Long Banalities Poems
Long Banalities Poems. Below are the most popular long Banalities by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Banalities poems by poem length and keyword.
Remember this poets, drink wine,
It is not talent that is important,
It is to have heart, drink wine,
Offer a drink to a friend or student
Make your friends, young and new, cry
Speaking of the primroses you offer,
Speaking of the water lilies in a famous museum,
Tearing all your uncertain poems,
See, this poem has little interest, let’s drink wine instead,
It is made of banalities without emotions, jewels thrown,
What I forgot when I wrote is to address you,
To have heart, to tell you of my loves,
Remember this poets, drink wine, admire your mother
Those who speak to you, hold you captive,
It takes a great silence virgin, the friendship of Mark Aurel
That the soul may walk in the snow,
Alone. Come with me. Come with me.
Drink wine. *
* with moderation and humour
Light reading
We are striding into the new year with news
of an earthquake that got people to sit up instead
of slumping on the sofa watching a Netflix
banalities
Inundated with film, one realizes most of them are hastily put together and consist of a dramatic fight
scenes, the hero wins and gets the girl.
This morning, the news again focused on Japan
a plane landing collided with a stationary plane
five people were killed, which was lucky
we give great press by airport accidents
Ten people dead in a motorway accident have not
much drama unless you are in the pile-up
In Libya, the slave trade capital of Africa, this dubious
honor happened when Qaddafi was murdered
He, the dictator, was not the worst of his kind,
there are times when the only thing that protects a country from sinking into chaos is a strong man.
With him out of the way, the human traffic commenced
South Africa had a plan to let Qaddafi leave Libya
settle in an African state, but no, the west wanted him dead
I have read so many rich people (millionaires) have not
got their riches from the production of things such as machinery
or engineering, with the possible exception of Elon Musk
I suspect the entertainment press is trying to lure him
into a life of glamour.
The middle class is not producing but get
titles working in the social sectors, both public and private, but it is not a type of employment that creates anything of lasting value
As for the working class, the hard hat section is
of immense value their contribution to the welfare of
our society is not recognized properly
This leaves us with millions of people who have no
function at all, and with very little education
We see them in big cities where their life is so tedious they take to drugs and think ***** is a love life.
If nothing is done to harness the destructive power these people represent we will end
being ruled by the mob
Autumnal reflection
This is beautiful autumn, with no rain, no wind and no heat
soothing calm telling nothing about coming storms.
South Korea has solved the problem of what is needed
garish colours, mass banalities and predictable music.
In Ukraine, reckless defender of democracy plays roulette
artillery fire near a nuclear plant; a Russian game of taunt
EU has played all the cards, oblivious of people's concerns
living in fear of mass revolt by the starving and the freezers.
Let the coal plants roar as polar melts and coastal cities
sink beneath the sea and idiotic gender misunderstanding.
Oh, what beautiful autumn oak leaves softly fall
enjoy the shortening of time before the onset of winter.
fixity or flux
in the
evasion of monotony
a linear turn
to integrity
in phrasal inflections
scanning language
in signature verse
internal sounds
made prominent with
divergent voices
random shapes
on the
theatre of the page
circumstance
leavened by
understanding
at points of departure
into floods
of the experimental
in a inherent
impulse
an antithesis
of the
ambivalent
dislocated
by emotion
distracted by
banalities
sesoned with tradition
a spontaneous
cycle of seasons
the heritage
of life blooms
a sentiment
of trees
in a rare
but natural voice
eternally alive
in an annual
renaissance
of precedents
where
caution passes by
style detours in disguise
shameless
in deceit
sly&aloof
prudence laid aside
a
transfigured folly
yet
volatile
& naive
an antecedent
of
a
genteel
future
Descending war pile on my threadbare past or
I’m losing my grace, for the puzzle’s not solved or
My gallant blessing is never done working or
My ideas are like heaviness across blinding sky or
My oasis splashes upon the canvas of wall or
My sunny angels tangle out a single smile or
The disturbance prevails the numbness of my existence or
I’m screaming, trying to build the confidence and
I felt like blooming in pleasing joy
I felt confident again…
I felt as if I belonged for only a few hours of my life…
I felt I was being held and fed with love
I felt as if I had a chance, but not in this world
I felt I was a stranger handling faith
I felt like I’ve changed—in a good way
You feel stuck in place
You’re silent, tearing down the hesitation and
The serenity fails the sensation of your extinction and
Your rainy demons unravel in multiple frowns and
Your desert dries out the imageless liberty and
Your banalities are like weightlessness around visible earth and
Your cowardly curse is always resting and
Your gaining your disgrace, for the riddles are solved and
Ascending peace unload off your renewed future or
You feel like wilting in displeasing sadness
You feel unsure for once
You feel as if you are isolated always forever in death…
You feel you were dropped and starved with hate
You feel as if you had a chance, in this world
You feel like you’re a friend juggling doubt
You feel like your constant—in a bad way
I felt free in space
(a poem my sister and I created)
Form:
The Voice of the People
The morning is excellent and calm
I try to write about the feeling I have inside me,
but can only come up with a feeling
of boredom, that comes when looking out of the window
too often and see nothing has changed.
I don`t want to live here anymore, but is fearful
of the unknown – being outside my comfort zone-
even if it is tedious, I find the world scary,
a cacophony of a common scream
That comes with unbridled democracy, everyone
Has the right to be heard when they should be quiet
or speak sotto voice
when they can only produce banalities
Thinking has to be approved by the masses and
those who call themselves liberal
Celtic Outlier, Lexington, VA
By Sarah Emmett
To Moor – to tie up, to steady, boat
The day of unmooring
Untying
Oh, I try not to sneer: “So you didn’t grow up here?”
The reply “Overseas, yes.”
So you over see what is happening
How we fall apart
“Learn from it” you say
But yet it is immortalized
Huge statues
On even bigger columns
As big as the boxcars that took my people away
Overseeing people going about their business
Being overshadowed
A cause long since lost
A Barbaric civilization
Written in dusty tomes
Tucked away in musty libraries
Upended crosses on motorcycle men
Banalities “The South Will Rise Again”
I cried for days
Great-Great Grandmother’s will
Faded Presbyterian eyes
“Do not sell the boy from the mother until he is 10, then he will choose a trade”
Worried more for her eternal soul than the lives in her stead
I seek for her grave in town
Wanting to rip the marble from the parched earth
Seething over my legacy of enslavement and death
Here are my comments on the creative process that you requested. As a poet, The moment really chose me; I was in Lexington, VA, specifically to write poetry. I’d been writing a lot about COVID, the political, economic, and social ramifications of which took up a lot of my time.
The hardest sentence to write was the sentence about the actual talking with the woman in the store, and how I had to write about the time it happened as well as to bring up the painful memory.
In the first draft, I had a hard time separating myself from the content, I felt it was overly soul-bearing. I kept the part about crying because I did, and it seemed to fit. I also kept the anger, and I never have found her grave. I wanted the poem to feel unsettled. I am still unsettled.
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy,
approximately 800 redundant pages
of Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentless banalities of economic and political elitists.
Rather like transcribing often inebriated conversations
within all-night insider celebrations
of a ProPlutocracy Party Convention
Or, sadly, a depressed weed-rant
at the end of a long defensive policy debate
among inter-religiously woke Democrats
longing for a win/win DanceParty Convention,
like in the good-old liberally bipartisan ballroom days
Only maybe about 400 condensed
impacted pages shorter
with the remainder quite unliterally
and anti-climatically inscrutable
as planned anti-ecological obsolescence
through mutually partisan assured destruction
Drinking and smoking
through organic Earth's rabidly dark night
denying and/or distracted
from synergetically addressing
our unwell-disorganizing Anthropocene
of epically AnthroNarcissistic
autocratic-monopolistic chaos
Adding nothing more useful
or healthy
or sacred
to Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentlessly drunk banalities
of economic and political elitists.
In the penumbra of life, a choir of lost souls dances,
Their ephemeral steps leave traces on the sands of passing time,
Their dreams, like night butterflies, crash into closed windows,
While the sea of existence churns under the moon, untouched by thoughts.
The scent of regret floats in the air, heavy with unfulfilled promises,
Their lives, like plastic flowers, crowded in vases of oblivion,
The music of the spheres pours over them, yet their ears are stuffed with cotton,
And their minds, labyrinths of banalities, spin in circles, with no escape.
The clocks tick-tock ironically, counting the seconds of a dull existence,
While they chase after celluloid phantoms and yellowed banknotes,
Love, reduced to a mechanical act, loses its magic in routine,
And their families become gilded cages for birds that forgot how to fly.
Oh, how life slips through their fingers like the fine sands of the desert,
While they sleep with open eyes, dreaming of prefabricated happiness,
Death comes as a release for those who have not truly lived,
For there is nothing left to take from souls emptied of meaning and color.
And yet, in this symphony of desolation, a rebellious note resounds,
A muted cry of conscience that refuses to fade into the void,
For in every moment, life whispers its eternal secret to us:
Live, feel, love, create—for only thus can you conquer death.
The Big House
I could not live in a house with many people
Voices at all hour of the day, no privacy, the precious moment
When the world rolls slower, and I can hear time`s clock tick
In a house full of people, there is a din of violence to come
And whispering sin at night
Flushing toilets, subbing feet
The tears of the misbegotten, those who are cheated on
Drunken brawl screams and police sirens.
TV that is full of banalities
Every news program feels the same, recycled from the same supplier, adding to the sense of sameness and dullness that fills the house.
To live in a house full of people must be very lonely
With no time for reflection