Long Instrument Poems
Long Instrument Poems. Below are the most popular long Instrument by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Instrument poems by poem length and keyword.
In the dark she is waiting, 200 kilos of velvet
separating one world from the other.
It was art to her, she was under no pretence,
she was an instrument, and she made the other instruments merge in a delicious unprecedented harmony.
A poet, a warrior, a lover, a sinner. She has tasted the divine and the melodramatic, to capture moments, photographs, for the use of summoning emotion and reality.
She had been hurt and she had hurt, she had walked towards hell and ran away from heaven. Beginning as a muse and then enslaving the musicians one by one with her whispy and sultry tones.
An electric keyboard breaks the mumbling, vibrato, a pause, a cheer. The drape rises and she peers from the darkness, masked by shadow to the floodlit mass in front.
The drums are brushed gently as the crowd softens to the figure emerging from the dark. Not knowing if they were permitted to break the spell or join it, the crowd pay their respect with silence.
You can almost see the phantoms she has witnessed being beckoned into her. Short linear smoky essences, touching her then being pulled inside. She saunters slowly towards the mic, eyes closed, and with both hands it becomes a sceptre. This will be a heartfelt song again.
She inhales, her belly fills, and she breathes life into the mic. Her tones slice through the thick air, soft yet with such projection and feel. The crowd can not contain themselves and let out a cheer as their eyes fill. She masterfully picks up her bass, as if resurrecting a lost love, and it sings for her.
Her hair is gone now, most of the crowd know why and they want to cry. But she holds them, captivated, and hypnotises a smile into them. They sway to her, some hold their chests as if covering some hole for fear of their hearts falling out.
This will be the last time we will feel her grace. But she will be summoned herself. The band know this. She sits, the treatment has taken it out of her. But her voice never falters. That chair will be kept alongside the drummer that loved her. Her bass will be his kryptonite. But he will keep it close anyway.
The curtain will not fall tonight, it shall remain at half mast. She will bow and we will fall at her mercy one last time. In homage, and respect. She will leave but she will never be forgot. She has trained herself into them, and she will always be singing.
Long ago, in an estuary formed by the erosion of a fjord,
There sat a piano made of petrified wood with ivy cords.
It was created by a council of beavers, which governed the waters,
Who used local flora and stones to build it, with help from the otters.
For these marine rodents had once heard a human strum a guitar,
And they wanted their own music to impress the humans from afar.
The piano's fifty-two lower keys were made of refined kyanite,
While its thirty-six raised keys were made of black hematite.
Its pedals were donated by some dories from the sea,
Who shaped them from coral plucked from a barrier reef.
As the instrument was built from aquatic and natural material,
It could stand through the torment of torrents and decay of bacteria.
When the piano was finished the beavers and otters stood proud,
And pounced on its keys, which made sounds that were only loud.
The rodents soon realized that none of them knew how to play,
The piano without fingers, so they gave up on music the very next day.
Fraught in their efforts, their hard work had been for naught,
Until a beaver found a boy squatting on a bank looking distraught.
"Why the long face, my dear child," said the beaver to the boy,
Who responded: "I've failed my parents, now I'll never know joy.
Today they bought me a beautiful baby-grand piano to celebrate,
The years of piano lessons they paid for, on my thirteenth birthday.
After seven long years of lessons and tutelage,
My ability to read notes is still way below average."
So the beaver brought the boy to what the animals had built,
To help the boy overcome his feelings of failure and guilt.
The beaver said to him then: "Play not that which you see but hear,
For music is a melodic and emotional sensation that you feel in your ears."
So the boy closed his eyes and rested his hands on the keys of gemstone,
And listened to what he heard and played the loveliest music he'd ever known.
For the boy could never read the language of music that others had wrote,
But learned he could play any sound heard, when his fingers struck the right notes.
So the boy played away to the sounds that he heard,
The current of water, and pecked songs of a bird.
As he played the animals danced with heads bobbing and nodding,
And when the boy opened his eyes he saw his parents applauding.
These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as
a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through
my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked
in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to
such a luxury.
My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My
fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I
shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks
on my back from the whip stings like hell.
My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just
behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard
cobblestone streets of London.
The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky.
The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I
don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in
the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the
center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams.
I scream.
Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be
enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have.
I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window.
No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow
louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some
may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried.
But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature
awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a
nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed
fingernails.
So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not
what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living
locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.
Pure awareness
Unattached to form
Just IS
As it IS
Complete
But since the awareness wishes
Choicelessly wishes
To engage in movement
It does
Creating matter
And energising it
With a part of itself
Without reducing itself
Or being affected by matter
Though in it, with it
And so
Matter ...
Or consciousness
Thus energised
By awareness
Yawns
Stirs
Stretches
Awakens
And becomes itself ...
Awareness
There then being no difference
No separateness
Between the awareness
That brought this awareness
Into being
And ITSELF
The human form
Of consciousness
Is the latent awareness
Having already yawned
Already stirred
And now awakening
Within form
To become awareness
Pure awareness
Without form
The body
An instrument magnificent
Enigmatically magnificent
Within which
Consciousness detects
Grid lines that connect ...
The entire body itself ...
Completely
Each grid line
Having nodes
These nodes are then occupied
Energised
By awareness
Making them conscious
Just as awareness
Once made consciousness awareness
And so
Each node is now consciousness
Enabling awareness
To be joyous in movement
Of the node consciousness
Born
Energised
And awakening
Within it
Later to be distinct though unified
To itself become awareness
As is ALL
These grid lines
All interconnected
Across the body
Of which the spine to head chakras ...
Are but one
A prominent one but nevertheless ...
One of several grids
Each continuum of the grid
Whether at the node or without
Being alive & aware
So as such
Everything being awareness
In entirety
Yet ...
The magnification of awareness
At the nodes
Which are consciousnesses
Dormant and now created, born
Or say energised
Awaken
And thereby enable
The totality of consciousness
Within form awakening
And experiencing awakening
In conjunction within
Nodes awakening
In unison
As a symphony
Of the formless movement
Of awareness itself
Are connected at all continuums
Of the entirety of awareness
Boundlessly
Within form
Without form
As the one awareness
That IS
Disclaimer:
No elaboration offered
For the revelation in stillness
Which each consciousness
Awakening
To & as awareness
In timeless time
Receives and becomes
As One in Oneness
Pure Awareness
23-October-2020
Flashback from 30-November-2018
Come O Muslim, Come Back to Our God,
The Holy Trinity One Lord, Before late it be,
Come O Muslim, Come back before Damnation do thou see
Can you not reason out of heart,
That you have been Misled, O' Torn apart,
Wrapped around the Lie of Lies, did that Bastard Mahomet bring,
A 'Book' so hideous, Hellish Destruction does it sing
We see with our eyes, the Fruits of his Tree,
Bitterness, hatred and bloodshed a-fire ranging sea
No rest at all, this did John speak,
A place of endless misery bloodshed, hatred and tears that fall a'weep.
What O what has this Snake done to you all Ishmaelites?
He has poisoned your minds and hearts,
That thou are blinded by it, thou not see Love
This is your punishment as well as mine,
For Faith in Jesus Christ, God decrease it well,
Now God sends this Curse right from the pits of Hell,
And as all the Saints do Fearlessly Proclaim,
Those who Follow Allah and is False Prophet are Dammed over and over again.
Time will come When Bel will bow,
Time will come When Artemis will die,
Time will come When Lilith will suffer,
Lucifer and his devilish Mohammed will face the Wrath of Yahweh
Then O Muslim, no more shall thou be called so,
Then Son of Ismael, will bow down and reconcile and God will he adore,
My heart till then is torn apart,
To be Roman Catholic and Love a Muslim Girl,
Now I feel Prophet Hosea's pain,
The Pain he felt when God's Cries to his people went in vain.
I hope that one day through her souls will be save,
Now I am the Lamb that God must slaughter to win her heart a-wave,
The day will come when her eyes fills with tears,
Gone will I be then, Done my Work as God's Chosen One.
She'll think back in year, Her torment will be this New Cross She bears,
Her thoughts on God and me alone,
In her age she will die a heart rendered, a-torn.
But this will be a beautiful thing, For she will join me in True Paradise,
And together with the Choirs of the Angels to our Lord and God Jesus Christ Shall we Joyfully sing!
God Have Mercy on the Muslims and Lead them Back to you!
I am your Instrument, Break my heart a'blue!
I am your Chosen Emperor, Sent to Raise the Roman Catholic Faith!
Subdue the House of Hagar, the 'Cross Bearers' shall definitely take!
A gift to the Church a Muslim's Faith,
Sometimes it is necessary on them a War we'd make!
Amen!
she cowers in the corner
when he comes home the
mere clomp of the boots
make their way to the room
wherein she is hiding her
breathing rapidly increasing
her heart thumping louder
than his footsteps growing
closer while she tries to
work out her next move she
is pulled out from under
the bed by her ankles what
happens next you imagine
in your worst terror if you
can picture a glass bottle
being forcefully thrown
point-blank at a plane of
brand-new asphalt smashing
splintering all over the place
cutting slicing hurting
maiming everything in its
path the shards never to be
removed but instead to inflame
infect to etch permanent
physical scars in her skin to
mirror to echo the emotional
the mental scars vibrating
maddening throughout her
body the cycle continues
day after day week after
week year after year the
whole while making any
possible memory of what
he was before it all began
when she swore herself to
him when they smiled
together when the proverbial
demons were nowhere to
be seen yet now they are
all that she sees without a
free moment to breathe
anything but fear sadness
blood still caked on the side
of her cheek she slides
quicker quicker quicker
into the red the darker the
color as the pain explodes
in her brain as each day’s
torment torture brings
what she never thought
possible a new surprise of
momentously malicious
proportions until she breaks
like the glass he broke a
hundred thousand times
she closes her eyes grips
whatever is heavy blunt
sharp killing device with
both hands comes crashing
down hard swift powerful
with every bit of strength
that she has inside her that
she has kept pent up inside
the whole while she has been
beaten beaten beaten for
years now always covering
up her wounds sharing not
a second of her story to
anyone always lying to her
best friends her family now
all ending all wrapping up
the story when his head
smashed like glass spattered
gushing flowing a maroon
pool all over the floor she
drops the instrument of her
freedom from him her freedom
from all the pain she lifts her
head she does not cry a
tear for all her tears have been
cried out she leaves the room
in silence a silence so sweet
it sings a million new melodies
which illustrate the possibility of
a new beginning.
In ancient looms of my homeland,
Fairies once shuttled across threads of rainbows
Weaving folklores of gods and goddesses.
Our tapestry needed no haberdashery of
Brabubahanas and Chitrngadas or a vijay panchali,
For no tantric-needle knitted our folktales.
I want to go back and melt in folk songs
Of shamans, who rejoiced in carnival of ripening rice,
Possessed by jingling moans of a pena.
I want to orchestrate, one more time, the ballad
Of Luwaopa and Koubru Namoinee, and
Feel the heartbeats of Henjunaha and Lairuklembi.
I want to burn my poetry in immortal angst
Of Khamba-Thoibi, and blow the ashes
On winds above Loktak's gentle ripples.
I want to defy traditions, once again,
By falling in love like Chingsompa and Panthoibi, and
Tell the world I inherited their sweet arrogance.
I want to retrace petals of
Thainagi Leirang, leaving no stones unturned,
Until I find the lost quill in ruins of alphabets.
I want to ask children of my land
To perform Eemagi Pujah by planting a Madhabi
On the stage of another Shingel Indu.
I want to revisit a forbidden village in my past, and
Reopen the second chapter of Jahera
Sitting by the old mosque with a green door.
I want to hear young Khongjomba sing
Lamphel Patki Kombirei, while I sip chilled Atingba
From a bamboo mug, in a karaoke bar.
I want to see Pidoinu dance in a discotheque
To the exotic tunes of Khulang Eshei, while
Her Moirangphi floats with iridescent embroidery.
I wish to put my ears on grandpa's clay courtyard, and
Listen to Leipaklei's sprouting sighs in a crack,
For the last time in this lifetime.
Finally, I like to be frightened again by Tapta, and
Wake up in a faraway dream where
My homeland shines as silvery as the milky way.
Note -
Names of mythical characters and entities from our folktales, history and books are used in the poem.
Pena is a stringed traditional musical instrument, played with a bow with tiny bells, of my homeland.
Loktak is a lake in my native state, which is the largest fresh water lake in eastern India, where the world's only floating wild life sanctuary lies, on which the almost extinct brow antlered deers known as Sangai, in native dialect, are preserved.
Atingba is a locally brewed rice beer.
Leipaklei is a rare orchid which sprouts out of cracks in dry soil/grounds.
O, elusive muse, mysterious and profound bruise,
you bewitch my soul, never to be found in the way of former use.
In your absence, I am left with bittersweet
caramello pain,
forever longing for your ephemeral archery reigns,
to stick your finger in and frost your tips, lips, hips.
With every plié, a heart skips a beat,
as feelings pirouette upon your rage
and bloodlust and cage.
Each soft tendu, a love story paged,
imbued with passion's fire, never to age.
But doth wrinkle rings around my heart like a chain,
loosely at first.
Then comes your tools of torture,
your sandblaster-twirls deoxyribonucleiy
amidst a dreamscape host given wage,
unfurls, serpentor,
hyour body, an instrument
for efficacies' grand gauge.
Through leaps and bounds, love's whispers
take shape, like an hourglass shaken
to be thrown to the Leviathan sea.
Given over to the carcinogenie of winds,
carrying own lamp of photosins seeding plans.
Your occulant lids, occupancy Inn
unfolding a tale stolen from Wonderland
with narrator mouth agape.
Like a hellmouth opened revealing iron rows
of oscillator teeth, of to then throe.
I know there is no escape, but surrenders
oasiatic retreat of blue snows.
From your sire nyour cover of cape.
Spellbinding me to the elements
like salt in the wound to taste and one to grow.
O, ballerina of love, your steps mesmerize,
evoking metamorphic fertiles,
lilypad touchstone monads of diodes and control pads and padded rooms of the matrixed "mad",
making us crystals of your rites,
constellate consulates of your Medusaic petrify,
metamorphed from pieces of coal-
fitted for pressure, heat of becoming
from your diamond bit drill.
But beneath the surface of t h i s-
frozen-heartless veneer,
y o u r c a r o m i n g d a r k n e s s
come to take me away-
lies a fire, a longing, a blaze yet unquenched
Ignited by the spark of hope,
a steal cable between your wench
the yearning for warmth
worked by passion match.
There eyes an unaided flicker,
Me, the Wicker-man
struggling against your vice grip,
your tangle of betrathed lisp.
I am tied by your poetry,
your visa drip, feminine W I C C A - Beltane slip
of slip.
A bridge too far,
of golden vistas burning,
now, there is no return.
For me, only to find your drowning sea or burn.
I am reminded of the atheist who died. Or rather was presumably pronounced dead for a
short period of time, then revived. Upon waking, the atheist announced that he had gone
down the tunnel of white light, had seen his dead relatives and in fact met God. He must
have forgotten he didn’t believe in God. Together, perhaps in a city in the clouds or the
clouded foggy afterlife, God conversed with the atheist.
A crowd of people had gathered to hear what God had said.
“Did you ask God what the meaning of life was? ” people wanted to know.
“Did you ask God what the one true religion is? ” others wanted to know.
“Calm down! ” the atheist assured them.
“It just so happens, I asked each of those questions, ” the atheist concluded smugly.
“And? ” people demanded.
There was a pause as if the atheist was conducting the energy of God.
“God told me the meaning of life is…” the people braced for the answer, “Nothing, ” the
atheist said after a pause. He was ecstatic. The people were more than a little disheartened.
“Nothing, you mean there is no meaning to life? ” the people asked.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it, ” the atheist said laughing.
“Or another might mean nothing, as in, you get to make it up as you go along, ” the atheist
said smiling.
“It’s whatever you want it to be, ” the atheist explained.
The people did not seem to get it.
A few looked suicidal.
“Well, at least tell us the one true religion, ” the people demanded.
“Okay, ” the atheist assured them.
There was a pause again as if he was God’s instrument warming up.
“God told me the one true religion is…” the people braced for the answer, “Whichever one is
best for you, ” the atheist said confidently.
“You mean there is no true religion? ” the crowd shrieked.
“What are we going to do? ” the people asked starting to riot. They started to push and shove.
The people got really angry and violent, and they eventually tore the atheist apart. As the
atheist ascended to heaven he asked God how this could have been avoided.
God told the atheist, “There is only one way you could have avoided death…When the people
asked you what God said…you should have stuck to your guns and told them, ‘God…I don’t
believe in God.’”
Excerpt from: Blind Savior, False Prophet
Joseph DeMarco
two wee lads grew up in the same village---
with their houses only a short distance away
they became close friends at an early age
playing the same sports, both learning how to
play an instrument, stumbling through early flirtations with
girls & even pondering their prospective futures---
theirs was an unparalleled bromance.
upon the eve of their high school graduation,
one of the young men decided that he wanted to go to school for
marketing---
he wanted to go to school to study what he thought was a lucrative field
so that he would
sooner than later
be rolling in the benjamins---
because, with mucho benjamins came mucho power
and with mucho power came mucho women---
this all made sense to an 18 year old who had
only one thing on his mind.
the other young man was passionate
he was far too passionate to take on the business world
or to involve himself with anything
lucrative at all---
he took it upon himself to pursue his painting
with a few pit stops in other countries along the way
scrapping & meeting new people
meeting more new people & scrapping further.
and while one idea followed a distinct plan
with a definable conclusion in sight,
the other path functioned without any direction
whatsoever &
the very absence of expectation
during the whole of his travels
made the way of the second young man’s life
seemingly much more interesting than the
first’s.
over the years the two individuals lost touch as things
go---
the first graduated college, began working for a big firm,
got married & moved out to the west coast---
the second went the other direction, overseas,
never rooting anywhere for more than a bit of time.
years went by
as years do,
and in time the marketing man climbed the ladder---
his dwelling grew in size
his brood multiplied
and all seemed well in happytown.
the other, whose legs continued to cross
borders, but whose pockets never really jingled much,
he continued, without expectation.
the man with the big house &
the large family &
the jingling pockets
had planned every step so succinctly
that it seemed nothing could fail,
as each individual part thrived on the
greater monolith,
working together from within---
but at age 40 he was killed in a plane crash
with the rest of his family.
the second man kept on traveling,
he kept on painting &
he continues to
expecting nothing from this life.