Long Fitzgerald Poems
Long Fitzgerald Poems. Below are the most popular long Fitzgerald by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fitzgerald poems by poem length and keyword.
The crashing waves hit the bow, as we cut through waters deep.
Clasped in irons that cut the skin; forged in the fires that never sleep.
The desert was dry, the sun beat down, I am free as a bird
The breeze tickled through the oasis, near the camel herd
Now my love is fading, like the burnt embers of those flames.
I am now branded a thief and prisoner, amongst some other names.
The hate I felt for the whore that tried to give his love to me.
Was so strong I felt I could kill him, my love he will never see.
I stole for her a flower, a simple heart felt gift.
The perfume now a memory, on this prison galleon adrift.
I am traveling to my wedding, across the desert so hot and dry.
Perfumed flower petals along the way, by slaves are scattered awry.
Seven years the price for my gift of love it did gain.
Hard labour I endure, to avoid the leather cat pain.
My arms are full of bracelets, and pearls hang round my neck.
I never think of him, now shackled on that deck.
Her kisses sublime, a memory fading, the perfume of her skin and hair
The price is high but I will pay, I took her from him to be fair.
To think I could have kissed. him makes my skin fairly crawl.
But the plan worked well, for my new rich lover, it managed to enthrall.
Slaves to love, there is no choice, when our hearts lead us astray.
I stand here windswept and tear stained, with seven years to pay.
How dry my eyes now he has gone, freedom is beckoning me.
So easy it was to frame him, now he has seven years before he is free.
I stand in the wind, rope in hand, waves crashing all around.
My ankles are bleeding with the chains, and the cat makes a whistling sound.
I lay on cushions with rings on my fingers the slaves are fanning me.
My wrists are bathed in rose oil, and kissed perpetually.
My love is strong, my heart is given, and I know I will endure.
My love will wait for me, my beauty, my life, my own sweet amour.
Thank goodness I kept my heart for me, and for me alone.
This thing called love is foolish, my heart it has never known.
In collaboration with Declan Fitzgerald who started the story off which made it easy to alternate my side of the story as a femme fatale between his couplets.
Protective Lyricism for the Ages Part Two
Martin Luther King creating a path to dessimate discrimination
An angel earning his wings from an epiphany of prophetic elation
Listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing while learning a litany of biblical quotations
Acknowledging what the accomplished man can bring to the depth of your insight and notations
Reflection on the history of mankind and the human race
Detection of the mystery of the refined acquisition of Heavenly Grace
Invention of the symphony that defined its own musical place
Prevention of the epiphany in the name of the legitimate corruption that we all must face
Culture and thought, revolution and resistance
Vultures distraught at the economic powers inability to accept difference
Subcultures contort beneath the robotic clandestine inference
As agriculture evades the poisonous attempts to regain universal prominence
Can you remain content to wipe the tears from a broken child’s eyes?
Will you refrain to vent when confronted with the fears of a vulnerable persons cries?
Will you remain content and resolute when presented with categorical lies?
Can you see through a charlottan selling snake oil and prevent him from orchestrating further demise?
Stand tall among the uncertainty and the acrimony and defeat
Create a call for continuity as the less evolved struggle to compete
Lauren Bacall and her comical purity as her timing is complete
Lucifers fall from heaven that remains spiritually almost now obsolete
As the heightened notions of virtue overcome the notions of hell
And the frightened invocations of servitude become commotions for the brave to tell
While the enlightened devotions of gratitude arise from the men who initially fell
The power rises above the certitude of any humanly epiphany or spell
Embrace the new creations of progressive thought in actions
Face the few negative connotations of suggestive criticism of your exactions
Replace the two imitations of corrective empiricism of your protractions
Disgrace the blue intonations of all defective invitations to celebrate protective lyricism that requires astute observations
The End
Copywright Elizabeth Moroz 2023
Celestial Zodiac Jazz
In the constellation of sound, Where Miles Davis breathes celestial blue/
A Gemini's whim dances through the air/His notes like shooting stars
Twisting notes like a lover’s embrace/ His horn whispers secrets of the universe/
Ella Fitzgerald, a Taurus, Grounded in the lush, rich earth, Her voice a tapestry of jazz scat gold, Singing truths that resonate, I don’t want to sing anything that doesn’t come real, A declaration, a manifesto, a love letter to authenticity/
So dig John Coltrane, the Libra sage, Balancing melodies on the scales into the night, Fifth House echoes through Jazz radio play, Astrological rhythms align, Jazz numerology speaks in syncopation, Every note, every chord a constellation/ a harmonic convergence into the jazz Horoscope being/ the huge vastness of cosmic music and the individual brilliance of the Universe’s soul jazz soul/
Horace Silver, the prophet of the zodiac, Riffing on astrological charts/ Tarot readings in a smoky bar/ Horace-Scope, the map of our souls, In his music, we find our destinies/
Capricorn Rising with Pullen and Rivers, A cosmic journey,
From the depths of the earth to the Zodiac heavens/ Are you hip to the jazz flow/
The jazz scene has many secrets and a lot untold/ Standard time meets the twist of the hipster's jazz meter, where rhythms collide and are as explosive as Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers balancing act in their artistry/
A $1,000 horn in a $5000 car, Driving fifty miles for a $50 gig/ man, what a flipped-out ride/ This is the Jazz life, the pulse, the passion/ the highs and lows of should I stay or go/ club owners who take months to pay you for a gig you did weeks ago/ Yo, It’s Passion over profit, Artistry takes hold— Say, bro, are you into the jazz scene no mater what unfolds/
Never play anything the same way twice, For in improvisation, we find our freedom Jazz dance/ In the spontaneous spark of creation, We are all stardust, Floating on the notes of our existence the way it ought to be/
In the grand ever-changing nature of our mighty universe, Where jazz meets the heavens not by chance/
“Tamam Shud”
Handsome comes
as handsome goes
forgotten
not missed
lies waiting
intestate
a code
undeciphered
Mystery in the end -
far more interesting
answers calling
something whispers:
"Death -
open gate ...
Come in"
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Spin Spin Sugar" / Sneaker Pimps
https://youtu.be/uGPdpWbg5bU
"Police found a book nearby
from which,
the piece of paper was torn -
the works of a 12th century poet -
and on the inside cover
found some sort of code,
and a local telephone number."
1. Tamam Shud Case
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamam_Shud_case
2. "The man, fully dressed in a business suit, was found propped against the seawall at Somerton Park Beach, in southern Adelaide, on December 1, 1948."
https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-10-08/new-animation-shows-face-of-mystery-somerton-man/12717590
3. Somerton Man/Blog
https://tomsbytwo.com/2021/02/02/two-definable-patterns-in-the-tamam-shud-code/
4. Somerton Man/CasoCriminal
https://casocriminal.org/en/unsolved-cases/mystery-of-the-somerton-man-taman-shud-case/
5. Tamam Shud / translate.
"In Persian "tamam" is a noun that simply means "the end" and it can also be used in the sense when something is finished or completed. The "shud" bit on the end is an auxiliary verb that puts it into the past tense, so "tamam shud" means "ended" or "finished".
6. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam
7. Edward Fitzgerald (poet)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_FitzGerald_(poet)
8. ASIO
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_Security_Intelligence_Organisation
9.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RAAF_Woomera_Range_Complex
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radium_Hill
Psychological Science/Criminology,
double major.
LYRICS/ "Spin Spin Sugar", Sneaker Pimps
https://genius.com/Sneaker-pimps-spin-spin-sugar-lyrics
— This poem describes our journey from the reality of life to the truth of death.
— The introductory “then” connoting ‘in medias res’ is reminiscent of the opening of Dante’s journey to the inferno in the middle of his lifetime.
— "Maximum point," "graph", and "function" are used in their algebraic senses.
— "Plumes" stand, metaphorically, for our worldly concerns; when they fall, we descend like a piece of stone!
— "Plane" is used in its geometric sense.
— "Seemorgh" is the source of knowledge and insight in Persian mysticism.
— "Truth", versus material reality, is idealistic and beyond the perception of the senses.
The following may also help in understanding this poem:
— In Persian mysticism, particularly in The Conference of the Birds (Mantiq-ot-Tayr) by Attár (the greatest Iranian mystic, 1145?-1221?, and Rumi's master), translated into English by Edward FitzGerald as Birds Parliament in 1889, birds gather and decide to start questing for their Lord. With innumerable hardships, only 30 survive and succeed to reach the peak of Qáf (/qahf/), the mystical abode of their Lord. 'See', in Persian, is 30 and 'morgh' equals bird. Their Lord, Seemorgh (30 birds), is their own reflection!
— In algebra, you can draw the graph or curve of, for instance, the mortalities for a time span. Graphs are drawn in terms of equations formed by a function and a/some variable(s). Some graphs rise to a maximum point and then descend, some descend toward a minimum point to start ascending afterwards, some only descend or rise. I've drawn the curve of men's life as rising to its maximum point in their youth, the peak of the Qáf, and then descending. I've also had in mind Sophocles's riddle of the Sphinx in Oedipus the King where man has been described as a beast with 4 legs at first in infancy, unable to rise from the ground, then standing upright on 2 legs, in the middle of life, and finally, when inclined towards the earth again, standing with the help of a stick (upon 3 legs).
No comments, please
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AL JARRAEU - MORNIN', DISTRICTED, BLUE SKIES
GLADYS KNIGHT
OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN
PHYLLIS HYMAN
KAREN CARPENTER
TEDDY PENDERGRASS, SHARON TATE AND
HAROLD MELVIN
AMY WINEHOUSE - "LOVE IS A LOSING GAME"
SEAL, CHRIS ISAAK, TOM JONES
BROOK BENTON, DAVID RUFFIN, LOU RAWLS
BING CROSBY, FRANK SINATRA AND ELLA FITZGERALD
LEN CARIOU - "PRETTY WOMEN"
ANITA BAKER, REGINA BELL AND CHAKA KHAN
STEVIE WONDER, TONI TENNILLE, LUKE EVANS,
MARVIN GAYE, ADAM LAMBERT AND
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ANGELA WINBUSH - "ANGEL"
JOHNNY CASH, K.D. LANG AND
FREDDIE MERCURY
SARA BAREILLES - "SMILE"
NANCY WILSON, BARBARA STREISAND AND
SARAH VAUGHAN
JOHN DENVER, JOSE FELICIANO, AND
JOHNNIE WILDER, JR.
NAT KING COLE, BARRY WHITE AND
ISAAC HAYES
LEON THOMAS - "SUNFLOWER"
MINNIE RIPPERTON, DORIS DAY, AND
TEENA MARIE
CELINE DION, LUCIANO PAVAROTTI, AND
PUTRI ARIANI
STEVE PERRY, LABI SAFFRI AND
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THIS WAS ONLY TO NAME "A FEW"
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Renee D. Gross {GHPPR} September 12, 2023#
Big, blonde beauties
so beautiful and so pretty,
such girls of high class
drinking from glasses,
filled with the best champagne;
and smoking their fine cigarettes,
while gossiping their fine stories
bragging and spoiling on themselves.
ha! ha!
Tell me again about your big, booty, blonde beauty
and how she has such class!
ha! ha!
Look at the plastic Barbie dolls
strutting along side a wave of Ken dolls and GI Joes.
Clumsy broads who smell like a perfume kiosk
and a Paris tavern in the 20s filled with writers like:
Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.
Smart guys, with good taste in real women,
and not Barbie dolls.
It is really sad to see these so-called "women"
dancing and shacking on saw-dust dance floors,
and then they go off in drunken slurs of how "they have respect for themselves!"
and those dark devils, and fools with broken hearts,
and rich Wall Street boys who carry their Daddy's pocket wallet
filled with a thousand Benjamin's,
have their nasty way with them.
Stripping them down,
like mechanics on an old 65 Mustang GT,
having their sweet and marry way with them,
with them all... no consideration... no respect... no common curtsey... nothing...
Boy, these days with these big legged women,
these Big, Blonde
and Big, brunette Beauties,
boy, where did those women go?
Where did the real women go, and
how did these portrayers,
these lies come into play?
No Clue! No Clue!
Where or Why!
All I have to say is, "Where did the time go?"
Where is my big, blonde beauty
with her common sense still intact
along with a pure liver, lungs and a golden heart;
and her books of poetry, and love for classical music?
Her only friends are dead writers and role-models.
Where is she?
Maybe she's at the library,
or the bookstore,
or the theatre,
of maybe she is not here,
maybe she is not yet born?
Maybe...
all I can say is... she is out there,
my big, blonde beauty.
.1.23.2014.
She turns me around
Forty years ago
At High School graduation
And she says…
Something I can’t remember
It was probably something like,
‘Well, lookit that!’ or
‘Boy, Howdy!’ or
Some such encouragement
And… though I cannot remember it
Now, I would not part with it
For all the treasures riding
In all the ships on the sea
Music!
She gave me music!
Wagner and Mendelssohn
Beethoven and Duke
Ella Fitzgerald and Leontyne Price
But never the other stuff
Which she called ‘that crap’…
We could laugh
When my dad got angry
He was so ridiculous
Beating the air with his fists
But when MOM got angry
The house went still
Everyone like rabbits hoping to blend in
Once I said a certain word
And she slapped me so hard
That my ears rang for three days
She wasn’t going to take
Any LIP from her children
And ESPECIALLY not THAT… WORD…
Now she is on medication
That makes her loopy
Just a month after I finished
Reading her Harry Potter
With all of the voices
And it looked as though
Her cognition was improving
But her bones are soft
And her spine
It’s a good strong spine I can tell you
Is cracked in two places
She is not a candidate for surgery
So broken it will remain
Unless it heals by itself
I believe in the power of Prayer
So a heart condition
Two strokes
And a Chronic Obstructive
Pulmonary Condition
And a broken back
Are not beyond healing
Human minds though respond sometimes
Only to math
And the math
They say
Only adds up one way
But I prefer art
Which my mother gave me
And which is subject
To interpretation
Maybe this
And
Maybe that
On her last day on earth
My brother says
He will ask
Do you want to talk
About your plan?
And
He says
She will say
Why on earth would I want
To do that?
I am not going anywhere…
After I woke up and went out to our little balcony to write…
a ladybug landed on my computer and decided there to stay
As she traversed the perimeter of my computer…
I knew it was going to be great day
We took the tube to Buckingham Palace…where more history was unlocked.
We strode the rooms and hallways where kings and queens have walked.
The palace was amazing…as once again we witnessed over 300 years of tradition…
In terms of wealth, affluence and prosperity it was a wonderful exhibition…
When we left the palace…thinking abut kings and queens and bureaucrats…
I found my self part of the tradition when Ava and Ali bought me a British bucket hat!
Next, we were off for Afternoon Tea at The Wolseley…3:00 we didn’t what to be late
Once there…from a three-tiered silver serving tray a host of treats we ate.
Scones and sweets and finger sandwiches…we couldn’t eat as much as we could see
while Bryan and Ali drank Afternoon, Deborah Caramel and Ava and I Chocolate tea.
After filing up on those finger sandwiches, cups of tea and scones
we visited the British Museum…where we see the Elgin Marbles and Rosetta Stone.
For future reference the Rosetta Stone is amazing…we were awestruck and beguiled…
but the Elgin Marbles were not the kind I played with as a child!
Our next stop was a little pub…we thought cooling off and resting would be wise
before heading to the London Coliseum where Bryan planned, for us, a surprise.
On our last night in London we watched The Great Gatsby…where we joined the crowd
Laughing, clapping and crying through a musical
that would have made F. Scott Fitzgerald proud…
Before I fell asleep…It was great day!…I wanted to open my window and shout it…
and I wished my lady but would return to me…so I could tell her all bout it.
Emotions war against sense,
And his mind remains
A pot pourri,
And thoughts in his head
When he lies in his bed
Would make Dorian Gray
Appear pristine.
He wishes to moralize
On a corrupt example,
Yet from the wicked cup
He hath supped a sample.
He appears to think in extremes;
He is beau-laid and realist,
Whose inspiration stems from his dreams.
"Life is a beautiful strain for me,"
One sun-drunk day he said,
"But I pray I say what my soul needs to
Before the heavens decide me dead."
But his mind is a disorderly drawer
Full of confused categorizations;
He has that Scott Fitzgerald illness
For dates, times, rhymes and quotations.
"I have a clear flowing mind,
But I cannot foretell
When the clogging black clouds will arrive,
For they will arrive.
Live with the love, then bear the pain
Recurrent like the monsoon rain."
He is afraid of happiness
For the inevitable despair that must follow it;
Afraid of happiness
For its cruel impermanence.
Like Zola, the seasons in life, for him,
Are inevitable.
"All artists," he says, "are at once alike and unique
One day, it's clear,
The next, hazy, like a beery vision,
The fulfilment that they seek."
Misty dreams of sweet-smelling roses
And swaying streams
Bring him chills and pains in his soul and being;
He lives his life through a melancholy tragedy,
And has an ever-yearning mind.
("Some Sun Drunk Day He Said" has the dubious honour of being a near-unadulterated slice of juvenilia, having been conceived as some kind of poem when I was about 20 years old.)