Long Arias Poems
Long Arias Poems. Below are the most popular long Arias by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arias poems by poem length and keyword.
Skylights warn and warm where acorns drip. The slight angle of acidity in the air can be measured accurately with a ruler or the nib of a ball point pen. Ball point pens are not really balls or points for they are pens and pens are prints, paint, and form occasional prisms in a paper whorl of scribbled ink. Of every hue. Fine and finer. And details outlying the plans are interrupted by a sixteen ton coffee cup whose snores cause vibrations then the liquid seeps over the edges and lands upon the written words causing much smudge marks. Suited earwig headed man with round glasses is not amused. Most perturbed to be exact. All night he had spent revising and crossing the t's and dotting the I's. And now it was indeed a rather sad scrawl of blur. Oh dear. Picking up the pen he walked over to the papers and spoke loudly in order to wake the cup. The cup was startled. What had it done? "you were snoring" shouted the earwig head. "you have spilt liquid onto my work. MY work is thus destroyed." To which the coffee cup gave a nonchalant look and folded his arm handles. Great thought the man. But wait are not those pieces of building blocks left from the babies ball banquet. Great they are. I can make a little model of what I composed on print. He began work immediately. Five seconds of sleep. Wow. Always astonishing how a window cloth can gather a stronghold over smears. The model began to take shape. It would be ready for the board soon. Remarkable. The thick pieces of plastic were soon assembled into formation. Overseen by a paperweight swan which glided around the desk hissing at the cup. And later the widow spiders would wave, the whales would walk, the wallpaper would wink and all the grounds would begin singing operatic arias and clouded liquids would clear the residue of a fallen road kill of a suitcase. Suitcases can look quite messy of left at the side of a road. Especially when they are run over. Splattered. The nylon wire in the air is humming today but isnt in tune with the birds. Ha the sentinels are sweeping the little play tent. Ha ha the paleontologist is playing with a patented patterned platypus. Xxxxx multicolumns z z z z z with a twist of a dormant doorman dormouse standing at over three thousand feet in a stable. Ok then. Interplanetary. Z.
Form:
Ideology is silent, victory is violent, we are corrupt, death is abrupt;
Perhaps if the world were still flat we wouldn't know what we know,
Stacks of black and white dictionaries defining the worst of what
tomorrow just might hold:
War, famine, poverty, disease – hatred, racism, phobia, and sleaze;
In a perfect world we would only know each other by name, blame,
never brought upon what we sought as we found peace and happiness
in all that we thought;
There would be no need for money, honey, emptied from jars, stars,
made of diamonds, would only shine bright in the sky, never in what's
ours;
Bullets would be relics from a past never known, killing fields empty,
the winds never blown, away, like innocent works of art, splattered
on the mud, covered in the blood, of children, at play, at war;
In a perfect world we would all matter in the ways that matter most,
mostly thoughts of love for those who we love to boast, about friends
and family, kind ways and sunny days, days on which our kids would
love to play;
The only weapon in our armory would be one of a chiseled harmony,
echoes soaring from the rafters above, doves flying, wings open, open
to our gentle hands, holding the sands of a desert spent searching for
wetlands, drenched in our smiles and our songs, throngs of us
preaching not our judgments, but rather reasons why we're strong,
willed to excellence by arias of immaculate acceptance, played by
symphonies of converted marauders who's only wish in this world is
for the wealth of healthy sons and daughters;
It's in those ways that make this place the best we have to offer, offering
ideas of humanity over vanity, kindness over blindness, and a general
sense of respect for whoever cares to share, life on this beautiful blue
sphere, where, in the end if we hope for our history books to look back
on this chapter with love, above all else, then maybe it's best we look
deeper inside, searching our own mirrors for the potential perfection
within the reflection that stands before us, human and still;
February 12, 2016
** Nigh Another Birthday **
I’ve passed so many birthdays,
That a few dozen of those special days
Fall away in a gray haze,
With too many forgotten by everyone (then or lately),
And were spent like most of my other days,
Which I don’t really mind — without presents, singing,
Cards, and other kinds of celebratory cliches.
It’s really a destined plan
God made before my birth, that He has completely in hand.
Beyond these many decades of years after many passed,
I now greet each birthday with profound gratitude,
Because when illness first hit me at age eight,
This length of my time living NO one had forecast.
Still, now I never want to be
Too old to ask for a kiss, or for a story
Filled with twists and adventure, told to me
At bedtime, as I fall off to dream,
While hearing your voice, my darling,
Which I love so dearly.
I never want to age so much
To be too old for a starlight’s wish;
Or to outgrow the truths of Christmas.
Always may I stay in awe of God’s mysteries
And omnipotent, miraculous ways; and to see
The marvel in every sunrise, every sunset I breathe.
Lord God, may I never be too old for poetry!
To find all its words and lines within me leap
Over many pages, along with the verses of others I read;
Or to hear the sung lyrics of great arias,
And know the well-recited stage soliloquies.
The notes of support and love I receive,
Like treasure, I will also keep.
I never want to age beyond the end
Of Hope; or my meaning’s journeying; or delighting
In Nature as a friend;
Or enjoying, like a child, long hours of play and pretend.
May I never age too old to allow
My heart its freedom…To feel. To grow. To enfold
All, dear Lord, your graced splendors
In this on-going here and now.
———————————————————————————————————————————————-
*** The coming of Christmas makes me think of my birthday, which comes ten days after Christmas on January 4th. Thus, this poem
had its provoked thought into being.
(c) sally young eslinger 12/18/2022
Glory to God — and Merry Christmas. God bless us, every one!
An animalistic painting in a cave can be considered as magnificent as a fortified wine kneeling in a chapel. Chapels cheer chariots. Charging. And the baked shrapnel recedes from many a bridge. Sing then you field of mice. Ministerial movements make money. And la la la means no more than blah blah blah so go meow at the kittens then. To make more room is to situate oneself upon a skyscraper at midnight. In an eclipse. Rent is payable and taxable too in a breath of air. But light comes the clouds. Skipping over the skies. Smiling. Smiling in genuine friendliness and kinship. But no spaceship can ever really view a non descript hue who's origins are not yet scientifically screened yet known for eons by tribal wizardry. How quite sparkly. How quite fascinating really. Tepid are the duties of the necromancers arriving to marinade the meats. Many meats. Many meetings. And a discarded tissue rising into the atmosphere. Such flight. Wow. Speaking at this time are the arranged skulls. Who chat to the candles on a prearranged date. To be affixed is to outplay the game of chess in a six million acre field. So move then. Go on move. A mop is neither a praenomen nor a psychological thriller. It is merely utilised in cleanliness and hygiene in a hive is not a live performance in a baked bean can. Kick karate's kana ka kali kales. And a smoke omitting from an upside-down tent. On wheels. Arias arriving in a huge cloth. And deities dusting hallways. In jails. Or in ships. A frightened mushroom can never sing a rock n roll song and a rag in the cupboard sinks in rapid despair at over use. It must be cleaned. Cleansed. Rejuvenated. Revived. For to do is to dare and to dare is to do. And a pluperfect plop plip is an objective for a grey sky. Colours conjuring cosmic creations. And a fathomable bag with a ladies' scent. Diva not a tiny dog. Smell then? Hahahaha institutionalised ignoramuses'. Hahahaha trolls talking. Xxxxxxx superflous snake spit. Xxxxx stratification z p y q Z
Form:
Humpback beauties call to their young
Communicating to calves so precious
Don't be so immediately audacious
You can wander, just don't go too long
Blubberous parents are there to keep them close
For companionship, warmth and learning
Send each other many signals, the little one is yearning
Because of the ocean they want to make the most
Eating their fill of plankton and krill
The smaller babe makes a hydro sonic point
To the older one who loves this oceanic joint
He doesn't want to hurt or kill
The humans who eavesdrop on their descant
Like some other whales with mammoth choppers
Accidentally maiming overboard fishermen and surfers
These watery wonders are appreciated that's all they ever want
Imbibing benevolent attention only for half a century
Deep sea divers first decided to bring down equipment
When he spoke his special song, they had no idea what the male bull meant
That day being approached he was so hesitant and on sentry
Because whalers before had waited for them to breach
The surface for mere minutes finding some oxygen
Finding instead a foreboding air of danger without question
So reclusive they remain, staying out of reach
Beaching is another danger when whales will cry
For help they so need it and must be rolled back out
A benign thing on sand dangerously sprawled about
Back into the depths it should be before it go dry
Nature's biggest mammals can never be at rest
In the wild and bountiful marine, using fluked tales to swim around
Whales have a lot to say, their stories abound
In civilized society with whale translators today we are at our best
Making compact discs of them, something special we can keep
The arias of the ocean composed of many shores
Whales speak responding in the ripples as prophets do with lore
It works quite well for some, to lull ourselves to sleep
We should always stay in assonance.
what if a sonnet had a face
and hands aimless beard coarse
as scouring pads licking off food grime
high-heat stains that shadow pans
almond eyes lusty
but wise-looking
choppy meters
to meet
expectations
surpassed by the
you-ness of you soundly
tangential cadences and quaint
flirtations
drawing me into your world perfectly
what if a sonnet bore arms and plump lips
enveloping previous lovelorn lives
arms that carry like bird's arias drift dripping
ease straining fragile peace from strife
could it be a sonnet with clumsy
feet
distressed emphasis
and bent rhymes
my sweet
10 parsnip street, thought carrot. Elongated places in wisdom curves. Aromatic spices on compounds and a dramatic twirl from a very energetic spoon whose primary existence is to perform backward flips at many dinner parties. Seal oneself in pastry then. Cavity of ionised fruit bake. Hoe to the garden of ovens. And spade in soup of pan. Wok sits dejected. It is neither a cabbage nor a bean sprout that will provide a wisdom glimmering glow. Portray not an apple dressed in tomato costume. Dance not a dipping dimmer switch in lakes of custard as yellow glows can be created from many hundreds of hue. Rays of sugar salted spaghetti strands in candlelit charm. Argue not a n oven baked pie with a patriotic turn. For as exact as one appears to be it is often wise to sip lollipops made from several flavours. Variety is formed from neither stagnation or monotony and thus perform arias in cinematic winds. Unveiling of the monotone voices speaking on lines with a C chord in duality of seven. Such dramatic diagrams. Shifting shaping scenarios saw seagulls skating. Dare you consume a clotted cream sandwich in a midnight sun bath surrounded by sculptured sand of deserts? Or be denied the freedom to dance bareback on stallions,dragons and unicorns? Talk not of six tailed erotically placed wind chimes. Such dilemma and movements should remain a hazard so place trail blazing warning lights upon a saddle then gallop with the easterly breeze. The true way through is the basic way out and lines are omitted in a free forming wave of original versions. Laughter from a prickly plant. Shards of glass expelled to exact velocity. And this is accompanied by movement,flow and change. Humming bird grinning in the turn tables of time. Moons moving movies minuscule meniscus moo models many. Managed. Mingling. *** towels in a town. *** fortifications ***.
Form:
It's one of those moments,
the guy in you grabs the micro
starts talking on and on;
mine is often sarcastic,
from high school to career,
spinning around the questions starting with why,
no escape from responding.
It's like life itself, which is always to blame;
and which you can not do away with.
In that moment you go through a mental trance.
Next, a piece of music wakes you from your journey.
It does not matter who it is,
be it Ravel, Brahms or,Rachmaninoff;
But, mostly it's Pachelbel knocking at my door.
in that moment, lightnings thud in my world,
just as my internal lights are dead blind.
The dried, barren soil kisses the wild stream
through cracked lips,
A mom presses her toddler into her chest,
that moment, life leaps into joy
stripped of mournful sorrow.
It feels like seeing the smile on the kid's face
who made her first step;
it feels like being picked up by
the Baroque tune in "Canon In D".
To some others,
it feels like waking up to Miles Davis.
People keep pouring through the streets,
no matter what happened last night;
it's like life itself,which is always to blame
and which you can not do away with.
Next, my eyes get blurry
they see the loved one behind
the foggy hills of my mind.
it feels like covering her naked body with blanket,
shielding off the morning breeze
slipping through our ajar window
as bed sheets smells of our sweat of bliss.
That moment, it feels like sensing life
running through your veins.
So, you show interest in these verses
partnering with me in that moment
don't be intimidated with sharing it
It feels like being a single body, united
with all of our good deeds and sins.
Afar, The Sun sends her last rays
down the snow capped mountains of my heart
that moment, my ears are cozily stuck with
the arias of Andrea Bocelli, warm and gripping
it feels like my dad's still alive and smiling
Through the breeze
that blows in time,
the precious weave
in leaves of thyme
——–
Arriving in nowhere
getting up to her knees,
and saw for herself
a wonder of peace
A woman of beauty
that shimmered all time,
the radiance of stature
glowed from the divine
Kneeling before
this nature in gold,
their aura’s blended
in ambrosia folds
No questions asked
and no want or need,
she bowed her head
anti-matter of a seed
A purity and rapture
from the halls of heaven,
guide her to light
thy will has begun
Never looking in fear
of searching eyes,
she turned on her heel
but to great surprise
A hand to chest
stopped all retreat,
she let out a breath
and thought to be beat
Her head started swimming
as a voice whispered near,
“Never wonder my child
I’ve always been here
When pain beats a tempo
with no path of escape,
I stand right beside you
its my hand at your nape
When sorrow sings arias
that peal through your heart,
I dwell deep inside you
conducting hope like Mozart
As grief shakes your core
and shadow swallows you,
in the light of the heavens
it’s your name I’ll tattoo
When serenity has found you
and nestled you near,
I’ll watch from Nirvana
always holding you dear
I may not be with you
in body and mind,
but within all your cells
Is a heartbeat of mine
Know that your beauty
shone from the first,
you’ve always been humble
its knowledge you thirst
My darling daughter
I’m right there inside,
just open your heart
I’m not that hard to find”
——–
I write this and wonder
at visions of dreams,
and will this message
slip through times seam
for my beautiful Bethany
An art student, she was a mysterious brunette,
whose most stunning feature were eyes of piercing
tanzanite; silent and deep as a fathomless ocean.
Even the most skillful sailor, caught in those whirlpools
of blue light, which knew no depth, plunged into the
waters to drown.
He was a conservatory trained tenor with features
as striking and hard edged as sharp granite massifs
standing against the sun. Coeds swooned, especially
when they heard him sing. His voice was as sweet
and thick as fresh cream before becoming sweeter
butter. If he sang four measures of "Maria," from
West Side Story, coeds would mentally disrobe him
and dream of languishing in his arms, as if struck
by mystical lightning.
The eyes met the voice on the
campus green on fine spring day during
"Art at the Student Union." She was displaying
2 water colors and an acrylic. Fittingly, he was
singing "This Nearly Was Mine," from South Pacific.
The eyes heard the voice crooning atop a temporary
stage near the Union. She waded through the crowd
to hear. When close enough to the stage to trade
glances the eyes lapsed into fantasy so quickly
her knees quaked. The voice never wavered after
making contact with the tidal pool that were
her eyes. Still safe atop the stage he mentally
rejected a life jacket and dove full bore into
her swirling blue waters. She drew the voice into
the depths of her tanzanite sea, enfolding him.
His voice threw off sparks that would make
Van De Graff pale, electric portraits in sound.
She now paints arias on canvas of his granite features.
His voice flares blue sparks. Lighting the air with sound.
All this from a mutual glance on the campus green!