Long Entropy Poems
Long Entropy Poems. Below are the most popular long Entropy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Entropy poems by poem length and keyword.
My handful of dust -
and your fleeting glimpse -
stir billion starflakes at night -
swirling insanely
intrepidly
in dissonance and delight -
shadows of perpetuity
gnawing, growling, gnarling malign
glimmering incandescently
in whispers of moonlight and brine
Awake
screams the sun, gold untenable,
Awake
bursts intention, alone,
Here, here
breathes essence, indelible,
and Renders across the bone -
Give me the spite and the daring -
break me away to the wild -
my life and my time, try Dissevering
with tendrils of passion beguiled -
hold heed the time pass irrevelance
my soul in a bottle of clay
that none of your burning ambivalence
can suffer to.. melt away
reaching for glorious nothing -
swirling across the void -
in shingles of consummation
revivified and -
destroyed -
culprit -
redemption -
oblivion -
imprint is torn apart -
and hope shall have no dominion
in an impregnable heart -
My handful of dust - and your fleeting glimpse -
A soul now dismembered complete -
And universe - fervid with entropy -
Charred palpable - and - indistinct...
I do not like the word different…it cuts too much like a knife
It adds to the trouble in our world…it causes so much strife.
When we see someone as different fear seeps into our minds
and where there’s fear…animosity and prejudice are never far behind.
What starts out merely as a way to tell that person apart from you or me
somehow ends up with people treating one another differently.
We end up in a word of labels, a world of discrimination and entropy.
A world of injustice, a world of oppression, of wars and bigotry.
A world where suspicion and distrust rule and seeds of animosity are sown
all caused when we find traits in people that are different from our own.
What if we looked at one another in a completely different way?
What if there is a word that would keep our fear at bay?
What if we weren’t afraid of diversity but reveled in it’s mystique
and instead of seeing others as different…we saw them as unique?
Perhaps then, in each life, we might focus on the good things that we see
and in the end create a world filled with peace and harmony.
I imagine by now many of you are thinking this man is different, he’s a freak
but I suggest I am not different…I, like you, am totally unique!
(Did you notice when you called me different a host of negatives abound
but when you use the word unique...see how wonderful I sound?)
It seems to me we should strive for a world where differences are not critiqued…
a world where people are more accepting…
now wouldn’t that be unique!
I stand on leaves, dead
My toes entwine skeletal remains
of shells, bones, limbs and all stuff, dead.
I sleep on cotton sewn from cotton buds, dead.
My bed is hewn from trees sawn up, dead.
The air is full of smells and wafts
from the pile of composting debris, emanating from the dead.
There is no escape from
the tug of entropy begging me
to join the dance of the dead,
and to be rendered down to dust, dead.
It beckons and pleads to claim my dust,
to scatter it randomly disordered,
devoid of structure,
blowing in the wind, swirling up
into the nostrils and mouths of the living,
to join the dance, and prance til dead.
Memory obeys laws we haven't written yet:
conservation of moments, entropy of joy,
the way certain scenes remain in perfect focus
while entire years blur into approximation.
Like light, it bends around massive objects
grief strong enough to warp the space around it,
so that walking through a doorway twenty years later
you emerge in a state that no longer exists.
Forgetting is not subtraction but transformation,
a change of state from solid to liquid to gas,
the way ice becomes water becomes vapour
still present, just harder to hold.
Scientists say nothing is truly lost,
only converted into different forms of energy.
So perhaps the birthday I can't quite remember,
the name that hovers at the edge of retrieval,
have simply changed frequency, moved beyond
the narrow band my brain can tune into,
still broadcasting somewhere in the spectrum,
still real, just inaccessible.
Or maybe forgetting is mercy in disguise
the mind's way of editing the rough cut,
removing the footage of ordinary happenings,
leaving only the scenes that mattered most.
But sometimes I wonder what's archived
in those deleted files: what casual afternoon,
what throwaway remark, what ordinary touch
might have been the thing worth keeping most.
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
Appreciating Perseus' heroic standard, I attempt to be not momentary
Apogee is meaningless, if consciousness, lies in a mortuary
Enshrined a star flickers among all, fading, becoming a constellation of effigy
Entering this realm, a committed form of manifesting destiny
I am no retrograde, happiness, my amorphous response, stillborn how I find entropy
In embers of the night, random guides, shine this brilliant map for all to see
Opening up the next stop, beckoning minds eyes sparking across oceans of tranquility
Occursion never obscuring the beauty seen in possibility
Unwavering satisfaction looking to the dark heavens, as I find all my ecstasy
United, cycles seeming motionless, however, upon this black sea
I thought that's what you meant?
There is so much meaning there.
I get it now.
It's clear as day,
once you understand it.
But, dear reader, once you have the answer,
never question it.
Never ask the author to explain.
Never ask others to explain what the author meant
for the source will often say:
"Believe what you will"
"What I meant is on another Planet"
"Maybe you read in there, something that was truly never there"
"Why should I enlighten your load with my burden"
"You'll read into it :
what you want,
what you need,
what derives from your drive
what keeps you alive and ticking"
Meaning is so demeaning.
I thought that's what you meant?
Number 42, is the answer to everything!
Fate is random decay to dust.
It's a certain curtain to disorder.
The harder you look the less certain is the scene.
Entropy quells and dismantles every
semblance of meaning in structure,
with a long half-life, bound in time.
Order's fate is disorder.
That's the way it's meant to be.
Meaning's fate is dismantled sense.
Enjoy the entanglement!
Meaning is so demeaning.
Dear Reader - please, please, please
crumple and tear
all these words up,
and eat them.
===============
Douglas Adams author of 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' (HG2G)
“It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought ‘42 will do.’ I typed it out. End of story.”
But it can't be true, surely not! It came from somewhere meaningful! Why that number = 42?
===============
What kindling might i offer to
the long dead, now near newly dead?
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What lung-puff (however quiet, however
meek, however entropy-fated it may be) might i offer?
As it always will be, leaving lungs and lips
and losing itself in storm gales of modernity.
Eclipsed by howling and raring roarings, the whispered whiffs of this bent soul’s wish...
to speak Qì to the tinder bundle, held aloft but low. i genuflect and bend and bow to stones, arranged in a circle just as humanity has long seen fit to arrange the stone Earth.
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What spark might i offer?
to Zhuang Zhou? to Li Bó?
What spark might i speak into eruptive life?
to Tara?
Om.
to Ram?
Bolo.
Death does not safekeep
wisdom from further death.
The masters die many deaths.
Forgetting.
Confusing.
The Entropy of Illusion
is the rot-causing beetles and chemistry
and larvae unseen in the height of day
but never more than a last gasp away.
At the ready to take down and break down
what’s built up and named.
What light, what heat, what protectiveness might i offer
to ?afe?? to Frost?
That they are gone is no blame on us.
That they are lost is all blame sent to and stuck on us.
On each of us.
On each day.
Let, rather
the cemetery
sing the silent wisdom
without tarry.
An undulating, perhaps roiling
tubule by sea of purported peace:
this gravemarked sea of sliced
and shined and stuck stones...
some with offered pebbles there stacked
‘pon...sees me sit. In screaming silence.
Sees me rushlessly walk. Sees me speak
wisdumb through closed lips.
Nothing comes.
Nothing comes.
Everything goes.
Nothing comes.
Wake up the crack of dawn,
Mow the lawn,
Get the mail,
Come inside and be carefree,
Bask in the serenity of entropy,
Wake up the kids to clean their rooms,
Wash the car and walk the dog,
Lay out all day the back yard sod,
Get in the car and be carefree,
Bask in the serenty of entropy,
Check the clock and plant the shrubs,
Paint the house and wash the tub,
Vacuum the bathroom and seep the halls,
Then get in the shower and be carefree,
Bask in the serenity of entropy,
Put on your clothes and go to work,
Run to the office, you're 10 minutes late,
Attribute your tardiness to traffic or fate,
Then sit down at your desk and be carefree,
Bask in the serenity of entropy,
Go home and cook dinner,
Then eat and around ten,
Go upstairs, collapse, and ward off his pass,
The man who approaches with hair on his back,
Then ask yourself why did it have to be me?
That basks in the serenity of entropy?
I feel I have appendicitis,
Or a bad case of bursitis,
And I think I need another tonsillectomy.
I'm sure I got a staph infection
From a tetanus injection
While I was prepping for a hemorrhoidectomy.
I've got cataracts and shingles,
When I cough my kidney jingles,
And my muscle tone's diminished due to entropy.
I have a lower disc displacement,
I need a knee and hip replacement,
And I'm scheduled for my umpteenth colonoscopy.
With my doctor's full compliance,
I will donate my corpse to science
To see if reasons can be found for all my maladies.
No doubt that when they disconnect me,
Vivisect me and inspect me,
They'll find a host of medical irregularities,
As well as hitherto unheard of abnormalities
That may account for part or all of my infirmities,
And might help to explain my PCP's enormous fees.
Author's note: After reading Ilene Bauer's delightfully insightful "A Certain Age", once again I delved into my archives and disinterred this bit of nonsense from 2017. I apologize, dear readers, if any of you who might be suffering from medical conditions find it insensitive. It is certainly not intended to be so. Although I don't think it's been scientifically tested or doctor recommended, I firmly believe in the homeopathically therapeutic value of humor and laughter. And I know that after writing this piece, I felt better about my own health issues.