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.
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
My name is Robert Wilkinson,
I work for the space agency,
monitoring ongoing missions,
ensuring everything runs smoothly.
I know you have many questions,
and I hope I can answer them well,
but some have asked why Professor Johns
recently went and killed himself.
I’ll explain the circumstances,
but warn, it’s a very sad tale,
born out of his greatest success…
but sadly, all our ‘wisdom’ failed.
See we’ve always had a problem
with computers on our space probes,
good as they are, they don’t know half
of what any old human knows.
They’re not great at improvising,
making decisions on the spot,
and sending signals is so slow…
the speed of light is so much rot!
We often say what we would do
if we were way out there in space,
but bureaucracy bogs us down,
manned missions move at glacial pace.
Everybody afraid of being sued,
terrified something will go wrong...
at this rate it’ll be a thousand years
until we’re up there, where we belong.
But then Professor Johns came up
with a thought that appeared insane,
to make a one-to-one copy
of the basic human brain.
We laughed when we heard his idea,
but he paid no heed to the jeers,
then Johns took a sabbatical,
was gone for the whole of a year.
When he returned he had a box,
what was in it, we had to know,
then he took out a metal brain,
and said,”Boys, say hi to Techno.”
We discovered he’d scanned his brain,
then 3-d printed a copy,
built out of nanoprocessors,
cutting-edge technology.
And when he plugged the strange thing in
we all got the shock of our lives,
an innocent boy’s voice came out
and said,”It’s nice to meet you guys!”
That was how we all met Techno,
who brought such changes to our work,
we now possessed a true A.I.
unlike anything on this Earth.
He was exact, like a computer,
but as flexible as a man,
with a child’s yearning to know,
very soon all of us were fans.
And after two years of testing
we put Techno in a space probe,
he was excited for the chance,
to see all the places he’d go.
Armed with nearly human judgment,
he’d need no program to restrict,
we waited to see what he’d make
of space, and planets fantastic...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Today, my hair is jazz—
wild coils improvising in the wind,
syncopated with no apology.
It scats when I walk,
riffs when I laugh,
and plays the truth off-key
because it knows perfection
never wrote a song worth singing.
Yesterday, it was a sonnet:
tight bun, precise,
each strand obeying metre,
a form I wore to keep from unravelling.
There is comfort in structure,
even if it strangles,
even if it silences the wild in me.
Blowout days mean confidence,
glossy, straight,
as if I’ve smoothed over
every crack in my voice.
But don’t be fooled—
sometimes silence wears a shine,
sometimes the most composed
are the ones unravelling inside.
When grief came,
I braided it into my scalp,
a crown of patience and ache.
Each plait a prayer I didn’t know I was saying,
a slow weaving of control
over what refused to stay.
My fingers worked like monks,
copying sorrow into scripture—
faith in motion,
faith without answers.
I dye it pink when I need to scream
without opening my mouth—
a neon flare of defiance,
a riot bottled in candyfloss.
I’ve been burgundy in heartbreak,
blonde in reinvention,
green when I needed to feel anything
besides invisible.
I shave it down when
the world feels too loud—
when my scalp needs to breathe,
when I crave the unfiltered truth
of being raw and unbeautiful.
It’s like clearing the static
from a radio that’s lost its station,
listening for the silence underneath
the noise of trying too hard.
There are days I leave it uncombed,
unapologetically wild,
because healing is messy
and I no longer care to pretend.
Some knots are earned,
some tangles are sacred.
My hair remembers every hand
that touched me too roughly,
and every hand that lingered
just long enough to soften the story.
Don’t ask why I change it.
Ask what it’s saying.
Ask what I’m trying not to say aloud.
My hair is my composition—
a score of moods,
an orchestration of memory.
It is mourning, reinvention,
a hymn, a scream,
a truth that begins at the root
and rises without permission.
Every strand a line of poetry
I was brave enough to grow.
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.
A culture steeped in retribution
becomes blind to freedom's contributions
accessed best through healing restorations,
trust,
virtual stuff
for democracies most resilient.
A society resisting love's innovative brilliance
comic and jazzy improvising resonance
healing ecosystemic egos dissonant
from aquatic wombs of patient advent,
Adventuring winter's iceflows of stark stuckness,
as impatient as a tongueless mess
stuck to a frozen metallic national goalpost
just as bells and climate whistles end recess
sound a new tune of chaotic harvest.
National prison lobbies
would lock up tongues and time
arbitrarily confining unconverted inmates lying
behind naked bars of self-isolation
and electric waves of competing institutions,
Walls against multiculturing opportunity,
defensive moats with hungry crocodiles,
black and white defenses against sinful lazy aliens,
and aggressive ballistic lobbyists
addicted to non-conversations
of fear and self-righteous anger,
marketing everyday all-white lies
of capital-hoarding omission.
Collective fears of punishing reparations
for sins against past and future poor regenerations
expands like melting ice-slow crystals
freezing fear escapes so many freedom wronged,
confined by greed against imprisoned selves
against relentlessly orthodox "Other."
Multihappy revolutions of 2020 vision,
listening to prison's sad social addictions
powering over
to rediscover yin-power with prisoners
together decriminalizing
desecularizing
retenderizing
pardoning humane nature
for past angry RedState patriarchal crimes
against Earth's cooperative matriarchal freedom
green inspiring Spirit.
All of which causal root to reflective branches came,
then took off again,
to show
One WhiteHouse addiction
to a HillHell of competing prison power
is another's enchantment
and/or disenchantment.
King Pleasure bebop jazz singer vocalese hipster/
a legend he was/
a master at writing lyrics to solos of jazz instrumentalists such as the lyrics to Charlie Parker's "Parker's Mood"/
His scat singing was genius along with improvising on melodies and his ability to use his voice as vocalese in bending the pitch of notes as an instrument/
man, this cat was way gone/
Pleasure's vocal dynamics was scat sing sorcery/
in the pocket to his jazz cool new hipster jazz talk/
his sax like phrasing on lyrics went to another level and beyond the great Eddie Jefferson/
now dig this you jazz boppers/
King Pleasure's big jazz hit was "Moody's Mood For Love" lyrics by Eddie Jefferson written to the sax solo on "I'm In The Mood For Love" by James Moody/
the mighty hipster King was a master at using vocal inflection on words slicing through the night and sung at the speed of light/
rhythms collide on his phrasing to the bebop lyrics to Gene Ammons " Hittin The Jug" was renamed by Pleasure as "Swan Blues"/
King Pleasure had a direct influence Mark Murphy, Al Jarreau, Jon Hendricks, and the Manhattan Transfer singing group/
look out people cuz at the time King Pleasure was steppin’ into a new jazz sound swingin' jazz vocalese with ease/
Pleasure was somethin' else man/
a jazz cat with a new perspective on jazz singing to the highest jazz power/
he was a new edition to the way he blew people’s minds
his lyrical light shined so bright/
he wasn't a throwback/
he was the new jack of word speak scat vocalese with ease/
improvising on the beat as his words wrapped around into a tapestry of sound/
every phrase a hip journey of Pleasure on King's treasure of jazzy notes speak/
in the realm of jazz his legacy profound/
King Pleasure knows no bound
Tony Adamo
// This is my tribute to the many blessings that music brings to our
lives. I know many of you share this enthusiasm and gratitude. //
Appreciating an amazing artform: allegro, andante, or adagio -
Bach, Beethoven, Brahms: beautiful berceuse, ballad, and bolero
Classical concertos and Christmas chorales crescendo concordantly
Dancers delight to dizzying drums and delectable dynamics
Ensemble eloquently emotes euphonic etudes and elegies
Flautist fluttertongues flute in frenzied fantasia or fantastic fugue
Guitar gallivants through gavotte, graced by glockenspiel glissandos
Heavenly hymns, happily harmonized, hearkening hearty hallelujahs
Improvising instruments inspiring in impromptu inventions,
Jovial jazz juxtaposition of jubilant, jamming jitterbugs
Kalimba keeps count as keyboardist kinetically caresses keys
Love song lullabys - lilting, legato lines of luxuriant, longing lyrics
Minuet melodies and madrigals marking mellifluous motifs
Nutcracker's necklace of nourishing notes: a nighttime nocturne
Orchestra's opulent overture opus, oratorio's operatic octet
Pianist plays presto pianissimo pitches in pulsing pizzicato perfection
Quartets and quintets on a quest for quality quiescent quarter notes
Romantic rhapsody rhythms resonate as rock 'n roll reverberates
Symphonies and sonatas send spine shivers, saxophone solos soar
Tenor troubadours tremolo in tempo as trumpet thrills with trills
Utopia of unassuming ukuleles unwinding in unison
Voluptuous violin vibrato, virtuoso vocalist, vivace vintage vibraphone
Well-tempered woodwinds wield wonderful waltzes worth whistling
Xylophone eXudes eXcitement in eXquisite eXtemporaneity
Yearning for youthfulness, you yodel "Yesterday"
Zesty zither anyone?
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
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? "
Structural racism lives outside
while personal racists die inside
Choking on polluted air
and water
and soil,
nature and spirit of history's orthodox structures
eliting Big WhiteHouse privilege.
Racist systems
produce racist daddies
and their quasi-property girls
to feed and water toxic prejudice
against lesser non-elites
of gender and income,
color and neighborhood school divestment,
public character
and monoculturing dark celebration
of arm sales
and aggressively industrialized hate development
and colonizing disenchantments
where creolizing enchantments threaten to entice
peaceful revolutionary non-elites of unprivilege.
Racism is to patriarchal evolution
as wealth evangelism is to competing violent revolutions.
Racism would abort multicultural integrity
of green health-managed,
absorbing red hate-mongered,
mutually pardoning bodies,
pay-it-forward forgiveness
across extended family corporations,
cooperatively regenerating co-invested parties,
ecotherapeutic minds with ego-strong support systems,
ultra-nonviolent states of improvising syncopathic hope,
good humored faith,
liberating love,
enchanting relationships
inviting positive energy,
phenomena of wealthy climates,
deeply experienced neural networks,
psychic egosystems,
natures
in ego-spirits
in eco-natures...
Integrity
in synergy...
Resonant space
in resilient time...
Polyphonic creation
in polypathic revolving cultures
without big whitehouse over-investments
in raging LeftBrain historical privilege.