Long Contradictions Poems
Long Contradictions Poems. Below are the most popular long Contradictions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contradictions poems by poem length and keyword.
ACCEPTANCE
These eyes of mine are slowly closing on the dreams,
I have woven – dreams of hope and a happiness it seems
are coming to an end, just like summers elations.
I feel there is nothing more – no reason for expectations
as I feel you slipping back-to what once was-into the shadows.
I will cherish summer’s joy, pleasure- lost to where?-who knows?
B. J. "A" 2
November 16th 2006
I feel - for you I hold no intrigue, no fascination, no passion, no attraction, no inspiration - so many restrictions, so many contradictions flow across the waters of one I know not.
I do still - even though I believe I know - want to give to you evenings filled with the most beautiful sunsets this old world has come to know. I would love for you to experience – in the twilight, in the darkest, in the midnight, in the early morning hours – all the colours one can bring to your life, to your sight, to your heart, soul and to your spirit .
Love
Bill .
A banana tree bears bunches
of fat yellow legs,
clusters of pendular limbs
known as hands.
Such contradictions
serve to push our minds
out of their crates.
Try not to ponder too much
on fully thawed tarantulas
and small venomous snakes.
Feel free to postulate
how quickly life begins green
by turning yellow,
until seemingly overnight
a mottled jaundice
heralds an unpleasant end.
Most mature bananas bend
in like manner,
and could give rise to thoughts
of Pyrone’s disease.
Banana enlightenment is rare,
some may awaken
clutching at a pulsating plantain
only to have nirvana slip away
as time unpeels
a more humdrum reality.
For best results
potassium yourself daily.
You found all my old scars
Soothing them unconditional
As I reached for the stars
Made me think I was invincible
You never stayed just in and out
When it was appropriate for you
Funny until you I had no doubt
Moments I gave to others few
Here, then with no word leave
Intoxicating me so gently
Forever saying how you believe
Contradictions said aplenty
You played the game and I knew
Deep down you held deception
Tales of what you went through
While blinding my perception
Honorable Mention
STRAND SELECT 5 any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Brian Strand
1/4/2020
The moon casts its silver vault over the ruins of modernity,
Where the souls of conservatives and progressives meet in an endless dance,
Of mistakes and traditions, I find myself carried on the wings of a stream of consciousness,
Contemplating the contradictions that define our ephemeral existence.
The progressive, with his heart of fire, steps forward, without looking back,
Embracing error as an old friend, inventing new paths,
Delving into unexplored abysses, in his eyes each mistake
Is a step towards a bright future, a candle burning in the night of ignorance.
Yet, in his frantic flight, he does not see the ruins left behind,
He does not feel the pain of those who fall in the shadow of his steps.
The conservative, with his heart of stone, stands guard at the gates of the past,
Fiercely defending what once was, in the pale moonlight.
The ruins become sanctuaries, and the mistakes of yore
Are transformed into sacred legends, he looks with reverence
At the remains of a bygone era, seeing in them an eternal beauty,
Untouched by the passage of time, in his eyes any change is a threat.
Thus, a tragic dance is born, in which each new mistake
Of the progressive immediately becomes a relic venerated by the conservative,
It's a symphony of contradictions, a fragile balance
Between momentum and stagnation, between dream and reality.
In this play of shadows and light, each soul
Is trapped in a snare of its own consciousness,
Trying to find meaning in the chaos of the modern world.
And I, a mere observer of this melancholic spectacle,
Let myself be carried by the wave of thoughts, seeking answers
In the silence of the night, perhaps the truth is hidden somewhere
Between the ruins of the past and the promises of the future,
In the heart of each mistake and in the beauty of each tradition.
Perhaps balance is nothing but a dream, an illusion
That disintegrates under the cold light of the moon,
In this divided world, we remain prisoners
Of our own beliefs, navigating among ruins and hopes.
Seeking meaning in the endless flow of consciousness,
And, in the end, perhaps our only solace
Is to admire the ruins under the moonlight,
To find beauty in imperfections and to learn to live with the contradictions that define us.
I’ve inherited contradictions - which could be genetic, original-personal failings, or the result of family dynamics - those are like the background radiation left by the big bang.
If you’re in school long enough, you take a lot of psychology tests. In my psychological makeup, a drippy sentimentality uncomfortably coexists with a cat-like indifference. This is probably my French cultural inheritance - is it too late to add that factor?
The seedbed of my current cognitive dissonance is time - I don’t have a lot of time for other people’s issues. Please accept these earnest, unfiltered insights - even if they are laced with caffeine.
I finally got some graded papers back - I wondered if they were shredding or recycling them. I did ok. It was an electrifying moment in an otherwise indifferent week.
Let’s wax somewhat poetically…
I’m loving the Université.
The architectural spaces,
the concertante ways people
move through functional areas
and the layers of differing sounds
- the heard-like, instinctive responses
to the triggering abstractions of universal signage
- going up or down, yes, no, stop, go -
that send us in well-practis'd directions.
I find the colour and movement,
the fashion mix of high and low cultures
lush and satisfying but you can never get
a cup of coffee large enough.
enough of THAT.
I’m not a poet at all. You’ve heard of method actors? Well, I’m a method writer. I fully inhabit my one and only character who, in turns, charms, repels, embarrases and delights me - just like everyone else in my life.
Would you buy defining yourself, in little vignettes, as an audacious act?
I write ‘flash fiction,’ I’m told, because it presents only one person’s perspective - but I do it with forensic precision - and present it all with the narrative negligence that defines my work - it’s art, people - on a time budget.
.
.
Songs for this:
new friends by flowerovlove [E]
Tokyo Lift (5am) by Cautious Clay
I Should Be Home by Balu Brigada
Your nose looks like it’s avoiding the smell coming up from your toes, you stick it in my business assume half the show and there you go ranting in an unctuous fashion slideshow of passion as you start thrashing a subtle superior bashing try and play down your snoot forgetting what suits as you honk your honour with contradictions full hollow concerning yourself with yourself and branding others supercilious as though super serious issues are confused away delirious as you don’t see the relevance with your narcissistic outlook and self absorbed intelligence assured you’re enlightened while others petty fighting up there on your balcony talk of level unity while you stare down assumably, remove yourself if you don’t know don’t tell me how I should go
The noises & madness inside my sick brain
Every day gets more & more insane
The overanalytics of mundane life on the daily
Of course I'd rather dream of you - blame me?
Wondering & wanna catch up on years
Resurfacing certain insecure fears
The pressure's trying to rekindle certain past tears
The contradictions & fictions - I don't wanna listen
'Cause there's something I happen to be missing
Like an OfferUp post I'm re-listing
I miss you. I miss Florida. I miss our Florida home.
I miss the familiarity of our zone
I miss the water - I miss my aquamarine beach
I miss mine & your peace
I miss the talks, the walks, the night
I miss these times with hysterical laughs - no fight
I miss the plans we were gonna do
I miss the Florida stars with you
I miss our weird stories - our former glory
Grabbing your hand when movies were gorey
I miss the smell of oatmeal in the morning time
I miss your Sandman wine
I miss finding new music for our playlist
I miss how you put me into melodious bliss
I miss the laughter when we'd smoke
I miss your random corny jokes
The good times are fading quickly away -
So what would you say if I said
Let's make new ones starting any day?
Would you once again be down for us -
Or would you say, "no way?"
Do you summon new or old
secret places?
Sanctuaries of Hidden Sacred Spaces?
Transforming and restructuring unseen realities, and visions of old or new faces?
To even build bridges to cross contradictions of ego, self and even trauma?
To walk away from low places: linked to old cities like Sodom and Gomorrah?
Using a diverse mixture of letters as a supernatural or mystical quality?
To create and help override everyday experiences of regression or depression?
Using wisdom, spiritual insight, and intuition?
If so, this occult spell is for just you, to help you win.
"Quasi ventus surgas et vincas omnia peccato coniuncta." (L)
(May you rise like the wind and conquer all things linked to sin)
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Occult:
A term that was originally used in Latin to designate the hidden or unseen properties of things and that, since the 16th century, has also been used to characterise religious traditions that include belief in unseen forces or that otherwise behave in a secretive or mysterious manner.
Sodom and
Gomorrah, in this case, reflects any situations linked to corruption and sin.
Image shared under fair usage policy.
Five words on infinity and beyond
Dancing with life the jester wise fool majestic clown
plays tricks illusions wisdom at the court of living madness
dissolves uncertainty’s conclusions spins and cycles
on fines lines suspended from seeming polar opposites
complements and contradictions vital motions making sense
Meaning travels back and fort meanders flows upstream
when up and down top bottom rock ponds ponder and seduce
irritate the journey man entice incite narrate the travel log
roundabouts cul-de-sacs and destinations far away and near from
stagnant rivers swashing swirling sourcing dreams surprise completion
Cascades water falls riptides whirlpools of emotion thinking
pooled resources burdens unimaginable darkness light
traverse transcend transitional transmission and transgressions
enrich deplete conquer and submit tranquillity torrential questions
tentative and ever changing answers trampolines free fall esprit
Ascending and descending signs and symbols conscience
consciousness of solar lunar bedlam sanity and solitude
rest and perpetuate the soul fluctuate the seeking wanderer
who can at times accept that final terminal starting points construct
and reconfigure miraculous mobiles circles loops and circuits to reflect
The games the trickster plays the conjurer who plies his trade
who runs her trials and tribulations on the quest for truth
and truths and individual perceptions clarity incomplete
enlightenment for that final and initial endgame peaceful voyage
posit comprise encompass the infinity of eternal being and beyond
Five words used: Clown, Journey, Whirlpool, Soul, Endgame
28th May
Love is almost incomprehensable. It is the joy that brings us to laughter, and the sorrow that brings us to tears. It is the warmth that we crave and the fire we fear.
Sometimes it grows slowly,
Sometimes it bursts out suddenly. And for all anyone knows, perhaps it is always here.
Maybe it was here before anything else. Maybe it is the only thing that is real in this holographic universe. Maybe it is the reason anything exists at all.
It is both a gentle hand that holds us steady. And the force that knocks you off your feet. It is the joy we chase and the grief we try to outrun.
It teaches us patience,
While stirring up our deepest passions. It makes us brave enough to take the leap. But, also terrified of the fall.
Love can bring us clarity.
A purpose we didnt know we needed. Or confuse us, leaving us questioning our every thought.
It can feel eternal in a fleeting moment, and fleeting in a lifetime together. It is both selfish and selfless. It asks for everything but gives freely.
It asks us to open our hearts,
Only to risk the pain of loosing it all. In love we are at once the giver and the wounded. A delicate balance of risk and reward.
It can fill spaces we never knew were empty. It can break us and heal us sometimes in the same breath.
Maybe love is the paradox of being. The invisible force that holds all things together and pulls apart in equal mesure.
And in truth maybe only through its contradictions can we understand what it means to feel.