Long Ballrooms Poems
Long Ballrooms Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballrooms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballrooms poems by poem length and keyword.
Arousing opulence of ancient ballrooms
She creates her own make-believe world
Waltzing coyly in terpsichorean rhythms
Upon glittering stage where they sell love
Each time she caresses arms of a stranger,
Pretending to levitate in sultan’s harem
In glitzy appeal of polygamous mansions
Where she reiterates to sighs of ambivalence--
This used to be once the venue of glamour.
But her allegory of ardor quickly fades
As her disillusioned ego yearns for solace
When invisible bruises begin to ache
Having surrendered esteem to ruthless nights
Trading dead-feelings in lavish marbled halls
Where stench of alcohol, perfumes, and cigars
Traps perturbed anguish inside prison walls
From which, she knows, there’s no escape.
Initiation period for her was the hardest
When beauty and youth at height of apex
Squandered her magical Cinderella zeal
Abandoning fabled-castle her childhood built
Crying into that gutless, gruesome night
For lacking the force of fortitude to leave
Before she condemned her soul into abyss.
She’s worthless to the heartless crowd now—
A shriveled rose desolate in parched garden,
A discarded bottle of expensive scotch;
So, voicing contempt, like a caged bird she sings
About the wedding night she always fancied
Reciting lyrics, crooning spent feelings,
Whispering the names she picked for her kids.
Look closely at her, she has no chains now,
She can abscond easily whenever she wants
But, alas, no longer has she the desire to fly;
For her mutilated spirits relentlessly bleed
Ever since her own hands clipped her wings.
August 29, 2020
Placed 1st: Woman in chains poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Inspired by Woman in Chains song by Tears for Fears
Tuesday, 12:00 am
Tonight t'was the stars
I'll cascade a memorizing moon
Glimmering sanctified silence
along with
trickling twilight for
iconoclast ink,
the serpentine key to
sacred myrrh melodies
of my heirloom heart~
O glamorous specs of
citrine care to each
unravelling amber acrostic.
Under wakening oaks
blooming fuchsia fairytales
and coral morganites
of swallowing solitude,
I weave autumn aventurines
of the daring
despicable and an
endearing enigma
of woeful
belladonna blues.
Whilst stirring up wrinkled
jasper jupiters of
milky ways in
weary kaleidoscopic
eyes of a moon
pearled blanket,
my honeyed haikus
roar a beryl spar against
virtuoso villanelles
for mystical
shimmering spotlights
in a tourmaline moon dance~
Along sapphire sonnets
of idealized introspection
gurgling inside woe
casting whirls,
I ponder of whom is
able to grasp iridescent
chords of my sodalite soul
as well as the vocal
verses of
cinder cinquains~
For my soaked stanzas
of jade juxtapositions
are topaz tattoos
of pleasant peridots
of every trickling tear;
yet to remain wiped away.
In an heart sickened
topia of lilt lilacs
and magnificent miracles,
I forsooth you'll discover
a poetess' daffodil dreams
wrapped in blankets of
moonstone metaphors~
Waltzing under
whimsical wisteria in
lavender ballrooms
of gazing serenity sestinas,
I wonder the bliss
of lolite lagoons
in alluring dreams
an elysian ear shall
be lent to the
ode oasis of my
soft hesitant herald heart
and that vexed verses
of sojourned stanzas
will be understood.
A nine mile shift with a roadrunner penguin is not really a relaxing way to spend a Sunday afternoon. And to hop on a squire bus and sing is often best achieved by the gatherings of larks who are often attracted to dust formations and cellular spittle. Of course one must hope that assistance is to be verified by a mountain of squashed eggs and peas in a frying pan or wok. But nevertheless seemingly shy is the sadistic sawdust whose patterns create weapons on many a floor. Globally. Wow. Oh how amazing. A matador is throwing a coat around in a playground stomp centre. And the dorsal fin of a helicopter shines most brightly at a discotheque for to whirl a bright orb on a ceiling is to cast radiant beams in a dark noisy boom room. Wow the auric essence of a hand wash is arriving to cleanse a sinkhole. And a sinkhole is neither a ships stern nor a straw sieve. Save on ice cubes then you may need them to plant some lovely currant trees whose blossoms.signify and herald a returning of a raspberry coat of arms for the potato army. And the emblematic achievement of vegetation is immense, real and very impressive too. Wading through a circular formation of a ground sheet is rather formidable for a little ant whose antics amuse and surprise the tarpaulin which blows big bubbles in a tumultuous breeze. Opinions of other otters occasionally officially offer octagonal onions. And a delivery of twelve squirming octopi can occur accompanied by large amounts of door knocking. Haha a burger balancing on a bed with bleached mushrooms hahaha billiards bringing ballrooms xxxx in fluctuation z z z z z z go meet a pickle and cheese dressed in a ham slice dress. Z
Form:
I have seen falling stars in the eyes of shadows,
dancing on the dark sky of unspoken words.
I have stood in ballrooms filled with sculpted smiles,
hiding glass daggers in velvet pockets.
I have shaken hands that seemed like contracts with forgotten spirits,
promising loyalty that evaporates into subtle betrayals.
I have seen good men bend under the weight of expectations,
turning into shadows because it's easier to get lost.
But me? I remained a dreamer with a heart of gold,
not soft like silver, not naive like a rainbow,
but real like a tree in a storm, perhaps foolishly real.
I refused to sell my soul for dirty illusions.
They laughed, said I wouldn't get far,
without cutting corners of truth, sharpening my smile.
But I didn't come to play a role in the theater of shadows,
I came to live a life that wouldn't leave me empty.
I was betrayed by friends with masks cemented by time,
by systems that protect power and crush silence,
by moments that asked me to become a statue of stone.
But I didn't, I kept walking with an open heart.
I bled, cried in the silence of the night,
asked the sky about everything, but never this:
being real is not a weakness, being good is not madness.
It's a strength few know, but I carry it.
I've lost people, the warm comfort of whispers,
I've lost chances, but kept my light alive.
And you know what? That's something magical, maybe not in titles,
but in the silent mirror of the morning, I know I'm whole.
And that's enough, I'm still here, still walking,
still warm in a cold world, honest in a universe of lies.
I'm still me, and I regret nothing...
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
Those who pray by marching
can pray alone
in endless competitions.
Those who pray while dancing
can only pray together
for timeless cooperations.
Hate and fear can only angry march
side by competing side
in uniformity of lock-step supremacy.
But love and compassion
can also truth and beauty dance
and sing
in full hope octaves
of multicolored harmony.
Resonant solidarity of ballrooms
and street performers
singing and chanting and drumming
good news gospel resonance
rather than bad news mono-marching hate.
We can sing and dance cooperatively
to angry patriarchal elitist marchers
more effectively than merely speak in not-kind shout,
and across,
and back and forth,
flow anthems up and out of all inclusive love songs.
This singing dance can,
with enough harmonic polycultured voices,
become sustained ego-happy filibusters
through marching hate,
marathons of love
proactively singing and dancing
alongside those marching through dualdark fear and anger,
inviting them to rejoin
our dancing gospel choir.
For every hate-mongering military march,
we have thousands of love-mentoring lyrics,
and,
therefore,
potential dancing lyricists.
Anger and marching paranoia are mutually competitive
double-binding allies,
as are love song and grace of dance mutually harmonic.
We can choose to march and shout ourselves apart,
but we would more democratically,
and gracefully,
prefer to dance and sing our cooperative ways together.
Those who pray while dancing
can only pray together
for timeless cooperations.
Mountain of ice a scene so awfully
/\ 0
/\ ~ / \ o /\
~~~~ / \ ~~~~/ \ ^ /\ O o / \ ~~
¨~~/ \^^o 0 o------- /\ .... /\ ~~ ooo /\ __
~~ Titanic
sank
oo ~~
~~ ## darkness
xxxx
~~~~ xxxx in the
II III IIIII ////
sea
( cold ... deep o O )
_________ o oo _________death
there are no ballrooms for dancing on the seabed
adventure - X - swallowed by the sea ////. \\\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
07.05.2023
Anne-Lise Andresen
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
no 1215
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd place in the contest
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.
The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
It was a nice romance, she loved to dance
to the music's beat, but I had two left feet
The circumstance made us take a chance
And we enrolled for ballroom lessons.. (sweet)
I gave it a try and by and by
I began gliding across the floor
My confidence was high
I learnt tango, cha-cha, and many more
We practiced still when we were home
The Christmas Ball was near
These steps we honed for the ballrooms dome
To prepare for this elegant affair
In tux and gown we left the house
To the Ballroom we did go
Where others gathered with their spouse's
To glide to rhythms flow
The Ballroom grandeur was something to behold
With lofty ceilings, and decorations ornate
Perhaps to match the dancing that would unfold
My nervous feet couldn't wait
In rhythmic grooves we made the moves
In motions to and fro
To cha- cha steps, latin flavors flowed
The rumba wooed, as rhapsody behooved
We slid with grace to tangos pace
As I held her close to me
Our hearts raced, our souls embraced
As we became one with the melody
The Ballroom dance was such delight
As we dipped and twirled in movements quick
To trip the light fantastic
A waltz came on, we danced it slow
But it was late and we had to go
But we could have danced all night
As a writer
You can be anything your heart desires
take any shape size or form
as you please
Infinite possibilities of all you can be and do
With paint and a brush you can be Picasso
you can be Shakespeare if you wanted
even host a Coltrane concert if so wished
You can morph into
a cute little butterfly
a magical sea witch
a giant whale in the Atlantic
You can tour the universe and time travel
while sitting behind a desk looking out your tiny window
back in time as you survey the future and build castles
You can eat anything in this worldeven that which has not yet made it to Joël Robuchon's menu
You can travel as far as your imagination can take you
You'd be in Paris enjoying a croissant and a Café au lait
from your backyard
Or basking on the sandy beaches in Malibu
from the little concrete city you live in
You can experience
winter spring summer autumn all seasons
from a small tropical village on the East of Africa
You can be an angel, a demon, a zombie, a poltergeist
just choose your calling
You can walk into the world's greatest ballrooms
waltz and dine
with the grande dames of our time
and banter with charming princes kissing knights and curtseying to queens
As a writer you can be
anything
anywhere
anytime