Long Brio Poems
Long Brio Poems. Below are the most popular long Brio by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brio poems by poem length and keyword.
i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day (or mice elf Stuart Little as a poor substitute), all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!
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Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.
brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch
almost two win a half score years since me being:
Born January 13th, 1959
I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa
begat their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life measured
in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when with the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow
wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
--------------------------------------------
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy
of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),
whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,
intelligent lad – doth hoe
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems
sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'
mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo
avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
merrily...merrily...merrily
our quiet quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.
Don't forget to remove the Bay leaves from the
pot.
Make it easier on yourself
put the bay leaves and rosemary sprig
in a cheese cloth.
I'm in most incline to agree
yet some deemed them useless
almond ash and hickory ash
was used to create a super
strong aroma.
Pungent and earth friendly.
TENUTO___
The Zoomies
a group of five
songstresses
Clutter ( a Contralto Alto)
Clowder ( Contralto Soprano)
Glaring ( Mezzo- soprano)
Pounce ( the Soprano)
Bunting(Contralto)
allorubbing
glissando
tremolo
trill.
Piano!
Piano!
Staccato< paino
an detached and fast tempoed!
She detached her relationship
to be seen as more uncaring
toward the male gender.
She said such allowed her to negotiate
from being lesser involved from actually
being responsible
inside a fully functional relationship.
The legend goes that 1n 1887 at a festival somewhere unknown.
A group of Women who were hired to perform and were allowed
to have concessions.
The woman (The Zoomies) were fixing to serve up some delicious foods.
An inspection by a local there
who looked troubles in the face with a laugh, came up
to the head cook in the busy campground.
He told the woman she better take those bay leaves out of the soup
before someone starts complaining. The woman didn't take to kindly to this citified person
turning his nose up at her with an order. She sat the hot pot on the piano (according to legend)
She went down in her blouse, and pulled out her mini firecracker canon and launch a firecracker at the visiting chef. It's said the shoot knocked off the gentlemen's top hat. People thought it was part of the show.
* Point of Reference- The guy is said to have come up to the stage while more then 50 people( paying customers) were there and said "the rat and kitty stew smell like beef: that b*tch better not forget to take the BAY LEAVES outta the pot" Another legend is said that 6 woman singer corner the fella and stood above him and releived there selves. Ans said while the guy was enjoying his supper a woman reached down in her blouse and pulled out her breast and asked the man did he want her to make it a french creame soup!"
No matter existence (mine) lamely, mostly, and nearly spent...
I barely experienced
getting clothed (think fashion wise
as metaphorically swiftly tailored
harried styled mortal)
approaching naked truth
regarding life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness..,
nonetheless yours truly forever gropes
in the darkness of ignorance analogous
to imagined (envisioned) asymptote
demarcating experiential enlightenment
heading toward verity of righteousness,
yet never subtending arc of enlightenment.
Quite the contrary woebegotten mortal
forthwith struggling to acquire
consciousness raising awareness
approximating essential virtue
offset (er... rather severely deflected)
toward pitfall of vice
(comprising gamut of lurid temptations),
which default status
exerts overwhelming, overpowering, overemphasizing
draw (think powerful magnetic force).
I frankly, grievously, and honestly attest
predilection finds this hoary beastie boy
scarcely able to tread water swiftly rising
above his hairless fabby, & doughy chest,
where left and right man boobs delineate
miniature (albeit sagging) Mount Everest
quite obviously feeble human specimen
(farcical) gentleman quarterly not hottest
male within Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
nor anywhere upon oblate spheroid, he jest
I kibitz re: absent good humor lie bull lest
stubbornly refusing to leave debauchery
rather remain holed up within rats nest
steeped in familiarization re: egg guarding
hen pecking (matt er fact) Harris sing pest,
where no spring chicken thwarts impossible
mission (mother clucker sabotages rooster)
offsetting opportunities to experience nirvana
quaffing electric koolaid acid test brew rest
assured (me not snorting while typing) test
ting out (lit Miss, really haint no chore), and
merely sounding out prospects to make vest
head interest for prosperous friendship with
brio, extra mayo, sauteed onions and zest.
My heart felt old; I sought the cold.
Canada’s land was what I planned.
Among trees grand and far inland
To dance my sad brand of sarabande.
Yet precious moments come when joy flowers,
Far briefer than Four-O’clocks,
As resurrected visions composed of spectral smoke,
Reignite our love in brief rapture; abruptly fading.
Far from the shores I now abhor
Where eyes of blue were wrenched from view;
A grisly depart for my sweet heart -
A rag doll tossed and dragged into the deep.
Winter trees in chiaroscuro
Cuffed by icicles grip and snow.
Dark, defrocked beeches beseeching;
Limbs pleading for the sap of Spring.
Staring into those leafless woods
As cotton obscurity falls;
And gloaming passes into night,
Something I see sheds its dark veil.
Life bursts anew; I plainly view
Your windswept raven hair framing
Jeweled eyes and lips set in tan
An amaranthine vision of
Our ancient love, so evergreen
Waiting sweetly in the deep snow.
So near, so there, but not now here
A snapping branch broke quietude.
Daring damsel of Tavira,
My heart still glows at thoughts of thee
Cuddled close on Algarve beach
White wave swash foam tickling our toes.
Our brash love was a high wire act
Done without any safety net.
Diving the sky, diving the deep;
Scaling the peaks; dancing in Rio.
Passion flowed allegro con brio;
Alloying us ‘neath moon and sun.
Until you vanished in the swirling sea
West of the sandy swath of Algarve.
Stolen, seized by a great white shark
As your surfboard raced past mine.
Absent your smile my life seems spent
As if impaled on Triton’s trident.
Yet precious moments come when joy flowers,
Far briefer than Four-O’clocks,
As resurrected visions composed of spectral smoke,
Reignites our love in brief rapture, abruptly fading.
2/11/2019
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
* * r !
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t
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w i t
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brio spoken word heard ~
r l
o d
w ’s your dance floor
t h e
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
inescapably booby trapped in the region of self
anticipating illumination with a dopey grin
and a grimy determination masked by ungodly brio
gimme your best shot you goose stepping goons
you Ragnarok brothers of Odin and his Twinkie dancers
If I weren't one of you you wouldn't exist
right here where my pencil fornicates the vellum
the confederation of misfits get what they deserve
what do we deserve what devolved practice
continues to move our arms and mouths
in the direction of justice and of merit
in the company of demiurges and beatitudes
endlessly considering the direction of Fate
in the manner of men cheetah headed and scarred
yet survival requires data and survival is future
so add future to your shopping list at checkout time
all reality is calculable there are enough numbers
and furthermore there is still enough curiosity
left over from the great War of Cognitive Suppression
Galactic rule number one nothing forced
volitional free will sacred and deadly precious
his consciousness far from its source of thought
he continued without the slightest reason why
of course it is all but a mental reproduction
we all worship the Grand Master of Disguise
a meme-written forehead in uncharted waters
he slid his pawn forward to end the muddle
love is not all you need you need smarts
if the world is to be a correctable world
fabled dons of economics playing dumb on cue
corruption ran in deep ocean trenches
the life spark mystery rarely discussed
free from the tradition of taboos and fetishes
fixation and more fixation the gaze never shifts
soon swept away by their uninformed zeal
and a sense of inviolate justification
with which to welcome the new plantation
seminal squirt didst sanctify
an anonymous boulder
when mercury dipped below
hashtag mark registering colder
than usual temperatures circa
winter of year 2000 in proximity
to the sacred chapel
at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
(house zing carillon player)
rifling thru manilla folder
first inn search of apropos
mailer daemon organ muse sic,
thence finely pitted secretly riddled with holes
encoded sheet threaded thru bell jar contrivance
sans, handy dandy mechanical holder
to accompany prurient powerful phallic pang
bubbling (like the dick kens), and didst smolder
especially, cuz a free ranging
NON GMO, puss in boots
hello kitty sauntered
(emanating pheromone heat
hand dill lee pronouncing feral passe faux foots),
dripping, seething with hormonal secretion
uttered via vow welled roots
gluten and monosodiumglutinate free pussy
hapt tabby on the prowl ready
for par laid view penile piqued Saint Peter
to enter heavenly labial shoots
rather than suffer frost bite
the above mew wing tigress attempted
to keep toasty warm
('thou minuscule tunnel
lacked add dick quit light)
prickly endowment fired
raging testosterone
with braggadocio, brio, bravura and might
owing pretentiously pusillanimous feline
fur reed black as night
hood hit attempt to cap cha moxie orgasmic
thus ensuing a mutually satisfactory plight
until a park ranger back his utility truck
than gregarious, felicitous, erogenous
then quick as greased lightening
horny creatures disappeared out ta sight.
Form:
Thank You for the Music - Coda
Companion on my journey
Abided with me
In the anthems of delicate dawn -
Mornings of mauve and lilac light,
Octaves of afternoons in amber reflection,
Serenades of slumber’s silver reveries -
The melody embraced me
Asking only breath
For clefs of choruses –
Sung like new paeans or a psalm –
Scales of rhythms and in rhymes -
Written with the staff of life;
Remembering the reason
In slowly marching meter
The verses of this vocal symphony
Healing, then renewing,
My ballad of blues,
That gathered together
Quivering questions –
Why?!
Reverberating into Heaven’s waiting echoes
When my lopsided spinning world
Crawled all over itself
Losing its pitch
Then bounced off walls
In dark descending atonal discord;
Turning – then re-tuning -
Shouting in the cadence of celebration
A wounded gift restored – a carillon of blessing ascending -
A marvelous thing –no toy – winking at me -
Welcomed back my heart
To beat in time - to sing with one voice
My theme song never stilled
When vocal nodes
Stilled my song to a whisper;
Gratitude, my refrain, for this music -
Surrounded me -
Life giving as caressing rains,
Ocean waves or cricket concerts -
A chant in crescendo harmony, con brio,
With the eternal fire of melody again.
In gratitude to Abba for their song - Thank You for the Music – My theme song that carried me through two vocal node surgeries when I thought I might never sing again
Time changes with life and life changes with time.
October grows too old,
Hobbling backwards
With the burden of years,
On the sinuous alcove of time,
Tenebrous and feathery,
Her hidden lamps blinking furiously
At the silhouettes of wasted days.
The wasted leaves of autumn
Break forth and dance down
With the weak speed of burnt confetti.
The clocks go back several ticks,
Schlepping on the tired sinews of
Broken slumbers interrupted by the alarm bells
Which ring up the dreaming souls of boarding schools.
There’s darkness upon the face of the dial.
I wonder how the hourglass fared back then.
Passers-by hasten their questionings ? “Fellow, tell me, please.
What is it o’clock?”
Oh, it is late. Roosting time!
“But why so late now when it smells so early?”
The clocks have gone back one hour.
And so darkness covers the earth for three months.
Then March, the bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Sprints with the brio of a restless stripling.
A Phillipedes,
Running from the sleepy west to the yawning east,
Fanning the embers of dawn as he speeds along.
And light fills the world.
The cockerels record each other's crows
In one-strength choir.
Venus is viewed yonder smiling proudly like a crowned star.
And light fills the earth.
The clocks sprint forward,
Ticking with the pulse rate of Ancient Greek runners.
Spring is the light at the end of the tunnel we know as winter.