Long Maestros Poems
Long Maestros Poems. Below are the most popular long Maestros by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maestros poems by poem length and keyword.
O gentle sleep. Most precious of secrets
Carefully placed between sunlight and twilight’s touch of warm air and wet kiss
Asunder from me, Yet all of me woven into a spiders web of silken spun strings. Reliving each and every moment in one’s lifetime. Again, then yet again.
Bizarre creatures I’ve created, shouting messages of concern. The very monsters that haunted my childhood. Now offering guidance, sworn allegiance to me for they know they have been conquered, so long ago.
A maestros wand, weaves a tapestry so intricate. Each line intersects. Yet does not interfere with one another.
O welcome sleep. With each worry and every dream. Days labor comes to end
On soft pillows where I’m lead towards a fantasy, I must then, take part in an eternal play
Filled with obscurity and dismay
In search of meanings to each day.
Letter chosen "V"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virtuoso
Carnelian dawn reflects red sun rising,
Mirrors glow of vermillion flycatchers,
With scarlet plumage, so mesmerizing,
Dawn’s songbirds – virtuoso stature.
Flight song resounds through the still morning mists,
Woodland thickets embrace the day song,
Artists on wings with bright feathers flame kissed
Warble sweet aves on garnet birdsongs.
Vigil for daybreak in tones cinnabar
Matins’ maestros in morning’s sung prayers,
Amber strains from coquelicot popstars,
Lauds for the Daystar ring through newborn airs.
Cloaked in vermillion at evening's first light,
Songbirds wait to sing in red-orange delight.
My name is Black.
My mouth is diseased.
I walk on walls behind your back.
I've come for your soul.
You had it out on lease.
(You forgot.)
Stop tending to the chickens,
Or don't stop tending to the chickens.
Either way there are no fans left for anything to be hitting them.
But if they were still around they would get hit by you-know-what.
So don't touch me.
Don't tick me off.
I send the weak and injured off screaming in horror.
Mostly I'm just misunderstood, though.
I call a spade a club.
I turn maestros into minstrels,.
Melancholy into minestrone.
I eat sadness and vomit out anger.
I'm a riot at parties for the first five minutes,
Then I'm the mom you didn't call,
The key you left in the car,
The ringing in your ear,
The stinging in your throat.
I'm the faint chittering you hear
Somewhere in your bed,
Somewhere near your head.
A rhythmic sketch of melodies new
Often leaves some singing the blues
Bereft of passion and desire
Unable to spark a musical fire
Tenuous tunes leave us to sigh
As music changes as time goes by
A piano interlude with brittle notes
Falls apart, unable to float
Maestros of old would demurely smile
As they tickled the ivories with style
As these musical gems subside
Somewhere along the way, the music died
The immutable beauty of songs of old
Framed in memories, dipped in gold
The formidable classics of rock and roll
And rhythm and blues with lots of soul
--
10-24-17
Black folk kept in sad condition
By owners without contrition.
What to do, what to do?
Wage war for emancipation
And forge a fresh slave-free nation.
The Forrest-Byrd Klan and Jim Crow
Surely are the ones you should stow –
What to do, what to do?
They rule and oppress your city
Blame them not ones who set you free!
Martin loved character content
With black and white talents lent
What to do, what to do?
Stevie and Paul in unity
Played in sweet keyboard harmony.
Smooth Barack cooed high in A sharp
As Hillary lowed in B flat
What to do, what to do?
So white folks, none playing a harp,
Chose the black, how racist was that?
Oppressed rainbow coalition -
All races rate full admission.
What to do, what to do?
Name trophy oppressor maestros
Amin, Mao, Adolf, and Castro.
Critical race theory, woke
Marxist, oppressive and no joke!
What to do, what to do?
Its rancid retro racist sin
Embalmed in landfill would fit in.
I've wandered many islands,
Seen countless shades of blue.
But none compare, my friends, to where
The glass and lace ring true.
Let me paint you a picture,
Of Murano's fiery art,
And Burano's rainbow houses,
That set these isles apart.
Murano's furnaces blazing,
Glass maestros at their craft.
Molten sand transformed into beauty,
With every skilful draft.
The clink of cooling crystals,
A melody so clear.
Chandeliers and figurines,
Fragile art appears.
In Burano, colours dancing,
On every house and street.
A painter's palette comes to life,
Where sky and water meet.
Lacemakers' fingers flying,
Creating intricate dreams.
Their needles flash like lightning,
Stitching stories at the seams.
The canals reflect the hues,
Of houses standing tall.
A kaleidoscope of wonder,
Enchanting one and all.
Fishermen's boats bob gently,
In waters calm and still.
Their nets full of the day's catch,
The air with salt air fills.
The church tower leans so slightly,
A guardian of time.
Watching over coloured houses,
In this land so sublime.
Tourists wander, cameras clicking,
To capture every sight.
In this magical lagoon world,
Bathed in Venetian light.
As day fades into twilight,
The islands slowly sleep.
But their beauty keeps on glowing,
A memory to keep.
So when you're seeking wonder,
And your heart yearns to roam,
Remember Murano and Burano,
Where art and colour call home.
In glass and lace and painted walls,
These isles have cast their spell.
A testament to human craft,
And nature's beauty as well.
So let the world keep turning,
But pause here for a while,
Where Murano's glass keeps burning,
And Burano's colours smile.
Time racing quickly
Clocks ticking madly
The measures are absolute
Conducting meters of life
Keep pace with the race
With synchronized hands
Like maestros gaining control
You must act now or never
Join the endless concerto
To achieve your finish line
August 14, 2019
Contest: Invitation To Play
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Two Tanka Intermingled;
Read as one 10-line poem,
or read separately as two 5-line poems.
Tanka syllables: 5, 7, 5, 7, 7
Magnificent marauders masquerading magically might mean
Messy mollusks masticate marbled marigolds momentarily.
Maybe.
Moreover, momentous mosquitoes might make marvelous mini-muffins mixing marmalade momentarily.
Meanwhile
Minnie made monthly memories merely medicating masses
Mediocre men mysteriously manufactured man-made missals
Might mean
Millionaires mystify magical muggles’ meager melodies making
Magnifying, mollifying mortifying mind-blowing majestic missives.
Moreover,
Mummies, mammograms, mushrooms, minks, musicians,
Models, maestros, minions, muskrats, merry men
May
Momentarily medicate marvelously magnificent marauders.
Meanwhile
Mary May memorize multiplication minimizing
Mark’s Mother’s marmalade mini-muffin memory.
M might make momentous mountain-mincing molehill.
Sometimes when
moonlight weeps to sleep,
I sit, draped
in burning dreams,
and beautiful nightmares
of moments lost,
engraved along the rising
of blushing blossoms,
within cerulean azure.
But shadows fade,
as clarity descends
upon the ivory beach,
adorned in pearls
and palm leaves.
I await for twilight to
sing my heart to
the milky-way.
I stretch my fingers,
to count glistening gems,
that shower silver
streaks upon my
stranded silhouette.
And I question the universe,
in r i d d l e s and r h y m e s~
what flows within
empty spaces
between iridescent
lines of stars?
Would I find traces
of footprints that left
the face of this earth,
where they
thrive eternal crests
in paradise?
Maybe there’s rivulets
of jewels with initials of
angels residing
in blissful musing,
in hope-filled reveries,
as the cosmic maestros,
orchestrate peaceful notes
with ethereal keys of faith,
In a choir for
celestial requiems,
to heal the grieving mind
that t i m e couldn’t mend.
I saw it rained
a rainbow with frozen
memories through my
glass window..
and I remembered
how I’ve always felt
closer to you in astral realms,
whilst soaked in
galactic light.
So tonight, I whisper,
prayers in poetic prose,
hoping you’ll feel my tears,
from the
highest halcyon haven.
Even death can
never kill a dreamer,
that bears memories,
and relives them
through classical sonatas.
Maybe this is how
a poet reminisces,
heartbeats in h e a v e n…
Ah Epstein Files, who’s who of naughty names
Making life come good at resorts with dames.
But I’m disappointed
For not making the grade
Among some biggest guns that play such games
And make some rare headlines
Hard for poetic lines,
Whatso open fame’s gate is free from shames,
No evidence of guilt
Is no proof of no guilt,
A top gun legal authority claims.
___________________________________
Happenings | 15.02.2026 | fame, name, shame, humour, society, world
Note: More and more Big Names get linked to Epstein. Trump and Musk, two famous Bills, actors, linguists, and even motivational maestros. Poets? Not sure, but here‘s my chance as the only unknown name. As the needle of suspicion comes closer home, this is what this pen-pusher hopes.