Long Forte Poems
Long Forte Poems. Below are the most popular long Forte by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forte poems by poem length and keyword.
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Contained within a simple poem, a few words could never describe my mother.
A child bride at seventeen; a city girl became a farmer's wife.
She never complained about tending the fields, one row after another.
My mom loved her new husband and her new way of life.
A mother at nineteen, thank goodness for my Aunt Chloe.
"No hospital for me," my young mother said. "I will not go!"
Delivered by my granny, I was told Mom kissed my head to show
she loved me though I'd caused her cries of pain and woe.
Cooking was not Mom's forte'. She burned so many meals,
but Dad loved her anyway for giving him two girls and a boy.
Times were often rough but to us it was not a big deal.
We were happy to be loved, a gift better than any game or toy.
Mom was always cheerful, except when we did something wrong.
A spanking was on the agenda, and we knew it was deserved.
A smack or two was all she delivered, then she sang us a song.
No lack of love did mom have for me, it was never reserved.
Farming was not an easy life...crops ruined by summer hail.
In just a few minutes everything was lost, but Mom wore a smile.
"Don't worry. It'll be okay. I'm getting a job delivering the mail."
She left early in the morning, walking to mail boxes mile after mile.
Bereaved as a widow, my mother cried softly upon my shoulder.
I gave her comfort as she did me for the loss of husband and dad.
Always close in times of need, I took care of Mom when I was older.
Hurricane Katrina took her house, but not the memories she had.
I moved away for several years but came home to visit in June.
Mom's hazel eyes reflected her love for me and the man I married.
Six months later, I sat on the porch gazing at the full moon.
My sister called, but her voice was sad. I knew why she tarried.
I knew what she couldn't put into words. Mom had passed away.
Oh, the agony of not being there... my tears fall as I write.
To my mom, the beautiful young wife and mother, I'd say,
I pray you knew how much I loved you...
A star fell from the sky tonight.
_______________________
December 25th, 2015
About My Mom Contest
Sponsor: Judy Konos
A baby gorilla's bedtime is a harmonic period when the bananas line up with little leaf rattles to softly croon to slumber the furry ball. Priceless is the process of pacification and pacifications are not prevalent in the pacific, the polar regions, nor do they play with piñatas in Paraguay. It is to be said that a tortoise shell footstool can rotate at great speeds do cast iron boots must be worn if placing one's feet upon the tapestry printed square form. The chime of lime is very very noisy but not as noisy as the incessant chatter and chuckling from the bowl of sugar cubes. Sugars state signalling shaped saying stuff silkily and silly too. But a mild mannered oxon could take a heifer to a ballroom but only if properly attired in a beach towel, sun glasses, three piece suit and a gown. Then an entrance can be made. With a thud. And a bellow. Brass bands made of cream donuts can entertain at this dance and the hall is quite packed with skimming skirts, scantily clad pea women, and the tidal spore has come dressed as a ringmaster but no whip for whips are for the underground stations and platforms of legs. Legality leaves legs lingering liberally. Akin to sprinkling a fine spray of salt across a plate of the towering vegetables. Piled high. Architectural really. Very mesmerising is the mist of a fine diner whose aroma lifts the air surrounding with a unjust uniquely identifiable stench. And stench drenched can be a wench, a bench but never a welk. For welk belong in tree houses and tree houses are not tables and not talking ash trays either. Ash trays do not modify a month of moon shaped mammoths. And a tree semi formed can bite so always walk very very very briskly when passing a thicket. Zoom then. Go on zoom. A zoom in a room. How rather entertaining and entertainment is equal to a climbing plant pot scaling a sky scraper. How great. Such feat with no feet. And how deserving of the medal at the Olympics of Oscar fish in an oceanographic weave of seafood cocktail with melon jus. Haha the wide mouthed octopi are singing gospel tunes to a small party of crabs. Ha the divinatory dogs diving definition digging dreams. Ha the musical mustard jar moving in time to the fish fork forte. Xxxxxx reciprocal z z z zzz. At ten loaves to forty seven slices of butter cake. Z z z z z z. 57294894907398%. Z
Form:
Trains run alight terminate on time like clockwork
never ending endless procession of precision conductors
the conducted walk down the line warped tracks of
cynically divided isles dead ends of ‘labour making free’
Evil strips uniformed confluence stripes and leather
Coated terrified collection production of space soap
horror lampshades shearing shorn haired tattoos the
undivided divide of power abomination horrid abnormal
‘normality’ represses guilt projected trans-re-and aggression
Evil does other in the guise of completed concentration
Concerted action blisters scorches screams cacophonies
children on father’s lap blue eyed dancing and laughing
kisses of love adoration cuddly dolls miniature life’s train
sets model schema roles toys games memories distraction
Evil giggles corporates shapes what past and future holds
Mothers craft homes happy families embrace posterity apple
pies devotion roast cinnamon cranberry turkeys tarts in ovens
pious allegiance compassion progress contrast splitting off piano
forte harmonious singing rejoicing at mantelpiece and altar
Evil mocks smouldering torches paradise’s apple deprivation
Juvenile followers of fashion compose indoctrinate compost
hail philosophy’s trampled ideology void of virtue meaning
distorted communion bread wine blind vision blind-sight vortex
trailing inscribing engraving present history timeless repetition
Evil tracks moribund humanity dignity degeneration and disgust
Unless we reflect examine investigate inside and around
us the smokescreens stacked ember ashes individual ‘Self’
universal pursuit of righteousness flames of denial denigrating
potential illuminate conscience honesty fallibilities blue prints
for darkness and unless we act and fight stand up and even then
Ubiquitous evil at this very moment will cast its seeds and shadows
will unbalanced fires raise their ugly head and minds and shoulders gas
and bullets terror grenades rockets mines warfare starving emaciation
lest we forget the prototypes the moulds automated conveyor belts evil
we can not abdicate responsibility for blatant murder of the human race
Auschwitz is everywhere and there is no hierarchy of evil
July 1st Independence Day (Canada)
Sostenuto
Treble and Bass strings were Replaced
pianissimo she loved a soft soothing sound
We rathered it more forte and mezzo-piano
Less genre oriented yet moving towards
a rhythmic feel with popular appeal.
She didn't like the soulful sounds and didn't
like soulful rock or country soul. She prefers
Bassy classic ethnic crisp trembled sounds
centered around a groovey bassy backdrop
in the creation of songs she wished none to
use emotion in the music what she likes was
made unappealling by saying it was gloom or
saddening many conversations made her to appear
foolish or unfamilar with what others thought
the great need of many over the want and desires
of someones want.Yet I desire perfection a wish
a more perfect collaberate effort through use of
orcstarted sounds soothing and rhythmic let
the lyric writer find fault in my perfection to
breath life into a text of poetic jesturing to
thrust and grind his way to a climax of stressless
completion.Or a stressful incompletion where his need
to express a universal understanding of love or to
express a desire to make love or whatever
Pleasure of completion ahaall tell me when he's
finished. Yet I'm to struggle with the creation of
the perfect sound. The gift's of contracted
see me smile in satisfaction!
Written by:
Comment OffdeMark
and
Muzzic De Plesaure
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
Ain't Barbie
By Franklin Price
02/24/2022
Barbara Ione Popovits was your given, maiden name.
Trim and slim in stature, a little wild, not ever tame
You were beautiful to look upon, independent, brave and free
Ain't Barbie was your moniker. You were not a doll to me.
I asked you if you'd marry me; change your given name to Price.
I felt we shared a common bond. You said “yes, that would be nice”
Your intelligence superior. Your love for me was true and pure.
You were my partner through thick and thin, through red roses and manure
You never ever wavered. If you did, you never told
Your personality, for me, was opinionated; bold.
When you chose to speak your mind, howl at the moon and bay,
You were correct, most all the time, “I may be wrong”, you'd often say.
You were very good at managing, as we moved from tide to tide
To manage, not my forte. I went along just for the ride.
When we retired, fifteen years ago, you said, “It's now your turn,
I'll keep the books, as always, but the food is yours to burn”.
We shared the cleaning of the house, and the washing of the clothes
I mowed the grass, you kept the plants, when it came time for us to doze,
We went to bed together, went to sleep, sometimes we'd perk
We could sleep late in the mornings, did not have to go to work.
We had moved to North Carolina. It was only you and I
The hustle bustle left behind us. We never ever questioned why.
We had some friends who joined us, but who stayed for just awhile.
Wasn't quite what they expected. So they left us with a smile.
We continued on with living; still enjoyed our company.
Were looking forward to our old age; as this year broke, was not to be.
For two years we fought your cancer, while the covid kept us home
Could not see our friends and family. Could not ride around or roam.
On January eighteenth, with the first snow falling fast
The good Lord came and took you. Your pain, in life, was gone at last.
You are still here, inside me, in my loving memory
When God decides, that I should join you, that is the place that I will be.
Until then I'll keep on keeping on, do my best to make you proud
Spread your love for me to others, helping someone in the crowd.
As they left the Keep DynDoeth questioned Joulupukki,
“What did I miss back there?” Joulupukki explained everything that
happened and how no one would have been able to tell where the attack originated.
“Which means he could have blamed any one of us, ”stated DynDoeth.
Joulupukki simply nodded. “How did you know that it was coming?”
“Nothing special DynDoeth, no magic there. Living in the human world all of my life, you learn how to read body language, especially when people are
constantly chasing you from one village to another. Something I've noticed
about elves, subtlety in reading emotions is not your forte. Rian's intentions
were written all over his face. I simply watched until the inevitable happened.
He was trying to attack the Forest Elf.”
“And he never even knew it, thanks to you. But the crystal?”
“Rian is not one to play with. His magic is strong and he is as ruthless as
any human I have seen. The breaking of the crystal was not my intent,
but he sent such a strong pulse of magic into it that my response had to match it.
It would surely have destroyed Seileach if it had not been contained.
Come to think of it, did that destroy his crystal.”
“Good question.” answered the Elder, “I have never seen it happen before.”
He looked earnestly at Joulupukki. “You are an amazing elf, Joulupukki.
Erlenkönig would be very proud of you.” He smiled and began to laugh as they drew closer to the cottage. “What a tale this will be. Children will learn of Joulupukki's confronting the demon Rian in the middle of the Council Chamber and no one even knew. Are you a good story teller like your mother? Wait, did Rian know who thwarted his magic,” he asked suddenly aware that he had not asked this before?
“I don't think he could trace it to me but it was very different from what he is used to. I'm sure it won't take long for him to suspect me. We must keep our guard up until we see this to the end.”
“You have bought us time my young friend,” slapping Joulupukki on the back. “Now, I think it's time to discuss your name,” as they walked through the doorway to the cottage.
Foreword: This poem is inspired by F. Chopin's Ballade in G Minor op. 23 and the anime "Your Lie in April". The number are timestamps from a video of that performance so that you can imagine and feel the lines more. Try listening to it while reading this poem.
Note (for a contest): Aside from what's stated in the foreword, this poem is trophy-worthy because of its form & delivery. :)
[0:10-2:50]
The first note resounds in the room
Slowly pronouncing its every chord;
Cautiously, but gently it's played,
Its sound deep but sincere
The melody gradually grows
Louder but gracefully flows
Careful to keep in tune
In rhythm like a metronome
They say you've no heart
A mechanical robot that's programmed
But witness thy playing
Pouring out its emotions and feelings
The piano's speaking
It tells a tale of beginning
How it felt so monotonous
Gray and hopeless
[2:51-5:20]
It tells a tale of renewal
Everything filled with color
As chords turn to melodies
Intricate and delicate
[5:21-5:51]
Then it changes course
As the sounds tend to skip
A happy tune is being played
A perfect harmony
[5:52-6:58]
But all good things must come to an end
The music shifts into dissonance
The dynamics got intense
What was once piano became forte
[6:59-7:32]
Thy piano called out to you
And you looked back
You smiled one last time
And looked on ahead
[7:33-8:35]
The music went on
You started to fade away
As the notes came rushing in
Like angry waves of a storm
The notes kept ringing
And lights shot everywhere
As the melody reached its crest
You were gone like a mirage
Devastated and low
I tried to play once more
Hoping for you to come back
And try to tease me more
One more time, please
That's all I ask of you
The melody reached its end
But all I think of is you
[8:36-8:51]
The music seemed to stop
For there was no more of you
But I begged for a few more notes
An encore for you
[8:52-9:09]
Though with all my might
As I play those final notes
You never did come back
And there I played my last note.
Good-bye.
3Fable5
3Fable5
Winter Survival
CharlaxFabels
In the Winter of 83 they used to tell me stories the snow was over the telephone
lines and they rode horses there and walked them OVER the lines see eh? Oh
ewe beware the stories of men and read only the charlaxfabels over and over
again. The worst one was back in 2005 the snow was four feet deep they took
machetes and tore my roof off my survival tent.
1 Peter 3:9
Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this
you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.
Eye moved my shelter somehow avoiding a fight and learned just to survive
survival is eating food. Men eat and fight and eating becomes the more important
of the two what kind of neighbor would eye be if eye had fought with thee and not
learned the Golden Rule. Eye lived several different lifetimes sack lunches do not
suffice to rule the hunger in one man. Once eye was worried for existence
seeming Death was at my door. Women thought me evil not suited up just for
they love. Fruit is not my forte orange apple even pomegranate found
persimmons rot on vines in trees not meant to live. Eye ate so many meats they
kicked me out of storeage land and chased me from the parking lot with nothing
in my hand. Potatoes is a fruit and not a veggie in my world. Golden throbbing
corn is afforded to the poor ed.note @39 cents a can at most retail outlets.
Hominy both gold and white is my favorites. Eye just decided to detective the
students many behavioral ways and iff eye had three classes in the afternoon
even if they were staggered over SIX hours the eye would not be in the library
more than thirty minutes at a time. Be that as it may or as it were the ending is
the same eye am a student of life. Walk in an endless path with snow up to the
waisted place then dry the socks in bags and tie them to the feet and hope the
dry will stay to un rot the flesh and hope the shoes will work and not develop
sticheing of the holes in the side of doors and tankards full of glass. Coyboy is
the last to understand a memory taken in the hand.