Long Finitude Poems
Long Finitude Poems. Below are the most popular long Finitude by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Finitude poems by poem length and keyword.
The exit ramp looms large just up ahead,
though still an unknown distance ‘round the bend,
a terminus of sorts.
Perhaps a point from which to send
us out of time constraints, into the now,
the means by which remain unknown, just how
exactly, this all ends.
To fret, a waste, ’tis said, so I shall trust instead.
And yet, this ideation blooms within
my mind, a frequent fascination that
with other thoughts, comports.
If only now, is there no then,
and sequencing of time, thus obsolete,
as all arrive en mass, surprised to meet?
The world I know is flat;
my finitude stretched thin, constrained to trust again.
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Another fun one, a Mistress Bradstreet stanza: 10a-10b-6c-8b-10d-10d-6b-12a
This one comes from a notion from reading Matthew 25, in the Last Judgment. All would have died at different times, but on that day, all were surprised, hence the idea of different departures, all arriving at now.
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This will be the third time I've added sponsor info. I do not know what is happening here...
for the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mark Toney
written on 10/13/22
Some say you are lost
If you are not found
On their ground
Some think you are blind
If you do not find
What they find
I am an atheist who believes
The universe is a tapestry
Not a thread
The science to chart the stars
Is but a celestial church
That medicine and vaccines
Are answered prayers
That communities
Can save each other
That math and music
Language and learning
Rebuilding destruction
And regretting a wrong
Are inherent miracles
That to plant a tree
Water a garden
Kiss a scar
Soothe a bruise
Give a smile
Hug a sorrow
Cook a meal
Play a song
Clasp a hand
Bandage a cut
Wipe a tear
Hear a need -
Is divine
I believe the soul of nature
Is sacred
and a rainbow's refraction
Is all the more radiant
For the formula it contains
I believe the finitude of life
Makes a more precious day
And, to my friends of other faiths
I believe - we can meet halfway.
4/27/20
(this was inspired by a poem I read by Anil Deo called Any Athiests out there - thank you for your kind response to my novella-of-a-comment, Anil!)
'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works." ~Revelation 20:12 KJV And then [Jesus said] will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity. ~Matthew 7:23 KJV
The sound of solitude
Means I am now alone,
Yet reminds me of my finitude
And for sins I must atone.
Guilt racks me like a cyclone,
For the lies I have construed
Lay around me like a clingstone
And the shadows of hellbrewed.
A creed of cruelty I tattooed
Upon the armored heart I honed
With every virtue I eschewed,
Now I stand before my God, unknown.
Father forgive us for being forlorn and falling
Father forbid us for continuing in our fractured and failing faith
Father forgive us for being on a Pharisaical frequency, our felonistic fealty
Father be firm in fermenting the old form and forming the new form
Father help us from faith to sight, to stand still and from fumbling and flight
Father thaw the frozen chosen, free the former and ford with the free
Forgive us all for forgetting to forgive family, friends and frisky foes
Father fence in the fiendish of all foes, frown at our flash and Flemish giant holes we fancy
Father forgive the frantic and fatalistic fray, pray tell Father don't falter
Freed from our sins by Jesus our Friend, Founder and Forever Fiddly
Father under Your feathers we can fly freely over the frame of Your fields
Father freeze our fleeting feet, flesh out the futility of fake fossil flack
Father fix our philosophies and our philandering, our fantastic fudging of facts
Father finally [and again] forgive us our frequent fallacies of faltering finitude
O my life! What a beautiful disaster it has become!
For the doses of my sunny days and starry nights grew numb,
And the sweet caress of my existence has partly succumbed.
It paralyzed me—as though my foresight had been overcome
By whispers creeping into my mind like an intruder's hum.
If I could depose the noisy image of my tomorrow,
Would it bring me silent war or peace amid the undertow?
How could I unfetter the finitude of my own window?
For my soul could barely perceive the playful tongue of a foe,
Or a friend's delightful persona behind an ugly show.
Yet I lament that the world has made its own foolish nickname
When filtered righteousness and glamorous deceit have enflamed.
On whom should I lean when moral transgressions take on their name?
Or should I wish to fly to the Heavens far from where I came?
For illusions seem true—and truth can be an elusive game.
Tattered clobbered thoughts streaming to winged dusts,
spiral spasms tremble amid weary sounds.
The festal moods swing dreary interludes,
visions ache release with defloration--
throaty cries heightens the greedy man's lust.
He longs to possess the murmur of blood
from naked images throbbing desires,
it surges -- tinged to his cerebellum.
Dark libertine drained his desirous juice--
madness stings deep-- displayed to his ardor.
Boorish bashfulness etched into each itch
cracking unto his left to right onslaught.
Finitude fair Venus choked with disgust
as she wriggles, wriggles to free herself!
Her wriggles useless from black libertine...
Pristine Venus fallen-- now wanting death.
©O. E. Guillermo
5:15pm December 05, 2014
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Contest Name Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry)
Placed 6th
Civilizations used white to mitigate the lack of black.
Black is not just skin color but also a human spirit.
Imagine indigenous people having red skin plaque!!
While things seem disastrous, it is just painted on it.
Civility will be total only If all races are treated fairly.
Thus, do not squander your life if time runs limited.
Not the same as 1960s; CRT has no sign of diversity.
CRT prep does not contain a notion of finitude.
Light exposes everything in some way or another.
The sight of a wacky mind is preferred above others.
Superior words develop at the moment they recover.
There is no compelling reason to blame our ancestors.
Nature will piddle it happen if she so discovers.
Life develops for its own durability.
Shaded Earths mutate regularly.
To preserve impartiality, we should be blind.
For exploring, notice the hues of parental rind.
Our fragility leads to family growth progeny.
It is plausible to identify prominence.
When do we have complete awareness?
People are forced to crack without food. ?
Without the deemed necessary mood.
CRT is a crucial forerunner of our world's drooping.
And we're all equal; all have the endowment to evolving.
The modern age is replete with hate; thus, let's end it.
Let's not fail to renew forgiveness to the world's past.
Written: June 20, 2021
Critical Race Theory Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
An hour has hatched in my feeble head all the actually tormented minutes,
many stuffed seconds, the past's terrible death that haunts me obsessively,
to lurk, appear in the future, after a present that aged too quickly,
from the future, absent apparition, of being or never being clearly anymore.
And look how I've found through a me too often rushed through labyrinths,
infinitesimal traces of infinity, of my current occupation like a toxic river,
attached to life in my unprofitable square dream - from THOUGHT exploding in me,
the secret mission - hatred! - the tenacious demented fight with my phantom windmills!
To find for my poetry the neurotoxic antidote, the anti-EVERYTHING destroying meanings,
of candles transpired tears of hot melted wax, my most whorish passions,
of our statues celebrities, still unhewn, in marble stones waiting,
when from youth's exhausting sprint, I feel my labored soul throwing away.
I shake as long as I'm still alive from the biosphere all imaginary windmills,
of life's intensely total electric stress that burns my neurons in small fires,
I, the successful illiterate who reads chaos on the pages of burnt time,
of seconds' past sonorously screaming, on the definitively broken from lost future!
The hour hatches minutes like time embryos boiling in the skull,
the past's memories die and turn into ash of pallid memory,
the future lurks somewhere in the present like an untamed wild animal,
and I, rushed through myself, find infinite traces in my brutal finitude.