Long Statistics Poems
Long Statistics Poems. Below are the most popular long Statistics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Statistics poems by poem length and keyword.
A Gemini artist married to a Libra mathematician?
This will end badly, a relationship that defies regal ambition.
The naysayers laugh for we are opposite in many ways.
I can lose myself in my work and paint canvasses for days.
My libra mathematician likes statistics, it is his powerful tool.
I cannot understand algebra, statistics once made me a fool.
But we eat our beef, mashed potatoes with warm bread.
And we do not talk shop, so our marriage moves along ahead.
A Gemini artist married to a Libra mathematician is insane.
But we have been married for over fifty years so this is plain.
Although I despise math, and he does not cartoon, paint or sing.
We have many commonalities, and laugh at the same thing.
We raised three daughters who understood the beauty of this.
Depending upon the problem, they sought answers for their bliss.
Asking the Gemini when playing and whimsy was the answer they wanted.
If it was a logic question or a math problem, for Daddy they hunted.
It feels as if I am living in the aftermath.
When I have not even started on a path.
Because the statistics tell a truth that makes me go numb.
I decided to never speak- as my voice will shatter to crumbs.
I am now waiting patiently to drown.
When the world hears my name- there is a collective frown.
Wait! Can you allow me to apologize?
My peers are foraging into a future as sure as the sunrise.
As my path is certain to shrink-
I am pointlessly staying awake at night to think.
As if I am not deserving of rest.
As if each day, I am failing a new test.
I am sorry friends, to force you to feel survivors’ guilt.
It is not your fault that I have been destined to wilt.
Your fabulous career started in Minnesota.
It ended many years later in California.
Your statistics included sixty lifetime shutouts.
You had over three thousand seven hundred strikeouts.
A power right-hander considered among the best,
your accomplishments placed you above much of the rest.
Well Bert, despite your amazing prowess for the game,
I cannot believe you have not made the Hall of Fame.
Your lack of recognition appears as quite a shame.
With two hundred eighty-seven wins in your career,
you had a lot more than many other pitchers here.
Why don’t I see your plaque? The reason is hardly clear.
Like many others who follow the game of baseball,
I want to see your name enshrined in Cooperstown’s Hall.
Bert Blyleven was finally elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame this year after thirteen
straight years of unsuccessful attempts. He will be enshrined later on this summer.
I wrote this poem back in 2004.
** Apologies for anyone unfamiliar with the metaphors used, they're quite British ***
Most people in life work for someone
as all the statistics have shown
but I thought I'd go out and start up by myself
as an entrepreneur, go it alone.
My radio shop called in the receivers,
someone got in and all the stock stole,
so I switched to creating a unique shampoo
but that all went down the plug hole.
I started a wallpaper business
but that quickly went to the wall
My pet grooming venture has gone to the dogs
And my parachute school took a fall.
My submarine business went under,
my brake shoe shop, that hit the skids,
the paper shop folded, boat builder ran aground
but I wasn't surprised when it did.
The detergent idea is all washed up,
and my driving instructor school crashed,
my water filtration is in liquidation
and dustbin cleaning business got trashed.
My hairdressers, that came a cropper,
I thought that would do well the most,
then my skills as a medium,
nobody did need 'em,
and that has now given up the ghost.
My last chance is growing tobacco,
as that should appeal to some folk,
it does sound quite appealing,
but I have a bad feeling
that the whole thing will go up in smoke.
mama and papa begged their musician son
to not join a band, although hedonistic fun
we are terrified you will soon be a member of twenty-seven
we would miss you terribly if you decided to return to heaven
Sonny boy laughed, and read them the stats
twenty songs give tribute to this number, but here are the facts
in spite of what the rumors legends and myths state
there is not that much danger, and the lifestyle is great
Jimi, Brian, Jim, and Janis might have been using drugs
Amy Winehouse died of fright, fearing rumors of thugs
Statistics show that popular musicians die usually at fifty-six
He told his parents good-bye, and raced away to get his musical fix.
My existence is flawed,
Bogged down by day, month, year old thoughts
I cannot stop,
My existence is flawed
Matching statistics taunt me,
But solemn truths surface
when guards pass drearily to sleep,
no more minds to keep,
Was all this worth it,
Oh the burning yearning to be free
of the wretched body
When I went insane I thought
I spoke to god,
And to them, distraught, I yelled
My existence is flawed,
Ferocious rains inside me fought,
Oh, again, to laugh away deaths embrace,
Resign myself to end of days,
As flesh and bone all surely rot,
And sirens sing the tunes of Nox,
I repeat, My existence is flawed
To this conjecture I contend,
All beauty will turn sometime,
But sunlight's rays shine
day by day,
And shadows dance
A sweet romance,
fend instead for next days brace,
Do not succumb to pale horse's race,
A small suggestion I propose,
Swap "my" with "why"
and truth arose,
Although those meander without cause,
Why, existence is flawed!
Reading. Crying. Screaming.
Begging you to listen
You only believe what makes you feel good
You Laugh, and say "don't you know I'm a Christian?"
The only thing you question is science and empathy
Not lies, not religion, and not your racist parent's beliefs
Unconcerned with how your decisions affect us here and now
because you're so sure god is coming to bail you out
You don't have to care about the people, animals, or trees
All you have to do is say forgive me and I believe
For everyone else the pain you have inflicted is all around you
DEI roll back, labor camps, and cuts on your social security too
You scape-goat minorities despite all of the statistics
Facts over feelings would just be sadistic
Unless of course, it's to justify some racist bullship
"The minorities are the ones to blame, not the billionaire politicians!"
"Yeah!" you shout "The billionaires earned it!"
If you count fraud, tax evasion, and exploitation of employees
Now you're in too deep
You'd rather vote for fascism than admit you're on the wrong side of history
You're every republican politicians dream
You vote against your own interests in the name of hating minorities
While California is in flames and Florida is in a blizzard
You blame the libs and their weather machines
It couldn't possibly be the effects of climate change that we have been warned about for years
Soon we will have no more crocodile tears
You're so sure that Nobel prize winning scientists and economists have made it their life's mission to lie
For all of your information, you look to the orange guy
I have to say it does feel bitter sweet
Knowing you set the world on fire, but at least you'll burn with me
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
Expectation one: stop expecting anything, because what you want, they will rarely be.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
As a child of an addict, you may fear that their addiction is tradition, that one day you will be in that position.
Fear not! The cards have not been dealt, I know how you have felt, running from that rust belt to be free, away with your lock to find a key.
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
As a child of an addict, you must have more ambition, hold onto a goal and set off on a mission.
Seizing control of your future, yet wondering: is this all I’ll ever be? A compilation of all my tragedy. Will they ever truly see what I was meant to be, simply me?
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
As a child of an addict, we do not wonder when we will see our parent, but if the price of their condition has demanded submission as its tuition.
If— when that phone rings, will they have finally paid the fee?
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
You cannot waste your life waiting for someone else to pay a debt yet due, so you move through and forward to your transition.
Flee the debris of their memory without a final decree while you hope their condition doesn’t affect your mission to be free.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
You have entered the world alone, working with hyper vigilance and absolute precision.
Working toward a life time guarantee that you are your life’s grantee.
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
Do not say they are numbers.
Do not reduce them to body counts,
statistics scrolling like credits on the end of a war no one asked for.
They had names.
They had nicknames whispered by mothers,
chalk drawings on the walls,
birthday candles they never got to blow out.
They had futures
architects of skylines that now lie in dust,
singers whose voices were buried before they broke.
And still the world watches,
flipping channels as if children are worth less than silence.
But we will not be silent.
We stand with Gaza’s children
with their laughter torn apart mid-breath,
with their soccer balls rolling through streets where tanks left scars,
with their kites still flying though the sky is heavy with drones.
Because their courage shames our cowardice.
Because their joy, even in rubble, is a revolution we cannot ignore.
Every stone they pick up is not just stone
it is testimony,
a declaration:
We were here. We are still here.
So say their names in your chest,
carry their faces in your voice,
make your stance clear:
We stand with Gaza,
with the children the world tries to erase,
with the future they still dare to dream.
And we swear this truth will outlive the lies.
This fire will outlast the bombs.
The children of Gaza will not be forgotten,
not while our mouths still know how to speak.
Contagion ceremoniously weaves its harvest into a fabric of un-social inclusion
Haunted by lack of humility and lost serenity it serenades through the masses
In God We Trust but who listened to Nietzsche who proclaimed that she is dead
Lest we believe that a deity or other exists and really knows what she's doing
Divinity does not adhere to the faith that we are immune to such a great reaper
Revelations come at a price and blood money changes gloves and sterile hands
Engulfed in statistics and mortality rates we watch breathlessly old news in pain
No human creature is more equal than others when pandemonium is pandemic
Opulence luxury and money do not protect us from the insidious bastard bug
Foreshadow a lesson in morality diffidence acceptance and washing our hands
Alamo meets the apocalypse in cryptic proportions of ignorance and surrender
Loo rolls pasta hand soap have vanished from shelves as have bread and wine
Endangered species need to make offerings with the latter and worship at home
Surreptitious veneration of non-believers stakes false claims at burgeoning altars
Superficially cleansed with an insane amount of fake oaths in hypocritical pride
End stage scenarios roam beliefs narratives and reason beyond any much doubt
Reinvent biblical prophesies as devotes of virgin birth bow to rigor mortis instead
Grotesque gargoyles utter a cynical message on shrines mausoleums and crosses
Ogres whirl a ballet of youthful joy while funeral processions have come to a halt
Deliriously they applaud the harvest and struggle to keep up with all those in line
30th March 2020