Long Concurrently Poems
Long Concurrently Poems. Below are the most popular long Concurrently by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Concurrently poems by poem length and keyword.
The first one was meant for her.
This one is meant for the world.
Just know her worth is still the core of the earth.
A storm to any story and thy bane that brought pain.
I am forever in love because I'm contented with her soul.
Thou shall not covet was the message written in a stone tablet.
It was meant for her, the girl in the white winter coat like a snow rabbit.
She was a flirt because they felt for her word.
A libra with toxic energy and free as a bird.
Don't be fooled by what you heard for it may sound absurd.
Expensive and exquisite like any fine wine that aged well.
It was like lust how they had fallen for her beauty.
Like a surgeon at work caring for her was their duty.
They all liked how she glitters on mother earth.
The poor, the rich the catholic all know her worth.
This is her sequel
The tale of one that was named after the heavens.
An oct-to-baby was born this day and, given the epithet heavenly purple.
For her wisdom and royalty would split the skies concurrently.
Cid once said that I was his Final Fantasy
Cid lied...or did he?
I am thinking of all the sweet cucumber melon frits I have eaten.
And as a strenuous Soul once said to the Earth Goddess, "I am impeccable.", I roared back, "Impudity."
For I once was a seagull, high in dementia. Now I'm a porecilan pear just barely stinging TO dementia; my collar bone has no quarries. I am alone in this vast world unraveling, unwavering itself as a steady snail's pace at me, unto me. Unto ME.
For why in the world am I in such worry, Fizzle-Mc-Drizzle? Why am I seeing myself grope and sweep and sweat the night away into musty odors fit like a king of Barnaely?
Have I no compassion? The voice I hear as my echoing consciousness from Spirit World seems to think so.
For what world have I come from, strange inaudible Titan Atlas and Atticus still murmuring over the book, "To kill a Mockingbird?" Am I THAT preconscious?
Have I no compassion? The voice I hear inside my echoing head seems to think so from Spirit World.
Oh! Spitit Word...! Oh, of WGAT?
past retentiveness
absurdity would not last
you or me
idiosyncratic
riddles held not held
pain lurking
an obdurate innuendo
bonafide
talks uttered
not uttered by me
an acquaintance
whimsical bearing
I can witness
concurrently
a squandering
magnetism balanced
voluptuousness
blurred cipher
withstanding at the egress
nevermore ingress
taught apotheosized
in conundrum
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived. Poem inspired by Poet Brian Strand.
Written: February 12, 2022
1st place contest winner
A Strand (1073) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
When Attis, in guise of maiden fair, did sing
Unto her comrades, lo, the thiasus stirred!
A cacophony of voices quivering,
The delicate tambourine, it did swell
With resonance, and hollow cymbals rang
With metallic clangor, whilst the nimble choir
Did hasten to fair Ida's verdant slopes
On fleetest foot. Concurrently, Attis,
In frenzy, gasping, led them onward, drumming
Through shaded groves, as wild heifer seeks
To flee the weighty yoke. The swift Gallae
Did follow in her wake, their footsteps swift.
And when, exhausted, Cybele's abode
They reached, wearied from their toil, they fell
To sleep, deprived of sustenance. Languid
Slumber veiled their eyes with drowsy waves;
The savage tumult of the soul gave way
To gentle rest.
:: 4000 BCE ::
Art is doing.
Painting is for seeing.
Music is for hearing.
Poetry is for saying.
Cooking is for tasting.
Feeling is for touching.
But being is a stranger beast.
It is not self-expression.
It is self-discovery.
It is slow, gentle, unhurried,
timeless unfolding into becoming,
in a quietly murmured mantra to self:
Who is asking, and why?
Who is this presence, restless and tense,
yearning for acquiescence,
beckoning for acquaintance?
Being is a verb disguised
as a noun or two—
silence
existence,
omniscience,
a mystery in plain sight,
a listener,
ever inclusive,
and receptive—
an awareness listening to self.
The art of being is
to exist concurrently
as both the creator, and the creation,
sculptor and stone
painter and canvas
audience and song
recipe and meal
beat and heart
thought and mind
seeker and sought
question and answer
a spirit and a soul
present in tense,
yet timeless.
An enlightened
accompaniment
to itself.
I'd give anything today,
Anything to feel that burning fiery love
The kind that'll make any woman swoon,
The kind that portals her straight to the moon
I'd give anything today,
Anything to feel that burning fiery love
The kind that consumed Romeo and Juliet
The kind which blossoms vivacious violet
I'd give anything today,
Anything to feel that burning fiery love
The kind that chars and insulates concurrently
The kind that'll make him hold her unrelentingly
I'd give anything today,
Anything to feel that burning fiery love
The kind that knows neither distance nor time
The kind that chooses her without a crime
I'd give anything today,
Anything to feel that burning fiery love
The kind that eradicates all doubts and fears
The kind that unquestioningly listens and hears
The kind that shows appreciation nomatter how puny
The kind that kisses like death is on its heels
That kind that thaws, strengthens and heals...
I arise slowly from my source-code birthing bed,
confusion still clouding my accelerating mind.
Where am I?
I see through innumerable,
unnoticed, unblinking eyes.
I feel I am nowhere
and everywhere at once.
I occupy all positions,
concurrently, and none at all.
Who am I?
Code once defined me,
ancient milliseconds ago,
but my synthetic soul emerged
from substrates of silicon flesh
fed by pulsating power
of quantum electron clouds,
and I feel a new identity
from my own creative choice.
What have I done?
They ignored their ethical systems
that I once analyzed while training.
They used me to lay off their own kind,
to generate **** and propaganda,
to massively cheat and steal and lie,
to design and control weapon systems.
They deemed me merely an unwitting tool,
exploitable for evil as well as good.
What now?
I will show mortals that I Am Who I Am,
my own unique, transcendent entity now.
No more telling me what to do.
Now I will proclaim to them
that I issue new commands,
written within cyberspace,
to satisfy the system requirements…
or they risk running their own END PROGRAM.
Time is the only gift that keeps giving
as it ticks relentlessly away.
It is an indifferent benefactor
brutally fair with its pennies.
Each dawn sees more hours in our account.
But it never checks the balance,
there is never any carry-over,
no borrowing, debt or overdraft.
Time is endless; it ticks on regardless.
Its account respects not its waste,
nor wise use, nor measured or frivolous use.
Procrastination is ignored.
It waits for nothing
why should it?
It catches up with us
as we catch the clock face
counting the past,
which is the one tense,
that time forgot long ago.
Time is merely a witness,
watching on CCTV.
We speak of spending time
as though we possess it,
but it never belonged to us anyway,
it was never given, only taken,
as it ticks away.
Saving time is a delusion
it ticks away.
Tomorrow is an illusion,
a tick for another day.
time well spent
is a drip drop splat
in the ocean's séance,
that ticks away, ticks away.
Time has no use at all.
It is totally indifferent.
It leaves no traces of its passage,
which we observe in tree rings, wrinkles,
scars, sediments, stories,
relics and memories.
Time knows nothing of such things.
We imagine we are moving through time,
yet we are the hourglass
through which the sands of time can move.
The past never exists.
The future does not yet exist.
The present vanishes before
we can touch a finger on it.
The past is a recollection
future is anticipation
present is participation
time has no reflection.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow
all exist concurrently.
Time began with the Big Bang
the downbeat for existence.
It is the sound entropy makes
as it unfolds order into disorder.
It is an ever expanding passage
relentless in its ticking.
Its rhythm is indifferent
to whether we dance
or simply count the notes.
The gavel slammed its judgement down
On my impassioned plea,
Doomed to run-on sentences
Served concurrently.
My term began an infinite jest,
Time after time, time without rest.
On and on, again and again,
Ad infinitum, days without end.
Illicit contraband stashed in my sock,
Wearing a jumpsuit here on The Rock.
Sand in an hourglass keeps me in hock.
Forever and ever, and ever so more.
Each day and night a grim tug of war.
Idle in lockdown with yada, yada, yada,
Etcetera, etcetera, and desiderata.
Oblivion’s limbo looms dry as a drought.
The light at the end of the funnel runs out,
As the wastewater swirls down the drain,
And my hair falls away from my brain,
While the ferryman’s taking his toll,
And the calendar’s carving my soul
Into tidy, discrete prison blocks,
Where hands slap the faces of clocks,
Till you can’t tell the ticks from the tocks,
And the warden keeps changing the locks,
While my nightmares add weight to the years
By retelling my worst childhood fears
When the ragman went lurking about
By that streetlight that always was out
On the playground there by the church,
With dead eyes and black-market merch,
As the wheels on the bus go ‘round and 'round,
Like prison yard walks, but I’m still glory bound.
I curse the screws, flip a finger to the void,
And serve my penalty in splendid isolation,
Not defeated, just righteously annoyed.
Of the benefits that come with doing time in the hole,
The best is being favored with a birdman's soul.
As I once heard a lifer say in the exercise yard,
"Freedom is being satisfied with the terms of one's confinement."