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
Inspired by Mystic Mountain Stream painting by Mlynarcik Emil
("The Mothership", 2024, original encaustics digitally collaged by Stephen Langer)
What Will You Do
When the aliens come
What will you do?
Will you go dragged kicking and screaming
Only to remember nothing,
Or will you go willingly
With the curiosity of a child?
What’s there after all
In the Great Mother ship,
A portal, a station, theatre of the mind
In multidimensional surround sound
Revealing a multiverse of limitless potential
Or a black hole of limited impossibility?
I don’t know, but it bears considering.
In my experience such things happen without choice,
Like a moth to a flame
Or sonambulator in the dark,
But why not be prepared
With your choice already made?
“Beam me up Scotty”
It’s gotten too crazy down here,
And what I took for an intelligent lifeform
Has turned out to be a mirage.
Ah, much better in multidimensional surround,
Thanks Ma.
(7/9/24)
*** MUSINGS ***
I have grown old,
thankfully,
dragging along all my ailments,
unavoidably, it seems, but endured ~ and
graced by the frequent
florets of wisdom
adorning the rounds of circumspect musings
— those streams of sub-conscious pondering —
which then course (perhaps too much)
into my rambling soeech —
and occasionally my babbling on about dreams —
throughout whose passages, I have found
I believe
in dimensions upon dimensions of reality
wherein our thick, surrounding present
come
the symbols; geatures; motions; keys; spirits
and intuited messages —
meant to expand
any narrow notice of this life.
————————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/18/2023
Thanks be to God
Up the creek without a paddle?
Writer's block causing distress?
Get back up on the saddle
Ride the stream of consciousness!
7/16/2022
Designed using elements from canva.com
Stream of consciousness is a literary style in which a writer’s thoughts, feelings, and reactions are depicted in a continuous flow uninterrupted by objective description or conventional dialogue. Even though the result may not always be worthy of publishing, the process can be an effective means to break through writer’s block, yielding fresh ideas that can be developed at a later time.
sudden&
momentary
manefestations
in
messages
a divine
deliverance
a
showing forth
in gesture
&
memorable phrase
a disclosure
of the innate
inner being
in
fragments
of feeling
my stream of consciousness
flows over the smooth at times jagged pebbles
of my day, it grows
into a torrent of thoughts
rapidly hitting against
the boulder of your heart
every waking conscious thought
without a reason or rhyme
or any sort of organized meaning
flows to one destination
you
nothing else
every other event
each and every happening
somehow connects to you
the turbulent or serene
flow of these thoughts go
how, I don't know
to you
what can I do
this babbling cacophony of sound
this disjointed attempt
at existential reality
never shapes into formal thought
only you
I wake, I sleep in you
my dreams are devoid of images
only your eyes
your face
no other trace
my consciousness is you
this stream
this reality
these toughts
would cease to flow
if there weren't your inner glow
Just so you know
you can bathe
get soaked to the inner core
you can dip in for more
bring that narcissism to the fore
I adore
you
my stream
of
consciousness
carries
nothing
but you
Eileen Manassian
Stream of Consciousness
This phrase seems worn..Joyce and Faulkner..perhaps a misnomer..
Consciousness doesn't flow..the streams are thoughts and perceptions..
these flow through consciousness which remains steady and still..
Yet..let's reconsider..thought and perception are made of..yes..
consciousness..it seems we have found waves in the ocean..waves
of thinking and perceiving..waves in an ocean of stillness..Yet..
consciousness seems distracted by its waves within..a seeming of
separation and limitation..exclaiming: I am a stream..until..
please return to the beginning...
Stung by thoughts too evil
to comprehend
to try to explain
I feel this pain
As sharp as ever,
Pricking me into consciousness
Holding my breath forever
Teasing me into submission
I yearn for sleep
But these voices urge me on
to commit the sins of others
to condemn my parents by association
to a son no mother could love
They try
god bless them
to help me
to usher in a new dawn
to give me a will
to fight not to bend
but i prefer to live alone
with the demons that dance in my head
im a lost individual
see me on my facebook
people tell me randomness
im wondering which way looks the best
ideas to nest
but i need room to digest
assuming i wasnt ready
im consumed by my present envy
feeling doomed something come get me
who the what would send me
ive acquired a taste for self destruction
made assumptions on the way to function
on the way to a lunch in
with epiphanies from consumption
a limo turns into a pumpkin
greeted in bright colors by the munchkins
dare i say a pair filayed
jack the price i don't fare a charade
the fact is vice
no one cares your flight was delayed
feed the pigeons at the park
and light me a candle
when playing with a fire
wisdom comes in handfuls
when life hits
its either a piano or an anvil
call me looney but the goonies
were a prime example
welcome to the future
childhood was cancelled
no one gets to ever pay
every chakra channeled
I have never tried sauerkraut the name sounds as gross as the smell. Mother used to love it, her love of all bitter ideas, frankly that's her ruin: the annoyance of a woman who sees the best in all. That's why I hate most everything: still, we aren't so different. Oddly enough Dad thinks I'm just like him - which I am. our arguments are the worst; I clash more with mother though.Two strong-willed parents make an uneasy child, nerves and anxiety creating a false illness to live with forever. I am not a child anymore, I need to grow and develop myself. That's not even possible. I'm a mirror: what I see is what I am. What is put in front of me becomes me, flipped around in my own construed way. I was just like my parents, then my sisters, then my friends. Now I should be happy to be purely myself. The fear of who I might be holds me back. What if I disappoint myself, and deep down I am evil, dark, and secretive? Worse yet, what if I am plain and boring. My sense of superiority will crack, and self-doubt will seep in, and like a drug take over my life. That smell is disgusting.
Allowing great alembics access over hill and glade and brush and dale of mind and swimming softly through the river running up fantastic meadows speckling valleys round the bay ensconced by lighting strikes and thunder booms across the Roman sky above the Irish ground and all throughout the savage peasant towns of lies of great and small import but all the time of luscious past and pregnant present and the future’s wide embrace of mighty life.
Kick rocks with socks
Only to rip through your epidermal layers
Say your prayers before you're laid to rest
Like the nay-sayers disguised as
Mayors & representatives
Mainstream media sedatives turning your relatives
Into brain-dead gelatin
With an empty skeleton
At the gates of sleep,
Demanding to let us in
Our souls are reaped
As the strings are manipulated by
The elongated
Lives of the Elohim
Striking down like the beam
From a ray gun
Reflecting away from the sun
To delay the sun from the doomsday pun
Intended to run for office
With a strangled orifice
Greedy lungs don't breathe in bliss
Because their needy daughters & sons
Suck them dry of any wealth applied
To the one-percent that defied us all
& lied to protect their hide
In order to decide whether to preside
In luxurious homes or dwell in the catacombs
Of hell
Up to their necks in the wishing well only wishing
they were well & rested
Yet, they remain hollow-chested
& detested as the rest of us protested
Like the oppressed did, as we're molested...
I found that I was lost the other day
and didn't mind at all, you see, for I
was climbing off old memories and took
a backward look to keep a steady path
and then take stock, when suddenly
I disappeared, and didn't notice it
for half an hour or so.
Something like those quantum particles
jumped orbit on me, got there without
traveling the intervening space;
now no more questions, please, for answers too,
are missing. I can tell you how to get there,
but I cannot tell you where
or what to watch for.
Nor do I find exclusiveness--in fact
no ponderous duality at all..
Dismay is not in sight,
nor judgement, nor a shred of pride--
no trace of that pretentious "I"
along the living water's edge.
If there are words,
they enter when I pull away.
If muses play upon my consciousness,
it is for naught, and I am but the slate
to hold some history of the divine
.
Open the shutters, entertain the light.
And when it passes, still there is no end;
for this poor crumbling body too is void
of everything but joy.
~
in the city of Dublin
the seagulls cry out their desire
to fly back to the open sea
hearing them I think of my space
reduced to the one-way sky
a stranger tells me
*priveste imaginea de ansamblu
I wonder how could I
every second shrinks my shadow
ironically I sip my English tea
when you awkward stubborn sun
make my field hurry towards a late green
I can’t swim against the stream
but unaware of a deadline yet
I linger on the streets of my poems
* priveste imaginea de ansamblu
*to look at the large picture
Want to cut,
Can't.
Want to die,
Can't.
Not can't,
Won't.
Want to but won't.
Why?
They love me.
So what?
I love them.
You suffer...
I know.
Life sucks....
I really, really does...
Who knows,
Maybe death is better...
The dead know.
I bet they do,
They only way is to join them.
But I won't.
I have responsibilities.
"The woods are lovely dark and deep"
Now aren't they...
"But I have promises to keep"
So, so many...
"And miles to go before I sleep"
So many....
"And miles to go before I sleep"
Too many?
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.