Long Conformity Poems
Long Conformity Poems. Below are the most popular long Conformity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conformity poems by poem length and keyword.
The hallow husk of his once dear friend, turns its bird-like head, dark eyes intentionally resting just below his own blue-green eyes, as if it were impossible for a ghoul such as this to gaze upon anything true and alive without recognizing its own emptiness, and briefly surveys its old friend as if in judgement from a high perch; Its forked, corrosive tongue cuts through the air like poisonous darts seeking soft tissue: "You're too emotional. It's pathetic. Why are you so weak now? Nobody cares about your pain. You think too much. Just enjoy yourself."
And this thing before him, this thing that wears the skin of his old mate—that beloved friend who once had real human blood rushing through his heart, mind, and soul, that precious life water that tethers you to the great and vital river vein called Humanity—now gives a dry and short series of gasps intended to mimic a mocking laugh, full of hatred and resentment both meant to tactfully conceal jealousy and shame, but do not quite cover the lie, which only quickens its face turning away to join the others who were also dead before their time; All with the same expensively shampooed hair sleek and wet in the smokey haze of neon bar lights, sweat-stained designer clothes hiding their starving ribcages, and earrings, necklaces, chains, watches, and countless finger rings, all much to gaudy to be real, but nonetheless are what they traded away their empathy and compassion for, and so they lavish these meaningless possessions that adorn their gaunt frames.
A society of the shallow and empty, every member once came to that crossroads in life, each taking fire to burn their kindness, empathy, and compassion, out of their souls one flick of a butane lighter at a time, making the evil smiles of the already-initiated glow orange through the black glass. By night, they prey upon the good and the kind, not just to steal their life force, but to spread their hatred until the world is just as bleak and empty as them.
Those who choose to sever themselves from their humanity disdain all light, as it only serves to remind them of their own weakness and of the priceless thing they gave up for it. Something nearly lost to their memories, as now their memories begin themselves to fade away. They know only that your goodness offends their eyes, behind which, you may learn lies an endless cruelty.
"Final Edition" Posted 12 Sep 2021
With deep gratitude to all of who visited and commented over these 12 months of Monoku Mondays, I am hereby retiring this series. Keep laughing and bringing a smile to one another, we all need a lighthearted break from the serious side of life once in a while... especially on Mondays! ~ John
Just Say'n
a clear conscience: usually the result of a bad memory
Speaking of Memory…
i've got great memory if i could only remember to use it
Well If You Put It That Way
the grass is greener on the other side at least you don't have to mow it
Balance Is as Balance Does
a teen's idea of a balanced diet a burger in each hand
Speaking of Teens…
there's nothing wrong with teens that a little reasoning won't aggravate
How Sad
her birthday is april 1st unfortunately, no one believes her
Politics In a Nutshell
never forget the golden rule whoever has the gold makes the rules
Why I Did Poorly in English Class
I was always fated to mispell werds it was just my density
"Bits and Pieces VII" Posted 5 Sep 2021
I Wish I'd Said That
there is only one thing worse than being wealthy not being wealthy
Isn't It Ironic?
i express my non-conformity with mass-produced bumper stickers
I Know, Right?
all those who are opposed to speeding violations raise your right foot
Clueless Clem - International Dating Dunce
"like watching tennis, Cheri?" "oui!" "just a wee bit? okay, baseball then"
Little Red Writing 'Hood
i live in a red house on a writer's block but no one is writing
Quote of the Week
i went to a fight last Saturday night and a hockey game broke out ~
[humor attribution - #5 by Edmo Snord, #6 by Rodney Dangerfield, all others found online, sources unknown]
For each singular occurrence fleeting before me,
All senses come alive to experience life’s motion
Filled with a thirst of discoveries—a hunchbacked
Rock gleaming, salty nectar pouring on the tongue,
An insatiable need to quill under moonshine..
Then to allow the unexpected to happen
Without examining its reason,
As though a vigor of the unknown creates
Some divine exploration, my belly on fire, down
To earth or above heaven’s ridges..and I would slither
Away from what is mundane…the hardness,
The softness of nature’s terrain assaulting
My being, that I find seemingly inconsequential
Moments consequential: Somehow, this willingness
To ride with uncertainty leaves me awestruck—
Encountering the uniqueness of new ventures , inimitable.
------------
11/6/2018
John Lawless’ Creative Conformity Contest
Accept the "Holy Fathers" stains?
What prideful tolerance sustains
The acts by priestly "Confessors"
Whose transgressions we all deplore.
Their molestations cause such pain
That no repentance can explain
To parishes stretched far and wide -
To innocents they cast aside.
Religious aristocracy,
Duplicitous conformity,
Accepted this hypocrisy -
This predatory blasphemy.
Faux piety to hide their shame,
Disdaining good and shielding blame;
No deft Indulgence could resolve -
No Inquisition would absolve.
Despicable to humankind,
By words and deeds now left behind;
No con nor lies supplant the proof:
The mirror to self-damning truth.
These crimes, these aggravated sins -
Atrocities no words can spin,
Nor can appeal 'yond earthly reign
For acquiesced eternal stains.
"In the beginning God created*…”
That anchors my creative conformity
Setting my artistic spirit and writing adrenaline for triumph’s bliss
Gearing-up my creativity-cause toward the Lord’s honour
Nourishing my creativeness’ talents by His grace
Maximizing my creating time with His wisdom
Submitting my “created” ventures to His standards
While striving to be a blessing to others and to His creation.
“In the beginning God…”
That settles my endeavour’s motive
To start, strive, and succeed with and for the Creator
Without Whom I can never accomplish anything.
Thus, I should always seek His presence
To create a masterpiece, by faith, that pleases Him
Crafting poems for His glory… conforming to His sense of worth
Believing that I am created in His image.
*John 1:1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
October 22, 2018
1st place, "CONTEST NO 535..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/1/2019.
Under the mantle of night, dark and woven with cryptic gleams,
A dreaming artist finds his calling, a secret and eternal protest,
The words that escape his lips tear through the thick veil of conformity,
Defying all that is official, public, and nationalist,
For every murmur of his is a scandalous cry of pure truth.
In the diaphanous light of the moon, his soul becomes a spectral beacon,
Illuminating the uncharted paths of those who defy common norms,
Each gesture of his, a sacrifice the world deems insane,
For in following his inner light, the artist inevitably chooses... poverty.
He sacrifices all status for a crystalline dream that gleams enigmatically,
Renouncing all worldly comforts to embrace divine truths,
In the depths of his heart, an unseen flame burns, guiding him toward mystery,
Even though his path is paved with renunciations and profound loneliness.
In every canvas and musical note, in every melodic and melancholic verse,
The soul of an artist flows, a living, vibrant protest,
In the silence of the night, his calling becomes a sacred incantation,
A promise to live beyond the limits of materiality, in a world steeped in magic.
And perhaps, one day, he might even renounce his art, for a higher dream,
In the final accords and agonizing colors, he will defy the passage of time itself,
He will embrace nothingness and infinity, for his true calling is to be a beacon,
A guiding light, an invitation towards the hidden sublime of the universe.
Under the scattered brilliance of stars and the pale moon, his soul dances,
In a waltz of renunciations and revelations, a living and mysterious poetry,
For in every sigh, in every murmur of the artist, an eternal epic is written,
A protest against conformity, a call to the pure magic of hidden truth.
She keeps wasting strength, rattling her cage.
Begging to be freed, immured for her age,
first sign of nubile growth- they all want a ‘piece’,
gorging on her oppressed spirit; calling it a tease.
None see the child locked within her form.
A woman from the day she ‘bleeds’. Such is the norm!
Forced now to enshroud all her slow-swelling bits,
jeered if she stands too straight, judged if she sits.
Her rights and choices are twins locked in cells.
Hushed if she laughs too loud, horse-whipped if she yells,
the year-older brother is left loose to grow,
unrestrained he plays while she gets a ‘No!’
Young minds do wander, she finds catharsis in love.
She bunks school in secret to 'make out' in the grove,
he is young too and breaks the pact, talks to a friend,
who promptly tells all to get in on the trend!
Her plight is prude gossip, the school calls her kin.
Bad grades and reticence are blamed on her 'sin',
the boy gets a knuckle rap and is asked to behave,
he nods leaving her alone to mope in her cave.
She is beaten until all the brown turns blue.
Her story is an anecdote, a warning, a clue,
she’s worse than before from losing her pals-
whose folks have told them to steer clear of 'bad gals'.
She scrapes through school with her average grades.
Reduced to shabby clothes and well-oiled braids,
she sticks to the schedule, keeps her head up,
pinning hopes on a job to pick her out of this sup.
Near-tasting liberation she hollers in joy.
Alas! She can’t take the job they have found her a boy,
maybe he would set her free if she says 'yes' to this,
they don’t want her anymore; she’d at least be his.
He spins tales of love to get her in bed.
She's not wise yet to see through his head,
his doll in ‘fancy’ clothes- she sates his lust,
colored lips can’t coat brains corroding from rust.
He’s signed the lease! They own a house!
She smiles and slowly unzips her blouse,
stuck feeding their child, she has not a life,
he sees ‘apathy’ and wages war on the wife.
Older from enduring, she doesn’t earn yet pays.
‘Your brother has moved out. It’s been ten days!’,
she waits in bated breath for her 'gilded' locks to turn,
there’s no freedom for compliant girls- will she ever learn!
For half her life, she has been taught to 'shut up and listen’,
now she forces the bars open, to raise her girl like a son.
Don't Worry About Me
Don't worry about me,
I'm dead, you see.
You can pray to the saints,
and you can pray to Mary,
but I'm dead, you see.
You can look for me
reincarnated as a monkey in a tree,
but I'm dead, you see.
You can look for me in the sky,
or you can look for me deep in the sea,
but I'm dead, you see.
All that I possessed were left behind.
even my associates, friends, and family.
To all here on earth, I am dead, you see.
You can look, and look, and look
from here to eternity.
There is nothing to see.
Your search is like polishing glass with a sheet of emery.
So, cherish what is dear, and here, and not history.
Learn to spend time with me now. Be with me.
Love me, talk to me... and go for a walk with me,
because there will be a time when I will no longer be.
So, please, please, please try to see.
all that you pursue in this world is just temporary.
Learn to forgive and forget conformity.
Invest in love, and put away false charity.
So when I die, you will not cry for the loss of me,
but look fondly back... with a smile...
and have many, many, many, fond memories,
knowing I am with my Lord, Jesus Christ... His majesty.
by Martin Braun
August 27, 2023
A poem for my daughter.
Celebrating the Adventure of Advent
Universal elegy grieves and yet embraces shifts of paradigm
New beginnings consciousness initiates comprehends and thus proceeds from
Illusion’s delusion collusions misconceptions in the irritating
Vortex whirlpool immanent void of false containment
Enlightenment modern postmodern retro visionary futuristic aspirations
Resound in dialectical rebirth rejuvenation germinate constructive
Sense meaning reflect serenity’s tentative confidence that the
Agony of climate change greed warfare ignorance destructive apathy
Liberates fusion confusion necessitates Aquarian communication of
Antagonism’s polar opposites contradictions complements
Cycles spheres of influence of grave repression gravitate
Revolve resolve with pushing pulling moons in metaphorical
Orbital mental psychological initiation shape incidences
Synchronicities collateral communal reason feeling responsibility
Transformation of the global madness inhumanity conjoins
Idealism and the darker side’s fallacies of fabrication
Conspiracy of muted spirit silence violation fade away transform to novel script
Communication courses discourses concur in co-operation
Obvious obscurity in the blip of human race’s evolution delimits
Limitations iron cages hopes for new time place of reason beyond
Laissez-faire and hippie psychedelic stream of consciousness afar from
Anarchy self-righteous slavery rebellion mindlessness
Big oppressive bangs big brother’s obliterating over-information with
Onslaught of technology fail and falter when simplicity and esoteric
Rationale comprise enhance encompass the necessary world view shifts
Ascent and ever changing climax revitalizes humanness thus gifts
Truth deriving comprehension from ‘objective’ communal subjectivity with
Intuition insight inclination outside from the rigid boxed conformity
Order may be found again in the chaos of our time of misrepresented bedlam
New Age Aquarius delivers acts upon fresh constellation contemplates the Universe
Kai Michael Neumann
07th June 2016
I wonder how a poet thinks?
Bound by circumstance or random occurrences,
as they rise and fall like changes in weather,
lost in the turmoil of cloud cover and threatening wind storms?
If I were a poet perhaps I would know of it,
and better understand and recognize
the idiosyncrasies of time and space, word and phrase
when feelings and emotions. love and hate rise and fall.
I am neither Shakespeare, Browning, Frost nor Bly
not even Whitman, Plath, Bishop, Yates or Hughes
but surely their thought and imagery portrayed
could tantalize and tweak my interest into some form of expression.
A new generation rises, hopefully, I am one
who often lacks conformity to form and meter, which might be best
for each of us who must write the words most meanigful to us,
cannot help but ring true to who we are within ourselves.