Long Finesse Poems
Long Finesse Poems. Below are the most popular long Finesse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Finesse poems by poem length and keyword.
Where do you begin with Ravichandran Ashwin...intellectual impresario
Red ball romeo... conceptual maestro..the Kingpin of spin..leather lothario
Perpetual taunting...teasing..bubbling cerebral cauldron formenting..haunting
Troubling.. flaunting...tormenting..vaunting..fermenting..pleasing
Luminosity...but another one of the band of badger brothers
Reeks of unique chic tweak at its peak
Bare faced cheek of genius geek cavorting
Discerning pastor preaching while yearning for learning
More about turning…..curiosity pique...sleek sporting freak
Mythical master of disaster..have many if any been reaching 500 wickets faster
Viral spirals about this sage despite his age still taking centre stage
Batters like budgies trapped in a gilded cage
As though he had planned to grandstand the Ravinchand bandstand brand...stealing the back page
Revolution masquerading as evolution...cogitating...searching for a solution
Ruminating..problems to fix with his swag bag of tricks..spinning absolution
Precision physician with constant revision...each edition
A new rendition.. high jinks with winks.. and nods to tradition
Wondering...that furrowed brow..pondering how
Career of seams caressed with finger finesse ... architect..engineer without peer…
Can't debunk the magic funk…just respect from a Test tragic monk
Scientist enthrall..sorcerer gall...still one of us...the best of us all.
So hold your head high Ravichandran..still don't know why you were so often the fall guy
Fans vicarious view..our meme..you part of our team...daring to dream..your art of derring do
Iconic booty of noble probes…lush lullabies...strobes lapping global lobes
Sagacious..loquacious oratory...the tonic...fruity frolic
Fresh from laboratory duty..bodacious bucolic beauty
Even naysayers can't deny they relish that conjuring charm from your cherished right arm.
Let's zoom to the elephant in the room...is Ashwin the don of Indian spin
With the skill and will to top the bill and still pip Anil?
Kumble also a defiant giant on whom they were so reliant
Hot to trot just not as savvy as Ravi
The Don's got the lot..takes number one spot
Wealth of stealth...doyen among men..but never ever about himself
He loves cricket just for the cricket itself..zen then..
Verse 1
Yo, in the heart of the concrete where dreams collide,
I was born in a struggle, learned to thrive and survive,
From the south, but my hustle got that east coast flair,
Faded jeans and old kicks, but I’m still rare,
Lurking in the shadows, they doubt what I’m about,
Impossible they said, but I’m breaking every route,
Like a plain yellow pumpkin turned golden carriage,
From the block to the penthouse, I’m living like a marriage,
Between ambition and hunger, yeah, that’s my reflection,
Navigating through these streets, I’m the intersection,
Dodging all the envy like I’m Neo in the matrix,
Climbing to the top while they stay in the basics,
Plotting my ascent, got the crown in my sights,
With my heart on my sleeve, I’m igniting the nights,
Chorus
It's impossible, they said, but I’m breaking that mold,
A plain country bumpkin with a story to be told,
Got a slipper made of dreams, fitting snug on my goals,
I’m the prince in this game, while the world unfolds,
Verse 2
Rolling through the city, feeling like a king,
With every bar I spit, man, I’m claiming my bling,
From the dirt roads to the bright city lights,
I flipped the script, now my future’s looking bright,
Yeah, they see me grind, they see me elevate,
But they don’t see the late nights or the fears I contemplate,
Used to dream in silence, now I’m loud with my truth,
The proof’s in the hustle, and I’m out here uncouth,
Street symphony, composing every note with finesse,
From the struggles in the gutter to the lavishness I possess,
Impossible for a bumpkin? Nah, I’m redefining the game,
With a vision in my heart, I’m igniting the flame,
So every doubter can witness the rise from the ground,
I’m the fairy tale hero, no need for a crown,
Chorus
It's impossible, they said, but I’m breaking that mold,
A plain country bumpkin with a story to be told,
Got a slipper made of dreams, fitting snug on my goals,
I’m the prince in this game, while the world unfolds,
Outro
So here’s to the dreamers, the ones who don’t fit,
The pumpkins turning carriages, yeah, we’re lit,
From the streets to the stage, we’re claiming our space,
In this world of impossible, we’re winning the race,
They thought it was impossible, but we’re rewriting fate,
A plain country bumpkin? Nah, I’m ready to elevate.
How can I concede on the eve of pain?
When I never saw it coming
And I never felt the rain
Drops my heart beat stops
Down to the soles of my feet
I cannot breathe
And I cannot speak
Trying to find my way
But the dawning of a new pain creeps
They called me “The Wanderer”
So far off the side of love’s hill
That I’d squander even a Hershey’s Kiss
If amidst I could feel…
Numb foot steps to the left…
…I mean …
…on the wrong direction
Stealing an inch closer
and closer to its inception
The perception that I allowed
You to penetrate my heart
Without contraception
Its concepts shunned
To give birth to Heartache
and Heartbreak…
...The twin of my souls, my life long
My heart song…
“Slipping into Darkness”
Am…
I…
The Wanderer?
I can’t face this musical number
Of my tears showering and thunder
Clashes and slashes from the harsh words
That passes your lips…
Those same lips to which I’d submit
To the dance with the woman between my hips
…and thighs
I… am The Wanderer…
Wondering why there are so many people here
With no cause and no desire
No flames but wildfires blazed
Rejection, infection, bleeding to near death seeking resurrection
Cuz my heart’s been removed by C-Section
From the womb, my helpless twins without direction
They ask:
“Who lives at the intersection of Disconnection Lane
And this street called Imperfection?”
I’m guessin my wandering feet have exhausted every transgression
…And possibility
You… called me The Wanderer
I just can’t fathom my loaned existence
While Passion’s grown resistant over yonder
The distance to the South Southwest
This quest to repossess my feminine finesse
Obsessed with purity of hope’s chest
Attest to custody
Of my dear sweet departed
Or just…
…To not be broken hearted.
I digressed…
Uncharted my course
To die within remorse…
I looked, and beheld a pale horse
Divorced my heart
Beat
Stopped
Down to the soles of my feet
I cannot breathe
And I cannot speak
Trying to find my way
But the dawning of a new pain creeps
Thru a drifter torn asunder…
Bereaved be The Wanderer
Form:
Autumn foliage clings to the earth as another spring lays dying.
She walks there among the rustle of my thoughts. The ever-present
sound of her steps upsetting nature in its serenity only long
enough to remind that she, like the fall, is a thing of natural beauty.
I'd paint her in my mind if I possessed the brush: Yet, I lack in
conviction when set to wonder if I could carry the memory to canvas.
I watch her as she looks up and offers a shameless smile,
loving the appraisal of my gaze. The moment exists for us alone.
To accent the point; her hair is drawn behind her ear with the delicate
brush of fingers, exposing her divine countenance. She walks with slow
purpose causing the sway of her hips to become quite appealing to my
eyes. She was always a creature of such reform, a wisp of finesse.
Her lip captured between her teeth, she worries it gently with her
thoughts. Slowly pacing the grounds as she seeks a way to buy back
the while. A moment in a lifetime of moments. Her laugh, so endearing
to me, clutches at a heart that was wild until the day it set upon her.
I'm captivated in the pooling oceans of her eyes. She said something
then. I know she addresses me and yet the words fall short in my absence
of rational thought. I'd kiss her, I know she wouldn't prevent me.
It is a gift for the taking and so misplaced on a soul quite undeserving.
I'd kiss her but then be drowned in the torment of wanting for more than
she could offer. Another day, another week, or month, or.... or years.
But I am off now to the coast, to port. She is off in my memories. An illusion
of a misplaced past that could have been more than a fleeting moment.
I stare now at the fields from my carriage with the turning of another
autumn. I'm reminded of the place they lay her to rest. A winter chill
having claimed her in all her elegance. I can't help but wonder if it
were a heart turned cold and broken instead.
But never slip by the words so vivid in her voice, so haunting in my dreams,
"I love you, forever and always." In moments that are destined never to
arrive, she waits. I left her waiting forever... I left her waiting for always.
~Wrote for a character of a book I was working on~
White and powdered dressed in black coats Upholding lawlessness with finesse With forked breath they express Their jargon they bargain as they burrow and laso Freedom with ease legally they are not the west of pacos Two rights are never wrong where the morality rules The Law is good when a lawful tool Only when the vilest of men so pretend to be as sheep For punishment of doer's not to be themselves evil reap's That is when life liberty persuit of happiness are infringed Drinking up the law of the land like cheap wine they binge With greedness they leave you rubbing your chin again Seated for life was a founding oversite We have something to say it is not to late to make a date For political correction for terms and re-election When you see the wolve's affections In your court they will not your grievance's address I do not digress a call for redress God the giver riegn's supreme the Law he spoke Not for men to change or misquote
**Mental Rumination**
Every single day brings with it a new and unfamiliar word, each one carrying its own distinct meaning that often resonates with the shifts in my life. Retirement, for instance, has proven to be a profound transformation, especially during this initial year. I had envisioned a seamless transition, convinced that I had everything perfectly mapped out. However, as the days progress, I catch myself grappling with self-doubt, second-guessing nearly every decision I make, particularly those concerning my health and overall mindset.
It seems like a soundtrack of sorts plays in my mind—a loop of Bruno Mars’ “The Lazy Song.” The lyrics echo my innermost desires: a yearning to do absolutely nothing and simply enjoy the leisure for which I had longed. Reflecting on my aspirations for retirement, I realize that this very notion of relaxation was all I had ever dreamed about.
So, it perplexes me that a motivational speaker, someone who is supposed to uplift and inspire, is instead filling me with guilt for not maximizing every moment of this so-called freedom. Why am I feeling this way when I thought this phase of my life would be a time of unbridled joy and fulfillment?
I've recently become aware that I've gained some extra weight, and it's not contributing positively to my overall well-being.
It's interesting how these YouTube Nigerian movies have such a strong allure for me; they hit my taste buds like an addictive substance.
Although many of their movies are poorly directed and lack the technical finesse one might expect from a polished production, I find myself drawn to their charm and vibrant storytelling.
There is something uniquely entertaining about the way they portray life, and I cannot help but get lost in the attention-grabbing plots and often over-the-top drama.
It's a guilty pleasure that I know I need to manage better,
Mental rumination is a genuine experience that many of us face as human beings. It is essential to acknowledge it, as it impacts our thoughts and overall well-being.
While it seems like I am grounded on my couch, and doing absolutely nothing
I cannot be happier doing that.
But as the saying goes, I will take one day at a time. “Lord Jesus
A student hunched over a Macbook Pro gone mad with overachievement,
Typed away at a fifty-page essay with aid from sleep's bereavement.
As his fingers stroked the keypad's letters with pace and fine finesse,
The clock struck midnight when his stressing brain had asked for rest.
"I must finish," he said to the self trapped inside his aching tired body,
So he popped his prescribed Adderall and brewed twelve cups of coffee.
Then, his two fellow suitemates had returned from the school's library,
Whose brutalist folding shapen stone held tomes for the literary.
It was a university named after Jonas Clark, where Sigmund Freud had given lectures,
On his first and only trip to America: the failed experiment, according to his own conjecture.
The boy was a psychology and political science student who blended these two fields,
In his work to describe how his government affects the mind, which his paper would reveal.
Then, as the stimulant pills and beverages began to awaken his mind,
Something began stirring in the lights strung in the corner of his eyes.
They were Christmas lights, though colored orange and purple,
And wrapped around the square room in a luminescent circle.
The boy heard a sudden buzzing sound shocking him like bee,
When he looked he saw what seemed to be a giant flying flea.
It was hiding in the lucent trickles of lights that splashed upon the walls,
And making an electric voltaic sound which scared the boy who ran into the hall.
As the boy shut the door in stupefied horror of the bug inside his dorm,
His body began to tighten and tense while his hands glown red with warmth.
He looked up and could feel the fluorescent lights shaking on his skin,
As if each of the photon's strands were tiny shooting needles and pins.
His brain began to beat as if it were to burst through his furrowed brow,
As its very own waves began to blur the vision his eyes would not allow.
Darkness melted over his sight like chocolate atop a marbled cake,
As the boy's mind pushed him into a dream while his body had been awake.
A nightmare had melded with reality from the overstimulated boy,
Whose mind had trapped him in a terror and played with him like a toy.
Cuz existence among *****sapiens
extremely intolerable prospect
particularly sharing planet
with most violent species
courtesy hoodlums wielding
deadly firearms methodically gun down
men, women and children
ratcheting grim milestone
countless dead civilians linkedin
with hazards of war zone.
Upon surrendering this self
hypnotized faux yes ("FAKE") Earthing,
I noticed nothing amiss
(which temporary state of transcendent bliss
twice daily meditation strives to attain),
ah...before you dismiss
a non "FAKE" claim lemme juiced
apprise ye with a very brief hiss
tour re:, how this generally outlandish
(long gush fellow) doth wanna kiss
hippy, cheeky and buddy
UFO's (with chess
a mon bot of errant knightly -
je ne sais quois finesse,
Oh Henri Matisse -
yea artfully add a touch of Swiss
obviously predominantly
French laced politesse),
though up pawn occasion
this lousy manque non
rook key mutant doth miss
long disused subtle social cues, cuz I still
feel asper (in) a human aberration
always felt like an outcast in an alien nation
even though born on Mars,
(a distinct honorable station),
yet resided on third rock from the sun
what seems like forever damnation
yours truly experienced abolition
against supposed invaders from outer space,
and essentially targeted, kindled,
and bullied on par like an abomination,
no surprise while attempting
to escape imponderable,
and intolerable being walled din,
and trumped "illegal" accusation
crackled, snapped, and popped with abjection,
your honor (forgot to mention
earlier got picked up mistaken as invitation
from outer space by a kid prized
as some sophisticated surveillance drone),
within an etchy sketchy section
of town, and must avoid acquisition
by mad scientists (employed by NASA),
who will undoubtedly take immediate action
and disassemble me (carefully as if dismantling
Bono fide atomic bomb), hence activation
must be established pronto against administration,
sans powerful GMO firearm, emitting disinformation
(mine defense of last resort)
will definitely signal to nemesis
furthering my aggravation,
and Putin this webbed, whirled,
and wired woebegone
wysiwyg wordsmith at risk.
darkness, like Jonah
held in the belly of the whale,
the end of a world;
closed-in time in dark spaces -
gives one, a hell of a time to think
in the belly of the whale
grew a whole world,
longer than 3 days and 3 nights,
the construction took finesse
and dare one say, a gauche fearlessness
to unravel that ball of light
eject it out of her universe
like a supernova,
like a titian haired prodigy,
far from easy, ostentum
to accumulate the life of it all
extend the regeneration in kind,
of a generational call -
each time an infant cries,
the occupant in an infant is re-borne;
they say, it will take
3 days and 3 nights -
to destroy it all -
the end of an unprepared
naive world -
who keeps tabs on the betting
of it all, the end of a world?
there’s always 2 sides to a game -
the dimensions, levels all endless,
split and perplex;
in your arms today, gone tomorrow,
the love and the purpose stolen,
the end of a world -
the cycle sometimes broken -
yet the perpetuation of life,
for all its worth -
continues,
light and dark
some more light,
some more dark,
some sit on the fence
in the middle, in-between;
the end of a world?
they say shooting nuclear rockets
into the Moon’s shadow
could be a valid reason
to collect unknown dark matter -
dark matter resides in us all -
why target the Moon and the Sun,
when we have bountiful supplies
within us all, human, here in this world?
all Jonahs, at some point, we are -
inside the belly of the whale
the internal infernal wars
of us all,
perhaps she thinks ...
she should cry like Jonah,
hmmn, not anymore buster, not anymore
she’s had a life time
to think on it all,
mull it all over -
more and more
the rise and the fall,
but, she doesn’t cry anymore
the philosophy
the mathematics
of the metaphysical
revolution takes over -
the futile banality of it all;
ostentum
the occurrences,
foreshadowing future events
borne from the belly of a whale
the ostentum,
goes about freely, now
watched from afar,
by the love of another,
uneclipsed,
in her own world
like a child
watched by a loving mother
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Mysterious pulse of old Japan:
Oriental strides of nurtured grace;
Cultured impulse in mindful trend.
Painted faces with measured trace:
Years of training now fruit fine skills;
Motif graces that gently pace.
Merge with duty in kind goodwill:
Delicate moves put men at ease;
Fine robes silky as softness fills.
Walk on still air with radiant peace:
Sweet music floats in song and dance;
A touch most fair as charm funds ease.
Sweet scents abide in steady stance:
Fragrant cherry blossoms delight;
Hostess makes strides to flavour dance.
There is a heart that sees things light:
Whispers most sweet warm murmurs here;
Choice sparks fond art in precious sights.
Listen, art weaves sensuous cheer:
Know sure finesse in cultured ways;
Petals and leaves, poignant grace steers.
Geisha maiden livens sure sway:
Gentle yet firm with sacred code;
Courteous haven that honours play.
Evening comes by nature's mode:
To waltz the guests with tender poise;
Explore and sum the festive lode.
Feed special treat for merry choice:
Discipline tells in cultured plot;
Look to chimed feats with measured voice.
Geisha knows how to prime each lot:
Pulse of movement that entertains;
Swaying flows now with subtle thought.
Years of passion as purpose trains:
Looking to sculpt a way of life;
See pure action where intent gains.
Glimpse the lure of cultured strife:
Here by the gate on Eastern shores;
Costume feels sure a beauty's life.
Mind and heart sign in craft and more:
Body allure that tells a tale;
Zen-like fine art to unleash core.
Delicate moves in rice brewed ale:
Joy serenades the party mood;
Crisp movement grooves as freshness sails.
Bright moonlight streams a dazzling good:
Lovely looks flood the surge of play;
Dream follows theme in wine and food.
Strains of music dwell with verse say:
Song and haiku to paint a glimpse;
Rhymes string magic as movement strays.
Geisha my dear watch wordplay scheme:
Look to beauty that hides within;
Notice lines steer the path I dream.
Geisha maiden from times unseen:
Fine tapestry from ancient times;
Sculpted haven from ageless scenes.
Geisha looks quaint in modern chimes:
Face laced in paint as silk robes time.
Leon Enriquez
28 July 2014
Singapore