Long Singers Poems
Long Singers Poems. Below are the most popular long Singers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Singers poems by poem length and keyword.
All the shorts I see talking being strong, talking holding on, you’re not alone, documentaries showing homeless, starving people that cope stoned.
Would men still turn to drink to raise their spirits? Would women still turn to their neighbors when they are lacking in credits??
What if that magical lamp was found? What if that magical lamp was rubbed until a genie appeared? And what if that one in quadrillion chance that person granted wishes made one that would make almost all problems disappear?
Could we live in such peace could we live in such tranquility? Or would loopholes bring on a new meaning would loopholes be the new ability?
What would country singers say anymore? Their wife didn’t cheat, someone repaired their truck quickly, and their dogs returned only when their paws had sores from running.
All music would change instantly, all society would be bearable for all. Hate would disappear like a dad getting milk, every fridge would have milk without making a call.
If I got my one wish, it would be nice for a while, If I got my one wish, it would be giving an inch and taking a mile.
I can’t help butt to have hope, I can’t help butt to have a dream. Deep Deep down, people are really great, only when they aren’t being so mean.
If I got my one wish, I know I must be dreaming, if not dreaming, then the only explanation is heaven...
Raised by wormy flesh from the ravages of war
Broken years of struggle rose from ashes
seeking justice
Singers sung in joyous tones
Artists guiding frustrated youth
to find new worlds, new cultures,
where none had heard or gone before
Wanting freedom from bridled thinking, tethered to the past
Expressing their joy in happy communion
that died when three troubadours crashed and burned
7/28/17 Contest...Iconic Songs
American Pie-Don Mclean
post script...To leave the future a dark chaotic place
filled with angry voices lashing out
with years of counter-culture soaked
in questions of what could have been
now saturated with resentment
for the death of innocence
that cried out on a cold Winter night
Let writers write their stories
And singers sing love songs
But we both know it, baby
They’ve got this “love” thing wrong
Cause what we’ve got is greater
Than all those words combined
The feelings that course through us
Defy being defined
No, nothing does it justice
It’s deeper than a word
Our “love” is more than magic
Makes all those songs absurd
Your name, there’s nothing sweeter
Your eyes immerse my soul
Your lips, a fiery furnace
Your breath revives my soul
To me, you’re not a hero
Each pales when next to you
And we’re not star crossed lovers
We need a term that’s new
For what we have is legend
It's truer than what’s real
It shames each song and story
Our love is what can heal
And so, I say, “I love you”
Though words can never tell
What rages in my heart
Makes heaven of this hell
So, let them write their stories
And let them sing love songs
But we both know it, darling
They’ve got this whole thing wrong
For there’s no love like our love
All others don’t compare
Cause what we have is stronger
No other stands a prayer
Yes, what we have is stronger:
The sweetest love affair
Eileen Manassian Ghali
She had no idea what a fantastic legacy of enlightenment she left
She was assertive woman who took no guff from any mortals.
Her self-confidence was well known; she was feared by men.
She gladly overthrew her husband and her cousin to get power
Perhaps she sensed she would only live to the age of sixty-seven.
But she decided she had a lot of work to do. She hired artists and poets.
Surrounded herself with sculptors, dancers, singers and, orators.
She uplifted women in a variety of ways, bringing them out of their darkness.
She created Smolny Institute, the first college for women in Europe.
She wanted the others to get ahead like she had when she became Empress.
Catherine earned her name; she surrounded herself with free thinkers.
Her coup d’état paid off; Russia became alive with culture and new ideas.
Catherine was a nurturer, a mother, soon known as Catherine the Great.
Almost four hundred years ago, and yet we recognize her term as golden.
Still to this day, we call her reign “the Golden age of Russia”.
A versatile, liberal minded woman who traded her wifehood for power.
I pricked my ears to follow the sound,
As did my son and our puppy hound,
delight of violin in full tune,
Played to setting sun and rising moon!
Winter evening was well underway,
Christmas carol singers in full sway,
Violin was playing the church psalms,
And Beethoven,Elgar, Berg and Brahms.
Mystery player hidden from view,
Three ardent followers, wish he knew,
Our quest to trace the source was in vain,
The flow of music was unrestrained!
A bright full moon but it was still dark,
couple in romance strolling the park,
sound of violin has come to stop,
If not for ducks one can hear pin drop.
In corner of park a wooden bench,
the maestro was here, was my hunch,
Some tell tale signs of food and foot prints,
Other than these there were no more hints!
We returned next week for an encore,
A Christmas cake with thank you decor,
There was no music but silence all the way.
Near the bench, a note:-
“ RIP, In heaven you shall play!”
Once, Christmas Eve brought soft flurries of snow
the world soon became a majestic show
Festive trees gleamed from out of window panes
and carol singers sang in soft refrains.
Angels flew beneath heavenly moonlight
such an exquisite seasonal delight
Every rooftop glistening white and bright
on a charming celestial Yuletide night.
Church bells rang to tell folk of the best news
that baby Jesus was to arrive soon
Children tried not to fall asleep at all
waiting eagerly for Santa to call.
Yet snug and warm in cosy beds at rest
they'd shut their eyes and then softly they slept
Santa left them presents beneath the tree
and youngsters roused early, excitedly.
I remember this, though then just a kid
and often recall those moments of bliss
Times then were tough, but I'll never forget
the Christmas had, that was simply the best.
Burning Bridges from Kelly’s Heroes sung by the Mike Curb Singers
Friends all tried to warn me
But I held my head up high
All the time they warned me
But I only passed them by
They all tried to tell me
But I guess I didn't care
I turned my back and
Left them standing there
All the burning bridges that have fallen after me
All the lonely feelings and the burning memories
Everyone I left behind each time I closed the door
Burning bridges lost forevermore
Joey tried to help me find a job
A while ago
When I finally got it I didn't want to go
The party Mary gave for me
When I just walked away
Now there's nothing left for me to say
All the burning bridges that have fallen after me
All the lonely feelings and the burning memories
Everyone I left behind each time I closed the door
Burning bridges lost forevermore
Years have passed and I keep thinking
What a fool I've been
I look back into the past and
Think of way back then
I know that I lost everything I thought I that could win
I guess I should have listened to my friends
All the burning bridges that have fallen after me
All the lonely feelings and the burning memories
Everyone I left behind each time I closed the door
Burning bridges lost forevermore
Burning bridges lost forevermore
No Turning Back
In another world, another time
we would still be friends.
In this world, in this time
we have burned our bridges.
There is no going back.
We have nothing to share.
Our ties are cut.
Let’s move on.
No remorse, no second
thoughts.
We were close, but
no more.
The world has changed
and so have we.
Our paths can’t
cross again.
It is time we both admitted
our burned bridges are
lost forever more.
The singers sing of me,
Of my trials and my triumphs,
Of the battles I have faced,
And the victories I have won.
They sing of my journey,
Of the roads I have traveled,
Of the people I have met,
And the lessons I have learned.
They sing of my courage,
Of my faith in the face of fear,
Of the strength I have found,
And the hope that kept me going.
The singers sing of me,
And as I listen to their melodies,
I am reminded of my own story,
And the power of resilience.
For in every note they sing,
I hear echoes of my own voice,
And I know that I too am a singer,
In the grand chorus of life.
Harlem in the 40s
Harlem in the 40s was a place of rhythm and soul
Where music was the language and jazz was the goal
Where singers and musicians made the crowds go wild
Where swing and bebop and blues were the style
Harlem in the 40s was a place of art and flair
Where painters and sculptors showed their talent and care
Where colors and shapes and forms were the expression
Where beauty and meaning and vision were the impression
Harlem in the 40s was a place of words and wisdom
Where poets and writers shared their stories and opinions
Where rhyme and meter and metaphor were the tools
Where inspiration and emotion and message were the rules
Harlem in the 40s was a place of joy and wonder
Where people celebrated their culture and their power
Where creativity and innovation were the norm
Where Harlem was a renaissance and a legend was born
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.