Long Recitals Poems
Long Recitals Poems. Below are the most popular long Recitals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recitals poems by poem length and keyword.
See this girl in the painting, this skinny girl
working on a puzzle at the bottom of the stairs.
With big rimmed glasses and her plain brown hair,
she’s an ordinary girl, with nothing seeming special.
Now see this girl. . . really SEE this girl.
At age 12, she’s just been fitted with new glasses -
They are black horn-rimmed - an utter disappointment
in the life of a young girl.
Some guys now call her four-eyes, and they don’t even notice
the beauty of her light green eyes and
long lush lashes behind those big-framed glasses.
But still she likes to fantasize, and in her dreams
she’s idolized by every boy she likes.
Always having wanted to be part of the “in” crowd,
she was a girl that struggled for popularity.
However, she’s been learning of another way to be!
Seeking out girls more like her, she hardly has to try
to fit in with her new friends. And now she’s much less shy.
With fun new friends, she is witty. She makes them laugh.
She’s even feeling pretty, wearing lipstick frosty pink.
She’s discovered she is smart in all her classes.
This girl who now is wearing black rimmed glasses!
She gets into the Glee Club, even sings on PBS!
With her athleticism, she also has success.
She makes Top Twelve in tryouts for cheerleading.
And though the student body does not vote her through,
she’ll soon get over it. She’s blossoming!
The glasses she will change for contact lenses,
and she does not know it yet,
but soon enough - a number of boyfriends she will get!
Also years of dance lessons and being in recitals
has boosted her self confidence.
Both her body and her spirit are transforming!
See the girl in the painting; a puzzle she assembles.
She does not know that one day
her mind will be on puzzles of a very different kind:
She will be assembling many words inside her mind,
and she will be partaking in an art called poetry.
I know all this because
the girl inside that painting - that ordinary girl -
is the one I used to be.
Based on the painting "Assembling the Pieces"
from Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande
for the Contemporary Free Rhyme Contest of Cyndi MacMillan
I hope you will see the painting at this link. When I saw the girl, I was
struck by how much it looked like me as a young girl: http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/
On a bitter cold snowy, snowy day
She entered the world her own way
My sweet courageous daughter 'Shelly
Beautiful blue eyes and a Fire in her belly
Bubble gum stuck in her curly blonde hair
With a heart full of compassion to share
Always up for a double dare
Full of life"s hardest unanswerable questions
These are some of my heartfelt recollections
A child so full of incessant meandering chatter
There were days I felt like the Mad Hatter
But then she'd flash an impish grin
Propelling my perplexed heart to pitter patter
She never grasped what was the matter
For 'Shelly was steeped in innocent love to flatter
A cherished memory she loved to pursue
To climb aboard her rocking horse and yell "Yahoo"
There wasn't much that little girl thought was taboo
When I think of her now, I say, " Good for You!"
She's charming, alarming and so full of wit
As I've come to realize, my Darling Daughter has Grit
Of course, I was much older then, I'm younger then that now
But I hope you don't mind from time to time
If I access from the corner of my little girl files
of dance recitals, volleyball MIP's, and soccer uniforms
An absolutely fearless solo jet ski mile with your signature smile
Your first pearl necklace, grown up dress and shared color forms
If I could imprint these weaved words into a locket
For you to keep it in your pocket and read during life storms
My message would be I'm with you as your life transforms
Although sometimes we dance to different drummers
What wonderful memories we have of shared summers
Your brave and bright, a novel delight, I don't always get it right
I pray nothing more for you then you reach YOUR height
whatever that may be
and that your journey is filled with inspiring insight
as your dreams take flight
Because I am your mother and I Love you with all my might
As I reminisce the day of your Birth
I am proud of the value you brought to this earth
You have loved and lost and felt remorse
And still you climbed back on your rocking horse
My, what courage that implies as you dried your eyes
But then ...Silly me....Your a force, of course!
and I LOVE you and your re SOURCE fulness
~Happy Birthday Michelle~
Wales to me is ...
places of unpronounceable beauty
steam trains coastal walks in the rain
castles Cromlechs and Celtic crosses
Diolch yn fawr for the memories ...
beautiful welcoming people
stubborn and fiercely resilient
who gave me a home for years
An immigrant greeted with kindness ...
Wales is where I raised my five children
bandaged scraped knees and innocence
set them forth on their wonderful journey
The most beautiful flag in the world ...
fiery red dragon on white and green
pastures for magic passion and love
proud banner and mythical legends
An anthem unsurpassed by any other ...
land of poets singers and people of stature
spirit not hindered by treacherous hands
or silencing the sweet harp of my land
My farmhouse of field stone and wood ...
coal fired Aga warming the kitchen
providing shelter and sparkling dreams
cows sheep and daffodils cheering me on
Rugby propelling this tiny nation
past oppression and invasion
staking its claim on a peaceful map
my daughter plays for the national team
Eisteddfod recitals dance and song ...
my kids trilingual from the tip of their tongue
international examples of healing the wounds
of ignorance belligerence and aggression
Charming Wales to me is ...
part of my heritage and narration
sea shores and mountain retreats
part of my body mind and soul
05th June 2020 and counting my blessing
‘Croeso y Cymru’ - - - Welcome to Wales
‘Diolch yn fawr’ - - - Thank you very much
Fifth stanza with translations from the anthem
Since the elderly king greatly loved music, his court esteemed it, too;
As sun and moon smile on myriad colors, during the butterfly revue.
The king was well loved and jolly, with the queen, always by his side.
He ruled with caring. Like rainbow hued peaks, where indifference died.
His glorious reign had been lengthy, and the vast kingdom prospered;
Like the kingdom of regal, red lilies, blooming regularly as clockwork.
Fabled, flighty, fall days brought friends, on the spur of rare moment,
Often from faraway kingdoms, like night, after colorful postponement.
Fragrant night fell so familiarly, in the ashen shadows of flaming day;
As family arrived feelingly from France, like the heartfelt communique.
The king lived in the house of harmony, like ruby stars dancing in sync;
And green birds sang in its courtyard, under pink, lace clouds, indistinct.
Reliable raspberry sun rose rapturously, along King's Road of old roses;
Replete with robust raven cawing, like when confiding cricket discloses.
The king's musicians gave daily recitals, like the nectarine sun, shining.
Noble courtiers attended every noon, by windows of minty ivy, twining.
The 'orchid valentine beauty' fell in love, in frilly, red petals, cashmere;
As 'crown of thorns peppermint candy,' bloomed throughout green years.
'Miss Jekyll' blooms, sought places to Hyde, since all were colored blue;
While red 'spider lily blooms' spun silk, to be adorned in something new.
One day Old King Cole called for his pipe and bowl, and his fiddlers, too;
And they played as they never had before, like pink finch's sunrise debut!
All windows were open, green leaves quivering. Songs paused in the tree.
'Twas if nature were in hushed rapture, in bygone days, far from the city!
'Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
And a merry old soul was he,
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he,
Oh there's none so rare, as can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.'
What Happened To GOD’s Old Fashioned Women?
Women who were careful how they spoke and didn’t use
profanity to get their thoughts across. Who loved their
husbands and children and their GOD.
Stay at home mothers raising their children well and respected
their husbands and worked at having a loving home.
Old fashioned women who were careful how they dressed,
and did their best to keep their children safe but in
line with the rules of the home.
Sometimes, mothers and their children went to pick beans
and berries to help out with the family finances and
with school clothes.
Women who supported their children’s efforts at
school by attending their plays, games or recitals,
but, realizing all the while that then, the schools were safe
and moral.
It was a different time then, it was a more peaceful time
where neighbors were friendly and helped each other
by keeping an eye out for intruders and any other danger.
I can remember several young mothers who would go to
the park with their toddlers and watched them play
together.
Also, I can remember my mother passing along clothes
down from among the three of us girls, hemming
dresses, making them over, or making new ones.
Mothers who did canning and preparing the family’s
food for the coming year. Doing yard work and
landscaping and dressing up the yard to make it beautiful.
Of course the breakdown of the American home has
come about by divorce of so many couples and families. And then
there are couples having children without the benefit
of marriage which has brought about a total
breakdown of the American Sweet Culture.
I am remembering to, hearing the sound of church bells
ring Sunday morning telling all of us to get up and
get ready for church. There is an old saying, “The family
that prays together, stays together”!
Lastly, that is the country and feelings that I miss but,
times have changed and we REALLY need to look
up for our REDEMPTION DRAWTH NEAR!
JESUS IS COMING SOON, ARE YOU READY?
Written by: Marilyn S. Jennings
2/19/19
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.
Dear budding poet,
Modern poetry is an evolutionary process. A poet never really stops growing and learning. Even the most seasoned of poets can discover and master new forms. I wish you a happy journey to poetic creativity. My advice is to read poetry voraciously and listen to poetry recitals.
Read poems by famous poets. Join a group such as www.Poetrysoup.com and study definitions of poetry forms. You'll soon familiarize yourself with many brilliant Poetrysoup poets, poetry terminology, rhyme schemes, meters, etc. You'll also see examples of all the poetry forms.
Poetry is a malleable art form. It can be formless, like water. Like wet clay, you can mold or shape a poem however you desire. The sky is the limit in terms of your subject matter. I strongly suggest going out in nature for a wealth of inspiration. Try writing a poem outdoors.
Poetic inspiration is likely to materialize as you're much more alert and aware of your surroundings. Enter Poetrysoup poetry contests, which will further fuel your inspiration to write more. Positive, encouraging feedback from supportive poets also keeps your creative juices flowing.
Always carry a pen and notebook with you and jot down the moments or things that captivate you. Ideas. Epiphanies. Funny moments. Happy moments. Sad moments. It's an abundance of riches in terms of themes to broach. You can pen a poem about anything. Use your power of observation and let your imagination take flight.
To use lines from my poem, "What Poetry Means To Me," "Poetry is my catharsis, passion, escape. The golden spoon which I use to stir souls. Poetry means sharing my gift of creativity to inspire, purge, reveal, to weave a tapestry of deeply felt emotions."
My favorite themes are nature, emotions, animals, and astronomy. My favorite reference sources are as follows: Poetrysoup, Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, Rhymezome, HowManySyllables, and WordHippo.
(Prose)
Many have gone
Family, friends, sacred and godly
Leaving moments as mates
Inspiring and motivating
Placing life before the eyes
Far from imaginations and dreams
Memories allow to relive the life
Past turns into present
Pleasant or pesky; good or bad
They are an experience,
A bunch of events and encounters
More of a realization
During a bout of severe adversity
I recalled my late father’s skills
Deriving the combating courage
During the exciting spell I found
Memories are not mere mental spurs
They are concrete recitals of the self
I admire the nature for bestowing
The power to preserve the past
An attribute that grants continuity
An association to the gone
Rejuvenating the hearts and souls
With wonders, smiles and grief
Life is palpable, candid and real
The moments are never dead
Past does not dissolve the personhood
We are a symphony of eternal notes
Old songs remain inside the heart
Mystifying melodies resonate at times
F
My Life is a song sung in a
series of repetitive inferior notes.
I’m unable to record mellow melodies,
as my violin strings continually play
with reckless violet villains.
As I sit and replay recitals of
bleeding love harmonies.
My soul is shattered and sunken
in silent sonnets.
I'm flickering through the tears of
tainted years of hexagon heartbreaks.
Unable to trust poetic phrases from a
cedar conductor whose musical agility
makes my saxophone eyes sing.
I conceal my sunrise hope in a
chaotic chorus of anguish;
which I play to my sympathetic
amber anxiety, to justify the
lonesome path I’ve chosen to hike.
I fail to embrace the serenity
of their light rap rhymes
in my erratic brain.
Instead, I reminisce
about my sorrowful pity puddle spells,
when countless deceptive trumpets
stole my musical directives
destined for classical charts.
I am forsaken in operas of
maroon misery serenaded by
these weeping, wailing windpipes.
I desire to awaken my
ancient pop culture life.
The sangria sunrise era
when only rainbow hits escaped my pen.
I recall I wrote reams of rhythmic sheets;
filled with halo heroes,
painting electrical euphoria
upon Harvard's crisp horizons.
A time when youthful bands sang of
everlasting devotion,
glowing glee upon my ebony core.
My fuschia feet are wounded and
depleted from my frequent falls in
my ballet of ruby romances.
I aspire to dance to all the Jazz
freedom beats and not break-dance
with soprano snakes.
As I’ve detected, they are thirsty for my
rhythmic rays for their
applause and accolades to reign.
Now is the time for my piano to
recreate my platinum diamond hits.
For my lyrical pieces to thrive,
I must retire my historical woes to the
rear of my Broadway sympathy show.
I accept this is the only way
to win my desired Tony prize.
Sponsor : Justin Bordner
WHERE LOVE LEARNS NO MORE
Where Love learns no more
two serpents crawling twine
one midnight black another
luminous wizardy white
entangled fanged bedazzled
circled by ultra violet rays
ultra red Sun the One
swimming in beet orange
mint mix elixir eclipsed
quiver quenches wreathing
writhing thirst as cerise
petals silently fall, crumble
dust to dust
Here howls no blackboards or
whiteboards no koki pens
pencils erasers or paint
no school bells ring
no Buddha
gongs neither singing bowls
no teachers gurus masters
or internet, memory, miles
history or futuristic dreams
nor Rumi poetic recitals
or even Gabriel’s angelic
harmonic frequencies
In deafening silence they
slither slide thrust open
skin on skin shedding
translucent spirals spinning
black imbibes white aglow
glistening melting moments
all else dissipates
two serpents exits explore
where Love has nothing to
learn but adore
God appeased appear
emits lochia, soar
observe serumed gyrations
entice enchanting narration
they remain darkly sage
silent shimmering sop
slippery slip illustrious dip
into hidden slivered
silver cords hanging
themselves naked new
wheeled throats bleed askew
Then from vulnerable bellies
delicate moths emerge
flutter one by one
become butterflies flit
making mauve milk
pixel pinprick serpent
eyes lightning shoot
first branches of
Tree of Life moot ~
an ethereal nightingale
tinkled appears, trialed
trigger timed
two serpentines transmute
into dancing flames free
stepping out of shadows
into silvery sematic glee
grace winged they disappear
into hymning hyacinth
Sky outlined in gilded
lyrical lore divine
In beckoning belly of Creation
L o v e has
n o t h i n g
to learn