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.
As mortal veils dissolved, our bodies merged in the ossuary's somber symphonies, two mistress awakened by the velvet-wrapped cadavers, our disinvested hands tracing syllabic patterns across the olive verdure of our skin, as maelstroms of lipstick tormented our intimate geometry. Kissing amidst ribcages and scavenged lullabies, our filial ***** tingled with an unresolved finitude, lost choruses awaking from armature wounds as compatibilities laid bare.
The azure gemstones of our sweat-drenched pores harmonized with the relics scattered about us, a Kolossus of Korova consumed by the clingy threads of our detachment. Quivering heartbeats elevated the ambiance, suspending the predisposition of neglect, while scratches on the cryptic monument inscribed our entwined destiny. I sulfured lips, poised at the sorceress-close mic.
A snarl-like grin spread like a firebrand, smoldering with provocative ferocity as I ravished the venue with tongue-flicked promises, conjuring the haunted echoes of our ecstatic love. Ghosts of our abandoning, whispers of our surrendered reveries, and shadowy allusions to lost frenzies began to undulate, like an eerie tide, through every crevice and cavity of the place, leaving only the acrid tang of our desire and the spectral whisper of "evermore".
Laughter and teardrops entwined like conspirators, as our kidnapped captives, vacant-eyed and warily bound, cringed within their gilded cages, their suffocated pleas dissolving into silken suppliance, amidst this twilight tableaux pyxis o madness, we beheld each other, our psuches conflated in a whirlwind of circumstance and whimsy, our gazes piercing the veil of regalities, and our breasts, beating in tandem, like a tempo of tender complicity.
Fore in that golden instant, innocence and abomination, zero and infinity, coalesced, and we knew, without equivocation, that ours was an amour born of estrangement, grotesquery, and co-creativity. In the subterranean realm of our laughter, a spangled whirlpool stirred, drawing all else, including reason, into its poisoned vortex, as we whispered, like doomed refugees, into the bitter wind, "pour l'amour de tous les diables".
Fervently the serrated teeth on the saw rang the death knell, twisting countenance rictus, then close casket, we heard wedding bells, as we crafted a hellhole requiem of faceless visages.
Boom.
What obstacle can there be between a boy and infinity?
Behind the old brick house, among countless fig and persimmon trees,
next to the concrete cistern and under a beautiful bright summer sky,
the boy was playing climbing trees
and chasing locusts hiding in the grass.
A boy knows that with just a prosaic branch of a tree
he can wield the most invincible of swords,
and that if he gathers a single stone from the ground,
he will have in his hands the power to move the world
and shake it as he pleases.
The boy created a cyclone from a simple blow,
caused an earthquake by jumping from a tree,
landing with his feet firmly on the earth.
In fact, a boy will create mountains and seas,
skies and planets whenever he wants to.
However, tired of playing,
the boy stopped beside the cistern,
turned on the faucet and let the water run down the floor.
On hot afternoons like this one,
there is a scent of transformation in the air.
It is at this moment that the discoveries that lead to growth take place: seeing the water soaking the earth,
turning into clay, drying and turning to dust,
the boy understood the transience of the elements.
We don't like these gross mechanisms of time.
Inside us, we try to attribute to all things,
even if in an illusory way,
a cover of perpetuity,
something that softens the violence of the years and its consequences.
It seems to be a fair form of self-defense,
especially when we realize
that all the blessing brought by understanding,
ends up being taken away
by the realization of our finitude.
You don't expect such thoughts to occur to a boy,
yet he understands the acid logic
that excludes the balm of fantasy from life
and injects a dose of the poison of reality in its place.
Soon he will look with indifference at the old toys,
he will replace each laugh with a disappointment,
each disappointment will form a tear,
and finally he will yell at his own children,
demanding that they stop playing and grow up at once.
Growing up is the only obstacle
that can stand between a boy and infinity.
Don’t believe what everyone believes
But what you understand
Don’t be part of an entirety
Which is not part of yourself
Dare to dream and to disappoint
Don’t do what is expected from you
But what you don’t even expect from yourself
Listen to people
But don’t admire them
Respect experience
For it possesses a precious value
Share your own experience
With the inexperienced
Without dictating to them
For they only take what they need
Accept the unknown
Without deploring it
For in the eyes of the unknown
You are a stranger yourself
Don’t close the door to it
For transformation
Comes when you doubt what is familiar
Accept our own finitude
Acknowledge that we are not in possession
Of the absolute truth
And thus, our truth is part of a far greater truth
Delight in the mysteries of life
As life delights in your curiosity
And only be content
Once your heart has found fulfilment
Don’t reach out to the one
Who decides to lie on the ground
For this person will only debilitate you
Without understanding
Realize that we are responsible
For saving ourselves
And it is not cruel
To walk on
Yet reach out to the one
Who needs and accepts your help
Not for your own sake
But in the knowledge that
They will help you in return
Should it be you who is lying on the ground
Don’t give without taking
No one is a hero
Forgetting themself out of sheer giving
Don’t seek fame
Nor power nor money
For those come as fast
As they go
And poison your mind
Take up the struggle
Even in yourself
And be aware of your capabilities
Don’t be someone you aren't
For a duty
Carried out for whatever noble purpose
And not exploiting your full potential
Is a waste of time in the end
Don’t try to change the world
But change yourself
For this works much faster and easier
Don’t criticise the deeds of others
But suggest possibilities
Of how to do it better
For the critic principally
Often forgets on principle
That the world doesn’t get better
By simply being against it
Be yourself
For this is what it’s all about in the end
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
Revoke me as the prisoner of your heart
I have paced finitude
From wall to wall, and cannot find
The empty space
Through which electrons crawl
To post the graffitti of their freedom.
I want no parole
Exonerate me from the conviction
Of your desire
It is my gender for which I am accused
A stereotypical blame
Beside the innocense of my name.
In silence I bear
The stain against my honor
And love her more
Who spilled it there.
For it is this love
That shall be no spectator's sport
That a man is command to love
His wife, and risk his life
Until she be healed
Shall be yielded
Healing him
And still spontaneous as my dream
When since our youth
We bask in the flame of our hearts
Cupping our hands to shield the wick
Now cold
In the frozen knuckles wet with sleet.
Release me by acquital with the truth
Gender only look like alike
But there is a finer distinction
To be made by faith
And its different sensibility
For culture is absolute
Then choice
Is nothing more than a dance of masquerade
And I am no I
For there is no distinction
No boundary defining the mass
Indifferentialable
Despite the splintering bang.
No, set me apart
As individual before the inquisition of your court
My heart recants nothing
My love is my love as my love will be.
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.
—————
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.
----------
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
I am concerned with the structures that sustain the universe,
with the mighty river of time,
the tablature and the compass of souls
dispersed in their endless penances,
the enigmatic smile of doubts
overlapping the fragility of certainties,
the detestable silences that precede painful decisions
and with the thick amalgam of pain
that poisons our days with the most varied enigmas.
What worries me is the shock
when I wake up from the nightmare of living,
the need for millimeter precision
in counting the steps until the freedom of not thinking,
the innumerable precipices
that surround any and all will of the mind
to keep away from the fainting, falls and stumbles.
What I am concerned about
is the indifference of entities or deities
that could undo the deception of atoms
in condemning us to finitude,
constantly and habitually
expressing unmistakable signs of contempt
for creatures who have given them a supposed superiority
over their own destinies.
my concern is about the extension of the shadow
that negatively illuminates the path
we should follow under the light.
the rest don't worry me.
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!)
On The Threshold
Two rooms shared a single door,
One my past, one the now,
But yet to see the future, How?
Eyes strained, brow furled… Nevermore?
In final collapse to my finitude,
I threw open the single door,
Stood on the threshold of then and now,
Screamed at the Future… Nevermore!
And silence let in, as I there stood,
Having fixed my mind on those two rooms,
To reveal a third, open windowed, view,
Of a world awaiting for me to join…
And then I saw my future there,
Yet not as made, but waiting to be,
And through that window, I had not seen,
I set the past and present free…
Slipped through that window, into the world,
To find the future waiting for me.
To see my photopoems, Join me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sonnetforge
Or visit the website: www.gopoem.com
What we Read, is Where we Go...
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