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Long Music Poems

Long Music Poems. Below are the most popular long Music by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Music poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

The Flash Mob Application

I'd like to apply for a permit
for a protest march
on the Washington Mall.

Lovely idea.
But, we're only issuing Mall permits
for Song and Dance Events.

I think this might be a violation of my Rights
to Free Speech.

I see it more as a patriotic protection of your health care rights
for Free Song and Dance Improvement
instead.

So we can sing ballads
to Adolf Hitler
and Royal Elitist Head MucketyMucks
of the Only White Lives MightMatter Makes RightWing KKK,
we just can't say them.

That's right.
And you get extra points for at least four-part harmony
and full orchestration,
and professional choreography,
and community participation
regardless of age, gender, race, religion, etc.

Well, that feels a little prejudiced
and elitist.

How so?

What if you can't afford a choreographer,
much less an entire orchestra.

Then your budget narrative will note
your capacity to sing and dance is contingent
on receiving sufficient community volunteers
for your harmonic protest Event.

This Event
begins to resound
with echoes of a Happening.

Only if you are a TransMillennial.

No, I'm a RightWing reaction against anything Trans,
or Poly
or Multi.

Sorry, sir.
TransMillennials are those born prior to 2000
and who remain planning to die
in this current PostMillennial Event.
I'm merely saying
you appear to be older than 17,
which you would need to be
to apply to sponsor a Mall Song and Dance Event.

Well, is there an application fee?

No.
There is, however, a sliding-fee-scale permit fee,
should your application ever have a chance of being successful.
But I have to tell you,
these Washington Mall slots are very competitive,
especially if you want something more than an hour,
and not in the middle of the night.
Then your only real competition
are the other vampire and costume clubs
and the witches covens,
depending on the lunar cycle.
I mean,
you can forget about any FullMoon
or NewMoon
or Equinox
within the next decade.

Wow!
I was just trying to put together
a nice old fashioned good ol' boys
AltRight
armed to the teeth
militia march
while chanting a few really offensive fascist slogans.

Well, funny thing,
it was just that kind of protest march
that led all these churches
and synagogues
and Eastern temples
and even the StoryTellers group from the mosques
sponsoring these FlashMob Events.

When I was checking out the Mall
to see where to put the stage,
suddenly all these people I thought were tourists
and just pedestrians
and all the people in the cars and buses going by,
and the frisbee players,
and even some of the dogs,
all froze in place for a moment,
then began dancing,
then singing that annoying We Shall Overcome gospel anthem,
like I had just walked onto a movie set.
Although no lights and big cameras.

Yes.
Today's Event received extra points
for community participation.
The District of Columbia FlashMob Combined Gospel Choir
joined up with the local street dancers and choreographers,
and the drummers,
of various cultural backgrounds,
and usually books the Mall on weekends for full two day events.
Most of the time
they practice harmonies and choreography,
and encourage people gathering to watch
to join in,
whether they can stay until the final run through of the day,
or not,
when cameras are digitally ubiquitous.
In fact,
often cell phones are part of the dance,
for lights and multiple viewing perspectives on social media sites.

Then they do a final run through about four or five PM,
then everybody goes home
or maybe they'll have a picnic
if the band or orchestra or drummers
can stay into the evening.
They might even have an open stage night
for singers and dancers
and those Creation StoryTellers
from the mosques.

I'm having trouble seeing our RightWing message
in this Song and Dance frame.

There are less competitive venues
but most state capitols
are seeing this same cooperative community response
to these all day multicultural NonFlash Mobbing Events.
It's sort of like America's Got Talent
went RealTime coast to coast
in a capitol, or even a County Seat, near you.

Well, I need a permit for a counter-protest.

You will need to include your song and dance plan
and budget with your application,
and your plan has to be coordinated with any group already issued a permit
for the Mall
on the day
and time
you propose to counter.

Would that look like some kind of large-set talent contest?

It could.
But, when the District Multicultural Choir
and Drummers
and Street Performers
and Orchestra
respond to your challenge,
just know they usually turn out
somewhere up toward two million singers and dancers,
and it would be more
if we had the space and toilets.

Last year they accepted a challenge
from a national supremacist group ironically named
the RightWing Goliaths.
That was a big national media Song and Dance Event
in which the Goliaths moved and sounded...
well...
not very cooperative
seemed to be the national patriotic consensus,
while the District MultiCultural Singers and Dancers
were totally awesome!
In fact,
by the end of the Goliath's first song,
the MultiCulturals were adding in their four-part LaLaLa's
and OoohOoohOooh's,
then the African Drummers joined in
so the RightWing message was out-scaled
into an awkward hiccuping sound
very much in the background,
and I'm being generous.

Anyway, application forms are on-line.
You'll find our cooperative community inclusion guidelines,
budget requirements,
and forms you can use to invite community volunteers to join in.
Family friendly plans also receive extra points
so you might want to leave your firearms
and reckless drivers at home.

This still feels like a violation of my Right
to be a White Supremacist
or even just a somewhat paranoid Hater
and shout about my embarrassingly personal issues in public.

As long as you can sing and dance your message
you are welcome to apply for a Permit.
I'm merely letting you know
we have far more healthy and gifted and grace-filled applications
than space and time already.


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Translation of Eric Mottram's 28th Legal: Letter Jan 2, 1966 by T Wignesan

Eric Mottram on the American literary and cultural scene during 1965-66 while he was the recipient of the American Learned Societies’ award for a year. (begun in the last post and to be continued)

January 2, 1966: Dear Wignesan,
        
 [...9 lines suppressed] One thing I can I’m afraid say for certain: it is highly unlikely that Laughlin will do Bunga Emas [An Anthology of Contemporary Malaysian Literature: 1930-1963]: he is blocked with reproducing his past books which turn out to be so excellently judged that reprints are needed. Can I see the Soyinka review? (Much as I hate Peace News’s guts at the moment): contrary to your thought, Tom McGrath did not send a copy, the b---d. He has not replied to my letters either and is hanging on to my Burroughs article when I want it back to try to find a home for it over here.  [...4 lines omitted] As for your comment on my own pitiful lack of confidence and hubris, you are not the first to say that, and someone over here said exactly the same thing last week. With which I am tired. But I do see that I am in danger of being left far behind by activating loafers.   Your choice of politics or university is so enviable I could weep. It’s probably that my birthday, just ‘celebrated’ makes life hateful. I must make decisions I can’t make about my future career. If only it were as easy as just accepting the jobs offered here. What happens is I don’t think about it and go on writing, thinkong[sic], reading, talking to people. The reception of my TLS piece was decent here - even among Negro writers who saw it. Which is a test. The response to the Stand piece on Williams has yet to come although Roy Fisher wrote me nicely about it. Now I have just finished another marathon on Arthur Miller for next year’s Stratford Theatre Studies. No more commissions now so I must get on with my books. Only a jazz piece to do, but it’s nearly done.   You seem to think I lecture etc here - not at all: my fellowship strictly says no lectures except one-shot occasions. So I turn down offers, although I am doing a summer course at Buffalo in July, when my grant technically ends: it’s a very lucrative affair and should be interesting working with postgraduates on American nineteenth century writers. I did one lecture recently on Auden as Ang[l]o-American poet for NYU. Mostly I listen to others, which is good for me. Already a third of my visit gone and I have to book my cabin home this week! Good old tempus. But at least the reading for the Negro article - masses of it which did not go into the final thing - will come in useful. I’ve just read Stepanchev’s American Poetry Since 1945 and it is one of the worst books of criticism I have every[sic]  read; fortunately it is short or I wouldn’t have bothered to finish it. It claims to be a survey and treats the poets like bits of literary history - and even then has nothing on Koch, O’Hara etc and their crowd (a little and useless on John Ashbery), nothing on McClure, Snyder, Ferlinghetti or Corso or Whalen, and inadequate on Duncan. And Ginsberg treated simply as a ‘popular poet’ who sells well for inexplicable reasons.  You’d never guess from this book that the poetry scene is rich and wildly varied: I have been to a number of good readings by a variety of poets and the younger men still come on, as Sandburg might say. The avant-garde theatre too: last night I saw a production of Gertrude Stein’s Play I Play II Play III and Ruth Krauss’s A Beautiful Day - at Judson ‘Poets’ Theatre: both were brilliantly done, with a flair and a certain vigour which I liked very much. The Columbia Contemporary Music Group puts on programmes which would make the Third blush for shameful conservatism and the experimental cinema has two regular theatres for its stuff, much of which is admittedly pretty awful but some of which is really new and realized: mostly in the field of combining film with stage and happening ideas. The new Tulane Drama Review will give you an idea. In painting and sculpture, the pop, op and abstract expressionists and hard edgers are still pouring stuff out. Recently, at the Jewish Museum, they had a show of  Tinguely’s mobile sculptures, and Kenneth Koch put on a play which used them - actors in the production included the painters Jane Freilicher, Larry Rivers, Joe Brainard etc. and the writers John Ashbery and Arnold Weinstein. I was lucky enough to get a seat - the performance was oversold many times.   So while establishment poetry, theatre, etc. is as businessman-bound as ever it was here, the new thrives as nowhere else. The trouble is that politically America is imperialistically nineteenth century and socially it lives in the past era of charity. As for the integration of Negros - what a joke! Nothing substantial really has happened at all. And yet jazz is greater than ever: the new names - Shepp, Ayler, Sun Ra, Pharoah Sanders - are unknown in England but soon will be. I heard Mingus the other night and it was just pitiful repetitions of old successes - he seems temporarily to have lost the gift. But at the New School they had the New York Art Quartet in a programme of advanced jazz (tiny audience) which was superb. Incidentally, you would be interested in the Free University over here, set up to counterattack the other universities as a Marxist and progressive evening affair, with lectures on subjects the universities don’t make available. There seems to be a strong case for such a thing in London. For instance, who gives a course there on Marxism and Existentialism - and after all it is here that the crucial enabling beliefs and actions lie, it seems to me too.
              Well, enough.    Best wishes for everything.  Yours sincerely,    Eric »
 
[From Dept. of English, New York University.Letter addressed to 28, Cheniston Gardens, London W.8 and re-directed to 33, Mimosa Street, London S.W.6]
 
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 1990/2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Joe Flach | Details

Straight to Hell - A Short Story

I was a seventeen year old senior in a coed, catholic high school.  Our gym classes however were still all boys and all girls.  My senior year we had gym every other day and music every other day in the same time slot.  The music classes, therefore, were also all boys or all girls.

She was a twenty-eight year old nun in her first teaching assignment.  She was in way over her head.  She was about five-foot-four and weighed practically nothing.  The nuns in our school no longer wore habits and I remember thinking it was a good thing because she would probably fly away like Sally Fields.  If you don’t know what I mean by that then you are too young to be reading my story.

The music class was a mad house.  She could not control a room of twenty some boys bound and determined to make her life hell.  I mean, music class?  Really?

We never did the homework assigned; never answered her questions seriously; never believed her threats at discipline; wouldn’t accept the demerits she tried to hand out; and basically goofed off for the hour that was supposed to be dedicated to learning about music.

For some reason, she seemed too proud or too green or too determined to go to the principal or another teacher for help; and, sensing that, we knew we could get away with our childish behavior and so we did.

One day, a handful of us “got in trouble” and she said she wanted to talk to us after class.  I was the only one that actually stayed.  She tried to lecture me on my bad behavior but I guess my smirk was evidence it was not sinking in.  Then, she started to cry, and for the first time I saw her as a person.

“What am I doing,” she cried.  "I can’t do this.  I am trying; I am really trying, but I am not cut out for this.  Why are you boys so mean and hateful?”

I stood up in front of her not knowing what to do or what to say.  I felt like a real jerk.  I was a real jerk.

Tears poured down her face, which I finally recognized as being a pretty face.  She bowed her head and just sobbed.  In my awkward seventeen year old manner, I slowly opened my arms and allowed her to lean into me.  And I hugged her while she wept.
   
At seventeen, I was no ladies’ man, and this crying nun was the first woman I had ever held so close to me.  I could feel her breasts pressed against me; the heat emitting from her body; and, the delicate nature of her womanly form in my arms.  I knew then that I was destined to go straight to hell for the thoughts that were going through my head and the feelings I felt between my legs.

She pulled away and whispered, “I am so sorry, I should not have done that.  You may go.”

I simply said, “You know, you are doing fine, you just have a class of a bunch of butt holes”, and walked out of the room.  It was that night that she started coming to see me in my dreams.  To hell I go, for sure.

I wish I could tell you I had the moxie and the influence to whip that class into shape, but I did not.  The mad house continued with one less student joining in the fun.  I tried my best to behave, answer her questions, pay attention and feign interest in the topic of the day – but I was just one in a sea of monsters.  I stayed after class and after school a few times to talk with her, ask her how she was doing, and see if I could help in any way.  She was actually starting to get the hang of things and was able to focus on the few classes that were willing to learn.

At the end of the school year, I was one of the few students who had not enrolled in a college for the coming year.  Because I was one of the better students, it caused a little bit of a fuss and a number of teachers talked to me about the huge mistake I was making taking some time off before going to college.  It seems they were all convinced that if I did not start into college in the fall, I was doomed to never go to college.  I challenged them by saying what they were really worried about was their statistics of percentage of students who went on to further their education.

During the last day of classes, the music teacher asked me to stay after class.  It appears, it was her turn to try to talk some sense into me.

“So, I hear you are not going to college,” she said.

“No, I’m going to college … some day, just not this fall.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.  Take some time off.  Work.  Nothing.  I don’t know.  Why is it so important to everyone?  When the time is right, I’ll go to college.”

“They just care about you.”

“Bull loney,” I said, only it was another word.

She smiled at me.  I had been dreaming about her now for six months.  I changed the topic.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?”

She laughed, “You know, I grew up the same as every girl in this high school.  I did have boyfriends.”

“Yeah, but have you ever kissed a boy,” I challenged.

“No.  Not the way you mean.”

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?”

“No.  Never,” she lied.

“If I told you I will register for college if you kiss me, will you?”

“No.  I believe you when you say you just need some time off.  I think that is a good idea.”

Then she walked up close to me and stopped a heartbeat away.  Suddenly, she reached down between my legs, grabbed the crouch of my pants and said, “Just don’t let this thing get you in trouble.”

She abruptly turned and walked out of the classroom while I tried to catch my breath.

During the graduation ceremony I saw her sitting with the other teachers and shared a private smile with her while walking back to my seat after being handed my diploma.  I would never see her again … outside of my dreams.

I often think about my high school music teacher and my ticket straight to hell.  Unfortunately, I never heeded her advice.  That body part of mine she grabbed ahold of for a fleeting second those many years ago, has gotten me in trouble time and time again.

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Same Ol' Song and Dance

As I look back across more musical times
of rhythmic reflections,
ceremonies and commemorations
of each dawn and dusk eremitic liturgy,
if that is not an oxymoron
of sound and sight,
song and dance,
tragically sad, yet also bilaterally bound with happier chance 
of liturgical comedies 
reflected upon together.

And as we look out through all our co-diva taoist days
like pages of leaves we have co-written,
we grow one primordial Tipping Point,
that we are each both tragic
and most abundantly comedic
when held together
through mutually revolutionary 
Bodhisattva Warrior eco/ego-identity.

And,
with our ends held together,
what matters most
to and for and of all of us,
is when we have fed tragic
and where we have bled comedic
into the transparently naked (0)Remainder WinWin Othernest
as soon as therapeutically possible.

When was the last time
you turned to whomever, always present,
sitting next to your Leftsaid,
with at least one exclamation point,

That was totally Yang-awesome!

It might have been at the end of a song
heard for the first time
in a particularly deep and rich,
and possibly a bit also high,
way.

Or maybe during a dance
that was totally radical,
perfect to each beat
each lyrical swell and ebb
filled with athletic grace
of freakishly limber space
and centered
like a linear 4D pivot
we each potentially arcingly are
as we become this music's dancing story,
beautifully
exquisitely reincarnating
us down
into your stage of life's most recent crippling bow,
with tragicomedy final statement,
tragedy of each end
with comedy of wonder
for each protagonist opera
in which our only antagonist
was perfect meeting of lyrically rhythmicizing here
with timeless now's completely committed integrity
of ego/eco-consciousness
reweaving

Personal tragedy of missed integrity close
to further comedies of dissonant clumsiness,
stumbles of feet and hands and mind
and pens
about dancing through life and death ourselves
as totally awesome
tragic-comedic ecopolitical choreography
with public sector lyrics
for what started out as a deeply personal 
intimate
vulnerable liturgicalizing matriarchal-wombed life.

Or maybe Wow! 
was when you were leaving church,
and mosque
and temple
and synagogue
and generic everyday BusinessAsUsual faith family,
smiling about
how to better dance
our mutual resonant opportunities,
to feed the juice
and starve monoculturing weeds.

Wow! Totally awesome
love,
grace,
synergy, 
creolization
Thanks for singing and dancing
and taking us to church
with you,
where we each belong
multiculturally YangHere with YinNow
bilateral balancing
and limber spiraling
together.

I awaken
to both the parent of special ecopolitical needs
and ecological opportunities,
but also the part-time Taoist hermit diva,
totally co-investing in WinWin liturgical planning
each multiculturing day
within dawnspace harmonic singing Yang 
through Yin dualdark
co-arising lyrics
with Bodhisattva EcoFeminist Warriors,
First Native International Cooperative Networks
each ego-anonymous 
collegially remembering co-protagonists
of Earth's tragicomedic multiculturing sad despair
with silent democratic
solidarity,
liturgically ecological patriot matriotic
YangSong with WinWin dance,
here and also now
(0)Soul rhythms
of long slow stealthy blues as also green
balancing creolic outgoing choreography.

Antagonizing local people about their malingering protagonist rights,
their song as dance resources,
and their musically harmonic personal knowledge,
does not patriotically rest unchallenged.

Forests struggle to continue 
to resist buying and selling and renting of other protagonist
song and dance forests,
including 
rewoven stories internal to,
yet not in, Asia alone.

Forest resacralizations resist secularizing diminishment
of forests for tragic exploitation
by patriarchalYang commodifying not (0)-interest profits,
and dipolar co-gravitating transubstantiation
from liturgically abundant ecological resources
for tragic song and comedic dance
back into a bad faith commodifying community.

Villagers sang and danced our tragic removal
demotion of rich ecoforests to mere positive productions
from notnot negatively dwindling reserves
asserting ego/eco-justice rights
to satisfy our basic
continuing together needs
and wants.

Feeding critical tragedy for underdog lyrics
while bleeding sad danced systematic allegiances
against monocultural demands for fake-patriotistic choreographed events,
non-violent protests
were crushed by One Nation Don't Mean First Nation,
cause I wasn't born yesterday
or the day before that,
or before doing a really great job
of making more money
for some really good people
who just got caught up in the right place
in my best time
Trump,
among the USA evangelical faithful;
crushed by economies of WinLose colonialism,
among Central Asian Bodhisattva ReForesters
and Eastern American First Nation PreForesters.

In the Himalayan mountain bioregion
the Chipko women's movement
began liturgically embracing living MotherTrees
as their protectors,
their own source
of food
and fuel
and fiber
and fertile habitat.

The Onandaga First Nation School
reimagined how children might non-violently speak and move
their dawn liturgies to remember alleged thanksgivings
for MotherTrees,
their hugs
hugging ours in music and danced liturgies
of Earth-allegiance gratitude,
basic positive cooperative
matriarchal song and dance
with Tipping Points
of taoist divas 
dipolar co-arising
(0)-soul long slower bluesy terms
of jazz rhythmic 
creolizing 
song as dancing attitude.

As I look back across more musical times
of rhythmic reflection,
allegiance ceremonies and gratitude commemorations
of each dawn and dusk danced liturgy,
I look forward too.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Mary Oliver Rotman | Details

Randomlings 1-34


Randomling 1:  Matthew Macfadyen

I believe I'm in love with Matthew Macfadyen
He inspires in me a terribly bad yen
But as poetry goes
His name 'spires woes
Cause nothing rhymes with "Macfadyen”.


Randomling 2: Birthday Wishes
  
For my birthday, I would like a man.
I wonder---can you get one from a can?
Or maybe from a catalog?
Maybe I'll just get a dog.

Randomling 3: Yet Another Cat Poem

Cats:
toddlers in fur
senior citizens with retractable claws
lions in their own minds
lunch in the minds of dogs.

Randomling 4:  Desert Woes

A sage river in a field of sand:
         so flows hope in a barren land;
                   the crippled heart in prosthetic steel,
                             hacked and scarred, a vulture’s meal.

Randomling 5:  Dark Poetry

Follow poetry to its source;
There find heartbreak and remorse.
Follow poetry to the bitter end,
And there find death, its bosom friend.

Randomling 6: Ode to Bananas

Bananas
an underappreciated fruit
sentenced to banananality
because yellow is their long suit.


Randomling 7: Untitled  

Sorry,
this heart is closed to deposits.
There's no more room for pain.

Randomling 8: Untitled

My heart is sealed in a cold steel vault,
and I’ve lost the combination.

Randomling 9: Joyce Kilmer 2015

I think that I shall never see
A man as useful as a tree.
One has uses by the score;
The other one is apt to snore.

Randomling 10:  Bedtime Prayers

Now I lay me down to sleep,
A leaden heart is mine to keep.
If I should die before I wake--
Now there’s an offer I’d gladly take.   

Randomling 11:  The Devil Wind

Tornadoes
Fury with a smoky tail
Eddies of destruction
Deceitful beauty, enchanting danger
Death sporting a makeover
____________________________________________________________________________________
DON'T READ #12 IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR ME TALK TO MY SON ABOUT CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE BIRDS AND BEES_________________________ 



Randomling 12:  A Boy's Best Friend

Your penis—it is not a toy
I told my little son.
O yes it is, he parried me
It's quite my favorite one.

Randomling 13:  Fault Lines

I have a bathroom mirror
that's grown faulty over time.
My reflection is no longer true;
it's developed little lines!

Randomling 14:  Shakespeare 101		

“To be or not to be. That is the question.”
--What question?
THE question!
--Whaddya mean, THE question?
Never mind.																		

Randomling 15: Christmas?

Peace on earth to men of good credit
Who give the gift of corporate profit
in the holy name of commercialism.

Randomling 16:  Musical Believer

Though my conscience sleeps,
wrapped in the Valium of
agnosticism, it awakens to 
the music of Mozart--
once more knowing God
by the sound of His voice.

Randomling 17: Vacuum

I didn't write a poem when you died.
The words would not come.
Perhaps I felt too deeply,
perhaps not enough;
or
maybe I died too.   10/06/01

Randomling 18: Insanity

Insanity is underrated
Its drawbacks,much overstated.
How else to do what you darn well please
And accomplish it with so much ease?

Randomling 19: Dog Day Afternoon

WATER! BALL! CHASE!
salt, waves, undertow
I don't know what's going
on here, but I'm HAPPY!

Randomling 20: Opposites Attract

i am matter---love, antimatter
never to meet save to explode
i am space, love is time
parallel dimensions never to meet

Randomling 21: Puppy Love

I ride a leaky newspaper raft
Adrift on the linoleum
Anxiously awaiting an
An attack of smelly
squirming happiness
covered in fuzz:
Puppy love.

Randomling 22: Newton's Poultice

Apple falls from tree
Newton (ouch!) takes notice
Comes up with law of gravity
while wearing a poultice
on the solstice

Randomling 23: Ticking

And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
while my life fell apart all around me.
Sweet memories faded to shadow
as my heart fell to pieces inside me.
And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
Relentlessly ticking, ticking
While my life fell apart all around me.

Randomling 24: Untitled

eternity
a mosaic assembled from
shimmering, glimmering
tiles of delight and
black-glazed stones of despair
interlocking snowflakes
in seamless beauty

Randomling 25: Seasonal Lament
Daylight shrinks end at both end as summer falls into the arm of winter. arm
Randomling 26: Untitled
I didn't want to love you.
Randomling 27: Pills Depression is days and nights curled fetal-like in a dark room, no interest in the world outside, idly wondering if there are enough pills in the bottle to kill you, then thinking it's not worth the effort to find out because you're dead inside already. Randomling 28: Guilt By Association Fresh morning light frames the cat, surrounded by piles of dirt and deceased plants, looking innocent. Randomling 29: Bell the Cat How do you give a cat a bath? Maybe you can do the math. All I know is she stinks to high heaven. And of us there are only seven. How many humans to bathe a cat? Definitely more than where we're at! Randomling 30: Muse
I want to write a poem using the word gossamer. “Gossamer.”
Randomling 31: Ripples
Canoes rock gently under the waxing moon. Black water ripples, painting a beautiful scene under the scented pines.
Randomling 32: Sunshine Waterfall I cleanse my face in a sunshine waterfall, luxuriate in a sunshine shower. Waterfall flow and warm me; sprinkle lemon drops through my hair. Randomling 33: Salon Treatment Hurricanes scour everything they touch, then rinse and blow dry. Randomling 34: My Window Blue sky pokes its face through the canopy of trees. Heat wave is over!

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details

The Untold story of a Sitar 3


The Untold story of a Sitar Part 3 Concluded . A soothing musical note Was coming out and floating In the air In that White coated Old auditorium Of a different era Which was so alive before me As if I was a guest listener Of its vibrant musical lore’s Now being produced for the Listeners of that gathering By Tan In her exclusive style I have never witnessed before. 22 . And the girl Tan Was playing and playing Forgetting everything Which was there in the surrounding of her With many gazing eyes and eager ears Who were too keen to feast their eyes Whenever they get any chance to see her face To relish the sparking beauty of that artist Tan. 23 . These listeners were restlessly waiting For the climax Of that classical Raga Bholali* She was playing On her charming Sitar With a flute to accompany her In its heart fetching melodious voice. 24 . That beautiful young girl Tan Was still creating in the air A magical effect For all those melody hungry ears And the music listeners Were listening that performance In a pin drop silence. 25 . The strings of Sitar With the sound of Flute were creating Their enchanting notes Making the listeners almost Drowsy as if they had drank An intoxicating drink Which was dear to Lord Shiva* Or the heavenly wine Prepared by Bacchus. 26 . She kept on playing And producing that magic Among the galaxy of music lovers Who used to gather quite often To enjoy the enchanting voices and instruments Of singers and musicians In that wonderful small auditorium Which was created only For listening The music performances Of artists like Tan and others . 27 In that era when When the world was not So close to each other When hearts were more endowed With love and passion For music, songs and sightseeing and knowledge Which was dwelling in almost every Vibrant heart I was watching that grand show As an unknown and invisible spectator. 28 . Suddenly a strange fellow Came on the Dias Who was dressed very elegantly But behaved like a rustic He made almost a hit On the neck of that Sitar And caught and almost pulled The right arm of Tan all of a sudden. In doing so he not only broken The delicate upper wooden stem And strings of Sitar But even wounded The soft and beautiful right hand of Tan While damaging the Sitar And many of its strings. 29 That tall and good looking man In his beastly stroke Not only gave a jolt to that Beautiful girl But he even spoiled The evening of all those Who had gathered there To relish the beauty and magic Of her performances As the target of this young intruder Was the innocent lady Tan only Who was the main attraction and charm Of that pleasant and wonderful evening. 30 . Before Even anyone could have understood What was the intension Of that decent looking rustic He dragged the musician To the other side gate of that hall While leaving the Sitar In that broken condition On the floor of that small auditorium. 31 . Everyone was shocked and bewildered By that sudden jolt and break Which had destroyed completely The rhythms and flow of that great musical evening. 32 . It was like depriving suddenly Someone very thirsty When only a part of some cool and refreshing water Had gone down his throat In the form of that music magic Which she was creating on the Dias. 33 . The strange thing was The more she played on Sitar with Flute A deeper thirst was awakening among listeners For that music and all those sounds She and her flute partner were creating In everyone’s heart. 34 Watching that scene As an uncalled and unseen visitor I tried to knew by listening The voices of the people Who were enjoying that music In a pin drop scilence I had never witnessed before. 35 . One of them was saying “Oh He is the Prince of our State The young Raja Saheb* He seems to have returned From his foreign trip After nearly a year And appears to be not in his senses When he dragged his young and beautiful wife From the Dias Like she was not human But a toy of his Palace. 36 . “Everyone knows here That he never tolerates His wife giving any stage performances Among the gathering Of common men and women” And his earlier wife too had to commit suicide For these reasons only. 37 . A lady of that gathering was saying “He is an insane fellow He would take the life Of his charming wife once again Only because She had given a public performance Of her music in his absence.” 38 . I was stunned to hear all that When suddenly I felt, as if I had awakened from a nap And whatever I saw was only a dream As there was no girl like Tan And no auditorium which was breathing so alive Only few minutes ago in my dream And the girl Tan too was not visible anywhere. 39 . The only thing I could see and feel Was my Sitar With its new rejuvenated look Which was still lying before me Inviting me to play its strings To produce once again Some simple basic Surs* Like SA RE GA MA PA DHA NI SA Or Do Ray Me Fa La Ti Doe . 40 Ravindra Kanpur 25th April 2016 Raag* A raga uses a series of five to nine musical notes upon which a melody is constructed. However, the way the notes are approached and rendered in musical phrases and the mood they convey are more important in defining a raga than the notes themselves. In the Indian musical tradition, ragas are associated with different times of the day, or with seasons.

Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Laura Breidenthal | Details

Light On the Devil's Chord - The Challenge

My hair bristled in the crisp breeze
Excitement spreading throughout my body
Even the sudden cold amused my fingertips,
Tingles spreading through my hands and up my arms
Soon I would be there too. . .
In the murky shadows of mysterious malice
To see the claws and talons of humanity’s greatest foe
The Prince of Darkness—the Saint of Woe

The great seal remained closed as I stood before it
Not a peep was heard from inside

“Knock, and it will be opened to you . . . “

Lightly, my fist clunked three times upon the great seal,
And a horrendous echo resounded like muffled shrieks of suffering
Black ooze leaked out of the seal as I lifted my fist
A great closed pot of tender meat and chow boiling over,
The spicy hot substance steaming the long grass surrounding the well-like prison

Then a voice, like Queen Bee birth resounded,
Stinging me fiercely, body and soul, having me sway…
To a familiar song
I had listened to long ago:

“Iiiii… ain’t got no-booooooody…. 
And no-body cares…foooor meeee…”

The song continued as the seal opened fully,
As I began descending into the restless night of his voice
Both lulled and perturbed
The sumptuous layers of shrieks, his background band
Gurgles of thundering bass,
And strums of laughter from throats long wailing… 

“Aaaaaaaand.. I’m sad and loooooooonely… 
Won’t some-body…come takah chance with meeee..
Owhhh…?” 

In what seemed like an eternal moment,
I had landed in the very bottom of the boiling ooze
The music ceased, and the great seal slipped over,
Blocking the view of the stars. . .
Yes, above. . .now only darkness
As if heaven, to Satan, was hell. . .

He turned to me slowly, knowingly
A smile creeping on his filthy face, from ear to ear
A charming set of teeth, freshly sung mouth
Arrogant brow rising in mock surprise. . .
A gruff laugh escaped his lips as my heart beat faster
And I thought to myself,

“What have I gotten myself into?”
. . .
The words popped out of my mouth before my mind could object,
And he exploded in a fit of charming guffaws
I heard a sea of laughter follow his own
Even Death, in the far corner of prison, winked. . .amused

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years, 
Dearest Daughter of Eve. . .  I’m impressed . . . really, I am. . .”

“You are?”

His smile faded and his expression grew grim and cold
“Well . . . are you?”

I remained silent, and took a deep breath
What shall I say to the Devil himself?
Am I clever enough? Brave enough?

“Impressed, I mean. . .well?
Are you? 
I know you will not lie to me,
You wouldn’t dream of it. . .
You wouldn’t dream nasty dreams like times in your past days. . .
Or. . .would you. . .Daughter of Eve.
Would you dare. . .dream of me. . .”

I felt a claw hit me on the back of my neck
I remained still, my breathing cradled by the silence. . .
I moved closer to him, never blinking,
As his coal eyes burned deeply into mine

Suddenly, he was furious
“You dare give me silence, woman!?
After my years of devastating . . . tormenting my own, 
Just to see and hear them screech and tremble. . .
Of no aim but to crush this criminal quiet,
You…a woman of no power…or little to show, 
Come down to me, ME. . .whom you know hates you all. . .
You come down to me, The Almighty Devil of Hatred,
With your dull . . . infuriating . . . pathetic, disgusting. . .
Silence……?”

I sighed. . .
“I. . .I don’t know why I am here. . .with you. . .perhaps it is a test. . .a lesson. . .
But I do know what I want. . .”

His claw dug deeper into my skin. . .
“Oh, that’s a new one. . .
But you. . .hm, hard to play with. . .? I doubt it. 
Easy to trick. . .surely. . .
If there was a point. . .”

Deeper the claw dug into my skin, but my flesh refused to break

I smiled at him softly, and this seemed to disturb him completely
He looked at me numbly, an impassive stare
 Devoid of feeling and emotion

And I said to him,
“I want you to sing and play us a song you have never sung before,
Prince of Darkness. . .”

His grimy skin rippled at the opportune challenge. . .
His eyes drew out all confidence and pride swirling in the shadows
His smile, big again, fresh, and repugnant
He smelled of all things dead, and all things putrid

“Plug in the bass, Death.
I am going to dissolve this fluttery woman right where she stands.”

I stopped him, possessed with an idea
I bit my lip and removed his claw from my neck
Taking his hand for a moment, and pushing it to him

“One more thing, Devil.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course. . .what is it?”

“. . .I’m singing with you.”

The demons roared in hilarity, as Death, 
Silent as always kept his composure

Satan tilted his head at me as the laughter died
He no longer contained his surprise
“You. . .want to. . .make music. . .with me?”

“I’ve got 40 days and 40 nights. . .don’t you be a killjoy.”

He smiled at me, fury and lust in his eyes
“Angel charms will not work down here, babe. . .
I rarely play fair. . . .but I never turn down a challenge.”

My strange purpose had surfaced at last
“Quit your stalling then, and turn up the music.”

--------------------------

Song reference: “I Have Nobody” specifically sung by Leon Redbone
**Please tell me what you thing guys! If you haven’t read the other parts, it might explain things a bit. This is going to be a major work, and I’d loved all the advice I can get. I am aware that collaborating with The Devil is a tricky feat, and I’d really love some input. Thanks for reading. Lots of love! –Oh, and also, I am thinking of changing the title of the work as well. Not sure what yet!

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Silent One | Details

Search for love is never black or white

The search for love is never black or white. I'm just looking for a pretty young thing. It's human nature to desire what is right. Forget Billie Jean, girl was just a fling. I'm just looking for a pretty young thing. Not like dirty Diana, girl's too bad. Forget Billie Jean, girl was just a fling. Liberian girl only made me sad. Not like dirty Diana, girl's too bad. It's not as simple as ABC. Liberian girl only made me sad. Those kinda girls too dangerous for me. It's not as simple as ABC. Man in the mirror needs a loyal wife. Those kinda girls too dangerous for me. They don't care about us - just ruin life. Man in the mirror needs a loyal wife. Someone to rock my world, not run away. They don't care about us - just ruin life, Blame it on the boogie is all they say. Someone to rock my world, not run away, to be with me more than one day in my life. Blame it on the boogie is all they say, drives me wild, but my heart's desire is rife. To be with me more than one day in my life. A slave to the rhythm, I wanna rock with you, drives me wild, but my heart's desire is rife. <b>Give in to me, start a love born anew. A slave to the rhythm, I wanna rock with you. Together we can heal the world in tune. Give in to me, start a love born anew. I just can't stop loving you - feeling swoon. Together we can heal the world in tune. I can't describe the way you make me feel. I just can't stop loving you - feeling swoon. Love never felt so good, it's a big deal. I can't describe the way you make me feel. Whenever you need me, I'll be there. Love never felt so good, it's a big deal. Will you be there when I need loving care? Whenever you need me, I'll be there. Can you feel it, are your emotions strong? Will you be there when I need loving care? You are not alone is our special song. Can you feel it, are your emotions strong? Loving you can sometimes be really tough. You are not alone is our special song, but I sing, don't stop till you get enough. Loving you can sometimes be really tough. Beat it you say and don't talk on the phone, but I sing, don't stop till you get enough. You become mute and say leave me alone. Beat it you say and don't talk on the phone. We talked for hours, remember the time? You become mute and say leave me alone. Who is it that now makes your heart chime? We talked for hours, remember the time? Romantic gestures that have gone too soon. Who is it that now makes your heart chime? She's out of my life - a smooth criminal's goon. Romantic gestures that have gone too soon. It's human nature to desire what is right. She's out of my life -a smooth criminal's goon. The search for love is never black or white.
Originally written on 2 May 2016 Re-posted 30 September 2017 An experiment using music titles for a pantoum. Below are 35 song titles by Michael Jackson, used in the poem. This poem has 9-10 syllables per line. Black or White Pretty young thing Human nature Billie Jean Dirty Diana Bad Liberian girl ABC Dangerous Man in the mirror They don't care about us Rock my world Blame it on the boogie One day in your life Drives me wild Rock with you Slave to the rhythm Give in to me Heal the world I just can't stop loving you The way you make me feel Love never felt so good I'll be there Will you be there? Can you feel it You are not alone Loving you Don't stop till you get enough Beat it Leave me alone Remember the time Who is it? Gone too soon she's out of my life Smooth criminal Pantoum poem A rare form of poetry. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing. It does not have to rhyme nor have a syllable restriction.

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details

Different Dream

After a hard day at work I come home
Hear my boy rapping the words to his headphones
Every bleep comes another bleep
As he keeps dancing to the beat
Come upstairs and barge through the door
Say to him, "Boy whatcha listenin' to that for?"
As I rip it out of his ears
Turn around and look in the mirror
Get ya head outta the gutter son
You talk to ya mother with that tongue?
Ought'a lean you down and wash your mouth soap
Teach you a lesson and just barely make you choke

Dad, you don't understand
This is me, this is who I am!

Boy, you freeze it right there
Just so I know we're good and square
I'm your father, sit down when I say so
This is home, this is where the green grass grows
Can't be the one to follow you where you go
Can't take you as is and just tie a little bow
Around it and be happy
You ain't what I expected you'd be
After all this hard work to bring home the bacon
Just to come home to see the fuss you making!?

Imma be big and travel the world,
Be famous and get hooked with any girl
I'm tired of this rice 'n' beans, I wanna taste some of that green!

Stop it child, you making a scene, a mockery of ya ma and me
Do yourself a favor and dream a different dream

 The strings are for those with charm
And fame are for those holding cards
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream
Billionaires are cowards in disguise
Their careers built upon money and lies
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream

I remember when you was little
Your mind was like some twisted riddle
Rapping the lyrics
To your idols, Snoop Dog and Jay-Z
Acting like you knew what they meant
But boy, you could barely read
Spittin' rhymes don't put a roof over ya head
Or clean the dirty sheets in your bed
All those fancy clothes don't give ya fame
just brings your family to shame
Look at you playing life like it's a game
Joining all those gangs just to bleed
Gettin' high and smokin' weed

Dad, it ain't like that
I'm not some filthy rat
Planting my seed wherever
Imma stay true forever
Build myself upon lyrical tether
Striving to be as authentic as leather
Come on dad, can't we get it together?

Your grandpa was born and raised in the meadows
No Internet, no microwave, just planting corn rows
But right now the grass is as green as it's gonna get
And if you ain't got that through ya head yet
As your pops I'm really quite upset

 Take these words right from my mouth
And give 'em wings to fly south
Or I will run from this house like the ratatouille mouse
Tired of this cheese I want something more
The birds and the bees aren't what I'm looking for
I don't wanna die like everybody else
Just put in a hole and call it a grave
I don't wanna die with nothing to my name
If I'm not looking up I'm going south
You can scream and cuss at me with ya sailor's mouth
I'm still leaving and I'm taking the dangerous route

The strings are for those with charm
And fame are for those holding cards
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream
Billionaires are cowards in disguise
Their careers built upon money and lies
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream

Here I am, standing in this trailer
In your eyes I'm a failure
For wanting to travel the world like a sailor
From Beverly Hills to New York City
At this point I don't even care if you're with me
I may have augmented my hopes a bit too high
But I was tired of looking through telescopes, that habit can die
But dad look at me now
No longer in a small town
Can't be modest I have to boast
I'm traveling the world from coast to coast
In everybody's head is my riffs
And I wish you were here to see this
Swallow your pride long enough to shed a tear
Remember what you used to say, "Turn around, look in the mirror"...?
I wasn't no golden child and you weren't the perfect dad
But come on now, that's a thing of the past
You can ditch your bacon, eggs and Jimmy Dean
Live in luxury in your fields of green
Come on dad, won't you dream this different dream
with me?



NOTE: Words in italics are from the son's perspective, words in normal font are from the father's perspective, and words in bold is the chorus line.

I'm not sure where the idea came from. I was on a camping trip, heading back home, and all the sudden this whole elaborate story came to me and I started writing it all down on a notepad (back then I didn't have my Kindle Fire).

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

The EgoTherapist Session

Have you been hearing voices again?

Still, yes.
No new ones, though,
since the Voice Against Death Investment.

So you're still hearing from the Forest Voices
which are actually more of a rhythm and blues chorus
made up of 4-part harmonic Tree Voices 
for HealthWealthy Root Systems.

Yes, that chorus forest
remains largely Yang dominant for me,
but the Yin still small sacred Voice Of and For EcoPolitical Ego/EcoMetric Harmonic-Crystal-Fractal Patriarchal/Matriarchal Balance string of capitalized
regenerating adjectives as adverbs
continues reweaving
through my wavering
Right recessive mind.

Yes, I recall from last session,
the forest chorus Yang
singing the sacred octaves for ecofeminist reforestry design,
using yin-squared
as equivalent with c-squared
and Eulerian prime relational function
as fractal bilateral RealTime consciousness.
That all comes blearishly back toward bicameral mind
from far too many past dream journal entries.
But, again,
are all these diverse voices still aware of each other?

Are you asking
am I polypathically (0)-Soul eco-conscious
that these Voices all share one dialectal
regenerative
health v pathology
full spectral WinWin and WinLose and LoseLose
MidWay PolyCultural Interpretation of History?

I might.
And I most certainly do mean to ask again,
Do all these Voices remain known among themselves
as yourself?

Yes, they know we are also one and the same Voice,
like integrity reversed through decompositional segregation,
antipathies watched throughout chronic separation,
active distrusts revisited
before and with imagined trusted facts
of alternative dipolar Voices
speaking both patriarchal and matriarchal balanced historic ecosystems
of TaoTime,
(0)-Sum WinWin.

Do you all speak with ego/eco-conscious harmonic integrity?
All intending polyculturally healthy EarthVoiced Outcomes?

Yes, I actively hope
that's what we polypathically mean
together,
better than competitively and reductively apart.

Then you are each and all singing and dancing for reforesting Earth together?

Yes,
usually in 4/4 (0)-Soul bilateral octave colored time,
double-bind fractal torus sounds and resonant shapes
of reiterative rhythm
all our times robustly romantic together.
I mean,
for us,
me,
that's all RealTime could become
completely together,
rather than falling apart.

You sound excited about this harmony,
in a sort of scary manic way.

Well
if manic turns to panic
I'll get back to you.
Otherwise,
I think we're done here.

But, 
I thought we were just getting to what your Voices are actually saying.
It has taken us three years
just to give your Voices names
and understand which are older
and which newer,
and which louder and sometimes softer
and both,
and perhaps why they speak and squeak in diverse colors.

Now who's getting excited?
But, yes, well that's what all my Voices speak of,
LeftBrain newer YangDominant
with Elder RightBrain YinYin-squared
is equivalent to WinWin 4D SpaceTime
BiLateral EcoSystemic Theory
of Original Prime Relational
(0)-Soul Intent.

How do you sleep at night
with all that metric racket?

Oh, that's easy.
The stars ring lullabies of light.

What about when its cloudy
or smoggy
or foggy
or just kind of boggy?

Starlight can still be overheard
through dualdark nights.

Of course,
apparently my RightBrain knew that,
or felt it
or went aptic about wu-wei waves
of bionic-ergodic reiterative communications,
positive Yang as also not(not Poly-MultiYin)
therapeutically paradigmatic.

I thought you were supposed to be
an ecotherapist.

I thought you were hoping to become
less of an egocentric smart-ass.

Oh great,
so now you've stooped to name-calling.
How much is that going to cost me?

It depends on whether you enjoy it or not.

Which is less?

I really should therapeutically charge more for abuse and neglect. 

OK, then,
all my Forest Chorus enjoyed
this time invested,
which,
unfortunately,
we will never get back again
for better regenerative singing and dancing.

And drumming.
Didn't you say you enjoy drumming?

Yes, and strumming
and humming.

So you're good with the cooperative mings,
its just competing isms 
your Chorus Forest has issues with?

Not sure.
We'll have to (0)Sum
our 2020 ReVision Voices
on your ming and isms question.
Maybe next session?

Yes, let's pick it up from there,
or here,
or wherever we are now
and then.





Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems