Best Operas Poems
I have lived a thousand lives, died a thousand deaths.
I have loved women unbounded and fathered an army of children.
I have killed and healed, stolen and blessed, fought and fled.
Jew, Christian, Muslim I have been-- Buddhist, Hindu and Jain, too.
I worshiped the sun and Thor, pagan gods galore....
I was atheist, agnostic, Marxist, and often, just indifferent.
I was cruel, I was kind, I was hateful, I was forgiving.
I laid waste to cities and wrote operas and symphonies
and little songs to dance around forever in your head....
I was poet and philanderer, philosopher and philanthropist,
theologian and scientist-- also guard and prisoner, and
many, many times, false lover or the one betrayed....
All my lives were dreams, each slipping away to be forgotten
early in dawn of the next life, none to be recalled until I awaken
in the time beyond time....
a flower I am not
a contest I do not enter
I am a free spirit to share the world
of knowledge and a life for a moment
the wrench of eyes dropping tears
a nose to smell the wonder of bloom
as the tree soon to convey the memories of linden and teas
I walk the streets
the white narcissus of my teens past will bring me to a field long gone in the mountains of Andorra
an edelweiss to mix with your champagne
a flower wall I do not dance to your rhythms but my own
a voice to tell nothing but ears listening to operas my heart is full
the dandelion a miracle of generosity as the forager need to eat with the season.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rhapsody playing its crescendo again in loves joyful, operas moment *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As slowly she lowers my sundress while I gently brush aside her golden hair
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gazing into paradise, as she smiles aneath her enchanting lashes; “Angelica” ~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nothing can compare as her mistress fingers play softly my heart; dew amid the air...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fondly lying back as yearnful nipples rise to be quenched; thirsting
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Her lips so moist as our tongues entwine her lovely breast, caressing my own
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Warmth rushing inside these tides lost within, her beautiful eyes, again *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Turning desire towards the sun to embrace these flowers; petals of our promise...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sensations nectarous flavours birthed in enamorings, waiting to be loved
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Upon the shores of utopias evermore; floating, through the seas of her ecstasy ~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
...“69-SixtyNine-69” *
Afterlife Azaleas rise as apparitions
Bony Buttercups bathe in blooming moonlight
Cobweb Carnations cater to crystal chaos
Deathly Daffodils dance to the eternal dusty doors
Eerie Evening Primroses prance to ethereal exits
Frightening Foxgloves flame their foliage
Ghostly Geraniums gleam and gallop over graves
Haunting Hydrangeas heighten hollow horrors
Ivory Impatients inject inspiration to the expiring
Jumping Jack O'Lanterns jam with jazzy jumps
Kaleidoscope Kaffir Lilies knock with knowledge
Longing Leaves linger before gossamer winds
Mourning Marigolds muse misery moody moments
Nocturnal Narcissus notice nosy narratives
Occult Orchids oscillate with opulence operas
Phantom Pansies passionately prance proudly
Quivering Queen Anne Lace questions life and death
Reaper Roses reach for regal radio reservations
Skull Sunflowers stalk silky spinning sullen souls
Tombstone Tulips talk with trembling terrors
Umbrella Plants understand the underworld
Vampire Voilets voice with their teething violins
Witchy Wildflowers wax and wane with spells
Xylophone Xeranthemums x-ray cryptic blueprints
Yearning Yarrows yielding to the sobbing youth
Zombie Zinnias zip and zag zooming to the zenith
October 31st 2017
We danced violet nights into day,
And walked the sunny bay.
We dined champagne and caviar,
And drove far in your beautiful car!
Everyone noticed when we hit the scene,
Like actors on a movie screen.
Each hot party sent invitations.
Had friends in many nations.
I owned lots of lovely dresses;
Had the acquaintance of princesses!
Each day we made the society page.
Our lives were quite the rage.
A blur of operas, theaters, concerts;
We were socially witty, always pert.
Committed no little social crimes.
Trend setters, we graced The Times.
Day and evening, we painted the town!
Wearily, rosy sunsets went down.
No one will ever forget our names.
Such was our fame!
I wonder what a world mine would be without music!!!
Single tune of Melodie entice my soul
the beat unconsciously get my head nodding
plants a smile on my face
woooooh!
Within no time
my feet are on the floor
my body swaying............!!!!!
Haha!!!
I wonder what a world mine would be without
the stereo
guitar
piano.....
The lyrics
the classics
operas
the R&B
the oldies.....
without 'em amazing voices!!!!
music
The power of my spirit!
rhythm of my life
makes me conscious of my past
inspires me to anticipate my future!
It reminds me who i am!!!
Music
I may not play
sing
or understand
but always i feel it.
Music makes me visible
invincible
That everything is possible!!!!!
I
I search myself within skeletons closeted sunshine
Sick from love laughing leers sick from tired lessons lesions clichés
Sick from smug smart snooty soldiers in a war without enemies
Slaying hope light flashed in the whisper of a child’s heart
I beg for the dream again when magic was sown in my soul
II
Now only the outside answers nature wind
My mind suffocates secrets suffered slow
Pitching prayers in the dark room empty
Lights stretch snips of longing on the split wall
In corners perfumes perform mirrored operas
III
The monster changes the law and sows lands
In dust time will be a new hand reaching back
Deserts will bloom gospels pouring beatitudes
Walking religiously toward the thrilling purple sun
Night is a bath of stars boiling life and lust spinning
Verdant Operas
Cacophonic symphonies
Cicada Harvest
Thunder rattles windowpanes
as rain strikes against the glass.
But the lightning soon fizzles,
and the downpours quickly pass.
You envy the storm's freedom,
stuck in your web of despair.
If it wasn't for paying rent,
no one would know you were there.
You feel like you've had enough,
and you've felt like that for weeks.
And as your dreams disappear,
hot tears trickle down your cheeks.
You watch old soap-operas
as you shelter from the rain.
And alone, left to yourself,
there's no one to feel your pain.
You sit in silent anguish,
an actor without a part.
And as loneliness pervades,
it's like a hole in your heart.
You dream of finding true love,
feeling special and wanted.
But you're doubtful that'll happen,
which leaves you feeling daunted.
(Quatrain)
1/18/2015
The correlation between the bull and its southern identity,
most likely gives significance to its “calf land” description.
The labour room where renaissance was born
and historically grown through Michelangelo, Donatello, Da Vinci and others.
Finds great contentment in the treasury of the family.
Its empire once hitting heights way beyond the white mountains,
from Portugal to Syria and from Britain to the North African deserts;
while in possession of a language with more Latin words than any other.
It is a bird in constant carriage of two small chicks
while one is distant in the oldest continuous constitution,
the other stands apart in locking its city Gates at night.
The contributions of two major pillars out of so many
in the awesome support of the eighteenth century enlightenment
arguably equates the international influence of its “Three fountains”.
It has great command in the language of music
as the first global operas were composed in its sitting room.
From the Sardinian islands to the spectacle of the leaning tower of prisa,
this world nation with a significant portion
of its economic power rested on the dealings of mafias
is home to ‘A’ grade designers and highly rated sport automobiles.
The birth place of Galileo Galilei and Carlo Collodi,
engaging in unsaid romance with its own wolf;
making leisure a charismatic ritual through the evening stroll
and enjoying the biggest holiday in Christmas to Epiphany
is this land with more masterpieces than any other in the planet
and having the largest tertiary institution in its continent.
She is a young terrified girl.
A waning light in the dark
A true citizen of a wrong place;
A real burden to self
An epitome of depression
The embodiment of resentment.
Eyelids glued by the pus
That oozed, then clogged her vision;
The flies that feast on her sore body
Buzzing their ceaseless gratitude
Her breath comes…tarries…returns
Hope in both future and present,
Squashed and vanishing
She is deserted and quaking
She stares into the future
Laden with nothing
But impossible possibilities.
Amidst shame and morose
She remembers a song.
Not a song sung on a merry-go-round
But a song her mama sang for her
On days like this one.
A song meant to rekindle hope
When none’s left.
With the last energy
Still left in her frail spirit
She sings the song
Her mama sang for her.
With the scrawny legs
Dotted with scaly scars,
She gets up to limp on ahead
Like a blind man groping
Into a world of nothingness.
At first she sings with shyness.
The song her mama sang for her
Wakes up the courage in her chest.
She hums the song with passion.
Every note and every pitch and every rhythm
Blowing new breath into her dying lungs
Creating a new African girl.
A new life is born by a song
Sung by a mother
To her woe-stricken child.
She opens her eyes
To see new horizons.
She now sings for the tuxedoed
In big theatres and operas.
The world is too small for her name.
The new girl is a fat shadow of her former self.
When she sings,
The world sings along.
The future for her
Is now laden with gifts
As promised in the song
Her mama sang for her.
Mom had six children
when she moved far from the nest
to a remote area without relatives or friends.
Her lifestyle suddenly changed
from urban to rustic ~
Playing the part she did
of Eva Gabor in Green Acres
but in real life.
Between setting up a new home
laundry mending ironing
cooking baking cleaning
grocery shopping and school lunches,
Not much time to herself ~
she by chance discovered
the lure of soap operas
and it changed her life.
Suddenly she was extra motivated
to finish her work with time to spare
saving the ironing for soap opera hour.
And so she’d welcome into her home
the whole cast of Edge of Night
with their dramatic theatrical lives ~
she’d bond laugh and cry
And her life was full again.
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Vivaldi man of “Four Seasons”
Played his violin for a reason
While singing the strings
Excellent music he brings
Great melody it rings
“La Primavera” sole concerto
Uplifting the spirits without alto
Amsterdam, Prague, Venice and Vienna
Spectacular operas making souls remember
Strings and harmony joining in splendor
Maestro de Violino
Creating rhythm with his bow like no one knows
Musical scales moving your head
Great melody even for newlyweds
Tempo, decrescendo, awaken even a sleepyhead
Vivaldi man of “Four Seasons”
Played his violin for a reason
Bow singing the strings
Excellent music he brings
Great harmony it rings
© Joseph S. Spence, Sr., (Epulaeryu Master) 4/14/08
All Rights Reserved, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA
Senior Advisor, to Founder of Motivational Strips
Ambassador De Literature
Noble Star of Literature 2018
Living Legend of the 21st Century
Pentasiv B World Friendship Poetry Featured Poet 2019
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Placed in the 352 poems selected
out of the 1129 submitted in the
Poetry Soup September 2008 Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated: To the lovers of great violin music
Author’s Comments: My youngest son is a violinist and it’s such a pleasure
listening to his music and hearing about the musicians he talks about with
others.
I arrived early for the appointment I had made many months ago,
And began the interminable wait to consult with the medico!
When I checked in, it was already half-past noon.
Nursey said, "Take a seat and we'll be with you soon!"
The room was filled with people in every kind of condition!
I mused, "Lord, have mercy! Deliver me from this perdition!
While waiting I'll surely contract a dreadful disease, I fear
And be so much worse off than when I arrived in here!"
I thumbed through dog-eared magazines dating from 1953,
And stared with glazed eyes at unctuous soap operas on TV.
Swallowed stale coffee by the liter from a Styrofoam cup,
Waiting impatiently for my name to be called up!
I tried to snooze but that soon became a sad delusion,,
With bawling kids and inane babble - just too much confusion!
The little old lady next to me told of her every pain and ache,
As I lent a compassionate ear, striving to stay awake!
I was tempted to order a scrumptious Papa John's pizza pie,
Since my stomach was growling and supper time was drawing nigh!
At last Hildebrun, the nurse, in all her puffery before me did loom,
And finally ushered me into the harried doctor's examining room!
Robert L. Hinshaw CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Why Do You Write?
The sleepy poem asked me
Before it vanished in my shy pencil
Speechless were my boats
On the waves of her eyes
When the sixth nail in my palm
Rode the the pencil I borrowed from night
For there is nothing else I can do
For I like the taste of ink on my palm
For my lady prefers soap operas
In the cloudy nights
For the clock is still humming a tune
That has lost its denture
In the immigration office
For there is no other thing I can do at all
I am writing right now
And because I have no time left to read the headlines
Before I go to bed
To share nights with the pillow in red
N.B
(The pancil sharpener fell in love with the white rubber on my desk)