Best Fatalistic Poems
Walking corridors of derailed delusions
I welcome my created confined confusions
For I am lost in phantom night...
I dance with demons deploying death
Desirous destruction of my life’s last breath
Consciously cocooned manic moonlight...
A bipolar bliss within tangled time
Waiting for a savior of an angels chime
For I am lost in phantom night...
Secluded silences in a whirlpool of winter
My starving soul soaked in a lachrymal linger
Tormented tears taking fatalistic flight...
Only God knows where I am
Devoured by lions this gentle lamb
Farewell to this nefarious night...
June.07.2017
God Knows Where I Am - Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
The quintessential of nyctophilia, wrapped in bridal attire, slowly and slowly as in somnambulism there goes the heroine of timeless tragedy to supersede her lovers feigned insanity.
Her beloved father is no more, being killed by her suitor's intrigued tyranny;
ignored to be drowned, to burn in the flame of plotted felony.
Jilted, to be startled by the selcouth performance of her handsome wooer's vile strategy;
there goes the most beautiful heroine ever to be the victim of fated irony,
immersed in senseless lunacy, to vanish from the sight of Hamlet's fatalistic eyes to bid adieu to the agony,
slowly and slowly to be disappeared into melancholic darkness from the dazzling maniac opaque sight;
there goes the Danish heroine of evergreen tragedy.
There is balance in the rhythm of life
A give and take for which we strive
In the middle between all or nothing
We find our own path to survive
Caring for others unconditionally
An altruistic motive though unrealistic
To want to care for others is generous
For some it can become fatalistic
We must take care of ourselves first
Though to think only of ourselves is wrong
We donate time or money if we have it
If we give all we can't sustain for long
Financial gifts cannot leave one penniless
Self caring responsibly requires healthiness
Imagine giving time until one is senseless
There is a balance that requires gentleness
Self care and caring of others is healthy
Even as children learn about sharing
Limits are important also for the wealthy
Finding boundaries a necessity for caring
July 25, 2018
Take Care Of Yourself First Contest
By Caren Krutsinger
Honorable Mention
Constructing Catacombs
Desirous death, a submersed breath, the walls in a carious crumble
Living life, a surgical serrate strife, as we stand surreal and stumble
Baneful blood, a feverous flood, the temerarious towers will tumble
Terranean tears, fertile fermenting fears, a famished fatalistic fungal
Corpses mounting high, Angels in the sky, reuniting dead and divine
Perpetual praying, love’s lost laying, as we build their sacred shrine
For we question why, we deceitfully die, within the abortifacient vine
Blue clouds of clay, casually chip away, as the minstrels drink their wine
The new Babylon, do we belong, beyond death's door is still unknown
Faith be quick, do we get to pick, a heaven or hell that we have sewn
Odious obstruction, of deaths destruction, mankind comes to mourn
Caught in oblivion, a denunciative delirium, and thus we are reborn.
Nov.08.2017
PREMIERE CONTEST NO 110
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Wonderful love dreams thrilled young Cali.
She sung of such with good friend, Sally.
Extraordinary and precocious,
her thoughts felt expialidocious.
Expialidocious were heart thumps.
Precocious fantasies raised goosebumps.
Sally thought her love, fragalistic.
Cali said, "joy's not fatalistic."
For Cali, hushed love was great enough.
When heaven is shut up, and there is no rain,
because they have sinned against thee; if they
pray toward this place, and confess thy name,
and turn from their sin ...
Then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the
sin of thy servants ... and give rain upon the land
1 Kings 8:35 - 36
The land is parched,
there has been no rain in over a year
The river is bone dry,
forecast says the skies will remain clear
The cattle are dying,
as are all the crops
You’re bleeding credit,
and still no sign of any raindrops
It is for certain,
a famine is afoot
The sky’s an iron curtain,
all of your savings are took
The eyes of the wife and kids,
have an empty, fatalistic look
And you cry,
because you don’t understand why
You’ve done all you can,
you even sold your best gun
Listen to the barren land,
you’ve left something undone
That holy book on the top shelf
covered in cobwebs and dust
Better open it while you’re able,
even better, in it start to trust
Although you never once
stopped praying for rain
Is it the right prayer that you’re asking?
Everyday you pray for rain,
so you can go on living
But you never asked once
to have your sins forgiven
Pray for rain
Pray for understanding
Pray for rain
Pray for forgiveness too
Go back to your first love,
your God, whom you abandoned
like an ungodly fool
Then say your prayers,
asking God to have mercy on you
>
It seems that I write and I write and I write
and somehow that's not really alright
to fritter away these precious moments
Just when did I assume I'd the right...
I sense that it's become a stale habit
a morbid ritual, fatalistic, hoary rite
Deep in my soul, I know something's not right
that I write and I write and I write...
May 23, 2019
...en l'an soixante-dix de mon age...
All the familiar names from our youth
now belong to aged, unfamiliar faces.
Even my own reflection startles
as I pass the mirror
hanging in the hall.
Suddenly, we are old.
And, although taken by surprise,
we must accommodate reality --
perhaps convince ourselves
how lucky we survivors are --
how much better that we wear
these flaccid faces, these worn-out bodies,
these aids and apparatuses,
than to have ended
while in almost-mint condition.
But these are mere macabre,
septuagenarian musings.
So, let's forget all that!
Turn up the music
and hear us murmur,
in weakly mordant, fatalistic,
untriumphant chorus:
"We're still here!"
White grains for brains
His thoughts are anointed seed
Spirits germinate where gladiators once fell
And mere mortals can taste a drop of eternity
Occasionally, like rice
They give rise to empires
He sighs warm breezes
Of ever green forests and blue lagoons
When he sneezes entire ages freeze over
He winks across the galaxy
And we observe a Supernova
He smiles avalanches and blizzards
And laughs a symphony orchestra
He yawns a new dawn
With each stretch of his hand
Releasing the imagination to humility
To see himself as one truly is
Through the honest lens of the soul
And not through the deception of the blinking eye
He breaths through the filter of a lifetime
His heart rate pumping at a thousand eras per aeon
His vision is a continuum
A pessimist by nature
Fatalistic even, he never shed a tear
Except occasionally for the panda bear
He dug a basement in his home
With his brooding, pacing up and down
Where he now stores fossils of past civilizations
Amongst his most valuable collections
On unbearably pleasant days
she beckons the ferryman
to taxi her to the
dark places of her past
to stock up on bitterness,
envy, rancor
a delusional cocktail for the
attention-starved addict
with the trademark, fatalistic,
false sense of power.
Self-respect makes a break for it
while she coddles demons in her sleep.
There was an initial
step taken
unsteady and unsure.
In time the pace increased
as curiosity endured.
Once adept and confident
the toddler ventured
on much longer treks.
In the light of day
youthful strides of wonder
lasted until sunset.
At adolescence with effort moving along
on the fun-filled futuristic trail.
Supposedly toward
an independent path
if no misfortune prevailed.
Unaware rescuers
stood by for escape
from a solemn immobile lane.
By now confused and weary
from an unending road of strain.
Teen kitty conditioned
for beguiling wolves
roaming the mean streets.
Detoured to the
lost byway
for a fatalistic defeat.
In the nick of time a majestic reclamation
occurred from heaven's boulevard.
To ensure a journey much smoother
where life
failed to be so hard.
Calcutta.
Hot and unberable in the searing summer heat
and unberarable for more reasons than the heat.
In a popular tourist cafe an American widow
obsesses on her dead husband: she has a bundle
of photos, letters and other mementos to show as
she tells stories, ad-nauseum, about his now stiff
prowess as a prolific and technically perfect lover.
She moves from table to table with her bundle
of banality disturbing patrons at random with her
loneliness. This happens in the Calcutta stink of Indian
cardamon, paprika, cinnamon, sour sewer and rotted
garbage. All this aromatic decay combines with the
overpowering scent of jasmine. Mother Theresa's
favorite intoxicants.
But other smells and stenches permeate and nasuate your
senses. Certain streets are dedicated to the putrid permanence
of sensory corruption. But only the uninitiated visitor seems
to suffer insult to their olfactory awareness. The indigenous
poor are scattered on the streets and walks in somnambulist
slumber, like fatalistic, hashish soaked, discarded rags.
Children with sunken, obsidian eyes and belly-swell of abandoned
malnourishment reach out toward passing lost-eyed foreigners,
their palms-up; "Rupee please, sir, I am hungry, sir, coins please sir,
I am hungry, sir." The widow from the cafe slaps a child's reaching
hand with her bundle of deceased memories then trips over a sleeping,
legless beggar and splashes face first into the fetid stream of seminal
waste flowing from under his two exposed stumps. No one, including me,
offers to help the child-slapping widow onto her two intact feet.
Calcutta.
I am your fatalistic optimist
Your sweetest selfish tryst
I strut before you naked
As I hide beneath our bed
I am your greatest battle
Yes the one who loves you best
I am sincerely yours forever
Until our lives are spent
Loveless
Am not a painter
But the picture is broken
With a maze background
Its shape, loop
In the pent house
This picture stands
The man inside melancholic
Though the setup fervent
Scenarios fatalistic
To the novice fallacious
And spell binds many
Making the modest definition
The zenith of Hades
Color-flies the entire texture
That maroons the spear contrast
Benching a murky frame
Lights on, lights out
The close fastidious
And remains obnoxious
59
by
rick folker
What happened in Vegas
Should not stay in Vegas.
Such a mind-numbing tragedy
cannot be contained, nor constrained
or explained
by a simple 'summing up'.
No, never 'what happened in Vegas'
Should be termed, the new normal
Or the the new acceptance
Of a virulent form of violence
Or a fatalistic excuse for
Humanity's propensity to cage
Such stark, naked evil in words
that defy words.
No, never should the 'banality of evil' stay in Vegas or Newtown or Orlando
It should affect and effect each and every person with a soul,
with a will, with a modicum of compassion and turn each of us away from Vegas and toward
our national and individual wounds
What happened in Vegas should transcend mountains and oceans
Transverse the healing cosmos and return to us
With a simplistic and fundamental message ...
We shall NOT be monsters
We shall NOT be harmful or heartless
We shall NOT remain in Vegas