Long Chopin Poems
Long Chopin Poems. Below are the most popular long Chopin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chopin poems by poem length and keyword.
Anti-social at its finest
I'm Johnny Unitas
Nobody’s highness
I hate drugs
I hate when people rely on highness
Yes weed heads turn into junkies
My crush when I was 16 is now a flunky
Lord please lay your grace on Paul and Chunky
Chopin chickens
Using Noonie's kitchen
No the chicken isn't baked, fried, or rotisserie
It's the chicken for the vixens
My brothers missing
To be real with you my brother died
Heroin left his brain fried
Heroin left me without an Erik
Oh he's in a better place
That response is generic
Do you see what I see?
Maybe you need a dosage of carrots
Thank god for friends Jade and Jalyn
They deserve a merit
Slangin chickens makes more money
Than my 2 jobs put together
Rashadtnae changed my view on heffers
I'm clutch but clever
I can't stand to lose another person to drugs
So ties will be severed
It's not whatever
I take it serious
The only way I can talk to my brother again
Is in spirit
Choppin chickens
Piano flippin
Everybody is either selling or doing drugs
But I wanna be different
21
21
I hate the sun
But I'm Angie's son
Rocky couldn't handle the responsibility of being a mom
So the state took her kids and let her run
Having my name in your mouth must be fun
Having my name in your mouth must be tasty entertainment
I love when people hate me
It’s anti-love so how could I hate it
Anti-social
21 forever
I am hopeful
Anywhere But Here
But Louisville is all know
I love the locals
I love Sharleeta
Love wouldn't love without hoes and cheaters
Lord Jesus this world
It's so drug ridden
Chop me up before I chop a chicken
Does it look like I'm playing?
Does it look like I'm kidddin?
Kidding around with heroin
Is how I lost my older sibling
Music drifted down all over me
From the apartment up above;
A piano piece from a symphony
Played with care and love.
I simply laid back and closed my eyes
Letting the music caress my soul.
By its beauty I was mesmerized;
Thanking the pianist was my goal.
I went upstairs one Saturday
And I knocked upon the door.
I heard the piano being played;
It was a Chopin score.
Then a little voice spoke to me;
Said, “I cannot let you in.
I’m all alone without Mommy
And I am only ten.”
I said, “I thought I heard a piano live;
It must just be from a tape.
I live in Apartment 2-0-5;
Sorry for my mistake.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do I play too loud?
I practice every day.
I’m just trying to make my father proud;
Last year he passed way.”
“No, the music is truly beautiful;
I bet it makes your Daddy smile.
I just wanted to say ‘Thank you’
I’m enjoying it all the while.”
Later that night came a knock on my door;
I wondered who it could be.
I’d never had any visitors before –
It was that girl and her Mommy.
“I just wanted to say, ‘Thank you’
For the compliment that you gave.
Do you really think that what you said is true;
My Daddy is smiling from his grave?”
For years I listened to this prodigy
Perfecting her perfect gift;
Sometimes she played a tune just for me,
When my spirits needed a lift.
Last night I went to Carnegie Hall;
Got to sit with the V.I.Ps.
Her performance was welcomed with a great applause
And she smiled and bowed to me.
She grabbed my arm as I was walking home -
They had long since moved away -
She said, “You know, I never again felt left alone
Ever since you knocked on our door that day.”
I said, “I am sure that your Dad is proud,
And, if it’s okay, so am I.
I’ve never heard people cheer so loud.”
And, a tear came to her eye.
I took a trip to Paris, France and of course I wanted to see all the attractions,
walk the boulevards, see the museums and art galleries, linger at an outdoor
cafe watching people stroll while sipping on wine and munching on cheese and
bread. I wanted to float down the Seine by boat at night. But my reason, for
this trip was to go to Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery, for that is where my family
ancestors are buried. I knew it would not be easy to find them as this cemetery
is huge, spread over 110 acres, over one million people buried there since 1804.
I walk the paths
lingering at mossy tombs:
a thousand birds sing
It is an amazing cemetery with many famous people buried there like Chopin,
Oscar Wilde, Monet, Voltaire, Degras and thousands more, but also ordinary
people. From simple unadorned headstones to huge towering monuments.
One needs a guide map to navigate the roads and pathways through this maze
of stone. I finally had to go to the office for direction and help to locate my
ancestors grave sites.
death has no time
for in my heart you exist
the smell of decay:
I found out some disturbing information, the plots are leased for 50, 30, 10
years and if not renewed the remains are removed, boxed and tagged and
moved to Aux Morts Assuary in a single tomb. When the Assuary gets over-
crowed the remains are removed, incinerated and the ashes returned.
And that is where my ancestors are, nothing but ashes in eternal storage. The
Aux Morts (To the Dead) Assuary is closed to the public, I found that very
odd and it made me quite sad. Why, what are they hiding?
And those plots where the remains were removed from are re-leased to others,
well that is how the cemetery can keep up on the burials, apparently there is a
long waiting list. I am happy my family plot is in a cemetery in Canada where
the remains of those buried will never be touched.
___________________
July 25, 2017
Haibun/Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery
Copyright Protected, ID 923378
Written for the Haibun Contest
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
First Place
I freely admit I love classical music,
And please don't think me a snob
If I keep my composure
When I mention composers
As Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann,
And not Ludie, or Wolfie,
Or Petie, or Bob.
And a symphony simply cannot be enjoyed
At just any old time of the day.
I can't listen to them
Prior to seven p.m.,
And I don't mean to brag, but I couldn't be dragged
To a Wednesday or Saturday matinee
Of a ballet by Bizet or Massenet.
My taste in classical music, you see,
Is eclectic, but not meant to shock.
I choose Strauss for the schmaltz
Of a polka or waltz,
And Chopin is my dude when I crave an etude,
But I do tend to doze in my seat in the loge
Through an opera by Wagner…
Or more Offenbach.
We were still free to dream,
however, a tax on any imaginative writing
that contravened the rules or regulations
for literary acceptability
or worse
were deemed counter-revolutionary.
In Poland, the last of the hold-outs
wrote odes to Chopin
but essentially all was well ordered and
compliant to the powers that be.
Now that Chinese is a compulsory language
for third graders
many have become re-programmers
for the old and recalcitrant,
but like all wrong-headed reactionaries
the old dwindle only to fade away
in disgrace.
All the false history books
have gone out of print.
Now we study the history of
our brave new world. It is
always sunny here in our
equally allotted cubicles.
Any misinformed die-hards
that wander the streets begging
us to return to the old ways
are quickly rounded up
and sent to our happy
and well attended
correction schools.
Chopin has now
been put on a no-fly list, but few
have heard of his dangerous sonata
or think of it at all anyway.
I'm in the mood for Mozart, or Strauss, perhaps Beethoven,
even Bach or Handel would sooth this soul of mine tonight;
a little Chopin with wine, peaceful and mesmerizing the sound,
majestic and serene, spiritual and sensual, magical, haunting.
Always changing, sometimes fast, chaotic and then restful,
it echoes in my head as I listen to the sweet flowing rhythms;
I just close my eyes and relax, letting the stress just dissolve,
sometimes I listen to the Gregorian Chant with it's melodic notes.
Time stands still and the music embraces me and I am away,
calming and exhilarating, mysterious and comfortable to me;
this music takes me to a mountain stream or a lush green forest,
I just flow with the instruments on a lovely journey all by myself.
_______________________________
October 7, 2015
Poetry/Verse/The Music
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1190-986-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to FTI Blog Series 7 - Music
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Apollo seeks worship.
What shall you write
to honor love. That ye
Sickened may heal.
That songs shall speak
With lyrics that are truest
to there music.
Honor ye oh God
With harmony and melody.
Honor ye father truest
To perfection.
Ye Apollo's am God
And the sounds of
reheasted people have
made Compositions
there priority and duty.
Honor ye Apollo as
God!
With flute, chello, violen,
drums,. Trumpets, frenchhorns
Opportunity and expression
Honor thee.
That love, the truest love
can bring the coldest of hearts
to be kind.
Honor ye Apollo that grooves
In melonic rhythm can make
Lyric to be voiced.
Honor ye oh Apollo
That from forever the notes
Shall be instruction to create.
Honor ye Apollo.
The God of. Music!
~Frederic Chopin~
(Acrostic)
F antastic captivating, soulful music
R estful, serene very sweet love melodies
E ndearing, capturing soul and spirit with such
D ivine, calming wonderful notes
E nchanting Etudes and Preludes that
R eleases mind, heart soul and spirit
I ndwelling in everything it touches with it.
C hopin's music, and all his "Preludes" are masterpieces.
C hopin's classical music is so unique and beautiful
H earing it is a true blessing to the heart and soul
O ften heard all over the world
P recious and elegant, beautiful soft and romantic music
I mmortalized thank God forever and ever
N ow I thank him for all the beautiful music that he left us to enjoy.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2011
March.27.2017
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain-
I saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops.
I recalled that it was made for travelling musicians
that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard.
It was old and all wood. When I tapped the keys
they clacked, but each key to me seemed to clack
in a slightly different tone,
as if the pianist’s thoughts and intentions
had somehow imprinted
a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood.
When I got it home
I propped it up against a wall, poured myself a drink
and thought what a fool I was.
The ice cubes in my bourbon tinkled unmusically.
I stared at it.
‘You can’t even play a kazoo you idiot, what the …..!’
Later, a little drunk,
I took it up and placed it on a table,
stretched my stiff fingers and played.
I played like I had never played before!
This was real, not an air-guitar thing.
Chopin and Mozart flowed through my hands
as I sped through deft keyboard exercises,
labelling quarter and eighth notes, dashing off
aurally different meters,
executing perfect pitch and phrase.
After the warm-up I was ready for my public.
With much élan and gusto, I thundered through
a dramatic First Movement.
The Andante I performed next was hauntingly beautiful.
I swayed on my stool in a deep artistic trance.
An invisible audience gasped and yes, they stood and roared
their approval, as the last note of a sonata I had
just composed, concluded a fiery Allegro.
Tomorrow I intend to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson.
Man, it’s good to be dumb.
To this Mourning idle day,
To the silence of this uncertain night;
I offer the quenched melody
shrieking boastful, in silence of gloom.
In the sombre piano, Chopin
upheaves restlessness crying in fright.
This worklessness pinches deep
the needles, of loneliness wringing again.
An upbeat mourn yearn shows
to reach the absent overwhelmed be.
Here reaches out there to then,
where the answer would approach back.
Sucked back into vacuum black,
Away from the light heavier than dark,
Bleeding in red rose covered
in throes of pain, and beauty of blood.
Leaving behind or being left
behind the curtains of worldliness,
Grounded set her eyes silently
Breathing among the needles of needlessness.