Long Later Poems
Long Later Poems. Below are the most popular long Later by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Later poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagine life without music and song
Keeping one’s heart gleeful all the day long
A song that inspires your spirit to soar
That is sung in your heart for evermore.
I love the aria that’s sung within
Creeps into your soul and beneath the skin
A song reminds one of a time or place
The bliss of a kiss or loving embrace.
Songs that cram your soul with deep emotion
When sung to sounds of the mighty ocean
Or when out walking down a country lane
With birds singing a sweet birdie refrain.
Musical and poetically fine
I am mesmerised by the song divine
Of the orchestra that plays upon earth
Spectacular, splendorous and superb.
Life is a song that’s sung to one’s ending
Until with angels we are ascending
A billion songs later and here I am
At rest with the Beatific Music Man.
What a fabulous recording and performing career we would see.
He was born in 1948, in Meridian, Mississippi.
Paul was signed to his first contract in 1970.
Several years later, a song made it to the Top 40.
Paul’s best selling composition was “I Go Crazy”.
The follow-up “Sweet Life” also gained popularity.
Two more big hits placed him in the spotlight.
Paul topped the charts with “’65 Love Affair” and “Cool Night”.
All the steps taken in his career seemed right.
In 2008, this singer-songwriter passed away.
It was on April 22, the day after his sixtieth birthday.
Whenever approached for an interview, he respectfully declined.
He said, “In the lyrics of my songs, all the answers you will find”.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this poem.
A creamy white egg clings to a milkweed plant
As a gentle spring breeze blows
Within a time not too distant
A caterpillar will emerge and grow
A short time later it will transform once more
As it turns into a cocoon
Something beautiful is in store
Which we'll see quite soon
And then from its cocoon it disembarks
As it feels the warmth of the sun
This is the birth of the Monarch
A creature from which poems are spun
It waits awhile for its wings to dry
Before it makes its maiden flight
And then, when the time is right
It takes to the air with royal delight
And I watch in awe as the butterfly flutters by
A regal beauty soaring through the sky t
White vapors appear as pollution sized continents reside in our open waters.
Men are missing more teeth than technology has to offer.
Beggars are asking for cigarettes and demanding five dollars.
Cars are so many and trashed, and then wasted.
Dry eyes rub off dead skin to become ashes exhausting a terminal dust.
Addiction is drugged cellular phones that obscenities are advertised in the down facing eyes focused on the palm of your hand.
The trend catches up quick as sleep becomes utterly lost in your conception of time.
Coincidences become too many to look the other way.
The parade of paranoia is just a long lost dust in the winds of our lives.
I even have found myself spelling in numbers, only to discover an ancient text depicting the end of mankind.
Described in admirable fashion, the words flew off the screen and premonition landed spot on; striking nerves within me.
As epiphanic realizations connected many dots of my personal life encounters . . .
Later that same day, white vapors once seen spirited, then became tangible as an exhalation of white dust left little doubt in the powerful truth of the contents read in this context.
Practically insane, driven by intentional insomnia, paranoia paralyzed my entire being as prophesy and reality became forever linked—bound by a common thread—collecting the same amount of time and ultimately each plagued, polluted and diminished in white vaporous dust.
3-19-17
Head-hardened dead rocks dare to block the way—
The stumbling blocks of poesy well-nigh,
The rules of grammar gathered yesterday,
And those of prosody pose how and why.
Still, let a poem’s river flow ahead,
Let melody gets born from natural noise,
Let things get ruled by heart, the least by head
And music arise from poem’s own voice.
In purest form, in its simplest so far,
Ceaseless does flow river of a poem
That shines like starry strings, not a lone star
Whose brilliance blinds like a studded gem.
So said and done, if a poem gets made,
A product be of heart much as of head!
________________________________________
Sonnet | 10.08.2014 | poem
Poet’s note: Flow of a river, and that of a poem…. Intellect contributed by head, dos and don’ts and the like, seem like rocks and stones blocking the flow of a river. When the river flows ahead over and aside these obstacles, music starts with the flow. A poem is always a product of heart to start with. The heart may have reasons unknown to head, but a stage comes when the later comes in to play some role. Yet, creativity comes from the chaos created by heart as the Gangotri, the womb of all poems.
January 2nd and it’s packed in the gym
New Year's resolutions have brought them in
Many in shiny new work out gear
Determined to finally get in shape this year
January 15th and never seen again
It’s hard to maintain that resolution
Excuses are worn in place of gym shoes
Pounds regained are more than what they loose
When swimsuit season comes later in the year
Some, once again, will pull out their gear
One more crowded week to battle the bulge fear
Before away from the gym and toward the beach they steer
The regular crowd who comes in every week
Knows these two occasions when the crowds will peak
And patiently wait for machines to become free
Knowing in just one week the gym will be empty
Days, weeks, years, many hours included
Minutes we spent above, now saddened, deluded
Moments shared, in private, continual we
Deceived be, looking past I see
From the day we first met
Attraction, absorbed through music shared
Revealing the hurts of our past
Captured, our hearts now care
Days, weeks, in trance
The unbalance our lives created
Minutes we spent above
Meeting in Glasgow our lives related
To the Island you had to go back
This reality you always said
You knew you were going back home
Knowing our reality was dead
Weeks and months passed by
Always knowing I was by your side
Monetary problems caused a rift
I helped in my wanting stride
Then came the day
The day I travelled to you
You asked so many times
This feeling of feeling true
At Arricife we met
Having told me your with someone else
For the weeks, months, years that passed by
I was discarded, left on a shelf
But on that Thursday, in the apartment we
We released what had happened before
Tears, cuddles
That had captured the Glasgow, thee
Then that call on the Friday morning
Because of the history between
You were barred from interacting
This two who loved so keen
Sound asleep early Monday morning
3.15am, when it again began
Upset, wanting to see me
Desiring two, to become lovingly one
Moments once again were shared
In depth, and loving sighs
Making love for hours and hours
Amidst our saddened cries
We awoke later that day
An agenda of life your to meet
Now cancelled,
Kissing, cuddling, you desire we greet
We spent this Monday in bed
Talking, kissing, about many things
Wishing that we were to be
And what our future would bring
But you had already chosen
On the week that I was due out to fly
For these days, weeks, months I've wasted on you
For your tomorrows, you'll internally cry
Goodbye.
Time flies so swiftly, indeed. Tells the dates on the calendar
A gathering in a friend’s house, I could still remember
One friend could not make it, and we all missed her.
Then a phone rang, her voice was on the line, slow and sure
She spoke some words, was much harder to grasp, to endure.
She was telling about her parents and her rigid father.
Years later, as words are pouring on this page, I can still hear her voice
Her voice was the force in my prayer-rug in a big world full of choice.
She was a spirited soul, happy and active, so eager to fight the evil plot
I don’t know where she is now, sometimes I know I miss her a lot
I wish we could meet again for one more time. I want it so!
At least I could tell her now, how I realized life as the story grow.
I discovered life in utter ruins, and I found tremendous strength and tranquility!
Colors of life have many shades; I found that shade in the sky without ambiguity!
Musical inclined as a kid at 15
Played a Portable Organ which my Grand Dad brought me
Listening next door was my neighbor hearing of my organ playing
She was a Musical Teacher at a School, but also being a Professional Opera Singer, and I attended numerous of her performances at a Downtown Opera House
I was later introduced to a Professional Male Concert Pianist
I learned the fundamentals of the Piano Ivories keys taught by the Concert Pianist
The Female Opera Singer also gave me voice lessons included
All this was happening when I was a teenager at 15
I play the piano by ear
Musical background was beginning to form
At the present, I haven’t played any organ and piano in quite a while
I am sure it would come back
I am advising you to get your ear plugs as what you might hear won’t be secure
Better yet, run for your life
Musical pattern that was a beginning
My musical past
Time that went fast
Musical blend that didn’t continue nor last.
The after
What happens after?
When what was loud is now silent
Where a place once filled with cameras go unnoticed
What once made history is now forgotten
Later
On TV they'll be a recap
The story will go
They'll manipulate the situation
Bonus if its told by a republican
They'll say
The police were peaceful, we'll be labelled as criminals
I guess it's opposite day
As in fact it was the other way
Those who will clean up
Will cry whilst they simultaneously wipe their eyes and wipe peoples blood up
Yes it was violent
No it wasn't us
But you'll never know
As the real story will be locked up