Long Fraction Poems
Long Fraction Poems. Below are the most popular long Fraction by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fraction poems by poem length and keyword.
Although the place where the dead go is called the world beyond,
some say that it’s located underground while others say that it’s located in heaven above.
Since the world beyond is not the real world where you and I live,
it doesn’t make any difference whether you go to heaven above
or netherworld below
the majority of people, when their time comes,
whether they lived their lives virtuously or not,
they want to go to heaven rather than the underworld.
Because the underworld is dark, chilly and damp,
moreover, time doesn’t move forward but is still,
people suppose; heaven is warm, bright and beautiful
with seasonal changes in colorful sceneries.
The thing is, though may it be human nature to choose heaven,
to me, rather hard to comprehend is the one who asserts
that they are the ones who will enter heaven wearing
a garment smeared with covetousness and hide their deformed ugly heart in it.
Most men who allegedly say that they will go to heaven
are those unable to see their own blemishes, no matter how big
they may be, because they are so arrogant and self-centered.
Nevertheless, they spot other’s flaws so easily, no matter
how small they may be, and scold them severely because
they are self-righteous hypocrites.
They donate a fraction of great sums that they collected from
many tenderhearted good people in the name of God or of charity
and boast on themselves though they appropriate the rest of the large
sum for their purposes, as if they sacrificed a lot of their possessions and precious time, as if they were the most caring and understanding human beings.
Though they ill-treated their own parents they shamelessly tell others
to respect their parents, they are deceptive pretenders. They are men
able to trade their own brothers for any price without the pangs of conscience though they once swore before God that they would be faithful to their brothers.
For those human trashes insist that heaven is theirs though
the men who qualify to enter heaven humbly lower their head
without a word, perhaps Peter the owner of the key to heaven,
is troubled badly with men’s ignominies; it would force dignified rigorous Yama*,
the lord of hell, to smile a grim smile.
*Yama, the Chinese and Hindus King of Hell. Hades of the Buddhism.
Ode to Pain:
Springing forth and flowing in energetic liquidity. Emotions in motion in chasms far reaching me.
Of hearts preaching unbalanced in teaching thee. Lessons in life.
In balance.
Far from reaching me.
Ode to pain in yesterday's strife.
Memories of laid down bodies at night.
Darkest of specters nefarious in plight.
Left us unanswered in misery's strife.
Ode to the moon.
Only a fraction of light.
In mortal terror.
Rancid owls screeching in flight!
How, let us see through pitch blackness and fright?
When words are but all remembered.
With no dawning of light.
In lew of an awakening mind in the night.
We are given to remember our lives from great heights.
Falling from heaven became habits and rites.
Trapping our intentions.
Expectations arise.
Praying for forgiveness so that our Son may still rise.
Giving us forgiveness for wicked deeds in sight.
From the bowels are earthquakes.
Not butterflies.
Just lies.
We gather for sermons.
Hope will arise?
But all we are doing is looking elsewhere in spite.
Rather than the victims of our deeds in their eyes.
Instead we pray for forgiveness in the absence of sight.
Focusing on before.
The traumatic moments we die.
It's only in that moment.
Forgiveness will arise.
With power to break chains from your victims felt cries.
Relieving the pressures of dark gasses.
Bottled up inside.
Dissolving the lies from behind those eyes.
Your soul became wicked and suffered by night.
But mourning for forgiveness is not only just wise.
It's the only reason the sun has to wake up.
Have the courage to rise.
Shining light on your failures as a human is nice.
But shining light from your victim is forgiveness.
It carries you in time.
Relieving your worries and healing your mind.
Instead we kneel in darkness and pray to a vine.
Who's divine berries are sweeter and made into wine.
But the thorns are ripping apart in your mind.
Now that It's open.
Your blood we shall find.
Dripping and dropping and leaving behind.
A trail of just sorrow.
Nothing in mind.
Tears are long passed.
Nothing to find.
When the dark heart will not follow.
It's left there behind.
In these dark mortal terrors.
Forever.
You're left here.
You're Blind!
Dark heart of the lonely.
I love you
As if You are mine.
Romans 13:1 - “The authorities that exist have been established by God”…
Though that seems more of a facade, long shot and a fraud from a world long gone
Since sin no longer seems fiction in this depiction of friction with biased predictions
An election... with no intention of protection for the derelict despite respective messages
Seems like these cycles are a hit-miss of plot twists and taut fists that obscure who God is
But we make no connection that contention from our own predilection sows dissension
And without intervention comes resentment, we need spiritual direction
But instead of resting in God’s embrace we attack others with a verbal mace
while we brace our own heart for impact, still intact, rate of pace faster than light in space
We’re caught up in the race but instead should race to erase the rays of hate from our own race.
Why do we debate the debates as we relegate and castigate with hate, then demand a rebate
or hammer their manner like it’s grammar, then try to conjugate what they obfuscate
Our minds are lost in space while propaganda confiscates our thoughts of late
Then traps them in relapse, perhaps inaction would produce the largest fraction of satisfaction
But our thoughts are funneled and fueled into to a brew of psychological stew
so heated and cruel it boils over derision and division, it’s no wonder we have tunneled vision.
Then when the door unhinges, pops open, it’s rigged with bigoted dissonance, explosives
that spring from an ocean filled with commotion from springs of offense overflowing
because we dared to confused fact with opinion and reasoning with motive
America caught between a persona gargantuan and aroma of pantsuits and emails scandalous
The purposes of service is not to deter with private servers or privates and perverts with backers
in reserve or greenbacks in reserves, we reserve the right to deserve more than this disservice
So when we venture into this realm of guesswork where conjecture is turned into adventure
When the cyclical turns visibly unbiblical with violently physical intervals fueled by the visceral
Instead of surrendering our heart’s rhapsody of magnitude into apathy and lassitude
...let us pray for strength to maintain a God sustained attitude of positive aptitude
His voice soft and cracking,
Wanting desperately to start conversation. . .
Discomfort only letting out a few words from my trembling mouth. . .
The center of the audience,
Still alone in the embarrassment of my own silent, screaming ponders. . .
His laughing. . .
Laughing again to help me notice that he’s laughing for me—
That he wants me to join in too. . .
He reminds me I am overthinking again. . .
Sadly, in this sickened mind,
I oblige . . . a curl of a smile from my lips…
Noise coming out. . . JUST NOISE. . .
My mind elsewhere,
Not even laughing at the film in front of us,
Feeling pleasure in the superior feeling that he cannot hear me screaming something else,
Laughing at his evident confidence,
While others beside,
Are in other worlds. . .
All around,
Feeling the superiority of their own thoughts, no doubt. . .
Curiosity like a cheap flashlight,
Flickering on and off,
And then losing battery…
GET A GRIP YOU FOOL!
They are just enjoying a goddamn movie. . .
But we don’t care for a moment. . .
They want us to know that the fiction is far more exciting than our insignificant reality,
Temporary partnership. . .
And I want to give him attention,
Because I want him not to feel what I feel every sad day of my life. . .
I want him because people unwant him. . .
And he knows that they are not looking. . .
But I am. . .
And I always have been looking,
Targeting you from the crowd since day one,
Steering my attention away from the braced teeth,
The doubled chins,
The collateral cussing,
That guy's flexing ass,
The buttered crab in false paradise…
His elbow stabbing into my world.....
And I feel awful knowing the thoughts will never reach his own,
Just for a second. . .
And then I thank God that he is not a mind reader,
Otherwise he’d be reading his life away,
In the sticky pages of my thoughtless, void existence. . .
I realize it is just him and me in the room now. . .
As you pour your glass of rum,
We ignore your existence,
Looking in each other’s eyes in that fraction of a millisecond. . .
Nobody knows us.
Our minds are bedridden in disease and frictional bewilderment. . .
No one can ever truly see it. . .
No one, not even I,
Understands these thoughts. . .
And it is sickening to realize . .
But. . .
That is the perfection I have come to know.
Dry Facts Can Perform Juicy Acts
In the EFL community
all around the world
it’s an undeniable
and unpleasant reality that
no matter how well-motivated
you and your students are
no matter how real and acute
the need for learning
a language may be
no matter how well-equipped
the language center is
no matter how well-trained
your instructors might be
still, teaching a language
as a foreign tongue
in a foreign country
in a classroom environment
within four walls
is an artificial endeavor,
pure and simple.
Moreover, the minute the students
step out of the classroom
the little language environment
created in the room
is left behind,
lost and forgotten
until the next class.
Minds boggle at how lively,
how attractive,
how delightful and entertaining,
how effective and powerful
languages can be
at the hands of skillful comedians,
orators, actors, poets and authors
while they all become
utter bores, dry and irrelevant,
with chalk-and-talk-addicted
unimaginative, ordinary instructors
in the language classrooms.
Though language itself is dry
and teaching it mostly boring
the way you introduce it
may engage even the cynical students
if only you yourself believe
that teaching is acting.
Instructors must act
to attract and impact
never mind if students
react without tact
each act will surely get
a few shells cracked
“teaching is the art of changing the brain”
that’s a well-known
neurological fact.
Acting will deliver
student participation
a recipe for motivation
a remedy for alienation.
The target is communication
and retention, not full accuracy
nor perfection, and, please,
leave aside incessant correction,
which definitely leads to
disenchantment and rejection.
Value student participation
and production
encourage interaction
feed vocabulary in collocation
grammar, like medicine,
in the right dosage and proportion
and for God’s sake,
keep your chalk-and-talk
at a minimum fraction.
Remember, an ELT instructor is
a confidence booster
not an error-seeker
or hand-pecking rooster.
Who said ELT was
an educational roller coaster?
Nope. It’s more like a bread toaster,
which takes care of all on the roster.
Idris Esen, February, 2016, Istanbul
It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the
Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting the burning of the Jews, flat
perspective,
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially
Jewish,
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
Earlier that week, I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on
the Roof, thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My
Favorite Things
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.
Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
Jasper
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride to my
eye.
Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
we're convinced
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European,
African.
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags
of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate
toward the mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such
abstraction and, thus, acted on a fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs guarding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for the burning of the Jews.
In the world of all comforts,
In the world of absolute care and affection,
In the world of motherhood.
Ten months I was basking, in my mother's womb.
Happiness running down my spine – I thanked God,
His blessing in disguise, rather he in disguise – My mother,
Who is she? How she will be? - I don't know,
Am I her replica? Am I her miniature?
I struggled day after day to open my eyes.
To look at her dazzling beauty and to admire her.
Her hands were made to carry me,
Her arms were made to hug me,
Her shoulders were made to bear me,
My mother, the only person on this whole earth to love me more than I do myself.
I longed to see her face,
Why this ten months vigil? Why not now? My heart bumped!
Days rolled and months passed.
I kicked my way.
A pat on my back,
I cried, it was tears of happiness.
Where is my mother?
Place me on her hands, let me sense her breath,
Let that be the first air I breathe.
With great joy oozing out I slowly opened my eyes.
To see her eyes which is longing to see my eyes.
Mom! With great excitement I gazed.
But it was the blue sky that welcomed me to this new world.
Where is my mother? Where is she? Is she not carrying me?
I searched for her.
Then where am I placed? I looked around.
The cradle squeaked.
Sudden fracas and turbulence hit my ears.
In a fraction of a second I was surrounded by people.
Nobody like me and nobody liked me.
I moved from one hand to another.
But I never smelt my mother.
My mom was missing.
Did she leave me?
I was in a fix.
Yes, she left me.
What made her to hate me even before I was born?
She left me alone in this callous world.
Abandoned me,
Branded me an orphan,
Made me languish in pain,
Agonize in vain,
My day turned dark and despondent,
My life turned bleak and impotent,
But still my heart longed to see my mother.
I can never in my life hate her.
Because I was in her.
My ire was directed only at God,
He wrote my fate,
He took my mom, what more can I ask,
Nothing can replace her in my life.
I said “My God my first and last wish,
Give every child the power to see even before they were born,
Children like me, who are so unfortunate
Can see their mother's face at least from their womb.
BY
MADHUPRIYA SHANMUGAM
In the dream of others, I struggle like a leaf carried by unknown winds,
Caught in a web of desires and expectations not my own, my soul a voiceless prisoner,
I navigate illusions, a shadow lost in a maze of borrowed dreams,
And wonder, with each step, how much of me remains, how much is lost in the abyss.
Like a river carving its path through darkened valleys, so flow my thoughts, restless and murky,
Seeking the true essence of myself, buried beneath layers of conformity,
Three-fourths of me have dissolved into the ocean of others' expectations,
And I am left with but a fragment, a pale flicker of what I could have been, of what I am.
In the mirror of time, I see distorted reflections of my self,
Faces that are not my own, gestures that feel foreign, all dancing to the rhythm imposed by the world,
I am an actor on a stage without a curtain, playing roles written by unknown hands,
And I wonder if I shall ever claim my own script, my own destiny.
In nights that stretch long, when the moon casts its silver glow upon slumbering dreams,
I hear distant whispers, calling me to reclaim my lost self,
But the dawn brings with it the familiar masks, and once again I am lost in the dance of puppets,
Caught between the desire to be myself and the fear of disappointing.
I break myself into pieces, offering fragments of me to the world,
Three-fourths of my essence melds into the mold of conformity,
And I am left with but a fraction, a mere shadow of my unfulfilled potential,
An unfinished symphony, a dream shattered into a thousand pieces.
In the silence of the night, I dream of liberation,
Of the moment when I shall break the chains of others' dreams,
When I shall reclaim the three-fourths lost of my being,
And dance, finally, to the rhythm of my own heart.
But morning comes, and with it, the harsh reality,
That I am still ensnared in the web of foreign dreams,
A butterfly with wings glued to the spider's web of conformity,
Struggling to take flight, yet too weak to break free.
And yet, deep within me, a spark of hope still flickers,
That one day I shall find the courage to be myself,
To reclaim my lost essence and live my own dream,
Freed, at last, from the captivity of others' desires.
Proliferation the wonder of it all
from a tiny seed becomes a tree tall
pollen from stamen floats on winds call
DNA puzzles do many enthrall
Written instruction for what it becomes
answers to life’s perplexing problems
a manual so tiny naked eye cannot see
engineering so fine progresses what is to be
Stored information that’s dynamic in action
investigation that understands just a fraction
plants that convert light into sugar
directions malfunction converted to injure
So much of language we don’t understand
and deny designer on length of it’s strand
like God we conceive with plans and action
to science becomes a single mans passion
We draw and layout a similar pattern
imitation configured by nature so learn
skill of arrangement and execution
who would replace design with evolution
We ourselves imitate all creation
by things produced in every nation
like God we delight to work something new
to admit being like God are those of us few
Why do so many have difficult time
that like our Father have creative mind
able to produce from imaginative skill
beauty and pleasure which in our souls thrill
Everything speaks of brilliant design
it’s language to the specifics define
communication of action individual speech
in every molecule order does teach
Expressions of Love in all that’s created
conditions within the things investigated
intelligence for foolishness many have traded
and thirst for learning becomes castigated
We comprehend not the speech of our tongue
or the effects upon whom it belong
direction of growth all order is spoken
connection with Father has become broken
Genetics embody progression of growth
contains language and communication both
from within does come outward advance
to intricate to have arrived by chance
In all of nature instruction is written
the Bible a book of directions submission
to understand Love and how we should live
and what is hidden within his missive
Jehovah to earth sent his only begotten
with his sacrifice might our hearts soften
so we might have our freedom of speech
to understand the heights that we may reach
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC?
RAIN FORESTS
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
When I consult my pillow each night
The question is how to solve this planet’s plight
I’ve narrowed it down to a fork in the road
Take the left, utter destruction full overload
Take the right, prepare to take drastic action
Need to reduce the populace to a mere fraction
The left will allow us to proceed to the end
With little or no resources left to spend
The right will require rigid limitation
Of the worlds ever burgeoning population
We’ve poisoned the rivers and smallest rill
Contaminated the soil with chemical spill
Made places unliveable with hazardous waste
Treated the water altering its color and taste
We dump raw sewage into the ocean
To the struggling marine life a fatal potion
Mismanaged ventures exploring the flora
Has brought us viruses, hiv and ebola
We cut down the rainforest in the amazon
In a hundred years it will all be gone
Populations will continue to rise
So will sea level no great surprise
Two feet of ocean rise will surely displace
A billion members of the human race
It’s a given fact that we cant deny
Each human displaced will cause two to die
There will be chaos and hungering strife
Millions slaughtered seeking a new life
There is a trend easy to recognize
Fauna is disappearing according to size
Rainforests(2)
Dinosaurs were the first then pachyderms
Elephants, lions, tigers and giant earthworms
It should be easy to draw the line
Can the *****sapiens be far behind
Did I mention that every year
Inches of topsoil disappear
The world will face incredible need
Shrinking crops yet more mouths to feed
There is only one way mankind survives
Reduce the populations by billions of lives
Eventually governments will put niceties aside
Conducting programs including mass genocide
Nations will conspire in covert compliance
Eliminating each other in open defiance
No need to employ weapons of mass destruction
Dispatched germs and viruses will do the reduction
Privileged groups will have access to vaccines
The rest will vanish in unending streams
While the thinning is in its many stages
We’ll call this time “the new dark ages”