Short Fates Poems
Short Fates Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Fates by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Fates by length and keyword.
Listen to poem:
first herd was the path
to get crowd immunity,
get rid of COVID
second herd must live with it
now, all in the herd get it
Listen to poem:
what happened just now
is what I had dreamt about
it was déjà rêvé
my brain churned through memories
to predict perchance fated
I've met so many people that this planet could do much better without,
and yet it seems like my loved ones are the ones who continually check out.
To Hades, black as ink, our souls shall sink,
And all our lives are gone within a wink!
Yet fleeting! E’er so fleeting! Though it be,
So well we love what leave the Fates decree.
I was raised alongside our dog.
My biggest dream was to be a cog
in the great Cogswell Cogs machine.
I'd work for peanuts or for bones,
but his cubicle nameplate read, "Spot Jones",
while I fought for scraps on streets so mean.
If ‘Beethoven’s Fifth’ foretold fate
Rapping on humanity’s door,
Then what were Napoleon’s armies for?
When we challenge fate
By declaring war,
What dire results do we ignore?
Are all our beliefs
And Holy Scriptures,
Based on misheard 'Chinese whispers'?
Almost all people just try to steer
their own life cars
in their own ways,
few, through wide highways,
a great number,
through narrow lanes
with no gains
but in too many pains
so they all swear
at not what they haven't done
that they should have done,
but at their own fates
The poor man calls at Halloween
with wretched teeth and bandaged gleam.
For naked truth to dariaged dream
of crimes gone by for so obscene.
That all man knows
that poor is funny
When all who beg
are lost for money
That crimes gone by
are things to change
When all that time
was fates arranged
I have never met
an Atheist who
did not worship
something…
Nor, have I ever met
a man of faith, who
lived entirely by faith--
not having shelters of
acorns, a short distance
from his well of Wishing-
prayer…
And, likewise, not a writer
I know does not believe
in his or her own
omnipotence….
I walked the path of
William Tell
An apple by my
side
And waited for an archer
strong
To match me stride
for stride
I placed the orb
upon my head
And stood against
a tree
And gave my faith
unto the wind
Fates arrow sent
to free
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
The ending
hard
The ending
mean
Your future
soiled
But memory
clean
Your back bent
over
Your steps
misplaced
Your speech
a murmur
But one
last ace ...
A Robin
sits
Upon your
arm
And sings
of times
Forgotten
charm
And takes
your last
Begotten
breath
Upon its
wings
To fates
— regret
(Dreamsleep: December, 2024)
Love is a conquest, a journey
A story waiting to be told
Next years best seller written to be sold
So hold my hand love me here
Let our lives become apparently clear
Understanding love holds me cold
It creeps up inside of me growing old
Steals my common senses leaving me without a care
And then again on a whim
The cards are dealt with carme'dem
Form:
edgar alien poe
studied a ravens
cry of 'nevermore'
now
i'm left to ponder
the mouse that ate the bait
on a set trap while i watched
and
the radio played lennon's 'imagine'
after which the mouse walked away
to the tune of 'we never knew each other anyway'
so
i'll set the trap again later
and wait to be witness
to fates peculiarities
stan sand
i saw you in a dream in pasadena when i found an old miniature tape recorder hidden in the
wall. that day i went to photograph the orange wall surrounding the estate reclaimed by
the government and chain-linked fence to keep me out
that night i tried to do a pink-fenced painting, only to keep seeing figures of you
popping out in all directions
in 1980 i married the person
in front of that
orange wall.
I don’t write Sonnets,
or Limerick verse
I don’t write Haiku,
though often terse
I don’t write Ballads,
or Horacian Odes
I don’t write Parables,
to self-implode
But I do write in Rhythm,
and often in Rhyme
With meaning that’s buried,
and metered in time
All verbal indenture,
I must disavow
For the meaning to rise,
—when the fates allow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
I don’t write sonnets,
or limerick verse
I don’t write haiku,
though often terse
I don’t write ballads,
or Horatian odes
I don’t write parables,
to self-implode
But I do write in rhythm,
and often in rhyme
With meaning that’s buried,
and metered in time
All verbal indenture,
I must disavow
For the meaning to rise
—when the fates do allow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
Let The Fates Take Me
Please do not help me find my way
I do not think you could if you tried
I like not knowing where I am going
I like not knowing where I am
I like not knowing where I have been
So many questions down each road
Too many turns to make wisely
Not so many as to make them impossible
I just want to let the fates control me
Take me where they want me to go
I know one thing
They will take me somewhere I want to be
Ah!
The cruel fates
of comets and kings.
To bend
around the arc of Archimedes,
swaying and swelling,
to be crowned on its
next flight around.
Followed by trails
with wind in their sails, until
new laws are lain on the land.
They so love the moon,
they would encase it in granite.
Again, they'll rise from their knee
with the next passing planet.
Slung into
the far beyond--
the golden thrones
blaze and tumble
through the
dreams of princes.
Andromeda indeed!
Birds sing
Grass is green
The air smells of new springtime spice
Soft rains
Come at night
It's nice to live in paradise
Air's pure
Water's clear
Then at last New York City calls
Fast train
First class cruise
All while the Eiffel Tower falls
Courts rule
Crimes set forth
And then they prove one is insane
Get caught
No escape
Hung on the wall, wrapped in chain
Souls lost
Spirits gone
Life itself becomes forlorn
Stumble once
Rise again
And in the end, one is reborn