Long Surfing Poems
Long Surfing Poems. Below are the most popular long Surfing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surfing poems by poem length and keyword.
the image was distorted
because the canvas was contorted
and so to set things right
we entered staid silence, becoming the light
now with the vast void, having become our home
from a centreless fulcrum, resounded gong of Om
the that cosmic vibration, all pervading
an ocean of life, in which all souls are wading
subtler, gentler over time the sound became
ego vaporised, leaving no desires to tame
rapturous bliss cascaded in mind-body urn
wherein our soul presence chose to willingly burn
surfing the bardo, on choosing to let go
we imbibed direct wisdom, very few on earth know
and as music of the spheres plays by itself
flame of Christ consciousness glows as light of Self
My eyes cry for
fuschia glimmer on
indigo waves again,
but all I see are
haunting hues
of black sequin
glittered epitaphs;
reflections of hollow
clouds enveloping cold air;
building tension
within my heavy heart.
I am surfing alone,
watching the life
of iron-grey cotton bows
swerve in
cashmere cadence,
whilst wiping away
smudged remnants
of shallow tears,
wishing that I could
obscure pain
with poetic phrases,
inked in cyan liquid,
as I weave charismatic
colors of sunrise,
perfumed with
redolence of roses,
to feel the heat,
as poetry spills
potions of sagacious
thoughts onto the saline
canvas of stolen
sapphire dreams.
But there in the
labyrinth of
an ice-green lagoon,
I’ve built a castle
beneath pellucid
salt waters,
a warm home where
every mysterious
metaphor written
for the honey-winged moon
turns into
crystal clear rhymes,
sewn from a blistering
poem of the ocean,
resting within a
glistening glass bottle,
awaiting to be
read and spoken.
So, today I’ll swim through
aesthetic torrents of torment,
Listen to the rhythmic
tunes of raging tides
within trembling silence,
as elements of truth
eventually resurface
from the depths
of turquoise topaz,
to set on the
porcelain horizon
where shorelines
shimmer from mulberry
shells and tantalizing
tulips twirling
beneath twinkling twilight,
for faith resides in the
arms of starry skies.
Someday, you’ll see past
the crimson curtain
of faux carnations
that clipped these
paper wings into
shapes of broken lines.
In "Braiding Sweetgrass"
Robin Wall Kimmerer
favorably contrasts Skywoman's creation story
with Eve's less abundant vocation.
In our shared Right hemisphere,
Skywoman "created a garden
for the wellbeing of all."
While in and out of the more extractive Left hemisphere,
Eve was banished from her forest garden
"and the gates clanged shut behind her."
To live as fully as possible,
Eve must subdue the wildness
"into which she was cast."
Meanwhile,
Skywoman remains an active matriarchal agent
of this casting and forecasting
wildness.
This feels fine to me as it is.
Yet I can also recognize Skywoman
as RightBrain Dawn
migrating through these four languaged millennia
to re-emerge this Eve of Earth's climate pathologies
re-approaching reweaving gates bilaterally opening
with no more need for violent slamming shut
gates designed for polypathic bilateral nudging,
Dawn through Eve,
forward through back again,
surfing Left to Right
nondual co-arising.
In my version
of this Skywoman Dawn meets Eve,
Dawn says to Eve
"Sister, you got the short end of the stick..."
while Eve hears and dreams therapeutic response,
resonant resolutions
to lead with longer and deeper
and wider more inclusive nutritious carrots
this seasoning of Earth's dualdark bicameral health
re-emerging
revolving
revolutioning
braiding dawn then eve
toward dawn's DNA again.
Oceans in the skies;
Intangible spiritual realm;
Separated from physical;
Waters dew flow objectives;
Waters?
Oceans in the skies;
I who am a dreamer;
A space marathon;
Awakening not a dreamer;
Instilled resonates His presence-- God;
Flows I am Kingdom Life and light;
Heaven's space;
-walking, swimming, renewed through His grace;
Renewed bright;
Oceans in the skies;
Fallopian tube from heavens space;
Elohim's grace, surfaced;
To earthen vessel seed to egg, spiritual birthing;
Swimming still, glowing in the womb surfing;
Oceans in the skies;
Many levels;
of Heaven's
Streams lakes, rivers, oceans;
Oceans in the skies;
I'm spiritually high searching;
Oceans in the skies;
A profound and imaginative;
-- poetic expression conservative;
Oceans in the skies;
My muse is a poetic flower garden,
blooming lilacs in barren meadows,
but I still remember
how I heeded haunting heartbeats
in paradise, whilst praying
for your lustrous light,
to descend onto my hazy horizons.
Your eyes like captivating sunsets,
made me dream away,
recalling shells lost in a forgotten
coral reef, castaway upon
an elusive island,
where the paths have no name,
but the oceanic breeze
calls yours so softly.
I was killing time,
scribbling elegies
on distant musical shores,
where spotted eagle rays
and flying fish were my only mentors.
Nocturnal reef sharks unfolded tales
beneath lonesome skies,
illustrating a secretive stairway
that would lead me
to the scintillating stars.
Deep within my heart,
I knew in the darkest
night you are the light
that would illuminate
my breathless sighs
with blazing ballads
rewriting my fate,
reawakening my
need to thrive through these
endless melancholic monsoons;
surfing through vast oceans.
Your cosmic radiance pulled
this chocolate mermaid,
from the bioluminescent
ripples of sorrow,
empathising with
endless streams from
my volcanic mind
and harmonious heart,
which was in dire
need of healing,
from draconian depleted
ideologies imprinted within
a labyrinth of
narcissistic daffodils,
emanating deceptive fragrances
resembling the devil's disciple,
claiming me as nothing,
but a mere self
confessed queen
on a conquest to conquer
the uncontrollable calling
to a land of virtual hypocrisy.
If only they knew
I no longer desired
to rule a kingdom of
tumultuous pretense.
I was waiting for the
return of the butterflies,
tearing apart the fragile
walls of its cocoon.
I knew if Romeo did not die,
I would be living Juliet's desires.
I was a poetess
searching for
a purpose, with no sense
to shelter, watching the
last icicle
of winter melt away.
Truth deserves a narrative
that has no ending,
though I question the universe.
Where do the
lost poets reside?
Is it where the
moon chooses to hide,
disguising dreariness
within dazzling blankets
of dancing moonscapes,
or will this be how
this sleepless soul
seizes its faultless lunar tide?
Communication
unveils nutrition's multi-media events.
Nutritional flow power
fuels health's wealthiest messages.
Nonviolently compassionate nature/spirit communication
nurtures nutrition's most robust
multicultural
win/win medium.
Our nurturing neural systems inside
are more like a mature deeply resilient forest
outside
than a desert
or tundra
or ocean
Although older parts of our lower brain network
may effluently
co-empathically feel more water-based,
sometimes a placid lake,
often a wildly surfing and surging ocean,
occasionally a productive beautiful flowing brook,
a tidal stream, up and down and up again,
a mighty river of power
rooted in interdependent rivulets
emerging integrity downstream
toward flooding compassionately communicating mouths
Open to communion with oceans
of new/old information
exflowation
breathing in forests
exhaling seas
and tsunami seasons
of win/win fluid energy.
Pitching electioneering, albeit Democratic ticket...
as 2020 presidential election nearing
pleading joshing, and endearing...
The choice for commander in chief dum...
dum... dum... dum..
will winnow down, thus
political prognosticator pundits
no longer remain mum
between Donald John Trump,
whose second term win,
would find yours truly numb
versus Joseph Robinette Biden Junior
could infuse flickering
uneasiness among electorate
(quite a few skool
of hard knocks alum
including yours truly),
who attests surfing cyber seas
as seasoned beach bum
up until this moment
feeling rather glum
regarding fate of American democracy
fizzling, muckraking, and sputtering
linkedin with kickstarting,
snapchatting, and twittering
along ever so ho hum
awaiting fateful deliverance
as dueling banjos strum
meanwhile irritable bowel syndrome
nsync with nausea
bubbling, gurgling, quickening
within collective tum
no doubt alleviated chugging,
guzzling, and quaffing
countless bottles Bacardi rum.
Nothing less at stake than (an ill eagle
feebly clutching cherished symbols - regal
representing land of the free and
home of the brave
analogous to once buoyant seagull
encompassing United States)
metaphorical snooping Beagle
only finding peanuts after landing
discovery (of America) triggering extralegal
imbroglios, which courtesy...
Thank manifest destiny
wrought accursed land grab,
where survival of fittest (think militarily)
nonchalantly, insouciantly actually
quite aggressively did nab
great juicy fruited plain continental slab
...to the mountains to the prairies
to the oceans white with foam...
where indigenous people
once stood tall and proud
applying contrived accoutrements,
which implements rendered mortally to stab
invaders, hence convenient plug to jibjab,
(while sack religious lame chap
donning unisexual hijab)
whale within poetic license
to orca straight heady
i.e. think lame muck cab
bra (even garnering groan from
ghost of captain Ahab)
denouncing cheesy pun,
whereby I (Stuart Little) best remain
as caged mouse
subjected to experimentation
within bore writ Tory lab.
As we be breathed
Surfing the divide between heart and mind
We celebrate the dance of illusion
Having vaporised, free from ego’s bind
Holy Spirit dispels soul’s confusion
Duality manifests through space-time
The universe appears and disappears
We cognise in heart, the cosmic Ohm chime
As benign bliss beats, each node of form spears
What are we but a splash in the ocean
Moment to moment, being by God breathed
Partaking of the divine bliss potion
Delighting as light of soul is retrieved
Playing our life role, in as is ordained ~
We burn in the void, that cannot be stained
04-July-2022
1. there's a time for bacon
and a time for eggs
I didn't know the Pope
shaves his legs
2. there's a time for hippies
and a time for cops
did you know Nazis
are eating our crops?
3. there's a time for day
and a time for night
eat a double bacon cheeseburger
dropped from a great height
4. there's a time for this
and a time for that
I didn't know surfing
would make me fat
5. there's a time for sickness
and a time for health
getting likes on Facebook
increases my wealth
6. there's a time for life
and a time for death
just so long as we
eliminate bad breath
7. there's a time for moon
and a time for sun
I drink Donald Duck orange juice
when the day is done
I journeyed deep along mountain paths
contemplating life’s complexities
by chance, a wondrous meadow did pass
its perfume afloat a gentle breeze
Widely I gazed yet could see no end
of brown faces crowned with yellow reign
wildflowers surfing the summer’s wind
gently swaying upon nature’s strain
With poet’s hand I devoured the scene
words to their song I did try to lend
as I watched them dance upon the green
my saddened heart rose and I did mend
Sad, I could not capture the repose
with my failing words I moved along
my tablet filled with half-written prose
and pen’s want to write yet unheard songs