Long Sixth sense Poems
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My Super Power
On few occasions I felt
and met my Super Power
showing sixth sense to activate.
Strong will power of super quality
flashed as miracles on my favor,
but did not maintain regularity.
I hold some Super Power, but just to find
how to use at random not rare.
It is hidden in my subconscious mind.
I can smell my sixth sense apparent
and strong will power clean and clear,
but fail to put right key at right moment.
Super Power seems to sleep in my soul.
I am not always aware.
It wakes up on its own to play its role
Rhyme scheme aba cbc dbd ebe fbf
06/13/16
My Super Power Is Poetry Contest
Sponsor Lewis Revans
Pleasure and exposure, closure
All of you steams and then boils over
All of you gleams and beckons closer
Raised well, all “yes, sir” “no, sir”
Naked edges, hollow scratches,
Bear witness as your world collapses
Get wild, dip me into the ashes,
Share your ambitions and your passions
Wild west, child now, child then
Insults are your ignorance, lucky guesses — your sixth sense
Horse kicks out, is it reflex or self-defense?
He doesn’t speak, so why don’t you just ask again
Generations came, shame evolved the same,
Open wide, tongue twists into a molten ruby flame
Get wild, Honey, call me by your name
Find newer ways to stake your claim
Three bullet wounds, like full blood moons,
Gunpowder smell across sand dunes,
You loved my singing and my tunes,
You made me think that love was good
Dances, made up through our glances
Slick back our hair, as tough as gangsters
Get wild, write a couple stanzas,
Running won’t get your questions answered
A Flood of Tears
When tears glue eyed lids’ tar to balls of fire
and tear apart a soothing balm called resolution
as tar defeats the lysosomes of ragged vision
a third eye calls for sixth sense in a sickened time
a cry for a cry decries a festering splinter inside out
When shackled chakra invites distorted sounds
sticks on that loopy tone and tune in endless loops
as hearing plasters mucilage in mutilation’s muteness
a third ear of quietude invites a healing frequency
a voice reprimands cacophony and beats the drums
When smell exudes a sewer’s skewer
taste falls foul on buds and buts again
touch lost its grip on grapple’s clench
and rotting leaves leave decomposed what’s left behind
one message remains to battle out the wreckage
There is no phoenix no panacea no external healing
no clever plot to complete the warring conqueror’s return
let alone no algorithm or conceited panoply of ease
but only you can change the things you try and can
and everything starts with longing length for suffering to cease
I was made the hero of my own story.
So yes I sit in my glory.
I wait for more to come.
I know that this growth is not done but it’s on its way beating like a drum.
I sit back and look at the sun.
I find balance between the sun and the moon.
I find peace in the life I will one day have to leave.
So I roll up my sleeves.
I sit and wonder if life will always be this hard
So I let my puppy out to play in the yard.
Sometimes the little things help me realize life is a stepping stone.
Sometimes a back lash sometimes it makes me wish for a clone.
Just to have time.
Just to have time to work a little harder.
Live a little more.
To see the trees and leaves and not feel so much pressure to the point it feels like I can’t breathe.
To sit back and relax to finally just be me.
I know that I am growing I can feel it it’s like a sixth sense.
So I keep on going looking at the sun and the moon.
Moving between the trees and the leaves and feeling the water just to find the balance like the tress, leaves, moon, sun, a running woman that needs a drink but keeps going on. I find balance in the things that are hard. I find balance like the man on a tightrope surely to fall but I won't and I don't.
I just keep moving on.
Try to open your third eye
Sharp your sixth sense
You can clearly see
This earth is still passing through ice-age.
People would say
This summer was the hottest ever!
If you’d inquire, you must see
The sun is now heatless
Not able to melt the deposited ice
Of this helpless earth.
Who knows when these fossils would get back
Their lives, how ?
Who knows, after stepping up how many stairs
Life would take the shape of human ?
Who can predict the exact moment
When this civilization would reach
At the zenith position of the square
In the lightless sky
When would this indolent sun
Burn the impurities of million hearts ?
Oh! The belated winter is unbearable
Fear in my body
Impotence in my flesh
I’m collecting my bones
To set fire and burn my soul.
One day ashes of my body would be deposited
Under the igneous rock
To irrupt as a Volcano.
Written: June 24, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
Quote: "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to
man as it is, infinite." By William Blake
"Note: If we define perception to include transcendence, intuition, and the process of abstract meaning, we ultimately consider Spirit as the human sixth sense"
******************
Sight
The sky soars over sycamores above—
Amber light oozes over foliage & cove
A web of shadows weaves in stone.
The leaden hand of dusk settles in hush.
Eyes drink the amber evening's glow—
Remember, sight traces the soul's flow.
Sound
A sighing symphony thrums in the grass,
And birds croon their nightime requiem—
Wind dissolves to a sighing minstrel's song,
The river's pulse falls, soars, and swells—
With every ripple, a true voice tells—
Remember, pitch lets us feel—loudness dwells.
Smell
Café hallway emits the scent of roasted beans.
Velvet bitterness, and draft of warm balm.
A panacea for weary spirits.
Bearing salt sobs from ocean's eternal call.
Scents rouse the soul from dormant sleep—
Remember, scent rouses souvenirs from ash.
Touch
Wooden tables rough with mercurial grain,
Stone stairs under roving hand—lost in touch,
Wind, a feathered touch soft as a bird's wing,
Pressing, melting, morphing against skin.
Clearer than words, touch conveys fact—
Remember, touch and grace nurture men's mood
Taste
Cappuccino foam, pure alabaster gleam,
An astringent elixir dissolves into sweetness.
Rhythmic throb of each tongue's caress
A perpetual delight, a lament for oblivion.
Each sip recalls summer's golden light—
Remember, taste maps food and drains.
Spirit
All senses join in a nexus of now.
Knitted with time, bursting with life's vow.
No lack here, no abyss, no plough—
Spirit fulfills yin and yang—limitless sky.
Only abundance of presence here,
The ardor of being, the breathing flame—
Remember that soul transcends name.
Super Turkey with his super gobbling vision and walking sticks,
Asked how he could help fix the crumbling skyscrapers in apocalypse
Good right now, the armed soldier said, attempting to send him away
He found some children who needed cheering, and he made their day.
Gave autographs, and he strutted down the runway making them laugh.
He’s almost as fun as our pals Super Elephant and Magical Giraffe!
Where will you live? He asked their parents, being concerned.
There is a village in the hills, where firewood is warmth, as it is burned.
Walked them through streets of rubble, careful not to step on glass.
Shards were everywhere, each burned out doorway that they passed.
How did you find us? Grandma Jo asked as he offered her a ride.
Her frail looking husband held on to his feathers, walking by her side.
I knew something had happened, Super Turkey told them with a bow.
I have, a sixth sense; something that works, yet I do not know how.
Piled quilts and pillows on Grandma Jo’s ample lap; she held tight.
Walked them to their destiny, then flew to Mars to help others that night.
Super Turkey, how can we ever thank you? They asked with love.
Just look at the stars and honor them; they are always up above.
He was humble and sincere, and made them feel better for sure.
For Super Turkey had an empathetic heart that was amazing and pure.
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?
Dreams of Halloween
Like a shadow moving in the darkness…
It is something seldom seen.
A total act of malevolence,
as monsters haunt your dreams…
As the sun goes down
before tonight’s full Moon.
A low rolling fog spread
feelings of foreboding and doom.
Ghouls and Goblins step out of the gloom,
Looking to frighten little children in costume.
Evil spirits celebrate their tormented dreams.
Of what can only be.
Halloween!! All hallows eve!!
From nightmare to nightmare
and things that go bump in the night.
You have an uneasy feeling
like somethings just not right.
Looking around you stop to check.
Feeling the hairs stand up on the back you neck.
A cold chill from your sixth sense gives you a freight.
As you fall victim to a Vampires bite.
People hear your blood curdling screams!
As you desperately try to run
from this tormented dream.
Tripping over a rotted corps
You fall into an empty grave.
As you struggle to get out,
You become the sandman’s slave.
Count Dracula summons you,
Because once upon a time.
You were brave.
From nightmare to nightmare
now night of the living dead.
You’re one of the Zombies
waiting in the darkness
to crack open somebody’s head.
As you step from the shadows
grabbing victims right off the street.
Eating their blood dripping brains
makes feel complete.
A feeling you’ve known all too well,
as Witches cast their powerful spell.
Like a shadow moving in the darkness.
It is something seldom seen.
A total act of malevolence,
as monsters haunt your dreams.
This, Will never be complete,
unless innocent little children wearing costumes,
Go door to door yelling. Trick!! or treat!!
Bonnie Parker was obsessed with fame.
She finally got it in the end, when her body was shown to the public.
Riddled with bullets.
I doubt that is what she was hoping for.
Clyde Barrow had kept them out of trouble for years
Thanks to his keen sixth sense, of where to go, and when to go.
His body was right there alongside the love of his life.
I imagine he had no idea his body would be displayed like that.
They were public enemies one and two for a while.
Their crime scenes were stair steps to each other.
Increasingly dangerous robberies occurred, as their confidence grew.
The public was totally infatuated with the robber lovers.
Perhaps this is why the G-men displayed their bodies for all to see.
Hoping to dissuade the next potential Bonnie and Clyde.
To this day there are books and movies written about them.
The public has a pathological fascination for this kind of thing.
No idea why.