Long Etude Poems
Long Etude Poems. Below are the most popular long Etude by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Etude poems by poem length and keyword.
Please, piano boy, get out of my head
It's not that I don't want you there; it's just not worth the bloodshed
Because you deserve it all, and all I am is not enough
So I'm bleeding, trying to forget you instead
So please, piano boy, get out of my head
Please, piano boy, don't play that piano piece
It blurs my mind, seeps into my veins, each time you touch the keys
You see the world like I do; I can tell by how you play
The music finds its cadence, but my soul still craves release
So please, piano boy, don't play that piano piece
I could lie and say the music doesn't lead me back to you
That I never catch your name on my tongue out of the blue
That I can still live my life
And I promise you, I've tried
How hard can it be to make myself believe that's true?
Yet I can't even listen to Chopin anymore
Because every piece makes me think of you
And when I said I'd never been in love before
You entered my life right on cue
And in the silence, I still hear the melodies you've made
Lingering in the air, so sweet and clear
So, every time I think, my thoughts of you begin to fade
I try to forget, but they're all I can hear
In between the notes, you're all I can find
Now, I can't hear Chopin without you on my mind
Somehow, you find a way to come across in every etude
Stormy passion finds its way through
The same storm found in your gaze
And in each nocturne's theme, like in a sweet and tender dream
I find your smile in the scene
Floating amidst each phrase
Now, I can't help but listen to Chopin even more
To remind me of the moments I've spent with you
Now I can say I've finally been in love before
It's more beautiful and sweet than I ever knew
And in the silence, I can hear the melodies you've played
Like gentle raindrops falling on my ear
And I do all I can to make sure they never fade
Because, above all else, I long to keep you near
In between the notes, you were all I found
Now I listen to Chopin just to keep you around
Because I find you inside every sound
Please, piano boy, let me keep what I've found
I freely admit I love classical music,
And please don't think me a snob
If I keep my composure
When I mention composers
As Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann,
And not Ludie, or Wolfie,
Or Petie, or Bob.
And a symphony simply cannot be enjoyed
At just any old time of the day.
I can't listen to them
Prior to seven p.m.,
And I don't mean to brag, but I couldn't be dragged
To a Wednesday or Saturday matinee
Of a ballet by Bizet or Massenet.
My taste in classical music, you see,
Is eclectic, but not meant to shock.
I choose Strauss for the schmaltz
Of a polka or waltz,
And Chopin is my dude when I crave an etude,
But I do tend to doze in my seat in the loge
Through an opera by Wagner…
Or more Offenbach.
Where the stage manager sits
the occurance of defintion
defined as a position or a fill-in
speakers along the proscenium
edge to counteract the effect
of the sound coming from the side
primary liaison between the director
, actors, designers, and technical crew.
blocking and cues
his responsibility was to make sure
all were in attendance for
rehearsals, and the scheduling
some are also responsible for set
designs and redesigns
wardrobe and furniture
lighting and sound
a communicative position
ensuring safety throughout
the whole company
" I often had been sad by what I thought I should be doing
my work help me focus: I meet my wife right here
in this theather, we worked together
I was capitivated by her work and work ethic
we married and never looked back",
Passaggio and Chiaroscuro.
" Etude Musicia" she spoke
illustrating her work
Loving me illustrates her intentions"
Étude Love she said laughing.
Might he find it in him self to
see error in his previous thought
than might he recognize the
way his lyrics and music
might blend together to
be heard in the finest hall's
of this world.
Those lovers, and those who love music
might come together to and hear
the sweet tones of tenors, alto's, soprano's
rangey, and rangeier
Etude inspro' Vivace?
perhaps, or which, watching to await
seen then in performance
those of Decapp Grooves
Consonancnist Contralto
Legato Motif? Objectio's of Cantar
might he than show a world
of unloved folk, that togetherness in music
can inspire healthy relationships
the kind that blossom and bloom, without taking from others
than when sum see
The.................................Fermata........................................!
they will stand and say Bravo! bravo ! Bravo!
The sounds of words , Written as lyrics, Sang to Music(complimentery)
and enjoyed by those who wish to repart take in such endeavors.
Nights for lovers, and Lovers of Music.
That those the world abroad might ask, who inspired such,
that these mentions gather interest..
Than might the person marry, and shall be happy from such these inspirations.
He might be blue due to the fact that they boo'd him twenty miles away of his home town, they cheered him at home. He introduced his New lover amiss the boo's.
Soaking up sunshine on sandy warm shores;
sipping sangria while sampling smores.
Under umbrellas we’re putting to use;
utterly euphoric as the day comes unloose.
Mid-morning mildness is making me muse;
mild mannered time I must never misuse.
Madness of midnight is making mandates;
making fond memories while mingling with mates.
Eating cold eskimo pies by sea’s edge;
enjoying the easy life nothing can enhedge.
Resting by the river with rod and reel;
ready for catfish their tails to reveal.
Tracking the bull toads and catching tadpoles;
Taking it easy as heat takes its toll.
Ice cold sangria will surely incite;
into the icer, our friends we’ll invite.
Mid-summer party and merry we’ll make
memories to make us forget our mistakes.
Ending this etude I hope you enjoyed
every small ethos that I just employed.
June 9, 2018
Contest: Alliteration Old or New
Sponsor: Joseph May
Love So Stated
Mother said uncounted times,
“Sally, I know you better than you know yourself,”
But, if that were true she wouldn’t have said so,
For it hurt — much — and I cannot believe she
Meant such a hurting. It may have begun when
I grew from a child into the age of the unpredictable.
We all like to think we know loved ones well enough
To plan surprises, from cooking favorite foods to
Getting them gifts to be treasured, from when they
Need a hug to how they like room lights dimmed or
The curtains opened in the mornings, of days when
They need an extra hand or to hear a Chopin etude.
From earliest childhood I had an artist’s soul,
A nature of being in a sister universe to my mother’s,
Not the same, but a way of seeing and learning
outside
The pure intellect in which she met the world. In all,
She may have more truthfully said,
“I love you better than you love yourself, Sally!”
For I had been her daughter from waiting days
And first cry, the infant she held, who demanded
Her smiles and forever sought her approval, which
She said I had unconditionally, but so unbelievable,
For while I knew the love, the yearnings of my
Christ-loving, artist-eyed soul felt not understood.
When I was 16, some disagreement led my beloved
Ballet teacher to tell my mother, “I know Sally
Better than you do,” which hurt my mother very
Much, so much, she never forgot her anger, and
Did not tell me for decades...I would have scratched
Open the presumption of my beloved teacher,
For she knew me neither, although she, too, had
Loved me much, for she had rocked the cradle
Of my artistry. Neither knew me so completely well As I was in those days as unformed as the first clay
Form of Degas’ precious statue of the young dancer, In danger of collapsing, and still
without her presented soul.
**********. **********. **********. ******
(c) sally Young eslinger 9/20/20
Thanks be to God
Dutiful discipline drives devoted diligence...
Quotidian dedication describes
das deft dude,
his promising passion
with English language
within recent past dim sum
might notice he brewed
poems about common
trials and tribulations food
for thought self sadist factorially
reasonably rhyming oft times
incorporating analogy, metaphor, simile
more so to stave
writer's block fortitude attitude
versus less to impress any
first time unknown reader,
or anonymous regular
guy/gal follower disproportionately
emphasizing burgeoning agonizing
travails analogously Druid
cursed his existence fearsome
oaf got me matt chewed
rendered into pulp fiction
subsequently spit viewed
within circle comprising
cannibalistic primate creatures
roam'n around within
makeshift amphitheater crude,
yet sophisticated as
simplistically configured, construed
convoluted edifice witnessed
snaking snarky conga line
weaving and bobbing amidst
totemic pillars where well
kneaded, muscled, oiled...
flesh glimmering while nude
on green acres, whereat
arbitrary petticoat junction etude
aired by linkedin foo fighting
beastie boys in the hood
paying homage to their
benevolent patron - Saint Jude
honoring self serving
cisco, duck, eagle - feather nesting
arrogant, bombastic, conceited...,
egos trumpeting barren airs
exuberantly keyed how
village people got royally screwed
taken to cleaners riverside,
whereby sudden deluge didst flood
courtesy of... mad
don (huh) feeling stewed,
who sought world dominance
raged at populace he should
receive nobel peace prize
and voted, nee crowned emperor
demanded cachet else...
he promised to force unglued
freedoms of life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness!
Thee nonpareil Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan
blessed honest to dog goodness her person doth bring
never could her brother wish upon NON GMO
(archaeopteryx, buffalo, chicken...) wing,
and genuine prayer anybody more a maze zing.
Many countless years before
our dear mother passed away four
plus eleven earth orbitz ago,
she voluntarily repeated more
times than I can remember "your
older sister possesses altruistic qualities."
The above words enclosed by this bloke
with double quotation marks, okey-doke
not necessarily the way mama spoke,
but yours truly took poetic liberty
without any intention generating impulse to choke
the harmless, nameless, and stateless writer
and literally went bonkers
while going for Baroque
for recognized virtue that recently woke.
Kinship towards angelic, fantastic, pacific anchor
understandable why her spouse did hanker
during their courtship to pledge his troth
to maneuver metaphorical
hook, line, and sinker as though steadying a tanker.
Innocence and naïveté suffused little boy
occupying body of aging long haired
pencil necked geek without gainful employ
and (and as a shy person without benefit
of powdered milk biscuits)
generally trended solitary
verses masing with hoi polloi,
nevertheless ofttimes relentlessly teased
bully me, I loathed treatment on par
with worthlessness linkedin with discarded toy,
thus gratitude prevails toward eldest sibling
(no matter just thirteen plus months older)
pseudo motherhood she did deploy
to ward off aggressive monsters.
I reckon eyes appreciation
matured into present thankful attitude,
now with mooch time to ponder and brood
how earlier in my life behavior childish and crude
methought meself as hotshot dude,
yet these days, I couch sincerity writing
one or another poetic endeavor
knitting words analogous to composing an etude
contemplative, intuitive, and ruminative mental food
for thought hoop ping to convey
honest to goodness gratitude
communicating reasonable rhyming message
(if yee be downcast dearly beloved sister)
delivering uplifting, kickstarting exalting mood.
Older than dirt, 1932 in May
long before I saw the light of day,
The Moon Rocket was published, stellar piece.
staccato was its mark of expertise.
I was three in 1947.
At the top of the stairs I was in heaven
watching mama's hands fly over the keys.
Sometimes I'd go down and watch on my knees.
Mom taught me much musical knowledge,
but this piece was not launched 'til college.
Her memory she depended on;
the notes for Moon Rocket - long gone.
First year in college, 1961,
Moon Rocket's music scored a trial run
in the library stacks, mostly unseen -
dusty volumes of Etude Magazine.
Copying the music, note after note
with tears in my eyes, lump in my throat.
Practicing, ‘til I got every note right.
On my next trip home, oh, what a sight!
Mom joined me on the bench, she was so pleased.
Carpe diem, our day had been seized.
I played primo, rhythm at her command;
she played the bass with stiff, wrinkled hand.
***
2015, I was seventy two.
Surprise, on E-bay, I found that issue
of Etude Magazine - paid ten bucks cold
for yellowed music, eighty-three years old.
August 1, 2020
Beth Evans: Same Old Song Poetry Contest
Constance LeFrance: Dusty Old Memories Poetry Contest
quatrain
Clearly put - the star was up to no good.
Musicians have an innate sense of time.
The guests, notwithstanding, all understood
their host - a conductor well-past his prime.
Novice performers, the host chose just three
for the opening event of the night.
His niece, as it happened, was one invitee;
he could still orchestrate who’s in the limelight.
While each one of the fledgling young trio
aced their solo in the gateway prelude,
the simply grand - violin virtuoso
excelled in his mellifluous etude.
Not wanting to move on his host and niece,
the star asked for an encore from her flute.
Would she segue into his final piece?
(in the vernacular of music’s astute).
The auspiciousness of the occasion
would exalt any young lady to conceit.
With tempo way fast for the transition;
it was clear she had been swept off her feet.
Artist: Lowercase Noises - Title: The Things Your Eyes Have Seen
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnU0aOA788U&list=RDGnU0aOA788U
written 5 Feb. 2016.