"finalities" poems
Mesons, quarks, neutrinos, too
Drawn inexorably
Into eternity
To a finite point
Called singularity;
Rushing, streaming
Toward one juncture,
To a destination
With unknown structure.
Swirling, speeding
Into the abyss,
Reason, logic
Cease to exist.
Space and time
Merge in disarray,
Matter altered too,
No night, no day.
Warped, transmuted
Realities,
Become twisted, melded
Finalities.
Inconceivable dimensions
Reign supreme,
Nature’s laws violated
To extreme.
Crossing the event horizon,
No turning back,
Into the precipice,
Down a void of black;
Facing the vortex,
Light gasps in disbelief,
A terminal journey starts
Without relief.
Stars and galaxies
Give a sigh
As they spiral in
And begin to die.
One day we too
Will meet this fate;
The only questions are
The place and date.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red lips and powder-white face.
STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.
FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.
SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.
PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?
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I. LONELINESS
Her Word
One ought not to have to care
So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the house
To seem to say good-bye;
Or care so much when they come back
With whatever it is they sing;
The truth being we are as much
Too glad for the one thing
As we are too sad for the other here—
With birds that fill their *******
But with each other and themselves
And their built or driven nests.
II. HOUSE FEAR
Always—I tell you this they learned—
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They. learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.
III. THE SMILE
Her Word
I didn’t like the way he went away.
That smile! It never came of being gay.
Still he smiled—did you see him?—I was sure!
Perhaps because we gave him only bread
And the wretch knew from that that we were poor.
Perhaps because he let us give instead
Of seizing from us as he might have seized.
Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed,
Or being very young (and he was pleased
To have a vision of us old and dead).
I wonder how far down the road he’s got.
He’s watching from the woods as like as not.
IV. THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM
She had no saying dark enough
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window-latch
Of the room where they slept.
The tireless but ineffectual hands
That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
Before the mystery of glass!
It never had been inside the room,
And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
Of what the tree might do.
V. THE IMPULSE
It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,
And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.
She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.
And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard.
When he called her—
And didn’t answer— didn’t speak—
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother’s house
Was she there.
Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.
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Amid fear and suspicions,
with agitated mind and frightened eyes,
we melt and plan how to act
to avoid the certain
danger that so horribly threatens us.
And yet we err, this was not in our paths;
the messages were false
(or we did not hear, or fully understand them).
Another catastrophe, one we never imagined,
sudden, precipitous, falls upon us,
and unprepared -- there is no more time -- carries us off.
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Set aside the formalities
Put behind your brutalities
Forget about the finalities
Throw away all moralities
Come hide from your realities
Forgive me for my irrationalities
I plea not for practicalities
I know of the abnormalities
Do you know of the totalities
Just listen to the modalities
It's becoming a lethality
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
you'd know if ******* with you, you're only ******* with precise time
taking all that my heart can take, i'm losing pace so rerise mine
thinking that now that is true is that of the past is concedence of back
i'll ****** you ************ talking like if i didn't know my own being collectively, i warn your future like i say again, i'll ****** you ************ like ratting you out in packs
pack the steel rather than back was feel, what that, "I'll ****** you ************ like if mine was real
hype poppin **** like if was women was owned
i'll display the images of the future like sacred ideas of your own rabbit assed mind'll condone,
I'll ****** you ************ cuz it's a balance,
you feel pulse in ambivalence so stop poppin attitude cuz you're raising me wrong redeeming forgiveness in balance
you muthafuckahs gotta know you're living in soul like you were ever alive in my home
******* with all of my phones, i'll belt your *** like i owned every satellite sat saturn turned up when i'm burned up when you're ******* with all of my phones standin
capacity roam your tenacity's shown every capacity at being stolen of my life like all finalities owned
mistakenly like balance you're shortening truth as each different wife is being lied to indepently told
my capacity growth is closer to death now that my finalities owned
redeem it like i didn't reveal em ****
so your now reading everything dear closer to you now cuz you're enlivening ****
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
quantum poetry paradoxes
<>
forArianna who sometimes hears opera by night,
but always sees poetry
<>
what we are is unique, at the molecular level,
our DNA is microscopic visible,
in every letter, comma and
even the false white spaces of
universes expanding,
black holes ******* in fooled passerby’s,
burning out and disappearing
as invisible forces create and dilapidate -
simultaneously
this our poems are finite but never complete,
explorers sent knowing they will never return,
and if they do, though their poems unchanged,
but all the readers older, deformed and/or dead
think on it!
the world of you has revolutionized many times
since you started reading this prose, you have birthed
and seen cells die by the millions by the time you’ve
read this sad stanza twice and glory hallelujah uttered!
so go ahead, create and die
simultaneously
I give you answers,
though you ask for none,
you keep on breathing beating,
beating pumping apparatus paradoxically
insists you live even as it wears out with each
stroking, explain these minute contradictories
as your consciousness refracts and absorbs
these many mighty infinite finalities of
the
quantum poetry paradoxes
12:34pm EST
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC
With your dignity at the bottom of a bottle
you shared with me your sweet nothings.
We weaved around secret feelings
and waded through shallow fears.
Warmed by jungle juice we growled at misconceptions
and spoke in cirlces, and circles and circles.
We wandered off paths long lost
and discovered life's finalities
- and finally -
we found our way home.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
I am not good, I am not great,
I do as I should but as a fake,
Getting by on my anxiety,
Guided by sure finalities,
I am good, God is great,
Both do as we should but so full of hate,
Meanings here and meanings where,
Meanings rare and I’m stuck there,
You’re in one, I’m in two,
Masks are fun to hide the truth,
Focused on self-defined tragedy,
Self-obsessed professed insanity,
No relief or relax from the dark,
Bruised by bottle caps and teeth marks,
Bats and owls curse spiritual slurs,
The Sleep of Reason greets Goya’s monsters,
Stuck in a poets phonetic wasteland,
Letters scattered like grains of sand,
Hunched over tables convulsing religiously,
Punching out feelings for depressions vanity,
Mutters of memory’s shadows,
Patterns of clarity in charlatans clothes,
Search for a meaning of proof,
If any as denial and distraction wage a truce,
The Artist’s Reward was always a lie,
To defy life first you must die,
Continue this imprisonment in institutional prostitution,
Reverting, perverting once innate constitution,
Create an ornate human and visceral solution,
Refusing the fusion spit out prose pollution,
Confusion in this constant cyclical conclusion
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
As I stood there,
Full of thoughts so thoughtlessly thinking,
Drinking deep with an inclination that I do not think was ever there before,
Though never there but seeming very real in my despair,
Unwittingly I stood there,
Sinking still forevermore
Wherever from I do not know,
Forlorn for far too long, long ago,
Labouring lonely on my own,
Finally finding some sort of sedate sedition,
At last some affinity with forever’s finite infinity
And, I do recognise the conflictions and oxymoronic oppositions,
But as such it is a necessary dereliction of definitive definitions,
And yet it all still makes so much sense to me,
Profanity in profound insanity,
What gravity
What gravity the vulgarity of these verbalising vultures voicing victorious vitality,
Before banality and such boring finalities,
Then suddenly one’s head grew heavy, hence and thus, dropped into dust,
Deep into the darkness ****** to which only few have ever been privy,
There lay the bust of Miss McHale
Though long pale and so frail in death’s derail of life’s long trail,
Beauty somehow still prevailed in such a sorry sickening tale,
In time long lost to those foreign and some still long mine,
Destined besotted are entwined,
In life and death we tumble and take turns to stumble into things we cannot perfectly define
Love, love was inclined to go through,
Adversities, I had to climb to try and find the only word for you,
A word that can only be mine and said once and really meant for you, that one time
To us that word will confine, but I cannot find,
Nor conform or confide in any known way to accurately represent my mind
Though sometimes that can be just fine,
That word can escape me, but you will still be mine,
And along with finite infinities,
There is the very possibility that we are something that just cannot be defined,
Although I do not understand it, you will still be mine
And yet you crave to climb that rail,
Atop a limousine after your tumble through an Empire’s gale,
States of life try to live on in death but always fail,
As blood runs still and last breathe exhales,
Though immortalised now evermore prevailed,
In beauty and brutality ultimately availed,
The immortal end of the ever humble Miss McHale
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Here I sit
In my beautiful home
With my wonderful family
And then it hit
All the things that could go wrong
that do go wrong...
All the bullets that need not be fired
All the blood that need not be spilled
All the mothers children who slip away everyday
Every fathers daughter who closes her eyes on the final high
Every bomb dropped, shooting done, overdose, all the finalities of this world.
And sometimes it feels hopeless
But perhaps its the fact that we still feel enough hope to recognize hopelessness that saves us. As long as we never reach the point where not caring is normal. As long as being alive is feeling pain for all the losses, even the ones that aren't ours. As long as we can sit in our blessings and recognize them as exactly that. Maybe there's a chance for us.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Not just the day
not just the night
but the year
give it to me
Let this year last a lifetime
let this be the last of me
let me disclose my finalities
and show my secret strengths
Time has called me to account
so I must stride fearless
into the realms of the unknown
from the world of the known
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Carmine flowers with yellow delicate centers
Guarded by sharp-tipped thorns that pierce deep
Resting upon brown thin bark-covered reaching branches
Rain covered veined green leaves
Breeze blown petals soft pink, mutated and light
Dance daintily through the air on their final flight
On gentle downdrafts, floating before they kiss the ground
Shunning all finalities fanfare
Without the slightest sound
In their pageantry of elegance and depths of fiery red
Crimson blush life ebbing as the sun pursues its bed
Rising comes the ashen moon lifting her head
The lifeless pale florets lay strewn about faded and dead.
All Right Reserved @Tammy M. Darby Sept. 28, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base.
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
dotting the Is and crossing the Ts
drawing lines under finalities
saying goodbyes surreptitiously
inconspicuously thanking my serendipities
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
He is not without dreams, without aspirations;
He simply knows them by their true name,
Knows they are alloyed and somewhat compromised,
The musings and misapprehensions of mortal men,
And he knows that his finalities outweigh and outnumber
Such things he has yet to realize,
Those lesser grails which tantalize and tease
Even though he knows their possession is far outweighed
By that gleaned from the pursuit.
But no matter, then--he has duties to fulfill,
Tithes to pay, promises made and, as such, to be kept.
There is the sun, after all, and the warmth of day
Sometimes not unlike that of mid-August,
Though the nights have lengthened perceptibly,
Their depth and chill implacable in their advance.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC