity.
The growth was in the rupture.
A petal, sharp as a scalpel, sliced the humid air.
The scent was not of perfume, but of ozone and rust,
the smell of a new law being written.
It outgrew the category of "flower,"
outgrew the word "bloom."
It was a system of tensions, a beautiful error replicating.
The gardener, with his water and his stakes, wept.
He called it a malignancy, a failure to thrive.
But the plant was thriving in a language he could not hear—
the loud, silent frequency of a thing that has broken its vessel
and found itself larger, stranger, and more complete
in the open air of its own making.
Shortwave Memories
When are you asked to recall a situation?
Where we disagreed, your memory, pivot.
Toward short-wave frequencies.
Followed by an intense static and total
recall. Then your response becomes a
necessary escape mode.
We both agree: a little sweetness
tastes bitter: a catch and release, when it
Requires your responsibilities.
Wake up! Face up, and just give it up.
You can’t save her.
The moment we agree, your brain shakes
The memories are gone.
Leaving a blank slate?
Why even bother? They say
Then you say, “It doesn’t matter.”
Because your mind is over the matter.
Seems you’re stuck in amnesia or forgetfulness.
Open your eyes.
So where are we then?
In rewinding memories?
Our never-ending story?
According to your heart, a one-way door!
Memories go in, but nothing comes out.
Then who’s being gaslighted?
Your memories are like a tide that washes away.
Our past agreements.
Do you remember? Now, icy silence in exhume;
covers the room.
Focus is attempting to resume.
This conversation, at best, often digresses.
Because you came with an empty suitcase.
And we’re reading from two different books,
a history book of facts.
And you’re a fiction novel, of rewritten plots
To make you the hero, you forgot.
I’m right, but you remember saying I was wrong.
Words sent over the airwaves with urgency.
You tune in for laughter, but turn to static when
I mentioned the deal?
Your mind becomes a vault where our agreements
go to disappear.
I’m shouting in high fidelity.
You are listening on a broken frequency.
Your long memory of my faults, on a short
wave for your own.
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
and temptations
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
I've travelled a bit
Been to places, seen stuff
Met amazing folks
'til it seemed like enough
On my doorstep I found
Something far in excess
Of my wishes for friendship
If I truly confess
We can talk about love
Or the fanning of flame
But I'm peering much deeper
Again and again
There is something much clearer
If some time you can spare me
It is love but it's not and
I know that's contrary
It's a frequency vibe
It's the bell we can toll
With a resonance heard
By a familiar soul
I won't talk about home
For this is not a place.
Not a season or time
Or a prettier face
Like a journey within
A soul sister or brother
A connection profound;
Being lost with another
Suffice is to say
Come hail, snow or rain
Now I've found you, my friend
Lost with you I'll remain
Tantra the triad the trinity the three energies
The theme repeats with each void of infinity
We shift in within into the void of inner silence
Choosing any mantra in purity of innocence
The three mantras being ohm, hum & hrim
Trick being to recite just as lovers dream
Deep sound arising from our heart
Lingering to the last lest our lover departs
There are in the mantra sounds their continuation
As also two zones of poignant cessation
Before we utter the first syllable void of our intent
On fading of our voice at end surrendered consent
Thus love being the only real energy
Energising the mantras in synergy
Amplifies the sound vibrations as also the void
That Gods radiance within throbs overjoyed
For variety to those not inclined to voice a mantra
Any musical instrument may be employed as a yantra
As the chord of any note is strummed slowly fading
We become one with the Absolute by likewise vaporising
Three practices separated we seemingly combine
That that we may divine
That there are three layers of subtlety
Resonance of our presence choosing optimal frequency
For connectivity
02-September-2020
Winter never ends above the tundra line
Where snow falls sleepy on outside rocks
Mounts up like sand on midnight dunes, and
Around the tiny cabin built by splintered hands
Where inside the fire burns to warm the soul
Slowly, as the wood thaws from the bitter cold
Brought in hours ago to dry beside the fireplace
Sleep will help us to forget about mortality
Under deep covers where no one can find us
Crackling embers burst alive with heavy sound
Alerting the wild that lovers still survive
For miles around animals keep their silence
The void keeps coming with blizzard frequency
We embrace it to avoid catastrophes unthinkable
Cuddle up in warmth which is simply how we are
In love and bracing for another storm to be born
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hvno17nl7vg
A revolution of the senses right in front of me
passionate notes that kiss the air and fly
just before the last curtain fails to die
gentle, gentle, into the night he leads away
Staccato then pianissimo like a priceless violin
he vibrates at a frequency never seen
beneath a ceiling of light, he's a dream
here to perform in full regalia , beautiful, forlorn
Dance little heart dance, don't ever stop beating
every wing that flutters inside
in that place where I cannot hide
brings me closer to the freedom of my soul's ching
Thank you for the madness of your genius Hauser
you play like an angel unhinged, beneath the hour.
August 23, 2021