Long Rehearsing Poems
Long Rehearsing Poems. Below are the most popular long Rehearsing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rehearsing poems by poem length and keyword.
The "Hi" That He Remembers
With spontaneous playfulness,
her smooth leggings glided
through a swirling pile of leaves
across the high school sidewalk,
kicking them skyward
with wide, graceful strides.
Other movements would have
distracted me, as leaves
forcefully tore off
the surrounding trees,
but my eyes were bolted upon
her
floating
flirtatious
figure
with
perfect
little
lifts.
Her wide lip smile approached mine
with a thrust of energy
like the Indian Summer wind
that surrounded our passing
like a unified hug.
"Hi," she breathed in a soft smoky voice,
as that usually effortless word
was left in my throat...
until I turned around
to take more of her in,
to try to stop
that moment from leaving
like that spinning leaf pile
behind her.
She confidently continued
on her way
without
a reciprocated head spin.
That evening's Harvest Moon
seemed to pulse, pulse, pulse,
mirroring my elated thoughts,
rehearsing the scene
where a pretty girl
looked
me
in
the
eyes
and
spoke
a
word!
I remember, not long after we met,
playing the parts of free-spirited hearts,
adlibbing lines without rehearsing.
Absurd as it sounds, 'twas quite profound
that tensile strength of our tapestry threads
became so quickly woven together...
without eyes meeting nor voices heard.
We meshed as if delightfully dancing,
swaying like palms in a balmy breeze.
Our steps were always in perfect sync.
We were Fred and Ginger, turquoise and silver,
Darcy and Elizabeth without pride and prejudice.
I imagined his touch and kisses with bated breath
until the day he went away... emotionally.
In realms where daylight and darkness merge,
that shadowed place where docile dreams
and nefarious nightmares converge,
he was lost to me... Love's tragedy.
Our Utopian haven became a dystopian desert,
a desolate domain where stoic silence rules
over fools who choose to hold on to hope.
The nib of a pen, his tool of seduction
His dark verses seduced my hungry soul
and lighthearted lyrics were welcomed humor.
I sighed over his poetic rhymes of garden roses.
I suppose the fault was as much mine as his
for flirtation came easily in moments of desire.
My heart yielded without repent to be with him
and longed to smell the scent of his garden beds..
‘Twas more than a mere whim
My yearning burned for him like wildfire.
Suddenly, his flame was extinguished
as if what we'd shared had never been.
I had become addicted to his alchemy.
Combustibly enamored with explosive thoughts
because my greed and indulgent need of him
no longer fed my famished heart.
I was a prisoner of emotion, tangled within his web
of silken threads, longing once more to feel
his passionate embrace, but no trace of him was left.
What we vowed we felt was intoxicating.
I wanted him to make me that part of him
that didn't allow him to breathe without me...
but it was not to be.
I savor what we shared; that aching aura of love.
The months we dared expose our hearts.
I reread his poems and think of them as elegies ~
memories that may one day fade away
like sad melodies of haunting love songs
that unearth melancholy on dark, dreary days.
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
Tomorrow is not a given:
yesterdays can't be taken back.
Today is your reality:
and Hope is what keeps you on track.
Live within the moment of now,
delve into the essence of you.
And ask yourself if you're happy,
have your fantasy dreams come true?
Look deep within your hurting heart,
have its wounds festered over time?
Or have you experienced love
that can only be called sublime?
Take a break; step outside yourself
and see the you that others see.
You are constantly performing,
playing who you pretend to be.
We are but actors on life's stage:
roles written by the hand of fate.
And busy rehearsing our parts,
leaves no time to communicate.
In the beginning, we played musical parts
singing the script with free-spirited hearts
Adlibbing lines without rehearsing a word.
As absurd as it sounds, quite profound
that our threads were a woven tapestry
without eyes meeting and voices never heard.
We danced, swaying like palms in the wind
Our dance steps were always in sync.
We were Fred and Ginger,
turquoise and silver... p b and j
until the day the music stopped...
In the realm where light and dark merge,
that shadowed place where docile dreams
and hellacious nightmares converge,
we found ourselves worlds apart.
Our Utopian haven had been storm tossed
and left us swirling on a dystopian plain,
a deserted land where painful silence rules
for those who played the game of fools.
For days I've been hearing piano notes
that seem to float from memory's core.
A chance encounter, a phone call,
familiar lyrics to a musical score...
a romance rekindled?
His music once filled my head,
but I don't dance to his songs anymore.
There's never a happy ending
when nothing is left to be said.
There's no point lingering in thoughts
over a broken heart when it's mending.
Dreams are made of these.
They grow like limbs on trees.
Upon these, the soul must feed
And value the treasured moments produced by seeds.
Planted in fields of yesterdays in the form of deeds.
Such moments are like roses that cannot be rushed.
These moments blossom like love, faith, and trust.
Such moments are heartfelt and deeply rewarding,
Unfolding with certainty from a life filled with giving.
And like true believers, they will never stop living.
These transitory moments like Rome were not built in a day.
When they arrive, we embrace and store them to forever stay.
Moments to die for, giving birth to a gush of happy tears,
rehearsing and appreciating the fruits of laborious years.
092423PS
My situation is no better but nor is it worse
Rehearsing grace at the dinner table
I ain’t hungry, my stomach just hurts
Another day has passed
Now I’m just one day away
From seeing yesterdays cast
And on these black pages lies, my secret sin
I’ve learned that you can let go of your pain
Just by helping another get through theirs
Who would’ve thought, you find someone who cared
My misery and stress
I print it in between those college rules
Even when my patience is guessed
I choose to remain peaceful and cool
Slowly run your fingers along these black pages
Feel for your selves my secret sin
We don’t have those same love songs
That once could take you away
Tear you apart, when you have nothing to say
And put you back together on that same shattered dream
On which we lay
Shed tears when I think back on the past eight teen years
And I apologize for not being sincere
Especially at times when you would tell me
Your only love was for me still being here
Heart to heart, closer than apart
One those black pages lies my secret sin
I’m going to find my way to my grave regardless
So many say I’m stubborn and heartless
Everyday I searched for a home
My loved ones were gone
Pardon me please
For my soul is partly at ease
Dress up your ego, in a bright Hawaiian shirt,
Or juggle knives to prove you are quite the flirt.
Such silly peacock tricks may win some passing stares.
But, fireworks fade when really, truly, no one cares.
Speak five languages, fly planes, and juggle ten balls.
None of it means much beyond the odd, curtain calls.
The loudest résumé may clang and ring your meme,
Yet polished brass, is rarely gold, despite its gleam.
Ask one good question; let the silence breathe.
Then, see what answers an inquiry can retrieve.
Curiosity turns every newfound stranger into a door.
Each knock brings answers—and questions, what's more?
Don’t prance about, rehearsing your best clever line.
Pick up their threads, and gently cross-stitch their twine.
A listening ear can probe deep, near, and far,
Without ever needing any reminding—who’s the star.
At parties, search for what makes people really tick.
Not jobs, postcodes, titles, badges, or such shtick.
Find where their hidden clockwork starts to turn.
Then wind it up—watch their entire contraption churn.
So this small poem won’t beg to sparkle bright,
Or dance on tables, screaming: “What a sight!”
It doesn’t need to be interesting, through and through—
It only wants to be, interested in you!
I found your name
where winter had buried its bells—
beneath the frost-veined silence
of an abandoned orchard
where roses remembered
the colour of wounds.
You were not the flame
that devours the forest;
you were the secret ember
the earth conceals
after the stars have surrendered
their silver kingdoms to dawn.
I carried you like an ancient relic,
a relic no temple could contain—
a sapphire of sorrow,
a fragment of forgotten heaven,
a prayer written in the language
of rain upon ruined marble.
The moon, jealous of your radiance,
lowered her veiled face
behind the cathedral clouds,
while Orion loosened his arrows
and the rivers paused
to hear your shadow sing.
For you were never merely a lover—
you were the myth
my soul had been rehearsing
before my body learned
the alphabet of longing.
Your voice was a violin
left untouched for centuries,
yet when awakened,
it made the dust of kingdoms rise
and taught the silent statues
how to weep.
I drank from your absence
as monks drink from sacred wells;
not because emptiness nourished me,
but because even your leaving
carried the perfume
of your arrival.
The roses around my window
have grown strange since then—
each petal holding a universe,
each thorn preserving
a small, invisible eclipse.
They say love is a wound.
They have never seen
how wounds become windows,
how darkness becomes a doorway,
how a heart once shattered
can become a constellation
with its own forgotten mythology.
So return not as a flame,
beloved—
return as the ash remembers fire,
as the ocean remembers the moon,
as the earth remembers the footsteps
of the gods who walked upon it
and vanished.
For I have built you
not a throne of gold,
not a palace of roses,
but a cathedral of unforgotten fire—
where every candle is a memory,
every silence a hymn,
and every breath I take
is the universe whispering:
you were never lost;
you were only becoming eternal.
Often, after a day of walking
in and out of my mind,
I will put on a nightcap,
it's not a substantial cap like a bobble hat
it's more a cowl, a hood, a cloud-basket.
Beneath this dark covering
thoughts lay down to rest
in early graves.
Beyond a high hedge of time
astral lights flicker.
An inner sky gleams a starry gloaming,
I grope for a rope to climb
ascend - become - appear.
Now I can travel like a spy balloon
floating remotely guided into other sleeping heads.
Now a secret I have never told myself:
A few nights only,
I enter another person’s dreaming thoughts
startling eyes that are not mine.
I can visit a strangers life,
share a nightmare
or catch a distant memory
rehearsing its pain or joy once more.
It is a trick of immortality
to be this short-lived.
This free-wheeling and head-loose.
Come the bald-faced light
the night cap spins away like a thrown frisbee,
it is only then
that I don't believe a word of myself.