Long Unforeseeable Poems
Long Unforeseeable Poems. Below are the most popular long Unforeseeable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unforeseeable poems by poem length and keyword.
In the corner panel,
there is wisdom’s stoic face
she glimpses two leitmotifs
anticipates in the lover's embrace
her Egyptian demiurge beliefs
draped in internal paralysis
prepped in anxiety of inner toils
of verminous void, an empty analysis
Seeded branches of goldleaf coils
they reach for the distant stars,
certain the sky was made to be entered
uncertain what the dynamic interplay draws
between abandonment and chaos centered
over a noxious malignant blue moon's gnaw
atop the tricked out terrace in Vienna
outside the castle's canopied balconies,
painted moods leap colors that swoon sienna
jilter’s jitters capricious can’t ease
Flora sweeps over the underneath, not even
Mati’s aegean’s blue and aesthetic white
concentric circle or any charms zinced of Zen
can ward off downcast eye scans left and right
the black bird spiraling arabesque
a memento mori of mortality perched
Its red eye, a pin of hidden fire blottesque
Its cows are shadow whispers besmirched
From the borderlands of my breaking mind
From the edges of my reckless whimper
From my storm-torn splitting, undefined
begets perpetual yearning, as simpler
Eye-like rosettes evoke cycles of life tiers
In this, my blue period, I paint everything gold
An untarnished brilliance mirrors
the unchanging of God’s radiant nature told
Its divine purity keeps me from insanity
from the unsettling, unforeseeable bends,
an existential uncertaninty
This tree bares the fruit of life that blends
never knowing where it will take me,
Heaven, Earth, Underworld’s conscience
and a future inherently unpredictable
Indeed, there’s opportunity
salient for growth and resilience
Have you seen changing of colours?
World shifting thoughts without insight
Mellifluous tones making way for cacophony
Drums buried beneath shambles,
And people returning to the jungle,
Craving roots and leaves
As life becomes spooky affair
The world changing patterns,
As beauty becomes an obstacle
Have you witnessed the unforeseeable?
Mountains becoming smaller
Flower refusing to bloom
Nature giving up its mandate,
Moving away from positivity
Negativity embracing every creature
Inducing evil forces to celebrate with pride,
As the world falls apart
Hope assuming new meaning,
As happiness sink underground
That's how the world has changed
Love making way for hostility
Ignorance taking center stage
People searching through garbage
To find reasons for immorality
Taking journeys to the wilderness
Coming back with more grounds for deviation
Goodness plummeting deeper
As the world changes faces
An attack of this magnitude
was completely unforeseeable;
and who thought that an unguarded city
had to feel that sense of solitude...
through an urealistic exodus so undiscernible,
and later reclaim its struck territory!
What we lost...is not the superb Twin Towers:
the pride of the wealthiest nation on earth,
towers that can be rebuilt in years;
it's those lives that enmity cut short!
And they tried to disorientate us,
and disrupt our ingenuous and lively living
by spreading unrest and choas
with absurd and infernal thinking!
This infamy is so ineffaceable
from the mind of the unfoolish,
fair and reasoning man with greater intellect...
that it becomes so inexplicable;
a shameful act not condoned by civilization,
confirmed by unsympathetic sentiments!
What we lost ...is truly irreplaceable
by every imaginable remedy:
its the worth, the comfort and the unbroken joy,
which dazzled in the NewYorkers' eyes...
making their days so livable!
What we lost...is eternally
carved out into those shining stones:
bearing glorious names to withstand time itself1
There are things that were never said.
After this loss is inexplicable, heart wrenching, sad.
Nobody expected you to vanish, to leave us behind.
I'm just looking for an outlet, for a way to unwind.
All that's left are pictures, memories.
Recalling the last time I saw your face, deserted, I sit here as my soul cries.
Being alive is a gift---
I want to remember your existence, and use it to uplift.
My heart is split into a million pieces after your loss.
Things will never be the same, and God only knows what I will come across.
Time is too precious to waste, don't let it slip.
I wish I didn't have to take, this melancholic trip.
Until we meet again in the afterlife.
I will celebrate you with my actions, throughout my life.
Overbearing it is, this deep, unforeseeable sorrow.
Realizing that there is no promise, of waking up again, tomorrow.
To speak the unspeakable
Will I ever get to tell you
The truth will set you free
How much you mean to me
To think the unthinkable
Just to think about you
A you and me fantasy
Sets my spirit free
To hear the unhearable
I long to whisper softly
Words not meant for me
The softest "I love you"
To touch the untouchable
hunger for your soft caress
Unknown ecstasy
That says you love me too
To want the unattainable
you don't belong to me
Trying to succeed
But know I'm always here
To restrain the unrestrainable
Fighting to respect the vows
Walls internally
Of virtue held so dear
To dream the undreamable
It's not reality
Stretching boundaries
But hope will keep me strong
To foresee the unforeseeable
Until the day I find myself
A date with destiny
With you, where I belong
46 moons following the 5th winter
democracy has yet offered its charis for partaking.
"Gather yee faithful slaves," "drink from thy cup," it beckons.
Having danced to the sweet empty promises,
and wore the affiliated regalia of sheer stupidity, it is time to proclaim, how deep it goes.
A manifestation, of a prior auction where rights have already been sold for less than 3 silvers.
Multitudes, from all corners of the fire nation, gather in the bare mushroom of a scorching sun,
Ready to cast lots, and choose the next captain for the ship engulfed in fire.
Each slave, convinced of the prowess and abilities of their captain.
"A" argues, "he is experienced and knows the routes to steer us out of danger and lead us to a safe harbor."
While "B" laments, "though we may seem lost, he still knows the route that leads to Canaan."
Another proclaims, "it is better to redirect the ship back to Egypt; at least we ate meat that compensated the lashes on the back."
Either could be right or wrong, but then again what defines a right or wrong?
Perhaps it's better to commit the sin of indifference, and watch from the terraces as "D" suggests?
Either way, every option is a covenant in itself,
A pact made by man to a fellow Adam.
A choice that defines a mixed bag of unknowns to be unleashed in the next unforeseeable future.
Welcome to the covenant of choosing a lesser Devil.
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams I
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
?Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
?Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan’t get at you again!
?Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge,
we no longer hear your echoing cry
along the forest's dappled feeding ground
where, in times gone by,
you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom,
luring them on,
for now you too have gone
down the dark path to Acheron.
?Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
?Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as
still as cold stone, huntress Lycas,
my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness
as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would leap and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
?Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Greek, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, translations, elegy, elegies, eulogy, eulogies, death, grave, funeral, lament, mourning, loss, pain, bereavement
so many unknown variables to consider for such a tasking pursuit
a conditional ‘If’ but what if ‘whether’ reigns in a supreme challenge
conjectures battle refutations and synapses blocked in surrender
as long as suppositions succeeded in their hypothetical contemplation
the world may as well be flat and circle unhappily one of its moons
the ‘I’ would be futile a self negating deprecation on auto-destruct
and endless loop of no Self on a path to nowhere and nothingness
not of Buddha like Nirvana but hell on earth as we know it too well
a spinning confusion of gravity with levitation spared its flight of fancy
when meditation and pondering could not lift the soul above the mind
‘ruling’ that wishes to overcome suppression domination and power
appears a futile concept when freedom should be the ultimate aim
of course anarchy holds its merits but people cling to being governed
by false leaders fake news and an insatiable need for crude abdication
in an attempt to cast responsibility and shred all courage and hope
‘the’ poses the question of this or that where and when whether at all
a simple adverbial adjective refusing to rest on quiet incomplete duty
bereft of solitary meaning and such an imposter of clarity and precision
no stand alone metaphor of context and contingency lost in the process
but the planet needs answers and I do not give up easily if besieged
is there a ‘world’ out there a compass and globe in my restless attempts
to understand question emphasize deconstruct and give a sweet home
to live up to its promises and dreams as opposed to terminal decline
word has it that there are only illusions betrayal and survival of the fittest
engulfed in delusions conflagrations raging inferno straight from its core
‘I’ if it was able to resist compartmentalization of Ego Super Ego and Id
might not want the elusive generational torch snuffing out a last breath
maybe I am overthinking under emoting and have surrendered in vain
to lost beauty and a vacuum of distant echoes of an unforeseeable future
therefore I conclude that if I was the ruler I would ask my kids for advice
14th August 2020
Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.
Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.
My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.
And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.
The white antique porcelain bowl
your mother gave us
has blue veins that wander over its surface.
Holding it up to the light I also see
there are fine cracks here and there.
Age has made it more interesting,
more worth keeping,
still good to look upon.
The veins resemble deltas and tributaries,
the fine cracks look like the lines
on the palms of my hands,
some lead somewhere, others
just dead end,
but all the veins join and mingle.
The varicosity is getting worse,
her ankles are swelling despite the water tablets.
We will keep washing, drying, and looking.
The bowl, like a luminous north star,
is set upon a side table;
a leg of the table needs fixing;
she does not ask me to fix much anymore,
she knows my hands are broken plates.
Her mother was 85 when she died;
the bowl is older yet somehow stronger
as if it had survived the entropy of
many unforeseeable times.
While she is showing me her swollen ankles,
the phone rings. It’s the Doctor,
he wants to know if I am still hallucinating.
I tell him I don’t think so,
it’s just that some things seem like other things;
there are connections, a fine network of nexus’s
that I had not noticed before,
however,
we are both getting along well
despite the translucency of these days.