Long Improvising Poems
Long Improvising Poems. Below are the most popular long Improvising by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Improvising poems by poem length and keyword.
No other city is more unique
than Napoli; around corners,
you'll find surprises that intrigue
eyes staring at monuments
that have some mystique powers!
And walking through the very narrow and noisy streets
of various sounds: you'll feel a drop of casual water
from the clotheslines above...ah, those scented sheets
waving while people eat treats and breathe the spring air
and listen to musicians improvising chords on their guitar!
Come to the city where the scent of oven-baked
pizza lures: live the simple life of the Neapolitans...
folks who sing classical songs that make everyone glad;
even Venice cannot compare to the enthusiasm and thrills
of the locals while flowers are offered by generous hands!
That big house was built in the seventeen century when the faith in God was strong,
it told many stories of men with bruised hands and chiseled faces;
they built it with craft and embellished it with stained-glass windows;
girls in their pretty black dresses looked outside and contemplated sunsets for long.
I bumped into a frail woman leaning on a cane, she stared at it with much emotion
and sobbing, " Their youth is wasted, They are the orphans rejected by society! "
" Why is it so? " I asker her puzzled." They should be adapted by somebody
and get out of there before they are too old! " Her voice expressed a great concern.
And looking in those tearfull eyes I answered her, " I must disagree! "
" Do you want them to be entrusted to strangers who won't love them as
their parents? " Parents! They have none! They are the daughters of drug addicts! "
She raised her voice which showed anger while she rubbed her injured knee.
" Madam, why are you crying? Does someone dear to you live there? I questioned
her improvising the answer. " My granddaughter ! My poor granddaughter! "
I continued the conversation " Is it a children's care center?" She solemnly replied
wiping her flowing tears with a soft tissue, " It's an orphanage! It's real hell for her! "
The friendly woman told me a story a few people knew: the story of that forgotten
orphanage where newborn were taken in by nuns who did it for love, not for gain;
" On Cherry Road, this house is looked down as a scourge! Sins of their mothers!
Why don't they go to visit them, hug them and give them Christmas presents? "
The Dilettante Diaries: "Open Door Barefoot"
Open door to closed room
Ceiling smashed
Stars in a very clear sky
Fresh air
taken into lungs
Risen
from
the
Lake of None
Arrival of White Doves
Broken glass, careful where you step
Barefoot Bleeds Love
(Lovejoy-Burton/October 2018)
for my daughter, Georgia
"THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found."
The Poet Pleads with the Elementals
THE Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows
Have pulled the Immortal Rose;
And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,
The Polar Dragon slept,
His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep:
When will he wake from sleep?
Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,
With your harmonious choir
Encircle her I love and sing her into peace,
That my old care may cease;
Unfold your flaming wings and cover out of sight
The nets of day and night.
Dim powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be
Like the pale cup of the sea,
When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim
Above its cloudy rim;
But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow
Whither her footsteps go.
(William Butler Yeats)
"Fly On" /Coldplay
https://youtu.be/qtooMN9QZKw
Maybe I’m not the standard of the jigsaw puzzles
that fragment your brain.
Surely, I am judged because I take courage—
to smoothen a life
with my roughhewn experience.
Daring, I am, to discard the chauvinistic pigs
that raise an eyebrow, for I carry on.
Honesty is my trademark, and improvising my serve
places me as wanted, not in servitude.
Uniqueness is all you see,
for I am the strength of my responsibilities
— committed and fixed.
Shine I will, as I always do —
not for society, not for the world at large,
but for myself, for God, and for family.
Maybe it’s the pain I carry,
a burden to ensure the world is better for you.
I cradle the blessings for future generations;
my name is written in the winds, rocks, fires, and skies.
“Take time, take self, take your name
into the passion of committed faith.
Not as a penitent, wretched sinner,
but as a last-days’ follower of the coming Christ.
Not because you must, but because your faith
sees the Glory of the coming King.
And He, the Holy Spirit, opens the eyes of your heart
to have the blessed assurance of glory—
To be caught up, or rise—
the rapture.
Are we ready for it?
We aren’t, are we?
Or we are, aren’t we?
You alone know.”
Grouping here to plan retreat,
the redcoat officers smelled defeat:
the boards complained beneath their feet,
on entering Wright's Tavern.
They game was up. They understood.
All that remained was noise and blood,
and limping back as best they could,
the fifteen miles to Boston.
Pungent smoke and powder smells,
irregulars' derisive yells,
and fifteen miles of living hell
now stretching out before them.
The King's Own's torn, depleted line,
drawn up before Wright's tavern sign:
this sight would come back to the mind
in years to come, in England:
But now, the urgency was such
that no-one pondered very much
on Tyrant George's loosened clutch:
plans needed improvising.
Back east the shattered remnants flowed,
along the Cambridge Turnpike Road,
to quit the New World for the Old:
America was rising.
I'm playing a role,
Just part of a whole,
I roll with the flow,
Improvising as I go,
The star of my own show,
Growing an audience,
A claire audient experience,
Chance being the big event,
Getting bent and sent into chaos,
Entertaining an invisible mass,
A real class act in fact,
Tactfully assembled,
Resembling a fool as a tool,
In the school of life learning,
Earning my degree in duality,
An individual making decrees,
With a relationship to the trees,
The breeze flows through my lungs,
My tongue holds the power to devour,
I scour the land for a dollar,
Feeling the collar around my neck,
Checking for the chain again,
Maintaining the best I can,
Remaining true to the plan,
Commanding with intention,
My attention spanning all,
Falling right into place,
Ending the chase for money,
My Honey by my side,
Riding into the sunset,
Deciding the future we get.
Billie Holiday said
The artist of soul never sings a song the same way twice,
the artist never sings the same song twice.
This sounds good and right to me,
as soul artists and lovers,
great optimally effective researchers and scientists and communicators,
never live a day,
a felt relationship,
a poem,
a dance,
a sacred ritual or tradition
the same way twice.
As we learn to stay within our zones of synergy,
we can never go quite back to yesterday again
because we live through this fluid imagination
and experiential place
where life's co-relational time
flows a bubbling nuanced inside/outside integrating stream
never organically sung as mere mechanized repeat,
each moment learning now's renewing voice
from soul's most resonant
remembering
strong-hearted
full-minded
passion-embodied space.
Soul sings inside songs
of out-streaming full-hearted
improvising
synchronizing voice.
Jazz improvisation is a favorite vehicle for cognitive psychologists and neuroscientists, while smokin' weed in the lab/ the mind scrambles into a rhythm, thoughts improvising on beat/ fingers rippple over the white and black keys/Stimulated thinking, they call it, a mental jam session where ideas riff in and out of the mind and evolve, where the cortex keeps time with the bass line of curiosity and wonder/You've got to learn your instrument, then you practice, practice, practice man/hit the band stand and cook your ass off/ Charlie Parker high even high in the air/ would practice in the doorway, the gateway, on a bridge like Sonny Rollins did/ the ignition for invention, motivation and just havin' a good time in playin' your horn/Flow, baby flow, movin' on out, cracklin' them jazz notes across the room/ the zone, where pressure bleeds away and enless possibility streams in like sunlight through a wide open window, yeah, improvise jazz flow is not a song you finish, but a doorway you walk through again and again, maybe bumpin' your head on the way out but always in the flow of this thing we call jazz/
Nobody should be by himself,
feeling the weight of desperation;
such is the fate of mine
struggling to see
my shimmering star...
I try to deny it to myself,
but all I see:
is the reflection of me!
On those warm days of June,
when summer knocks with joy
on the heart's door,
to bring songs and dreams
to those starry-eyed lovers
lying by gliding streams;
I wait like them ,with that feeling of anxiety,
for my beautiful one,
who promised me to dance in the open sky:
her long,golden hair
covered by tiny,pink roses;
her delicate arms fluctuating like waves...
Alone in a place of isolation,
improvising my lamentation;
daffodils enamor me with their bright color,
even they have their friend sun
to whisper to in the high-noon...
as their words don't comply with my humor!
On those warm days of June,
blu-jays gladly attune
to my melodious tune,
to turn those moments into a medley
and keep this lover's heart from being lonely;
from somewhere her love-inbued eyes
will surprise me with an illusory glance!
Who wishes to be immersed in desolation,
imagining to be choked by closed walls...
when hope can lead one out of frustration?
It takes a strong will and a fantastic dream...
to bring to life what lies within!
Like all Earth's timeless Muses,
Musicians never die,
we just keep improvising
on resonant themes of fading elder voices.
Apathy, especially about Earth muses,
is not necessarily an inevitable pathological anti-empathic EgoCentrism
Growing cynical about life's authentic opportunities
need not always invite death's terminating risks.
Muses have never said we are realistic
or rational,
thinking only of narrow walls
protecting fearful and angry anthro-capital city demi-gods.
Sacred Muse resident cooperatives
could become mutually inviting and resonant places
without capital-driven anthropocentric Win/Lose competitions.
Resonant therapeutic music
and healthy movement
can yet emerge from liberal democratic trust
and conservational respect
among compassionate bicameral players
and workers,
parents and mentors and musing trust teachers,
more musical ensemble preachers,
interdependently non-sectarian,
cooperatively unspecialized.
When green ultra-nonviolent Muses fail
to ecosystemically see and hear
beyond narrow walls of short-term Win/Lose capital investment,
resonant cooperation among us Muses
becomes yet another revolutionary anthem
remembering long-term economic
and political longing,
biological
and Earth-logical DNA
of and for creative Muse resilient voices
fading and swelling,
breathing out compassion,
breathing in cooperative co-relations,
Like cytosine interbreeding with uracil,
yin with yang,
out-flowation with information
matriarchal with patriarchal
RightBrain induction with LeftBrain deduction
southern river valleys with northern mountain glaciers
resonant with resilient
singing with dancing
ultraviolet with green
bilateral TaoTime with 4D FractalSpace
sacred with secular
theological with ecological
balancing Truth with Beauty Muses.
Musicians never die,
we just keep Win/Win improvising
with resonant themes of fading WiseElder voices.