Long Finals Poems
Long Finals Poems. Below are the most popular long Finals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Finals poems by poem length and keyword.
Zoe was born 1992 and is a Paralympic powerlifter,
Who was born with growth hormone deficiency,
In Ipswich, she attended East Bergholt school, lifter,
And enjoyed the Suffolk School Games, proficiency.
She tried the sport of powerlifting for the first time,
In 2006, and as a result of the thrill of successful lifts,
She joined the Suffolk Spartans club in 2007, dime,
To lift 40kg later that year at a local games, her fists.
Then in Cardiff at the Worlds she managed 47.5kg,
Where she came in second, and then later in 2008,
In May, she had a PB of 60kg, and then repeating
This in June to take British Champion in her weight.
Then in Cardiff again, in 2009 Zoe dropped a class,
But lifted 70kg to come first, then in the 2009 summer,
At the World Dwarf Games she did gate with her brass,
75kg, which she repeated at the British Finals, bumper.
Bangalore 2009 November and the World Games,
And she did take both the junior and senior silver,
But back at Cardiff again she came first, no pains,
In 2010, then improved to 85kg at the BFs to deliver.
She broke the European junior record, she’d doubled,
Her weight to lever 85kg, and then in Kuala Lumpur,
At the Worlds she came first in the junior, not buckled,
And she did come fourth as well in the event senior.
But she lost out on medal position by coming fourth,
At the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow, Scotland,
In the year 2010, on the run-up to the London gorse,
Then back in Cardiff again, 2014, a first she did land.
She concentrated hard for the London Paralympics,
To focus, drive and push for success and the best,
So as the only GB competitor in the under 40kg mix,
She equalled her PB with 88kg taking bronze, chest.
Yale’s friday “spring fling” was a soggy success - both as a concert and super spreader event. My groove-spirit was dampened by weather and a final I had the next morning.
I pose here tonight, in the chill residential courtyard, on my green sport-brella beach chair, like Canova’s Pauline Borghese, relaxed, canned dirty-martini in hand, still untouched by the covid menace - as if I’d taken sagacious care in avoiding it.
The waxing crescent moon is strutting its familiar runway, like a vague, ambient night-light, but what should we expect for free? Maybe it’s saving itself for warm, clear summer skies.
I can relax tonight and binge on the moon because the school year is over (for me).
I’d been in a coffee-fueled study-trench for over a week, finishing my last assignment paper with my last gasp of academic energy. It illustrated what could be crafted in a vacuum void of originality. I filled it with ideas, gathered like runoff-water, from deeper sources and tailored the paragraphs with care, weaving by sleight, the 3D illusions of depth, breadth and substance.
It was very well received. *Taking a bow*
I love the feeling of being done with finals but still living on campus. It’s casual, adult and relaxed - close to life as I dreamed it as a kid.
My room is disassembled and I’m living out of my suitcase. Movers will come and cart off our stuff Monday and Leong and I will head south - like wrong way birds. I hate goodbyes but knowing these are temporary helps. Most of my summer will be like one, continuous sleepover.
Happy Mother’s Day!
slang:
friday = something that was fun and was looked forward to
Life is hard! The college coed said.
The finals were horrible, agreed her pal, Ned.
They signed up to go to a third world country for “fun”.
Chosen as number thirty, and thirty-one.
The plane ride was horrible! The college coed said.
No food at all, and the movie was dead!
They watched the African women collect water from a stream.
Where are the faucets? Indoor plumbing? They asked their team.
The African women had to walk ten miles a day.
At the age of seven, they had learned to give up all play.
Life is not so bad the college coed said on the way home.
They didn’t even have an I-pad or a cell phone!
Miss All That (MAT) came in all prissy; serious cooks laughed a scoff.
Dare this woman think she’d make the finals in the ultimate cook off?
Something wrong with her we decided; her waist was too thin for sure.
We are serious chefs, burly with shaved heads who create chili pure.
Slimy's secret ingredient gives you flatulence and burps galore.
Many cream their britches before they reach the bathroom door.
Believe it or not, more people ate his chili than the chili of others.
He has thousands of relatives, I think fourteen younger brothers.
What do you call that crap? Asked a newcomer named Surly Sue.
We did not warn her in time, and she was now headed toward the loo.
Slimy slipped his secret ingredient into the donut she had been eating.
She did not make it for customers were taking up all the toilet seating.
Mother Russia in the form of Rotund Roth began his concoction.
Kremlin always bought his chili to make money at their biggest auction.
You sign up to stand in the bread lines waiting for two slivers of toast.
Best quality is chili's persuasive ability to bend wills of man and ghost.
I pulled out all the stops this year, introducing the Super Power Slide.
Gives you a kick in the salivating glands that makes you want to hide.
You turn invisible so no one can see your flatulence propelling you.
Around the room twice, before letting you fly out the window too.
Miss All That asked about six thousand questions to every single cook.
I wanted to say "Here lady" and hand her my dilapidated cook book.
But instead, I fell into niceness mode and helped her like the others.
Her chili was named the best; for she slept with all of Slimy's brothers.
I played sport with a boy my own age,
his older brother was talented in an obvious way,
He saw his brother thought that’ll be me one day,
he grew up to be someone who couldn’t play
I used to hear stories of my brothers successes
8 years between us always at different stages
but I used to think I’ll grow up better than you
and since we’re far a part all I can do is improve
He won one county cup and a player award
I won one county cup and two player awards
but I played in two finals he only played one
He won at the cricket but it had already been done
We won at the football and it had never been won
took us into the Nationals against champions
Pushing the boundaries in the way we compete
at the time the best team to come out the city
I won the award for the most improved player
Because unlike my friend I knew I had to get better
But I also played cricket as a summer time sport
And we reached the semi finals but sadly fell short
I was player of the year labelled the prodigy
my friend was the prima donna and lacking the quality
I guess the point is never take things for granted
You have to keep working to gain the advantage.
How good you become is a reflection of attitude,
There’s always more to do and all you can do is improve
Lovingly lauded.. they marauded.. rightly applauded
Saffa gaffers did thrill
Willow wielding wizards of Oz
Yielding…lampooned..marooned..jaffas
Festooned spill just like Seville .
Must remember..the ember burning
Yearning of Temba Bavuma
Kept his sense of humour
Despite being the victim of flimsy whimsy
Many a nasty rumour
I implore you to ignore the tumour
That is Michael Vaughan…dim..grim
Pompous pig or obnoxious prig
Having a dig..more clickbait hate p**n
Unsung and hamstrung..stoic heroic
Temba has brung salvation for a nation
With no Cronje bung..
The only stifling snub
Hell bent pundits in pulpits scream
Not just trifling .. no defending the Saffa culprits
Blunder of sending a sub par side
Alright trite s**e team down under..
Only one man stood sentry…Aidan Markram..often ignored..
Even deplored…a national pastime…his crime
Not being as sublime as in his teenage prime
But such touch..much gumption & grit
Did his bit…hit a century
Sod the rest…now a cricketing god
Against the odds.. has always saved
His Test best for the Aussie conquest..
No longer a sinner…the match winner..
Only one other Saffa..biff Smith’s
Scored more second innings tons..
They did vanquish their perpetual anguish
Their hullabaloo..voodoo..ending
The choke complex.. the hex hoodoo..
No longer Bill Murray day of the groundhog
Finally went the way of the underdog..
So Aidan and Temba we will always remember when
You gave South African Cricket their own
Homegrown ticket to the 25th of December..
Has been glummer.. Gory…still got the bummer
Of no tests in their upcoming home summer
But this a story of glory
Not being woke…not about race
The colour of his face
In history Temba Bavuma with such grace
The best ever test run chase at Lords
Nabbed his place…as the bespoke bloke & ace
Who broke the finals choke & grabbed the golden mace..
Final exams start Thursday,
and it’s giving us all the feels.
Finals have a gravity of their own.
Are the papers worse than exams? Maybe.
The tension can be relentless and heavy.
“It’s finals week, see you on the other side.”
As for me, I’m almost packed up.
Time is an odd and unpredictable beast.
It’s hard to believe that in two weeks, I'll be a junior.
It’s an unimaginable prospect.
To work, for a long time at something that seemed impossible
- head down in concentration - then suddenly, like a passing,
cotton cloud somehow became a bunny - everything came into focus.
I’m halfway done. I’m going to make it. I got a chill.
I wanted to throw my lattice windows wide open and scream for joy
- but it might’ve been taken wrong. I’ve no time to give mental health advisors.
Next week might be a more plausible time for wooting.
.
.
It has to be said. I’m in love with these songs:
‘Arizona‘ by ‘Ms. White’
‘Blood in the Cut’ by ‘K.Flay’
‘Time Machine’ by ‘Willow’
‘Relax’ by ‘Vacations’
‘Do the motion’ by ‘BoA’
“Tender as a bomb’ by ‘tennis’
Consolation prizes are always small and devastatingly adequate.
We've all taken tests - if you haven't - I want your secret.
We (my study group) spent two weeks at my place (6th Ave).
prepping for finals - which are now only half complete.
These tests take everything we've learned this year in separate modules, like anatomy, physiology, pharmacology - and compresses them, like doppio - questioning not just the fact, but where it
belongs, and how it fits the whole. Eeeeek!
Working in a group makes studying feel less like punishment,
and more like prep for a game we might win.
There are four of us - Emma, Léah, Chloé and me.
Emma’s all sharp synthesis - capable of organizing any chaos,
Léah spots the strange detail, the hidden thread, that no one else saw,
Chloé brings speed - she has near total-recall,
and I'm good at naming patterns and tying up loose-threads
- Said slightly more poetically..
We’re optimized girls
who score higher than everyone else
high-yield, low-maintenance types
hydrated by iced coffee and espressos.
We know the names of things
we know you inside out
We've learned to perform concern
in a medically appropriate register,
because we know what's theoretically possible.
We abbreviate, speaking in acronyms like Navajo code-talkers,
because our frank opinions are socially discouraged.
We've learned to speak clearly about bodies,
while getting less time to enjoy our own.
Our tests are half-way done. I think If we stopped - just stopped doing the work - the silence would be enormous, like stepping out of a machine, that was louder than we knew
- but no one’s stopping.
.
.
Songs for this:
Smash by Born At Midnite
Paraiso by Pearl & The Oysters
.
.
Doppio = double espresso
.
.
It's a week-long series of tests in: Anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, cell biology, genetics, biochemistry, clinical basics, drug basics, Semiology, Cardiovascular & Respiratory Systems, and Cell & Tissue Biopathology.
Far
Away
in space
and time, yet
fixed in memory
we wake in the dark
and climb the spree by
flashlight reaching Gilman’s
Point where we watch the sun rise
in the east over the Indian Ocean, just
like Hemingway, then past Leopard’s Point
where in 1926, Reusch found a frozen feline at
the edge of the receding glacier and no one knows
why was it there but then I’m not sure why I was there
as we slowly trudged onward through the thin air to Uhuru
where I sign the summit list-and will get a certificate at the base
but only on our return home do I discover that the Blue Jays blew a
3-1 lead in the American League finals to KC who won the World Series
In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.
Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.
We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.
Professors who have taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to try and fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?
The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.
But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos.
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.
We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.
Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.
.
Webster: foolscap = a piece of paper