Long Rococo Poems
Long Rococo Poems. Below are the most popular long Rococo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rococo poems by poem length and keyword.
What a sight to behold! A home to immigrants,
a spectacular city rolled with a wealth of arts!
predominantly Catholic with its many facets
its historical resonance and genesis of existence.
While it’s a welcome contrast from other countries,
there’s evidence that it’s replete with triumph and fall;
just after Bolzano, Trento, Rovereto, Verona Porta Nuova,
Peschiera del Garda, Desenzano della Garda-Sirminione and Brescia.
That from Milan Central Station the train arrives in Monaco.
Indeed, I was so impressed to see the main city
its combined history and culture; a satisfaction
just on the horizons they gave me an enormous impression
to the so-called civilization that München defines its soul.
Churches can be found almost in every corner
with their baroque or lavish rococo architecture,
some artifacts and gothic designs in some parts
in the eye of the beholder, they’re indeed a treasure.
People from all walks of life converge at the epicentre
the bustling footpaths, crowded shops and restaurants
with families from Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Pakistan
Asians or other Europeans in common desire
this place holds a promise for future and families.
Germans in general, love to drink and hang out with friends
a place like Hofbräuhaus where huge crowds can be found
a good description, the best picture to recall.
Deutsch, the language spoken but difficult to learn
gave me an impression of its beauty in articulation.
With their conventional greetings like in many other cultures
respect is the by-word along with courtesy and reason.
like the Olympic Park, Marienplatz, Nymphenburg palace,
English Garden, Königsplatz and many other sights
They’re beautiful places steeped with history and connection
to the people of München who love their own culture.
I may not be keen about other European cuisines
however, as a person drawn to taste them all
with a sweet tooth I couldn’t resist a typical German version
of the American pancake served in the morning
kaiserschman, its name and it’s common to all.
Appearances aren't everything.
There are feelings too and appearances of feelings which, really, are a direct result of appearances.
Appearances and feelings.
Thank God for design.
Design is God's gift to us.
With design we can mold our appearances which, in turn, mold our feelings.
Genius, really.
Should I wish to have a good feeling, for example, I can design, by God's Grace, an appropriate appearance.
I can shave, cut, pierce, and paint myself in any number of combinations.
I can rotate combinations endlessly, for a frenzy of feeling.
When it was finally discovered that one could actually design the appearance of feeling there was the appearance of great jubilation.
Suddenly design could really shine.
Eventually the appearance of feeling became indistinguishable from either appearance or feeling.
The great golden age of design emerged from the confusion.
Annoying philosophical questions became marvelously rococo hair styles or complete face reconstructions and clothing to match.
Hours of design time for a moment of simulated feeling.
Soon, however, the designs and simulated appearances of feeling lost a bit of furor.
It began gradually at isolated dinner parties or parades.
Try as they might, they couldn't regain their original simulated exuberance.
New paints, hair shavers, mirrors.
Violent encounters.
Humiliation. Cruelty.
All forms of abomination design could muster.
In the end it was all they could do but pretend that they were truly simulated.
Their pretense became the appearance of design.
The appearance grudgingly allowed them the illusion of apparent feeling.
And so it went.
Appearance, feeling. Designed and simulated reality.
Life remained somewhere in there.
Some designer will figure out how to simulate the appearance of it.
Amadeus - Amade
Where! Where to honor you, Amadeus –
In the city of the waltz –
In palaces gilded with golden light
In cathedral dust, forgotten,
In mountain havens
Or their ascending heights?
What place –
What faceless stone -
Bids your spirit rest – what marker
Bids auf wierdersehen Amadeus?
The city where the river blue
Still flows –
Eternal life and inspiration -
Forgets where it’s adopted
Mountain child lies –
Nor did it care when last
You gave your soul in soaring melody
Opening for a tone deaf world
The gates of Heaven’s song –
Eternal symphony of God and man.
No master’s requiem wept upon
The winter day
When winter stilled
The life within your flowing harmony –
The waltzing world
Quickly spun away
From genius haunted by night music –
To see the dust of history cast anonymity
Upon a pauper’s place beneath a tiny star
Where jealous mediocrity hides you.
Among the graves of common man
Envy hides your mortal bones
Unmarked, unknown, unsung –
Momentary crushed -
Until the light of purest sound escapes –
The soul of music you set free - in fantasies -
In plaintive prologues - flutes of magic spells -
Slowly swirls above haunted dreams
Shattering shrouds of soundless bonds
To echo forever in perfect notes.
Where! Where to honor you Amadeus?
Not within a city of rococo gates –
Nor shouted from ancient mountain walls –
Your serenades released to the shepherd King,
Born from inspiration’s boneless soul,
Spin in arias through layers of earthbound airs,
Rise slowly beyond portals of mortality;
Your melodies – crescendos in ecstasy
Flowing from the eternal child resolved -
Consummated - liberated – set free!
caught short singly
one rainwrote morning in hyannisport
when snows a science
over iceroof and snowfloor beachsand and
eastersundaysun a milton shadow opportunity
opposite sleeping young and russetrocket cool
in ferriswheels of rococo chestnut hair
shortblack pleatedcotton skirt carouseling round creamcoffee legs
swinburne stretched in desert stockings slightly spread
hands lapclasped
nose artdeccoerect eyes razed marble monuments lips
just lips
chinachin touching down on a fire
work whitesilk blouse no ruffles
a plainsong of anti flesh skinquisitive
toes still and borne just like ejaculated popcorn
jacket buttered lemonleather
shoes pumps patented starbust bright
bag royal with umberous umbrella tossed
off about her
cottoncandybreasts roughly rippled by the rucked road to
go tunneling
not traveling
descartes launched in
parting
only a starspangledbanner thought
old Lucy Gray reserected
equated
transcribed for solitude
for nine hours bad road
Somewhere upon the terminator’s birth
The young lovers dance and sway
To a symphony of dawn and starlight
Undulating within newfound passions
These two naively press and discover
The zealous meaning of temperate youth
Lost within the mornings heavy rise
They run through the soft breaking crests
Crashing upon their rococo painted beaches
Living only in the ardor of today’s breath
They pay no heed to the passing of the hour
Twisted adrift the spinning of the moment
Beneath the sweated midday heat
The aging lovers croon forlornly
Calling out to their passing adolescence
With a softening of fear in each other’s eyes
They gently slip back into the hypnotic
And dance in the divine for a moment longer
Standing in the approaching twilight
The aged lovers stand in raptures kiss
Remembering the moments of yesterdays past
No longer young but still ever vibrant
They languidly begin those heavy laboring steps
Of their life’s final dance together…
Walking past a mini soaked mattress; an empty baby stroller..
By it's side; abandoned this site she seems an open walkway his
Buildings and bricks less her awning; wondering, while their yard dogs
Barking once more wagging tails lonely a greeting calling out; the moon parting
Gray passing clouds left lingering; knowing how I love to kiss their dawn ?
Mothers with infants; an old man coughs; a young lady high on drugs
Looking for another mark yet settling for his blanket; her supreme court
Justice, untangling time's hair ? Leave it to Beaver, hopping up the White House
Stairs mass hysteria their latest gallop poll; besieging Molieric phantasms caught this
Camera of rewound mode with beautiful Ms. Monroe, applying rococo lotion about
Suffragette's nine inch nails ? Spotted off jingoisms European coast; his lochness narwhal....
Shedding her muumuu open waters flagship tourist a filibuster fiesta ? Apocrypha, in session.
Form:
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against the Tomistic piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with creamy pastels,
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that Guerlain
je-ne-sais-quoi witchery of your vanilla
perfume darts; throw a rain-soaked
dusty rose like Madame Pompadour,
I am flying into the sugary abyss of setting suns,
My whole world is tinted in Bouchet’s
Prussian blue and silks of flickering coral
as the dragons keep fighting in the heavens
to bring us April showers and champagne pearls.