Long Choreographer Poems
Long Choreographer Poems. Below are the most popular long Choreographer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Choreographer poems by poem length and keyword.
her untamable sakura spirit
glows like sweet scents
of petrichor peace,
perfumed in jasmine water,
whilst there’s no path
to golden rays of sunlight,
she shines for the elite vines
trailing through silver
gates of heaven.
and when the sky is a sea
of lilac lanterns,
and mauve mists,
shifting amidst
raining rhinestones
etched with mood-swings,
she remembers~
God as the choreographer
the mindful maestro,
tranquilizing trees tangled
with roots of torment.
but chocolate cosmos
remain blindfolded
by pearly lilies,
as the salmon-hued
bird of paradise
blossoms from
neglected lines
of caramelized skin,
she still sprouts in solitude,
delicate but
powerfully growing
from sepia roots
of grief and regrets,
lessons learned
through wisteria wisdom
earned from
turmeric truth,
and holistic hymns of the
almighty that echo
in captivating cadence~
as spiritual songs
of sepals flourish
amidst withering petals,
there her frost-bitten
soul found a healing field
in a poetic reverie,
where lyrical lines
float above mulberry meadows,
sowing hyacinth herbs of kindness~
painting petunias in patience,
silently sprinkling
enticing anemones
as an inevitable sign
of eternal hope to freedom.
A poetic earth that shall remain
untouched amidst the cruel wind
that blow it’s way through,
while lakes of longing
emanate soulful sagas,
synchronized from strings
of moon-kissed stars,
unfurling light when darkness
dwell upon dreary hearts.
Mother-nature, compassionate
spirit,
I hear her plea for
empathetic emeralds,
engrossed with
righteous rubies,
from topaz tenderness.
here, in singing silence,
I stretch my heart to
seraphic spheres,
for she lies in solitary stillness.
Let the beating hearts
of walking silhouettes
manifest silken fate for her
divine aura.
Rivers may no longer flow,
and flowers may
no longer be fragrant,
but faith shall
never be perished,
and the wildest forests
of her heart shall forever
flare evergreen
dreams of tomorrow.
We are going to do a flash mob dance Comet told the crew.
I have a choreographer trained reindeer to help, her name is Bonnie Sue.
Vixen and Blitzen were miffed, because it was not their idea at all.
Dasher and Rudolph did not hear, they were watching snow fall.
Bonnie Sue came in and kept all the reindeers on their hooves for sure.
She had a sassy way about her, she was full of holly and manure.
Olive was irritated, because she was not asked to choreograph the dance.
Don’t be persnickety said Donner who thought with B.S. he had a chance.
Their dance steps were merry, they left prints all over the fresh snow.
Santa tried to find them but with all these prints he did not know…
Where his reindeer were or what mischief they were about.
Olive past him on her way out, her nose was in a snooty pout.
Dancer and Prancer said “we hear Santa” and all the dancing stopped.
Pretend we're rioting for better rations, said new elf named McFlopped.
“that won’t work, let me handle this, my friends,” with reindeer cheer.
Cupid lied to Santa’s face, so coal will be in his stocking again this year.
Leaves of burnished gold take flight
Whirling spirals, with childish delight
A final pirouette without a sound
Before they sadly hit the ground
Their dance is done, they take their place
Piously accepting autumn,with simple grace
Wearing faded colors of garnet, gold and green
They serenely exit, from the final scene
The footlights diminished for another year
Until the choreographer of Spring, faithfully reappears
Leaves will emerge in sunshine and bathe in the rain
A glorious celebration for the dance to begin again
STAGE BENEATH HER FEET*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
before the lights ignite,
she stands, a silhouette of dreams,
silk slippers whispering against the wood.
the stage, her steadfast confidant,
is the only applause she ever needs.
how the world adores the spectacle,
the pirouettes that seem to float,
the leaps that defy gravity!
beyond spotlight is the quiet joy of motion,
the grace of being, the art of losing oneself.
each twirl, a conversation with the air,
each leap, a promise to the crowd.
dancing is a wrapped gift opened
in the silence between the notes.
she dances not for their gaze,
but for the stage that cradles her spirit.
she dances for the magic of movement
as if she were born to sway
in the arms of the music,
the notes swirling like autumn leaves.
*This poem written in remembrance of my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson, a prima ballerina, who recently passed. She dedicated her life to ballet, first as a performer then later as a ballet teacher, choreographer, and original owner of the Dallas Metropolitcan Ballet.
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.
HANDMAIDEN OF MOON DANCING
fly me to stars in the thrill of one swan night
over a crescent arc to feel a flame of sighs,
teasing dreams so silent yet ever wild
and like a neon light, speak through your feet ,
your ribs twirling in drips of summer’s rage : throw
away the restraint of confined movements
dictated by a body unmoved; of a flower
keeping her flutters from crawling freely on grass
give me a sway through leaps unto ocean’s swell
without need for thought or reason, rather,
lift the flesh made from love or hate, to burst
with primitive heat; fingers liquid in motion unbidden
by a sacred place that doesn’t exist on earth, when
all but the fragrance of a naked skin expresses
the very force that writhes in the faint of depth,
licking the cells inside out.. weightless, bold, soft
dance the crazy dance with me just because
such passion needs to flow along rhythms
burning within… till a weave of spin breaks
into a trance blending a wanton glide with
pirouetting flights raw in some meadow clearing,
pious pose under the tangerine of touch…
handmaiden of moonlight dancing on flames
pluck those eyes ,rise above mortal remains.
©
*i tweaked this free verse with a sonnet’s volta
in the last two lines (10 syl rhyme count instead
of the usual 8 syl pattern)
----------
*Martha Graham is the pioneer of modern dance. As a ballet dancer
and choreographer, she introduced inner movement emphasizing
emotion, spontaneity, and an exploration of psycho-social themes
( feminism, political protest, and labor unrest)through free -flow
of innovative steps, thwarting cultural control over conventional,
metered dance. Her last performance on-stage was in 1970,
at the age of 76; she was working on the choreography for the Olympics
when she died in 1991 at the age of 97.
Graham was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1976
by President Gerald Ford and cited by Time Magazine as
"Dancer of the Century" in 1988, aside from her other accolades.
*Source: Wikipedia.com and www.voanews.com
*Please watch
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUoMc5Am_c0&feature=related
‘ ‘’’’’ ‘’’’
For Cyndi Mac Millan’s Maverick by nette onclaud
I was walking through the pineapple row and a thorn stick me on my middle toe, I bend down low to remove it and I almost fell into the ditch, I didn’t know what to do and so I start chanting an unfamiliar tune. It has no rhythm or verse, but it was sufficient to break the curse.
The hidden doctor came from behind the door and the choreographer crawl from underneath the second floor, the pianist was embarrassed to hold up his head they thought that the entire universe was dead; everything was silent around them, and blood was dripping from his hand what on earth is going on? you have to come and do the final dance. It’s called the swing.
Big bright lofty pineapple with ripe colors and succulent smell penetrates the walls and roofs spilling its juice over the place and I open my mouth wide to take it in but I had to go back to where it all begins.
The pineapple field is wide it has thousands of pineapples that is piling up to the sky, the rows are long, the roots are strong, and I want you to help me compose this new song.
The words are simple, and I love your dimples your enigmatic smile has lit up the entire sky, you have brought me to this place to create this song so let’s get together and sing along.
Don’t put too much solitude into it, I want some joy, modern and contemporary sound the twist and the fling and a little of the solemn hymn.
I want you to change that verse and lament on the stolen purse, the pineapple upside down cake is easy to bake, so spread the cake mix into dish and blend the sugar into the butter and whip up the eggs and pour it in.
Place the pineapple slices in the bottom of the tin and pour the mixture in, put it in the oven and make it bake at a temperature of a 350-degree Fahrenheit and when it’s done turn it upside down and place a cherry in the center and send it over to my lover.
She walks with pride through the gate, he has been waiting for her at the door with a bouquet of flower laced in assorted color; he greets her with a kiss, and she smell the flowers and smile and he took her to a neatly dress table and pour Champaign in a glass and he said, “you have come home at last”.
They sat down and stare at each other’s pride and write the final verse with their eyes. We shall be together until we die, and they complete the final song together.
Painter paints with a brush and hooded mind.
Dentist extracts, injects with a pointed mind.
Mind of cacophony is what a singer has.
Orator hails, evading a faux pas.
Chef cooks with an aproned mind.
Scientist invents, minded with formulas.
Cartoonist strokes, gifted with artistry
Dubber voices over to cover up travesty.
A wrestler can break anybody with a ranting mind.
Audience can just watch and listen with a calming mind.
If a dancer prances with a swirling mind
then a choreographer can relax to unwind.
So many other occupations with distinct minds,
Instructive of vocations and interests
descriptive of master minds.
What is your job?
....When she gets bored of Mr. Slick
and wants to have real fun.
You win some you lose some Newssome.
You abuse some,
misuse funds,
talk about appropriations,
self donations,
inappropriate grooming curriculum, son.
You have seen Mr. McDonald get his
unhappy meal on.
You aint seen nothing yet,
just sit down and getsome.
You are like flotsam and jetsam,
jetsetter for perverted UncleSam,
Vagabond salesman,
if you aint got none you createsome-
choreographer, Cartel Coyote's cartographer
peddling your routine up and down
the West Coasts like fentanyl was red rum.
Hey, I know, "Spirit fingers",
where they're not supposed to be.
In the mid-east they chop them off for thievery,
how much more for stolen innocence, blasphemy?
Sticking in your curacomb wand in
the young and gagging throats,
grooming them along,
suppress any dissenting tongue
till the vomit can be depressed no longer
going going along with Gomorrah
and your lot of Sodom.
Your Madame girl, casting plots,
creating poorn and connecting the buyer dots,
aqua on the tongue,
polka young one, right,
cross the cross, cross the border,
cross the line dot com.
You got sanctuary City,
plastic titties on Men and now want to
do children and throw your wrench in- Dodging balls Sporting Women.
Tale of two opposing campaign promises-City-
Destroyer,
mass exodus equity mis-opportunity
deployer
through L...... till your knuckles get bored .. ...,
off to other things like
vaccine Court Order,
New World Hoarders of rights,
food, travel, autonomy and speech.
Shadow candidacy come deadline
Dateline Promoter on August 18th.
El Presidente' can surely expand your groping reach.
For your band of pick-pockets
infantried by ordered unnational
exchange and securities.
The demon horde lackeys who have monopoly
on who can get impeached, beseeched, leeched
and teached or who can be seen
or breached.
Who is allowed to travel, unmask,
and pollute the jet-stream.
Soon, who will be allowed to eat or breathe.
*LORDS OF THE RIVERDANCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once were three Irish squirrels, Shawn, Finn, and Mack
Whose Riverdance skills took the villagers aback.
They' mimicked the steps of *Michael Flatley,
But truth be told they danced quite badly.
Their tap shoes they didn’t know how to clack.
They danced on stage and ‘neath the Irish moon.
But together their steps were never attune.
Their costumes were not green but ugly maroon ,
To others criticism they were immune
But oh how the ladies over them they did swoon!
“Oh, *Michael, just come and look at our show!
We’re the best dancers you’ll ever know!”
But the pride that they bore,
Was met with an uproarious roar,
As they tripped on their tails with a sigh and moan.
Undeterred, they danced 'neath the moon's silver light,
With a rhythm that just wasn’t right.
Though they tried with great zeal,
It was clear and ever so real,
They put *Flatley to shame every night!
*Michael Ryan Flatley is an American former professional performer and choreographer of Irish dance. Flatley is credited with reinventing traditional Irish dance by incorporating new rhythms, syncopation, and upper body movements, which were previously absent from the dance. He created and performed in Irish dance shows Riverdance, Lord of the Dance, Feet of Flames, Celtic Tiger Live and Michael Flatley's Christmas Dance Spectacular. (source wikipedia.com)