Long Primacy Poems
Long Primacy Poems. Below are the most popular long Primacy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Primacy poems by poem length and keyword.
Appointment to have organ removed by robot-assisted surgeon.
Air-conditioned, no mosquitoes in the OR. When you arrive
You'll remove all your clothes. Naked before the ladies, nurses
Who have seen it all before. Mainly remember you're not unique.
Think about the government while they're mixing up the medicine.
There's always governance even if there's little or no government.
Back to counting backwards. Inside out, if I die, will I know it?
At 70, Jack's running the gauntlet with some skill!
Benny Golson wonders aloud what might have been
Had Clifford Brown not been killed in that auto accident.
Jack's girlfriend once said he was the reincarnation of Clifford
But he doesn't believe in ghosts, karma or an afterlife.
Benny's old girlfriend Betty inspired the tune Along Came Betty
And that's the most afterlife Benny or Betty's gonna get.
The Trojan bench being not as deep as the Greek
Once Sarpedon and Hector go down even the lucky shot
To Achilles' feet is not enough to save the town.
Aeneas is no match for wily Odysseus
Although unbeknownst to all he has the last laugh when Rome
Conquers Athens, the Myrmidons, what's left of Ilion
And the whole known world from India to Britain.
It's not bad to acknowledge death's primacy
Although after a while you stop remembering
To fear. That's when everything becomes clear
Purpose v. purposelessness matters less,
Anomie v. rule of law, that's a preference
Love v. loneliness, worth about 25 cents
Or a million bucks in the light of the holocaust.
Nothing but light, love and the majesty of death in the room.
Machines stand ready like marines, their beauty is in the motion
That overcomes inertia. The food supply is deeply compromised
So eat whatever you want. Mourning the dead is part of the business
Of healing and staying alive. When you get to the afterlife, walk with eyes
open,
Ocotillo and cactus may be in flower. The robot does the work, imposes
Its own small order, like a girl on a bicycle with disorder in her hair.
There is no
Judgement in
Nature, no right
And wrong, no lies
Or hatred, only the
Legitimacy of survival,
The struggle of hunger
And the fight to continue ...
Singularly, and as a species.
We worry so about chaos and
The return to savagery, but which
Is more brutal, to kill for the sake
Of survival, or to kill for the purpose
Of acquisition and greed? We observe
The "cold indifference" of the life-and-
Death struggle of the less "enlightened"
Creatures with an air of superiority and
Dominance, yet is it more remarkable to
Dominate for the sake of survival, or for the
Sake of selfishness and exploitation? Perhaps
A return to our origins and the basics of survival
Is what we need. It could certainly be argued that
Our intelligence and technology and dominance has
Not been a good thing for our world OR it's creatures,
And it could be easily argued that it hasn't TRULY been
For the benefit of our OWN species, either ... just look at
The world we have created, and the scars we have left on
Ourselves, our beautiful planet, and everything and everyone
ON it.
AI poetry and aureate prose is quite often repulsive.
Bathetic prose relying on synonyms isn’t persuasive.
Content, more important than labels, that spins on looms
deep, thought-provoking poetry that eternally blooms.
Evocative language that hankers to an idyllic past;
finishing with a flourish leaving an impression that lasts.
Grammar rules adhered to and the spelling precise;
high-energy prose that wants me to read the poem twice.
Imagery well defined transporting me on a journey
juxtaposed with tantalising realms, but never corny.
Kicking over the traces and not flinching when
language treated as an art form with an aurum pen.
Metaphor must be transparent—never an enigma or obscure;
no ambiguities of puns that we as readers have to endure.
Originality—no plagiarism—goes without saying;
poetic licence, within limits, can be quite satisfying.
Quest for illumination on issues that are often moot.
Rhythm and sound have primacy over meaning to boot.
Sensitive treatment of the subject matter will always win.
Tautograms and alliteration mastered … overuse won’t win.
Unusual perspective on a topic, but not a lot of baloney.
Voice of the poet that clearly shines through cacophony—
winged inspiration that soars without fear or favour.
X-rated and risqué offerings would definitely not be devoured.
Yammering critics like an ostentation* of peacocks, while
zealotry that rankles leaves a bad taste—it’s no one’s style.
Growing up on God's impoverishing family farm,
he learned to hide his work
in tissues of unearthly privacy.
Regenerating in Earth's richly resonant nutrition,
she recovered her playful avocations
in ecosystemic response
to global over-grasping issues
of under-conscious
her/his-storied
positive domesticity
Over-privatized
so powers under-privileged;
personalized
so shy of compelling
retelling publicity
Earth camouflaged
democratically healthy ecopolitics,
co-empowering
co-operating
co-generating
co-laterally co-investing
co-systemic
ego/eco-analogical
co-passion.
Growing out on Earth's extending family farm,
he learned to share his playful work
with issues of unEarthly
inhumane
left-hemispheric primacy.
Beyond my consciousness,
in stark relief
A place beyond reason,
all spirits unleash
Beyond my awareness,
I inherit the wind
Each breath I blow inward,
new endings begin
Religion, a concept,
that God can’t abide
Dogma a pretense,
where idolaters hide
In my dreams there’s a voice,
that comes unannounced
Its structure on fire,
new words unpronounced
Time but a weapon,
to use on the weak
Its measuring stick,
to never complete
One question—one answer,
for all that transpires
In primacy wrapped,
no logic hard wired
The years I’d spent looking,
those moments I’d waste
When deep from inside,
with subliminal grace
The great Crazy Horse calls,
chanting words once unknown
“Your vision has freed you,
—its voice now your own”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
I’m in a rank and sullen mood.
I’m sick and tired of getting screwed.
I mean to revel in the glory of the Word.
I’ll sail a raft of good intentions
‘cross an ocean vast as hell
So I can revel in the glory of the Word.
I mean to revel in the glory
as I advertise my story,
Every paragraph and sentence will be heard.
Tell all wicked unbelievers,
and those strays with cat scratch fevers,
We shall revel in the glory of the Word.
It’s like a dog day afternoon.
It’s like a picnic on the moon
When we don’t revel in the glory of the Word.
It pumps the heart of a thesaurus.
It rocks a dictionary’s soul.
We’re meant to revel in the glory of the Word.
We’re gonna revel in the glory
as we climb that promontory
Where our vision of redemption isn’t blurred
By the demagogues who blind us
to the primacy of kindness
When we revel in the glory of the Word.
Rhyme
is not
the be-all
and the end-all –
the cadence supersedes, mellifluous.
Counting syllables, as superfluous
as the vowels
contained in
the word
queue.
Sounds
in chants
we danced to
before writing –
morae have primacy over meaning.
Rhythm takes precedence, despite your leaning.
And forced rhymes jar:
him and dim
do not
rhyme!
Rules
are made
to askew
and be broken:
double dactyl*:- flib-ber-ti-gib-bet-ing
Defending contests fiercely --- gibbeting.
Breaking your head
to conform
to design,
rhyme.
Puns,
blasé
efforts, but
double entendres,
sexual innuendo in your face.
As some scribbling can at times be quite base,
persecution
should never
stymie
flow.
*a double dactyl: /**|/**
flibbertigibbet: (n) a frivolous, flighty, or excessively talkative person.
__________________________________________________________
FUN FACT
Euclid of Alexandria (Mid-4th century BC—Mid-3rd century BC), the great Classical mathematician, believed that the numbers 1, 2, 3 & 4 must have some mystical significance because their sum total is 10—ten was thought to be a number of power. He called this relationship a tetractys.
Ray Stebbing based his poetic form, Tetractys, on this. No spaces between each stanza and the poem is presented in line with the left-hand margin (or it might be centred) - either way, it would visually give the design of a triangle.
Written: June 30, 2024 For Unseeking Seeker Contest
Quote by Aristotle "Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My bid to solve the conundrum was fruitless.
Yes, our baffling species can't be rootless.
In the middle of the silence of my privacy.
And amid the well-informed set of primacy.
Man has a hodgepodge of inconsistent data.
We discern that it's a sly topic of alpha and beta.
So enigmatic, just beyond comprehension.
Sinister and heavenly beings coexist in tension.
Each life leads to a core, albeit stated or static.
Aims are inherent to human status, not erratic.
Arguably reluctantly recognizing its brilliance,
Trust audacity breeds resilience.
They carefully revere it as a fragile utopia to win.
We are unable to grasp a rainbow vivid spin.
But he pressed on, equanimous to the distance.
The sky rewards diligent deeds with insistence.
Revamping as a chameleon, tearing layers of skin.
I'm donning a dark cape and gliding into the scene.
When my gloom pulses akin to a hiss in my ears,
I recklessly embrace and succumb to my fears.
I'm cruising down, wondering what this means.
Who is the real me, with my threads fraying at seams?
Am I reckless, terrified, or even human under here?
Am I cruel or bonny? Which of my brain coils is clear?
Maybe it's just one aspect of my identity.
Continues to operate within my entity.
However, my actual self is a hollow grave.
When hearts break, legs turn jelly, as slaves.
I shall opine minus identity, envy, or vanity.
No work or economic stability can annoy me.
No status goals, no phony levity, will rule him.
My spirit will be freed after living a quiet whim.
Borderline: without me, what universe is mine?
Is it just me, embracing each day as it shines?
Reflecting within silence of my thoughts
I feel the ills of world in its stygian form--
Its music devoid of the melodic sound
Echoing in humanity’s tenebrous bawl.
On my way I see summer’s rose gardens
And autumnal look of auburn elegance,
But mostly I encounter parched look of life
Like a river dry, in the grip of drought--
A depleted look of empty wine bottle,
Nothing left to offer, devoid of its buzz.
A hidden voice prompts, raising its voice,
Asking what the world would be like
If it could wipe all tears in mothers’ eyes,
And on troubled faces put million smiles
And feed the hungry, gripped in strife.
Peering now into grieved, disquieting lives
It takes me there to war-torn towns—
Pointing to a child wandering empty streets
Orphaned by someone else’s misdeeds
Amid nothingness of abandoned dreams;
Asking me angrily how does one restore
The flame that blazed in desolate child’s eyes
Before they brazenly killed her family…
Can you look in her eyes and explain why?
Can you dare say she’ll have a normal life?
I look for epiphany in epistle of almighty
But stumble in hindrance of the ordinary--
Wicked, narrow views of blatant primacy
Attempting to justify, but failing miserably.
I hear them trumpeting the world as it is
Sounding foolish in the world that could be.
June 23, 2020
Placed 1st: Reflections in silence poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
POTD 4th Nov 2019
Vanquishing all reservation
twilight's prelude heralds
shadowy anticipation
of a secret amorous thirst
He surrenders once more
to his darkest desires
amplifies the sultry ambiance
with star spangled bursts
A slave in her entity
tremulous in her splendour
Captivating and illuminating
this shadowy tryst
yet her heart beats not in rhythm
to the songs he composes
she dismisses him once more
Saying… ‘it is what it is’
However, through chinks of his ardour
ebbing resplendence
Predominant primacy
hard to resist will persist
refusing to believe …’it is what it is’
refusing to believe …’it is what it is’
The intricacies of love
too difficult to fathom
Her preference mismatched
he cannot define
her daily mantra
heightens sensations
reserved for the one
who appears to outshine?
Nothing but ineffectual
is her discordant course
the unyielding reality
of it drives him insane
and through the ebbing darkness
she hears him screaming ….’it is NOT what it is
It is Not what it is’
No satin ropes will tether
her cosmic line of duty
No romantic soft liaison
would induce her to stay
Tremulous and tender
her love cruelly wanders
from his romantic serenade
she turns her light away
Succumbs to his enemy…Day
whispering softly…. ‘it is what it is
It is what it is’
POTD 4th Nov 2019