Long Conductor Poems
Long Conductor Poems. Below are the most popular long Conductor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conductor poems by poem length and keyword.
THE CONCERT
The members of the orchestra had each gone to his chair;
The audience was waiting now for the conductor there.
And when he stepped on to the stand, applause was heard, and then
He lifted up his white baton and music soon began.
It started out quite beautiful, each person played his part,
But soon some went on their own way; they thought they were
more smart.
Some put their music on the floor and stopped playing at all,
While others stared around the room at all the lights and walls.
Some started playing other tunes, some played too sharp or flat,
Some even talked among themselves, some even got in spats!
The leader was beside himself, not knowing what went wrong,
For he had planned this concert night for oh, so very long.
And now he was embarrassed by the actions of the band;
He tried to calm confusion there by raising up his hand.
The members of the orchestra just went their separate ways
Each thinking they were doing right with music they did play.
The audience was quite disturbed, for what they came to see
Was surely not a show like this confusing, sad melee!
This story is a parable of Christendom today:
We started out as one in Christ, but each went his own way.
Denominations, sects, and cults, all claiming to be right,
But all they do is disagree on everything and fight.
We can’t agree which Bible is God’s word for us today;
We can’t agree on how to sing and sometimes how to pray.
We can’t agree on baptism, security, or gifts;
It’s sad to see how very far from early truths we drift!
And some have even now denied the basic gospel truth
That many died for in those days of the church’s early youth.
They say that Jesus was not God, the blood was not required,
Or say that there are other books that God has now inspired.
They say that hell is just the grave, that Mary is the way,
That purgatory is a place where we could go someday.
Yes, many doctrines have crept in; just like that concert hall,
It’s hard for many to believe there’s any truth at all!
Yet our Conductor wants us back! We have a job to do!
If we would follow as He leads, what impact we could view!
It’s time we got back to the Lord, Conductor of our life,
And put away these selfish ways and arguments and strife!
It’s time to come back to God’s word, not ideas of man,
And follow our Conductor, Christ, and trust His guiding hand!
I was a famous conductor, and performing beautiful music was my joy,
As diamond sunshine, to pervade darkness, finds any means to employ.
Music had long been a part of me, in that I sang long before conducting,
Like the famed adult bluebird choirs, lead the songs they are instructing.
My much loved work kept me busy. Still, I loved every precious moment,
As wild, crazy, summer colors dash afar, with no cries of encroachment.
But I had a personal favorite song, which I loved more than any other,
As anyone recalling their great loves, find their thoughts turn to mother!
This song had held special meaning for me, for what felt like long ages,
And I never tired of hearing it, as blooms will never have enough vases.
I thought of the melody as 'my song,' for in my heart, it was mine alone,
Like multicolored autumn leaves flying, when green summer is disowned.
It was then marigold days of sultry July, and dark purple martins soared,
Like finding you have heartfelt passion, for someone you once abhorred.
I had just entered a restaurant, when I heard that stirring song playing,
Like chattering, mischievous monkeys, swing forever in treetops, saying.
Then like always, I was transported, back down nostalgic memory lane,
Just as orange birds recur every springtime, singing the melodies again.
As I was returning home that evening, the full moon was in the treetops,
Whispering with those flashing stars, as a part of the nightly peace talks.
As I went up the front porch steps, the fragrance of lilacs was tangible,
As on the streets of scarlet summer, where wild blooms are fashionable!
The moment I entered my house, my heart song began its playing again,
As a sultry summer that's come lately, only to meet the vivid fall refrain.
Though I was enraptured by extravagant music, and music was my life,
Still, it was odd that it could play itself, the moment this person arrived!
It seemed that the song I'd loved so long, had come to love me as well,
And had determined to follow me always, like fragrances casting spells.
My heart song is still pursuing, through mellow days and jasmine nights,
As owl stares at a moon of rapture, and bees are off on honeyed flights.
That song of precious sweet memories, greets me every room of my life,
Like a red rose that blooms for you only, even where wild blooms are rife!
Seventy thousand years and we are still fighting over religion.... Not the best
image to hold anything up to and then praise
I can only tell u pieces of this mystery my soul tells me again and again
Of why the world is like this
Revolving around the truth of four sentences
Three planes of existence
One prophet here to become a god and be come like a conductor of an intricate
train set
I have witnessed beauty turn ugly in time
And summers go cold in the winter
And as my godmother creatively throws me away to remind me I'm truly not
human
I look toward the telepathic dreams I have of giants
to rediscover the driving force
As to why we are trying to hunt down men overseas working to revolutionize their
backyards
That they have spent living centuries of terror in
Backed into a corner of horror and mental anguish and pain
Where all they could do out of survival was rise against
Even if it meant with equal force of carrying a gun
Jesus spent 3 days in hell
struck a deal with the devil
I spent centuries there to crawl from that nightmare to be born into this one
To find the footsteps and pieces of the shattered veil of ignorance being bliss
I believe I am more of a hero for being more of a man for taking my punishment
I didn’t deserve
For a test he failed
That turned my joke into hell and blackmailed a favorite angel
to come to this earth to try to understand man's plan to fix whatever the prophet
that is there between the lines of destiny
predicted pulling strings wove and his vengeance struck down
70 thousand years of betray al and punishment
Living in a dark place amongst all of this god’s pain of paranoia and mental
anguish I thought was mine
To realize the prophet full well knew this destiny was coming
and all he could do was cry
Now living in this s earth of oxymoron’s and questions and hunting shadows and
footsteps asking questions myself and finding answers I’m learning to read
between the lines
3 days is easy of a punishment you don’t deserve for a test of betrayal where as
a favorite angel punished for an eternity for god's will to become an actor is an
enlightenment only the prophet with his four demons can fully comprehend how
to mend
Your Elysian Killing Fields-
Your soul, my Love,
is the pristine gilded white,
that cascades down from Heaven's summit.
A river that fills me, a dry riverbed,
with your milk and honey.
Your current carrying me along,
to your eternity.
Eternally, flowing along,
your emotional streams,
towards your heart's tributary.
A maelstrom of passion,
pulling me down into your pools,
solitary actions.
In solitary enormity, destiny-adjoining.
You are my clandestine pulse-
that regulates my being,
with sacred verse.
You are the specter in my blood.
The scepter of my throne,
With you I can believe, in anything,
except for being alone.
Anything, everything you do.
Winds around me as a grapevine, entertwining.
The seduction to drink from your cup.
The ambrosial wine, your overflowing,
flowing into me.
Your passionate canvas calls to me,
to sculpt in its delicate flowering.
In hungered heaves,
when your rib cage expands.
Anticipating,
your Dove's-wanting to be freed.
Only, by my hand.
Free as the flame's flare,
the burning, consuming.
As I stare into you,
feeling your Crimson Fires, there.
Feeling as though, stalked prey.
In your Elysian Killing Fields.
Euphoria in sway,
atop your succubant meal.
My fate's threshold, crossed and sealed.
Helpless to your Impish ways.
I remain held, by your captivating allure.
The intoxicating poison of your capture.
Poison of your angelic tainting,
that runs through me,
clouding evermore.
The Conductor of the chemicals within me.
You entrench, your surrounding,
that abounds around me.
The Ballerina of the Little Death.
In sourcery, comes,
seduction's breath-The dance- of the seven veils.
Perpetual, into hunger's ballet,
which permeates, the skin,
burroughing its ethereal entrails.
You're always a puzzle,
a timeless wonder,
always to be.
The first of my needs.
If you turned to be the Devil's Daughter.
I fear he would have me, indeed.
My Love, the other part of me.
With this dream-
I pledge my Love to thee.
Yes, you are the ghost within my wings.
I am a phoenix rising from the sea.
Bring me out into your spring.
where I will drown,
in your farthest reaches.
Life to me, you will endlessly be instrumental in, as the Lords revival brings.
The Elite warrioress from Elysia to
Elate me, inflate me to Life from my dreams.
The haunted train of Schwenksville
After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).
However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.
The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.
The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.
It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.
For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.
An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.
"MAGIK"
True Power arrives when
Magik is delivered,
felt and seen
in the cracked and lonely,
the lost hearts broken, that believe
true power
two as one
A quill is the first token
Mirror potent conductor
transfers spells through
open windows reflection
Manifestation
Mirrors seen through
Open windows reflection
Only some see true Magik
The others dream
The others dream
Only some see true Magik
Open windows reflection
Seen through Mirrors
Manifestation
Life’s a Harry Heller show
Dark wolves become
soft paws protecting
not suffering
Hermine walks away
from eternal black heart
trapped in forever black-holed sun
Magik
Manifestation
Two reflections
Conquering as One
Only some see true Magik
The others dream
Love is the key
Manifesting
A quill is the first token
Where the quill and verse of spell arrive
through which windows and mirrors
and the hands in which hearts are held survive
Only true Magik
WILL
tell
Only some see true Magik
The others dream
So mote it be.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“BELIEVE”
"No Light, No Light"/Florence and the Machine
https://youtu.be/HGH-4jQZRcc
“The new is always at our doorstep when we feel most lost.”
“While the Dark Night of the Soul is a process of death, the Spiritual Awakening Process is the rebirth.”
“It is only when we are truly alone, without someone else to lean on, left with our own inner solitude that we can undergo a process of change. The introspection that is needed to bring out the light that has dwindled down to ash and reignite the fire of our being. So let the darkness shape you, let it reform you, let it cradle you and birth you into a new life. Let the spark flame again, in the darkness is where you will find it.”
"Big God"/Florence and the Machine
https://youtu.be/_kIrRooQwuk
“You necessarily have to be lost, before you’re found.”
"Moderation"/Florence and the Machine
https://youtu.be/ScxZwXH09Ws
“Enlightenment arrives like a thief in the middle of the dark night of the soul.”
My Mistress, the Moon
From mine chamber, breathless and perspiring upon the bed,
I spy you there, out my window, looming overhead.
Your gaze, a silent arbiter in the night,
I cloak my naked shame, to veil my plight.
Reigning atop her celestial silver throne,
While I, lie with a lover not of my own,
Broken vows flee like ravens in the night,
And you, casting shadows of guilt in your light.
Glistening spectral tendrils adorn the wet cobblestone,
Where I and my lovely paramour have dared to roam.
With discreet footsteps, we clandestinely meet,
And you, with your enchanting freckled glow, how sweet.
Soft beams gently caress her alabaster cheek,
Lost in each other’s eyes, passionate and weak.
Reflected in her amorous gaze, I see your ethereal glow,
A witness to our sinful secrets, only you know.
Beneath the silvered shroud of your alluring gleam,
Our love, a surreptitious waltz in a moonlit dream.
In intimate whispers and fervent glance,
You orchestrate this forbidden romance.
The conductor of a symphony of sin,
Our affair, a soiled tapestry, unraveling from within.
In the dark chambers of my heart, you are the phantom spike,
The harbinger of this dreadful plight.
From my bed, to the window’s edge, I drew near,
An inquiring voice, “What troubles thee, my Dear”?
“’Tis naught, my Darling, j’st——the moon’s, cold stare”,
All the while, a laden heart, wrought with despair.
For my spirit is torn between duty and desire,
Engulfed by passion’s flames, intense blue fire.
From my window to the heavens, I plea my discontent,
To the pale blue eye above, I solemnly lament:
“O Moon, in thy spectral light aglow,
Release my soul’s despairing woe.
In thy celestial realm, I lay bare my sins,
Where shame deepens, and remorse’s tide begins.
Cast thy luminous gaze upon my plight,
Guide me towards redemption’s forgiving light.
For in thy ethereal embrace, I plead release,
From guilt’s relentless grip, grant me peace.
Lead me, O Moon, through this sinful night,
In thy mercy, permit my spirit respite.”
Beneath your fading glow, the whispers of love wane,
As I bid adieu to this fleeting masquerade,
Sun cresting the horizon, she reaches for the door,
The time has come, farewell my muse,
my lovely paramour.
-Edward
life had written an etude in D minor and barely gave him a pass
D for defeat denial disintegration dour reprise of the inevitable
bottom of the class for society sang to its dominant song book
while he was tone deaf and kept quiet hiding a coarse inner voice
his internal melodies sounded like a rusty cheese grinder on arrest
detained him after school hours to punish his apparent shortcomings
but it is difficult to make fine parmesan from blue veined fromage
and the blues of his childhood suffered under cruel constant assault
´the boy has got no sense´ and the child was never spared the rod
when all he wanted was a bit of cane sugar yet he did not suck up
to their blows which knocked out a few teeth in the long process
that laid the cruel basis for his trademark cheeky and sardonic smile
´when you have grown you will show gratitude for our kind efforts
to change your attitude and give thanks to our shaping your mould´
as it came to writing music-sheets he scripted them in lemon juice
secret messages because when life gives acidity you have a choice
one teacher was gentle with him and gifted him sour boiled sweets
for every time he hit a note from his own repertoire of aspirations
he almost chocked on such a gesture of compassion and novelty
breathed out slowly and poured out his heart in cacophonic sorrow
‘I might never become a tambourine major or master of ceremonies
no choral conductor or symphonic regent in other's marching bands
my choir will be a small ensemble and quality strikes vocal-chords
right where they need caressing and cradling but not false elocution’
‘if I can wipe the cheesy grimaces off the face of my crude tormentors
so be it then´ but this is in truth not about a vicious viscous fondue
gratitude has to be earned and thanksgiving follows genuine kindness
attitudes meanwhile may change or strengthen ´for this is my music´
A composition in Roquefort major with walnut crumble and cherries
on my cake and some can see clearly the grinder has its own purpose
when pungent milk turns into custard and some have egg on their faces
‘Its not about perfection but progress is built on effort and appreciation´
26th August 2020
In the dimmed theater, the stage is set
not for a play though, yet a performance
one of baton, brass, notes, timpani
the performance I have waited for has come
As the stage lights grow brighter like sunlight
the theater grows dimmer yet, almost dark
but for the brilliance of the stage lights
then out you come with French Horn in hand
Along with thirty of forty other musicians
you take the stage, you are first chair
therefore you must be at your best tonight
and I know that you will be, you've practiced
The Conductor arrives on stage and announces
Welcome to the Black Hawk County Honor Band
I am sure you will be pleased with our selections
The Conductor takes the podium, opens his arms
With baton in hand he signals instruments ready
You raise your horn along with the others
ahhh the sound is fervent with excitement
the theater is alive with Parker in G flat
I can pick your horn from all the other instruments
you are playing the best you have ever played
you are caressing your horn like a fine jewel
and it sparkles in the light brilliance unimagined
Like your brother the writer of poetic beauty
you also have talent, musical talent like I
you now can hear a song and play it, by ear
like I you are learning the guitar, teaching yourself
The next song, Bach, such beauty to my ears
you and your fellow musicians have mastered the master
two years you have played, it sounds like many more
I film the whole concert, to preserve the moment
The concert ends with a Beethoven, in B how lovely
again you played masterfully, never missed a note
You even hit high G, and you thought you couldn't
well done son and it's all on tape, and in my memory
Red faced you leave the atrium, you worked so hard
I hug you and tell you how proud I am of you
all you want is a drink of water, you drank and
the redness is leaving your face, well done I hug you again
I wish your Brother could have been here to see and hear
he would have been proud too, and would have hugged you
You see, talent runs in our family, Me, you and Jared
all have it, So I guess it's in the gene pool, must be for you see
The Nuts fall close to the tree !
I OPENED A DOOR
TO A UNIVERSAL ENERGY.
IT SEEMED TO BE
EVERYWHERE.
AND...IN MOST EVERYTHING.
I HAVE TO SAY
IT WAS A LITTLE CHAOTIC.
TRAVELING FASTER
THAN THE SPEED OF LIGHT.
OR SHOULD I SAY LIGHTNING.
BOUNCING, JUMPING, LEAPING
PASSING, OVER, UNDER
AND THROUGH.
IT WAS BEING
BUT NOT BEING CONDUCTED.
LIKE A SYMPHONY
BUT OUT OF CONTROL.
IT WAS AS IF...
IT WERE SEARCHING FOR
CONNECTIVITY.
IN THE PROCESS
COLLIDING AND TEMPORARILY
FORMING LAYERS, SHEETS,
AND SPHERES.
LIKE A FINALLY OF FIREWORKS,
AT BLINDING SPEED.
WHEN IT STRUCK THE SURFACE
IT CREATED YELLOW REDS
AND BLUES.
WHICH SEEMED TO COLLIDE
WITH ONE ANOTHER
CREATING THOUSANDS
IF NOT MILLIONS OF SHADES OF
ORANGE, PURPLE AND GREENS.
I STOOD IN AWE
OF MY SURROUNDING.
OBVIOUSLY FASCINATED
BY THE BOMBARDMENT
OF MICRO
BOLTS OF LIGHTNING,
I TOO WAS RECEIVING.
I COULD FEEL IT TRAVEL
IN AND OUT AND THROUGH ME.
I LOOKED AT MY HANDS.
I COULD SEE THE ESCAPE
OF ENERGY.
I POINTED MY FINGER
AND WITNESSED A
CONCENTRATION OF ENERGY.
IN THE FORM OF A BOLT
OF LIGHTNING.
I THOUGHT ABOUT IT
FOR A MOMENT.
I HAD TO ASK MYSELF
THAT ALL IMPORTANT
QUESTION.
WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON?
LIFE IS GREAT
FANTASTIC
INCREDIBLE
AND AT TIMES...
UNBELIEVABLE.
I LOOKED AT BOTH MY HANDS
PALMS UP AND BROUGHT
THEM TOGETHER AND CREATED
A SPHERE.
I SLOWLY SEPARATED THEM.
CREATING A LARGER SPHERE.
MY ARMS WERE EXTENDED
OUT TO MY SIDES
AND MY PALMS FACING UPWARD.
I WAS NOW INSIDE THE SPHERE.
I FELT SO ENLIGHTENED.
SO....RELAXED AND AMAZED.
I SLOWLY BROUGHT MY HANDS
OUT FRONT OF ME
TOWARDS ONE ANOTHER
AND CONNECTED MY FINGERTIPS
AND THUMBS TOGETHER.
NO LONGER WAS THE ENERGY
OUT OF CONTROL.
WAS I THE CONDUCTOR?
I AM THE CONDUCTOR.
I WAS IN CONTROL OF THE ENERGY.
THERE IT WAS, IN FRONT OF ME.
I HAD MY HANDS AROUND IT.
NO LONGER CHAOTIC.
A UNIVERSE OF ENERGY,
IN THE PALM OF MY HAND.
HARMONY OUT OF CHAOS.
TRANQUILITY OUT OF NOISE.
IF GOLD AND SILVER
ARE THE BEST CONDUCTORS
FOR THE UNIVERSAL ENERGY
OF LIGHTNING.
WAS I GOLD OR SILVER?
OR SILVER....
ENTERING....
THE GOLDEN AGE?
Michael E. Harris
02192021