Long Transmitting Poems
Long Transmitting Poems. Below are the most popular long Transmitting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Transmitting poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you ever wonder why you are aware of,
Notice and remember some things but not others?
How some moments stick with you
For a lifetime, but others are forgotten
Almost instantly without a care?
These vivid moments are the same
In waking life or dream time,
Giving us an experience
Of gestalt involving our whole being,
Where we are in the moment
A sensual being, alert
In physical, emotional, mental completeness
And yet also somehow simultaneously outside it,
Experiencing it afresh and vivid
Truly for the first time
With the clear, calm, wondrous
Eyes of the soul.
It’s easy and tempting to explain it all
Through a physical cause and effect process,
A triggered reaction of neural transmitters
In the control center of our brain.
But although this is observably the case
It doesn’t explain
Why such a reaction is triggered
Why such neural networks
And transmitting chemicals
Even exist in the first place, and
Why and how the moment then remains
Fresh and vivid and memorable our whole lives.
Those are questions of mystery
And mystery by definition
Holds itself within a veil of questions
Something glimpsed, felt deep
In our bones, or there at the tip of our tongue
Beyond reach yet somehow known,
But not always remembered.
A mystery which resists our grasping
Which morphs and expands when we think
We have it,
And yet never really goes away
Always dancing right there
Clearly within sight in those vivid moments
Or just hinted at in our peripheral vision,
Or somewhere in orbit way out far beyond
Possible apprehension and comprehension,
Depending on what we have the connection,
Attention and interest, to notice
Experience and remember.
But through it all
The mystery remains
Dancing there,
Or should I say
Right here,
Engaging us in a life
That is both peculiarly ours
And still universally theirs
Knowing in our bones
The two, while not the same,
Are really no different,
The ultimate beauty being
This connection
Can never be lost or changed
Whether we know it or not.
(10/31/25)
This world will never know me, who I am
within my core.
It seems as if superficial expressions leave nothing to explore.
So, no one ever comes to rap upon
my door.
Through a window in my heart my soul remembers how to soar.
Nothing special seen of me, likewise,
no good reason to adore.
Words give to me a purpose. A shining light, where none was seen before.
When others read my work understanding becomes a chore.
It’s as if they’re picking up the broken pieces of the man I was before.
When will they realize what I truly have in store?
Every letter transmitting new ideas! Can they envision such a spore?
What mundane has stripped away, I promise we will soon restore.
To hell with common anything! With the characterless we’ll go to war!
Peering across a sea of puce, with our feet planted firmly upon the shore….
If only words were relevant, and did not act as merely document decor.
This world will never know me, who I am within
my core.
I’ll never will the world well. I am just a poet, and simply nothing more.
On a lonely islet, on top of a precipitous cliff, in the farthest sea,
a bird built a nest and kept clinging onto her empty nest though
all birds were, feeding their chicks with abundant food from the sea
and rose to adolescence, left for a southern island for warmer climate.
As time elapsed the vexed bird sank exhausted under a fierce storm coming by the raging waters smashing the shore, picks a pebble,
and returns to her nest. She sits on the stone as if it is an egg
she was incapable of laying one, and transmits the warmth of life
that comes from her weakening heart.
Surroundings become darker as weather worsens, and in this darkness that no way to distinguish waters edge from skyline the rolls of thunder pierce the ears and a thunderbolt strikes the rock to smash it
in pieces.
Nonetheless, this pathetic mother bird sits still, rather, she pulls stone deeper into her bosom because her only desire was to transmit source of life to this lifeless stone.
After transmitting all her body temperature to this lifeless stone,
therefore, her strength gave out at last, this mother bird barely
rising her slender neck to look up at the sky to appeal her
cherishing desire, a thunderbolt strikes her back as thunder rolls,
a billow surges to swallow the isle.
At this tragic moment,
though mother bird perished, a beautiful chick with downs
brighter than dazzling sun hatched from this thought-lifeless stone.
I’ve always thought of teaching as an art…and the teacher as an artist whose skills over the years have been amassed…to help them teach their students…each a different canvas making up their class.
Teachers must learn about their students…must learn more than just their name…for every artist knows…no two subjects are the same.
Which means whatever paints, techniques and brush strokes work for one student…as wonderful as that may be…might not work for the next student…who needs to be painted differently.
And so the teacher knowing each new student is a little different than the ones who came before…learns to paint in many different styles…and with each student grows a little more.
But what happens to the students and the teachers…what happens to imagination’s and creativity’s flame…when teachers are told these are the only paints and brush strokes you may use…and you must paint everyone the same?
I’ve seen many great teacher/artists over the years leave their art/teaching behind…tired of the constraints…tired of being told which techniques they have to use…which paints.
Teachers are trained to do their jobs…their students they try desperately to reach…
Ask any one of them and they’ll tell you…
Keep their class-size low, the discipline consistent and please…please…please…
just let them teach.
For they know when you allow them the freedom to paint with their own imagination…their own creativity…their own heart…not only are they transmitting knowledge…but it is wisdom they impart.
Yes, teachers know the kind of education needed if they want their students to evolve…
They must paint in a way that stirs their imaginations and teaches them to problem solve.
I had one hope when I was a teacher and I know many of my fellow teachers felt the same…that our students would leave our classrooms…happy…and a little wiser than when they came.
So one way to celebrate National Teacher Day would be to allow them to teach without restraints…
to allow them the joy any artist wants….the independence and the freedom just to paint.
And to understand if teaching is…and it is…one of the most important jobs on Earth…
Perhaps it’s time to start to pay our teachers exactly what they’re worth.
Prophets describe God as a spirit dwelling in infinity,
transmitting thought of salvation and serenity
to anyone who's truly faithful and humble not leading a sinlful life;
even Noah, the holiest among men, wondered what He looked like!
Besides being holy is a father to us whatever our need maybe,
He allows anyone to enter His temple regardless of race;
He can be harsh when angry, forgiving to all including me...
come to His house, bring the purest heart and sing a praise.
The God of the Bible was a father to Jesus and now to us:
He listens to prayers and if we are worthy of entering His temple,
He'll answer them when our burden gets heavier and unbearable...
why many abandon Him by not letting patience work wonders?
The sun brightly shinning
My coffee brown complexion showing signs of ageing
The untrimmed reflection of the sea
My gold bikini represented sophistication and maturity
As I lay mesmerised under the shade
I, me, myself recollected my thoughts
Oh, the heaven must be transmitting my wishes
A splendored scenery
The possession of a vanilla ice cream in my hand
Left me licking my fingers
The ear buds where nowhere to be found
Left me listening to the background sound of the birds
As the temperate kept on raising
I could lease this feeling I had
Oh, the momentum to sustain these emotions was eternal
A inclusive environment
Breezy mind
And sparkling eyes
Dwindled him in the upper skies
But HE was right
Where light above light
Recited an Ayat
Allah (SWT) is alright.
A leader of the leaders
For the all times
Led a night prayer in the mosque
Of Baitul Muqaddas
HE was kind
In dealing with others
Met the messengers
Who were coming past
Exchanged greetings
And chatted with each other
HE had seen many things on his way
Such as torment of the Jahannam
And the happiness of the Jannah.
So, breezy mind
And sparkling eyes
Dwindled him for the all time.
Holy Angel named Hazrat Zebraiel (As)
A trusted companion for the all messengers
Was with Him upto Sidratul Muntaha Square.
Now, There is no barrier
No worries, No mourning
Only friend for friend
And the friend for friend
Comes close to each other
And starts transmitting messages
Year after year.
Eye to eye, pupil to pupil searing stare too confronting,
so you look down or to the side,
watching with peripheral vision.
You glance for signs of weakness
when the eyes looking at you, stray and look away.
Then it is safe to refocus,
to beam your gaze back to try eye to eye,
Taking control as you have the eye on eye authority.
Testing for connection when eye focus switched back, pupol to puil.
When averted eyes switch back
straight in the eye, try for mutual gaze again.
Who will cop out first, you or I?
Will we engage and flirt?
Will we connect and share our trust,
transmitting and receiving
just with the eyes,
so powerful and revealing?
Perceiving eye to eye intently, implies agreement
The eyes have it.
When I spy your eye looking at me
and the gaze lasts longer than a glance,
The communication starts
when eyes have engaged, and hooked us up,
Eye to eye, aye aye it is.
Your eyes are the most potent social signalers you possess.
Lovers spend hours and hours, staring deeply into each other’s eyes
It is a display of trust and yearning,
and shared reinforcement of connection.
What flows between is a mystery, but it is real.
It is to see, and to be seen, seeing deep within.
“Look into my eyes” says the hypnotist as a way of taking control.
Magicians also rely on engaging eye to eye contact
so you cannot see the sleight of hand.
Controlling eyes, engaging eyes,
meeting eyes is mindful perception
of how eyes are so important for our being,
and how we communicate socially.
My Gift,
“The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.” - Henri Bergson
I feel, I felt
tingles in the far recesses of my soul
swirling in an ever circular motion
surrounding the pounding of my heart
resounding inside and out
my echo chamber
I find comfort in that peace
your stillness, the silence
all I am hearing is love
bleeding slowly into me
transmitting signals
rushing alongside clear blue waters
swimming up into my substanance
my existence
filtering in thru the green
of those auspicious duck pond eyes
your gift warms me
each syllable entrusted
as life lies naked at our door
unabridged stories taking hold
we walk away from the past
and yesterday's wars
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!