Long Chorused Poems
Long Chorused Poems. Below are the most popular long Chorused by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chorused poems by poem length and keyword.
Losing her soul to the whirlwind
Her spirit stolen by rainstorm
Body of her became a sacrifice
To the turbulent blizzard.
Once upon a soul mate
We both danced in the day
And we have both thrust
Our feet together in the dark
I had thought
I was the only key to her heart
Until I met the door I left clogged opened
My luggage packed outside in the rain.
I knocked the door endlessly
Still under the bashing of
A heavy clatter of water from the above
Visibly shaking, fidgeting
Like a lost pullet with no mother
I heard a heavy laughter from within
I peeped through the window
Nothing in sight to behold
In my world, rain stopped
To me alone, it was no longer raining
Heat came over me from within
My head ran fast as I became hot
Is she inside all the while?
Has somebody replaced me?
No, rang through my medulla oblongata
Basking in the effusive
Hymns of “forever together”
“Bad thought of a bad dream”
I chorused to ‘self
The masculine laughter reverberated
With a ugly but husky voice
This time accompanied by a very
Feeble but familiar sonorous voice
Playing the Juliet to the Romeo’s laughter
I am dead, I’m finished
My soul mate, now soul lost?
Life stared at me without a sire
Alayade Stephen T.
20th of June 2007
03.52pm
NB-Written in Iba,(Ayos) in the house with me,
Expecting a Mary, and Izobo daughter.
O Wanderer of Distant Shores
Sojourner to horizons veiled in alien mist,
when you return on wings of weary exile,
will you still recall the twilight hymns
chorused by a thousand chirping tongues
beneath the ancient baobab’s patriarchal shade?
Will the legend of the great hunter yet blaze within your breast
he whose lion heart sent forest sprites fleeing into shadow,
who claimed the land’s most radiant virgin as his bride,
a crown of courage woven into nuptial fire?
When you return,
will the spectral fable of the wraith still haunt your marrow
that restless phantom which drove our forefathers from the furrowed earth
at the first blush of dusk,
their hoes abandoned like forgotten prayers?
Will your fingers still remember the sacred alchemy,
plunging deep into the indigo womb of Aro
to birth Àdìre patterns for our beloved mother
blue constellations blooming on cotton skies?
The marketplace yet thrums, a living hive of ancestral rhythm,
every market day as raw and rooted as the hour you departed.
Our women remain unviolated by the foreign gloss,
their laughter pure as river stones.
Our men, still wary sentinels, eye the glittering lies of city folk
with the same ancestral suspicion.
Our children wear their beauty without shame or veil,
offering it boldly to the sun and wind.
Yet the harrowing screams of our virgins still lacerate the velvet night
as they bleed beneath the mutilator’s blade
an ancient wound that time refuses to cauterize.
Will you still know the holy communion of Iyan
that silken mound of yam, pounded with the sacred sweat of maidens,
molded tenderly with Egusi in vessels of baked earth,
a feast born of labor, love, and loam?
When you return,
will your tongue not recoil from the velvet slime of Ila,
once mastered with such grace beside Amala’s dark, yielding earth?
The leaves of the whispering forest still guard our strength and virility,
their bitter elixirs weaving resilience through our blood,
though they have never promised salvation from every shadow of pain.
O sojourner,
when you return from that far dungeon of subjugation
that iron sepulchre which devoured our songs, our creeds, our gods
teach us not the hollow novelties of conquered lands.
Return instead with memory intact,
with heart uncolonized,
and lay your hands once more upon the warm, living clay of home.
I never liked loud noise.
As a child I would run inside
terrified by the sound
of an aeroplane flying overhead,
cower under the wrap
of my grandmother's thick coat
on the rumbling roar
of a passing truck.
There was always menace
in sounds that exceeded
a threshold which for me
was barely above that
of the spoken voice. Even then,
crowded spaces chorused
in talk would smother
and send me into panic.
I liked soft sounds
that came gentle to the ear.
Rainwater whispering in gutters,
leaves rustling in a light wind,
noises distilled to a murmur
when filtered by distance.
I liked the volume
of being alone.
Not much has changed.
The loud noises that manage
to penetrate an aged ear
still raise the heart rate.
Crowds still press their panic.
Now, at night, I like listening
to the stars and clouds nudged
by the wake of a passing moon.
Pitter patters foisted wetness on the roofs,
A cat meows noisily to the rain spoofs,
her sweet noise rhythmed the dog's delicious woofs,
The treasure they sang into ears is the proof,
They both hopped like a radiant horse on hoof.
Mice run around to show they enjoyed their shows,
one, bold enough, even danced on my toes.
Their song was enriched by some noisy frogs' croaks,
that pierced the beats proving it not a hoax.
Some cocks occasionally chorused with crows.
Raindrops beat drums to make the ears more pleasing,
Thunders deafened the flow with their fast sneezing.
That made me to hum sweetness to their nice sound,
Now on my feet, my joy danced round and round,
Just then, the mice joined with their sweet soft wheezing,
Suddenly, the sky then stopped its pretty cries,
Maybe, the song that stopped the rain was by spies.
Sadness chased happiness far into the dark,
All was silent except the dog's angry barks,
Not even the stars could twinkle in the skies.
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Àdìre?” for our dear mother?(1)
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan” (2)
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware? (3)
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila” (4)
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala” (5)
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds.
Aro is the source of the indigo-dye which is used to create Àdìre? cloth.
Iyan: A paste for food made from Yam.
Egusi: A soup made from the melon seed.
Ila: A gelatinous soup made from Okra.
Amala: A paste for food made from Yam flower.
I like to walk the forest,
the deep quiet hush heals my soul;
except all the bird songs seem to be chorused,
I enjoy the concert on my tranquil stroll;
and find a hidden trail.
The deep green foliage wraps me like a veil,
with a scent intoxicating- thirsty I inhale;
and walk on and on,
oh, I want to walk until the day is gone.
Soon- a stream with a white swan,
and the babies following her are the dearest;
while father floats as if on patrol,
around the edge grow the lovely cattail;
oh, quiet here comes a fawn . . .
________________________
June 27, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/Down the Hidden Path
Copyright Protected, ID 20- 1263-383-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Strand Completely New (1)
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Eyeless, forehead-less amoebae-like dull cloud piece,
Resembling, other times, a mermaid in white fleece;
Silly soul! Yet, engendering panic just like,
The Satan? Beelzebub? It spins my psyche...!
Chemicals of stories heard seep into my mind,
Sensory organs stand erect, to fear, resigned;
When the moody mind molds it into a monster,
Personality proves paranoid-prone poker...!
I used to find one in the neighboring forest,
Betwixt barks of trees it cooed as though chorused;
Midst tall-grown grassy bushes it leisurely strolls,
With the breezes, winds, storms, gales, and doldrums it scrolls...!
Ghost has been growing up within my flesh and blood,
In my thoughts and feelings and actions, it flings mud;
Though the concept of ghosts is a mere illusion,
Is my mind ready to get rid of its fusion...???
22 February 2023
Writing Challenge - G Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
then ...
we watched
a world weeping
blood …
a villain's twisted hope
humanity's horror
steel like butter
melting …
strange birds in stranger
air - flailing …
sirens in chorused agony for
those whose voices
were silenced …
perfect azure vault, stained
with poison ...
breath of ashen
brutality -
the incense for an
evil anointing …
a somber search for
survivors -
for bodies, answers, hope
for God ...
death screamed at
the sky and
opened the keep -
truth tumbling into the
darkness …
two decades down, yet
it still trembles
whispers ...
waits.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photograph of twisted metal taken at backside of Ground Zero by Anne Buber )
She will rise from the water, in the midday afternoon
Lightly vaulting from darkness and a bright diamond throne
Splashing forth as a fountain, spilling colors of gold
Wearing combs made of seashells, from deep in the cold
She has no tongue, she has no tears
She had no clothes, will mystically appear
No need for air, her hair is fair
Her eyes are clear of unfound love
She is a siren, she is an angel, she is a myth, for many seasons
Is she real, or apparition…, do we see her for a reason?
A stretched out long tail, on bed of kelp-strewn sand
Soaking up the sun rays, to dry golden strands
She bewitches with amusement
While the darting fish play games
She is not just illusion, has no given name
She's a vision from the past, speaks the language of forgetting
Her repertoire of movement, and exquisite, agile form
A creature bathed in mystery, wears pearls of wet adorn
Ever mindful of the music, human splashing rage of oars
And the chorused voice, and shouting force gale winds that blow from shore
She shuts her dimming eyes, where sun will never be...
And dives back to the purple twilight,
And the freedom of the sea
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------