Long Inconclusive Poems
Long Inconclusive Poems. Below are the most popular long Inconclusive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inconclusive poems by poem length and keyword.
The huge sky overseeing the emerald and bluish earth...
wouldn't be the only sky in our incredibly diverse Universe,
if limited sight weren't the obstacle to the awesome images that surprise couldn't conceal;
but many more galaxies hiding their splendid suns and planets,,
are still unknown and Man, overtaken by such a magnificence, expresses
himself in more atheistic ways not to compromise his own foolishness!
If we declare faith non-existent, cupidity can become our fetish...
filling us with more rampant pride to enforce its hypocritical seal!
More universes, like ours, lay dormant in their stillness,
" And will life be found on them? " is a question too inconclusive
that we can only answer by being so compellingly delusive;
more universes await the discoveries of the intelligent mind,
to lay out their awsomeness and beauty to discard the thought of finding life,
impelling us to preserve ours, not to destroy it by valiance or insanity!
Search history's events, are we capable of pursuing happiness...
without conquering and proclaiming our power with mighty armies?
In ancient days, they created unrealistic gods and goddesses...
not conceiving that the Supreme One wasn't a god in human form,
but rather the Invisible One, who often scolded them for their wickedness;
so in stone and marble they continued to sculpture divine faces
that the common people hailed and worshipped, and would they refuse
to obey their tyrant's wishes: their worthless lives would be taken...
and did Paul, the follower of Christ, go back to that cult so perverse?
We know, from the Holy Scriptures, he was converted and put down his sword...
More universes more magnificent than this one,
can be discovered and inhabited if they are livable;
and scientists are working hard along with astronauts to accomplish our dream,
and who isn't excited and show interest to take a voyage into the outer space?
Navigators ventured on perilous seas to attest that their concept was solid and real;
we, with more sophisticated computer science, are groped by the unthinkable!
Persuaded or not, discouraged or doubtful, researches must continue at our expense;
and what if we were successful, wouldn't everyone be taken by shock?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
A dark cloud forms as tears fill her eyes, spilling into a stream that runs down her face. She bites her lip to quiet the echoes of her cries. A lump forms in her throat, pulsing with the ache sent straight from her heart. Her legs begin to give away, until she collapses to her knees. She sits there, paralyzed by time, praying to whoever will listen.
Inconclusive; not leading to a firm conclusion; not ending doubt or dispute.
She was taught to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. But in her world, she’s never known the best-so she’s left to fear for the worse.
A curse she thought she was used to… until it involved you.
So, she wrote…
“The way the sun hits his face is different these days. His coat, once black, is appearing more grey. It sparkles so bright that for a moment I lose sight of the years we may not have left—and instead, remember the years we’ve grown, and all we’ve learned. The years we've fallen in love. Every mistake. Every win. The days when his fur would collect nothing but tears.
I reminisce in the years full of adventure, and all the lives he's impacted along our journey. I adore the way he loves. The way he starts each day with more curiosity than the last. I giggle at how fast his four cold paws wake me up each morning, and how his wet nose meeting mine had become a ritual.
A grunt and a sigh leave his body as he stretches as long as me—until there’s nothing left to stretch but his toes. I wait patiently for those toe beans to finish the last bit of the biggest stretch known to man before whispering a soft ‘good morning.’ He loses all control of his body as he squirms his way even closer.
A smile forms every time he soars through the air to catch his favorite ball. Or when he digs to find the comfiest spot. And with every action in between. I’m in awe.
I fall more in love with him each night, knowing I get to wake up with him again. But it’s then that time pulls me back. That moment—the one where I remember he won’t always be here.
And suddenly, I realize how much I’ll miss those four cold paws that bring each new day.”
Maybe time will take him. But not before he’s left pieces of his love tucked into every corner of her life. He’s not just a dog—he’s her home.
Seems my handwriting will never improve,
Yearlong efforts, letters still oblong.
Not quite right, but we pretend it’s not all bad,
I fixate on each line, a prerequisite approach.
So next and then that line and its spacing, proper
striving for excellence, sentence, cursed to find
some semblance, a distant echo. Earshot.
Eardrum. POP!
Outward rang disdain, my reality indifferent,
Marks resembling a bell curve in chicken sketch,
It distorts my outlook, tarnishes self-image.
I try with practice sheets laid out,
Only to be reminded of the horrors I scrawl within.
Devastating, humiliating,
Suppressing nausea,
Sick of this, hating my own thoughts,
Ruining half-decent poems or ideas.
Regardless of merit or talent shown,
sent into the fire.
scribe on restroom walls
its contrived and
makes me writhe.
I discard writing tools,
My creative well runs dry, deceased,
Gone, past tense, already done in.
Progress slower than a snail,
with kidney failures
Skull soon exposed.
I’ll tear at my scalp,
Writing used to be fun.
You'll say, 'shut my trap'.
The torment I hold towards
every pen, pencil, or marker on any shelf.
Chasing after graphite,
specific utensils, lead grade, ink, acrylic,
I want them gone, obliterated,
Every trace, every hint.
EXTINGUISHED EVERY PEICE OF
. . .
Sorry, I get carried away...
This heretic! The disappointment,
Frail and brittle behind every attempt.
All result in zero, void, null, nil.
Here I sit, head in hands,
My task forever incomplete,
More setbacks, my drive
and desire to compete.
Now I understand why progress is elusive, unseen.
Hard-scoped when each step shown seems hopeless
rooted in the waste of regression.
I would be remiss if my speech lacked spirit.
Results: Inconclusive
Next topic: I digress,
I relinquish anima,
Lay to rest a thousand eyes’ constraints,
Seeking arrangements through attainment.
If there's space to graze, then seize the day.
Something bountiful in the invisible,
Nature's beauty in the winds of change,
Wrinkles on sheets of belief,
A moment for molecules deem insignificant,
Nested in the fabric of space-time,
An embarrassment that's all mine,
It is really all fine.
Signed, A construct for mortality.
it's really not bad at all, it seems false advertising is the only way i get any numbers despite the fact that i write the truth so well:
DID YOU SAY RESURRECTION OR ********?
Pardon me Mister Sinister Minister
But you are not so much teaching as you are screeching and reaching
While preaching to the choir about brimstone and fire
As I deem you a damnable liar
And a prodigal prostitute who should be destitute
While I remain resolute against your irreverent and irrelevant irregularities
And you raise my ire to a dire decibel
Because I am not a disciple
Nor am I a member of your congregation
Because you are an abhorrent aberration whom I abhor
You unholy whore
Your soul on the whole is the goal of a ghoul
And I anoint you a fallacy and a freakish fool
While you duel with a demon whose semen is sanctimonious and erroneous
And I point to the error of your wretched ways
Until the end of days
You serve an ironic idol who is an iconoclastic and bombastic bastard I berate with hate who makes me irate…..
And whose fate is forecast by the force of a phallic symbol symbolized by the simple minded followers of a fraud
Who, quite frankly, leaves me abominably bored
An impossible imposter who fosters the phoniness of a fake who can’t make a pretender into the defender of the defenseless
Only the senseless hordes of impious who hear and believe the pretense you preach about
And fill me with undiluted and indubitable doubt
Because someone should wash your mouth out with soap
Hang you on the end of a rope
As you grope with grievance for the allegiance of the almighty
Since your facts are based on flightiness and reprehensible rhetoric scorned by the sensible and seen for the tripe it is
Ripe and rife with ridiculous conclusions
And the illusions of illusive, insidious, insipid and all inconclusive information
As I repeat
I am not a member of your congregation
Mr. Sinister Minister of misery and miserly compassion
Whose ration of ridiculousness is reclusive and replete with completely indecisive and indelicate ideologies
And what you preach and teach about is simply old hat
And so Mister Sinister Minister
Take that!
© 2012….copyright..PHREEPOETREE...~free cee!~
spinning on high speed mostly out of control
the washing machine failed to conclude any
of its operation according to a wished for manual
given at birth he had not much choice in the matter
due to the lottery of inheritance he missed the bonus prize
surely his emotional mind had often given way to reason
but logic hardly ever stopped the autopilot in his mind
and with the off button defective it guzzled energy
which his thinking muzzled confused inconclusive repetitive
not so much a merry go round but rather a scary rollercoaster
plunging from great heights into nowhere in particular
but with nauseous combustion and vertigo squared to infinity
stop he pleaded and begged for a power cut or the bailiff
to disconnect him from such uncomfortable corrosion
because he himself just could not find the trip fuse
was never able to cut some wires nor change charge or course
inevitable depression provided only temporary reprieve
and alcohol simply increased the ugly voices after a blackout
how he wished to wash his thoughts manually with a bar of soap
but even then procrastination took over and merely smudged the stains
it bordered on incurable insanity but by then he had well crossed any frontier
and to emigrate from his own self required a valid visa for healing
when he did not even know where his expired passport lived a new life
in the past he had paid for expensive medicines kind therapists and doctors
which numbed him for a while or simply passed some time with empathy
yet there was no cure insight no major insight and still misfiring synapses
he joked sometimes that he had seriously considered a frontal lobotomy
but the idea of a sharp instrument passing through his eye socket did not appeal
suicidal ideation changed into self-pity and the machine kept spinning in vain
when he discovered ego-cide and acceptance of suffering karma and gratitude
his life changed dramatically as the cyclones rotated into more conventional drift
eventually he realized he would have been much worse off with a cement mixer
because then the pebbles in the cauldron would surely have shattered his scull
27th August 2024
The rain didn't fall
last night so much
as it was thrown.
The wind didn't blow
last night so much
as it was whipped.
And a whip is
a thing which
lacerates, it cuts.
The day after
was the last day
and the next days
will be filled with
no more and no longer
until the next days
outnumber the
here-with-us days
and the days after those
days will pile on, unmercifully
as well. The whipwind cuts.
Whippy storm.
Shallow breath.
Dirtied coat.
Abraded eyes.
Right one swollen.
No bowel signs right,
and few on left.
Unwilling to move -
pressed rump-first into
a corner
facing southwest.
Signs of sweat.
"My other horse went this way."
she weakly offers
to the morning air,
to the isn't there,
foreshadowing shadows
and coming despair.
"I wish the doctor would
hurry up and get here."
though we knew he would,
he was, he would be...
soon.
How soon? We didn't know.
- - -
Shaving tummy,
seeking what's beneath,
what is deep.
Ultrasound inconclusive.
Which leads to a conclusion,
the conclusion.
Mommy cooing for hours.
She's brushing him now.
"He's toxic" says doc J.
"It's time." quietly said
to all who already know.
But the spokeness of it is
it's own gift.
The haunting guess brought into
Life, into the moment
into Astro's stall.
- - -
Outside, the crows cried.
The grey winds sucked
warmth.
"You're gonna like where
you'll be." repeated Momma K.
A stroke.
A kiss.
A nuzzle.
A forelock felt.
He thumped down.
Momma started.
We four knelt down,
knowing that but
three would rise.
Syringe after syringe.
Twenty two years.
"His heart's stopped now,"
says Doc
"That's just his diaphragm
tryin' to do its job."
Astro huffs heartily.
- - -
Blankets cover him now,
in a damp paddock.
His bridle off.
At long last.
He is still.
She shakes.
Tears from both.
- - -
The wind won't stop.
He seems to breathe.
It's just the wind
under the blankets.
He really seems to breathe.
- - -
"I learned so much from this horse."
DID YOU SAY RESURRECTION OR ********?
Pardon me Mister Sinister Minister
But you are not so much teaching as you are screeching and reaching
While preaching to the choir about brimstone and fire
As I deem you a damnable liar
And a prodigal prostitute who should be destitute
While I remain resolute against your irreverent and irrelevant irregularities
And you raise my ire to a dire decibel
Because I am not a disciple
Nor am I a member of your congregation
Because you are an abhorrent aberration whom I abhor
You unholy whore
Your soul on the whole is the goal of a ghoul
And I anoint you a fallacy and a freakish fool
While you duel with a demon whose semen is sanctimonious and erroneous
And I point to the error of your wretched ways
Until the end of days
You serve an ironic idol who is an iconoclastic and bombastic bastard I berate with hate who makes me irate…..
And whose fate is forecast by the force of a phallic symbol symbolized by the simple minded followers of a fraud
Who, quite frankly, leaves me abominably bored
An impossible imposter who fosters the phoniness of a fake who can’t make a pretender into the defender of the defenseless
Only the senseless hordes of impious who hear and believe the pretense you preach about
And fill me with undiluted and indubitable doubt
Because someone should wash your mouth out with soap
Hang you on the end of a rope
As you grope with grievance for the allegiance of the almighty
Since your facts are based on flightiness and reprehensible rhetoric scorned by the sensible and seen for the tripe it is
Ripe and rife with ridiculous conclusions
And the illusions of illusive, insidious, insipid and all inconclusive information
As I repeat
I am not a member of your congregation
Mr. Sinister Minister of misery and miserly compassion
Whose ration of ridiculousness is reclusive and replete with completely indecisive and indelicate ideologies
And what you preach and teach about is simply old hat
And so Mister Sinister Minister
Take that!
© 2012….copyright..PHREEPOETREE...~free cee!~
t
My Apologies, Sona
by Gulzar
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My apologies, Sona,
if traversing my verse's terrain
in these torrential rains
inconvenienced you.
The monsoons are unseasonal here.
My poems' pitfalls are sometimes sodden.
Water often overflows these ditches.
If you stumble and fall here, you run the risk
of spraining an ankle.
My apologies, however,
if you were inconvenienced
because my dismal verse lacks light,
or because my threshold's stones
interfered as you passed.
I have often cracked toenails against them!
As for the streetlamp at the intersection,
it remains unlit ... endlessly indecisive.
If you were inconvenienced,
you have my heartfelt apologies!
***
Come!
by Gulzar
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Come, let us construct night
over the monumental edifice of silence.
Come, let us clothe ourselves in the winding sheets of darkness,
where we'll ignite our bodies' incandescent wax.
As the midnight dew dances its delicate ballet,
let us not disclose the slightest whispers of our breath!
Lost in night's mists,
let us lie immersed in love's fragrance,
absorbing the musky aromas of our bodies!
Let us rise like rustling spirits ...
***
Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!
***
Inconclusive
by Gulzar
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A body lies on a white bed—
dead, abandoned,
a forsaken corpse they forgot to bury.
They concluded its death was not their concern.
I hope they return and recognize me,
then bury me so I can breathe.
The sun danced on lightened leaves, my muse aligned, in zeal
Greenery of palms with the windy tantrum, touched me , still
The tribal walkway and the rural patsy rushing for more, in pace
The village girl sitting on mud, with her lonely bouquet of grace
Looking ahead, felt a perceiving truth of my tambourine sparrow
This is my charming flute, assonance and refrain, flying o’er meadow
Sounding clay and a subtle may, greets my soul , a humble solo
The clear blue sky lit up a sun danced cry, quenching of the thirsty new ones, a mellow
These boys and their gaze, an amazing delight my pondering eyes adored
My tambourine arose with their morning flight of youngster voices, a chord
Refrain and my troubadour o float afar , a homebound, must it be, so shall !
The village sky and the golden hue a beckoning once again to me to prevail
Unyielding nearby clues, honeysuckle muse, no more of a voyage to avail
Of all these , the aimless riddles, unresolved mystic , a wait to receive
Unsung these songs of mundane repertoire,incomplete till today, inconclusive
My muse and my enchanted clues, my daylong a soothe, my song, singing cadence
My daylong zeal had no toil, no more of hard chore sweating, a bypassing hence
My mind, my eyes, my apparent plethora in calling back to do well
They are ambitious, in optimism, let them gather their own stack , to gather and feel afresh
I will be a mere passer by lull there, immature a cupid try passing up close , eternally a grace.
Ei To Bhalo Legechilo- Sahana I Aditi I Damayanti I Basabdutta I Samantak I Rabindrasangeet
Dressing Things Up
Up things he always seems to be dressing;
Using poor vernacular when expressing,
And Trump to go there is no telling how far
Dancing around in circle seems to spar
With many new lunatics now is nesting.
Inundated With Ignorance
With much ignorance he was inundated
Having a possibility that was predicated
On when most popular once had a voice
Who had been a brilliant, reliable choice
Can you believe with us he prevaricated.
Waited for a While Longer
What if longer he waited for a while;
Compiled figures before going on trial;
Ended up going on an encyclical
Heading towards disaster being despicable
"T" for Trump had to dial and again dial.
Possible and Probable
Was possible and probable we can predict
That Trump has become a complete lunatic
After he became obnoxious and outrageous
Proved that his personality was contagious
Driving people crazy and making them sick.
Either Fair Or Unfair
Was never quite sure if being fair or unfair
If I had been a idiot who always did declare
Did decide based on inconclusive suggestion
His mind was overflowing with congestion
For nostrils had been extremely hard to bare.
(Side affect of medicine he is taking that
promotes his orange hair.)
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC 28422
I take it back. This is my longest limerick.