Long Knowable Poems
Long Knowable Poems. Below are the most popular long Knowable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knowable poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s okay to be ... me.
Exercising the brain. Setting it free.
Always seeking for more.
Never give up, never surrender
To be right all the time is a flaw
Just striving to be the best I can be
Is a smart way to live if you ask me
Perhaps I'm just a mad scientist, I do believe
So, hop on the brain train
That’s forever learning what’s knowable
That clickity clackity of clarity
That comes from knowing what’s right
That burning, yearning feeling
To know something new
Is a breakthrough
Over the next horizon
Onto the tracks
Under the rainbow
Where it’s okay to explore
And be smart.
It’s okay to be ... you.
Exercise the mind. Set it free with poetry.
Always seeking more.
Never give up, never surrender
To be mediocre or less even, a bore
So, hop on the brain train with me
And be blessed, don't be like the rest
Be my intelligent observing passenger at best
Along this lifelong journey, be blessed again
Across the tracks
Over the next horizon
Under the rainbow
Where it’s okay to
Be smart.
It’s okay to be smart.
I peel bananas
Before I eat them
It’s okay to be smart
I wash red potatoes
Before I cook them
It’s okay to be smart
I say my prayers
Before I sleep
It’s okay to be smart
I wash my dishes
After every meal
It’s okay to be smart
I love who I love
Better than no love
It’s okay to be smart
Evil is stupid
Hatred is dumb
It’s okay to be smart
Live for today
For it might be the last
It’s okay to be smart
Then all-of-a-sudden
After the one hundredth read
Peace on Earth was declared!
Everyone’s happy!
Everyone everywhere’s smart
It’s okay to be smart
Be smart
I am dreaming of you tonight,
though we may never meet
but if we do, you will know me
by my hyacinth shoes.
You will remember me in the pale blooms
that float on
billabongs or ponds
I will take you along dusty streets
an outback town, where currawongs
call at dusk from scraggly gums,
branches rocking in the wind
I will whisper secrets
of morning glory vines along a back fence-
of the surprise that Spring's
first snowdrop brings
it’s green petals
dotted and lined with delicate green.
Your sorrow will never be the color of them
your joy only as high
as the elation they bring
I will teach you to sing by slow caresses,
my hair on your skin
to dance with soft words that waltz
over a carpets of leaves
No-one will know the small cues - each tiny gesture
that will guide us
into life’s un-knowable purpose.
Suzanne Delaney
(“Animal Spirit”, 2018, original encaustic)
Animal Mind
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be an animal.
Of course I am an animal,
But I wonder what it’s like
To not have the human layer of mind
The one that thinks, reflects, recollects
Compares, contrasts and cogitates.
Then I remember what it’s like to dream
Where effortlessly I experience whatever
All with my animal mind.
I know it’s my animal mind
Because as vivid as it may be when dreaming it
It quickly fades like mist in the morning sun
If I don’t deploy my human mind
To store it away in some available white matter.
It makes sense that this sense of simply experiencing
Is what all animals share
With maybe just a few having some capacity
For the self reflection we so love about ourselves.
What is really going on here in the layers of mind?
Is it even knowable?
Of course it is!
Because it is all within us!
Within our brain the two halves
That make up a whole
Include the nonverbal, nonrational side
Of sensory perception
And its opposite
The side of data processing, filing and recall.
In the day the left side rules
But in the night the right holds sway.
So my night is like my dog’s day
Fantastically wonderful and fresh
While my day is just another day
Of an endless story I tell myself
A story my dogs don’t even have a mind
Let alone ears to hear
Beyond the soothing tones of a human lullaby.
(9/4/25)
Boulders,
split wide open,
with rounded river-shaped edges,
greet the rain,
their rushing Creator,
everyday re-creating
Fossils
witnessing time's solidarity
between flowing rivers
and boldly shaped
deforming compassion
for lowest sedated intent,
immortal purposes of flow
yet majestically Progenitive
Transparently vulnerable icons,
open seasons of geologically irrational
time invested
in transporting communion
Like a flowing poem,
a rain-drenched story
voicing well-told resonance
Yet compassion longs to understand
why this structure
and our causal flow
have not only found each other
but have remained together
to this recreating end.
Like river rocks and rain,
perhaps we have no knowable choice
other than acclimating time's solidarity
of righteous flow and unliberated shape,
spirit representing nature,
relationship suggesting dynamic autonomy becoming
interdependence unveiling healthy equity
wisdom seeking formed understanding
rain shaped river rocks.
“If the Self is the negation of difference and nondifference, if it is the negation of knower and knowable, if there is only one indivisible, all-comprehensive Absolute, how can there be the third, how can there be the fourth?”
Time makes kinetic, consciousness in space
but neither space nor time truly exist,
being but a template birthed by God’s grace,
terrains we navigate as a bliss mist.
Consciousness capsuled in form feels constrained,
since deep at its core it knows it is light,
hemmed in by space-time, to body-mind chained,
it searches for permanent bliss delight.
Power of bilocation is the key,
that as both immanent and transcendent,
poised at heart’s stillness centre, we are free,
beholding light of Self, bliss resplendent.
Dear souls, bother not about yogic states ~
We are living light that never abates
Why do I create?
The simple answer involves
the complex mystery of
creation~ the more knowable answer
is, I am lonely...needing something,
someone outside of myself
to bring back in, to hold close for to cherish
and love.
I would not write a word,
dabble a blotch, were my hunger entirely satisfied
by the works of others; were all my questions
answered and my dreams already portrayed into infinity –
I create because I have a sense of loss, of being
incomplete – I create because
I am dissatisfied with the status quo.
I create not to feel a sheep-driven-reactionary,
and more a green in God's garden of unlimited potential,
salivating for moments of sensed eternal blossoming...
The novice writes a poem,
while the poet writes poetry. The painter only
paints, while the artist creates an image, that lives
immortal in the realms of observation. And I create
for all these reasons – and, most of all~ those
shared joys I have not found outside the process.
” Through the grace of God alone, the desire for nonduality arises in wise men to save them from great fear.”
{Nonduality - monistic Consciousness, in which the knower, knowledge, and knowable - soul and God - become one; the highest realization of Divinity.
Fear - The word "fear" includes also such states of mind as insecurity, despair, and grief, all of which arise from a consciousness of oneself as limited and separate from others and which therefore can be dispelled only by realizing oneself as the All.}
_______________________
ignorance is the cause of fear
mistaken that we are body-mind
clinging to objects we hold dear
floundering about as do the blind
freedom within is near at hand
yet to invoke the boons of grace
we must be still to understand
that God holds us in close embrace
For almost a decade now,
a beach ball has been firmly wedged
between skeletal roof cross beams
at my local swimming pool
No doubt some kid kicked too hard,
and it accidentally got wedged tight
But come on!
ten years later and still it’s stuck up there,
albeit slightly deflated
Every week when I’m doing backstroke lengths,
I look up and wonder, if actual information
is still contained within the ball,
Perhaps a stale essence of
chewing gum flavoured breath lingers inside
But what if that person is now deceased,
could part of the dead person’s breath
be trapped inside the ball,
Why do certain observations evoke
such thoughts within my mind
Maybe I’m overthinking again!
just like that time I purposely spat into an open sewer,
and wondered if the spit
would live on down there with the rats forever
Bits of me are scattered throughout time
Broken nails
grazed skin
blood,
Information is never really lost,
it’s completely indestructible
Past moments can flood forth almost at a whim
recombobulated back into existence
by sights, sounds, scents,
all mosaicked together by particles of abstract information
Damn that beach ball
with its unknown,
yet knowable contents
Why won’t those lazy pool attendants take it down,
do they believe it’s haunted,
or am I the only one who thinks about its breath
as I’m doing lengths
Still not all moments are bad,
some are really great,
until others permeate into my psyche,
creating images I hate
Threading time together
treading water forever
When I spat into that open sewer,
did it make the rats less or more impure
Probably the latter
of that, I’m pretty sure!
Anyway the beach ball
was probably inflated by a pump!
Like ‘Nevermore’ sketched into water by Salvador Dali
Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
Or Michaelangelo his genius wild, cutting a lady less forlorn
With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
Oddyseus’ raft might have hurried home
Had it not been for the Sirens’ mercurial foam
Everyman distracted, with each passing year
And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
Or gaining knowable time season upon season
Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid
When fools or king’s would rush in where others feared
Bombs fired all round and their people were seared
In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron’s clowns
In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows’ night
In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight
Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
From what source the endless folly
With each generation aimless proceeding
And substantial hope forever receding
How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
And no real horizon to fill one’s soul tomorrow
Each city above ground falling in on itself
A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow
Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
While some chanced Paris instead
Without casting runes or checking their head
To hence or from where it could not matter
On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
None could fathom true nature’s curse, or pay it any mind
Wheelchairs
Chariots in Heaven
I tell you now in earnest,
there is a secret behind all things,
real and unreal,
set and unset,
tangible...
believable...
and knowable,
to your core.
The practice of driving a chair,
here where people stair,
is only for the flair of the air,
that will blow around and through
your hair...
high up in the clouds,
touching the sky,
the corona,
the day,
the night...
and forever.
Messages to the stars,
sight-seeing and wonder,
the golden cart will fly free,
as there will be no need
for anything at all,
to call upon the Lord,
and know He is there,
to hold us close...
here, and where
the adventure goes,
or we are sent.