Long Acoustic Poems
Long Acoustic Poems. Below are the most popular long Acoustic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Acoustic poems by poem length and keyword.
'No pain,no gain‘ Mum reminded us wryly.
'No lemon no melon' Dad quipped adding pith to the bitter- sweet maxim.
So there we stood, Sis and I, incarcerated by our own parents and ordered to repaper the entire kitchen.
Just desserts in their view for the impromptu deed which had triggered such sanctions.
I refer of course to the unfortunate episode of the tomato ketchup food fight!
The gargantuan task would easily take us till noon so my gym class would have to wait.
Anna had planned a romantic kayak along the river with her new beau Bob.
Her face flushed redder and redder with florid frustration.
This was definitely not on our radar for a Saturday morning's entertainment!
Mum and Dad rubbed more salt into the wound:
‘Try your level best to do a good job of it you two. We’re heading off to the beach’ for a picnic.
It was exhausting but good strong tea was our hourly reviver and Abba playing in the background provided an acoustic pick-me-up; Mamma Mia, what a morning!
’Tattarrattat. Somebody was at the front door.
‘Just called by to see if I could help out‘ said Bob: What a hero!
The whole episode was a real eye opener for us and we learnt a new
life tenet that day that ‘As you make your bed, so you must lie on it!’
03/10/18
‘Palindromes contest’ Sponsored by: Joseph May
( I have used two phrasal palindromes : 'no lemon no melon' and ''my gym')
Written: September 3rd, 2023
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In a world where souls seldom intertwine,
Where fate plays tricks, a cruel design
A movie theater is a realm for dreams.
Where reality and fantasy gleam.
Yet in this place of everyday strife,
Our lives merge for a brief span of life.
Our bond faded such an assail at night.
Two magnets repelling, never to unite
She knows this truth, etched deep within,
Their fated union is still a dream, so thin.
But in her slumber, she finds solace.
On a whim, a man ignites her soul's grace.
With a single question, she stirs her core.
"Can you truly love me?" she implores.
She looks beyond her rivalry in this vision.
She notices her life's hardships and envisions
She knows the sensation of vertigo spin.
Fear stifling grasp and joy's rush from within
She is not embarrassed to show her tears.
Behind her alluring smile, she hides her fears.
She relishes the giggles that come with fright.
Souls are truly entwined in this fictional sight.
Where their hearts sway to lovely music.
I'm totally psyched to break out the acoustic.
But alas, the dream fades with the morning light.
Leaving her longing for that man outside her sight.
In the depths of her doze, she yearns to chime,
A love that transcends the boundaries of time.
But in the waking hours, the reality remains
Their destined meeting, still held in chains.
She hunts for solace in the little tidbits they share.
In the brief encounters, a glimpse of care
She finds comfort in the view of his existence.
A beacon of hope in a world of resistance
Even though their paths may never fully align,
She believes their souls will combine.
A world where fate tricks and souls don't meet
Her hope is that destiny will let them complete
Before then, she'll daydream in her deep sleep.
Of the man who can ignite her soul so deep.
In the realm of dreams, their love will shine.
Where fantasy and reality intertwine.
Though their encounter may remain elusive,
Their souls will find each other, ever-inclusive.
Angel rift star dust
In one hand
The sun
In the other
The moon
In the mind
The earth
In the heart
The space to comprise it all
But I have skimmed the rim of the abyss
Stood on the edge of a ledge and blew it a kiss
Took a dive from so high to enjoy the freefall
Than I stayed for a day in the heart of sheol
I got those streamlined moves timed to avoid the hate
I got those sidelined hooves signed by the eye of fate
I'm dipping diamonds in gold for the souls that you sold
I'm lifting layers of lies from the beats you baptized
Using that haptic magic
Fantastic acoustic
Let the mind drift
The heart combust
Tripping on my angel rift star dust
The earth doesn’t revolve
there are no sounds of any kind
only dirt covered nil over nil.
In absolute tranquility
I couldn’t hear the sound of my own breath
not even the tinnitus that always bangs my eardrums to irritate me.
In the world of no sound like the bottom of the deepest sea
I hear the ear canal*full streaming water sound.
I see the floating stars and moon
in the pitch-dark lightless light;
there was no one on the motionless earth,
there was no one in the lightless world
there was not even me or you but he who is not he.
In the nil
the word ‘existence’ would lose its significance;
therefore, the length of the bridge from the bottom of the sea
where the nonexistent lies, to the edge of the sky where
he who is not he is floating,
can be an infinite to short distance, to none, to negative;
and so, the nil can be the limit without limit
to the limit within limit.
*external acoustic meatus.
Wriggled in her arms.
Lost in an adventure of romance, moving far afield.
Though I have no weakness for writing,
my story got underway.
Wallowing in the admiralty of her beauty
Adorned with beautiful antique ornament
Adulterated with the laudable attribute of nature
Epitomizing the 6th day work,
and the adroit molding of the creator.
Ensconced on her chest for an aeon of time.
Only my hands left to keep the memory of time.
Touching the acme of her chest,
Pointing like that of Sheba.
Turning it to a piccolo, without an acoustic.
Acknowledging the season between her legs,
warming the cold in my hands.
Letting my hand becoming an ace,
and my phalanges adept in describing her.
My eyes falling over itself
to keep the facsimile of her body,
and my skin falling in with my eyes,
as two spent swimmers that do cling together.
Feeling her permed hair,
blowing like a frond tree by the river.
Her eyes shining like a cat
which has never been afeared
Her skin like flowers that never fade in autumn
and less of acne in winter.
I wish our spirit is adjoined forever
Like fifes and drum that make a good sound,
Keeping myself in the light of your love
praying it never fade.
I wish I wake up in my trance
Wishing I say all these to your face
And see it received.
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
Classical infusion, Beethoven’s “ode to joy”
playing on blaring audiophile speakers annoy
purposely looped to destroy vagrants with electronic music
blends of subversive elements and anxious acoustic
the solution to loitering the bodega doo dropping
spicy Shiitake broth smelling pissy store front,
jaded daily stunt, at midnight wino corks popping
abruptly segway into a film from one music scene
to a melting hallway, a lipstick alley with animate occupants
disconnected unmoored, appearing eerie and dormant
fluorescent lights unleashing a hum buzz in duress
hissing sizzling hornets’ nest of unsettling unrest
illogical levels of unease, an iniquitous den
such madcap absurdity is beyond my ken
not a shack, mall, nor a Holiday Inn,
a queasy Quasi-Moto mood which lies within
backrooms filled in with discarded filets
of fishy maceral that have no place,
frolicking pixella's in a glossy abyss of liminal space
plump puce brushed lips affixed
swollen browns and purple mixed
deep maroon and dusky rose,
make-up art is what they pose
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Crescent shaped moon portions mounted in pseudo walls
mounted upon the glare in unpleasing patterned halls
side by side quagmired half discs dawning a contorted face
in a half dazed-half-moon crest loon’s invisible phase
not unconscious but in some in-between state
bored while in transition and abandoned as they await
whimsical moldings who see me try not to take a peek
an exit to this madness is what I and they seek
maybe re-evaluate my sleep number, for gravity defying rest
What insight imports this encounter and what test?
what it means for a doomed generation Xer or baby boomer,
tacked in stucco, Silly Putty it seems, in a warped sense of humor
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Acoustic Shadows 4-8-26 Craig Cornish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acoustic Shadows
As screen doors slam an audible footprint of sound
Echoes in phonics of ice in glasses
And tinkling bells of ice cream trucks.
The solstice ripens
Growing large in the splash of rainbirds
And telltale whirr of hummingbirds at feeders
As humidity buzzes, the breath of summer’s envoys
Sound out a boneless resonance
With chords that tease and tantalize
Alluring in fleeting notes hatching hazy inklings.
Haunting memories of a solstice oratorio renewed,
Veiled in the caress of a mirage,
Reverberate in noisy shimmers of Luna’s fullness.
Ripples of ghostly illusions speak in clues
Like bards of déjà vu
When sounds trickle down furrows of skin and soil
Leaving hints that foreshadow dusky shades
Recalling the hum of warmth in cold bones
And cues that foretell of the season of crickets.
Newport Folk Festival 1965.
Behind the mirror is where we all
Tend to lurk,
Suffering through the pain of glass.
No one likes change,
Sometimes it is almost viewed as a sin.
Then you are punished
For attaining a higher majesty,
An alliance nearly gone.
But the times they were a changing
Folk had to realise,
A new power was being born
The climate just right for change.,
To plug in to the new.
After all a mirror image
Is the same,
But I suppose it is how
You look that matters,
Not what you see.
It was the orthodoxy
Of one Man that changed,
Someone who dared to be different.
It is some what ironic
That he said adieu,
With an acoustic version of
“It’s all over now , baby blue.”
But then,
The rest is history.
Ectopic heart
beat. Acoustic
neuroma. Sleep
apnea. Getting
older blessing
against alternative.
Neither hate
nor repair.
Immediately
the woods were familiar ?
bunchberry, clintonia.
Red spruce, yellow birch.
Heron rowing
northward overhead
a sign: good luck.
Or was it just
a crow. Rock thrown.
Don't know.
Life's ending.
My sons
have each other
for laughter
at their tragedies.
Avalanche, cataract.
Clean house or
run for president.
Power and talent
are bones in your feet.
Nature's the bed
you'll sleep in.
Thyroid storm.
Screech
of the long-eared
owl. Even if
portent of death,
it's welcome.