Long Choreographed Poems
Long Choreographed Poems. Below are the most popular long Choreographed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Choreographed poems by poem length and keyword.
I can never comply with fastidious hygiene
Try as thee most persuasive person might,
he/him, she/her,
they, them... can never wean
yours truly always objected
being told when to bathe/shower
particularly when puberty
found yours truly a tween
and my mother (deceased eighteen
plus years - sess her bowl),
she exerted authority
and told her "take a bath,
or no supper"
analogous to a queen,
strict disciplinarian to boot
who wedded her king
(my late father) at age nineteen
the latter (day saint) quite keen
nevertheless both experienced
love towards each other
and tricked out their progeny
(myself included) with halloween
getup, I vaguely recall Amelie Beth
(their eldest daughter -
older sister of mine)
donned as an angel
lighting up night sky, an empyrean
permanent heavenly fixture
popular through Byzantine
epoch, which blinded
her brother (me),
cuz yours truly, the devil in disguise.
Here I sit scores of decades
now edging closer to the edge of night,
and approaching those twilight years
remembering protesting vehemently
(way past the bewitching hour)
not wanting to wash myself
in the tub (water frigid cold), I write
how mother dearest,
whose presence I wanted to smite
this puny progeny
grappling as a neophyte
whose Lilliputian stature
(when a prepubescent)
a over five feet in height
who when constantly
teased courtesy bullies
ran back to ma mommy
whose son totally affright.
If employed in social services field, why
the above might justifiably
smack of insubordination
hashtagging me as Pigpen thereby
wharf fare prompting me
to cleanse myself diving off a Quai
in an effort for Peanuts gallery
to accept yours truly well nigh
but unfortunately
getting mistakenly captured
as a prisoner of war
forced by Japanese to construct
two parallel bridges spanning
the river Kwai
as part of Burma Railway,
also called the Death Railway,
for the many lives
lost in its construction,
but my daring do,
(and boyish good looks)
found yours truly
whisked away to the island of Hawaii,
where hula dancers
choreographed, entranced, and finessed
their seductive routines
a native lass smitten courtesy
one wily word wizard
whose courage bucked up
after munching powder milk biscuits
taken as mistress
helped beget our daughter,
who became apple of mine eye.
Mine fervent aspiring political activism...
Gunning gusto, (while rosy axles grind)
for Bernie Sanders dagnabbit
nipped in figurative bud triggered zilch
prospects to germinate,
cultivate, and amalgamate
late blooming spore port as
schlocky, reedy, quirky, political neophyte,
whose aura, charisma, dogma
enigma, persona... absent gregarious masculinity.
Scant hours after posting Facebook message
Monday February 17, 2020
(regarding becoming linkedin
among Bernie Sanders's supporters
within Southeastern Montgomery Pennsylvania
hinting genuine motive (mine of course)
to join local grassroots bandwagon
electing catapulting aforementioned
Democratic candidate president,
into Oval Office
overwhelmingly elected
Tuesday November 3, 2020
an unexpectedly pleasant forthcoming response
(courtesy Jon Hall seven nine five eight at gmail)
informed yours truly transcendently, telepathically
inspired debate watch party
would be (accompanied when in full swing)
by most popular contra dance bands,
and eminently choreographed counting
topnotch cadres of policy wonks
upstairs at Molly Maguire's Irish Restaurant
(197 Bridge Street,
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania)19460
slated for Wednesday
March 19th, 2020 at 2000 hours military time.
Guess what dear readers...?
Yours truly, (an aging,
albeit eternally youthful
long haired pencil necked geek)
never experienced sought after fraternization
think ennobling rite of northwest passage
comprising electrifying informality
getting plugged into self-described
indomitable enthralling brouhaha
starring none other than
Democratic socialist and independent senator
from Green Mountain state
(by Samuel de Champlain in 1647)
Bernie Sanders exuding vim and vinegar
at age seventy eight
heartily hailing (no kidney ying)
who served in government since 1981.
I showed up at designated place
and specified time,
and got politely informed
courtesy young attractive hostess,
no such arousing, inspiring, spine tingling...
commingling of eager electorates slated,
thus overzealousness (mine)
bit the dust i.e. never got kickstarted.
Mine fervent aspiring political activism...
Gunning gusto, (while rosy axles grind)
for Bernie Sanders dagnabbit
nipped in figurative bud triggered zilch
prospects to germinate,
cultivate, and amalgamate
late blooming spore port as
schlocky, reedy, quirky, political neophyte,
whose aura, charisma, dogma
enigma, persona... absent gregarious masculinity.
Scant hours after posting Facebook message
Monday February 17, 2020
(regarding becoming linkedin
among Bernie Sanders's supporters
within Southeastern Montgomery Pennsylvania
hinting genuine motive (mine of course)
to join local grassroots bandwagon
electing catapulting aforementioned
Democratic candidate president,
into Oval Office
overwhelmingly elected
Tuesday November 3, 2020
an unexpectedly pleasant forthcoming response
(courtesy Jon Hall seven nine five eight at gmail)
informed yours truly transcendently, telepathically
inspired debate watch party
would be (accompanied when in full swing)
by most popular contra dance bands,
and eminently choreographed counting
topnotch cadres of policy wonks
upstairs at Molly Maguire's Irish Restaurant
(197 Bridge Street,
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania)19460
slated for Wednesday
March 19th, 2020 at 2000 hours military time.
Guess what dear readers...?
Yours truly, (an aging,
albeit eternally youthful
long haired pencil necked geek)
never experienced sought after fraternization
think ennobling rite of northwest passage
comprising electrifying informality
getting plugged into self-described
indomitable enthralling brouhaha
starring none other than
Democratic socialist and independent senator
from Green Mountain state
(by Samuel de Champlain in 1647)
Bernie Sanders exuding vim and vinegar
at age seventy eight
heartily hailing (no kidney ying)
who served in government since 1981.
I showed up at designated place
and specified time,
and got politely informed
courtesy young attractive hostess,
no such arousing, inspiring, spine tingling...
commingling of eager electorates slated,
thus overzealousness (mine)
bit the dust i.e. never got kickstarted.
Thunderous bang
Blinding flash of lightning
A loud clap
The crack of a whip on air
The storm raged on
The endless shower of the heavens
Continued to pour in a furious gush
With a staccato matched by no other
Droplets of water merged to form bombs
That dispelled the rhythm of sleep
The rain ceased to sooth
As its arrival on the tin roofs
Sounded in disturbing fashion
All sound silenced by the shimmering and hissing
The heavens continued to spit on the earth
Dust turned into mud
Streaks of puddles formed
United they raced in a furor in tune to the laws of gravity
The parched earth sucked the running water
Choked and spat out the trapped air
But the water was not to be outdone
As it rushed in a melee far from the earths surface
Into choreographed gutters, trenches and reservoirs
The rain droned on
The deepest slumbers awakened
This was not a rain like any other
The roof cracks began to pour in water not droplets
Widened and rendered the roof useless
Inhabitants were drenched within four vertical walls
The wind arrived with a loud whistle
And the loud protest of roofing sheets
As they were ripped of with extreme violence
They were tossed like leaves
Until they were suddenly dropped lifeless several meters away
The wind cracked windows
Sucked out trees from the embrace of the earth
The planted crop was carried upright and life less
On a ride of its life
To be dropped as if in disgust far from the field
Those that remained in the ploughed land
Lay flat heads and body battered to submission by the pelting rain
Then like the end of the tango
The rain slowed down with contrasting grace
With extreme haste after laying to waste
Everything all had worked for
The silence of the night returned
With all things tongue tied
The morning arrived after eternity
The pale rays of dawn
Revealing the gruesome sight to all and sundry
The sorrowful disarray
Of abandoned life forms and possessions
Then far from beyond the mountain
The thunder rumbled as if in satisfaction
Of the immense destruction and impending starvation and doom
Become my air,
pursuing my scent
in sweet fragrant fields,
where devouring tastes
of bohemian spirit,
delicately descend
in subsistent sighs.
Distracting the
tones of silence,
from subtle susurrus echoes,
like a tender
sakura breeze
kissing fresh
lavender blossoms.
Set adrift in
shades of yesterday,
dandelions bloom
in flourishing orchards,
prostrating to the
mercy of your grace.
But tread carefully
through
the hall of
dream crashers,
where strange streams
from nightmarish tears,
drizzle down,
composing
somber serenades,
choreographed
from an
enchanted symphony.
For l've seen the
invisible reality,
twinkling across streetlights
of sumptuous stars.
Distance is
an unspoken truth,
just a rainbow
away from roaming freely,
within an
evergreen paradise
above bougainvillea skies.
If this was the last poem,
before my last sigh,
today will be the day,
red of rose will
kill my bleeding ink,
so let lyrical acrolect
of poetry fill your thoughts,
look for 'you' and 'I
in the island of love,
where there's no
thunder without lightning,
nor “sea" without 'waves of us'
These distractions
of desolated dunes
are mere signs
of the wounded warrior
within me.
I'm waltzing through
vibrant valleys of white lilies,
in the hope of finding
lost gravity,
which overcomes trials and trepidation.
l'll always be your
lighthouse on lonely nights,
at the edge of
bioluminescent sand lines.
A haven where your
clusters of couplets,
will transcribe an
alchemist's poetic remedy.
Each verse will portray the
personal poem of my soul,
infused in a
profusion of soothing
cosmic hues.
As raindrops kiss
your face, they'll heal
those lamenting
leather lips-
for you are
the wind carrying clouds,
I am the ripples
crying to touch your sky.
As the glistening jewels
of snow cascade like
ballerinas pirouetting
to the crescendo of time,
choreographed from porcelain
keys of your h e a r t,
delicate fingers of the
winter moon stretch,
enveloping forlorn footprints
of poignant memories,
framed with petal-like poems
you've placed in the
gallery of my melancholic mind
where soulless shadows still~
haunt me in holographic
hues through somber nights, but
If I were to rewrite the anatomy
of this romance with~
juxtapositions, should I rescript
your promises in p s y c h e d e l i c ink?
knit silken sonnets from the
tapestry of scintillating
stars in our favour,
letting go of all the
seasonal silhouettes
that seized redolent rhymes,
maybe, it is from pain
we relearn to dream
in periwinkle pigments to
nurture and navigate through
decayed gardens embalmed in
opalescent tears and fluorescent fears
suppressed and
personified within gossamer
tales of sunflower s i l e n c e…
Quilted with questions that your
quintessential quill can~
reveal, in romanticised verses, to wade
through the abstracts of weary woes.
So, set your stones to
architect cobalt grey lanes,
to usher feathered thoughts into the
serenity of your scented sanctuary.
until I find the perfect gateway
adorned with crystals in the
verdant valleys, engrossed in vanilla flakes,
where cosmic yearnings are embroidered
between mauve instruments
harmonised from
xylophone whispers reverberating
in vermilion s t i l l n e s s…
You will always be the
clementine crown of my sun,
the scarlet scrapes in my ink,
zested in zealous dahlias
and no rain can drown
this celestial
c o l l a b o r a t i o n…..
The structure, or plot, of a poem is, in my opinion, like the melody in music. It's what holds the words together and keeps us reading...
A present's not a gift until someone sends or brings it,
But a poem is still a song even if no one sings it.
You may think you can't write lyrics, but you're wrong,
If you ever wrote a poem, you wrote a song.
Every poem has a melody inside it,
Although in free verse it's much easier to hide it.
Take, for instance, Mr. Whitman's "Leaves of Grass".
Now, this is a masterpiece, no doubt,
And I don't mean to be too critical, or crass,
But it's laboriously long,
And notoriously short on song,
And although he does give it a nod,
I find it somehow rather odd
That by the end he's all but left the music out.
If what he calls "singing" is so by definition,
It's well camouflaged by piles of superfluity
And about a million unnecessary miles of exposition.
To perform his piece in public Walt's fans rarely get invited.
It takes almost as long to read the thing,
As it took the guy to write it*.
Now, lest you think that I forgot
The premise of this piece, I've not.
It's true I wandered from the path a bit,
But with alacrity, I'll now get back to it.
Most lyrics don't require one jot
Of setting, dialogue, or plot,
But what the better ones have got
Is lots of good old rhythm, rhyme, and repetition.
Every time you write a poem you make a miracle,
And even more so when that miracle is lyrical.
*It is not my intention to impugn or demean Mr. Whitman's work. "Leaves of Grass" was a monumental opus, way ahead of its time, that he worked on for 37 years, from its first publication in 1855, at his own expense, until his death in 1892. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been choreographed or set to music. A reason for that, I suspect, may be that no composer or choreographer wanted to risk growing old, infirm, blind, and possibly dying before the task could be completed.
There they go
A Lover and his Lass
They talk, they laugh.
Emanating no sound,
For theirs was a language
of gestures, through
dexterous movements
of fingers of their hands
used like trained dancers.
Expressing everything
those lovers would like to
share between them,
of moments of ecstasy.
and crack jokes even,
that I could perceive through
their laughter, that again
give off no sound
For theirs was a language
of gestures......................
Now I see them in
each other's arms,
in a deep embrace
A moment of emotional
union of a man and a woman
who though mute
yet love each other
with perfect understanding
of each other's mind expressed
through a language of their own.
Love in silence articulately choreographed
by each other, like true professional dancers
their they go
A Lover and his Lass,
Mute they are
Yet they make a great
pair of lovers who
seem to know each other
so well.
The trick is to be grateful when your mood is high and graceful when it is low. Richard Carlson
____________________________________________________________
Who lives fully? Oh, such a sight to foresee!
A life so valuable, so graceful, and so carefree
With every passing day, raw insights mold.
A quilt of tales, a life worth relating to gold
In such an enormous and chaotic universe.
A tremendous grace symphony, a karmic verse
Unspoken dancing with exquisite footwork
Heart and intellect are enthralling for the network.
In this ethereal universe, grace rules supreme.
Witness the riotous swirl of an opulent dream.
Akin to a swan in still waters, it glides with ease.
Through every swirl and turn, it aims to please.
In this refined world of demeanor and charm,
Where cuteness finds its place, in a grace arm
From inept souls to those with aesthetic eyes,
Let us witness the antelope's lithe sighs.
With gentle gestures and a voice serene.
A language of grace that's seldom seen
Their eyes orate volumes with every glance.
A silent communication, a cosmic dance
With gazelle feats, their steps lilting
In refined motion, willowy and beguiling.
No cumbersome stumble, no swallow of pride,
Fluent and slender, glide with a sylph stride.
Consort kindness, from sullen to refined,
Irreligious views, swapped by goodwill, bind.
In this world of amnesty and dower grace,
Blest with piety, they effortlessly embrace
In the intricacies of every choreographed zest,
Imbue the essence of what it means to nest,
Kindness and pristine passion can transcend
All quests and discordances are keen to mend.
A stance of graceful behavior, a testament,
Might love and respect, and how are meant?
To steer us through life with dignity and grace,
To induct a realm where clear heed bears place.
awaiting interpersonal subsequent situation
aye tend to get ants
see when in the midst awaiting
said sub routine involving
outcome of circumstance
the parameter, perimeter, potentiometer,
et cetera extents
sifts out the destructive sycophants
versus real boot not nacho
munching macho gents
thus ipso facto fur cher
pro bono, and hence
gaining kudos for fas innocence
je nais sais quois joie de vivre personal aim
finds this lapsed passive pen sieve blame
less body electric alternating
between defendant versus claim
"FAKE" aunt Emma, who wrote to said
real or fictitious dame
purportedly gave solicited feedback exclaim
ming absolute zero tolerance
for acquiescent docile frame
within the real versus make believe
Milton Bradley board game
of LIFE as well my late mum (Chris Anne)
whose maternal sermons
included a ban
against blindly enlisting
into any sect chew will clan
purporting pretending posturing
as Dudley Do-right dan
sing with the stars amidst a Euclidean
Geometry auditorium,
where the glitzy dazzling audience
flush with many a fan
gnat tics toward a particular couple
said open eyed spectators
focused glazed eyes and grand
huzzahs on a man or woman,
who took charge hand
dilly directing his/her partner
acrobatic aeronautics inland
pro active with guiding he or she
toe till lee tubular counterpart re
speck ting decorum, yet pre
zen ting a choreographed production nee
an utterly out of this world with lee
ping skyward ward jumps key
pin equipoise holy jee
purrs, which scenario
analogous to taking bold
measures tubby
forthrightly assertive fold
ding arms crosswise
across chest, taking hold
din stance without conveying
a haughtiness mold.