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.
Crystal waters plumping the honeydews
and cascading through amusement park ride.
As tourists engage in espionage
in Duckburg at Knottsbury farms.
As graves of self sufficiency,
Communes of bagged embalm.
"Do What Thou Wilt","Do No Harm".
Spirit cooking, charms I"m sure.
Missing and exploited children bearing no arms.
Foreigners get precedence over
the Citizenry collage for the sake
of stirring the melting plot.
The coffers brim
and Scrooge McF swims past inflation,
reaps the rewards of child labor
at camp Whinnie the Pooh with pedophiles and containment lasers,
adds a zero and then again, while CBDC
cabalist coup hides the genesis
of their new technology,
obfuscates the code in block-chain,
snart contract chaser-
in lock-step
and unlocked surveillance,
laser focused,
poker face,
tazered for inconclusive shadow, ban.
As we sell our Sons and Daughters
to a not so brave New World.
Sold at half price for reverse mortgage
and a haptic iPhone holographic massage.
OnlyFans and Tic Tok trends.
Where does it end?
Where the SoyLent is green.
Where the Red Firm Grows.
Met by chance a coincidence
Met by chance a sudden whim by the side of a window isle , speedy montage , a train track
Never to fancy about a becoming, monsieur
Before then too t'was a maiden, a shrew, enjambment and a refrain, clerihew!
A gorgeously red wedding chant, a royal vow, know-how
pomegranate a hue, a blushing knew!
Today, the silky hue was a blackened clue, inconclusive
a garment and arose an eve, and a grievance whence Eden sank in grief!
Fancied about a wall, non , none, never, to belong
a myrtle a suntanned thistle thal home bound, a letter poem, enclosed envelope!
From hothat dekha an early composition
Hothat Dekha | | Voice : Rajib Mahata
My best guess is that it was some 20 years ago that
the number 100 represented years I wanted to live.
This was my request to The Lord, adding that I would
like to revisit the matter then to see if I wanted to
live beyond 100. It was a prayer of simplicity without
conditions, declarations, decrees, or qualifications.
It was all about longevity, legacy, serving God and
humanity. At that point, the matter was closed.
A few years ago, as I was sharing my longevity dream
with a friend, he countered with the fact that he'd
rather not live that long. For Bob, about 85 years
would suffice.
So, I concluded that I needed to revisit The Lord with
an amendment granting me 'a healthy 100 years'. Having
included that caveat, I then felt much better about 100.
I must say that my friend's comment about being both
aged and healthy was a sobering one of which I took
serious note.
When I look across the horizon of our shattered world
and the challenges to be faced, issues personal, foreign,
and domestic that refuse to be silenced, there is a toss
and turn in my spirit. Although inconclusive with second
thoughts, I'm still inclined toward a climb to 100.
062023PS.
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.
A car passing
Slowly
Maybe finding an address
Gray sky
Snow on the road
Sleet falling
Untidy garbage cans
Observations
The driver sees me
Watching from a high window
Who is she in the car
That drives so slowly
Who looks at me here
Question mark
We watch each other for a pause
I point ahead
She drives that way
I don’t know who she is
I don’t know why
I sent her that way
Rhetorical posits
My pointing was a thought
My watching was a thought
And she - just a thought
Enigmatic asides
The street is empty now
The window empty
Both gone
Wind plowing drifts
Into darkness
Inconclusive resolution
A circle almost completed
Melted in the background of the forefront of my mind
Thinking about all of the thoughts I've left far behind
Now everything within my head seems so very intertwined
The asterisk by the questions of answers I'll never find
Interference is what confuses my once solid mental state
Fear is the illusion that my enemies illustrate
Unbalanced in tortured abuses that echo and reverberate
Evidence seems inconclusive but not open for debate
Inhumane acts to humanity just a subject to be tested
Mind raped in profanity every part they have molested
Actions of complete insanity why was I even selected
The power of my anatomy has been tortured and arrested
V2K, silent sound, no touch torture, gang stalked target
How to fight those who always walk on Blood Red Carpet
bmdavey@10/6/24
“And you may love me like a saint, but you’ll lose faith eventually” – Cut the String, Mother Mother
I’ve got the scissors ready—
Never been one to cut straight,
But let me tell you—I cut just the same!
After all, it helps me breathe, when you’re away
Now I don’t mean that in a horrible sense
Where’s the lines that make it easier to cut?
You learn to go around the edges
In a circular manner,
So not to hurt their pride
Get out of here!
I didn’t sprinkle sugar on your wound
So that you could see how sweet I could maim you
And I don’t expect you to be assured with the truth
Because the truth isn’t always an oxygen tank
Reality is the true gravity
The one that pushes you to the ground
And it will set you straight
It is fun when you duet with your imagined fate
But it’s a slap in the face when you wake up to your own wails
At 4:00 AM
Writhing in unfathomable sorrows
It’s a ceaseless solo of defeat,
And the scissors are so near and dear
It is like I am ready
Armed for the foreseen pain again
Because pains are split moments
And your love is dangerously inconclusive
So I’ve got the scissors ready—
Never been one to cut straight,
But let me tell you—I cut just the same!
I’m ready to breathe when you are…
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."
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.
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