Long Choreograph Poems
Long Choreograph Poems. Below are the most popular long Choreograph by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Choreograph poems by poem length and keyword.
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
I slide through
the darkness
within your walls,
following wires
to their heart.
Solidifying in your basement
I shred your fuse box,
turning your house
into my domain.
I follow your
fluttering heartbeat,
circling you,
I can smell your blood,
can almost see its scent
curling through the air,
leaning down
close to your face
turning my head
this way and that
captivated
with the fear
in your eyes.
A growl rolls
from my throat
as I start to salivate.
Staying,
part in your world,
part in mine
I resume circling you
picking up speed,
causing a whirl of wind
for you to feel,
almost comforting,
playtime begins
........................Now.
I start slashing
haphazardly
with my claws
like thousands
of knives
in a tornado
surrounding you,
your blood
is lifted
by my wind
speckling the walls.
The whole time
you wail
reminding me
of a gothic symphony
that I choreograph
my attacks to.
Becoming whole again
the last
of your blood in the air
showers down upon me,
bathing me in your essence.
Now its time
to shake your grave,
I push you
onto your back
and straddle you
then lay you open
from the bottom of your neck
to the end of your belly,
with bone crushing force
shatter your sternum,
then slide my fingers
between your ribs
and rip open
the protective cage
around your organs,
I wish you could see this,
I love to share.
Sitting their
watching your heart beat
what I have left for a body
screams for a taste,
reaching down
I slide my hand
under your heart
cradling it in my grasp,
feeling the rhythmic thump
of your life pump
is too much for me
and I squeeze
until it bursts,
then hunker down
to for fill
my lust
for what
you were created of.
Somewhere between fallen flares
of an untouchable phoenix~
and the nostalgic red of crimson horizons,
I feel the amethyst embers of longing
illuminate rambling roses
that mourn within my hibiscus heart.
O beloved Love,
I long to be your tulip twilight
adorned with unfading mauve haze,
where green-gold scribbles of sunset
erase interlaced flaws,
to harbor blue-black mists
twirling above tides of tainted topaz…
and I will thrive amidst
storms of insecurities,
as the Swarovski Horse of Poseidon,
crystallized in resilient silver,
gleaming in glowing grace,
beyond dews of darkness,
shifting the aroma of pomegranate’s kiss.
There, peonies of peace
feast upon decadent delicacies
in the barren garden ~
flourishing with jilted jasmines.
I wonder, will these metaphors
woven across my canvas in perfumed ink,
speak the songs of my splintered spirit?
For the moon no longer sings
the melody of my soul,
and I refuse to choreograph
a diabolical dance for resentful ravens,
collecting twigs from tortured trees,
as the crescent smile
wanes into neon nothingness.
Yet while the witching hour beckons
skeletal remnants to rise
as celestial ashes,
I go insane, lose my incandescent light
that glistens in opalescent hues,
leaving my quill to suffocate in solitude,
unable to grasp the musical muse,
to stitch sorrowful sonnets
with seething synonyms.
O stringed sapphires
sailing above the meadow of melancholy,
forgive this coffin curse ~
it holds carvings of a corpse bride,
aching to be seen beyond the kohl shawl~
cloaking the frost-glazed silhouette,
weeping woeful elegies
while slumbering in the
amorous arms of Orpheus,
for in your absence, I cannot breathe,
and sleep screams
like a long-forgotten miracle,
needing an oracle to
alchemize a soothing potion…
So lay me down in a bed
of deep daffodils and thorns,
watch me plead for merciful rain,
to free obsidian tears of terror,
while my psyche bleeds
grammatical mistakes.
I am forever trapped in tremors of agony,
unable to reopen galactic gates
of euphoric escape,
so tonight I’ll let the torrents of torment
embrace inked insanity…
Understandable... the sensible
(three ringed circuitous) logic
to trumpet necessity
each individual moost heed
bedecking, cloaking donning,
ludicrous interloper facial covering,
(I prefer sporting
latest custom made
invisible máscaras faciales),
when commingling amidst madding crowd,
nevertheless coronavirus (COVID-19)
makes laughingstock kickstarting
maniacal paranoid testing yapping
authoritarians blabber ceaselessly
bleak household pandemic
plagues (sear ring)
robust human specimen,
hence yours truly,
a feckless (gibbon) primate
breathes sigh of relief,
why? cuz he counts himself insignificant
absolute zero worth
versus microscopic prickly orb
aging long haired pencil neck geek
best beat hasty retreat
to his man cave
not necessarily avoiding microbial denizen,
yet any potential suffering
scouting out troubadour woefully
jackknifed inept hideaway
availed no choice
rolls out Harris tweed Scottish matt
courtesy minuscule germ man
greeting me with gotcha!,
I willingly surrender
the only thing at stake iz my life,
which would immediately
ebb fate (mine),
automatically buzzfeed chap
offer no chance
for symbiotic relationship
as pathogens indeed choreograph
(dirty deed done dirt cheap)
loft hilly doth waft
through cellular skeins comprising
garden variety/ generic gent
herewith essentially crafting
his poetic epitaph
before onset disables,
disallows, and disvalues
one humble, intelligent, jesting
kindhearted, literate, modest
nincompoop aimlessly adrift
within Brownian movement
(*****sapiens random motions
viewed miles skyhigh)
ostentatious, piteous, querulous,
ridiculous, superfluous, et cetera,
thus forward donations
and/or pledge
(I promise you -
swear to dog
portion of me ashes)
to favorite charity
and will hoop to visit thee as repurposed
noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun,
preposition, conjunction, interjection,
numeral, article, or determiner...
It feels like the world
has been struck by a
plague of pathological lies,
where fictional truth
seems to sell better,
the allure of
imitation glistens
even brighter,
while superficial tongues
recite infected mantras,
praising slaves of Satan~
singing corpse lullabies.
And I can feel
my drained soul
descending
into darkness,
as this cathartic
sanctuary
slowly decays,
into odds and ends
of incessant numbness.
Spikes drive through
this splintered ribcage,
shackling my life force,
to silently bleed
in salvation.
I feel the scorching
iron ore entering
my splitting heart,
as they watch
the crimson flow,
mocking my
doomed empathy.
For kindness
is disregarded,
in a cynical world
that has no mercy,
falling into an
abyss of tears,
awaiting eternal sleep,
never to rise to
another devil’s trance,
whilst bleeding in
reckless reckoning.
I am the mistreated
mistress in misery,
stranded in the
midst of an
abandoned island~
cruising through
roaring waves,
in desperate hope
for butterfly bliss.
I trace
deadly deeds
in bloodstained
sea-castles,
pleading the lord,
to tether
the cold walls,
that hide all these
layers of brokenness.
Carvings of
chaos on my skin,
choreograph a
prodigious dance
of death,
commemorating
creased calm,
with prophetic
songs that
have no life.
For the coldest
breeze still
lingers in circles,
from the pits of
an out-burnt mountain,
reluctant to rearrange
dried up poison,
with their cape
of sentiments,
in cold refrains
and resentment.
Yet I question the
cosmic Peridots
scattered between
moonstones in
artless skies.
How can a poet
make the dead
seem beautiful again,
when musty maggots
are the only
fillings they would get?
The...the
the indescribable
kicking of
one's plausible pulse
is usually described as
swallowed
infant-swallowed -
a swallowed collectible
a practicled'd
particle of
something. Yes or no...!
Know - I know
a nothing is
it's...it is...
something'd
allowed and advertised.
Stut...stutt...stuttering
move
my
emotions
forward
and - yes. No!
When...
i feel my hands shake.
I shake. I -
I can't write.
No! I know...
Yes, the indescribable -
it kicks in sometimes.
Once again,
I turn my head
from a nothing'd,
anything'd;
a something'd
something...
when I've
exhaled.
I exhale. No -
levilor slats
never
silhouette
a moonbeam.
Never!
I feel the pulse again.
I feel.
I know - NO!
I can't swallow.
I...
Miss Alice softly steps
upon my chest -
Mr. Carroll forgives
her fancied foot work.
Mona Lisa and her
queenly mad hatters
choreograph the finale.
It segues past the nothing'd
nothing of
no ones nothingness...
the melody
merely dances -
it dances -
it enhances - possibly,
beyond the something'd
something...
SOMETHING! -
when I..when I...
inhale.
GOD! -
Only when,
I inhale.
Maybe...
Gershwin's rhapsody
paints a
color-blinded
scalawag's eyes blue
and then -
everyone. No...
rather
everyone's...
understands.
Turning their heads
from a nothing'd
something'd -
a silent song
sings true.
Always...
always.
I've exhaled -
inhaled. At times...
and...and...
Only when...
only when.
No...no...no...
I think of nothing -
just nothing'd...
maybe...
I realize I'm
something'd
short
of a
no one'd -
collecting crumbs
from a beggar's
pocket. Never
never ever...
dining at the
simpleton's
something'd
round table.
Memories of Bach
At 17, I performed a solo ballet to Bach
Below a sparkling sky,
On a park’s open green grass.
The choreography flowed.
I was well-rehearsed.
The opportunity, special, before
Some of our gathered city’s spectators.
This genius: Bach.
This glorious cantata:
“Jesu,]oy of Man’s Desiring.”
And, I, the young ballerina,
Wrapped very Grecian-like in an ivory, silk tunic,
Stepping out to
Meet the first notes,
Humbly opening my arms
— first right, then left —
To invite the music to my dance.
But, barely a quarter-minute into the piece,
I was overwhelmed —
As my first dance ever
Out-of-doors —
The sky was my ceiling
And it was too high,
Making my reaching upward breathless.
There were no stage wings
To mark the arrowing points of my arabesques.
My memory lost all upcoming moves
To the sparse clouds
in their swirling crossing of the sky.
I let Bach choreograph my choice
Of upcoming motions as I
Let myself become his music
On to the end.
About a decade later,
On a cloudless, August day,
(the hottest day that year).
I asked for Bach
To sound, again.
Dear Bach’s
“Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” rose
Meeting our ears so magnificently
From the organ, as
I stepped into the church,
Wearing yards of wrapped white silk.
I stepped gently down the aisle
Toward my waiting groom.
My own joy carried me
Into the cantata
In celebration of
Our wedding day and
Of our decades of love
Together, on that day
Just beginning.
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 10/21 poem
Thanks be to God
The morning has started with a trace of a dew
An ascent through the tussock ignites the new day
Trailing huntaways eager to work on the ewes
Awaited shrill whistles loose the dogs on their prey.
A new shepherd surveys as proceedings unfold
Sinewy figures employing hill sticks with care.
Spectacular vistas with a dawn of pure gold
Formidable mountains looking solemn and bare.
Below a glass lake reflects sharp rugged peaks
A boat carves the water, slicing the image in half.
Sounds of dogs barking as sheep break from a creek
White ribbons slowly form in planned choreograph.
Shepherds whistles are mingled with thousands of bleats
Descending sheep merging to form an earth cloud.
Above dust and steam rise, as if to compete
Wisps of white rolling as matagouri stands proud.
A fantail flits on the first hints of the breeze
While a waxeye settles amid two twists of barb wire.
As sheep reach a plateau, the expanse seems to tease
Though allured, dogs restore order on sheep that inquire.
Searching mouths hastily nibble tests of fresh grass
Stragglers are hastened by gleeful dogs and their bark
Looking back up the hill the commotion has passed
Hawks floating on thermals within a large arc.
Mid morning arrives as the sheep enter the yards
Dogs climbing in troughs and having rest in the sun
The new shepherd knows this is his time to safeguard
His future life on the land has now just begun.
**If I haven't quite portrayed the
picture properly this may help.
http://www.photomack.co.nz/farming
The Director
By Sy Roth
The directors--
For want of a nail
They were not wanting
So many nails,
A cache of nails
To drive into their coffins
Paid in jiggers of vodka
They would slog the miles
To the pits.
Surround them,
The innocents,
Choreograph their end
A Twyla Tharp ending
Accordion accompaniment
Played to a defunct Mahler
To keep them mollified.
The nails see only vermin
In their intoxicated vision
Smell their fear
Before a lightning crackle
Marks crescendic endings.
Poor naked souls stack themselves
like cordwood
On top of yet, still-warm bodies.
Melodic line met--
Last look before the darkness enfolds
Those who will entomb them
Lamblike creatures align at the flag
They queue from right to left
A Hebraic arrangement
To a two-shot tango--
One reserved for the child held aloft
By a resigned dame who sees no exit—
Child held aloft
Limp in naïve trust
To be followed by the second crack
Then hustled into the pit to join the others.
Swim in their own river of blood
The stagehand obeys the director’s cue.
He rolls them into the abyss
New cast assembles
Take their place at the flag
Unclaimed trash
While the director trods on their backs
To dispatch those who dared to live,
Souls forgotten
Sinners in the hands of an angry god.
The forest is where trees nestle
and mushrooms sigh,
spinning electric dreams
from harlequin vines and multicolored roses…
Tonight, ink flows in a hypnotic trance,
my thoughts swirl through the
holographic ethereality,
like a pixie fairy ~ moon-walking,
above the psychedelic wilderness,
engrossed in kaleidoscopic dews,
chasing origami butterflies,
tied to the phoenix crescent,
where I see your midnight eyes
blinking like fervent fireflies,
as the air serenades an enticing anthem,
luring me to a sky sequined with
swirling amulets,
emanating secrets like rainbow raindrops
upon spring-soaked meadows
of neon sprinkles.
I ponder, will you find me
amidst the lilac haze
to paint my skin
with a fluorescent fragrance~
and scribble initials in aurora acrylic,
as this heart keeps pacing,
awaiting a tulip sunrise
while galaxies outline
the saffron rings with unicorn dust,
touching intricate layers of silence
adorned with wishful wisterias?
Perhaps this is what Alice
chased through the rabbit hole,
a violet vortex of undying love,
that lingers in lucid shades
of mosaic melodies,
for in the midst of spiraling vibrance,
my soul remains entwined with the
flickering flames
of your lunar silhouette,
as colors of constellations
choreograph this theatrical romance…
So let me close the windows
of my consciousness
like a sojourner sailing
through seas of musical serenity,
forever forgotten~
tripping in the aesthetic warmth
of your pulsating arms.