The subconscious is ceaselessly murmuring, and it is by listening to these murmurs that one hears the truth.
quote by Gaston Bachelard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've learned that I get blocked when my subconscious mind is telling me that I've taken the work in a wrong direction, and that once I start listening to what my subconscious is trying to tell me, I can work out the problem and get moving again.
quote by Walter Jon Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear God, are you listening
With every breath of cigarette smoke
that escapes his lips
the color of her spirit progressively fades
Dear God are you listening?
With every sip of alcohol
that flows through his body
her trust in her once hero weakens
Dear God are you listening?
With every pill
she takes for her escape
her life becomes a blur
Dear God are you listening?
It's me..
Your daughter
But she hears
No reply
No response
just silence
emptiness
and nothing at all
She closes her eyes
in the night
and as her life
is drifting away
she then hears
Yes my daughter
I am listening
I am here with you
I will never leave you alone
Remember my daughter
you are never alone
Man Is Foolish
The human mind works on three tiers
With upper, middle and lower levels
As the conscious mind, the subconscious
And the unconscious respectively.
While the conscious mind is voluntary,
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are autonomous and automatic.
The conscious mind is to one's awareness.
The subconscious colours the conscious mind
And the unconscious is independent.
Sexual overtone in the subconscious
Will impact the external behaviors.
The subconscious is the reservoir of
Lust, jealousy, fear, hatred and revenge.
Bitten by a dog, one is struck with fear,
Which lurks deep inside to fear any dog.
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are responsible for all the actions
Done impulsively or instinctively.
One is helpless to be not foolish.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I can't help believing that these things that come from the subconscious mind have a sort of truth to them. It may not be a scientific truth, but it's psychological truth.
quote by Brian Aldiss
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jaws
Seven nations stood with their hands on the jaws of death.
It was the first week in August, Nineteen Hundred Fourteen.
I was listening, you were listening, the whole world was listening,
And all of us heard a Voice murmuring:
“I am the way and the light,
He that believeth on me
Shall not perish
But shall have everlasting life.”
Seven nations listening heard the Voice and answered:
“O Hell!”
The jaws of death began clicking and they go on clicking.
“O Hell!”
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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Big Brother He Is Listening
His ears are ever vigilant be careful of what you do say
Big Brother he is listening from you he's never far away
Your words he may put a slant on and one word in the wrong place
Could see you in deep trouble the court you might have to face.
The Government allows free speech free to a point maybe
But when mere words can land you in trouble that does not seem free to me
And big brother is listening and he hears what he wants to hear
The best way of freedom curtailment is the weapon known as fear
And big brother he takes note every time you speak your mind
And if he sees something he does not like in trouble yourself you will find
He is the Government watchdog your words can see you in jail
Big brother is always watching you he even checks your mail.
Big brother he is listening even when your friends you phone
And even those who live on their own in truth are not alone
For big brother is with them though him they cannot see
He remains as invisible and few as treacherous as he.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Truth Through Repetition
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poem by David Keig
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Silent Truth
I can see the truth with it's infinite light
Shining through the darkest night
Becoming pure in it's own way
Never trying to become astray
Sometimes the truth does not speak at all
Never telling us that we will fall
Although we rise again and feel
The truth is always there and real
Listening to the truth may open our eyes
Catching us by an unexpected surprise
The truth is spoken again
And will never fail to end
poem by Sarah Bruun
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(V - 2009) The Truth of the Truth
The Sages and Seers
That be and have been
Cannot have seen
The truth of the Truth!
What they see as Truth
Is Truth merely
It’s not really
The truth of the Truth!
The Ultimate Truth
Cannot be known
We aren’t that grown –
The truth of the Truth!
We’re part of the Truth
We’re trying to see
We’re yet so tiny –
The truth of the Truth!
Though hard and great
The pains we give
We cannot outlive
The truth of the Truth!
What’s Truth to you once
Remains not the same
So changing the game –
The truth of the Truth!
What’s Truth to a man
Is not Truth to all
That’s what we call
The truth of the Truth!
These thoughts as I pen
It’s Truth to me
It’s to me only
The truth of the Truth!
As soon as I became old enough to make my dreams my reality, I became a firm believer that the subconscious and the world outside of our flesh and blood is essentially the truth.
quote by Melissa Auf der Maur
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eh? !
Going deaf
is such a curse.
Yet my listening's better -
'cos my hearing is worse.
Will it improve
my writing verse
if my listening's better
though my hearing is worse?
But, on the bright side - I'm
truth's creditor, not debtor:
my hearing's worse
but my listening is better...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Listening Week
This is the listening week of the year
Listening-in.
A-cock and alert is the national ear
Listening-in.
All over the land in the country towns,
From the back of the Leeuwin to Darling Downs,
Layers of 'quids' or the odd half-crowns,
They are listening-in.
On the far-flung farms they are round each set,
Listening-in.
The work and the worry they all forget,
Listening-in.
Wherever an aerial soars in space
To the Cup, or the Oaks or the Steeplechase,
To the roar of the ring and the lure of the race
They are listening-in.
In the far outback there are sun-tanned men,
Listening-in.
Where the woolshed stands by the drafting pen
Listening-in.
Old Dad's come in from the Ninety Mile;
He scored on the Cup and he wears a smile,
And he 'reckons this game is well worth while'
So he's listening in.
To the edge of the desert the sound-waves go;
And, listening-in,
Ned of the Overland, Saltbush Joe
Listening-in
Recall the giants of years long past,
And the loneliness of these spaces vast;
But they reckon that life's worth living at last
With this listening-in.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Listening
Listening.
And being there for someone loved...
To do just that!
With a mind willing,
To be receptive and clear...
Of opinions sitting,
On the tip of one's tongue.
With a giving of attention,
And staying mum.
Listening to someone.
Listening is not easily done.
For those who have experienced...
A life in which peace of mind has come.
When a listening ear,
Had not been volunteered by no one.
And some who know this...
Do their best to sit with patience.
Listening with no other reason...
But to be there as is wished.
For someone who has selected you,
Just for this.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Anatomy Of A Dream
It amazes me how a dream
Is contrived from reality;
Fine-tuned to a subconscious scheme
played out nightly, surreally.
Take any dream for example:
It most frequently manifest
Itself via random samples
Of recall that had been suppressed
Which the subconscious mind reveals
Through abstract sensations expressed
Involuntary and unreal-
Most forgettable more or less
Are these colored and black and white
Series that’s conjured every night.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Soft Murmuring Sound
Soft murmuring sound
A soft murmuring sound,
From a deep hidden place
Perpetual pulsing
Never stopping to rest
Never given to pause
Oft-time given to race
This most sensual organ
Enclosed in sanguine breast
Tis truth, it can shatter
Yet remain tearfully intact
burst with pride and affection
And in anger react
Able to flutter
Able to ache
Able to pine
Able to break
no sensory cells
Has this wondrous thing in our chest
Yet this soft murmur of sound
Gives us soul…and we’re blessed
poem by David Whalen
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Bega
FROM the clouded belfry calling,
Hear my soft ascending swells;
Hear my notes like swallows falling;
I am Bega, least of bells.
When great Turkeful rolls and rings
All the storm-touched turret swings,
Echoing battle, loud and long.
When great Tatwin wakening roars
To the far-off shining shores,
All the seamen know his song.
I am Bega, least of bells:
In my throat my message swells.
I with all the winds a-thrill,
Murmuring softly, murmuring still,
'God around me, God above me,
God to guard me, God to love me.'
I am Bega, least of bells,
Weaving wonder, wind-born spells.
High above the morning mist,
Wreathed in rose and amethyst,
Still the dreams of music float
Silver from my silver throat,
Whispering beauty, whispering peace.
When great Tatwin's golden voice
Bids the listening land rejoice,
When great Turkeful rings and rolls
Thunder down to trembling souls,
Then my notes like curlews flying,
Lifting, falling, sinking, sighing,
Softly answer, softly cease.
I with all the airs at play
Murmuring sweetly, murmuring say,
'God around me, God above me,
God to guard me, God to love me.'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Hope On
Power's a cheat, success but trying,
Even pleasure bears a sting;
Still ’tis useless, useless sighing,
Rather list to Hope replying—
“The flowers must come again with spring;
And in the trampled way we re going
Streams of comfort yet are flowing—
Hark! I hear them murmuring.”
Fame’s a liar in the nation!
Love hath oft a wayward wing;
Still, hence seek not for occasion
To impugn Hope’s sweet persuasion—
“The flowers will come again with spring;
And in the world-wide way we re going
Streams of pure good yet are flowing—
Hark! I hear them murmuring.”
Friendship turns, itself denying
Even Truth the heart may wring;
Still, though trust be daily dying,
Listen still to Hope replying—
“The flowers will come again with spring:
And in the blasted way we re going
There’s yet one healing current flowing—
Hark! I hear it murmuring.”
poem by Charles Harpur
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A Poet Talks To Himself
A poet talks to himself
And hears his own praises
And does not believe them.
A poet talks to himself
And hears a critical word
And knows he is right.
A poet talks to himself
And imagines others are listening
And love his dreams as if they were their own –
A poet talks to himself
And in the talking plays
In many voices -
A poet talks to himself
And in talking to himself
Feels more and more alone -
Where are the holy listeners?
Where is the love which is not absurd?
A poet talks to himself
And prays he is secretly being overheard-
And wonders why God should want words
From a mortal so small.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem's Truth Is That It Says More Than It Knows
THE POEM’S TRUTH IS THAT IT SAYS MORE THAN IT KNOWS
The poem’s truth is that it says more than it knows
That it goes beyond its own intention
That it means in more than only one way
The poem’s truth is its hidden music
And the melody it plays through and beyond our listening
A poem’s truth answers itself in endless questions and ambiguities
No wonder no one simply reads these simple words
As if they were simply written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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