Long Cellos Poems
Long Cellos Poems. Below are the most popular long Cellos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cellos poems by poem length and keyword.
“A maestro is like a candle. It consumes itself to light the way for others.”-
~~ The Poet ~~
Conductor of an art form, stands the maestro of the storm.
Instruments take their place, then the symphony begins.
Firstly, a tuneful rhapsody of woodwind with violins.
The sheer spellbinding rhythm builds increasingly strong.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to bring the tempo along.
The piccolo sends notes scurrying for cover by the continued rain,
And introduces the flutes into the mix once again.
The cadence evolves, with heralding intensity to engage.
Notes follow the beat, to a crescendo of immense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins,
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins
Music’s fury is reinforced by trombones, entering for the first time.
Cymbals clash, cellos and double basses offer a fortissimo effect, sublime.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows,
Notes soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
A solo of horns, a transition with the full orchestra, it springs.
In suspense of his melody, the piano takes us to strings.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle tones, once hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
Audience captivated, orchestra foregone. The maestro lowers his baton.
sunday morning angel
blue wings and purple hair
fingers tattooed at the tip of her shoulder
if the sun vacates your skies it's over
children sing songs of burgundy rovers
I am your rent my lover
camel crushes
rated your sweet plushes
crowded voices
but no one hushes
the chaos is lovely
but it's the misery that touches
my sunday morning angel
arched smiles
a mother apart from her child
it's been a while since you last foul
you're just a number on speed dial
outside the cafe
a voice some what raspy
a favor indeed
if you choose to ask me
deflower before me
and life just may not last me
city towers
you and me minus the hours
in the neon lights
walk the stars that fail to touch the sky's
apartment 1210
where art thou twelve sinners
the cellos that failed everyday men
the displacements
only seen through a heavens lens
the saint of Orleans
bard windows
crucify your friends
i'll lend you a noose to tie your ends
and when it all ends
think of my sunday morning angel
she never warned you of danger
but she adored the insanity within your anger
my sunday morning angel
is like loving a widower
you never know
what's on the other side of the window
buildings that touch the sky
ceilings that never die
capsize the truth
baptize whatever you knew
there was a time it was just me and you
"songs in a book reflect vacancy"
Folks more sophisticated than me might say I ain't got no couth, I suppose,
But I ain't a fan of Bach, Liszt and Mozart nor the music they compose!
Spare me the screechin' violins, growlin' cellos and twitterin' piccolos,
The rumblin' bassoons, the thunderin' timpani and the odious oboes!
Seems the woodwinds, strings, brass and percussion do their own thing,
Renderin' ramblin' and atonal piffle - no pleasure to mine ear doth it bring!
I'd rather listen ad infinitum to Elva Ruby Miller's shrill and off-key renditions,
Than suffer the agony of a two-hour symphony by professional musicians!
Heaven is both above and below our feet, so vividly recall that ground likes feeling your knees and breeze likes spinning your hair. By Poet
cogitates on rousing heaves my treasure
glorious sunrise becomes murky to pink
as the sun sets the sky turns gold
my brooding nearness to daisies and cellos
a rainbow arched across far wing amid rain and sun
overcast gloomy and sluggish
the gist of the nature mesmerism
detected illusions covered quietly
blooms of the wilderness in the woods
cognitive murkiness that dims fanciful notion my treasure.
Written: March 6, 2022
1st Place contest winner
Form I - Imagism - New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Where does the
selfless sun hide
when heavens
r a i n bloodstones?
Burned and inscribed,
from monsoon monsters,
gnawing at our bones,
the shimmering
darkness imbibed,
If only drifting shades of gray,
where the tempests
of hell sway,
would hear the hymns I sleep to
when the clouds steal on cue
the soul of illuminating skies.
I listen to the echoing symphony
of s i l e n t sighs,
convincing soothingly,
pulling me back to soar
new h i g h s
amongst electric choirs,
as angels swiftly swing,
on saffron strings,
to the bass of cellos rising,
above tuscan tambourines.
Yet, I keep drowning in needless tears,
from pearlized ponds of fears,
seeing life as how it
has always been forged,
a disappointment
fed through
filthy forks, who’ve gorged
on the first
of every scintillating ray of light.
But, what if the sun, too, needs a savior?
Like an eternal gem that beams
upon dreary dawns set upon her
draining every heavy lampshade
of stars within spheres
of novae, lest the opulence give
way to bruise and decay.
Perhaps, grim gales gusting in
wrathful bursts
shall finally be the
serenity I need
for I’ve tilled every field
of hurts like raspberry
from the scent
of rose water,
For sometimes, that’s all it takes,
heeding to freeze through
malevolent thorns in icy lakes.
Hold your horses,
use all your resources
and force your thoughts
to not follow the course
that stigma endorses.
I figure I was sent
to present a different
style that you think is rap,
but rap is spoken aloud and vocal,
it serves verses in urban slang verbal,
this isnt like any rap I've heard,
for a start I'm using dictionary words.
You think rap is ghettos, gangstas, gats and hoodies,
while poetry is cellos, mansions, top hats and pretty goodies,
and rap isnt poetry but poetry reads like rap,
but you know to me this flow needs a new name so stigma is detatched.
If I rapped this reactions would stick as I'd look as stupid as rats,
so dont call it rap 'cus rap wouldn't do that.
No not at all,
this style is based around the bouncing vowel,
a sound that's allowed anywhere anyway around.
So hold your thoughts
'cus this mould is ought
to be sold as ROLLING RHYME.
It sorts and then reveals it's skills caught
constant in roll like a wheel,
with words written real
and a free structure to its build.
It's rolling rhyme
told in rhyme
that strolls and holds in time
and does not fold or decline
only to rhyme at the end of the line.
The rows flow with ease
and it's easy to read
free flowing and blowing along like a breeze.
Rap rhythm isnt driven
by the way the words are written
'cus when rappers are spitting
pronunciation differs if you listen.
Rap ink revolves around slang
but you think of revolvers gangs and the bang bang,
this is poetry, you know it be,
it's rolling rhyme this style of mine.
Of Romance she told me
as long as it was with you
who am i to argue
it's the way to keep it
right with you
Promised you the world
try to myself
it needs some collaboration
you and I together
truing and trusting
keeping our thang together
aint know selfishness
it's all about you and I
coming together
to be as one
lover to lover
freind to freind
you're my woman
I'm your man
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String-laden songs often feature lush,
arranged or intense string sections
(violins, cellos, orchestral arrangements)
that enhance the emotional weight of pop,
rock, and ballad tracks. Iconic examples range
"You and I"
to
"We as One"
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The cello is between her legs,
skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread.
sexually inviting.
The cello drums her
Thrums her darkness
Into blind angels
The cellos voice is her voice
Her body sings through it
Or is the cello making love to her,
making her body sing
into its hollow mouth?
I am mesmerized by her closed eyes
behind those eyelids the music runs naked.
The bow and her hands weave
moon drenched emotions
The bow is low
it nudges my body sideways into a place
where souls go to weep and rejoice
in the same instant;
there is no name for that place,
it is somewhere inside the cello
where her soul sings.
it has been a few
hours since walking
away but there will
never be a completion
like Wagner's ring
cycle but he
and i share
oh no do i
compare my
pittance
against
his HIS
i'm a Berlioz
fellow who
always gladly
doubles the
cellos in fact
may i apply
doubling to
every section
if the orchestra
now i
feel com
fortable
and can
breath
then
suggest that
i return to the
melody of this
SYMPHONY
so at twilight
i know not
hesitate to
complete
this performance
and so back i go
and lift the seat
as if the sheets
to reveal what
Freud would
say but i don't
agree is like
going back to
the warmth of
the womb but
truly i just have
more
poetry
to re
lease
Form:
colicky shadows
sad mimes
time wanders
lover's treasured ballad
a circuitous serenade
melody familiar
rolls
echoing
irretrievable lyrics that stay
conscious
and your absence
this present offers
stony pillows
nights
upon days
an uncompelled heart
following
a paper plane's pathetic
trajectory
wakerife emptiness
most indebted
shamefully to dissatisfaction
knives that cut thick
and the unbearable balm of wounded cellos