Long Manuscripts Poems
Long Manuscripts Poems. Below are the most popular long Manuscripts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Manuscripts poems by poem length and keyword.
Soundscape Strata
Did Bach know to what end
his harvest of melodies-in-parallel would become?
Scholars agonize
Was creation of counterpoint
musical destiny
a hybrid fruit of beauty
knowing no boundary
bewildering those of first look
given musical staffs
voicings and manuscripts
always conformed to traditional confinement?
What spurred his palette of sound
to become one with the elusive rainbow
providing independence through marriage of numbers
allowing prolonged courtship
sanctioning destinies to verge
converge
separate
return to coalesce?
And so
From guitar
to clavichord
string quartets
to symphonies
counterpart airs were discovered
became melodious architecture
challenging new musical frontiers
voiding tundra's boundary rules
reducing history's brass survey monuments
to mere reflections of past memory
Popularization of Bach's invention
soared beyond the artistic elite
for in '55 "Picnic" graced movie screens
initiating the unsuspecting
elevating emotion with layered melodies
Moonglow playing under the love theme
Bach's kaleidascope of synchronous colors
reached the century's romantics
keyed into a music major
minored ala Brubeck
scat-a-tized via Ella and Mel
and
made unity of opposites a given
Thus
From Bach's synthesis of two dimensions
musical ironies evolved
influencing writers' language
line upon line
stanza to stanza
chapter to chapter
making magical
the double entendre
metaphor
subtext
contrapuntal imaginings
all translated into
infinite language-in-progress
With applause knowing nowhere to go
except to acknowledge the roots of prodigy
a high five to the man
who pioneered so much of our soundscape
taught us all the numbers of romance
ironically created attraction to opposites
arpeggios with many colors
intimacy amidst chaos
Encore Mr. Bach
Encore
way down deep in a heartache,
i dump myself and become the reluctant angel
i am tinged all over and it hurts to even think of moving
i am moving while frozen as all and everything stops
way beneath the manuscripts of rhythmic raindrops
way down deep in a heartache,
constipated confusion blows its pungent odor on the tip of my consumption
i am bloody blue all over and it hurts to even move to the thought of thinking
i am frozen while moving as all and everything stops
way beneath the manuscripts of rhythmic raindrops
way down deep in a heartache,
murky water cocktails snatch me up and i am the calm cowboy viewing captivating constellations
i am ecstatic while my currents are being unrealistically revitalized
i am falling in an endless pit of blindsided truth as all and everything drops
way beneath the manuscripts of rhythmic raindrops
We poets have a coven where we write our sins. Bewitched by the entirety and stringing words in beautiful threads of our own possibilities and what-ifs of the future, we fret, singularly, on a piece of paper. We hide our words between another few words that make everything seem hollow when in reality we are mellow and broken by the ghosts of our past. And the blurry waves of hope pass by our shore so we hang a little tight, even when everything gets hazed. We slip through cracks of our own imagination when the 'light at the end of the tunnel' is only an idea for the fools, we know the truth. There was never a light we broke the walls ourselves.
We love a soul and trade ours for theirs. The pages of our deepest fears are stuck with the ink made from our blood and tears. As ghastly as it sounds, it becomes our reality. Whether on paper, on a Microsoft Word file, or in the secret of Notes app- a writer always bleeds. A poet with no one to pay heed, to their words. Only understood my the gravest hearts. A single piece of parchment hidden beneath the deepest corners, lurking in the shadows of our broken bones and hurt that burnt us whole. Breathing is a sin to a tainted soul. Will it ever be okay?.. How would we know? So we form a coven where we write our worsts- the transcripts and the manuscripts sealed shut, only to be opened by fools who know what's what.
The poet in me has run out of blood
My veins are dry and full of dust, from my ashes
The weight of this stone-hearted world crushes my soul
Like an inch to death, the flowers don't have a root
There isn't a home, for my words and my wars
I wait restlessly
For fate, to do its magic
In reality.
Welcome to the circus
of discrimination-
where soft subtle glances
and fragrant
touches of femininity
are burnt in ashes,
through howling rays
from the sinister sun,
triggering wildfire
chaos,
conquering and controlling
roles of women;
endlessly shape-shifting
from predatory postures
of pretend protectors,
that twist and turn
tangled heartstrings
from a patriarchal pantomime
of their treacherous charade,
obnoxiously oppressing
obscured boundaries,
with their art of arrogance,
placing labels upon
our need for freedom
as sheer ignorance
of aliens aspiring for acceptance.
But what if there was
more to a flower,
than to be left-
dreamlessly
paralyzed in puddles
of poisoned petals?
Is there no wind
that can wash away
wounds of the world
engraved as a
secret symphony
of sorrow,
within sepia sepals?
Will storms carrying
songs of a
suppressed soul be
forever heard
as forced dreams?
Mimicking motionless mountains,
silently static, mistaken for
serenity,
whilst enchanting hills
draped in olive green silk
are confused as gilded
stars in worn novellas,
streaming rivulets of
emerald lakes,
where manuscripts
of tears are apprehended
as melodramatic melancholy.
Oblivious to the wilderness,
where words whirl as poetic
prophecies,
descending as
theatrical thunder,
striking upon abandoned
entities of earth, eclipsed with
fingerprints of
love lingering
liquid fears of
a female fighter,
rising above acrobatic
tyrants—
for maternal daffodils are lions,
glazed in an idle arias,
composing battles
using only words as weapons.
an editor's lament
I'm sick of shitty verses, mine and yours
Keep them far outside my office doors
In the postal drawer
I see eighty-four
Surely I will die if I read more.
I'm tired of lyric cruddiness submitted
By these would-be poets so limited
In talent and in vision
I cannot quite envision
What they thought they did when they did it.
Maybe it's high time we suspended
Publication of Top-upended
So many silly, horrid
Long epic poems, florid
Each time I get another I'm offended.
I go deathly pale from things like these
Send them to anybody else please
Blank verse or concrete
Crayoned or typed neat
Mail them to magazines overseas.
c.1978
This crappy old poem is from days when poets had to submit their rotten verse through the postal system. I edited a small journal and received 20 or 30 manuscripts per day. And I submitted my works here and there as another face in the crowd. The reality described in the poem is a condition that is even worse nowadays, when lousy poets don't even have to buy an envelope or a stamp to wreck an editor's day!
H e a r t ~
a museum of mosaic mysteries
of handwritten manuscripts
tattooed with crimson needles
from acrylic sunsets,
when dusk cradles
the obsidian chambers of celestial havens,
homing soul-kept secrets
that ricochet with romanticized sins,
as my beloved moon,
you’ve long been my part-time lover
in darkness and cursed corners
where the sparkling jewels
and the nocturnal nightingales
heed the unsung chorus of
our clandestine rendezvous.
For we are forbidden roses,
like Psyche in star-kissed silence,
t r a c i n g Eros with
wounded wings of feathered fate ~
an unwritten myth of undying sorcery,
magic merged with vehement tears,
chasing love against the snake sun…
So when the sky unfurls,
morning streaks of cinnamon and gold,
write to me discreet letters~
enveloped with paper promises,
sealed with enigmatic echoes,
carved with infatuated ink.
Let the wind carry your wisteria words;
here I’ll wait for the ardent touch
of your feverish perfume….
O familiar stranger,
tangled in the violet vortex of swooning flowers,
we feel the heat of trembling twilight~
a mirage of this devotion.
You and me, part-time lovers,
a midnight escapade
the universe can never illuminate,
a lyrical liaison
the sun can never illustrate,
for we are unrhymed metaphors
lost in the murky meadows
of green-eyed reverie,
where love wears the color of raven tears,
yet heartbeats sigh,
tied in lavender and lilac
to the
amaranthine arms
of hyacinth halcyon…
I've lived in it all my life -
the self's grand fiction -
refuge for the child, youths
rebel fortress and a walled
cloister to house
the holy relics gathered
on the pilgrimages
of my mind. I have built it
line by line with words
baked into bricks.
Rooms follow years
down passageways of books,
dusty manuscripts and dreams
hung in stations along
age blackened walls.
In high towers, windows
open to a universe
with a terrifying silence
at its core.
I hear reality's hard fist
knocking at the door,
a presence breathing
its corrosive damp into mortar,
unpicking me
brick by brick. And yet,
a sense of peace in surrendering
what was never really there,
dissolving into what is
Shine Bright O' Golden Pen
To Empower & Inspire The Masses Of Men,
Burn Ever Luminous & Blaze As The Sun
And Let Thy Ballpoint Scintillate Like The Chosen One,
Fill Thy Longhand With Prestine Manuscripts
To Great Endeavors That Shall Sail Afar Like Ocean Ships,
Guide Thee To Depths Unknown
When Many Are Lost & Have Lost All Hope,
Illuminate Thy Ink Scrolls For All Of Time
With Knowledge & Wisdom & Light Divine,
Oscillate The Great Duality That Always Was
And Let It Transcend Through The Sword That Descends From Above,
Infuse Thee With Essence As An Emerald Stone
So I Shall Articulate These Jasmine & Fiery Poems
Matelotage they practiced matolage! Blackbeard the pirate
was a soured soul! They shared everything together. Shared lives: Sailors and buccaneers entered into a solemn agreement to become companions or "mates".
Shared money: Partners pooled their money, food, and belongings together.
Automatic inheritance: If one partner died in battle, the surviving mate inherited all of his property and wealth. Mutual protection: Matelots fought side by side and cared for each other during hard times .See that explains why Blackbeard woould keep get his first mate into trouble, knowing he'd get that booty.Mandolin or Lute and aPennywhistle.
For Your information
------------------------
------------------------
Historically, Blackbeard (Edward Teach) did not have a husband; he was legally married to a woman named Mary Ormond in 1718, and historical lore suggests he may have had multiple common-law wivesHiding Loot: He brought hidden treasure and loot from his raids back to his home in the town.
Tresure seekers often times get clues about certain things Historians and treasure hunters have never found a hidden stash of gold or silver belonging to the pirate Edward Teach. Sir Francis Bacon: A literary theory proposes that Bacon buried original manuscripts proving he wrote the works of William Shakespea There is a gap of about 84 years between Drake's death and Blackbeard's birth. Drake operated during the Elizabethan era in the late 16th century, while Blackbeard operated during the Golden Age of Piracy in the early 18th century.l A coin with "eccare la figa" on one side and" mangiare la figa" on the other made sceintist angry due to the contint of the wordss. But the coins were assocated with Blackbeard.
This is untrue and fictional used as entertainment only.
Prescribed blood tests
present no qualms,
unlikely nothing askew i.e.
ticking time bombs
nor prone to catastrophization,
albeit anticipatory anxiety
plus demeanor of poetically titled
medical practitioner allays, calms
alleviates agitation exhibited
by dad's and/or mom's
panic minimizes si? no sweaty palms,
nonetheless precautionary measure taken
thumbing apostle Matthew psalms
ayee feel grateful relatively
clean bill of health.
Nine thirty morning
appointment earlier today
September tenth two
thousand nineteen no way
found yours truly bright
tailed, and bush shay
eyed, cuz mine circadian rhythm
(reed sleepiness), I cannot betray,
yet medical plight concerning
bowel movement analogous to clay
stool pigeons ever ray
now and again plague me: hay
4 four at aye
oh elle dot com, alias math they
you scott harris happy as jay
bird for personable rapport
she, said practitioner did display
offering friendly feedback
proactive measures to avoid
finding mine psyche
analogously scrambled (think) souffle
even absent such agreeable
pharmacological medications keep at bay
panic stricken state
seeding additional gray
hairs (matter of fact
synthesized prescription -
pills selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors)
only necessitate small copay
Medicare bonafide dogsend
whereby nurse practitioner equal
however much she doth weigh,
in salt, though an oft worn cliché
feather in her cap coup d'état
personable, laudable, hospitable...
winning accolades regarding
humbleness and modest stay
expertise within her craft hoop fillet
staving off general mills concerns
reason I wrote rhyme, eh somewhat passé
even Mister Ed would neigh say
so with his horse sense to stirrup
unbridled jollity - me hoof finds rein
ching words cathartic je ne sais quois
experimenting with this, that,
or t'other typed out array,
perhaps hashtagged as tripe courtesy quay
zee poor ah shunned poet fray
ming tropes distinguished (ha)
even if garnering no pay
English language I play
juxtaposing incongruities
to tease out reactions probably lay
build rickety lettered edifices
manuscripts best sentenced to sauté
within steaming vat
fed as swill to petsmart hogs
grunting as they fertilize mulch greenway.