Long Songs Poems
Long Songs Poems. Below are the most popular long Songs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Songs poems by poem length and keyword.
How does the world feel when we cry
How does the world feel when we die
I'm headed to a place as gentle as a slow melody
Where we can walk in peace without it being a felony
It's hard waking up to another day when nobody loves you
Even harder not to retaliate when somebody shoves you
Label me a trouble maker
But I remain the kindest heart-waker
So many attempt, but suicides no longer a question
In the climax of life, and loves not even a suggestion
Through this letter
I ask is there a place where life's a little better
Help us withstand the bad weather
Can you witness the struggle
to carry on when all tears form a puddle
And over time love ones huddle
There will never be peace
But I look forward to the deceased and all the stress we release.
See you in heaven if I make it
Given the chance I don't know if I'd take it
And if I gave it all up would anyone care
Put hands on me with feelings to share
Present situations make way for future vacations
In this letter
I'm asking is there a place where life's a little better
Put on armor and thick sweaters
Please help us withstand the bad weather
When I'm gone will the world miss me
Or pop champagne bottles and diss me
Either way leave a blister to kiss me
If I should head to church on Sunday
Pray for a better Monday
And when the day ends and the next doesn't begin
We'll know the world has spun it's last sin
Through my mind I picture happiness
but through my worst dreams
my nightmares are pleasant scenes
In this letter
I'm asking is there a place where life's a little better
Put on armor and thick sweaters
Please help us withstand the bad weather
"songs for those whom care"
It was the night of our Independence
When the clock struck twelve
Flowers bloomed in every nook
Every corner looked unreal
Tiny butterflies flew about
In hope of joining the fete
The men and women of all ages
Stepped out in garments galore
When the world slept peacefully
We entered a new era
The beggars stood in heavenly lights
From crackers bursting forth
Birds changed their sad songs
Singing of new and enchanting lands
No idea of the future
No clear path seen ahead
But men and beast rejoiced
The gaining of freedom
As the Earth opened its vast arms
To let entrapped soul fly
It was a vision of a miracle
On that fifteenth night of August
When the world slept peacefully
Category- Surreal, when the fact of the Independence of India is mixed with the
imaginations of the poet.
Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespear’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lay here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia.’
That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.
Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.
Shall we poetize?
I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.
It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.
A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, scantily clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean
Vagabond's life has its wonders,
Vistas grand visions vivacious;
Trails with their lightning and thunders,
Turn his course gorgeous and gracious;
Landscapes love share
Galaxies care
To whom he, in his travels, fears?
Birds and beasts vast wisdom impart;
In still sleep angel songs he hears,
With mild wild he enacts his part;
Histories wheel
Mysteries peal
25 June 2022
Posie Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
www.rhymezone.com
www.howmanysyllables.com
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
A bluebird stood close by today
And from her lips flowed songs of praise
A new one had me held in awe
The congregation too, I saw
I love this bluebird very much
And her embrace I long to touch
To catch her smiling right at me
To know I'm who she wants to see
To play for her forevermore
To take her to my favorite store
To show her my old neighborhood
To spend a day, it'd be so good
A stroll upon a sandy beach
My thinking spot also in reach
We'd watch the planes fly in, fly out
All these things I dream about
I think of you, I always do
I like to know what you're up to
And also when you want to know
When I come and where I go
So ask away, I'll always tell
You anything, my thoughts as well
I might be a little shy
In person, but I'm not inside
I’m talking about the beautiful country of Burkina Faso
Formally known as the Republic of Upper Volta, the newcomer on the plateau
The new country with a charismatic and highly competent young leader
Capt. Ibrahim Traoré, everybody is talking about this intelligent brother
Who is well articulated in French, English and other languages
Brother Traoré embodies what all young men and women aspire to be:
Heroes of his or her Homeland, to help and rid themselves of the vestiges
Of inferiority, servitude and slavery. Yet, I’m still learning about this great country
I love Capt. Traoré’s eloquent speeches and gestures. I’m awesomely inspired
By his words and deeds. This brave brother means business. He’s not tired
To tell the truth, as we know, most leaders lie like frogs trying to speak
He tells it like it is and he indeed does good for Burkina Faso. He’s at his peak
This courageous military man can only go higher, to be exemplary
In Africa. He’s the model leader that Africa (the world) needs. He’s too busy
To travel to countries that have mastered the art of insulting and belittling
Young and modern leaders. The world needs new leaders who’re capable of singing
The righteous songs of freedom, liberty, justice, fairness and equality for all citizens
Brothers and sisters, I’m still learning about B. Faso, Mali, Niger and other regions
Or countries that are fighting for the pride and the future of their inhabitants
My best wishes go to countries that are helping us accomplish our missions
We are living in a world of abundance. No countries should be treated as inferior
Or poor. "Haiti is not a hole country". Yet, they failed to mention the exploitations
The rapes, the lies, the abuses and the lootings of our resources and the decapitations
They surely know how to manipulate, to neutralize, to explore and to divide to conquer
Oops, I had to exteriorate a bit. I want to wish our many countries a fruitful future
They’ll succeed because these new, incorruptible leaders care about us and they’re better.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to Late Pres.Thomas Sankara, our Haitian, African,
Black American Heroes, Poets and all our Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright © May 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
6 Lines
Shored-up wooden boats standing in the mud, braced by boards to stand erect,
We vigilant men past sixty, retain our dignity, and point to heaven, with masts securely fixed to the deck.
Like a thinning forest of greying painted trees, we are picturesque in a sunset with cawing gulls flying by.
Though the tide is now low, the ebb will soon flow by the full of the moon.
And when tidewaters of the sound are high, we will drop our boards, raise our sails, real in our lines, and list with a tune.
Then we shall sail past break waters with bows toward God, carrying no passenger on our final, and long goodbye.
by Martin Braun
In remembrance of the late Jimmy Buffett, who wrote songs that captured my soul, and warmed my heart while driving midnight Friday evenings in the dead of an Ohio winter. I sang "Mother, Mother Ocean" with windows rolled down to keep me awake during my business travels while dreaming of lost better times and for a future I still long for.
The Choctaw
never taught me what the
Choctaw would’ve taught me.
The Australopithecine never taught me what
the Australopithecine would’ve taught me of.
The Memories, these Memories,
our Memories are fading songs in
an echoeless cave.
The listeners have tired,
moved on.
The choir sang, regardless...
...for a time.
And, in time, the silence overcame
the joys of recalling and the calling out
was no longer met with the
Response.
The ochre greened-over,
the iron dust fell from frost and
puddled dryly on the floor.
Summer winds, hot and desiccating,
soon scoured the walls and ushered out
the swirling cinnamon sand.
The drums beat to mineral-rich cave-dew,
on occasion. A sometime rain that formed cones.
They stretched with weatherings; sometimes taut,
sometimes loose. Their stories lost, nothing taught.
In time, their skins followed their long-lost bones into
the buried burned and carved, now-broken empty bones
Home. The silent tumulting earth. The cold overlay of the
Singeing Beneath. The singing stalled. The echoes bounced for a time from
voice to ear to wall to child to child to wall to stone to dust.
The stars never taught me what
the stars might then have taught me.
The dreams and dancings, the tremulous and then-credulous
tremolos, the inspirations of ululations, the song-stories of
peoples, of healings, of wilds, of ways...now silent.
This silence, in this echoless cave,
is the most wanting, most missing,
Sound.
Sound I’ve ever heard.
The cave never taught me.
The music never taught me.
The drum never taught me.
The dance never taught me.
The cave never taught me.
The fire is out, the embers lost.
The handprint remains on a wet wall in a dim corner in an out-of-the-way
scree-field crevasse just past the Cree field impasse.
The teachers are gone.
The ancestors quiet.
The cave never taught me.
The silence may
yet.
Where have all the words gone?
It has been more than ten days,
since my last write of a one-liner poem.
Here I am lost, searching, searching
for words for nothing comes to mind.
My spirit is lost in a never ending
staircase, running, stopping, searching
for a door, an entry way or the final step
to find the words to pen, scribble, write.
Where have all the words gone?
I could not find any, every time I tried
to write a tribute to my brother,
who left so suddenly, unexpectedly.
Neither could I write a eulogy for him.
The time came a few days ago to bid
our “goodbyes” and I came empty.
No words came at hand, except
bits and pieces of our childhood.
The memory of the two us watching
and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s
Born in the USA tour, years and years ago.
With no other words in utterance,
I read one of the old poems I wrote
“Tell Them You Love Them Now”.
Where have all the words gone?
Yesterday, I listened to a premiere
of a piano piece, a Sonata in minor.
Sad songs are played in minor keys.
I felt so lost searching for words.
Words that could let go the sadness,
the sorrow of not seeing my brother
alive to tell I love and appreciate him.
Nobody was allowed to see him
and he died all alone in the hospital
without any love ones surrounding him.
So heart breaking, leaving a hole
or tearing all our hearts in our family.
All of a sudden, I am finding the way.
Or reaching the end of the stairway.
The words welcoming me back covertly
and now coming to mind, like the sun
penetrating the thick clouds, gleaming hazily.
3/8/21 All Yours (Mar 9) Poetry
Brian Strand