Long Psychedelic Poems
Long Psychedelic Poems. Below are the most popular long Psychedelic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Psychedelic poems by poem length and keyword.
Blue skies filled with purple velvet clouds
Drifting around rock strewn mountains
Covered with dark green reptile skin
Houses of young virginal girls fill the trees
Naked they run through the leaves
Chased by birds with fire red wings
While blue tigers roam the world beneath
A half million people sway to an unsung song
The words of which no one knows
The notes of which no one hears
Yet everyone imagines it in their mind
And it is always the same
The tigers look for a bowl of milk
As the birds build nests in their massive jaws
And the naked virgins ride on their back
It is a world of my own creation
Created with the help of a little pill
But for now it is mine
It is where I choose to live
I know it will go away and I will never see it again
At least until the time I can find another little pill
Then I may see it again
And it will be my home
Near a distant sun
Under an uncontaminated crystalline sky
Exists a world without me
Where the viridescent grass ages unchallenged
Wears wizened beards
And bows only to the wind
Where the waters crash when you thirst to surf
Smooths when you desire to paddle
And ripples towards shore when you’re heading home
Where zebras change their stripes daily
From neon green to psychedelic purple
Or any color in between
Where the “H” on a building simply symbolizes “Help”
And is a communal gathering place
Where anyone can ask and receive assistance with anything
Where government is synonymous with communication
Leadership is synonymous with service
And opponent is synonymous with respect
But, this distant inhabitation,
Magnificent as it may be
Lacks Caleb, Adam, and Kelsi
Two sons and a daughter that have shone so bright
That they must have burned themselves into my pupils
Since they are always in my sight
So, I turn from this distant scene
A dream without an imperfect me
Because,
A world full of wonders
Will always fall short of wonderful
Without the likes of Caleb, Adam, and Kelsi
I used to write like
Jack Kerouac.
Words
crumbling down
paper.
Stark thoughts
marked
by dots
and dashes.
Flashes of schoolyard brilliance
The hill I would
climb over
to be
someone different.
I never saw life
through a dot.
LSD.
My father
was on mushrooms,
when he and my mother
created me.
Psychedelic sperm
meets
bitter weed
infested ovum.
BANGED
into existence.
Transient spirit
sloughing off
afterbirth long
after I hit
the cold.
I have chased
paper
ever since.
Dipping my bones
in ink.
To paint a
masterpiece
of you.
Broken, homeless, loveless,
privileged, safe, warm,
sheltered, shattered
reconstructed.
All in a backdrop
of perfection.
An abundant Earth
housing an
ungrateful patient.
Most of us,
doctored
unconscious
sedated.
Waiting for
something
to wake us
up.
My own words
often
broken and
falling off.
Leaving only
snapshots.
I get ties and
sketches
along the
road.
I would bargain
my dreams
for pious acceptance
and my revelations
for wicked
indulgent
self
flagellation.
I have been
bound to my
vision
of exclusion
behind an
iron fence of
history.
Trapped
in pages.
Tapped and
wasted.
I used to write
as if I didn't
I would die.
On my knees
shattered
under
that perfect
silent sky.
Head bowed
shoulders cowed
frail and pasty.
Screaming
raging
breaking pages
with my pen.
Attempting to bring
black and white
to color.
Now I write,
because
I die.
A thousand times
with you.
Its glorious!
Over your
unfinished portraits.
Your shortcuts
your detours
your ache
your lust,
and your mindless
wandering.
Beautiful
and championed.
I pray to make
my prose like
a Sistine Chapel
after all,
you deserve
it!
Only to fall
very far from
grace.
At the
Inadequacy
I have
at coloring
your face.
I used to write
like Jack Kerouac,
jotting a shot
of you
in between
heaven.
But I figured out
that I would
rather capture
my own
splinter.
And be satisfied with
a sliver of you,
than die like him
at forty-seven.
I’m returning to the place of dazzling lights,
Returning to the place where I’m safe,
Where I don’t need to be the man that I am,
I can be the man I create,
And spiral some hope without any thought,
Fly the waves in the air,
And dilate enough to see more than what’s real,
Sit alone and simply stare,
Then talk with the you that you leave behind,
The you when you are asleep,
About the magic of thoughts inside of your mind,
The colours, the shapes, and the deep,
And when I lay down after the high,
I’ll come back from my small rendezvous,
To wake up the next day to a beautiful world,
And once again be amazed by what’s you.
a jolly darling right angle went straight out of the lateral box
fed up with grinding a living on the periphery of pure reason
he thought back to his square roots and longed for a change
his strict Dad Monty Pythagoras had been rather level headed
had equated logic premises and conclusions with happiness
a refined man steeped in knowledge in search for great virtue
his Mom Pi however never lived up the promise of her name
strayed from her calculated path of predetermined precision
abandoned caution and boredom and soaked in a bubbly bath
Archimedes my **** I can’t throw the baby out of the water
had a fling with Plato in his cave and settled for the kitchen
made the best strawberry crumble from recipes of her aunt
Little Monty Pi enjoyed whipped cream and emotion much more
than obedience and hypothenuses and left mere equations behind
licked off the whisk and dreamed of the perfect circle for good
vanilla emotions danced with sweet sugar candy mountains as
his feelings submerged into a fantasy world coated in cinnamon
he was warned that he might have eggy intuitions on his face
for shells would easily crack and ovations weren’t perfectly round
but his world was not flat anymore and he wished for perspectives
of a different kind than sitting in the lost corner at ninety degrees
if you can stand the heat you should remain in the bakehouse
savour cookies or condensed milk tarts for such exquisite cuisine
beats mere cognition and the dour fragrance of stale rationale
Mum chuckled while Dad despaired and took out his slide rule
proposed that life was no honey pot and cooking was effluvium
misleading and not up to the fine task of consequential virtues
but like most kids he would only listen to what he wanted to hear
put Nirvana on the headphones and closed his mind to objections
eventually he learnt that life was really a giant rigged rollercoaster
maybe the strawberries were laced with psychedelic truth serum
or the icing on the gateau was to abandon forethought and planning
most of all that he was neither circle nor angle and just needed to be
30th August 2020
grandma had always been a magical offspring of nature
collected herbs images mushrooms psychedelic support
tattoo in her mind rebellion independence and freedom
mescal beans at stakes looking like witches’ broomsticks
cultivated night shade a belladonna of sorts in the woods
tree house cut from the forest and the stepladder frayed
an outpost for the paradigm bare of dogma and convention
a jungle of green sheltering indigo orange and violet of mind
no phone no computer only drums of heart and pulsation
spirits did not haunt her impression of legendary surprise
a pen cut from charcoal a sharpener cut from pine growth
opinions and premises and razor sharp wits and emotions
no delete button no erasure only stream of the subconscious
free flow of psychedelia as she flowed in crocheted pants
over all happy and void of convention and stifling dogma
lotus position next to a mat woven from strawberry fields
coarse linen cushion haunted hunting to mould her behind
future certain breast happily sagging but pendulous thoughts
wicked and mysterious and candle light a flaming lamppost
from desk to kitchen and boudoir as a anthracite fire raged
pendulum swinging from knotted branches swayed in the wind
crystal balls blown from history nostalgia and fierce resistance
tea leaves coffee ground a cup full of memories and aspirations
never too old to have a happy childhood she abandoned the past
tribulations conjectures treasure chest of nuggets wisdom’s appeal
the old scribe never died for an apple seeds quite close to its home
26th June 2020
July burns bright in a sky of hot gold,
While the story of summer begins to unfold.
The sun climbs the heavens in blinding white fire,
And hearts beat in time with a joyous desire.
We gather outside on the emerald lawn,
With buckets of water brought out at the dawn,
And pure white cotton, like clouds in the blue,
Awaiting the magic of color and hue.
The folding begins with a reverent grace,
A spiral spun tight in a sacred embrace.
We pinch the soft cloth at the very sweet core,
And twist it around on the sun-baked floor,
Like galaxies spinning in deep starry night,
Secured by the grip of the rubber bands tight.
Or lines made in zigzags, a mountain and stream,
A canvas prepared for a psychedelic dream.
Then come the bright bottles, like jewels in the sun,
Where pigments of magic are ready and run.
The Fuchsia leaps out like a tropical flower,
A burst of hot passion, a midsummer power.
And Turquoise pours down like a Caribbean sea,
As deep and as wild as a soul running free.
Bright Lemon crashes in like a ray from the height,
To drench all the dark in a glorious light.
With Violet shadows and Tangerine blaze,
We paint the fierce pulse of these long summer days.
The liquid sinks deep through the fibers and threads,
As vibrant as poppies in garden-row beds.
It stains our own fingers with colors of joy,
A playful design that no time can destroy.
We wrap them in plastic and leave them to rest,
To dream in the heat while the noon is at best,
While cicadas hum loud in the sycamore trees,
And sweet heavy scents ride the slow-moving breeze.
At last comes the rinsing, the glorious birth,
As water runs clear from the salts of the earth.
The white cloth is gone, and the miracle stays—
A rainbow uncurled from the summer’s hot haze.
We hang them to dry on a line by the shed,
Where banners of ruby and sapphire are spread.
They flutter and snap in the soft afternoon,
Beneath the pale ghost of the midsummer moon.
And wearing these shirts when the twilight is cool,
By edges of woods or a clear gravel pool,
We carry the fire of July on our chest,
The vivid expression of what we love best.
A riot of joy in a world overcast,
A moment of magic we wish would last fast.
For tie-dye in July is more than a hue—
It’s wearing the soul when the world is made new.
PSYCHEDELIC
There was a decade, it was the 60’s I’m sure
When everyday things were just a little bit off
As if there were rumblings in the earth’s core
And when scripted lines gave way to improv
There were plans afoot, some quite nefarious
A Hippy time, with weedy substances to share
And was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Minds set free and wearing flowers in the hair
Rainbow colours swirled to the sound of sitars
Free love, at least it may have been for some
And a coming of age of good electric guitars
Whilst others just sat crosslegged acting dumb
Psychedelia was a mind state and the fashion
Radical changes working through the system
And all things anti-establishment, the passion
Rules got lost and older people missed them
The time when all free expression took a lift
We may look back at it with little veneration
Not only tectonic plates that began to shift
We still hear echoes of that Beat generation
The Miracle in Slow Motion
If I had been a poet, beloved, with fingers of light upon your face—
sixteen hours watching how you sleep, how the universe breathes slowly within you,
and your tresses fall like cascades of time frozen in crystal,
living metaphors on your white skin, like runes written in dreams by gods.
My hand floats psychedelic over the vault of your sleeping face,
adjusting comet tails caught in your hair, so I can see the miracle more clearly—
you, unreal being in reality, you, proof that magic exists in the world,
you, my melancholic sunrise, the small arc of dawn that tears my chest apart.
How I would have run through hallucinating crowds, suffocated by desire,
only because your eyes were waiting for me somewhere in our suspended house—
that abstract house where everything disappears into your tired shoulders,
where the entire world melts like wax beneath your gentle flame.
I would have kissed your forehead like a cosmic altar, without words spoken—
the highest bridge I can cross toward you, my stellar beloved,
and in the kitchen, cutting banal onions, you become liquid legend,
my tears are not for the onion, but for the happiness that drowns me.
I have forgotten what fighting means, shouting, the sharp and ancient pain—
you have erased from my neurons every vocabulary of evil and fear,
leaving me only with one language: your love as perpetual flux,
the only truth I know, the only madness that makes me whole.
Testimony about Love in Crystals of Truth
I will speak the truth crude as ice melted in flames of liquid mercury,
love is not always gentle but serpentines through the soul with fangs of jade,
and rarely is it fair like the cosmic scale that weighs our trembling hearts,
it does not arrive on time with music swelling like a waltz of falling stars.
Sometimes it comes limping late uncertain smelling of burnt velvet regret,
with clothes dirty from cosmic dust and eyes exhausted from searching through the void,
love does not repair you like a magic craftsman with tools of amber and light,
it finds you mid-sentence mid-failure mid-life suspended in crystal time.
And yet listen anyway with its ears of translucid crystal and living stone,
I will speak the truth: love is not the absence of loneliness but its magic presence,
it's loneliness sitting beside another loneliness in shimmering cold silence,
two cosmic voids agreeing not to leave first to remain in the luminous darkness.
Love forgets anniversaries like a mad poet who forgets his own name in wind,
but remembers the sound of your cough at three in the morning like a sacred prayer,
it fights over nothing and forgives something enormous without ever speaking its name,
it carries paradoxes that dance like fire butterflies in the desert of memory.
Here is the hardest truth to swallow like a pill of amber and aching pain,
love does not promise forever but only now this cold tea in the chipped cup,
this hand that reaches out still even when it knows how easily hands let go,
how they melt like wax in the flames of time flowing like a river of mercury.
And yet I swear this too in the name of dead stars floating in my chest,
when love is real it teaches the heart to stand in the witness box like crystal,
to speak without rehearsal without mask of melted wax before cosmic judgment,
"Yes I was terrified yes I stayed" like testimony carved in jade and silence.
Love is a psychedelic testimony in the courtroom of our desolate soul,
where truth flows like a river of silver tears through our trembling hearts,
where fear and courage dance together like two butterflies of light in living darkness,
where staying becomes sacred like a prayer whispered in the magic alphabet of pain.