Long Futuristic Poems
Long Futuristic Poems. Below are the most popular long Futuristic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Futuristic poems by poem length and keyword.
Got to be in the moment. Live. Be present.
Forget the past. Don’t anticipate the future. Just live.
To presently live is to let go of anxious thoughts.
Let go of held stress baring weights.
Let go of everything that causes you to worry day in and day out.
However, future must be blocked.
Yeah, it’s good to think about the future and plan,
But too much futuristic planning
Can cause us to miss out on what’s sustaining in the present.
In the present, I find peace. I find relief.
I find presence with myself, my spirit, my soul, my God.
It’s what I look forward to.
Receiving intellect, reasoning, realizations, epiphanies,
Taking time to inhale in oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide to the earth.
Oxygen to presently live
Carbon dioxide to release whatever that doesn’t serve me.
Today, I choose to simply be and live in the present.
I love watching documentaries of nature,
Full of enchanting momentous adventure,
But my favourite by far is the ocean,
As it beckons and teasingly invites us
To look at a world we could never
Imagine, serene, silent, secretive,
Spectacular, incredible, and daring,
In a magical way breathtakingly alluring,
My heart resides with the passionate,
Who proudly, and painstakingly
Dive and venture into oceans and
Waters unknown, allowing us to peep,
Into an azure Aqualand, insanely so deep,
Where incredible species of fish and
Outrageous phenomenal plant life,
Astonish and mesmerize human life,
Never to bid us farewell,
As stories spanning eras magically spell,
Bound us, invoke fantasies back to
The beginning of time when galaxies
Looked down and with infectious delight,
Smiled wisely upon our planet
With a knowing, futuristic magnetic,
Mischievousness, enjoying it’s
Confounding aesthetic
Layers of anonymity, of underwater history
Until finally one beautiful day,
Pandora’s box opens revealing to us our
Oceans mystery.
I marvel at knowledge collected,
Intensely reported and documented,
So please don't pollute our oceans so vast,
And promise to keep such, forever to last.
Gentle as you are, you come uninvited but oh so quietly
as your floral scents permeate you arrive bipinnately
Invigorating every tree and garden full of parsley
with evening's refresh breezing in succinctly
With futuristic birth that winter could not borrow
you draw us in then gift us with tomorrow
Sprigs of blooming life grow inside your yarrows
insuring us with every shade of rainbow
Calendar favored you are the in between season
ear marked for a very good reason
renewed and refreshed you are a beacon
without treason
Gentle as you are Spring, you arrive just in time
like a rose, getting ready to consign.
Severe Weather Predictions...
Professedly Plagues Psyche
I do not watch, while
feigning to sip ale,
nor listen to Wail
ling Jennings poor
imitation by prophetic
local aborigines scent
ting ancestor trail,
while plucking their
Sing song ukulele
national anthem (tip towing
thru the dale
lie la of hybrid tulips)
hearty and hale
Climatological headlines,
more like a puffed up
magical dragon exhale
ling nothing boot hot air,
comprising a renown folk song,
and/or futuristic tall tale
that usually pre
dominate every airwave scale
ling the gamut of
every frequency 24/7, rail
ling dire warnings,
and no need prevails,
particularly for those
refusing to evacuate,
and become sitting targets
like quail caught
in the cross hair
for me to know
onset of biblical pro
portioned sized debacles
(since joblessness thy status,
cuz social security disability received),
but more pertinently
dire forecasts rarely manifest
into monster mashing maelstroms
case in point
being this predicted
"three sisters of all hurricanes"
Florence, Light
Ning, and Gale,
found this storm chaser
disappointed, cuz monstrous
banshee's utter deplorable show
ranked as utter dud at least
(in my book), they did fail
to wreak havoc
falling far short
to flatten every tree,
which limb mit
to flash flooding
minor inconvenience
forced every to sail
guy did by those freed from jail.
Nephilim, a curious thing
Said to be Giants
Angels and Women bring
(Not Artificial Insemination)
But what if somehow this were all wrong
That the words were really different
When they sang that song
What if we change the word Giant
To mean Genius instead
Wouldn't that lead us to somewhere
Different than we were lead
And what if all along It were staring
Us in the face
Wouldn't that make our History a disgrace
Sometimes they find history
You wouldn't believe
Like when they say
The Arc of the Covenant
Is in an African Country
But who is to say what books we can use
We only know too many would confuse
But what I find so interesting is
That countries Bible
What it confesses and that we don't believe
Form:
Samuel Woodruff was a very old man, who once drummed for the army;
That marched to his rhythmic music, along with all fifers, playing hearty.
That was a lifetime ago, in dawn days so pink, golden, and richly green;
Like petal strewn time moving backward, to the premiere, pivotal scene.
Samuel never stopped playing drums, like mulberry heartbeats of sunset,
And played them after his daily walks; like the love you will never forget.
His fast friend, Comet, followed him, through fields of fascination flowers;
As he made up ditties to match the beat, of the flaming, futuristic hours.
Of faithful family, Sam had none, but for his fond, faddish sister, Pauline;
Who felt every fandangle pulse of summer, like allure on the silver screen.
Sam lived in the house of memories, of past and present changing places;
Where often rolling thunder was noted, like apricot roses, in cream vases.
Starlight snuck in windows, on a street that never seemed to say goodbye;
As sophisticated moon adored supper music, of redbirds, next to ebon sky.
Neighbor children noticed Sam's ditties, and often trailed behind to listen,
To each verse of nostalgia, featuring him. They loved all the fun repetition!
'Mad dog skullcaps' were running amok, when black-eyed Susans, sparkled;
And bright daffodils recalled Narcissus, when magenta butterflies, startled.
'Cupid's dart' flowers were hitting the mark, working magic in love potions;
While chrysanthemums spread the 'truth,' in vivid colors, of every emotion.
Samuel was heading home, one weekend day, and a huge crowd followed;
Comprised of both children and adults, like pretty colors, sunset swallowed.
The people sang along and clapped with Sam, to the song so easy to learn,
As Sam played his drum to the march, elated with sweet memory's return!
Many years have gone since then, and though Samuel's no longer around,
Folks still march while singing his song; as violets spring from the ground.
'This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb,
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.'
A million light years away
In a futuristic galaxy
Far beyond our sky
Dwell the knights of the Jedi
Obi Wan Kenobi is a great Jedi Knight
He battles the forces of evil
To do what's just and right
As he wields his weapon of light
Looking like a knight medieval
Darth Vader causes great upheaval
He belongs to the evil empire
To destroy the galaxy is his desire
Vader is building a death star
A weapon of mass destruction
He must be stopped before he gets too far
Or there will be a massive explosion
Then Obi Wan confronts the medieval knight
In a battle with sabres of light
And the rebel forces attack with might
For justice they do fight
Joseph May
Theme: The Jedi Strike Back
She sits in her wicker chair and watches wordlessly
the soft swirling of froth in her sweet steaming cup,
clouds of cream in her cappuccino
and wonders at the minuscule bubbles blowing brightly...
Is it true that life is like that bubble?
beautiful and bursting with opportunities,
ending when it really bursts,
shattering all dainty dreams and futuristic fantasies...
Is it true that the bubbles would soon disappear,
leaving behind difficulties and harsh realities?
Maybe, it is.
For now, she decides to keep all thoughts aside,
and enjoy her hot cappuccino.
11.04.2020
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
I see a vision in my mind
My haunting, if you will
A still that's ever daunting
with it's futuristic chill
Through the middle of the frame
outstretched a wall of people
A fortitude for middle class
praised high beneath their steeple
Chasing dreams of wealth and fame
they gather by the score
positioned so their downcast eyes
have pity for the poor
Upon their backs they feel the glow
of living life on higher
feeding fires fueling egos
led by rich desires
A wailing wall of wants
that keep the haves from the have nots
Iconic human energy
at a hundred million watts
Buffering the one percent
sat high upon the hill
ironically placed on the right
believed to be God's will
They tower over all the land
masked by smoke and haze
Pitching scraps to stoke the fire
keeps their wall ablaze
A blaze that burns just bright enough
to cast a cinders glow
upon what’s left, the sea of poor
they'd rather never know
Empowered and emboldened
where they celebrate and brag
shadows caste the White House lawn
'neath the new Ameri"con" flag