Long Metronomic Poems
Long Metronomic Poems. Below are the most popular long Metronomic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metronomic poems by poem length and keyword.
Dope boundary rope tropes…fans hopes..Ollie copes..thick skin…will find the strength within…ignores the din…as Pope unleashes that boyish grin..
Can hear Freddie and David…ddddd..Under Pressure…well..hard to measure the pleasure of the Pope’s treasure…papacy legacy pride..stops the slide..trumps the prodigy..got a ton to shun outgun..dumps the Bethell puns..rested and bested..still in at stumps.. after Stokes plumps for tried and tested..
Nasty ploys from the seedier media boys…that gambit or slight..of weedier..needier skittish rabbit in the floodlight habit..but such poise..delights despite the noise.. fights the red hot slingshot Jasprit highlights...that iconic.. chronic.. metronomic…never laconic..halcyon harbinger..joy bringer..humdinger swinger gunslinger....
Who’s got a clue what to do…where it will land…understand what the Bumrah brand’s got planned…should be banned…can’t watch it from the hand..love watching it from the stand..tames games…fanned flames…big names castles manned..but the sparkle of another debacle shames and blames…panned and canned..
Doff your hat…scoff..from the off…Test cricket doesn’t get harder than that…time we beckoned..back when Goochie opined…Essex accent whined..reckoned like facing the World’s test best one end.. and tother Ilford second eleven..
It was a story of small standing tall demanding another dance at the Bumrah ball as the diddy men zen of Ollie and Ben gave us a chance and dodged.. not bodged by the Jasprit lance
Even the boom boom cherry riff couldn’t biff the Pontiff of who we are so fond…no what if..made merry with his tintin strawberry blonde quiff in this tiff did respond..
Golly gosh the another level devil..tabloid tosh of him getting Bethell bish bash boshed…losing the race.. will never forget Ollie’s jolly face…gleaming…day dreaming yet screaming to those scheming and memeing…fury at the jury…beaming…the adored Pope ruled..his grace.. Dueled with the ultimate pace ace…an up yours…century scores…our faith restores ..Ollie.. rightly put out…brightly glowed..showed us what he’s all about..loud..proud shout to the crowd who know nowt…want him out…made it clear..peers cheers he holds dear..my best at your behest ..so sincere.. I deserve my Test place and rest my case..! Hear Hear..
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
That sound, metronomic beating
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Is that the sound of my breath, my breath leaving my lungs…
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Or the sound of my voice bouncing off my echoing mind
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Do I even have a mind
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
I don’t mind, I don’t really care
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Even though it’s my job to care, my job to feel, to love, to bleed severely
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It explains so much, why all I see is a combination of blue and red
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
The product, royal purple; my life essence or just another substance to sustain
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
A craving, sadly, it’s what it boils down to
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
“broken hearted”, “broken hearted fury”
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Or is it really just another broken hearted run
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
What’s the difference if broken heart is all in the name?
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It sinks me down a little lower every time I try
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
When it lingers, keeping it’s claws in me for days
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Oh well, this is called growing up
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
At least, it’s what the brain passes down here
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Do I believe? Eh, not really; I follow my own decisions
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It’s kept me alive so far since I’m still kicking
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
I have a goal to carry out, ten jobs I need to sort out
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Once I get out of this personal hospital, personal slump
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Maybe my pulse can beat peacefully
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of missing a few steps like I’ve been kept in a freezer
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of feeling like I’ve been crying
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
Instead of feeling like the saddest metronome, metronomic beating
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
The sound of my voice speaking, no my voice is quite silent
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
It’s just the sound of me breathing
Ba bum…ba bum…ba bum
What is life now but the knowledge of death?
…the inevitable foreshadowing of oblivion,
Rendered in shifting shades of grey on a desultory canvas,
And scented with the musty odor of dusty bones, of mildew,
Like winter smoke twining into my nostrils in ribbons of
Scented decay…
What is life now but a slowly mounting misery?
…the proverbial impending doom, fearing my reflection
In mirrors, shying away from the sun, shunning company,
And love and laughter and life, in case the knives of bitterness
Slice too deep when I have to give it all up…
What is life now but losing myself in music?
…living vicariously through the heartening metronomic rhythm
Of drums, being buoyed by the giddy soaring riffs of a guitar
That speaks more resonantly than any human voice, finding
Solace in maudlin melodies, in the roar of defiant cries…
What is life now but stumbling reluctantly down memory lane,
Seeing His face clear and pure as the driven snow, tasting his kiss,
Remembering the tickle of his hair on my cheek, and the way
He made me feel more alive than life itself ever could…
What is life now? Just this…
…a waiting game, a chess match, a test of wills…me versus the Reaper, dancing
Our demonic jig, vying for every breath…his skeletal hands round my
Neck, a bony noose…his hollowed out eyes, his gaping smile, his whispers
Of the grave
And still some stubborn fragment of me dares to hope, to clasp
These feeble hands in prayer, and plead for rescue, for some small
Shard of succor…for the angel I never met to come to me at last,
A savior on gilded wings, with a smile on his rosebud lips…
I live for vacant white nights:
devoid of stars and ocean hues,
a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky
that's just a whisper short of true.
Life's metronomic father points
his stale batons toward my mind,
though only to be broken down;
alone, I left him ticking blind.
The homeless shadows beg of me
for concrete shells to live within,
though I would never hesitate
to fill my inner evening den.
I am the author of my dreams;
I am the paper and the pen!
I sleep for chronic impulse:
the resonance of ceaseless bliss,
a feeling wrapped in brittle dust
and formless like a will-o-wisp.
Life's bittersweet horizon peers
into my deep nocturnal space,
though only to be torn apart;
I had no need for such a face.
The boundary linking earth and sky
does not exist for chainless hawks,
so like a bird, I'll take command
and pave the path I want to walk.
I am the proctor of my dreams;
I am the blackboard and the chalk!
I muse for vibrant futures:
the pliant maps of mental jumps,
a polychromic destiny
that topples every other trump.
Life's bland reiterations ring
around my silken paradise,
though only to be cast aside;
I needn't play with faulty dice.
The mirror to my distant past
is calling me with whispers faint:
"you must retain your future's seed
and tend to it without complaint."
I am the artist of my dreams;
I am the canvas and the paint!
No reality can keep its grip
on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!
Down these mean streets a man must go
come shine, come rain, come hail, come snow;
a trenchcoat, gun and cigarette,
with hardboiled charm and gumshoe sweat.
Pink neon signs light up the place,
the backdrop to a murder case;
the suspect vamp, her legs apart,
gave easy sex and killed my heart.
So what's it matter, I can't feel,
a diamond mind and heart of steel
that cuts through slums and sleazy bars,
a world of wrecks and movie stars.
Expenses and a hundred note,
buys me for keeps and gets my goat;
a dirty job, it ain't no fun,
just go to work and get it done.
As monkey music pounds my beat,
a metronomic film-noir suite;
I really loathe this tinsel town,
there's no excuse, they're going down.
Wisecracking wiseguy, razor wit,
dark detours, cryptic photo-fit;
nail the killer, lose the dame,
it always seems to end the same.
Track down your lover, husband, dog,
price or princess, pig or frog;
clear your name and give you hope,
locate a heiress hooked on dope.
Iced bourbon helps the case to break
and find the lady in the lake;
a gunplay climax ends in death
the big sleep cutting short his breath.
And when it's done I'm left alone,
an office, desk and telephone;
a tarnished soul, a cynic's brain,
no love, no heart, no life...just pain.
Form:
once our world had younger eyes,
time then moving slow;
now this present burning past,
as saplings, children grow;
what has been, was and
what would end,
small slices, measured time;
speak now ghosts of love and friends,
seeds of kindness sown in lonely wind;
but light moves dawn to dusk's beginning,
what men build all crumbles down;
oft a someday never comes,
brass shows through a gilded crown;
to live per diem on check'd off lists,
too fleeting, now it's gone;
blood turned ink and pulp for bone,
paper moments squander dawn,
while years drip out of clenching fists;
small troubles, smaller joys,
to know is not to hold;
now is all, this all is now,
kairos burnt the ancient wold;
in shining faces bloom elysian fields,
as seconds build to fade away;
hearts beat metronomic pace,
like exiled steps of men that cannot stay,
as tears rend wombs that never heal;
so gazing out to future's fright,
held clung to memory soon passed;
to hold, so close, in kodachromic reels,
while fading much too fast;
but soon to see unfettered love would stay,
when letting go is gaining all;
as authentic lives soon thrived in summer's warmth,
so too were shining carried into fall,
these human hearts were built to break away.
Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
I cannot stand poetic forms
I like them less than winter storms
they force me into ancient norms
of rhyming words in angry swarms
for I was frightened by Haiku
in darkened rooms -- I cried --- boo hoo.
Then came the metronomic tick
sez I: “what is this evil trick?”
now I must measure every rhyme
with tapping stick of metered time
I cannot…. will not, …..won’t ….I say
be forced inside the lines…..to stay.
For I shall dance….the poet’s dance
of shaggy hair….. of tattered pants
dance with those….. in tie and tails
rap with those….. released from jails
free demon words from fear’s cold cell
sing hymns resounding angels bell.
My crayons stray outside the lines
my words creation redefines
I am free to choose my words
soothing balm or cutting swords
to calm the hearts of troubled souls
as shovels digging dying’s holes.
And yet the verse is never Free
for it remains a part of me
wandering a poets hell
secrets it has yet to tell.
5/12/2016
submitted to – Get Your Dr. Seuss On – Poetry Contest
sponsor – The Seeker
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
climbing along the water's surface,
body turning on a skewer,
breathing bubbles,
exhaling fully,
metronomic to a viewer
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
fingertips, wrist and elbow angled
each below the other in turn
break the surface
then pushing forward
spinning the torso in return
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
catch before the full arm extension
pulling along the "railway track"
feel the water
hard on the forearm
and spinning the body right back
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
continue the stroke under the 'pit
pulling the elbow high and clear
uncock the wrist
pull with the triceps
whilst pushing the hand to the rear
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
lips breaking the top of the water
eye spying the rope of the lane
one sharp breath in
the wrist leads the way
to start it it all over again
stroke, roll,
stroke, roll,
breath
Written: April 08, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morphing into an appealing landscape,
gathered around a table embrace.
In the connection of family mindscape.
We find sanctuary in this precious place.
It engulfs you and completes its task,
a ghostly husk that is waxy and pale.
Dreams that last, a disturbing mask.
A table decorated with a phantom tale
Heirloom, the pink hearts flap,
In rhythm, they dance a poetic trap.
A heart, still beating, with metronomic grace,
twitching forks, dancing in the space.
Melodies in the air, a symphony's prism.
Their metallic bodies, alive with grace,
In utopian harmony, they find their place.
Never shall your children hear such schism
In whispers gentle and voices clear,
a secret kept, forever near,
Hidden in the depths, so dear.
Trusting even amid fear.