Long Perpetuation Poems
Long Perpetuation Poems. Below are the most popular long Perpetuation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perpetuation poems by poem length and keyword.
Have you been disrespected?
Do you feel inhumanely rejected?
Is disappointment reflected?
Is it time to pay them back
For their unprovoked attack
Since it is forgiveness
That you lack
Do you feel justified
For the violence
You applied
To coincide
For the satisfaction
Of your reaction
Does it feel good
To meltdown
And show your misunderstood
Or do you regret your actions
And wish to take it back if you could
What compels us
In our revenge
Why is it delicious
To feed our need to be vicious
When it comes to self satisfaction of a slight
Why, the perpetuation of the need to be right
Does it matter to you or your ego
That needs to be stroked
Or is it simply the embarrassment
That needs to be cloaked
They say it's better to turn the other cheek
But for most
It appears as a display of the weak
But if you look deeper you will see
The power of forgiveness
Is a gift of the meek
A skill that we should all seek
Retribution is a vile course
Something for your soul to divorce
While looking for remorse
From the only source
Worth searching for
God
The keeper of eternity's door
Will you knock?
Or be lost evermore?
Eric (and sometimes not)
A stirring storm of lightning like lava caused commotion.
Among seraphims and cherubims… clouded confusion.
The father asked, when all prophets failed, 'who, now, would I send?'
Celestials, like souls of ghosts, stood benumbed at your consent.
Didn't the chorus of 'Holy' give you endless pleasure?
Did the heavens strain you so that you sought earthly leisure?
The galaxies and constellations stood in sombre surprise.
Who could stop you when visions of salvation filled your eyes?
Didn't you know a cross-shaped piece of wood would be your bed?
Your flesh would be torn. Bones would be broken. Blood would be shed.
Stretching your nailed hands and your damaged legs, you would stand dead.
Wasn't it with no knowledge of grief that you went ahead?
The heavens descended on the earth at your incarnation.
Times, O Christ, ticked your timelessly timed perpetuation.
Whys and Hows
by Odin Roark
Through the window of rain spattered glass,
The old vet watched the large ant cling to the precipitous bombardment,
It’s tenacity of will overwhelming to the man’s eyes.
Why fight so diligently?
Why not let go?
You know how to land,
Endure your journey,
Continue the unceasing perpetuation of your species.
Obviously, the little creature understood something
Beyond the scope of the aging man’s comprehension,
Or perhaps the small creature just instinctively trusted mortality,
Had a clear and uncomplicated ‘why’ of life
Allowing any ‘how’ to just…be.
Slowly nurturing his espresso,
The elderly Marine continued staring,
Determined to arrive at an answer.
His mind wandered back to his youth
Where the meaning of life was taken for granted,
Where the indomitable mindset
Was the norm for any red-blooded young adult,
Especially one about to join in a war.
He asked himself if he had ever challenged a force that might destroy him?
Had he even once just allowed the many ‘why go on’ experiences of his life
To give him pause, like the loss of a limb…or two,
Or if the toll of war broke up his marriage-in-waiting relationship,
And especially the loss of a buddy to death?
Had he allowed any one of the life-threatening events to reveal itself
As a ‘how’ answer to ‘why’?
He sipped the last of his coffee,
Smiled at the ant,
Tapped the window
And saluted the small epiphany,
Who now seemed to weigh its options,
Then calmly walk through the rolling boulders of rain…
Maybe to find another ‘how?' the once fearless warrior questioned.
He held his gaze and tried to figure out
How the ant seemed so comfortable
Climbing up the pane of cascading rain,
Rather than just riding out the downward flow.
Hmm.
Women of age
A woman of age popped in last night.
The garden had become wet, might
this gardener – willing yet weak – plane seeds
into where nothing grows, not even weeds.
For this aged garden, has become barren.
No amount of passion nor patient caren
will be able to make life sprout or grow.
This, the garden and gardener doth know,
that when sweet seeds – needs – are sown,
reality comes to light and all is known.
They will come to an end without fertilization.
This awareness, this knowledge, their realization,
that life’s true meaning has ended – procreation,
a dead issue, has become life’s - no perpetuation –
meaning for these tired, aged, lost souls
who’s time has stilled, it no longer flows
from this garden, yet this gardener doth strain
for what will remain - their immortality, never again
from them to create a new – life’s force to remain.
No longer will they provide new souls for this plane.
From these two, never a story to be told
for they travel down a different road.
Each, on a separate journey, to end
their days, do they, still call each, friend ?
There are so many ideas, points of view, thought
about life’s meaning, so what is it ?, that is taught
by the lessons we have learn ?, the wars fought,
that have brought us closer, yet maybe not
to the understanding of mankind’s existence,
the meaning of humanity ?, or its relevance
to the world we live on, continue destroying.
We are but a disease ?, a virus ?, reaching out, deploying.
B. J. “A ” 2
February 26th 2006
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
Every cordel tells something
I don't count at that time
because i haven't done it yet
I did not learn how to rhyme ...
It was because I look for a theme
may be the moan of the emu
or sing of the nightingale
fish without hook for thew ...
So as it’s not twine
can i write the paper
without fear of making mistakes
without censoring me. yet ....
What I did was sextile
broken into seven feet
I'm not much versed in it
it's not cordel style ..
I'm Full of thirsty
I have heart pain,
I don't wish to cry
but of much distress I can die
as bull of nowhere land
nostalgia for my hinterland ...!
PS
Cordel are leaflets containing popular poems, displayed for sale hanging from ropes or string, which gave rise to the name.
Cordel is also the dissemination of art, popular traditions and local authors and is invaluable in maintaining local identities and regional literary traditions, contributing to the perpetuation of Brazilian folklore.
4 ablution 4 acclimatization 4 adulation
4 benediction 4 biotransformation 4 blastulation
4 concatenation 4 conception 4 configuration
4 declaration 4 dictation 4 differentiation
4 ejaculation 4 emancipation 4 ********
4 fascination 4 flagellation 4 flocculation
4 gastrulation 4 glamorization 4 glorification
4 habituation 4 harmonization 4 homogenization
4 implantation 4 impregnation 4 incubation
4 jubilation 4 junction 4 juxtaposition 4 kation
4 keratinization 4 k-ration
4 labialization 4 libation 4 liquidation
4 manifestation 4 menstruation 4 micro-encapsulation
4 negotiation 4 notification 4 notion
4 ovation 4 oviposition 4 ovulation
4 parturition 4 penetration 4 perpetuation
4 quadruplication 4 qualification 4 question
4 reaction 4 repopulation4 reproduction
4 sanctification 4 schematization 4 scintillation
4 thermojunction 4 titillation
4 underestimation 4 unification 4 union
4 validation 4 valuation 4 vasocongestion
4 weatherization 4 workstation
4 zombification 4 zonation
Perspective's Malaise
by Odin Roark
How rich the vicarious
to be but not to be
that safe haven of lookie loos
where arms length from reality
provides never-having-to-leave the fighter's corner of illusion
To wander in shoes
not yours
to sweat in passion's fold
imagined yours
all from the bliss of wide-screen pleasures
To know
pine tree fragrance by picture alone
Dudamel magic from distant audience seat
recorded rather than real
Packaged emotion made temporary
is to avoid the answered door of the actual
always open
inviting risk of touch
admitting not the harlequin jester
with jingle bells attached
but those with outstretched hands and heart
Spoil alert
Fantasy's sleight of hand
delusion's feathery plumes to distract
engulf the willing
repulse the knowing
To accept the gold watch for accomplishment
might be to know a struggle
but is it the reward of being who you are
or the perpetuation of what you're not?
In the labyrinth of time, where shadows dance on walls of mist,
An invisible web is woven, finer than the silk thread of destiny,
And Russia, a slumbering bear in the taiga of unspoken dreams, becomes the vessel
Of an unsuspected flow, an underground river of liquid gold and hollow promises.
It's not about subjugation, but a perverse alchemy of money and power,
Where paper empires melt in the crucible of transnational greed,
And taxes, those crumbs of hope for the common man, transform
Into the toxic smoke of an endless war, a ghost haunting the world's conscience.
The United States, an eagle with wings broken by its own grandeur,
Europe, an old lady contemplating her reflection in the shattered mirror of history,
Watch their resources drain through the poisoned arteries of a phantom Russia,
Until they reach the insatiable hands of the elite, the orchestra of this macabre dance.
In the flow of my consciousness, images intertwine like the waves of a turbulent ocean:
Rusty tanks on sunflower fields, false smiles at world summits,
Hungry children in bombed cities and bankers smiling in towers of glass and steel,
All spin in a mad carousel of a war without victory and without end.
The goal is not victory, but the perpetuation of conflict, an eternal fire fueled
By the shattered dreams of coming generations, by the burned hopes of those departing,
An endless war like a Möbius strip, where beginning and end blur
In an infinite loop of suffering, profit, and manipulation on a global scale.
And in this starless night, when the moon hides ashamed of what it sees,
I sit and wonder if there still exists somewhere, in some corner of the universe,
A fragment of humanity untouched by this mire of greed and power,
Or if we are all just pawns in a cosmic game whose meaning escapes us.
Russia, America, Europe - names losing their meaning in the whirlpool of this flow,
Become mere concepts, shadows on the wall of Plato's cave, while the truth,
Harsh and merciless, hides behind the smoke screen of a perpetual war,
A dance of death that will not stop until the last coin is laundered, the last conscience corrupted.
Oft I ponder the impulse to endure,
As I stare into the eyes of a turtle.
Start from egg bones that they are,
A part of their shelled home structure.
Them, all in a crutch, breakout as a bale,
Outlast their plight, cross a beach, they hightail,
Sights life from above that swoops down in a dive,
For they too, like them, must also survive.
The impacts continues, of their small compact life,
As they waddle for now, they will tip toe when older,
But when they are at sea, they glide with their flippers,
Yet even to that end, perpetuation of strife.
Semblance my thoughts, of rivals beyond a framed entity
The expanse in an ocean of life, and of its brief, eternity.