Long Melody Poems
Long Melody Poems. Below are the most popular long Melody by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Melody poems by poem length and keyword.
Throughout the day of torrid heat
As twilight draws its curtain down
Cicadas make music pulsing beat
Melody of summer throbbing sound.
Together chorus of seasonal refrain
Resonance through midnight air
When summer rain soaks their domain
Insects will hide who knows where.
Where do they shelter from downpour?
Crawl under green leaf it's not forever
Music is silent sun is the cure
With patience, they wait on kindly zephyr.
However, when clouds have rolled away
All is clean and blossoms bloom
Cicadas are ready they begin to play
Age-old music their summer tune.
In the deep darkness, where the soul draws its night curtain,
I write with the blind cruelty of children throwing stones,
Hitting a madwoman like a crow in chaotic flight,
No—not writing: opening a passage in the twilight,
So the dead may send cryptic messages,
An equation of shadows and light.
What is writing, if not a whirlwind of senses,
To steer through the light of mirrors in dense darkness,
To imagine places known only to me,
Like a song of distances, a melody of untouched faraways,
Hearing the vivid notes of birds painted on Christmas trees.
In the twilight of the soul, every word is a breach,
Through which silent spirits pass, shadowing star paths,
Like messengers arriving on ancient wings,
In a world of consciousness, where silence tends to be the universe,
Caught between thoughts, dreams, and old memories.
At the edge of night, words stand like sentinels,
Guiding paper steps through whirlwinds of aims,
Unraveling roots of unfulfilled desires,
In rhythms of painted birds, screaming under blue worlds.
Writing, this ancient art, a dialogue with the unknown,
The mirrors in which we see faces we have not known,
We lose ourselves in labyrinths of narratives, like lost children,
Hitting shadows with stones of poetry, outlining new skies.
Who am I, but a shadow sculpted by ancient times,
A speaker of those unspoken non-words,
The storyteller who lights up silent galleries,
Letting the dead sing their longing among speaking pages.
Breaches open in twilight, shadows gather,
Like a mysterious choir of paper birds, caught in Christmas trees,
Where pain and joy meet in vivid notes,
Of a song written in the depths of my soul.
This is how I write, not just with words, but with crushed echoes,
Drawing dream scenes in the black night,
Guiding through mirrors, led by the eternal call,
To give voice to the unknown, in tones dressed in melancholic magic.
Beneath the shapeless sky of blue
In the valley lacking a hue
Was an isolated thin pond
Where birds sang their short song to bond
Singing a song hoarse with throats sore
In the midst of their pond’s vapour
And dunking their bodies with threads
Into the pond, scratching their heads
In the midst of this quacking though
A foreign and sweet song did grow
A song soft and low in its pitch
With tunes so gloriously rich
From the bird of the pond of brown
With a towering orange crown
From an egg of a pearly hue
That flew down from the boundless blue
And was reared by the pond’s brown birds
Though the pearly egg spoke no words
Now that hoopoe bird did well sing
When it grew out from the mud spring
Taught by the blue scimitarbill
His unseen twin that came with skill
So Mani, the hoopoe bird, sang
Sang without lips or a sharp fang
To the simorgh bird that stood tall
Strong though unseen and above all
The brown birds of the pond quacking
At last heard their valley quaking
Quaking from the gentle ringing
From their adopted bird singing
When the hoopoe was at last done
The birds in fury beat their son
Mani wounded and in much tears
Flew away from any harsh ears
While flying and singing with skill
He saw his loved scimitarbill
“Mani, the simorgh has sent you
To sing an ancient song anew
To sing to every nest and tree
So every bird may sing with glee”
So the Prophet Mani prepared
To sing across the world impaired
He crafted seven tunes to sing
So all may feel the simorgh’s wing
From the valley of detachment
To the valley of wonderment
Singing his melody up high
And flew to the shapeless blue sky
From the bay of blue hills in “restless stillness”
at the edge of the “unsteady placid” plateau,
embraced by the “calmly turbulent” clouds
making twilight filigree with the spent sun’s rays,
the sparkling stream flows with “gentle ferocity”,
exuding the “humble grandeur” of “quiet ebullience”,
cascading in the emerald forest
with tuned “thunderous whisper” of “timeless moments”.
It meanders in the serrated swathe of the furnished ferns,
sprinkles in “perfectly imperfect” manner fluid pearls
that sing water song with the drizzle of “deafening silence”,
wafting in the “soundless echo” of the rippling air’s sigh.
Flying with “patient urgency” over crystalline “icy warm” water
the returning robins chirp the springtime song.
As the autumn’s wilted leaves in the tree boughs
rustle with the mesmeric melody of “sweet sorrow”
beguiled butterflies flitter around
the blushing buds in “chaotic harmony”.
The sapphire night sky shimmering above
the “blinding darkness” of the forest canopy,
wears the bejeweled stellar crown of the twinkling stars.
Silver sequins trickle with “graceful frenzy”
through the diaphanous moonshine film.
In a trance, I’m enthralled by nature’s "disparate symmetry"
of the “fragile vigor” of oxymoronic splendor.
(Oxymorons are within quotation)
April showers
Drip drip drop,
Little April Showers,
Falling from the clouds,
The rain drops down
Each drip and drop sounds
Different as it hits the grounds
Natures musical melody
It's healing harmony
Pittering and pattering,
Splishing and spitting,
Black clouds are forming,
It's the sky's final warning,
Before the heavens dawning,
And then the rain comes pouring,
Crashing and clashing,
Splashing and sploshing
It's time to dig up some recruits,
Your wellie boot troops,
Raincoat is armed for any puddlish pursuits Umbrella up, stand and salute.
Drip drop,
Drip drip drop,
Drip drop drip drip drop,
Little April shower raindrops.
In the silence of night, when stars become silent witnesses to our unspoken desires,
I imagine how my fingers would intertwine with yours, like roots seeking the depths of the earth,
And how my palms would caress the contours of your face, drawing maps of love on your silken skin.
I'd want to whisper poems to you, words dancing on lips like butterflies at dawn,
To lose myself in your gaze, a deep ocean where stars reflect and dreams come to life,
My head would find rest on your arm, a warm nest where my turbulent thoughts would calm.
I'd listen to your stories of the day, each word - a note in a symphony of our shared existence,
My hands would trace constellations on the sky of your skin, discovering unknown galaxies with each touch,
Waiting with bated breath for that "I love you" that would resound like a divine echo in the cathedral of my heart.
In your arms, I'd find solace, a refuge from the storm of the outside world,
I'd stay awake all night, contemplating your smile - a living work of art that illuminates the darkness,
Your heartbeats would become the rhythm of my existence, a melody that colors my cheeks in shades of shy red.
We could laugh and talk until dawn creeps through the curtains,
Holding each other tight, like two halves of a whole that refuse to separate,
I'd lose myself in the ocean of your eyes, which shine brighter than any star in the night sky.
I want to sleep in the same bed with you, to share not just a space, but an eternity,
To be able to offer you a goodnight kiss, sealing each day with the promise of a new beginning,
In this sanctuary of our love, where dreams and reality intertwine in a tapestry of happiness.
We opted to talk,
Disparities to dissolve,
Our problems to solve,
And went out on walk—
Not hands-locked as was before,
Heart’s feelings to pour,
Way out seemed no nigh
When words tied into tight knots,
Morrows, a sad sigh,
Life, like unfilled dots,
It all ended in silence,
Though with resilience,
We knew not at once,
But life’s ship had reached home-shore,
And back as before,
When we’d arrived home,
Eureka, all roads reached Rome,
Silence our life bailed,
When everything failed,
Ah silence had onward sailed,
We under same dome!
__________________________________
Musings |05.06.2021|
Poet’s note: As a pause is in poetry, in-between notes of a melody, so is silence in social chemistry. When words fail, silence seems to sail. It is in silence that two broken hearts meet and beat together. Each stanza here looks like a Haiku, but only so appears.
O my tv's had a gray, gray screen
Since it blew up last June.
The radio plays no melody.
The piano's out of tune.
Alas! My ipod's ceased to work.
My laptop's gone kaput.
My car just died a violent death,
And now I am on foot.
When HBO plays great, my dears,
When car and gadgets run,
I'll pay thy exorbitant fees, my dears;
Then we'll all be having fun.
So fare thee well, my saviors dear.
I'll call thee in a while.
Take care of these, young fix-it men.
They're really worth a pile!
Robert Burns, Scottish poet, 1700's
entered in Julia Ward's A Light to Like Poetry Contest on June 25, 2017
Cathode Rays in the Darkness
Thelma Todd is on the Late Late Show,
Brought to the us by Kent cigarettes, which refines and
Refreshes with the exclusive Micronite Filter.
Her still tragic life in the steaming suburbs knows no past.
It is a sucking monster to which there are no survivors.
The holy TV in this house prays with its face on the floor,
Screaming its way through backyards under the parallel clotheslines,
Illuminating with cathode rays, the fragile test patterns of existence.
Lloyd Thaxton is on at 4 o’clock before the news.
Dressed in a Van Huesen shirt with skinny black tie,
He sashayes under those hanging dangling long plays,
Like a finger person jittering across the sea with magic shoes,
Igniting the twisting dance floor with blue-eyed soul.
He is the coolest of the phony-star dance mavens,
Lip syncing with panache and moving lips through album slits.
He ghost-dances now Slauson style to the beat of the dancing dead.
Baxter Ward chews through the nightly harbingers at 6,
Brought to us by Marx Toys; Do you have them all?
He sits behind a square jet black table with head pointed south;
The Great Garloo warns us to beware the Industrial Military Complex,
The insidious Cold War chatterings of Nikita and Jimmy Dodd;
But Baxter Ward assures us he will be there when the Iron Curtain falls;
When Thelma Todd mysteriously dies again in her Lincoln Convertible,
When Lloyd Thaxton lip syncs one last time Unchained Melody in Vietnamese.
Sky and the earth, the symphony....
never the twain shall meet?
I just heard the euphony,
again and again they greet.
"You gorgeous ground,.. you are so down to earth "...
....the clouds thronged, looked down with mirth.
"You infinite blue, ethereal sky, how I wished I had wings to fly. "
The ground looked up,...the clouds so high. ..
longed to clasp them, close and nigh.
" Beautious earth,..green in sight
fragrant flowers. .you look so bright"
"You blazing sky, stars in the night,
twinkling fireworks, showers of light"
"Waves of majesty, your sublime sea
Rhythm of melody, your birds glee."
"See..we are made for each other, Me and Thee." ..
Let's meet over the horizon.,....
The virtual reality. ..
Let's free our Souls. ..into the Eternity.