Long Permanency Poems
Long Permanency Poems. Below are the most popular long Permanency by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Permanency poems by poem length and keyword.
None of it matters.
Not in a morbid way.
But we are all performers in the existence of the human play.
We come and go.
Like stars, there is no permanency.
Still even knowing this we choose to limit our visions.
We stray from spontaneity to embrace rigid rules someone wrote in invisible ink.
We are born with playful souls.
We carry that energy through childhood.
Until the day we are told we need grow, we need to plan A-Z.
We need to start causing ourselves anxiety.
Worrying about who we will be. Carefully.
As if seriousness was virtue to humanity.
Like it’s the key to living.
But we stop living free, to become tied up.
Anxious, overworked in a weak human body. That even quicker fades when it’s put under stress and has unattainable expectations many have died to see met.
We make up what is OK and what is not.
Only to break made up rules we follow, because that’s what we were taught.
But why?
Why do we exist, if not to enjoy all of it?
With no limits.
Even the universe enjoys its existence like a free kid.
Bursting stars, rushing waves to shores. Chasing clouds with wind.
When did we become ok with no longer being free to exist just as is.
With no need for an explanation, like children.
We started placing time to hold ourselves accountable for reaching stressful goals.
And for no real reason.
Just because we were shown one way and they called it freedom.
And if we wanted it, we would do as we were told.
But None of it matters when we’re done.
The stressing over who you will become.
The guilt over what you haven’t done.
None of it.
Its all unnecessary suffering.
If we can just capture the same free energy as the child, before they were told what their limits would be.
Then the world would be full of curiosity, freedom.
And many more souls would be free without boundaries.
It matters but, not the way we were taught to believe.
”Existence, consciousness and bliss are the longings of the human heart.
“Ananda, bliss, is the contentment of heart attained by the ways and means suggested by the Savior, the Sat-Guru.
Chit, true consciousness, brings about the compete destruction of all troubles and the rise of all virtues.
Sat, existence, is attained by realization of the permanency of the soul.
These three qualities constitute the real nature of man.
All desires being fulfilled, and all miseries removed, the achievement of Paramartha (the highest goal) is made.”
~ extract from ‘The Holy Science’
quiescent heart ushers bliss
whence we see we’re all of this
form and the unmanifest
in God Who’s always at rest
in form we have sensations
caused by soundless vibrations
when our will to God we bend
in staid stillness we transcend
rest knowing conceptual
getting to the factual
enabled when we let go
of the maverick ego
we exist beyond space-time
where yet resounds bliss beat’s chime
truth of Self, simple and stark
is our true Self is God’s spark
I stopped at a rock eternal and free,
In mineral apparency to pronounce the gee;
No alternative life forces of strong or weak measure,
Only meaning - pure, rugged truth to pleasure.
Aligned with flower, hill, mountain, lion, bird,
Gliding through evolution to before the unseen third;
Taxonomy lived and cradled the morphemes marked,
Abstraction fired, dynamising the box of the larked.
Evolution converged into this one rock,
Into its within, the pinnacle, the spot;
Diversities of plumage, colour, mutation and ugly,
Kissed and drove the beauteous into the pure lovely.
Feeling that purpose exists - rationality sparked,
Spirited from a permanency permeating the parked;
As all life unravelled from its completeness harked,
Blood pulsed into wrists complementing the marked.
Logic resided firmly within the rock, but with arms open,
Axiom, predicate and proposition did talk,
Maths derived particle law, somatics, spread, order,
Genetic drift claimed the formulaic functions of red border.
God glimpsed silently not wanting to unfairly relate,
Or intrude uninvited, backwards at engaging the gait,
Nor saying, hello nor barking at this maker of this life,
Allowing a reciprocal glimpse to fetch his quivering fife.
Goodness existed needing coursing expression, for me,
For others, for warm, for distance with respect to see,
Foundations deep tentatively approached, shimmying forwards,
My glinting understanding of my navigation, my way - towards.
Changed by this meeting, positively forever and for all,
The place, the loci stood arriving in my hall;
The kindness afforded in remembering the Bang, the starts,
Cuddled the indestructibility of the immortality that departs.
Was this, what it was for?
This path of metaphor
Trails of similes and imagery
Summits of sun-tossed poetry
Have I run this marathon
Bulked up my artistic bond
So on pretty words, rely
To bear witness, as you die?
I would return it all, every single line
To feel your flesh warming mine
How weakly, pen and paper breaks
Under the toll of heaven's weight
Now alone, facing the permanency
Of forever, my tears take a knee
I surrender, I concede, I relent, I submit
To whatever relief belief can give it.
Maybe
If I say my prayers
Just right
Maybe
If I cleanse the sin
From my sight
Maybe
The stars
Will show where you are
Tonight.
7/12/20
Sometimes there are people, places, and things we must revisit.
Some lines and letters of a pen, written with a need to re-edit,
are occasionally found difficult to rewrite or to erase. And even
If one succeeds in altering the lines, there will always be a trace.
This trace, even if invisible, will continue to render their permanency.
Like an oak, their roots are deep, and like a mountain their ascent is steep.
Like the indelible you, your lines cannot be erased and are here to stay.
So, go on being you. Make your mark and leave your lines beneath the
shadows of time. Set your own pace and don't make haste. But you owe
it to yourself and other mortals like you to finish the race.
043023PS
Muscularity slowly flexing with a calling permanency,
Permission without clicking that the doorstop’s gone,
Inherent hardiness springs you into moderation,
And the Castle’s protective rock scatters criminalisation bon.
Lighter shade of grey without looking aside,
Whilst the age’s statues beg for what’s in your mind,
Tidier than the rest, clean enough to prove inspection,
Of calamity there is no trace or distant recollection.
Roadways trade the fair, negotiating each time,
Dismissing treason and rejecting isolation’s stare,
Lights welcome you in even when prohibition wins,
Blackbirds dance a chatter about your grins.
Square set, known symmetry furnishes the town,
Derived from that castle rock, cool and the mound,
Your spider web is unwoven by the city’s calming sense,
And then glancing, you leave that web upon the fence.
Rude city by obviation, defences up, guarded centre,
Edinburgh Castle is the statue of liberty, our pride, an adulation,
Even though she signifies fierce battle with the English,
Our heritage is stillness, gritty integrity and tight courage.
To become independent would just be bliss,
And I must kiss this vigorous youth, this promise of prosperity,
First the Close’s, then from your garments on the back roads,
Now it’s time to cruise ablaze through the street lodes.
Dear Moon,
Each syllable of your name sings a melody so serene, I find the scarcity of my own tranquility immersing on the tip of my tongue.
The hum of my profound fragility twirls along the brittle attempts to submerge into the cloud of my thunderous delicacy.
The remnants of my soul crumble into a decaying, dispense of dust, floating through the basins of Earth’s hue.
The scent of you radiates off of the vex of my skin.
An ethereal blend of elegance, silver and the spirit of my distillation.
I find each celestial fragment of my embodiment thickening in the night sky, enveloping itself into the safety of the split space within the stars.
The green of Earth farewells the gleam of my cells.
Each one shines with the shimmering pride of a newfound purpose:
The stillness of perpetuity in lunate.
The hush of eternity in galactic saint.
And the appease of permanency in cosmic quaint.
A final exhale until my excess joins your divine rock of tragical, obscured beauty.
Your gravel brushes against my skin, so calamitously determined to test my devotion, oblivious to the ache my ashes fester for you.
Dear Moon, I call your name.
Not all of my family and friends that grew up there would AGREE. They remember all the pleasantries and being happy and FREE. This tale regards
the place where I was born and once ROAMED. Let it be known that this is my personal feelings and mine ALONE.
I was born in a small town just off Highway 49, sometime between world war 2 and the Vietnam war. I shall not unveil the specifics of the place of my birth, except to say that it lies on planet earth in the Western Hemisphere. It was acceptable and tolerable at best but never home to ME. It was a sheltering place but never a place of PERMANENCY. It had the feel of a place I was passing THROUGH but never a delightful destination to be going TO. I must say that family, friends, and relatives were GREAT, but beyond that, everything else was up for DEBATE.
My memories, like those of most, were mixtures of BITTER-SWEET. The bad and the ugly tried to DEFEAT, but the good kept me on my FEET. Although my school facilities and buses were far less than the BEST, my teachers were caring, passionate, and more special than all the REST. It was a rural area of extreme poverty where despair filled the AIR. I tell you, all the king's horses and all the king's men could never hold me THERE. It felt like a holding cell of scattered dreams and social NIGHTMARES. Hopes and dreams could be born THERE, but fulfillment was unlikely and RARE.
It has been said that home is where your story BEGINS, but my place of origin was not where I wanted my story to END. I believe that home is where the heart is, and although I once came to San Francisco to STAY, unlike the song, I did not leave my heart there. But it feels more like home where I am TODAY.
31220PoSpCtest, Strand Choice K, Brian Strand;2nd Contest92720= Second chances N-A from contests only Part 1, Chantelle Anne Cooke
Warm, sticky hands palm off dry, self-centred ground,
Touched by gingerly acclaiming seeds of new-borns:
Ready, willing and eager for the harsh, expecting role,
Supposedly not with any crudeness, brashness or horns;
As we sit in it, my tears embrace his spritely youth,
And I ask for forgiveness for my naive, vigorous misdeed:
He secures me with his smile and instinctive composure,
Such that I no longer trepidatiously have to sweat and bleed;
Permanency fairly permeates my fearful, angered heart:
The hope of someone else to tease the difficult, awkward task;
My failure becomes his promise, and his foundation strong,
So that the demand is no longer a mountainous, rocky ask.
When you yourself cannot conquer the rough terrain,
Your friends and lovers attend to take the strain.
2nd of October 2015
I am in transition,
with intentions of
building a new house.
Presently, I don't know
when I will have a sense
of permanency in housing.
In 53 years, I have moved 19 times.
From South to North;
From North to South;
From South to West;
From West to South Again.
While in the West, I raked
more leaves than a man had
a right to. Now retired, I think that
trees and the raking of leaves on
the next property will be rather limited.
I lived for more than 35 years in a city of trees.
My last home had 9 trees, and you might say
that I had a love-hate relationship with leaves.
I loved the shade they provided but hated when
they came falling at summer's end. I loved the fertilizer
they provided for my garden, but hated when they
came falling in Autumn. I loved the exercise I needed
from raking leaves but hated when they came falling in
the Fall. I loved the beauty I often observed in a single
leaf, but hated when the time came to rake them up.
090422PSCtest, Fall Flavors. Regina McIntosh
Theme Choice: Raking Leaves. NA
Contest 120422, Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance.
Constance La France. 4P