Long Pitches Poems
Long Pitches Poems. Below are the most popular long Pitches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pitches poems by poem length and keyword.
The Tulips were glass
charming colored glass
ornaments'
that chimed from their
movement in the wind
they inspired song
they spoke like people
they were concerted
and ranked
by their tones
beautiful flowers
art pieces among the stones
their whispers were worded
their lyrics were love songs
they wished to be heard
by the stones
** Music Within **
Remarkably…
Oh, do! Please!
Begin the music
For my inner empty places —
Such as they are…Please!
Sound some splendid inspiration
For my waking…
Do bring all-surrounding some music!
That I might leap!
Leap into a new day
As soon as the dawn’s
Stroking sunshine bathes my face!
I promise to be alert to listen…And to wait
— expecting — hopeful to hear,
Beauty’s range of notes Vibrating in my ear!
To
Carry me
Quite Off the floor!
and
UP! Into the air!
Distinctively
Dressed in a contemporary suite
Of rythms and frequency modulations
As conducted along passages over the scales
With different pitches
To excel! High!
And
Then
Down…
As
The tempos and frequencies change
By the composed signified
Syncopation
Of the beats…
I’ll join in
Keeping time
To the music’s
Play…
And the varying frequencies…Heard
Surrounding do cause a vibrating within me…
So naturally seamed to my nerves…Enlivening,
Enchanting
Dance…Out! To rise
From my sleeping life’s dormant places…
In motions choreographed and set down…In
Footprints to follow
Between glistening stars’ beams found
— By Divine grace — in my beating heart!
——————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 7/7-9/2023
Thanks be to God——
I do not intend to make a mess
Though there might be times I run awry
You must be certain I've done my best
Even when unzipped might be my fly
So take me now in a spirit's haste, and sigh
For I was never meant to sing nor dance nor blame
But in my mind and in my heart I will wake the Devil's cry
And wrangle and wiggle him out of Sunday's game.
I have a lover, a kindred, that does do test.
She devours me, directs me, and takes me on high.
Though even with such adventures, feelings the crest
I am seized by doubt and thrown into duress.
Show me the coals, Great Being! Bring me the flame!
I seek the truth and the folly in this Great World Fest!
The highs and the lows rub raw with this jest...
So a-Tuesday I take my mind out and linger with the rest,
The pitches and the tones and the places I did try!
Starbucks, and Tullys, and even Walmart: what a nest!
The modern world shakes like fragile timber with every try,
Let us wake this world, my love, then say our final goodbye!
We'll walk along the moving path like blooming flowers aflame,
Not knowing our left or right or up or down, but good and yes, and fly!
We'll find new loves, new fears, new lands, and none we'll try and tame.
A mess I may make, and you the same.
Though our love for each other will never die.
You've made me, and I've made our frame
For a picture, that will never be goodbye.
Music is God
and songs worship
Music.
In appreciation of the
composers skills
one might look to
God for inspiration.
False Gods collaborate
throught
the concentration of plagiarism
they look to speak to many
and gather the attention of all
in worship of both
Music and song
they structure
melonic hamonies
in music intro,
lyric chourus and in
lyric prechorus
with sounds that overlap the other
that combine both treble and bass
sounds structure
sequences
with pitches that introduce and reintroduce
both verse and chorus.
lovers of bass often sooth the foreground sound
by having deep tones that neither moves
the groove or
harmony.
it often draws both sounds together
by
meeting the strings, woodwinds
and percussion in
combination
that meets to sound as one
and moves away
and becomes the regular
sound of the song.
Often said the different parts of
a song tells you when the song
began and when it will end.
e cosi cha le persone
si incontrano e si
innamorano
Gaffaz's largest bowl holds twenty cups of flour
she has six of the same size.
the recipe she needs asks for 60 cups
how many bowls of the same size
wil Gaffaz need if the recipe ask for 120 cups?
Wind outside my tiny home, wreaking chaos on its porch
Wicker chairs and potted plants, stand firmly against its force
Finely tuned chimes sound loudly, sending sweetly toned notes into the night
A candle I’ve lit flickers, with the flow of cool currents through aging wooden panes
As the warm glow from the fire, now comforting, fends off the chill from a cool springtime rain
Tuxedo cats hardly notice a thing, intertwined into something resembling a fine sable
Opening one eye on occasion, then quickly returning to twilight
The fire logs let out a soft sounding hiss, as they shrink into hot glowing embers
Fixing my gaze towards its vibrant colors. Comforting, Hypnotic
Drift off to sleep with sounds of a storm. Who’s sharp pitches and tones
Guiding me gently like binaural beats and theta waves
Into another state, created by conscious choice. A world of making all my own
An ancient mariner in the seamless sea seemingly serene,
I am sailing with solemn determination for ages,
both in the radiance of the luminous sunshine,
and at times when the testing tempest rages.
The onyx sky tears open with a furious scream,
signaling danger in cosmic sound across shattered seas.
Clouds clash with unending surge in bruised black sky
as winds run wild through the ribs of shoreline trees.
The sky descends clad in the bashed robes of gloomy grey
as the swelling waves break in foams of blinding white.
The shrieking winds command the wild sea its diktat,
ingest the stifled spark of the splintered moon’s light.
Rain strikes the indigo vastness like dropped-down blight,
while the splitting flashes of lightning slink burning hand.
With each roar of rupturing thunder, sharp and abrupt,
the sky stoops low to abide by the tempest’s command.
On the azure swells of the rolling waves of menace,
rising high with the fallen sky and plunging abysmal low,
my senile antique boat pitches, and I struggle hard
to keep it afloat, the voyage is painfully slow.
But to reach the yonder shore destined for me
I know I have to sail steadfast for long and very far.
Lost and forlorn in the tempestuous alien sea
I search vainly for the ubiquitous guide, the pole star.
I discover in the end the guiding beacon of acuity,
shining as the divine star hidden within me,
tracing in psyche the course to the final destination
I have been relentlessly trying so long to see.
Then the new daylight seeps through the fleeting clouds
to sparkle on the jagged crests of the glass of blue.
The silence falls where thunder once shouted loud,
as hope swathes my world with radiant sanguinity new.
YOU are waiting at the edge of my trying time
in the eternal realm of the heavenly shore for me,
I’ll reach even though I don’t know yet why for so long
I’m sailing in the tempest across the tormenting sea.
All the Ladies love spring flowers
Believe in fairies dancing in the wood
Cupid arrows has their name on
Daisy chains as signs of love
Every lady loves fresh flowers
For birthdays or just true love
Gardens bright with daffodils
Hedgehogs waking for the spring
In an ancient wood blue bells flower
Just strolling in them makes you smile
Kiddies checking buttercups , if butter is their cup of tea
Ladies plucking petals, he loves me, he loves me not
Make believe hidden grottos
Never knowing if April showers will wet you to your skin
Old man river trunbles slowly
People punting and birds a singing
Quintessential English springs
Raining when the weather wants to
Sunny when you give me that smile
Tank tops worn as the weather warms you
Umbrella's at the ready
Village greens with cricket pitches made ready for a day's play
Willow on to leather and then a cup of tea
Xmas thoughts have been forgotten on this spring day
Zig zagging swallows in the skys.
comp entry 11/04/2016
Sky looks, at this eventide, like an ocean of rainbows.
Has the almighty sprinkled his bright-dark contract of his sum aggregation of the entirety of everything and caboodle of his wholeness thickly on this evening canvas?
Birds fly beneath the skies like black jets with red-moon shine.
Are dust and broken pieces of the heavenly rainbows spread over hills and valleys? Grass clusters and meadows of multiple bouquet blossoms seem to say amen to the almighty moving and dwelling within the gentle breeze that carries him over mountains, seas, and oceans.
Herders walk their herds back to their byres and feed them with fodder and quench their thirst with feed-mixed tonic water.
Cocks and hens have entered their coops and have started closing their eyes as though in Zen meditation.
Hustles and bustles of the huts and corteges rise and fall like low and high pitches of harmonious concerts and slowly come to an end as kids start dosing their eyes and stop crying.
With my close-knit small family, I relish and nourish the simple supper prepared by million hands from the east, west, north, and south of my nation and brought to my table by the agape-filled affection of my family bond.
My heart enters in its inner shrines of conscience and consciousness and gently unites with the eternal spirit dwelling therein and lay on the laps of lady night with a loving lullaby of Pasithea, Huina, Nyx, and Nidra Devi, the goddesses of sleep.
cherubim movements
spirits, saints, and angels sail
peace in pinnacle
The glory of America,
now heats up
with agitation poised
to strike on the brink
sans legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration
as fete accompli chink
in armor of Democratic rubric,
constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic,
and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch
when mandating masses
swallow his drink
what huff huck –
this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hellraiser doth
bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Marshall law
fast as a shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab
doth put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury hill temperament
pitches the orbit of planet Earth
tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Jew pitter
damnations, excoriations, fulminations
Huzzah sing how whiz derriere
didst Sat urn simultaneously
crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plopping
two hundred fifty pounds of flesh
doubling down humming
his favorite Neptune
that dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating a self coined motto –
I yam almighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering the reins of control,
a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool
rip pug in ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
king the die hard fans of dictatorial,
linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving on
wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal
incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down
vis a vis pro pens heave lee
and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval,
which scribbled signature
doth not smooth arctic monkey
serve hay puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze
catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these United States
of America will become hell
in a handbasket worth repeating
with nary a trace of the grit of link
kin, the sixteenth president,
(whose ruggedly pioneering frontier existence)
found him steady and strong,
plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitome of this forty fifth
elected commander in mischief.
The writer’s prose like fluid flowed
Across half-a-thousand gilded pages,
With flowered images and profound lines
The was last throughout the ages.
But the follow-up, it got two stars
And critics dog-piled the hate.
Sometimes we shine with sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught by clay.
The little boy bounded down the hall
And found his father working there,
Struggling with a broken socket,
But the boy was quite unaware.
When he spoke his father snapped,
In tears the child ran away,
No perfect parents, despite hearts of gold
Sometimes we’re naught but clay.
The husband’s wife was his whole world,
His hope, his passion, his fire,
But overtime blunted his mind to the fact
That their anniversary had transpired.
His angel faced him, her beauty marred
By an angry mask of spousal rage,
He’d put on her fingers endless gold,
But that night he was naught but clay.
The politician rode high on the hog,
When he crushed a tough election.
People cried that it changed everything,
We were off in a new direction.
But as always gravity settled on in,
And legislatures are hard to sway,
Some days his words turned all to gold,
But on others they were naught but clay.
The perfect game the pitcher threw,
Was a masterpiece that all would know.
No matter who stepped to the plate,
They were a step behind his throw.
But the very next game he gave up runs,
Eight runs two innings into the game,
Last weeks his pitches had been solid gold,
This week they were naught but clay.
For two years the clerk nailed the data,
Breaking standards with practiced ease,
He’d earned a promotion and more cash,
It was one of his proudest feats.
But then he lost two clients quick,
And soon had no source of pay,
Sometimes we shine with the sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught but clay.
…But even clay is made beautiful,
in the hands of a Master.