Long Gaga Poems
Long Gaga Poems. Below are the most popular long Gaga by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gaga poems by poem length and keyword.
I am stuck in an elevator with Cher, Tina Turner, Bette Midler,
Pink, Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga when
Liza Minnelli drops in from a tiny opening in the roof.
We all scream “LIZA!” and then we whip out our instruments.
To be fair, I do not have one to whip out, but I find a spoon in my purse
And a lid to a small sauce pan.
Please do not ask.
This would add to my embarrassment.
They start saying “how about this one?” until Pink wins.
We sing her songs. All of them. They stop playing in the third set.
“Who is clapping off rhythm?” It boils down to me.
The elevator roof trap door opens and Willie Nelson arrives.
He and I agree we are on rhythm
And all the rest of them are wrong.
Best elevator ride ever!
We’re in a young-love recession.
Gen Zers are slow to trust and averse to risk,
we have, it seems, a particular social nervousness
about interpersonal exchanges and the symbiosis of love.
So we resort to situationships (undefined relationships),
a stratagem for closeness, with zero commitment.
You can flirt; you can kiss; you can dance.
You can have a crush so big it blots out the stars
You can have transformative romantic encounters
you can care deeply and get hurt badly
you can, in fact, be absolutely wrecked by love
All without ever being in a relationship.
Thank God we’re only young once.
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Songs for this:
Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars
Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter
I tried
It’s like I’m taking five steps forward
And ten backwards
Everywhere I go trouble follows me
Victory found a way out of my life
I smell the early sun with others and have sleepless
Painstaking nights just like all and sundry
My imagination is big but my hand can’t reach success
Step by step I go with my mates but it seems we are taking
Different roots….mine is just like a loop
All my expectation is shrouded in obscurity
My hands can make but never bring about,
It’s like I make to break
Its like fate turned the tables against my soul
Am I born to die trying or archiving?
They say every one has a destination but can’t find my home
I breath fire of struggle but just sewers all my
Work get spilled
Flowing away with the rivers of failure
All my best I tried but I seems my
Hands are tied and can’t make changes
… Collen Gaga
Form:
Many pennies Trey did save
Since he wanted a good wave
Just to say
You know ‘hey’
At the surf shop he bought a board
Which he could barely afford
Upon leaving the store
A beautiful sight walked through the door
Making Trey go gaga on the show room floor
During this short span of attention it should be mentioned
Trey did not get a wave
And he took it like a man very brave
Sometime later
Being like a waiter
He cleaned that board that he barely could afford
Before attempting to get the legendary score
Looking up he saw that beautiful sight
Head into the ocean armed for a fight
Trey stood up knowing it was time
To get that wave that was on his mind
Taking everything head first
Ready to quench a challenging thirst
For a second he had a distraction
It was that beautiful sight that captured his attraction
Trey missed the wave memorized by the beautiful thing
As it curled up forming a ring
“That is all right I missed that one
The next should come and it will just be as much fun”
Trey watched and peered
Without any fear
Waiting for Poseidon’s fist to appear
Above the saturated sand
Turning Trey into a recreational participant not a fan
As the clutch formed fingers
Trey stood on his board watching the swell get bigger
Writing the agenda in the image that looked like the hand of God
Who turned this aquatic adventure into a lake like ripple lob
As Mother Earth from the surf safely returned Trey to the beach
Showing him the beautiful sight that was in reach
She took a second to give him a wave
Making Trey feel successful without digging a watery grave
It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.
Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”
Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally hard core) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”
“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”
Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”
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slang..
cheugy = something off-trend, or behind in an awkward way - millennial, but not fully vintage.
gives mom = a comfort activity
POTD 2 July 2018
Humans are capable of ‘Changing their State’. At times, a stressful, negative fusillade can be encountered from an individual wishing to subvert a person for whatever reason.
Lady Gaga so aptly describes this in her video clip above - and she should know through experience.
Kindness is a sentiment no one can ultimately reject.
Hard to do you say? - It’s easy.
Firstly, refuse your alter ego permission to react immediately.
(Your alter ego is programmed to protect your from a ‘painful’ situation)
The brain is a Bio-computer and can easily be reset to ‘Default’ by breathing into your abdomen (not into your lungs), - hold and then exhale, each action performed slowly to the count of 6.
Accusatory fingers pointing ~ eyes glowing hate
Seeds of venom spewing forth slanderous lies
Jealousy in all its inglorious green eyed splendor
Wool clothed wolves with undetectable smiles
Any tick of the clock it creeps up upon you
Evil plays no favorite it’s any man’s game
Seeming to push you up that stairway of victory
Then perniciously denigrates ~ disavowing any blame
Damned if you do ~ Damned if you don’t
Kindness perceived as weakness gets cast out the door
Tendencies to vacillate creates chinks in your armour
Resolutely walk the tight rope ~ lest your knees hit the floor
Eyes wide shut to the Evil all around us
Detach from this Chaotic Web in which we dwell
Be the Peace that ceaselessly penetrates the darkness
YOUR prerogative is to choose either ~ Heaven or HellPOTD 2 July 2018
Ask is love blind, or deaf or dumb, still kind.
At eleven, what hypnotizes me -
Imagining perfect, like braids entwined,
His eyes always on mine; and all is glee.
Wide smile on screen, his star-studded jumpsuit.
Sings puppy love, in midst of brothers, cool.
He is all mine, I think - he is so cute.
Alas, I must look to those in my school.
Dream-talk things out in a gentle manner.
Godmothers are real at this juncture.
Our children fly harmonious banner.
Can’t foresee a fairy-balloon puncture.
My gaga-ness sits well - can’t wait for date.
The cuckoo clock strikes knot - open the gate.
The cuckoo clock strikes knot - open the gate.
Whee…here’s reality…he’s hopping mad.
There’s making love…then each other frustrate.
With seasonal beginnings like nomad.
Throw kids in mix, tantrums of grown adults
Who wipes behind - changes diapers; and mind.
Answer: I consult God with good results.
I listen intently, lean into find
That nothing’s perfect all the time, but love
Is the kindling, bittersweet fire, sublime.
We can smile now as kids kick out and shove.
We work as one unit - we’re at our prime.
Why are beginnings called going steady?
Prepared for what life brings? Are we ready?
Prepared for what life brings? Are we ready?
Looking around, at emptiness, I see
Our empty nest - kids have left already?
At sea, we lose our minds on a cruise spree.
Small time later, our knee-decks creak, languish.
And side to side, we’re off balance - at sea.
Can’t find the shore, went overboard. Anguish
About future of aged, of you and me.
Mom’s eyes sealed shut, we had to say so long.
My dad kisses her lips, holds wedding rings.
My mother had cancer but she was strong.
Looking at my husband- the gifts life brings…
Rejoicing when in dark closed room, confined -
Ask is love blind, or deaf or dumb, still kind.
At 10,911 meters beneath the Pacific veil,
where no submarine dares dream,
I descended into the throat of Earth—
into the trench men call Mariana,
but spirits call Theotokos.
There, the water was not water—
it was glass that hummed.
The ocean floor rose like a palace,
built of crystal bones and music stones—
a cathedral of sound and secrets.
They called it the House of Fire Music.
Inside, stood the immortalized—
Beyoncé, her aura a flicker of gold.
Jay-Z, carved from thunder and code.
Janet Jackson, wrapped in the rhythm of moons.
Dolly Parton, humming in divine frequencies.
Elvis shimmered at the corner, whispering hymns
of forgotten chords.
And then, the Beings arrived—
not gods, not angels—
but the composers behind the composers.
They stood clad in scarlet and amethyst,
eyes like suns behind veils of silk.
“We are the architects of your sound,” they said.
“Every chart hit, every sold-out stage,
begins not in your world, but here.”
A ritual began.
Each musician was summoned
to offer a letter of the alphabet.
Beyoncé stepped forward. Her voice—clear, defiant:
“I give you the letter S.”
The beings replied:
“Then we give you Single Ladies.
Take it. Sing it. The world will move.”
And so it was.
Kanye West knelt, offering P.
They gave him Power.
Lady Gaga whispered B,
and was handed Born This Way.
Freddie Mercury had once been here—
and took Bohemian Rhapsody
from their marble hands.
No song is random.
No beat is blind.
Everything—
from release dates to Grammy speeches—
is scripted by ancient rhythm codes
within the citadel of Theotokos.
They are taught the law of vibration,
the diet of frequency:
“No meat that bleeds.
No sex before sound.
No fame without silence.”
Their lives are not theirs.
Their voices are borrowed.
This world we know—
the charts, the scandals, the glam—
is just a shadow on the surface.
The music industry?
A temple built on crystal lies.
And when I rose back to the surface,
gasping, reborn—
I heard the radio play a new track,
and I knew—
It came from beneath.
Writers can be competitive and critical.
When I was at Yale, there was an endless chase to be subversive.
A social anxiety to be in the thick of things, at every turn,
and an intellectual ambition to turn out cultural criticism in long form essays.
The overheated obsession was to break away from whatever exists.
Every writer wanted to start something new and be the editor.
So every week, as the goalposts moved, there were new literary magazines,
each with its own niche audience.
One question Yale wanted to push was “who is your community?”
I used to write pieces, in a fever, long into the night,
only to delete them, like private noise, as the sun rose.
I had views, I could defend them, but to what purpose?
The high-minded aren’t a safe audience for the theatrical bite of wit or style.
I was a molecular biochemistry major, unlike the English majors,
we didn’t have a big clique of students that hung out together
and we didn't have to defend or prove the value of our work to others.
I wasn’t invited to the writers drift parties,
and I wasn’t friends with the cool-writer people.
In sterile science, one plus one makes two - argue about that.
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Songs for this:
Twilight World (Remix) by Swing Out Sister
Rain On Me by Lady Gaga & Ariana Grande
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Notes:
my self-challenge here was to build the drama of this piece on
accumulation rather than plot, the tension comes from social texture
and status bruising, not events.
I dragged this cig, my brain went far gaga,
The same cigarette brand that brought me joy;
A puff, and I slipped into a pooh-Bah,
One short drag became enough to destroy.
My legs wobbled, the world around me spun,
I heaved heavily, yet relief slept still;
The fun I sought had never yet begun,
In its stead, I commenced a mental drill.
As I puffed a new cig to chase a fad,
Deeper curiosity did arouse.
How can a mere cigar torture so bad,
A dream taught me the thought in intense drowse.
Later I learned the cig was laced with crack~
The closest I came being a junkie;
That pal later picked madness in bump's track,
Why I never became a crack flunkey.