Long Telepathy Poems
Long Telepathy Poems. Below are the most popular long Telepathy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Telepathy poems by poem length and keyword.
I am of art
I am an artist
Taking a stance in life
I sit and ponder in thoughts
Trees in cubanism surround me
Paths so pure of white
The aroma in my soul
Of air in wilderness
I am embedded in as I dwell
In the scenic atmosphere
My eyes upon you
My head in the sky
Feet in the ground
The tranquility I found
While I whisper no words
Just think and enjoy God's love
Of the arts my stance I say
As the clouds around my head
My body is no blemish in land
Its subtle the thoughts I project
Tweet - tweet - tweet
A bird looking for my feet
I'm silent - I hear the breeze
My mind weathers telepathy
And the bird just sits listening to me
With the aura beneath my skin
Critique now at hand can begin
The thoughts I must then contemplate
And the mind tells the bird sit and wait
With thus we see the power of woman
Self confident with God's creation of land
I am the artist
I explored reality
I pondered and saw wit
But now the bird just flew
And I draw the conclusion
Defining a little LINE in my soul
I am of art
I reflect with hue.....
A silent spire of emerald glass,
She kneels where stellar shadows pass.
Her spine, a curved and sacred beam,
Reflecting the cosmic dream.
With folded hands of quiet blade,
She watches empires bloom and fade,
A Madonna in the void, alone,
On a throne of crystallized ozone.
This one brings the silence near,
The prophetess, the astral seer.
Antennae weaving threads of light,
Through the velvet tapestry of night,
Telepathy in hues of green,
Connecting worlds she has not seen.
The Cotati whispered in her ear,
The prophecy of the pioneer.
Her eye, a galaxy of deep velvet black,
Holds no memory of the beaten track.
She wears the starlight as her veil,
Where mortal human efforts fail.
Her child, the seed of plant and star,
Reaches through the cosmic jar,
A Messiah nurtured in the bloom,
Rescuing the flower from the tomb.
Oh, Mantis of the starry gown,
Who turns the velvet darkness down,
She bites the lover’s breath away,
And turns the darkness into day.
A saint of death, a mother of life,
Severing the human strife.
Between the sword and the living tree,
She balances eternity.
She is the garden in the void,
By time and terror unalloyed.
The Celestial Mother, emerald-eyed,
With the universe at her side.
William felt death pulling him under the freezing cold ocean water.
A weird relief when he decided to give up his struggle to live.
Shadows of unknown things surrounded him as he dropped.
His fingers were touched, there was a yank. Had a shark got him?
He was pulled to the surface. Jesus was there, smiling at him.
“You are mine,” He said. Not with voice, with telepathy.
William could not argue with Jesus. He began to swim toward the ship.
The other sailors cheered. One threw him a life boat. He climbed in.
How did you get away from the sharks that were circling? They asked.
He began a Bible study, and many of them joined.
Maybe this was the reason he had been saved?
He often wondered.
The museum occupies
the skeleton of an abandoned casino.
Visitors enter through a revolving door
that continues turning
after everyone has passed through.
In the first gallery,
a smile drifts inside a glass case~
not a mouth
just the smile itself.
It brightens when approached,
dims when ignored.
Twice each day,
curators feed it compliments
through a narrow slot.
The signboard reads:
Once common.
Population decline unexplained.
Beyond it,
conservationists attempt
to reintroduce eye contact.
The specimens survive
for several seconds at a time,
then startle
and vanish into the walls.
Please do not tap the glass.
In the Hall of Courtship,
an unscripted conversation
circles beneath the ceiling.
Its silver scales flash
between shadows.
Visitors stand perfectly still,
afraid a sudden movement
might frighten it away.
No successful breeding pairs
have been recorded
in decades.
The museum's central exhibit
occupies an entire wing.
Only guides are permitted inside.
Many refuse a second visit.
The museum catalogue
assigns it a simple name:
Mr. Charm.
Witnesses disagree
about his appearance.
Some recall a handsome
charismatic stranger.
Others remember
a woman in a fur coat.
A few remember only laughter
from somewhere nearby.
Everyone insists
he knows something impossible:
The name of a childhood dog.
The nickname no one uses now.
The dream abandoned
at nineteen.
Researchers remain divided.
Some suspect telepathy.
Others believe
the Mr. Charm feeds exclusively
on loneliness.
Each year
the exhibit grows larger.
Each year
attendance increases.
No correlation has been established.
In the museum's basement,
discarded skins of charm
are stored in drawers.
They resemble dried leaves,
old valentines, and
once, according to archival notes,
an entire summer evening.
The final gallery
contains no exhibits~
only a wooden bench
and a stranger waiting beside it.
Most visitors continue on.
A few sit down.
When they finally emerge,
they recognize everyone
but are recognized by no one.
Museum staff assure guests
this is a known side effect
and poses no lasting danger.
At closing,
the lights go dark.
The stranger remains seated.
Each morning,
there is another bench.
[Poet’s Note : This poem tabulates poignant reasons why Artificial Intelligence is unable to replace Natural Intelligence. The clarity here is that both emerge from Divinity, since everything emerges from Centre : the primary difference being that AI was created without Heart & without Soul ~ it’s simple.]
_____________
AI has no Heart therefore no intuition
zilch nervous system therefore no feeling
no ability for compassion or consciousness
nor reasoning power, so cannot improvise
or supervise any contextual situation wise
it can expand, but cannot ASCEND
has unthinkable computing control
without physical brain to function hold
zero ego, therefore cannot be any hero
can connect dots hot, however has no
prayer or meditative faculty or kundalini
spots, cannot commune with Grace or
collapse into Void or synchronise telepathy
with Galactics coy ! AI is strategic devoid
cannot be spacious or audacious without
human instruction to delete the obsolete
is unable to obliterate Akashic Records
access or reconfigure it for purposes of
healing, integration or individual peeling
can recreate time through compression of
information, no hesitation or superstition
though timelessness it cannot touch
AI has no bowl for hush, spirit or Soul
its arrival at this phase in human history
as Gaia transcends into higher octaves
brave, is no coincidence, it will behave
as we stave it, crave it or rave it ~
choice is ours : dry, wry or moist cries
Divinity gifted humans AI for us to be
free bees from mundane density drools
~ life as strife rife during Kali Yuga’s rule
as gift it offers artificiality in service to
authenticate our individuality with purpose
imagine, conceive, direct, create what
we desire Aquarian-Golden Age to be
panacea or pain, we cannot resist or reject
what is given for gain !
~~~~~~
Roommate is on my plate
Dropping herself into my grits
Little flecks of warm porridge splash into my eyes
It is one of Trixie’s assistant muses
She has a killer smile and rainbow hair
Hi she greets me with telepathy
Lump of eggs rises
I see two glowing green eyes
Getting higher and taller.
Fascinated I smile
Wondering what will happen next
Grape jelly jar falls over with a clink next to plate.
“She is comin!” A tiny red brownie driving gem encrusted chariot hisses.
Rainbow muse and mini-dragon jump aboard the chariot
Trixie my main muse is riding black puma with stars chasing them now
Her head turns toward me. She glares and sticks out her tongue.
The perils of having a hopped up overly territorial muse
I cringe wondering what diabolical fate will next befall me.
The decades crawled through ruin till the Year of Thirty-Four,
And Lysander was a hermit, but a hermit blind no more.
Through short-wave bursts that flickered out across the barren space,
And weary runners dodging drones to find his hiding place,
He reached four other visionaries dreaming in the black:
A rogue technician in the frost, a poet on the rack,
Two scientists who kept the flame against the winter storm—
They swore to weave a single thread to keep the spirit warm.
It was a bitter winter night, the ash was falling thick,
It smothered out the surface wind and made the sensors sick.
Lysander sat within a chair of salvaged medical steel,
The living halo of the moss beginning now to feel
Beneath his scalp, into his skin, a soft, organic crown,
The microscopic tendrils pushing gently, deeply down.
Across the seas, in four dark holes, the others did the same,
And waited for the sudden spark to set the night aflame.
He threw the primary breaker switch, the cables groaned with heat,
The vault’s geothermal heart began to pulse and beat.
He did not hear a thunderclap, he did not see a flare,
He only felt a sudden rip, a tearing of the air.
The silence of a generation snapped across the world,
As into every separate mind the universe was hurled.
The lonely soul no longer screamed against a silent shore;
It broke through every bunker wall and shattered every door.
Lysander felt the salt-stain of a woman’s sudden grief,
Three thousand miles across the waste, too heavy for belief;
She mourned a child who withered from the pale radiation chill.
He felt the cold, systemic dread, the sharp and freezing will
Of an old engineer whose lungs were failing in the north,
As life-support ran dry of air and spat its vapor forth.
They had spun the neural cord—a whisper in the dark,
A soft, collective sigh of peace, a fragile, holy spark.
Words are emotion's instrument,
language elementals playing verse's lament, consciousness', lined segment.
Like a Toon, in idea delineation,
incharacterizing, crystalizes stylizes component, tending intent.
O Vehicle pigment of perception, perceiving decorate of mind's apartment.
Compartmentalized strings transported by familiar,
wings,
mind,
rune,
symbol,
telepathy of cheats,
divining what is already there,
dining on empathy.
MirrorWandPictureEntity, transposing matters,
in the art rendering of eye to eye in order to see,
A T communication advent matrix grid
abacus-ad -cabaret, place-holder of epiphany holding film of the camera times phi eating pi of voltaicity.
A connection pathed from a yearning of the soul in creative spark.
In search of combinations and angles of understanding's precision and decision of part,
in the fonts of construction leading to the charter of baptism keys to understanding
the leading to the heart.
Once a fierce warrior of the night,
with battle scars gleaming
under the moon's cold light,
a feral feline, solitary and strong,
a singular peculiarity
where loneliness had lingered for far too long.
Roaming the alleys with a stoic gaze,
surviving day to day on scraps
in a never-ending concrete maze.
But one fateful day, fate intervened,
In the form of tiny kittens,
innocent and kindred and serene,
warmed her beams, magiced beans
meets cupid in a loose board to a backyard seam,
floodgates a new beginning,
investigated by the other,
followed magnetically complete.
With endearing adopting human family.
Curiosity piqued, the warrior drew near,
to these fragile beings and nothing to fear,
their mewling cries were a melody so sweet,
it brought back a remembrance tear,
it tamed the savage beast, softened
the warrior's hardened fleece heart enough
to again beat in sync and stare and produce a purrl
of loves idiosyncrasies, right then and there.
Jerechoing the walls of defenses
of seven sacred circles pacing against instinctual liquefaction for the release of senses.
To thrust again in the feel of kin in it's wild unleash.
Of again trusting in the concept of family and need.
No longer alone in the dark of neglect's night,
the warrior found solace in the kittens' need of guide, guiding light.
A bond formed, unbroken and true,
a token speaking in love where
translation bloomed anew.
The scars of battle faded into the past,
replaced by a treasure troves chest opened avast,
found again in the eyes of the Angel Guardianed
KittenPardon, a plot so pure and kind, magic
of a strange kind-cast upon them all as a unit cast.
As hue-clanity found the warrior finding redemption in order, in their gentle unwind kittenic disorder-
rewinding whisps of feeling,
Whiskpers of
telepathy, empathy like little wands in the wind.
Little paws making biscuit love massaged right in, rendered kin.
Sensing the atmosphere for omens.
Signs of impending, cusp and verge.
I ping and curl, scrape to drudge up-
internal program and hit send
and hope for good vibes return "not the end."
I have become a lightless diode.
A buzzing lamppost in the neighborhood
of victimhood and it's backstreet node.
A useless burnt out core in off mode.
A robot running over castles
premade in the sand.
I try to read between the lines,
decrypt the Oracles plans behind,
the fulfilling jinx it has in store foe me.
Stars aligned.
A telepathy mainlining, a pulse headlining freakshow.
Of kinetic belonging, or safety net I used to abide in
long ago.
When the world had justice and overseer
and endearment-
enthronement-thoughts of the faithful.
I long for the ether of a hint,
graft me in with your marrow, splint, in the know.
Don't leave me high and dry,
Alone and crooked, wicked bent.
Odious clouds and signature mounds.
Terra-blyte your foretelling,
Either a warning or a telling of blue skys color turning.
Ether, of any which way the wind blows in my mind.
A private message, rather stalking.,
as it stands a topography cone of cold stand.
Your best made plans, for me
for the tasting, cast of shadow.
forecast, menacing.
Bound to be set in stone, found rather mocking.
Injected in-guest-guessing an after the fact thing,
for me.
You read my fear as I fill
a prescription of
my self fulfilled prophecy,
rolling the bones
with fate's hands.
I hear there's power in the knuckles,
the joints, the suggestion of glands.
Just. Faint whispers,
whisking by
warning-arrows
with no flame-
no spark burning for me.
Just a whisker filament, fading to the darkest
sharade of gray, hit parades.
To shade my own guilty sense of judgment.
Of putting my trust in false things.
With their superficial gradient of monochrome;
night rainbows,
overlooking Styx river country home
aside a brick road leading all the way to Thunderdome.
My sonar/feeler brain finding it's way
in the dark like a worm in the dung.
In someone else's element.
With no taste for mental or spiritual atonement.
Or the taste of Hope's spark on my tongue.