Long Compositions Poems
Long Compositions Poems. Below are the most popular long Compositions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compositions poems by poem length and keyword.
Goodbye, Andy Warhol, R.I.P.
Welcome to the world of sensationalism.
Welcome to the pop culture of Andy Warhol,
Who saw in a can nutritious soup for consumption
And beauty in the face of an ungodly woman.
But remember, “Andy was philosophical!”
So, who is to question his business production
Of inner-eye commercial art compositions
And judge them sacrilegious, ridiculous, or abstract?
Hey, Andy Warhol, this is your life on display,
In a soup can and a face lacking intelligence.
The can of soup is a matter of preference,
And the glitzy face is sensually exposed
With your timely entrance into the sixties.
Your art's momentum continues, and you are famous.
“Goodbye, Andy Warhol, may you rest in peace.”
***
Note:
Andy Warhol (1928–1987) was an American pop culture artist who died in 1987 following gallbladder surgery due to injuries received 19 years earlier from an attempted murder on his life. In 1968, radical feminist Valerie Solanas fired two shots into Andy Warhol’s abdomen using a .32 Beretta handgun, and later said (referring to Andy Warhol); “…had too much control over my life.” Warhol barely survived and suffered the effects of the shooting for the rest of his life.
In Chapter 5 of his book ‘The Philosophy of Andy Warhol’ he wrote in reply, “If I weren’t famous, I wouldn’t have been shot for being Andy Warhol.” In Chapter 6 he wrote, “…making money is art and working is art, and good business is the best art.”
*Image of Mom Playing at the Church by Family Photo
Pride of Place
Our matriarch, a great musician of sorts,
The piano, her centerpiece, she supports,
Coaching youthful kids even kids in shorts,
Performing at nights at resplendent resorts.
~0~ ~0~ ~0~
She taught the well-to-do to fund her trade,
Still, the piano, the cornerstone she made,
Training those destitute who hadn't paid,
My mom's piano she loved and played.
2022 January 29
*2nd Place*
Pride of Place
~~Julia Ward: Judged 2022 February 09
*Mom was a truly talented virtuoso on a guitar/rivaled Spanish strummers, ukelele and cello, drums, trumpet, flute, horn, tambourine, organ, and YES piano ... to name a few and composer of thousands of compositions.
She didn't have to ask for a kiss
The words didn't even get past her lips
The words were on her lips
But then my lips were on her lips
Then she playfully slapped me
She said "Dang Tim you could of at least ask me"
Then she stuck her lips out and I kissed her again
I told her I could be to her what I could not be to her friends
It melted her heart and that in turn melted mine
She was beautiful and smart, Love she wasn't so sure she would find
But how could lips that fit so perfectly
Hearts filled with uncertainty
Lives altered by tragedy
How could all that lead her back to me
She is a powerful force, she is an avalanche
She said "Now that we've mastered this
Your in my heart, we can talk
Cause in the end afterall
There's not another I most think about
But I fear you may hate now"
Hate you? Whoa stop I could Never
He may be a little better, but compared to me he is such a little letter
Because in BIG LETTERS, THIS SPECIAL
Is brought to you because your SPECIAL
Because if you was fighting a lost cause, if you was destined to fall
Then I was destined to catch you
I'm Heaven sent I'm not meant to impress you
Unless you feel messengers confuse
Well God He sends His messengers too
And not with the least slightest contradictions
But with the brightest compositions
Realizing and providing that
I'm on your mind and I'm refining that
I press my lips to your heart and I console
If you don't feel my kiss there then lady I can go
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
It’s, for me, not nature’s just one aspect or the other;
But, each creature of nature is greater than the other.
An ant moving unnoticed under any leaf or flower,
Rolling food, even under feet of animals much heavier;
An earthworm incessantly tilling anyone’s land,
And unassumingly lending farmers its helping hand;
The bee hummingbird that drinks nectar from flowers,
And by way of pollination, its gratefulness reciprocates;
Beavers that in their masterly way reducing soil erosions,
And said to be improving the quality of water streams;
Llamas while making easy the mountaineers’ transportations,
Offer their hide and wool as fabrics, crafts, ropes, and rugs;
Rats that cooperate with human beings as regular rodents,
Though not considering themselves as contributing agents;
Squirrels that consistently shape plant compositions,
And impulsively burry seeds and enable plantations;
Crows the commonest of all scavenger birds in India,
Together with vulture, eagle, hawk, kite, and jackdaw;
Butterflies or dragonflies, or beetles or ladybirds,
Moths or bugs or bumblebees or leaf miner or spiders;
Animals domesticated or in the wild that might hit and kill
Who’s great, who’s small, in the mysterious life-cycle?
7th May 2021
ALL YOURS (May 9) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
I desire only Peace
But I must face the Truth here
He is numbered among them
I look down at the campfires
He is lost in the vastness of their army
His tent is guarded by Warriors when he sleeps
He is such a coward
The thought of being hunted by such a man is a mystery
Like sticks builds spikes
Like words build men up
Look in my eyes Sir
Now I look in your eyes
You are shocked your blood spills out
I drilled you in the heart
And send you to that path in the skys
May you wonder among the stars and never find your way
Thank You great Spirits for the Victory over death
He is coming like a theif in the night
As wise as a serpent as harmless as a dove
Men should always pray and not lose heart
If you feint in the day of adversary your strenght is small
Beware less her words be like an arrow that pierces A BIRDS LIVER
Only the strongest of men are killed by her
My words are from the Master
I did'nt come to bring Peace but a Sword
Look I see a prophet on the streets of New York
Yelling at the top of his lungs the end is near
I look up but the sky is'nt falling
Like that man could ever mess with the best
like my compositions could ever fall beneathe another man
Unless they swoop down to lift him up
Unless i fall to doubt
Like God ever favored him with better words
Better composed-Better said
But never spoken till he read my dictation
And it inspired him
It raised him out the writer's block
That Powers blocked
Like Greater Powers opened and spoke
in many Voices and many Masters
The words in my heart crash down
I see poems wrote from my past life
The hand of the Queen on Her finger the purest Emarld when I kissed it
The Mission I undertook for her
I just suppose it was an erran of Life and Death
A Battle I would of never won without the help of my 3 friends
That are still here to this day
And I rode horseback from post horse to post horse
From Spain to France
And ran the last one so hard untill he fell and blood came out his mouth
A ran up the steps of the Palace in a cloud of dust
And the servants fed me and hung me back in the Queens closet
Believe me or not! I am the Queen's wingman!
Just like One of David's Mighty Men
My Hand is Frozen to the Sword
Poetry is my insanity
Poetry is my insanity,
sparks collected on flat mirrored walls,
frantic phrases floating
in a spectrum’s pulsating palette,
picturing Dali-esque icicle melted webs
and chromatic landscapes
blurring in the distance
Dancing to the demented sounds
of brain cells singing, Zappa inspired
A cappella rhythmic compositions,
ringing monotone echoes
in between Jupiter and the ghosts
counting off beat pendulum swings
on fingers and toes
Words with eyes, they see, they stare
they blink, they close,
wandering attic crawl spaces
casting neon shadows,
illuminating ideas
passed on to the next pair
lashing out as another retreats
Pulling on my heart,
squeezing every last thought of love,
oozing in blacklight ink, day-glo sunrises
of roach clip offerings on psychedelic posters,
depicting ceramic moons
fluttering midst crayon heavens
eating stardust candy…
Poetry is my insanity
and it is driving me crazy…
in the best possible way
PARTURATION berthing the inpiration
simultaneous
visions,
mutli-layered
inspiration:
innovative
coherence
now apparent,
broken
syntax
in semantic
ambiguity...
unresolved
inspiration burns
turns a spark
from the tinder
of imagination
into a flame..
a flame
that gathers up
experience
burnishes and
refines
a nugget of emotion
into an image, then
crystallize as a phrase
to become
a spoken word,
a voice
from
the seeing eye
bursts of
creativity..
...short-lived....
colourful
caberets
exercises in
inspiration:
fearless
interaction
of parody and
sentiment..
in wordplay:
interspersed
crafting
of sensibilities
in compositions
....incarnate
A now moment,instantaneous,
parentage unknown,alive borne
of inspiration.Scattered here and there,
colours everywhere.The inner made
outer.Inherent originality conceived,
perceived,crystallised,the beneath
now in relief,of line,spot,point and
dab upon a canvas,to dry before the
eye.Succinct,complete of itself, never
to be reproduced it stays unique,of
me,for all to see.Of me,was once,this,
must art elsewhere,forever did depart.
I look upon it now,and wonder how!
Poetry is the push behind
the wave – the brilliance
sparking light –
the poet, a wonder-er
and wanderer...drawing
illumination from wells
of glistening shadows –
never pondering
the where and when,
his focus always toward,
the Almighty How...
Never seeking the there and then,
making of complex mysteries
bite-size, digestible pieces --
compositions of an omnipotent God's,
ever illusive, Eternal Now...
no work of mere description
will do...
each ensuing articulation, an evolution –
as Darwin observed his Galapagos,
like so, all creation evolves by man's
conscious and unconscious sensing –
The poet, no predetermined
puppet; but, in fact, a Literary Diviner –
believing his practice – man's personal
enunciation through his ever
greater
revelation
of words –
dipping his fanciful
quill into the ink of a
publishing universe – dripping
reams of infinite pages – poetry,
our intimate voice of never-ending
possibilities...