Long Cameo Poems
Long Cameo Poems. Below are the most popular long Cameo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cameo poems by poem length and keyword.
Daylight savings ends... Sunday
November 3, 2019
2:00 AM Eastern Standard Time.
Seasonal affective disorder clinical woe,
albeit depression associated,
edge of nightfall
dark shadows grow
most pronounced late
autumn and winter
outer limits of twilight zone
impinge psyche status quo
said phenomena doth
not affect this bro,
who believe me
you relished mucho
more hours without sunlight
think allegory of cave courtesy Plato
Socratic dialogue titled "The Republic,"
inferences intimating occupants
housed inside grotto
to speculate external environment,
they can never know
conjectures predicated courtesy
shadows moving to and fro,
hither and yon across subterranean walls,
albeit exaggerated sinister show
shape shifting humongous,
monstrous, riotous... silhouettes hello
kickstarting, instagramming,
flickering... torches diabolical
phantasmagoria make cameo
forked flamed tongues
evoke towering inferno
superstitions defeat braggadaccio,
no matter atheistic, cynic, stoic...
atavistic fears including vertigo
nausea, adrenaline... analogous
psyche unstrung like mama's yoyo
thankfully yours truly no
well coward as outsize claws...
plucks me to daylight
courtesy steely mettle, viz Geronimo!
Hoping to acquire daily integrity
she shopped for appropriate night time analogies
Conscious through correlational ecological relationships
he was found rooting through ancient creation theology
She felt Goddess light
through changing internal enrichment
in dialectal process development
becoming analogous spirited Beauty.
He knew God
as exterior natural,
yet interior spiritual,
unchanging universal Being
theology of TrueLight.
Mindful of diverse
yet universal Goddess bling
She curiously gathered harmonic spirits Bright
Conscious of externals
decomposing dark loss through fight
He courageously shattered polypathic night
Seeking inductive mysteriously changing climates,
internal with external,
Yet settling for deductive history of weather decomposition.
God creates weather
If we don't like thunderous patriarchal theology
we might wait ten minutes.
She will climate heal more,
heel less.
Secular disenchantment
greets Sacred matriarchal decomposition,
ecological deduction and disassociating reduction
newly graces theological green induction
and even wonder's emerging red cameo appearance--
enchanting mysterious aqua-marine seduction
Resilience restoring regeneration
decomposing happier climates
resonant with new theological weather seasons
Redemption's ultra-violet reasons
whether Being ecologically healthy Here
or Becoming theological wealthy wisdom Now.
Focused creation
on far too many changing climate chains,
restoring robust octaves of renovation
Theology's god and goddess Creators:
Ecology's goodness
through healthier cooperative multiculturing climates.
EARLY POEMS XX
Cameo
by Michael R. Burch
Breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes.
Here, where times flies
in the absence of light,
all ecstasies are intimations of night.
Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast;
promise what cannot be given.
Show me the stairway to heaven.
Jacob's-ladder grows all around us;
Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx.
So breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonic eyes...
and, if in the morning I am not wise,
at least then I’ll know if this dream we call life
was worth the surmise.
I wrote this poem in my late teens or early twenties.
Tell Me
by Michael R. Burch
Tell me what i am,
for i have often wondered why i live.
Do u know?
Please, tell me so ...
drive away the darkness from within.
For my life is black with sin
and i have often wondered why i am;
and my thoughts are lacking light,
though i have often sought what was right.
Now it is night;
please drive away the darkness from without,
for I doubt that I will see
the coming of the day
without ur help.
This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern. I believe I wrote it around age 15 to 16 during the period I wrote related "I am/am I" poems such as "I Am Lonely," "Am I," "Time" and "Why Did I Go?"
Keywords/Tags: early poems, juvenilia, cameo, time, light, night, heaven, life, dream, breathe, breath, eyes, vision, visionary
Atop a walnut table with ebonised legs
Sat a Victorian brooch, white and red.
She wore diamonds and rubies brilliant and bright,
That sparkled within all sources of light.
Bejeweled little butterfly trimmed in gold,
A wonder you are for the eye to behold.
"Am I not beautiful?" inquired the dragonfly,
from its perch on an occasional table nearby.
Dressed in diamonds, rubies, and mounted on gold,
With enameled wing and tail, a dazzling bouton pearl...
It too was a wonder for the eye to behold.
"What about me!" shouted a diamond pendant watch.
"And me!" shouted a brooch with a white paste heart.
"What about me?" inquired a flower, art nouveau...
"Enough! shouted a disgruntled Cameo,
dressed in pearls, diamonds, rubies, and gold.
"We all are wonders to behold!"
Aichi, I wrote three poems with you.
A total of 107,000 steps,
and three heavy suitcases when I left.
An antique store I wandered into
no photos allowed,
but for an antique enthusiast,
it lives vividly in my memory.
The vintage watch I almost bought,
that cameo necklace I kept staring at,
the no-tripod rule at the Ghibli park,
the pink dial I didn’t take home,
and the clock I arrived too late to see.
Aichi, you made me realize
that money always finds its way back
but time never does.
From the postcards I printed
to the cherry blossoms drifting quietly,
the theme song echoing in bright aisles,
and the first treasures I carried home.
But more than anything
it was the wind against my face,
whispering hope,
telling me we can always become
who we choose to be.
————
Thank you, Aichi
you leave quietly,
But you will always have
a special place in my heart.
It was not the mountains.. those that dwarf us,
the forests that invited our senses...seduced us to stay.
Nor the oceans whose mass we contained within us,
creatures small and large...some we loved and others feared.
Not,
the floating rain, the clouds...kind or angry,
the sky bright or blackboard black,
the falling leaves or those who held on tight,
the multiverse of colors sharp or flat.
NOT...the seasons that in all their glory arrived
or stepped away as their sister or brother took the stage.
Every inch of our untouched world chants to our sensibilities,
the perfect candidate to rule our internal domain.
Life in its all knowing way
has always bestowed us with gifts,
unfolded miracles in our wake,
other times challenged us in a rage.
Our world would take an eon to notate.
Not,
those particles...each made the whole,
stirred our voices...drew from us...song.
We,
are only messengers.
Our words not our own.
Some call it passion, others magic, they also call it art.
Some suggest it comes from the heart.
Whatever you call it, this mystical harbinger
who through us communicates...
it is he, she, responsible for what we loosely term art.
Poetry like all the arts...never began as such...
rather it is integral to just being.
IT is US...
just ask the lady with the pen and pad
writing while driving her car...
it is a part of our existence
...it has always been.
poets would write,
even...
if they lived in a vacuum.
"Monarch"
new wings spread
blue morph
born to be king
for a short while
the butterfly reigns
cameo dressage
part of the branch
grounded majesty
in a gilded cage
a new servant to take
upon the mystery
of things
much sky to cover,
a new world, a realm
investing new age
outside the life
of the always known
that ebbs and flows by moon
swift offering
en masse as one
chalice to alter
to lift
to pray
and sing
make golden
for the next in line
an imprint
ordained by
something
greater
(LadyLabyrinth/2022)
"King Charles III: A Modern Monarch"
https://youtu.be/WpFuTCZ05p4
“I dreamed I was a butterfly,
flitting around in the sky;
then I awoke.
Now I wonder:
Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly,
or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?”
(Zhuangzi)
“When thou dost ask me blessing,
I'll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness:
so we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales,
and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.”
(Shakespeare)
Juniper blended with the richness of Mohagany
as the well soaped Maidens accompliced
in the impness of Dawn.
A strong coffee poulticed a hint of Cinnamon,
and Clove prepared expectations.
The morning fog was lifting her skirt
in a slow tease, as both veil and curtain.
A suspenseful reveal that caromed
with the steam of my cup.
A main event about to be undressed,
and redressed with the Maidens.
I johned in, in that usual unpure-,pure- folly.
Knew it was welcomed guest,
practically an extorter, to creep in at any hour,
in to steal a gloat in unwarded cameo.
This inadvertently but unthwarted- headtable-
"honored guest", that shared more and more
in my ritual of daydreams, that intertwined
also into some of my more run of the milled needs.
Melding more and more,
as a dysfunctional elixir of happenstance,
and of either need or greed.
I found them also, the "Barista Girls",
like a gaggle of something curious- in cackle,-
buying entrance with teased looks mocking,-
my inflammation of inflection,-
with their vixened vexation,
-but also in snare; flared to wonder their wander
into mine stare.
One of a thawing malaise,- of curiousity shops
and shared spaces.
Places:
Coffee bean aroma and aproned bread
trinkets- become a "suitable"
showcase.
I realized its humorous "colorance"
in poetic knowledge's abionce.
"Man shall not live by bread alone."
But the scone was a genius match.
Something to chew on.
A fitting poetry, (binding really)
by the Master Story Setter- that forbode,-
the Protaganist himself and also let me know
that, 'he is aware of my dirty thoughts.':
To prop my stage and to reflect as a mirror does.
To hold in check the soul.
How the pillows fluffed.
My thoughts blanketed me,
"tucked me to the chin" with their silkys
and fuzzy warmths.
Feathers that cascade in a rockabye lull-fashion.
My system of down.
Downy.
Snuggle.
Oh women will be my downfall.
Vipers that push their venom.
"I think God created coffee and tea
with Poet in mind."
I rebuked my thoughtful sins to Him
and left a healthy tip for them.
I am the wife; the loving, faithful wife.
His children’s mother and, he says, his life.
He tells me he loves me, brings me roses
And I believe him, he supposes.
And yes, I do believe he loves me in his way.
Love that we’ve had can’t simply fade away.
But he’s not mine alone, I know full well.
He forgets I never wear Chanel.
I am the husband, wracked with guilt,
Trapped in the web of lies I’ve built.
I know in my heart the right thing to do.
I stood in church and vowed to be true.
But I was weak and fell for temptation
And find myself in this situation.
I have to end it, I know for sure.
But, before I do, just one week more.
I’m the scarlet woman, mistress if you will.
My part in the story, a once a week thrill.
A cameo role in a tale of deceit.
A tale that for me must end in defeat.
He says he’ll leave her; I know that’s not true.
But things might change if only she knew.
So I’ve thought of a plan to make him mine.
I’ve sprayed his shirt with Chanel Number nine.
How far down do you need to go_
~to stand face to face and toe to toe_
~with that no-good son of a so and so?
Taking not only yourself but all you know.
Descending from on high to deep below_
How many of your friends are now your foe?
Rejecting all the trials meant to help you grow.
Didn’t you get the message or read the memo?
To suffer a little today and not eternal woe?
Did you forget the law of_ “Reap and Sow”?
You can’t ride with the devil_ you’re too slow_
He’s got the best saddle around this rodeo.
Lines his horse up four to a row_
Apocalyptic stallions galloping to and fro.
Charging full speed ahead with resilient gusto
Scorching hot winds from their lungs to blow_
Upon all those whose souls don’t glow_
From hot veins where passion flow_
~and fight to reject vile secret audio
~silent messages broadcast on radio.
Mind control media from news to talk show.
Wouldn’t go near him as far as I can throw.
Best not stomp around but quietly tiptoe.
Take your heart off your sleeve keep it undertow.
If you failed today try again tomorrow
For your deeds complies_ gifted wrapped in a bow
Your final payment is what you’ll come to owe.
Your bold stance morphs a wispy cameo.
Ill-fated effects of enacted domino.
How far down do you need to go_
~to stand face to face and toe to toe_
~with that no-good son of a so and so?
Taking not only yourself but all you know.
Descending from on high to deep below_