Long Stream of consciousness Poems
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A cousin named Chaos have I (he’s not actually my cousin. He’s like my aunt’s stepson, but I guess I can still call him a cousin, right?)
There’s nothing that he will not try (like the day he let all the chickens loose from the coop and they were running like chickens with their heads cut off. Isn’t that an expression or something? Chaos is crazy like those chickens were)
Since he follows no rule (He laughs at me because I try to write perfectly metered limericks and he thinks everyone should just write free and BE free in all they do.)
He got kicked out of school (it was so funny. He set off the fire alarm and all the kids were running every which way, much like those chickens he let loose in his barnyard. Now he is saying he wants to become an anarchist.)
So to anarchy school he’ll apply!
Gosh, he’s right. This limerick sucks. It’s much more fun having no restrictions, just letting my thoughts go anywhere I want them to take me, kind of like stream of consciousness writing or something. Too bad I can’t be all surreal-like, then I might make it into the newfangled modern poetry magazines. Most people don’t even consider limericks to be real poems. DANG it, I feel another one coming on.
Cousin Chaos, I now do hear tell
That you’ve found a new school, so learn well
Your anarchy ways.
In limerick phase
I’ll be stuck while you give people hell.
Crap. Even trying to write like Chaos, I just can’t do it. I just keep conforming to rules of poetry forms like limerick. I just know my cousin will be laughing his chicken head off when he reads this. Yeah, the old chicken motif again. Always relating things together. So much for Chaos! I’m outta here.
Written chaotically last week sometime for contest of same name
My love would sometimes wander, and my thoughts would roam freely,
far from the one who held them close and gave my love a home.
But I was young and restless, and my heart longed for games,
never thinking of the one I might hurt when my love strayed.
It's said that those who play with fire will sometimes get burned,
and though the lessons were often harsh, in the end, they were learned.
For I know my heart belongs here, with the one whose love is true,
and if my thoughts were to wander again, they'd always return to you.
Just as the wind finds its way back to the sea,
so too does my love, weary from wandering, find its way to you,
understanding that true peace is found only in your arms,
where the fire doesn't burn but warms, where the soul finds rest.
And in this stream of consciousness of the heart,
I realize that sometimes it takes loss to recognize value,
for the shadows of doubt are dispelled by the light of your constant love,
and wherever my thoughts may wander, they will return, like birds to home.
For my love, which sometimes strayed, has learned to stay,
in the warmth you offer, in the peace only you can provide,
and if I ever forget, my heart will remind,
that its place is right here, with you.
sunlit hues are kaleidoscopic kisses
terrestrial impressions
testing the waterfall’s eminence,
of impetus, of its continuous flow
unbroken by striving survival,
unfiltered obstruction
flowing along its perilous path
thoughts, feelings, & reactions
meandering, sipping Adam’s ale
moods unbridle as they manifest,
ellipses elapse, evaporate
lapping reckoning runestones,
monuments reciting otherworldly
phonetic pebbles babble
of antediluvian intuition
these stones summer bleached
warn satin smooth
at half-light, titanium white glows,
there, as dusky jewels
natural caressed water wooshes
v e
r i
s i
m i
l a r
rustling the leaves—insomniacs,
lift the cyclical immersive mind
rushing, whittling a way
recanting,
chanting murmurs that calm my soul
In the silence of the night, when cities sleep under the veil of illusion,
People tread the paths of lies with heavy steps,
Embracing the shadows of the day that have slipped onto the pavements,
A theater of the absurd, where everyone is both actor and spectator,
Reflecting in the empty shop windows of an alienated existence.
They look to the sky, but the sky is merely a leaden curtain,
And the stars are extinguished, like dreams lost at dawn.
People wear their masks like suspended souls,
Tied with invisible strings to a system that dances,
To a deaf music, echoing like a memory's whisper.
But deep in every soul smolders a fire,
A desire for truth, to break the invisible chains,
To face the mirror that shows only distorted reflections,
A silent protest of hearts that still believe in light,
Though they are shrouded in the fog of a long-lost reality.
This is the involuntary plan of a fallen humanity,
A map of personal failure, stretched across the horizon,
Where each step is another road to the same destiny,
Yet even in the fall, there is a melancholic beauty,
A swan song of hope that will never die.
In this stream of consciousness, a silent magic is born,
A dance of words whispering freedom,
For in the depths of the soul, truth still breathes,
Waiting to be discovered, to be embraced,
In a world that will be reborn from its own ashes.
In the depths of the night, where thoughts float like autumn leaves,
I realize that my most intimate thoughts and emotions do not truly belong to me.
We think in languages and images we did not invent,
Received from society, a gift wrapped in shadows and light.
The word "person" comes from the Latin "persona," the mask worn by actors,
Through which the sound would resonate, the role we play in the grand play of life.
Thus, the person is the mask, the role I interpret,
And friends, relatives, and teachers are busy telling me who I am and what my life's purpose is.
In the stream of consciousness, I wonder who I truly am,
Am I merely the echo of what I have been told?
Or is there an essence, hidden beneath layers of masks,
A soul crying out to be discovered, to be free?
In this world of mirrors, where each reflects the expectations of others,
I strive to find my own light, my own sound,
But often I lose myself in the labyrinth of imposed roles,
Trying to dance to a melody that is not mine.
Oh, how we get lost in these predefined roles,
Forgetting that we are more than the masks we wear,
Deep within us, where silence meets truth,
There is a light, a flame that burns with a gentle intensity.
In the silent garden of personal growth, I take off my mask,
And let the wind caress my true face,
There, in the cool of the evening, I find sweet fruits of wisdom,
Enough to nourish me and to share with others.
In this garden, my soul finds solace,
Every thought a flower, every emotion a ripe fruit,
I learn to live beyond imposed roles and masks,
And to embrace the magic of my authentic existence.
So let those who wish to define me follow their own path,
I will remain in my garden, where thoughts are free,
Where the heart beats strong and true,
In the stream of consciousness, I find peace and truth,
And in sharing my sweet fruits, I find connection and my humanity.
One morning when the sky was just waking,
she passed by me like a gentle breeze,
it seemed the earth spun only for her,
and I stood still, my gaze glued to her steps,
her scent, oh, that scent wrapping around me like an enchanted mist,
leaving behind a trail of unstarted and unknown memories.
Her scent had the aroma of dawn,
light dancing on the sky's edge, promising a new beginning,
a ray of sunshine playing among the awakened leaves,
it smelled of rain that came unexpectedly,
the sky torn between clouds and sun, Mother Nature spilling diamonds,
each drop becoming a fleeting star.
She smelled like home, not a home bought,
but one built from stories and laughter,
memories stuck to the walls like old wallpaper,
hiding the secrets of a life lived intensely,
haunted by the ghost of who I was,
the shadow of a forgotten dream that still whispers.
And I think of how her scent envelops me,
transforming me into a river of thoughts,
seeking a shore to cling to,
no stone solid enough, no anchor strong enough,
I remain captured in this stream of consciousness,
caught between reality and illusion, between who I was and who I am now.
On a velvet night, when man enters woman,
like a wave kissing the shore with repeated desire,
and the woman opens her mouth like a flower revealing its petals at dawn,
her teeth shine like stars that form the alphabet of the sky,
and the Logos, like an alchemist of dreams, milks a star of cosmic milk,
while the man, deep within the woman, ties a knot of infinity,
promising that they will never be two separate destinies again,
and the woman transforms into a flower swallowing light,
for the Logos, like a sculptor of destiny, unleashes their inner rivers.
These two, with their hunger for boundlessness,
seek to penetrate the mystery hidden behind the divine curtain,
and for a fleeting moment, they touch the edge of eternity,
but God, in His enigmatic and vast play,
unties their knot, to let love flow again, free.
Like a torrent of thoughts rolling through the universe,
the stream of consciousness carries us on the wings of unfulfilled desires,
where the sky merges with the earth in an eternal embrace,
and every touch becomes a verse of an unwritten poem,
where their kiss is a portal to unseen worlds,
and their love a silent symphony that fills the void with harmony,
where their souls dance on the edge of time,
blending into a cosmic embrace that defies the ephemeral,
until the invisible hands of fate separate them like a dissipated cloud,
in the endless ocean of memory and forgetfulness,
where love, like a hidden river, continues to flow beneath eternal skies.
A nascent hodgepodge
of gobbledygook from me,
or alternatively yours
nada soo true lee,
this incipient harm
less bumbling in das scribe
hubble wordy monster prithee
lee, nonchalantly, and lovingly
enjoys generating inscrutable mish
mash vocabulary,
which vapid unsolicited
largesse - from this dip see
dude dill ling, jabbering, dee
pull hoar rubble casket base,
and quacking rub bush pre
mere ring this harried
styled and swiftly tail
lord gibberish - dee
lib writ lee doth
write play full lee
to maximize obfuscation, dee
fie interpretation, and que
zook lee (quizzically)
silently ha...ha...ha
dis Matt chew wing,
chuckling, unremarkably
lamb baa sting king, she
push lee, dauntingly we
sill lee (weaselly) undermining
comprehension, whar ye
dear reader feel trapped
without a turn key
continually sliding into this
old rotten Goth theme be
have (behave) Ural
sink - as aye blithe lee
undoubtedly matter hoof
act corroborate with (be
leave me you) this
"FAKE" sniveling dee
mean nor (demeanor), the least
bit concerned if ye
unfairly find mine cumber
some harried style i.e.
spooner than later
lore or mess free
dissociation, viz parched
stream of consciousness me
thinks meandering into
an oxbow lake hee
ping (by Dickens) yar rye
ha (Uriah), where yar
tried patience probably
didst syrup pass smoldering rage
against this may pull leaf tree
cooly le (treacly)
slap dash helter
skelter brash poppycock
bereft, devoid, and fee
bully, sans ex tolling extra help
pings of gibberish glee
fully - totally tubularly
gloating how thee
moost experience
utter frustration re:
garding figuratively wading,
thru thicket of faux pre
tent shuss verbiage
omitting even so mooch
as a fore warning from
this one percent nee
and dare dearth hull
(Neanderthal) - as re:
veiled from genetic test
23andme, an
endeavor taken by me
eldest sister, - whose
first name iz a male lee,
Harris - hyphenated with Mug gee
Hen (McGeehan).
In the twilight of thoughts, where shadows weave their secrets in silence,
I am a reflection of the monster you are, I know you fear me.
You hate what you see, you say you would never want to be near me.
You run, your lungs collapse, your chest heaves, and your brain shuts down all thoughts and senses.
Your blood freezes and the metallic taste sinks deep into your mouth and just when—
Just in that moment, when you think I no longer exist;
In every corner of every path you take, I exist,
In every step you take (away from me) I exist.
Then a wave of pity disturbs me,
I release you from my grasp for a brief moment and you sigh with relief.
You, freed madman,
Remember that where my hands cannot reach, my shadow sneaks in.
In the remnants of your tortured memories, I exist, in the eyes of your new lover, I exist.
And when you think you are finally free of me, turn around,
For in the darkness of your room, I exist.
In the stream of consciousness, I lose myself in your depths,
A monster reflected in every thought, in every unspoken fear,
I am the shadow lurking behind every corner, in every dark dream,
A labyrinth of memories and sufferings, an echo of your past.
Run as far as you can, but I will be there,
In the whispers of the wind, in the shadows of the night,
In every moment of silence, in every sigh,
I am there, existing in the depths of your mind,
A specter that cannot be ignored, a ghost of what you once were.
In every forced smile, in every hidden tear,
I exist, an invisible but felt presence,
A constant reminder of your struggle,
A demon of your own creation.
And when the light goes out and you are left alone,
In the darkness of your room, I am there,
Existing in every shadow, in every corner,
A specter that will never leave you,
For in your depths, I exist.
In a world of shadows and echoes, intellect drains away like a dry river,
Where words are numbers and thoughts are soulless algorithms,
We lose ourselves like stars at dawn, consumed by artificial light,
And in every silent dream, another thinker withers, forgotten by time.
Like the heroes of silent cinema, who shouted their stories
In a language without words, only lost glances and gestures,
So too do dreamers disappear, in the technological noise,
Where silence becomes a memory and memory an enigma.
In the tragedy of modern man, it is not the lack of understanding that pains,
But the indifference that grows like a shadow, coiling around the heart,
For it no longer hurts us not to know, not to feel, not to seek,
We embrace our own loss, like a cloak of forgetfulness.
How are we, those who step towards the edge of destiny,
Without hearing the call, without feeling the longing that defined us?
Will we be the ones who no longer ask, no longer seek,
Those who look towards the horizon with empty eyes, without seeing the light?
In the stream of consciousness, we search for our spirit, but find it fragmented,
In a world where the beauty of words is lost in nonsense,
And the soul yearns for a forgotten truth,
A truth that slips through our fingers, like the sands of time.