Long Sharps Poems
Long Sharps Poems. Below are the most popular long Sharps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sharps poems by poem length and keyword.
Layers upon layers
Batter after batter
Larger than life creatures
live
Beneath my bed.
My pillow whispers lie.
There are times
when I flip it over.
I prefer my lies served cold
shaken and stirring...
foul breath smelly bedding.
Lies, like dust mites do bug.
Update 10.2 improves clarity.
Lies have an app for that.
Crystal clear connected lies.
Disconnected clouded lies.
And, of course
Lie
Lies Lies
Lies Lie. Lies
A pyramid of lies
Let us remember the periodic table of lies.
White lies
Colored lies.
Taste the rainbow of lies.
Infectious wasted lies.
Toxic waste is a buried alive lie.
As lies add up like hazardous garbage, lie's flounder.
A green sticker has a tongue in a divided circle.
A red bag has some more circular labels of lies.
And in the men's room, I see biohazard sharps containments.
It's typical when urine lies on toilet seats.
People recycle lies like buffoons that refuse to use the truth;
those are all lies too.
And they even sell lies for five dollars per balloon.
Toss it in the trash and watch it disappear every Wednesday.
How would you feel if you were thrown out like trash with your lies?
Better yet, just throw it all in the fire pit.
Burn rubber, burn gas, burn Mother Nature...burn.
Plead with your conscience about these lies.
Glorify lies . . .
Justify lies . . .
Then again
Glorify and justify more lies,
then romance your newfound ignorance.
Believe me,
it'll burn too . . .
Trust me.
2-18-17
MUSIC
The rythme progresses through me
Reaching to depths unknown
Leading me to another realm
Only I have ever gone
A place of solitude
Where I can be free
For my soul is the melody
To which I shall dance alone
And the beat is my life walk
Opening the walls that have never been shown
Oh how I love to sing
Especially when I hear that old familiar
That takes me back to the day
That I could just proceed along
No cares, no worries, just me and the world
Being free...... to my song
How many memories are wrapped up within tones
That have touched our lives
How many people can we recall
With just one sharp# climb
Or with just one flat fall
The power of our melody is our own
No one can hum it
No one can take it
Because our life walk is our song
We can take this empowerment as high as we want
Or we can take it to the lows
No matter how we play it
It still grows
With each and every encounter
Down our blessed path
The music follows
With our every step
So embrace your sharps and flats
Knowing that it is helping you
Through this turbulent ride
Sing it loud and don't be ashamed
For your song knows you are doing your best
Don't let the bar line tell your ending
Keep the melody flowing
Continue your lines without cares
And when your curtain rides low
And the rythmes come to a sway
Just look at the pages before
To where you started from
And to how you have become so much more today
Keep the music alive....even with a hummm
Like a sweet child in ballet
toe steps glide across the archway,
A graceful pirouette holding breath and heartbeat
balanced then suddenly rising like modern athletes.
A rhythmic cadence hustles across the days
when life is simple and living all game play,
Then the day waltzes methodic 3/4 weeks
sashaying manic tango pause then slips away piqued.
The merengue drags bodies closely touched
sweeping lags across the room in two quarters clutched,
bolero sharps and turns spinning like the fading years
lost in the frenzy of living fast and freely shed tears
A twisting stomp to slap the earth
quick tarantella wild winds giving birth,
a shuffle into polonaise gentle and lullaby eyes
slides to rest in minuet reprieves and haunting cries.
Too soon the days are months turned to years
and decades lost to the aging cheers,
gone is the youth of preset times
lost but not forgotten holding their prime.
Like the dance that stirred our spirits long ago
dream and memory holds steady in life's shows,
there is no end for life's pawn,
the dance lives forever a youthful swan.
The hazy morning dew of spring
Glitters as a Sheppard’s son
Envelops a gentle fawn
On equally wobbly knees.
Clear blue summer afternoons
Shine as a man
Wrestles the mighty lion
On legs of iron.
Foggy chill-winter nights
Freeze as a grey-haired man
Nods to a inky crow
On sticks of wood.
Between hypnagogic trances
And vivid hallucinations
The flats, sharps, and rests
Of tones reflect off
A Queen Alexandria’s wings
As the Monarch soars by
At seventeen miles per hour.
Taking place in dreams and time.
Insomnia begins to blend
Real and fantasy
Today and tomorrow
Then and now
Who and how
Misty harbors of psyche
Attain carnal knowledge
On the grassy knoll of
Psilocybin. Exploding
Inside a weary head
With finger paints
On a black canvas.
Fickle now the transcendence
Of the color spectrum
As it aligns to those
Who die and are dying
I've met myself
many times coming and going...
generally a quick smile
and respectful nod – seldom
pausing to chat, both of us
longing for more together
company
I (me/myself) have met so many
other pairs...traveling together/alone,
the double nature of a
human journey...half inclined
to linger and experience, nurture
and service
while the other, at a manic
pace, seeking one's self, yet
expanding the divide
I guess, would us multitudes
of separations ever join
together, it would mean the end of
warring...but of music, and poetry
as well, as we know it
no need to fire canons-of-being
if no one to report their twang
and echos....sing of and chronicle
triumphs and failures ("dreaming
the impossible dream...")
the flats and sharps
of a lyrical soul....
In a high rise block in Toxteth lived a Jazz clarinettist called Joe.
His fans in the Jazz club worshipped him and flocked to every show.
And night after night in that smoke filled club, his fingers weaved a spell,
While the audience cheered to the echo, unaware of his private hell
For, every night, in his tenth-floor flat, before he could play again,
He injected himself with Dutch courage to deaden the inner pain
It began with soothing cannabis, which the law doesn’t class as abuse
Just so long as that stash in the biscuit tin is purely for personal use
It can’t do any harm, they said, to smoke the occasional spliff;
Then the drummer introduced him to a line of white powder to sniff
It was just an occasional habit he wasn’t dependent upon
But he found that his music lost its edge when the buzz of the powder had gone
His dealer had something better at an introductory price
He wouldn’t become addicted if he tried it once or twice.
His music got better and better and the audience howled for more
But now he was hooked on heroin and stealing in order to score
One Sunday he didn’t turn up at the club so the band was reduced to three
Who thanked him as they pocketed a larger slice of the fee
When they tried to ‘phone on Monday, his mobile wasn’t on.
The neighbours hadn’t seen him and thought he might have gone
They found him three days later in his squalid tenth-floor flat
When they forced the front door open past the junk mail on the mat.
“Death by misadventure”, said the Coroner’s report.
“A tragic waste of talent,” he told the crowded court.
The church was overflowing on the chill November day
As they gathered to remember him and send him on his way.
A host of jazz musicians and a multitude of fans
Joined in celebrating the life of a gifted man.
His own band followed the coffin as they took him from the nave
Out to the wintry churchyard to lower him into his grave.
They have a new clarinettist now but, although he’s very good,
He doesn’t have Joe’s magic; well nobody ever could.
He lacks that extra something that no-one can define.
But the drummer’s offered a helping hand – in the form of a thin white line
Quirks
Lennon and McCartney
Composed a song for harps,
But neither one was very good
At reading flats and sharps.
DaVinci was a total whiz
at graphic arts and science,
but could he run a marathon,
or wrestle with the giants?
Transformers bring us light,
As Tesla had some genius.
Yet, he had no business sense,
Thus perished impecunious.
Descartes declared, "I am,"
And Marx united workers,
But when it came to music,
Both of them were shirkers.
Socrates taught others
By making pointed queries.
Although he was illiterate,
We understand his theories.
Lincoln, Ford, and Edison
Are considered rather legend'ry.
But for all of their accomplishments,
They never finished second'ry.
The moral of the story is,
If your marks are wanting,
Do not be dismayed,
It's really not that daunting.
Each soul has its genius.
Each soul has its quirk.
If you follow both of those,
Then your dream can work.
Page 2
Then I heard a kind a music
And some distant clink and clatter
Some tapping on the floor
Then a burst of background chatter
Soon, the noise began to fade
I shook my head and blamed the heat
Grabbed a bottle from the bar
Then made my way back to my seat
I slouched back in that dusty chair
With my feet perched on the table
Tried to stay awake to drink
But at last, I wasn't able
It seemed that I, just closed my eyes
When suddenly I woke
The place was filled Dancehall girls
Card sharps and cowpokes
The piano seemed on fire
As the player smoked the keys
And I would be a lier
If I said I wasn't pleased
Then I saw The Singer lowered
She was hanging from the ceiling
Seated on a swing
With a voice, most appealing
With the whiskey flowing heavy
As dances filled the floor
I can't remember ever being
In a place like that before
To be continued Page 3
Try as I might,...I could not get it right
My small fingers that fumbled over the ivory whites
While scowling her face with that crabapple frown
One, two, three, four...one, two, three four...., her eyes looking down
"Try once more..." she repeated, and I would struggle, so hard....
She would point at the notes, with a yellow Number 2 .....
And circle the flats, and would circle sharps too
One, two, three, four......one, two, three four...
Don't bother to look at the exit or door
The room was too warm..." I keep the thermostat at eighty she'd say"
It helps old bones, , rhumatism, you know..it keeps the aching away"
A scent of Vick's Vapo Rub when she leaned in too close
"For my horrendous allergies".... she'd boast
A Kleenex all waded, a ball in her fist,
Her glasses hung from a nose,
That constantly dripped
One, two, three four,...one, two, three, four...
Oh how I wanted to run straight out the door
"Now, try it again", she'd say, as I glanced through the glass
Out to the sun and the summertime grass
With the sidewalk so ripe, for my playing 'neath trees
For some hopscotch, or jump rope, or roller skate keys
A day, ...not for Mozart, or Bach, or Beethoven...those guys...
What could those grim, long dead, wearing wigs in disguise
Understand of a little girls heart? One, two, three, four....One, two, three, four,
Oh how I wanted to run out the door
But now................My dear teacher....I wish you could know
How I grew to love music, and remember the days
When you gave me the knowledge and spirit to play
This beautiful gift, which I cherish today.........
One, two, three, four.....
May I play you a melody?......
And then, if you don't mind...
I'll be happy to play you one more....
__________________________________________________________________________
Miss Ella Mae Engle.... Rest in Peace, God Bless You, and Thank You From My Heart
Faberette
is the name of my wild
and incorrigible cat...
down the stairs she scurries
to keep intruders off my door;
and she, with her sharps claws,
challenges the most vicious dogs,
who would like a match
on my newly carpeted floor...
without letting me breaking up the fight!
Faberette,
eat your food and grow strong,
they will be back with their groan,
but your meows won't do much;
let me teach you how to win a fight
and keep them off for good...
more faith you must have in me!
Faberette...
come here and jump in my lap;
Faberette...there's no need for fright!
They haven't bothered you for a week now,
they must have sensed a change indeed;
and like friendly dogs they play and crawl,
instead of pulling off your spotted fur!
And cautiously you mingle with them with minimal fear...
can cats and dogs in friendship suceed?
But a word of caution I should make you aware of,
not all of them can change
and remain tame for long...
Faberette, be slicker than they are!
Faberette,
on my leather couch lies
under a warm blanket...
I pat her, and her feline eyes
flash the warmest glow; and I couldn't be
more proud of this wonderful pet,
keeping me company and share moments of joy!
And on her birthday, I even buy her a kitten toy!
O Faberette,
my adorable cat!