Long Opus Poems
Long Opus Poems. Below are the most popular long Opus by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Opus poems by poem length and keyword.
Inspired by Friedrich Von Schiller’s poem,
The birth to a tumultuous...orchestral bliss.
The flicks of his wand was the rhythm he heard,
A call for dramatic attention...an extraordinary passage.
As he pulls...he demands...rejecting the three movements,
A dense prelude to what is to come softly emerges.
The lower strings of the orchestra sadly...grope,
And transcend into a new melody...a higher plateau.
Intermingling yet surprisingly...exploding into full orchestra,
The rhythm leaves his wand...to the choral of ode to joy.
A musical patriot with passionate poise...conducts in silence.
His soul’s final composition permeates from the gestures of his wand.
A deaf body with a mindful soul...fatigued and battered,
Deprived to listen to the thunderous applause...of his life’s magnum opus.
Oh, this is not my cup of tea!
Woke up yesterday with a foot in agony.
A wheelchair from my Mom, I had.
Luckily for me, as my left foot that was very bad.
My daughter and grandson came over to help.
This aging poetess and drama queen wlo likes to yelp!
Into my bed, I was commanded.
Ice on my foot, I felt stranded.
No weight on that foot could I place.
My face was flushed with silly disgrace.
Maria said, "Give it a few days."
I was distraught and in a case ofundesired malaise.
This morning, the pain is about gone.
But keeping off of it, and grateful I can pen poetic songs.
A special thanks to you who wished me well.
Those wonderful prayers and kind words, made me, of this tale to tell.
Bless all of you,
Panagiota xx
10/16/2020
Opus# 1
With an impulsive cognizance of the mother instinct
In physique and psyche, with her lambs, she's lovingly linked.
Her head-butting, as though she looks furious, does not hurt.
Her bleat is rhythmic, like a harmonious bass concert.
Like a mom lauds her kids, to lambs the ewe show her love.
As human spirits, is an ewe's soul, sent from above?
Cultures, religions, histories, and theologies praise
Of her flesh, blood, and veins, the science artfully portrays
Symbol of life that flows from human-divine alertness
Isn't there, in an ewe, a unique peacefulness?
Harmony of wily innocence and witty shrewdness
O ewe! You're a magnum opus of divine fullness.
Christmas is coming, but Santa is grounded?
By masked Covid maniacs,he is brutally, sadly hounded.
The sad, sweet elves, in lockdown
they sit.
Wearing dopey blue masks, having huge crying fits!
Children cannot dream of Santa this year anymore.
Daddy drinks more, and by our
fireplace, loudly just snores.
Surely Covid Maniacs are happily cheering!
As a blue-masked Christmas season is nearing.
No sitting on Santa' s lap, no,not this year!
As for New Years Eve forget all the kissing fun and loving cheer.
Rudolph's pretty, shiny nose goes
dim in his barn.
The Covid Maniacs locked him in,
so he can do us no harm.
Our Christmas dinner will be on FaceTime this year.
You adults can change things but
no, you chose bogus fears?
You think we can learn via Zoom?
You had a childhood once, why can't you give us some room?
We can't grow up normally up under prison conditions.
Stop believing all fake news, and regain sane mental positions!
10/12/2020
Opus# 3
As if our fights were not fractious enough,
Look, children have picked up the cue from us
And unless we call truce for peace and love,
Things might blow off the roof what with all fuss,
She complained once, nudged by the lost out sense.
Relax, I said, a conflict has its use,
So has this friction if confined to fence,
Only, it’s a double-edged sword to choose.
Life, what an opus if fights forge out friends!
Thank friction, a caveman found out the fire,
Stop all chafing, wheels would go out of hands,
It can lift humdrum life a tad higher,
It’s friction that dull edges get vetted,
Without, bonds of ties get not well-knotted.
If friction does within fixed fulcrum lay,
But not, were it to rub in a wrong way.
__________________________________
Sonnet | 01.01.2026 |conflict/friction, family, marriage
Note: This sonnet should have ended by the fourteenth line, but for the fact that every wife enjoys her birth right to have a last word, and here she insisted on adding her own couplet.
This is the Simplest alibi of this timeless magnum Opus, that I am not the capital
This is a point of exclamation in me, that I am not the majestic warrior
eternal.
Only one hope is remaining there, and up she goes, in round and round
I will be there, with you, to the farthest, along a shore of life, predestined.
In a lonely lit-up night, an enchanted one, the midnight hymn came as mine
My beloved, your face had the bliss of a smile line, my chime.
In one unbearable moon-lit day, when the solar lamp dimmed low
I knocked at your door, there
Weaving some knick knack, words sounding pretty, I yearned for you.
My love, where art thou?
I’m the center. You are my encircled bohemian, the only eternal , staying there that remains!
I’m the empire in your submerging love, an entropy ruling in me, all that fall short in sense!
I’m the center. You are my encircled bohemian, the only eternal , staying there that remains!
I’m the empire in your submerging love, an entropy ruling in me, all that fall short in sense!
Love, an endless epic for poets, wandering swiftly through the reigning gypsy times.
For no good reason, a blister in a scorching hot sandy dune, then a sleepy oasis chimes.
I thought that I’m an exception there, a loner , far from the madding crowd.
Too cuddly a love, only a mannerism, words are often playing there, as it could.
Why are you that smile at me that rules me often on the full swing whim?
Why are you that sweet poem on a versed phone call, in words of a brim?
Today, you’re a enchained latitude in my gaze, too long a brushstroke in my palette
I am a helpless frozen teardrop there, brittled.
I’m the center. You are my encircled bohemian, the only eternal , staying there that remains!
I’m the empire in your submerging love, an entropy ruling in me, all that fall short in sense!
I reached the domain of stardom, from the Jupiter to the saturn
A nomadic I, traveler through your passion of love, in high, a mere elongation. Expression.
I’m the center. You are my encircled bohemian, the only eternal , staying there that remains!
I’m the empire in your submerging love, an entropy ruling in me, all that fall short in sense!
All clouds in azure at the lantern sky
Would be so calling the wings of the dreams
For spans in fortuitous threads
The beam of love reaching into a fragrant flower
By the chariot of natural order
In sweet joy the hope elucidate
Fire and water and chimes of the stars
A close opus in the song of flame
As in offering the hand of the river
A kiss as right as a great ease
So in such eruption witness without invest
The bell of arcs in bliss without question
Beyond what will should let
A garden and a veil
In patience though less structure
Fragility encompass such a grain
To ecstasy so coursing
By the darkness and any call
As same to seat a different page
The Valley Of Love And Delight':
An anniversary feting mine birth (date),
a plan we almost didst ditch
nonetheless the general game plan
soared like an Eagle,
and went off swimmingly (into a dive)
hence we chose Wegman's with doll finned porpoise
minus a sue per stevedore tailored hitch
cuz the China Jade restaurant
near Collegeville Redner's
nearly felt cold as ice dining niche
as if we accidentally
got highjacked to Siberia
where heat took precedence
verses restaurateur eatery reputable pitch
thus despite praise worthy Yelp reviewers,
whether they be named Poe or Rich
hard, earning their keep whose fingers
hut till lee diploid across
warp and weft to stitch
together disparate threads
weaving a webbed whirled Magnum Opus
where thoughts analogous
to this aspiring paperback writer exerts,
(whose muscles twitch)
in an attempt for phalanges
tortured as going every which
way with to craft a non ode us paean
from deep within thy bowel
applying me magical diving rod –
essentially a computerized dowel
which makes a dinging sound,
or emitting an odor most fetid and fowl
unintentionally inducing creatures
large and small to howl
at the abominable cursing and swearing
using languages that lack a vowel
sound - clouding ability to communicate
to remain steadfast
with intent thwarted by (third eye blind)
minor detour of fate
three doors down and celebrate modestly,
NEVER thought to "FAKE"
forgo wing NOR deferring
time to be spent with
a gluten and MSG free
NON GMO endearing sibling
NO whey iz she dee snide dour twisted sister
hood moost likely become irate
invested in marriage to a loving mate.
Pieces of glass shattered on the wooden floor
I maim my pointed finger; it bleeds and runs into my broken door.
Grief is timeless as it seems,
How evergreen to sculpture happiness in my dreams?
I’m beautifully made but devastatingly asking,
“What keeps you awake and keep on going?”
Life is an art that is crafted under a long process
They say it’s worthy to endure; just like how everyone else.
“You need to find hope in your disappointments and failures”
As nonchalant as mosaic, there’s beauty in life’s curvatures.
“Your insecurity is like a fake brush that loses your colors to paint”
Look how splendor the love and support around; need them to acquaint.
Just keep on going is what will keep me going.
For as long as I know that this beautiful life will keep me flowing.
Soon to be draped inside the room where decors and schemes are pretty simple,
I will be the masterpiece; a work of art that outstands like a steeple.
The structure, or plot, of a poem is, in my opinion, like the melody in music. It's what holds the words together and keeps us reading...
A present's not a gift until someone sends or brings it,
But a poem is still a song even if no one sings it.
You may think you can't write lyrics, but you're wrong,
If you ever wrote a poem, you wrote a song.
Every poem has a melody inside it,
Although in free verse it's much easier to hide it.
Take, for instance, Mr. Whitman's "Leaves of Grass".
Now, this is a masterpiece, no doubt,
And I don't mean to be too critical, or crass,
But it's laboriously long,
And notoriously short on song,
And although he does give it a nod,
I find it somehow rather odd
That by the end he's all but left the music out.
If what he calls "singing" is so by definition,
It's well camouflaged by piles of superfluity
And about a million unnecessary miles of exposition.
To perform his piece in public Walt's fans rarely get invited.
It takes almost as long to read the thing,
As it took the guy to write it*.
Now, lest you think that I forgot
The premise of this piece, I've not.
It's true I wandered from the path a bit,
But with alacrity, I'll now get back to it.
Most lyrics don't require one jot
Of setting, dialogue, or plot,
But what the better ones have got
Is lots of good old rhythm, rhyme, and repetition.
Every time you write a poem you make a miracle,
And even more so when that miracle is lyrical.
*It is not my intention to impugn or demean Mr. Whitman's work. "Leaves of Grass" was a monumental opus, way ahead of its time, that he worked on for 37 years, from its first publication in 1855, at his own expense, until his death in 1892. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been choreographed or set to music. A reason for that, I suspect, may be that no composer or choreographer wanted to risk growing old, infirm, blind, and possibly dying before the task could be completed.