Long Soliloquy Poems
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Have you ever been in a musical show?
I have done some, so this is how I know.
They first hooked me when I was in high school,
but stage fright made me feel the fool.
So, I began on the backstage crew,
Oh the things we had to do.
Painting sets and handling props,
sometimes I wished I was a farmer harvesting crops.
Dressing all in black the day of the show
moving sets in the dark so no one would know.
We did some things that only a crew can do
I'll try to list a few here for you.
For example, during the "King and I",
There is a tearful scene with a Buddha to cry.
Since our Buddha was a person who spoke to Tuptim,
We did all in our power to get a laugh out of him.
Two of us moved his pedestal onstage,
his scene was to be all the rage.
We had to hide below his pedestal for his soliloquy,
So we tried to crack him up for all to see.
I worked behind the scenes again, for "My Fair Lady",
Some of the things we did there were also shady.
Professor Higgins takes a big drink in one scene
so we decided to pull one of our pranks on him.
The bottle he poured from was usually filled with ginger ale,
when we switched it to the real stuff he turned pale.
He could barely speak the next few lines
and was off key in his song the next time.
The classic we pulled was in "The Unsinkable Molly Brown",
our prank was the talk of the town.
If you don't know the story let me enlighten you
because then you may get a laugh or two.
Molly is aboard the Titanic's first trip
and the scene has to deal with the sinking of the ship.
We had a lifeboat with people on stage with waves across the floor,
she gets their attention by firing several shots in the air.
During the final dress rehearsal before show night
we knew this scene would be just right.
The Titanic sinking in the background, the waves, the lifeboat,
Molly pulls her pistol, raises it to the sky, and began to shoot.
The auditorium goes silent as the people raise their eyes to her to engage,
When a rubber duck came flying from the wings and landed on stage.
You never saw a director as mad as that
if she had a gun she would have blown off your hat.
"Who did that? Who did that?" was all she could say,
as the stage crew just laughed as we went on our way.
I finally got the nerve to perform in some shows later on,
But for now...this is just an introduction.
An essence heard a heartfelt plea
meek, unconfident, not familiar
"Should I bother anymore? Please guide me."
His words hardly mist....
a response slices the scene
with the speed of a guillotine.
skittering over the asymmetrical
similarities of a snowy expanse
a messenger appears
cracks of icy dunes
produce precarious pawfalls
plaguing the vixen.
venturing further precisely
she plods over precipices
of ragged protrusions
desperate to achieve the comfort
of a smooth surface.
"Where you go is perilous!
I worry for your safety!
It can't be done, you won't survive!"
...cried the timid.
Her movement stops on cue
slowly facing the pupil
she teaches in silent syllables
floating on unknown frequencies.
" DAMN YOU NAYSAYER!
I have no time for the likes of you.
Say I won't survive? Come out alive?
I've fought through worse pain
finding sustenance to gain
morsels leaving one inspired
not feeling as if they're mired.
Search within your pores
find where you have hidden yours."
Dumbfounded - the novice stirs restlessly
"Perplexed, I see, you are mon cherie.
Hear what you seek before I flee.
When life's coldness surrounding you
leaves you writhingly wretched
don't feel so desolate and utterly dejected.
Deep inside lies the truth
albeit quite protected.
Bugger those scorning your worth
their eyes glisten shades green.
Stagnantly feeding ego's girth
pompous words - own to preen.
YOU are the Alpha here Jack
there is no need to whine
Condemn the disapproving pack
let your own light shine
Too much weight put into their drivel
making your inner child snivel
Buck up, put them in their place
other's ire force them to chase.
This be your nefarious impasse
faux approval merely to fit in
Always people of that class
saying anything to win
Lastly,
though I've said enough....
It's as you learned when a tyke
those times you fell off your bike
quit being a ruse
get back to your muse
keep working at what you like!"
Sunset facing her gaze
signals the quest resumed
Her protege audibly sobs
a simple seven syllable soliloquy stating:
"Thank you
I love and miss you!"
with a whispered (mom)
Tender tendrils of whispy wind
touch a cheek with a kiss
and a lasting voiceless return.....
"Forever, son"
Ah Frontiera, here we are at your last, you've thrown a rod, your life lies black
on oily ground - all this snow and you're a mobile no longer; so I must walk.
It's cold, and now I think of it, that cold that exists in enormous reservoirs
at the poles of our world, seemingly to pass back and forth between,
as if through a secret conduit as the seasons are unfurled.
I will relax, I tell myself, "become one with the cold" as if it can't hurt me,
because sometimes you have to tell yourself things in order to survive.
My soliloquy proceeds as I gather thin paper birch branches and fashion them
into snowshoes with rawhide strings from my pack, a woefully empty pack
considering where I must go - the Brooks Range, even in October, is no joke -
and I can make it to a trapper's cabin, south south-west near Lake Chandalar.
Like the Inupiat Eskimos, I will sing my song, make up my tale, and live on.
Garlock, lord of this valley, seven feet of branch-breaking, tree-scarring,
log-rolling, stump-pulling black bear might, looks up, for the wind was behind me
and his nose is ever aware; my prayer - "You've eaten well, for your
winter sleep comes soon, you are not hungry enough for me" - I repeat it with
calm confidence; Praise God - noble king Garlock, this time, gives me a pass.
Two hundred miles, "Can I make it in three weeks, can I stay alive for four,"
I wonder as I walk, as I fish - pike, char; hard-fought with my hook, still the grayling
cooks on my fire - with a few remaining blueberries I find for spice; over mountain pass,
near the gorge's bottom, a rocky ledge, a rare stumbled caribou with broken legs,
my knife finishes it, oh how warm and rich the liver.
Over the blue cold of a nameless glacier - half the planet's glaciers are in Alaska,
that blue in summer melting is half of all water flowing into all the seas; I exist
with the cold, I'm only a part-day's travel from the trapper's cabin now.
Click-thunk! I hear it before my leg is alive with pain; I've stepped on a trap.
The evening's grim descent doubles and redoubles - I laugh or cry.
Will I bleed, will I freeze, or will my life just vanish into shock,
tucked into the ever-colder onset of night.
Trapper, when will you next check your traps?
December 21, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'Epic'
From mouth to ear across a lifetime lived,
traveling strings tying lives together thread on thread.
Every one word building lifetimes;
bonded mud of bricks to house
our broken bags of trailing flesh.
We will hold each others heart,
we will hold each others head up high.
Better or worse for the word or two that has made,
will forever make, and always is,
the difference.
Speak this word or that, watch the matter of it all unfold,
past lives shaped and shaping now
in crucibles of all our conversations.
Words to bridge and touch this world,
like knives or axes falling,
slicing moments each peeled back,
revealing bullets spent and sailing
on to wounded tearful souls.
Comfort words,
words of love,
different shapes and sizes wrapped
in different voices heard.
Inflections, accents, whispered,
loudly shaped intense of spirit,
colored by emotion to enforce.
Chosen words of purpose:
dispatched, planned,
let fly in haste,
erecting endless layers to our waste.
Tools of our intention common to our time,
reserved and planned, chosen with meticulous care,
whose definitions matter more than when or where.
Piercing silent dreams,
floating on the breath of every God,
making mysteries of all we seem to be.
Mirrors made of silence once,
we soon are made of words that move us
through a doorway, joining into life.
Today, a workshop for the poet. Write about a cup.
Standing empty, purpose unfulfilled.
Imagination startled as I smash the cup inside my head.
A million shards of broken pottery lying on the floor.
Broken poems and promises lying on the floor.
Shards thrown out of context as are we.
Broken souls from out a shattered God.
Each shard, a refugee. You and me.
Metaphors attached to all the brokenness we own.
Cups of purpose seeking our fulfillment.
Joined to make a whole of all we hold;
become a cup our truth will then unfold.
What began as empty, filled with our life’s portion,
sharing, sipping, spilling all along the way.
Losing contents we may label dear
until the final tipping of a cup left upside down.
What words escape our pens that are not truth.
Whose content change the soul from which we bleed
Whether subject cup or love, or other siphoned dalliance,
at our finish will complete a lifetime’s cupping need.
The best compliment I have ever received is, “You’re going to be a wonderful mother one day.” I adore the idea of having children, treating them with love and kindness, nurturing and caring for them even when it’s hard. I daydream of dancing, playing, laughing, crying, and everything in between. In the very midst of this daydream, it crumbles. How could I possibly gift my children their own version of the hell I can never escape? I have no right to bring a human being into this world, simply to trap them in their own mind. The worst part of all of it, what truly hurts most, is that it’s personalized. Day after day, my brain attacks me, pointing out my flaws and insecurities, pouring salt in my wounds, and twisting the knives that are stuck in my throat, stomach, and back. My only hope is to be good enough to help them cope with their nightmares, all while struggling with my own. My mother is kind and sweet, with a heart of solid gold. I wonder how I could possibly compare, she helps me through my hell, but not while struggling through her own. Of course she has struggles, she has persevered through so much, but her mind is not her enemy. She is not overwhelmed by internal hatred, tearing at her hope and joy with every cut and scrape. If I myself am corrupt, how can I expect to provide my children the life they deserve? To live a life of simple, neurotypical bliss, without the confusion and suffering of a cage that you have built yourself. I used to love being different, and I still do, but this world is not built to allow the bold and unique thrive. This world has been built for those who can fall in line, who can blend in and bite their tongues. How I wish for a life where I can stay silent, but I simply can’t. I was born and built to fight, to sing, to be loud, to cause trouble. My children will be blessed with being different from their peers, but this world has made it into a curse. Those who dare to be different are scorned, not simply for being different, but for somehow doing it wrong. You have to be unique, but only in the way everyone else wants. I couldn’t bear to watch my children be outcasts, I couldn’t bear to bring them into this world of hatred. Although I long to be a mother, even though I dream of building a family, deep down I know that I am my own curse.
" Tortured metaphors
spilling from tequila lips,
t i p t o e on my pulse ~
breaking in an arced smile
of the featherless eclipse,
where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
sobered s o f t l y
by the taste of satanic stars..."
I'm the loss of a leaf
from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
turquoise typewriters,
where drunk fingertips dance.
Turning to ashes,
my heart m e l t s
as a metallic grenade,
and no philosopher's stone
ever reverberating
in its silver-winged silence.
Seeking shelter from smoldering seas,
I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
with an ornamented garland
of guns and roses,
enveloping me in the corpse of sunset.
Plunging from diamond cobwebs
into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
I l u r k along reefs
studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
lotus manuscripts
as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
snorkeling in an obsidian oasis.
I miss being
a purple-whisper prophecy,
threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
in the marrow of moon,
where an alchemy is lost and found...
In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
and supernova sorcery,
I've seen arctic assonances
hibernating
in the throats of those,
holding lethal jewels
as a nightingale's neon noose.
So, if my soul is an opal widow
of your thistle-light affection,
a verse romanticised
will be my crystal coffin,
and in the caricatures
of kohl and karma,
our silent soliloquy
shall delicately be shifted.
Surfing in the splitting s i n s
of a salty saviour,
this whiskey damsel
shall evermore remain
a scentless phrase,
scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
i n v i s i b l e
in our paper-cut destiny...
Another poem. Another story to tell. Another journey to partake in. May this poem be for those how seem lost and know not which way to take. May this story open your eyes so that you know that no matter what, losing faith or hope is not an option. I haven't experienced such a journey but Poetry is a soliloquy of what I think is true.
It was a beautiful day outside. It's time to tackle the world. It's time I become a man or stay a boy. Without a father figure to guide me, I don't know where I would receive the teachings of being a strong man. So I decided to go on and do my own search. As I got ready to leave, I picked up an empty backpack with a Bible lying next to it. I left it there to accumulate dust due to the love that I only knew. Neglect. I walked out and began to search. I met this lady and she asked me: "My son you seem lost. Do you know God? Do you know His word?" I could not speak so I went back to pack my backpack because I had no words. I would move my lips but nothing would come out but now that words are apart of me I can share my story.
A wolf can come in sheep's clothing. Who are you to trust a stranger who gives you the smile of an angel? The sun has now set. I was engulfed by the new experiences of this unknown world. It's late at night so people approached me and said: "Eyy mfana isekasi la. Sishova inombolo uyiziphi wena? Awuzazi? Qina mfondini uzoba indoda. Tso, gwinya la uzoqina namhlanje." I was so stunned. All I heard was numbers and strength. There's strength in numbers or do numbers have strength now? I was confused so I looked up and someone emerged from the darkness. He shouted and said: "Yeyi!! We don't want church goers here. Do you know God? Do you go to church?" I said no and I felt weak. I had to go back to pack my backpack because I was lying. The lies together with this heavy backpack made me weak but I guess the Lord wants those who have fought for him the same way he fought for us. And Revelations 22 vs 19 - 21 says: "And if anyone takes anything away from the prophetic words of this book, God will take away from their share of the fruit of the tree of life and of the Holy City, which are described in this book." So let this story be my testimony. "May the grace of our Lord God be with you."
Adages Pt. 1 (the cloud)
I am just baggage to the world
Cast away and forgotten
An entire life
Waiting for something
Every so often a random passerby
We exchange formal soliloquy
Just talking to ourselves
Wondering if anyone really hears
They always keep a lock on my eyes
To desperate to admit sad truths
Pretend they’re giving me sound advice
When just quoting old adages to themselves
They say
“Follow the sun,
For in the light shining upon all
You will find the way”
The same response
Every time runs through my head
“What of the clouds
Stealing the light from my eyes
They always gather around me
Darkening my life
“And what of deep night
Where I sink into despair
Alone and sinking in a world
Where no one seems to care”
They don’t seem to hear my words
Just keep ranting their securities
All the while shaking like leaves
In the harshest of autumn winds
I wonder if anyone can hear me
Or if I even hear myself
Can anyone see me?
Hidden in this cloak of clouds
I begin to feel comfortable
As my worldly self
Begins to drift away
Comfortable with no sun
To burn my skin red
Or to guide my way
I’m locked into a perpetual night
As the oppression of my clouds
Absorbs the light
Sun and moon and stars
And I’m left with nothing
But four walls
And a roof
And a little stool to sit on
I don’t notice any more random passerby
Just as they never noticed me
Just quote my old adages
Some god created just for me
“Stay in the clouds
A safe haven from the pain
I have no need
Of ever finding the way
“The world has spoken its ignorance
And has finally cast me away
I’m tired of endless clinging
And the guilt it brings my way
“If the life in this world
Revolves around an endless rhyme
The sun and moon and stars
I have better places to spend my time
“A room of nothing
No windows or air to breathe
Just a feeling of numb contentment
As my soul starts to bleed”
My conscious mind had made its final pitch
And it is off to the races
But I’m moving so slow
So slow
I wish I had a happy story to tell
I wish it were the color of orange blossoms
I wish my body were not my jail
I wish…I wish I had a happy story to tell
I love him
So I let him grab my wrist
As he led me away
I love him I told myself again
I was struggling to keep up as he
Was dragging me to my feet
You see I had let myself fall
I must have lost my balance
When he slammed me against the wall
I love him
I wanted to believe
But my tears kept me from seeing
His weight kept me from breathing
And his hand kept me from screaming
So I yelled instead in my head
That I loved him
My body pressed against the bed
I love him
How ironic I had worn
A pretty white dress
For a pretty white mess
I had not imagined that this would be my end
But I love him I told myself again
And as his knee bruised my inner thigh
My voice was lost within a cry
He’d forgotten to undo his belt
So I took the opportunity to yell
And for a moment I could not see
As if a hot cup of water had been poured over me
I began to drown in it
But then I found in it
Not the water he chose
But instead a broken nose
I love him, now harder to believe
Please don’t
I mouthed a silly symphony
Please don’t
Was my silent soliloquy
Please don’t
And then it was as if the world were in slow motion
I saw every emotion
Run through his face
As he pushed me away
Could it be that he was setting me free
Unused just as before
I lay crumpled on the floor
And saw his iron boots heading to me
He stood there – the embodiment of all my fears
Careful to avoid my puddle of blood and tears
He said nothing but stood over me
And with one swift kick
He destroyed everything that was left of me
Then he walked out the door
Down the hall
And far away
Leaving behind in his wake
A girl so useless
Not even a proper victim for a rape
But that girl is gone now
She has been replaced
By another with a stronger face
A louder growl
And quite a bite
One who will always put up a fight
Until she finds that you are worthy
Until you are witness to her glory
Then and only then
Will she tell you this story
The path led to rose bushes cul de sac.
Early in the morning, we sat down to rest.
Dewdrops are still shining on the track.
At our feet, a swarm of ladybugs, deft.
Petrichor arose as the July rains left us back.
A strain expressing your clumsy affection.
Tune into your breathing and heartbeat.
This is a dreamy time for such passion.
Flog love is bound to the cul-de-sac part.
It is essential to preserve buried emotion.
This curvy, icy nook is set in a helix maze.
Poetry and syncopation reignite the fire.
Even talking may be risky at night phase.
Shut the door if you wish to quell desire.
Light should be veiled by a smoky haze.
Platonic ties might be a bottomless sack.
Lyricism, zeal, and merit are key factors.
The outcome of love, then, is not a cul-de-sac.
if these are quickly obfuscating actors.
Intending that love is the sweetest shack
A full moon glides through winter dreams.
The cul-de-sac ice rink is nearing its end.
Facing reality while reminiscing streams.
Droplets seize their will to settle and wend.
Twilight moon shines with merry schemes.
Ashen-faced friends slow-motion blast.
In the cul-de-sac, the lovely house fades.
Sleeping flies swirl the remaining cast.
My cup is filled with an autumn shade.
Affinity seems to be a shackle of fact.
Only going out mattered, for a brief time.
Spring equinox has just been drenched.
Paddle a boat through the azure, sublime
The skeletons' soliloquy was quenched.
Without other elements, this is grime.
The lake thawed as the ice started to glow.
for the goal of exposing the ostentatious.
Cut on a slant, with a glimmer of a rainbow,
As my mother would say, you are gracious.
This is not how you wish your child to grow.
That desolate road cul-de-sac of shame.
I imagine the life I'd lead there as a coward.
Swans, a lake house, and a child on tame.
The tourmaline-dazzling wisteria has soured.
Parents were overjoyed to view the game.
1st place contest winner
Written: February 02, 2023
This Or That, Vol 16 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh