Long Contralto Poems
Long Contralto Poems. Below are the most popular long Contralto by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contralto poems by poem length and keyword.
Ring..Ring.....the phone just rang and rang.
When She answered it, she said she was surprised.
All we heard was yeah, yeah she said it at
least ten times, happy and exited. She ended the
call with a thank you, thank you:
and God bless you.When she turned to us we actually had
no idea what was going on.. She asked us what did we klnow
about real singing? Grister said" ya'll know
I can sang!" Whats going on Baby: tell us what is going on!
Well you all know my freind, the one who is a producer
for the theater shows and Acts? Yeah we heard about him,
what he want now? The last time he called Dimple and and Fritz got-tah fightin.
Wel anyway they need some acts and he thought of us.
Said he got a band and need us to develop a new style
based on our knowledge of some words. Said he got some smartazzes and need to trick them into learning some terms and phrases so they can impress people
instead of turning them off. We got the Gig with a contract and some real money
but he said we need to learn to talk so we can impress people
and not be cool and cool like tryna make friends when we
need to be allusive and and superstars celebrates.
Get the Faxes Choden, Get the Faxes. Okay Baby, here they go.
What does it say, Reading the paper and smiling hard enough to be heard.
These are the words you need to introduce your selves as.
The contracts are being faxed in one hour. Sign them A>S>A>P.
and fax them back. I will fax a copy of the check, and
send the via Euro
-Global Cash. Talk to you later.
Your Sincerely Chincey!
Use Vicks vapor rub at all times
when reading to sing and perform.
Here are the words and Voice types
assigned to each of you.singing voice types
are classified into major categories from high to low:
soprano, mezzo-soprano, and contralto for women,
and tenor, baritone, and bass for men.
A singer's voice type is defined by vocal range,
tessitura (comfortable singing zone), timbre
(vocal color), vocal weight, and transition points.
Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
I must say that in my four score years I've done it all and seen it all,
But in the autumn of my life, noxious noises drive me up the wall!
I like the soothing sound of most music and birds trilling in the trees,
But, Lord, spare me the wheezing of those bagpipes, if you please!
I like the sound of thunder and the rain falling softly on my roof,
But I could strangle the neighbor for letting his mutt yap and woof!
I can tolerate classical music until the prima donna Madame Zaria,
Begins to belt out her raucous contralto in an intolerable aria!
A most trying nuisance and I suppose one of my biggest gripes,
Are kids with boom boxes and their jalopies with those roaring pipes!
I don't mind the occasional rumbling of a train or the screaming jets,
But when dining I suffer acid reflux hearing inane cell phone vignettes!
I've got a bone to pick with the inventor of the wailing saxaphone!
That and the squeaking of a clarinet are more than I can condone!
I like western musical harmony sung by "The Sons Of The Pioneers."
But spare me those "She Done Me Wrong Songs" - they aggravate my ears!
Why can't folks keep their cats inside so they aren't yowling on my lawn,
And a hex on the dude revving his Harley Davidson waking me at dawn!
I reckon before I blow a gasket or worse yet lose my poise,
I'd better rush out and buy some ear plugs to stifle that noxious noise!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Don't forget to remove the Bay leaves from the
pot.
Make it easier on yourself
put the bay leaves and rosemary sprig
in a cheese cloth.
I'm in most incline to agree
yet some deemed them useless
almond ash and hickory ash
was used to create a super
strong aroma.
Pungent and earth friendly.
TENUTO___
The Zoomies
a group of five
songstresses
Clutter ( a Contralto Alto)
Clowder ( Contralto Soprano)
Glaring ( Mezzo- soprano)
Pounce ( the Soprano)
Bunting(Contralto)
allorubbing
glissando
tremolo
trill.
Piano!
Piano!
Staccato< paino
an detached and fast tempoed!
She detached her relationship
to be seen as more uncaring
toward the male gender.
She said such allowed her to negotiate
from being lesser involved from actually
being responsible
inside a fully functional relationship.
The legend goes that 1n 1887 at a festival somewhere unknown.
A group of Women who were hired to perform and were allowed
to have concessions.
The woman (The Zoomies) were fixing to serve up some delicious foods.
An inspection by a local there
who looked troubles in the face with a laugh, came up
to the head cook in the busy campground.
He told the woman she better take those bay leaves out of the soup
before someone starts complaining. The woman didn't take to kindly to this citified person
turning his nose up at her with an order. She sat the hot pot on the piano (according to legend)
She went down in her blouse, and pulled out her mini firecracker canon and launch a firecracker at the visiting chef. It's said the shoot knocked off the gentlemen's top hat. People thought it was part of the show.
* Point of Reference- The guy is said to have come up to the stage while more then 50 people( paying customers) were there and said "the rat and kitty stew smell like beef: that b*tch better not forget to take the BAY LEAVES outta the pot" Another legend is said that 6 woman singer corner the fella and stood above him and releived there selves. Ans said while the guy was enjoying his supper a woman reached down in her blouse and pulled out her breast and asked the man did he want her to make it a french creame soup!"
IN PRAISE OF BEAUTY
O beauty allure, beauty of the hyacinth
Doused by wailing drops of dew shroud
And pierced by the radiant shaft of heaven,
Through the rituals of purity
To tread the virginal soil of Venus.
O like the scenery
Of the splendid garden of Aphrodite,
With Pageantry, the art of Pothos and Himeros,
The pearly dross most sought after
Like a wand that spelled all the eyes of men.
Dazzling aurorae shimmering in deep shadows;
Figure beholding the twinkling crown, Andromeda.
Sunrise awaking the greenery;
Ascending furrowed amber terrain of
The gloaming by the countryside!
Habendum et tenedum!
Before the lily white altar an avowal
Of chastity and tranquility enshrined;
On a feather-quilted bed day and night
With love elixir soothing the body and the soul!
Soul melody in the diatonic harmony of
Meshed contralto with resonating baritone.
Swell the homophonic rhythm of Azande
As the pitch from my lips wears and declines
And the tempo of my heart increases!
Scented lavender wafting through the subtle air;
An aromatic morning of rose bathed with dew
That transports the mind beyond the earthly realm
And captures the heart at whim
Lost in the imagination of the form and frame.
Culinary variety spread in a romantic atmosphere
In candlelight banquet of cream and crimson;
Sheer delicacy, man’s greatest savour
Whose delights subsist even in her absence;
Whose substance transcends life’s ideal.
O beauty, within my heart dwells, enrapturing neurons
Let no worldly cataract becloud your glory
Through my eyes of mine, forever!
JAR OF LIFE....??
Like the thighs of a fresh virgin
The softness of your lips embraced my origin
You contralto voice like the echoes of the Moon filled the room to the brim
Each thrust into your thirty-two made my heart sound gbim! Gbim!! Gbim!!!
The awesomeness of your salivary gland
Like the pool of a wet nurse baptized my origin
Blessed is the angel that carved thy cheeks
More blessed is he that carved thy firm-fleshed riped fruits
In them my soul is buried
It is the sight of them that motivates my inner man
Watching you rise like the mother of dragons
Sent a wave of pleasure down the tails of my drogon
At that point did I say to myself...
If I perish, I perish
Indeed deep within your warmness truly I perished
The welcoming and opening ceremony of your sleekness
Succulence of your inner estate
Your solemn contralto voice of many notes
All worked together for the good of my adventure
In the business of your satisfaction
I was busy making profits till I felt the last drop of my last seed
Into your JAR OF LIFE...
©ABSOL
????????
I didn’t plant that garden tree
But thinking, I just let it be
I knew I should have cut it out
But felt within to let it sprout
And so, as seasons came and went
I pruned this tree, its bole I bent
Around the gable of my shed
But left the limbs above my head
The years passed by and I grew old
I hated heat and shunned the cold
My garden work became a chore
As summer days my patience wore
But resting underneath that tree
Allowed me time to watch and see
The beauty of my garden wrought
And all the neighbored friends it brought
A bunny comes to taste my beets
While shaded so, I rest my feet
A bumble-bee’s contralto thrum;
A promise of much more to come
Badgers, robins, the house finch red
All come with hopes of being fed
And I, too tired to wield my hoe,
Am glad I let that elm tree grow.
"When I was a kid my dad left me in a bad way .... he was
in the lives of my sisters and brothers but he wasn't in mine."
Quote by - Beth Hart
Her voice has an innate, inborn, visceral grittiness
dusty, raspy, raw with emotions of pain, aching, torment
and agony, an unstained contralto deep and low, and you
get lost in her voice, gliding on the waves of life with her
her name, Beth Hart, an American blues musician and singer
Born in 1972, Elizabeth (Beth) Hart is from California, USA
at 4 years old she played the piano concentrating on classical
music, like Bach and Beethoven but as she got older she
was playing artists like Etta James, Otis Redding, and Led Zeppelin
she has a magical voice like Janis Joplin and Tina Turner combined
As a young teen she was singing in open mic nights
and was playing clubs at fifteen, in 1993 band search she won
best female vocalist but her success went nowhere as she
became drug addicted, she spent all her winnings and hit bottom
even spent time in a psych ward for bi-polar and drug addiction
Beth has had ups and downs and she managed to have lots of hits
too many to list in this poem, but there are many hits that I fav
like LA Song, Don't Explain, Am I The One and many, many more
she collaborated with Joe Bonamassa and went on tour with him
and together they had hits, she also collaborated with Jeff Beck
Beth controls her addictions with religion and meditation now.
Joe said in an interview," I am totally knocked out by Beth. Here
is a lady who's acting like I'm the cool one and meanwhile I'm thinking
Man, she's got it all ... the next Janis Joplin . . the real deal, you know."
Random lyrics
War In My Mind
by Beth Hart
hollerin' all the time
black in my soul
and its ugly when I cry
there is a war in my soul
blood on the wall
hiding
making love to the
war in my mind
_____________________
May 09, 2023
Poetry/Bio/It's Ugly When I Cry
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1546-229-09
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Beth Hart Inspiration
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged05/09/2023
First Place
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.
How does the music flow?
Subtle single soprano notes and chorals sing out
in whispered melodies, blustery bravado mix doubts
when one tenor voice begins its solos on the rise
blending with the symphony surprise.
At first comes the birthing lullabyes
raising smiles and laughter to a mother's eyes
followed quickly by the growth spurt years
with know it all, rebellious tessitura teenage tears.
A young adult determined to be a trembling soloist
with every decision made too fast, too quickly confessed
in life's lover, warrior, passaggio falsetto blessed
wavering in decisions and earlier dream quests.
Mid life crisis drops us each to our knees
in lack luster timbre bass keys
of pain and loss upon a lifelong analogue
marked high and low with vocal pedagogue.
Time is faded and easily slipping away
contralto hymns flow deep and low yet never stay
as the background orchestra continues the sacred cantata
of life's moments culminating in our final sonata.