Long Perceptual Poems
Long Perceptual Poems. Below are the most popular long Perceptual by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perceptual poems by poem length and keyword.
Our daily lives are filled with them, whether in front
Of us, or in the rear-view mirror.
And though at times the reflection is backwards,
The messages are loud and clear.
They provide much more than just direction,
Offering warnings to pace or detours ahead.
While guiding travelers to their destination,
And avoiding potholes & debris that has spread.
Though many seem to be permanent fixtures,
Others may appear briefly, before they are gone.
As our perceptual acuity is often tested,
Integrated into the avenues, not withdrawn.
The messages conveyed through all these graphics,
Are there to suggest safe passage to an end.
While steering away from roadblocks or calamity,
Or whatever else may be around the next bend.
symbol of contrast
like Noah's ark in harsh storm
captivation norm
endurance am I
alluring in mountains rest
winters embrace test
integrated light
across wild echoes stoic
exudes pure stillness
delicate yet tough
unassailable maiden
artists awed humming
alchemists delight
aligned with capricorn's might
pristine determined
raw unadorned self
expresses inner kingdom
nourishes itself
secrets in dark roots
poison perceptual moot
duality hoots
sacrifice and faith
face adversity with grace
revelation brace
with each unclasping
petals open mystical
surrender holding
scent nascent nadir
sacred self-preservation
authentic profound
quiet verdict holds
love is not parasitic
terrifying peace
contemplate christmas
quest each due ecstatic depth
silent witness bear
so do I exist
cold thorns after each snow dawn
god's love not forlorn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beauty beheld
in pupils
irises
expanding Spirit’s filaments
mind
deciphers
delicate
impressions
flowering nerve shiverings
heart petals unwrinkle exposing tender core
temporarily holds what is
to falter, fade
then dissipate
senses alert in
perceptual observation
bows gratitude
personality evaporates
as Beauty returns
into Source’s palms
we
ache
for
a raw rare repeat ~
__________________
Placed 7th : Brian Strand Premier Contest
On Beauty : Feb. 26
To be Vessels of Selflessness
we're understanding that
through birth is our future unfolding;
carried upon the shoulders of guiltlessness;
through minds of inoffensiveness;
embraced by hands of innocuousness
and immersion..
In..
a world weaved through universal beholding;
we're creating with a heartfelt devotion;
touched by soul-moving adoration;
passing timeless connection;
for non-religious veneration
and amazement..
With..
our Beings' undeniable amorous Calling;
by the realization of the perceptual embodiment
of our Souls inevitable arbitraments
through their final awakenments
and remembrance of commitment
and loyalty..
To..
this place of Love and Belonging;
of immense transcended integrity.
That through deep Soulmate equality
we embedded Love as limitless security
for our children's souls immortality
and balance..
That..
They may Rise through their life's Morning;
safely see with a clear sighted acceptance.
Hear the Universe's never-ending resonance;
breathe the Now's vast guidance
of each moments healing absorbance
and recognition..
They are each Individual One's
and gifts of Love
I am the wind drifting the snow,
uncertain of destiny and tomorrow
at any hour I could be gone,
and with much strength hope lives on;
nothing can discourage me
to ward off moments of misery,
the firmer I believe, the longer I survive...
Father of endless mercy, bless me as I thrive!
I am the sea in desperate need of the moon,
when no light shimmers across this dark deep;
let me hear a song of joy, not of sorrow and grief,
the hours seem long, but the sunrise will come soon,
to make me sail away to celebrate life and freedom,
forgetting how long I had been a victim of boredom,
feeling the worthiness inside to behold a splendid sight...
Father of endless mercy, bless me as I thrive!
Old age is blessed with wisdom and white hair,
but many despise it and by hiding in the leper's lair;
youth was glorious and seemed everlasting indeed,
we all wish to get back to recall how young we appeared
in days that time erased too quickly from the visions we dreamed,
and besides happiness and vitality, all dreams were limited
to that certain period forever engraved on perceptual mind...
Father of endless mercy, bless me as I thrive!
Massive castles laying in ruins
on barren,steep hills
where fierce battles were fought,
and the dwellers were fraught
as the armies began to advance;
those are the places
that still tell a story when stillness
is able to take us back...
Meadows swarmed by fragrant daisies,
extending themselves to infinity
were the intimate and secretive spots
of the prince and his lovely princess;
a tranquil place where the young poet's hand
wrote those passionate lyrics incessantly
on parchment to perserve his thoughts
in places that still tell a story...
Narrow streets paved with stones
overlooked by flowery verandas
where lovers whispered their secrets
to the stimulant and silent moon;
words never stifled by unpleasant noises,
the perfect place to emanete
their dream,in penumbra,to be gone soon...
without the perceptual illumination so complete:
to remind us of plain people indulging in sensuality
in places that still tell a story....
Celestine sea bringing home weary ships
that discharge the agile bodies of sailors
welcomed by an anxious crowd
at the illuminated and breezy dock;
sailors who rode the tempestous waves
sometimes fearing for their lives in turbulent time,
fusing together to confront the outcome courageously
in places that still tell a story...
Verdant hills and mountains
hiding remanents of ancient temples,
decaying columns without a roof
emitting an indignant mood:
a nostalgia for their glorious past...
still in the delusion of thier grandeur;
who can still hear the hymns sung gleefully
in places that still tell a story?
I try to avoid them in the crisp morning light,
but I hastily sink into their mud-caked bottoms.
I sink to my knees in their inevitable stratum.
One after another, beyond memory or thought,
swirling pools of consciousness unspoken.
Parallel immersive mythos together and unbroken.
Heavy here, my trudge from pond to pond,
egoless consciousness watches with detachment.
My fledgling demanding acts are persistent.
My emotions are unwitting and hand-crafted.
These ponds of my making create schemas
from hormones and perceptual appraisals.
I plod through stages of deepening awareness.
From weeping to laughter, I feel each nuanced valence.
Though I try to resist them again and again,
these are my schemas, my reckoned inventions.
Like a roaming wolf or a squirrel poised in a tree,
these emotional appraisals are my intentions.
These spontaneously self-organizing feelings
are my defenses, and my epiphanies of universal marvel
as egoless consciousness awaits, unspoken.
In the resonant noise of continual commotion,
as the voice of hysteria feels quietened
by the tender touch of consummate calmness,
the serene sheath of sentiments sinks slow
with uniquely unexpressed notion
in the unreachable forsaken depth of the mute mind.
When the cacophony outside finally subsides,
the unsaid becomes the sound of silence,
that vibrates where it finds the desired niche,
strikes softly the unknown chord of harmony.
The expression enunciates what isn’t conveyed yet
from the placid depth of quietude.
In the chaotic space of crumbled relationships
the squally sentiments spiral outraged
in the whirlwind of invasive indignation,
where they once grew in the eye of resentment storm.
Many hues of sensitivity act in the kaleidoscopic show
in the frozen depth of the heart unfeelingly hollow.
When the tempest stops after the apocalypse,
the designed perceptual shroud of stalled silence
spreads in the psychic pathway paved by cogent essence,
where the fragrant wind of seraphic spring blows
with floral emotions that walk the dormant desires
in the desolate streets of solitude.
I'm not a shapeshifter or a drifter searching for a home,
one who's weary of roaming like a song on the wind
that no ears can hear except for mine alone.
I'm not a gypsy cursed by a binding spell, but worse,
one who seems not able to move as time passes by.
I'm in a realm of consciousness, spiritually tethered to life,
but filled with a sense of being alone and disconnected.
I feel somewhat rejected from others of the same ilk,
unable to emerge from a maze where each turn ends in strife,
or wrapped in the webbing of spider spun silk.
There is no suffering in this place, this space where I exist.
I hesitate to call it a journey, perhaps it's understood best
if I describe it as a relocation or a transient quest.
Did some twist of fate lead me through a dark tunnel
where there's an illuminated path waiting for me to take?
It's blurred, but I have the vision that it's not a prison,
but I'm sitting in Zen position, inside an opaque shell,
immersed in perceptual thoughts, where sapience starts.
At once I understood that my life is interwoven with others.
That shell, like a balloon, burst and I was awed in oneness
with the Earth, awakened as though I'd just discovered
a universe where spiritual acceptance hovers like clouds.
I recovered my cognitive faculties... what will be, will be.
Not the que sera, sera kind found in lyrical song.
One that everyone hears, a harmonic symphony of souls.
Much clearer now, there are sights and sounds,
a different kind of oneness that left me vacuous as before.
This one is substantially more essential. It's more real,
for I feel a certain kind of camaraderie, an urgent zeal
that appeals to me to belong, to be one with something
that lies over the threshold of an opened door.
December 2, 2022 ~ Journey Without Movement Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
That tangible dream as perceptual touch,
the extended soul by birth anticipated so much.
Beauties fairest trade wherein all adjust itself in time,
life’s captivity for that motion fragrance to refine.
Passion as smoke and emotion glow as love’s fire,
selfless illumination become the treasure desire.
Contented with what one posses in life,
ecstasies at moments that proof that strive.
Love’s oblique by all angle create that tear,
touching a infinite generation planisphere.
Parallel individual living that us bind,
in time to gives us that rhythm to find.
Sensation and exaltation are not the same,
pleasure is the sensation to tame.
Happiness comes from divine exaltation,
and only true form of liberation.
Loving thoughts as refreshment to the mind,
love subsistence for the heart so kind.
Truth as sustenance of the soul by al might,
definition of love and its passage of rite.