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.
Once the memories starts to crawl back there
It feels more unbearable to stand alone here
The sudden laughs we shared with no reason at all
The moments we felt with holding hands as a whole
The everyday circles of talks, peps and plans
Moments we earned the sense of victory with our proud hearts
To be honest I know,
I know that the days I'm dreaming to have
Just like the days we used to have
They are not going to happen anymore
Though I secretly cry, pray and mourn
To have more of them for the rest of my brio
Why can't we have more of it
Whose fault it really is...
When none of us want to be apart but we have to
The world is cruel that way, and for that I hate you
So alas! we keep telling ourselves "our friendship never dies"
Though I sense its' painful dying breaths, trying to pretend
"I never die"
Now, everybody has started to say
That all of us have to move away
Away from the joy and the feelings that we shared together
To have them collected and protected, to have more with strangers
Strangers one day, will become otherwise and collected
Well, here I am speaking out loud, that I’m never going to own
Some fine dusty Albums.
Bazball pimps now shrimps on the barbie
So low did stoop scoop of Nincompoop soup
Trumpet the thump it Bazball strumpet crumpet
Bravado of trio with brio plus lardo & avocado
Braggadocio Pinocchio mumbo jumbo gumbo
Bizarre under par no cigar mis-steak tartare
Phony baloney mony mony minestrone
Fish & swish delish dish of death wish Gibberish
Wacky ego from hero to zero tacky shi*show taco
Don’t give a f*ck not once but twice spliced duck
Flame grilled chances spilled one trick pony
Gobbledygook spooked overcooked zabaglione
Slurry in a hurry won’t worry say sorry curry
Baggie green vented spleen terrine
Why would you even risk it brisket
Takes the proverbial herbal verbal biscuit
Ashes hope killer dope quesadilla
Oz supernova it’s already over Dover sole
Lamb to the ripsnorter slaughter
Drole rigmarole goad toad in the hole
Baz puns like Mao’s guns in bao buns
Gory no glory story does bore me Tandoori
Bazball goals down golf holes silly sausage rolls
Canned slices of fanned tanned Barmy army
Starc tsunami lark umami like spiced pastrami
Bavette baguette of bet will forget any regret
Baz & Ben flower pot men smarmy salami
Stumble derails still no humble pie tales
Scallops with dollops of lolloping Codswallop
Bazball boast spit roast with burnt toast trollop
Snipe this tripe is as ripe as our Gripe
Gabbatoir bete noir Pom bomb Dauphinoise
Done like a kipper without Warne’s flipper
Stellar Aussie fella mortadella from the cellar
Hoodwink stink of our skipper.. all cheesy hype
Shocker if this is our Test best.. zest of fu*k fest
In the locker of Davy call in the navy cos Bazball ain’t gravy
Out the window flows my gaze
Blissfully journeying the horizon,
-- Like the fair sea bestowed per Poseidon --
Lost among secular golden haze.
The sky leered angrily gray
And bitterly cried frigid tears
From the fjords with ducts’ flowing fears
Trapping man like a ghastly cliché.
Chills gripped many a tree
And strangled life from all limbs
Drowning in white like a child without fins
Now life must resurrect debris.
Aye, Apollo ogles over the hidden,
The perfume of life gleams
And so everything seems
To breathe breath brio-ridden.
All in the course of 365 days
Can so much wither or flourish in a bouquet.
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!"
This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...
The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.
C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.
Beaming eyeballs,
and orbs,
from first blush,
offspring frolicsome,
as they dot,
geosmin odoured pavement,
whilst shrieking impishly,
with infectious,
cuddly cheep,
parents shepherd,
yet they exude,
at bounce captured,
cordial conducive,
in electrifying,
picturesque swathe,
orange-scorched oriole,
with coal-black plume,
on urban shade tree,
townscape as hub,
endowed cosmopolitan,
brimful brio, ginger, dash,
kundalini wakened,
as sultry vault,
vigilant ambience,
ample alignment to,
ice tea mint gust,
aroma mediating,
splash of amber sun wash,
neath navy welkins,
that taunt and sketch,
wooing ambit,
extracts of,
aroha’s
indigo index
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!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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.
An object with faces six
A combination of values and variety mix.
A part of game,taken as challenge
Played for fun,not revenge.
Every roll of the dice
Needs some trick and attempt, wise.
The face with one, has a value small
Helps one win,stands tall.
The face with two has a pair
The credit both,equally share.
The face with three is a trio
That shows up ,with the right brio.
The face with four has two pairs equal
With two and two,that make a sequel.
The face with five,has a member odd,
Yet,is strong,oh! my God.
The face with three pairs is a six,
All in one frame, together fix.
Each face has its significance
That really makes a big difference.
The fate of a player depends on the dice roll
One needs to play wisely, to reach the goal...
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title. Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
The lustrous perfume bottle
avec neck spritzer and bottom caudal
With hexing brio it holds her captive
Pure rapture is sexually attractive
A woman’s torso a glass statuette
dressed in a golden chic corset
An old hippy scarf suspends on the wall
Her ‘Eau De Joy’ is kitschy after all
Shimmies into mid-calf western boots
She rifles through sequined body suits
Last touches of an aromatic scent
she deems the fragrance extravagant
Lurid lemon zest smacks of old school
Blithely vivacious leads them a drool
Juicy sweet notes from cleavage to chin
A whirlwind of hazy mist he’s in
Wild at heart with beats that throttle
A burning desire from a perfume bottle